Mayhem (11 page)

I brought my attention back and considered the stranger’s practices. I began to move between the cots spread around the large room. Some were arranged like shipboard bunks, stacked one atop another. No one noticed my activity other than Chi-Chi, who ignored me. I did as I had seen the man with the withered arm do, and leaned over those lost in their own wild
imaginings. As with Chi-Chi, they all had some hue of colour around their heads, varying through the whole spectrum of the rainbow, although it was the rich blues and greens, those colours of the sea, which proved to be most common.

If I looked carefully I could see seagulls and fish, darting this way and that in some of the worlds swirling around the dreamers’ heads. In others, those the shades of murkier waters, I saw here and there a man drowning, a vast whale, and other monsters of the deep. These latter images appeared most commonly around those who twitched and moaned in their half-slumbers, and I wondered what was it that I was seeing: the nature of their torments? Their fears, even their very souls? I wished for a mirror so I could see myself – but what would I see there? What colours danced around my own tired mind?

I continued my studies, but fascinating as the sights I saw were, I had as yet no idea what exactly the stranger was seeking. I could not tell if he even saw the same visions as I did, for surely the visions were simply a product of one’s own mind. I was under no illusion that what was appearing before me was in any way ‘real’ despite appearances.

After half an hour or so, I had finished examining each of Chi-Chi’s clients, and I decided that I should wander to another den and study whoever was there. My meagre plan had been to wait here for the stranger, but that was before the opium haze had hit me; now
my feet and my mind were restless. This evening’s drug was showing no signs of releasing me as yet and so, feeling far more brave – or perhaps foolish – than usual, I went back out into the dark streets of Bluegate Fields.

The cold air stung my face and the fog dampened my skin, sending pleasant tingles through my body as I turned up my collar and strode forward. I could hear raucous noise coming from some of the wretched, overcrowded buildings around me, but I passed no other living souls. This would normally have been a relief to me, but my curiosity to see more of these strange auras was overwhelming my usual instinct for survival.

I rounded a corner into a narrow alleyway and stopped suddenly. The den towards which I was heading was closer to the other end, and a glow of light cut through the heavy mist: the door was open and someone was leaving. I stared as the tall figure exited, and then the light pinched out as the door was closed behind him. I stumbled forward a few paces to get a clearer view – could it be the stranger I sought? Knowing full well that the opium could be playing with my sight, I scurried forward, sucking in the dank air as I broke into a jog.

The man had turned away from me so I couldn’t see his arm, but his gait was familiar and he was of the right height to be ‘my’ stranger, as I thought of him. I was perhaps ten feet away when he spun round, his
tall body crouching slightly as if in preparation for a fight.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, sounding slightly breathless. ‘I had no intention of startling you.’ I stopped where I was and pulled off my hat, then rubbed at my face in an attempt to try and remove my poor disguise. ‘I’ve seen you – at the inquests.’

He stared at me, and for a long moment he said nothing. I could not place his age other than between thirty-five and fifty. He was taller than he had at first appeared, perhaps four inches over my own five feet eleven, and his face was like leather, worn and rough in a way that could only come from being battered by both life and the elements. His eyes were little more than black pits in the gloom, yet still they managed to bore into me. The straggling ends of his long dark hair reached to his shoulders, but he was cleanshaven, no moustache nor hint of whiskers gracing that scarred visage. I saw no aura around him, but it was perhaps muted by his hat, or maybe the effect of the drug was wearing off. His arm, as I had seen before, was bent at his waist and as thin as a twig in comparison with the rest of his impressive form, and the fingernails at the end of the crooked hands were long and dirty.

None of this shocked me. What drew my eyes and held me in place where I stood was the glint of the heavy gold cross that hung beneath his priest’s collar. Was this why he always wore a heavy overcoat, to
disguise his true calling? But why? Although the robes he wore were unfamiliar to me, they definitely belonged to some religious order, and if so, why would any man hide his love of God, if he had taken such vows?

‘You are mistaken,’ he said, eventually.

He had an accent, but from where, I could not determine; I could hear the lilt of Italy in his words but he spoke like a man who had not been in his native country for a long time.

‘The Rainham inquest,’ I said, more firmly now. ‘I saw you there. And then you were at the Whitehall site.’ Now that I had found him, I was determined to get at his purpose, though I found myself at the same time almost at a loss as to what to say, without sounding like a madman myself.

‘And I have seen you in the dens. You are looking for something, I believe.’

His back stiffened. I have a natural ability to analyse the actions of men, and with the opium and excitement both rushing through my veins, my senses were more acute than ever. He had risen slightly from the fighting stance he had adopted as he had turned to me, and I knew I had surprised him. He
was
looking for something.

‘Do you know something that would help the police? Do you have suspicions about who might be committing these awful crimes?’ I asked. I took a step forward, and he took one backward, as if we were
engaging in an awkward waltz. I was careful in my choice of words, not wanting to sound as if I were in any way accusing him of wrong-doing, for I did not believe him guilty – not with that disfigurement, and certainly not now that I could see he was a man of the Church – albeit one who had clearly seen some hard times. ‘What is it you are looking for? Perhaps I can help?’

He smiled then – a wide, cynical grin which revealed surprisingly white and healthy teeth – and a quiet laugh rumbled from somewhere in his chest. There was no humour in either gesture. He was laughing at me as if I were a particularly stupid child.

‘You can’t help,’ he said, and turned away, his long stride taking him further from me.

‘Is it something in the visions?’ I asked, the pitch of my voice rising in desperation.

He froze where he stood and in the silence I could hear my own heart beating loudly in my ears. Slowly, he turned once more, and even shrouded as we were in the grip of the dark night, I could see that his face was filled with such anger and venom that it was my turn to remain welded to one spot.

‘You know
nothing
,’ he growled at me. ‘You are interfering in things you do not understand.’

‘I took the drug,’ I said, determined not to show my sudden fear. ‘I saw strange fantasies around the heads of the smokers. Is that what you look at?’

‘Stay away from the visions, Dr Bond.’ His mouth
twisted into a sneer. ‘They will drive you to madness.’

I opened my mouth to speak again, but the priest spun and broke into a sudden run, disappearing into the fog. I had never seen a man go from a standing position to sprinting so fast, and by the time I had forced my own legs into movement, he had vanished, though I searched the surrounding streets. Did he have rooms in this godforsaken place, or had he simply hidden in one of the various alleyways, hoping that I would be unlikely to find him?

After fifteen minutes of running this way and that, I gave up, panting and sweating, and rested against a brick wall. The priest was gone, and as exhaustion hit my body again, I knew the drug was finally releasing me.

It was only in the hansom cab on the way home that I realised something else, and a far more natural shiver of excitement and fear ran through me.

The priest had called me by my name.

*

I had thought that I would not sleep when I got home after my encounter with the stranger, and as I climbed the stairs and passed the clock on the first-floor landing I was surprised to note that it was after three in the morning. I paused and stared at the heavy hands as if expecting them to roll back and correct what must have been an error. Instead, they slowly clicked forward one minute. I turned my back and headed up into the gloomy darkness, finding my way to my bedroom
without need of light. My mind was elsewhere: how long had I been studying the dreamers before leaving that first establishment? I had thought it perhaps only thirty minutes, but it had become apparent that my mind and understanding of time had not been as clear as I had thought it. That disturbed me more than any opium vision ever could. Where were the lines between fantasy and reality in this new version of the drug Chi-Chi had given me – could I even recognise them? Had I even seen the stranger at all, I wondered, or was that just part of the drug’s magic?

My bedroom was cold, and although the fire was set behind the ornate guard, enough to warm me through the last hours until morning, I didn’t light it. I rarely did, these nights when I sought refuge in the poppy, for I did not trust myself not to set either the room or myself on fire, regardless of how convinced I might be that the effects had worn off. Perhaps I might change my mind once the city was held in the grip of winter and ice once again formed on the inside of my windows, but for now I simply crawled between the freezing sheets and pulled the heavy covers over my head, letting my breath – loud and steady in that tiny space – go some way to warming me.

I expected to lie there, awake, until the clock downstairs had ticked around to morning, but within moments I had sunk into a slumber close to oblivion, and if Mrs Parks, my housekeeper, hadn’t shaken me awake then I think I could have slept all day.

‘It’s half-past ten,’ she said, before I had even opened my eyes. ‘You have a visitor. A young lady.’ Her disapproval was clear in the sharpness of her tone and the stiffness of her spine – not that a young lady was calling on me, but that I was still in bed so late into the morning. The fire was dying down in the grate and she stoked it up. She gestured towards the small table in the corner. A tray sat on it. ‘I brought your breakfast up and lit the fire at seven,’ she continued, ‘but I couldn’t wake you. For a moment I thought you might be dead.’ The words were matter-of-fact, as if my demise would be nothing more than an irritation to her, but I knew that was not the case: Mrs Parks was fond enough of me, in her own way. Perhaps not on this particular morning, mind you, but fond all the same.

‘Of course, it’ll be inedible now. And it was the last of the eggs.’

Having hauled myself half-upright I tried to make some noises of apology, but I had discovered that even the slightest movement made my head throb. Still struggling to order my thoughts, I managed a strangled groan.

‘A man in your position!’ Mrs Parks almost tutted mid-sentence. ‘Well, you should know better than to be up drinking all night. However hard you might be working, it’s not good for you – it isn’t for any man.’

‘But,’ I started, forcing the words out despite the
agony it caused to flare up behind my eyes, ‘you’re mistaken.’ Quite why I felt the need to excuse myself to my housekeeper, I knew not, but I did, even as she continued with her disapproving glare. ‘I was feeling quite unwell – I still am.’ The last sentence was not a lie, even if the first was. I felt terrible.

She pulled open the curtains to reveal a thankfully gloomy day. My eyes were not ready for brightness, and I am quite sure that if sunshine had burned through the glass, I might have clawed them out from the pain. As it was, I was barely more than squinting. She turned back to face me, and pursed her lips before saying, ‘Then no doubt it was some malicious spirit who tossed your coat and shoes carelessly in the hallway.’ She paused and arched an eyebrow. ‘And left the good crystal brandy decanter – empty, I might add – lying forgotten on the stairs.’

My mouth dropped open in confusion.
Brandy?
Suddenly the cause of my awful headache was clear, but truly, I had no memory of drinking. As far as I was aware, I had come in, seen the time and gone straight to bed – or had I, in fact, come home earlier, got drunk, and then climbed the stairs to bed? The uncertainty of it all made my stomach roil, sending a wave of nausea through me. The priest might prefer this special opium of Chi-Chi’s, but I did not care for its effects. I enjoyed the liberation that came with the drifting visions as I lay on a cot, when my exhausted limbs were too heavy to do anything other than lie
there, but this strangeness in behaviour and loss of time did not suit my practical mind and nature. There were holes in my memory that I could not fill – either that, or I was going mad.

‘I have taken Miss Hebbert into the drawing room. I didn’t tell her you were still asleep. I presume you’d like me to put a pot of coffee in there?’ She looked me over again. ‘A large one?’

‘Miss Hebbert?’ I said weakly.

‘Your visitor.’ Her voice had taken on the slow pace normally used when speaking to a small child or the elderly. ‘The young lady, Miss Juliana Hebbert.’

Despite my dreadful headache, I found that I was able to get up much more quickly than I had expected.

When I came into the room she was standing with her back to me, staring into the fire. Mrs Parks had lit all the lamps throughout the house in a bid to dispel the miserable October day, but rather than creating the warm and comforting atmosphere I had been expecting, strange shadows gripped the room in shapes both hideously deformed and claustrophobic as the lights flickered through the coloured glass or crept up the walls.

As Juliana turned, half her face appeared to be eaten up by darkness, and for a moment I was filled with a dread I could not understand. I trembled as colours flashed around her head – too fast to capture any image within them – and then my headache disappeared instantly. I gripped the door handle to steady myself.