Authors: Stephen Palmer
Hairy London (13 page)
“Why did you join the Suicide Club?”
“The virility, I suppose. You see, I am a God-fearing Christian, but there are aspects of the Church that annoy me. Oh, I should never complain, the Church does marvellous work, but, well, it has always annoyed me that they are so
impotent
in the world today.”
“Do you realise,” said Freud, “you have not mentioned one word about your father?”
“But you have not asked me about my cat.”
“Your cat?”
“Yes,” Velvene said, “you remarked that I had not mentioned him. That is because you have not asked me about him, eh?”
“That is not my point.
You
have not mentioned him.”
“Well, there is little enough to say about him. He is ill, with poor blood circulation and all the rest of it. Though he used to be healthy enough when he was younger... perhaps the dragon is poisoning him.”
“Is that the sort of thing she would do?”
“Most certainly,” Velvene replied. “It is well known that dragons have poisonous breath. I suppose I should find myself a horse and a lance, and have at her. It is the humane thing to do... the judge and jury will understand.”
“How would you feel if you killed your mother?”
“Free.”
Freud said, “But would she watch you from heaven?”
“Undoubtedly, but she would not walk on this earth, and so could not touch me.”
“Could not
touch
you, you say.”
“Yes.”
“Do you like to be touched?” asked Freud.
Velvene laughed, appalled and delighted at the same time. “My my,” he replied, wiping a tear from one eye, “that is the most ridiculous question I have ever been asked. Why Mr Freud, I do declare you are the very Punch of Hampstead. The very Punch!”
Freud said nothing for a while. At length he said, “Do you like yourself?”
“The Suicide Club is proud of me. My colleagues respect me.”
“But do
you
like yourself?” Freud insisted.
“Well, my suicidal colleagues speak well of me, and the vicar thanked me for bringing damsons to the harvest festival last year.”
“Hmmm.”
“Is that everything, Mr Freud?”
“Yes, Mr Orchardtide.”
Velvene sat up and turned to face Freud. “Then what can you tell me, eh?”
“You abhor yourself. You know less about love than a gnat. You will lose the wager.”
“What? You impugn me, sir!”
Freud shrugged. “I tell the truth, which I dredge from the human mind.”
Velvene sprang to his feet, anger animating him. “Well, I wish now that I had never come here,” he cried. “Good
day
to you... you charlatan! I shall not be paying you a single brass brockett for your time. And I shall show myself out of your house.”
Freud stood up, surprise on his face, but he said nothing and made no attempt to halt Velvene’s departure.
Outside in the sun, Velvene slammed the front door shut behind him. “Insolent bastard!” he said.
He hurried back to the machinora, which lay where he had left it. Inside the wicker capacity he paused for a while, drank a sip of water from the rain collector, then sighed.
Stroking the clay figure he said, “Well, Lily-Bette, I am no nearer the truth of love than I was before meeting that clown Freud. What shall I do next, eh?”
He pondered the question he had asked himself for some time before a thought entered his mind.
“Of course!” he said. “Mr Jung.”
~
Kornukope’s gunshot injury was nasty, but not life threatening; the bullet passed through the side of his chest, damaging muscle and bone but missing organs and arteries. In a week he was on his feet at home in Hampstead.
Then one day he received a letter by bat post, delivered to his rooftop cave by a pipistrelle. He read it aloud to Eastachia.
“Lord Blandhubble requests the presence of Kornukope and Eastachia Wetherbee at the Foreign Office, today at three pm sharp.”
Eastachia’s face lit up. “Perhaps they have news of the hairy plague.”
Kornukope nodded. “Or perhaps it is another mission for us – more likely, since Blandhubble wants to speak to us in person. I fret here at home dearest one, with little to do and the dread rumour of Cockneigh disturbances.”
“Me too.”
He smiled, then hugged her. “What a team we make!”
The Underground got them as far as Holborn Station before the carriages were halted by choking hair, causing everyone to disembark. From Holborn they walked down Kingsway and the Strand, forging a path through dense clumps of greasy hair, often slipping in glutinous pools of sebum, before entering Whitehall, with its clipped paths and ribboned locks. At the Foreign Office they were ushered into Lord Blandhubble’s rooms, where, as before, they partook of tea and honey biscuits.
“Good of you to come,” said Lord Blandhubble. “Travel is becoming more difficult as the hair grows longer.”
“What do you want of us?” Kornukope asked.
“With you being a chap of the Suicide Club, I thought this might be one for you. Do you know Egg&Ham?”
“Small town near Windsor Great Park? Only by reputation.”
“That far out of London the hair generally recedes, though, as it happens, to the south west, even as far as Virginia Water, it’s tough and clumpy. But there is a place down there, a chateau, and in that chateau there is a man.”
Kornukope frowned. “A man?”
“Hornelius Struckett by name. A madman. Or so we thought, until I received this from the director of the chateau.”
Lord Blandhubble passed Kornukope a single sheet of paper, on which a brief letter had been composed: Lord Blandhubble, I am reporting to you as requested. Struckett insists he knows the source of the hairy plague – his madness is much reduced, and most of what he says makes sense. Suggest you send down a mindometer so that Struckett may be analysed in depth. Mindometer will need protection however, as this area is full to bursting with starving tribes. Yours in haste, Viennese Harmonia.
“Both extraordinary and intriguing,” Kornukope remarked. “My wife and I then are to be the protection?”
Lord Blandhubble puffed at his clay pipe and smiled. “My dear chap,” he said, “I could send any hired muscle as protection. No, you’re to be my eyes and ears in that place, as well as protection. I’ve always had a high regard for members of the Suicide Club, but since the Gandy incident and the nasty affair... let’s say the
close call
in Swiss Cottage, I’ve realised the government needs you.”
“More than ever,” Eastachia remarked.
“Precisely. I may even change my attitude to Suffering because of you, dear lady.” He chuckled. “Not really! Only joking. So, you’ll take on this mission?”
“Yes, yes, absolutely!”
“And you, Mrs Wetherbee?”
“With pleasure.”
Lord Blandhubble stood up. “Excellent. I’ve taken the liberty of booking tickets for you on the Reading Express leaving from Waterloo at three fifty this afternoon. Be there in good time, won’t you? You can take luncheon at my club in Whitehall Court. Ask for Manservant Ponsonby, he’ll look after you. Oh, and ladies are permitted there, Mrs Wetherbee, with a bag over their head.”
“I’ll have my lunch in St James’s Park,” Eastachia replied.
At two o’clock that afternoon Kornukope and Eastachia struggled across Westminster Bridge, then along York Road, which was choked to chest height with thick ginger hair. The station itself was hirsute on the outside but only lightly bearded inside. Messages and announcements written in chalk on blackboards directed them to platform nine, where the Reading Express awaited.
As with all modern trains it had been made by the Belgian Seashell Company using only the finest chocolate. The carriages themselves – third, second and first class – were made from a mixture of milk and white chocolate, blended so that pale swirls flowed like ink dropped in water through the brown substrate. Windows were made of sugar-glass. The locomotive itself was powered by cold steam and looked like a bison on wheels, its pistons and chambers bunched up as if muscled limbs. Reading the strawberry nameplate –
The Pride Of The Carob
– Kornukope discovered that it had been created by Master Chocolatiers from dark chocolate at a ratio of eighty percent cocoa solids. It was decorated with sea shells in the traditional style.
“Our tickets are first class,” Kornukope said. “Let us board and find an empty compartment.”
The first class compartments were little occupied, and Kornukope was able to settle with Eastachia so that they both had a window chair. The luxury of their marshmallow seats was impressive, as were the nougat tables and bioluminescent ceiling lamps. A waistcoated flunkey served them rose tea and caboodle whams.
At three fifty one the train departed Waterloo Station, its cold steam gurgling like a Delly belly as it accelerated. For a while Kornukope gazed out at the passing scenes of hairy London, before the sight of ruined buildings, starving people and – especially in Wandsworth, which looked as though a hundred bombs had hit it – destroyed neighbourhoods depressed him.
“If only the poor could be as wealthy as the rich,” he observed.
To pass the time he read the contents of his secret dossier, which explained that he would rendezvous with the mindometer at Egg&Ham railway station, from where they would make their own way into the town itself, then on to the chateau.
It was a warm day. Railwaymen carrying rotating fans walked up and down the carriages, cooling the chocolate, but even with their efforts some of the seams began melting, while from the roof almond shavings began to fall, like sweet snow.
Then, at Stains, disaster.
Viennese Harmonia had been wise to warn of starving tribes. A group of mad-haired women dressed in rags attacked the locomotive with flaming torches, causing the chocolate pistons to melt; and then a flood of cold steam in which hazelnuts floated. The train guards ran helter skelter along the melting carriages crying, “Abandon train! Every man for ’imself! Abandon train!”
Kornukope and Eastachia smashed a sugar glass window and sprang through, alighting on the railway platform as their carriage melted in a slow torrent of sweet brown goo. The chairs – which, Kornukope realised, were not yet dead – also tried to escape, but it was too late for them, and all suffocated beneath that dread chocolate weight.
Kornukope pulled a horrified Eastachia away from the carnage. “Do not look dearest one, it will only put you off marsh mallow.”
“I’ll never plant them again,” she sobbed as Kornukope dragged her away.
He paused to look back as they approached the station gate: a mistake. The feral women were all writhing in the chocolate chaos, stuffing goo into their faces. He felt sick. He hurried out into the road, trembling from shock.
With a score of other passengers they strode along the road linking Stains and Egg&Ham, the hair, soft and brown, little more than ankle high. But the atmosphere of the place was eerie, and he knew the collapse of London had ramifications further out – perhaps even through all of the land. He shook his head in sad reverie. If he could do anything to uncover the reason for the hairy plague, he would...
At Egg&Ham railway station he collared the station master and said, “We were told that a certain mindometer would be here. I am Kornukope Wetherbee, and here is my rail ticket as proof of identity.”
“Ah, Mr Wetherbee.” The station master pointed to a man and a woman standing at the far end of the platform. “Over there, sir.”
Kornukope led Eastachia to the couple. The woman was of late middle age, he judged, with fine, strong features and a bun of grey-streaked hair. Her complexion was fresh, almost youthful, and she looked healthy. The man was younger, perhaps of Mediterranean descent, with curly black locks, a floppy moustache and a rascally bearing. She wore a blue bustled skirt and a lace-fringed moulette, while he wore the long frock-coat and simulated stovepipe hat of an industrial magnate.
“Sir, madam,” Kornukope said, offering the pair a bow. “I am Kornukope Wetherbee and this is my good lady wife Eastachia. We are here to collect the mindometer.”
“You’ve found us,” the man replied. “I’m Yeggman Spiv, and this is Zarina Ordinary. We are the mindometer.”
CHAPTER NINE
Missus lay at Sheremy’s side in the lightless room. She coughed a few times then emitted a strangled groan, that Sheremy assumed was the sound of her trying to keep quiet.
He could see nothing, but from the dull echoes of their gasping breath he knew they were in a small room. And, logically, they must have emerged from a fireplace, presumably in the chamber above the cell.
He whispered, “D’you know anything about the geography of Bedlam?”
“Are you bleedin’ jokin’? ’Course not!”
He nodded to himself. Stupid question, Sheremy.
“I believe this to be a room,” he said. “There should be a door. Let’s stand up and feel for a wall. Move slowly, with your arms outstretched.”
She grabbed his hand. “I’m keepin’ one attached to
you,
” she said.
“Good plan.”
He counted twenty paces forward before his left hand struck a wall.
“I have it,” he said. Feeling forward, he detected a lintel, then a section of wall that moved. “Wood,” he said. “A door.”
Kneeling down, he placed his face to the gap at the bottom of the door, to see the faintest of glimmers. Light! Precious light at last... and the smell of kippers.
“There are people about,” he said. “Eating their suppers.”
“We’ve gotta move out. If we’s discovered–”
“Yes, yes, but this is our single chance of escape. If we’re noticed... What say we return to the chimney and climb up some more?”
She considered this suggestion, gripping his hand, squeezing it occasionally, as if to indicate the turning of mental cogs. “Thinks you’re right,” she said, though she sounded anxious. “Least unsafe of unsafe plans, eh?”
“Exactly. Come on, we know we can do this now.”
“We
can.
”
Goodness, she was a courageous woman! Many men of his acquaintance would be shaking in their boots if faced with this dilemma. “I’ll lead,” he said. “We’ll go to the top if we need to.”
And they did: to the very top. At midnight – Sheremy heard the ringing of distant bells – he poked his head out from the upper chimney stacks of Bedlam and looked out over a scene he did not recognise. Clambering out and clinging to a chimney stack with one hand, he pulled Missus to his side. The wind whipped at his clothes, moaning like ghosts all around them.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Think it’s somewhere in Rotherhithes,” she replied. “Oh Sheremy, I don’t like heights. Save me!”
She clung on to him as Sheremy studied the roof below. The night was dark, cloudy, though the moon was only a few days after full – its glow just visible behind tattered storm wrack. He could see little. Hairy London was enshadowed and far, far below; almost invisible in night’s gloom. He sniffed the air. “It’s been raining,” he said. “There’s a squall brewing. We need to get off this damn roof.”
“Hurry!”
All he could do was inch his way down the moss-covered roof, slipping and sliding in perilous fashion, until he reached a gutter where two roofs met. “Not far now,” he said, squeezing Missus’ hand. “We’ll be in hairy streets soon.”
“Please!”
In this manner, clambering down drains and crawling along gutterways, they descended Bedlam’s exterior. Hours passed: Sheremy knew, he could hear bells chiming, including one he thought might be the Old Sun Church clock on Horseferry Road. One in the morning... two in the morning... “Across the river,” he mused.
“What did you say?”
“We need to cross the river,” he told her. “Get away from this miserable place, to safety.”
She clung to him, peering down at their final, precipitous descent. “Will we makes it?”
He did not reply. Rain began falling from crow-black clouds as, like bedraggled cats, they inched their way to street level. At last, as the clocks struck three, Sheremy felt hair caressing his legs. The street!
They clung to one another, partly from joy, partly from relief, partly to shield themselves from the rain.
“We must find shelter now,” Sheremy said. Pinhead lanthorns arranged on strings indicated the length of the thoroughfare in which they stood, which, he noticed, was titled Rotherhithe Street. “We’ll head for the river bank,” he said, “which is not far away, and there we’ll hopefully find a boat of some description.”
Hand in hand they hurried off, forcing a way through the thick black hair. The rain meant that local dandruff – lumps as large as dogs and sticky as glue – obstructed their progress until, at the junction with Sovereign Crescent, they faced an impenetrable barrier of gunk. To either side the hair grew thick as bramble; a formidable obstacle.
“This street will flood soon,” Missus said. Worried, she gestured at a large building occupying the land between the crescent and Globe Wharf. “We could maybe ask a way through that place, eh? I think I knows it.” She peered through the gloom at the signator hanging above the front door, which showed a cat’s face. “Yes, I does know it, I’ve had housing nearby.”
“Are they friends of yours?”
Missus hesitated, an unreadable expression on her face. “Acquaintances.”
They walked up to the building and knocked on the front door, but before waiting for a reply Missus turned the handle and opened it, pulling Sheremy inside.
“Out of the rains at last,” she said.
Sheremy peered along the half-lit corridor in which they stood. He smelled perfume, heard voices upstairs, saw ancient oil vestings on canvas; all hung at random angles, as if by a blind person. Every felicitous image was of a cat.
Two women approached, and Sheremy was astonished to see they had the heads of cats, their ears clipped through to facilitate ear-rings of gold. Their clothes were minimal. Damned minimal... no corsets, ample bosoms, sandalas and lace comfits that showed their thighs... most odd.
Missus seemed hesitant so Sheremy said, “We just wanted to...”
“To pass through, ma’ams,” Missus said.
One of the catwomen touched Sheremy’s shoulder, preened her whiskers and said, “You’re a lovely lookin’ fellah. Wantin’ a good time, were we?”
“A what?” Sheremy replied.
Missus took him by the hand and said, “Not tonight, ma’ams.”
The catwoman hissed and said, “I wasn’t talking to
you.
He’s mine.”
Sheremy said, “A good time?”
“They’re night fliers!” Missus whispered.
“Night...?”
“Bed for money, you knows.”
“Bed for...?”
Suddenly the catwoman took Sheremy by the hand and pulled him to her, spinning on her heel as if dancing the jacaranda. “He doesn’t know!” she giggled. “He doesn’t like the night. P’raps he’s never
had
a night.”
Sheremy frowned. “You mean, I may use your bed if I pay you?”
“Yessssss!”
Sheremy shrugged. “But we do not require lodgings–”
“Bed! For love!”
Sheremy gasped and pulled away from the catwoman. “You mean...?” Appalling! He had no idea women could offer such services. Surely that was not love? In a firm voice he said, “I’m a seeker for the
truth
of love. You ladies seem to entertain very strange notions.”
“We will have you... you can’t escape...”
“Not tonight,” Missus cried; and Sheremy heard the fear in her voice.
“We only wanted to pass through to the riverbank,” he said. His voice sounded distant.
Next thing he knew he stood inside a warm chamberette, a four poster domicillo before him, white-sheeted and draped with silken scarves. The catwoman, undressed now apart from her pantette, stared at him. “You want me,” she purred.
“I do,” Sheremy replied, undoing his jacket.
“I’m Gyptian, offering all the exotique of the Nile. You can’t resist.”
“I don’t want to resist.”
From some far off eyrie a howl floated down, entering Sheremy’s ears like a wisp of London fog. The catwoman’s ears flattened against her head, and she crouched low. Sheremy turned to face the window. There was a crash as it opened, and then Missus poked her head through.
“Climb downs the rope!” she said.
Spell broken: cold and scared. Sheremy ran over to see a rope dangling to street level. Rain pouring. He leaned out, swung himself over the sill, then took the rope in his hands and began letting himself down. From Missus, just below, came a second mournful howl.
On the street he grabbed her, pulled her to him. “You rescued me again.”
“I knows them ladies,” she muttered, “though I didn’t know they was in residence.”
Sheremy stared at her. The rain had washed away all the soot, and flattened her hair against her head, revealing her beauty. “Thank you,” he said. “I had no idea a woman of your class would be able to do such a thing. I’ve been much misinformed about the lower sectors of London society.”
“That you has,” Missus replied, her tone somewhat acid.
Sheremy felt crestfallen. “I can only apologise,” he said.
She grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the building. “Apologies accepted.”
In moments they stood beside the river bank, the mighty and extensive width of the Thames before them. Far off, reflected in the muddy flow, Sheremy saw the lanthorns and curvettes of northside hostelries, their jetties clunking with boats. “We need a ferry over,” he said.
“And quickly. Cats prowl.”
He pointed east. “There,” he said. “A large vessel.”
They ran along the hairy shore, tripping over the bank’s floppy fringe, picking themselves up and wiping off the mud, then running on. Rain fell hard. Sheremy began to tire.
Then, the vessel: large, stately, gothic. Sheremy peered up to read its name.
“The Titanic,” he said.
Missus gasped.
“What?” he asked.
She sobbed, pulled him to her, so that he sheltered her from the rain. “You knows the story,” she said.
“Oh... that one. Yes. The ship that will sink after a terrible accident.”
“You don’t wanna believe old wifey tales!” came a voice from the deck.
Sheremy looked up to see a fat, oilskin-smothered tar. “Sir?”
“Come aboard! We’re heading northside in half an hour.”
Sheremy glanced down at Missus. Silent, fear in her eyes, she shook her head. But he said, “We must my dear, we’ve got to get north of the river. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you, for you’re a valuable cargo indeed.”
Missus sighed. “Very well, Sheremy.”
~
Velvene knew he was lucky. Unlike the overwhelming proportion of London’s populace he was not imprisoned by hair, for he could fly. At the beginning of the hairy plague he had seen few Archimedean floating systems, with those flying owned either by the government or by the newspapers, but now, as Londoners rose to the challenge presented by the hair, a few more of them appeared, including a number stolen from London Zoo.
So it was that Velvene was able to fly to the British Library and there enquire as to the whereabouts of Carl Jung.
“Seems he lives in Brook’s Mews, Mayfair, sir,” said the young man assisting him. “Number one-b.”
“Thank you,” Velvene said. “Here’s a brockett for your trouble,” he added, tossing a coin across.
The lad caught it and smiled. “It was no trouble, sir.”
“Then put it in the charity box at once,” Velvene said as he turned to leave.
After a short flight to Mayfair, Velvene secured his machinora upon the roof of the Embassy of Silverina, whereupon it changed to appear as a gaucho wielding a bolas. Satisfied, he clambered down the bearded walls of the building, then forged a path through street hair to Brook’s Mews, where he knocked on Jung’s front door.
The man himself opened it. “Good morning,” he said.
“I am Velvene Orchardtide of the house of Orchardtide,” said Velvene, bowing. “I wonder if I might trouble you on a matter of some importance?”
Jung replied, “Of course,” and led him indoors. The house was clean, spacious and tidy, with a study at the back overlooking a camomile lawn.
A maidservant brought tea and cake, whereupon Velvene described the wager and his journey so far. To conclude he said, “Mr Freud was less than useful in his analysis, so I decided to come to you.”
“A wise decision,” Jung said.
Velvene lay back on Jung’s couch and continued, “Marx hinted that I had to understand the true nature of man before becoming authentic myself, while Freud said I abhorred myself.”
“I shall look at this case from the perspective of human archetypes,” Jung replied. “Tell me about your family.”
Aware of what he had done wrong with Freud, Velvene presented an amended description of Orchardtide family life, concluding with his banishment. Then he said, “Surely love is a universal sensation, eh? I have spoken with the tribal elders of the Dogon Escarpoture, and they know of love. I have spoken with the fish-headed priests of Pacific Cookslandia, and they know of love. And I have spoken with the guardians of Vesta’s Lovely Ladies, and even they say that the ladies they protect know love.”
“There are four universal archetypes,” Jung replied, closing the curtains so that the room became gloomy, “all of whom have some say in this question. Spirit, Trickster, Rebirth and Mother–”
“I am the trickster,” Velvene said, “I am sure!”
Jung turned off the candles, leaving only a Natrio-burner to provide illumination. “I shall be the judge of that,” he said. “These archetypes manifest a number of recurring images, which you see in your dreams. The shadow, the wise old man, the wise old woman, the maiden, the child, the mother. Are any of those familiar from your dreams?”
At once Velvene remembered the terrible dreams he had on the night before his banishment. In a murmuring voice he said, “I am climbing up the steps of Orchardtide Manor, but my mother is not there, she has gone far, far away, and I will never know where she is... Now I am running terrified through valleys of fur, but I am lost, and I do not know where my bedroom is, my safe, cosy bedroom... Now I am playing shove-badminton with my mother in the pear garden, but she is hidden behind a dark, flapping sheet hanging from a washing line, and I cannot see through the gloom... And now I am shaving myself, shaving myself until my skin is as pink as a strawberry blancmange, if I do not shave myself I will become a terrible monster, out of control, a man who attacks women, and then I should have to go to jail... Now I am looping the loop in an implausibly avian Archimedean floating system... And now... ah! No, no, it is too shameful!”