A Very Peculiar Plague (13 page)
So Jem was forced to ignore the only thing he really wanted to look at, as Birdie trilled away like a canary in a coalmine.
She’d an ankle like an antelope and a step like a deer,
A voice like a blackbird, so mellow and clear,
Her hair hung in ringlets so beautiful and long;
I thought that she loved me, but found I was wrong.
Staring down the tunnel ahead of him, which was lit at regular intervals by the gratings in the roof, Jem wondered gloomily if his brief spell as a bogler’s boy was now over. With Birdie back on the job, he would almost certainly be relegated to some kind of supporting role – and how much would that be worth, in shillings and pence? Not much, he suspected. Why, Alfred might decide he didn’t even
need
another apprentice. And if that happened, Jem would find himself on the street again. Because why would Alfred want to keep a boy who couldn’t pay his way?
If you weren’t useful, you were expendable. That had always been Jem’s experience.
Of course, it was possible he wouldn’t have to face being sacked. He might be killed first, right here, in the viaduct. They might
all
be killed by a ravening horde of bogles . . .
Suddenly he gasped. This surge of despair, he knew, wasn’t natural. He realised that the bogle must be very close. Then he heard Birdie’s voice falter – just for an instant – before she bravely began to sing again.
She was as beautiful as a butterfly and proud as a queen
Was pretty little Polly Perkins of Paddington Green
.
Jem couldn’t resist glancing at the manhole. What he saw made him catch his breath. Something was squeezing through the hole – something that looked like gravel coated in pitch. But it didn’t spread out into a widening pool. Instead it reared up and up, swiftly and silently, until it was taller than Alfred, and as broad as it was high. It had a misshapen lump of a head, pierced by several deep, dark holes that might have been eyes, or mouths, or ears; Jem couldn’t tell. Its limbs were blunted stumps, which would suddenly erupt from unlikely spots on its torso before dissolving back again. With each step it took, its legs would disappear and re-emerge, disappear and reemerge . . .
It looked molten yet solid – deformed yet shapeless – like a black satin bag full of rocks. And it didn’t make a sound as it heaved itself towards Birdie, whose voice remained steady and firm, though Jem could see light dancing on the mirror that trembled in her hand.
When I asked her to marry me, she said, ‘Oh, what stuff!’
And told me to drop it, for she’d had quite enough
Of my nonsense . . . At the same time, I’d bin very kind,
But to marry a milkman she didn’t feel inclined.
Slowly the bogle advanced. One stump entered the magic circle – then another, then another. Jem’s heart was in his mouth. Though he stood frozen and speechless, he was shouting at Alfred inside his head:
Kill it! Kill it now!
But Alfred didn’t move. He was waiting for the bogle to drag its last haunch into the ring of salt.
And Birdie was waiting for him to give her a signal.
She was as beautiful as a butterfly and proud as a queen
Was pretty little Polly Perkins of Paddington—
Alfred lunged. Somebody screamed. Birdie threw herself out of the ring as Alfred tossed a handful of salt. Jem yelled, ‘Birdie! Wait!’, because she had kept running, down the tunnel, out of sight.
Then the bogle whirled around, a dozen limbs sprouting from its body. Jem ducked. He didn’t see Alfred’s spear hit home, but he felt its impact. The bogle seemed to explode, sending rocky fragments bouncing off the walls like shrapnel. The shards clanged on pipes and thudded to the floor. Half a-dozen of them struck Jem on his arms and head, burning him like hot coals.
He could hear Alfred swearing.
‘Birdie?
Birdie!
Where are you?’ cried Miss Eames. She was already brushing past Jem, heading for the magic circle. But Alfred’s arm suddenly shot out to bar her way.
‘Wait. Don’t touch that muck,’ he warned roughly. Jem saw that a tarry puddle was turning to dust on the floor.
‘
Birdie!
’ Miss Eames called again. ‘
Are you there?
’
‘I’m here,’ Birdie replied. She had stepped out of the shadows into a pool of light. Her face was as white as the salt on the floor. ‘And I ain’t hurt.’
‘I am,’ said Jem, examining a gash on his hand. ‘It’s going black at the edges.’
‘Show me,’ Alfred demanded. Soon he was rubbing fresh salt into Jem’s wounds, which included a burn and two cuts. The salt stung so badly that Jem tried to pull away, hissing. But Alfred was stronger than he looked.
‘Give it a minute,’ he rumbled, his fingers clamped around Jem’s wrist. ‘If the salt don’t work, we’ll try a little holy water.’
‘That could have been very dangerous,’ said Miss Eames, sounding shaken. ‘I had no idea those things could erupt like volcanoes. Has it happened to you before, Mr Bunce?’
‘Aye.’
‘Then you should not have left these children within the blast radius. Why – only look at Birdie’s hat! It has a terrible scorch-mark on it.’
‘Oh, that ain’t nothing.’ Birdie spoke impatiently. ‘What about Mr Bunce?
He’s
the one as needs attention!’
It was true. Alfred’s green coat was covered in burns. There was a cut on his face that was turning black, like Jem’s. But a pinch of salt, applied to the wound, seemed to bring some relief. Alfred’s strange, spreading bruise immediately vanished, and a normal-looking scab began to form. Soon he was swigging brandy from his flask, while Birdie packed up his bag and Miss Eames made notes in a little red book.
It was Jem who first noticed that Sam Snell and his friend hadn’t moved. Once the pain of his injuries had eased a little, Jem became conscious of his surroundings again. He saw that the scattered chunks of bogle had turned to drifts of black dust. He saw that Birdie knew exactly how to wrap Alfred’s spear. And he saw that the plumber and his friend were still rooted to the spot, slack-jawed and silent, as if turned to stone by sheer horror.
‘Mr Snell?’ said Jem. ‘Mr Purdy? Are you all right?’
There was no response from Sam Snell. But Hugh Purdy snapped to attention as if someone had doused him in cold water. He touched his friend’s arm, then muttered soothing words of reassurance until Sam Snell finally roused himself from his trance.
It wasn’t long before the flusher was talking nonstop, stammering and spluttering, as he led the others back towards the viaduct entrance.
‘I swear, I ain’t never seen nothing like that there . . . no, and won’t never forget it, neither. What a terrible great thing, Mr Bunce! And what a noise it made, at the end! The lads won’t believe me when I tell ’em . . .’
No one tried to interrupt him. Alfred wasn’t talkative at the best of times, and rarely had much to say after killing a bogle. Birdie was busy dodging Miss Eames, who kept trying to inspect her skin and clothes for black marks. Hugh Purdy looked stunned. Jem was exhausted. He found himself lagging a few steps behind the others, pining for a sip of brandy. His wounds were still smarting, and he wondered if they were the cause of his sudden fatigue.
‘. . .And what a brave little lass she is, Mr Bunce.’ Up ahead, Sam Snell was still rambling on. ‘Brave as any soldier, and with
such
a voice! Why, she’d make her fortune on the stage. I thought as how she were frozen with fear, standing there like that, but then – phht! Off she went, fleet as a squirrel—’
‘And it’s a mercy there wasn’t no other bogles, or she might have run straight at ’em.’ Alfred spoke sharply, cutting Snell off in mid-sentence. ‘Jem! What are you doing back there? D’you see summat?’
‘No,’ said Jem. The word had barely left his mouth when a bright glint caught his eye. Tucked away beneath one of the low pipes attached to the wall, gleaming in the light that filtered through an overhead grating, lay a large gold coin. ‘Here’s a sovereign!’ he exclaimed. ‘It must have fallen down from the street!’
‘A sovereign, eh?’ Sam Snell began to chatter away as Jem squatted to retrieve the coin. ‘Well, make sure it’s a good ’un. There’s many a coiner will drop his cache when being pursued, in the mistaken belief that them grates lead straight to the sewers—’
‘There’s a shilling, as well!’ Jem interrupted. Having picked up the two coins, he felt along the floor beneath the pipe, in search of others. Then a pang of dejection went through him. Of
course
there wouldn’t be any more. And the coins he already had were probably counterfeit, as the flusher had warned . . .
‘
JEM!
’ Birdie screamed. ‘
LOOK OUT!
’
But Jem didn’t need to look. He’d recognised the misery overwhelming him. He’d heard the scrape of a manhole cover. And knowing what he knew, he didn’t waste time glancing around.
Instead, he sprang up and began to climb the wall, using the layered pipes as purchase. When he reached the topmost pipe, he glanced down. He saw giant teeth snapping at his heels. He saw Alfred and Birdie running towards him. He saw the manhole extruding a massive grey worm, which grew longer and longer as he edged away from it.
‘
In six months she married, this hard-hearted girl
,’ Birdie sang frantically, ‘
but not to a viscount, and not to an earl . . .
’
The bogle lunged. Jem leaped from the pipe and grabbed an overhead grating. Then he swung his feet up so that they wouldn’t dangle, and screamed at the top of his voice.
Above him, a female pedestrian stopped in her tracks. ‘Why, what’s this?’ she said, bending over to peer through the bars of the grate.
At that instant, Jem heard a deafening
BANG
– and was engulfed in a cloud of red steam.
Within ten minutes of killing the second bogle, Alfred was swilling down brandy in the Viaduct Tavern.
Everyone else had joined him there – even Miss Eames. ‘I don’t normally frequent such establishments,’ she’d murmured, upon gingerly seating herself at a corner table, ‘but I feel in need of a little brandy, after such a dreadful shock.’ Jem knew just how she felt. He would have ordered a cream gin for himself, if Miss Eames had let him. Instead he had to be satisfied with a glass of cider, which didn’t steady his shaking hands. Every so often he found himself gasping for air, like someone drowning in a heavy sea.
Hugh Purdy paid for the cider. He did it wordlessly, by pushing his money into Mabel’s apron pocket. What he’d seen in the viaduct had rendered him speechless; he hadn’t made a sound since stumbling into Farringdon Street. His friend Sam Snell, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to stop talking. It was Snell who’d proposed that they visit the tavern – Snell who had ordered the first round of drinks – Snell who now started to pepper Mabel with details of their recent exploits, as she served out nips of gin and pints of porter.
‘I tell you, lass, I nearly died o’ fright, watching the poor lad hang from that roof like butcher’s meat, and the monster snapping at his heels. But then Mr Bunce, here – why, he let fly with his spear, and caught the thing in its soft parts, and
BOOM
! It blew apart like a dead man’s belly!’
‘Oh,
please
, Mr Snell!’ Miss Eames protested, covering her mouth with a wispy white handkerchief. Alfred turned on the flusher with a snarl.
‘There’s ladies present. Where’s yer manners?’
But Snell had already begun to apologise. ‘Begging yer pardon, Miss – only I’m that churned up, I don’t know what I’m saying. To think there’s such perilous creatures in the subway, and I never once saw ’em before! Ain’t no accounting for it.’
‘Yes, there is,’ Birdie said impatiently. She had been allowed her own little glass of port wine, but it had been so heavily watered that it was pale pink. ‘The reason you never saw ’em is that you never had no kids with you.’
‘That’s true. I never did.’ Sam Snell acknowledged this freely. ‘As for you, lass – you was the bravest of us all! Standing there, still as death, while the boggart drew closer and closer—’
‘Will you shut yer mouth?’ Jem said sharply. The very thought of bogles made him break into a cold sweat. No matter how much he wanted to forget it, that moment he’d spent clinging to the roof of the tunnel would stay with him forever. He could still feel the bogle breathing down his neck. He could still see the distant sky trapped behind an iron grating.
Then he felt Birdie squeeze his hand under the table, and he realised that he shouldn’t be showing everyone how disturbed he was. Alfred would have no use for a frightened apprentice.
Snatching his hand away, he cleared his throat and said to Birdie, in a hard, bright voice, ‘You sound better’n ever. Like a real nightingale.’
‘
That
she does!’ Sam Snell saluted Birdie with a raised pint pot. ‘I ain’t never heard a sweeter songbird. You ought to be on the stage, lass.’ Before Birdie could reply, he turned to Jem, adding, ‘And so should you. Why, the pair o’ you would make a fine double act! The girl could sing and the boy could tumble.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Miss Eames snapped. She looked ill-at-ease, and kept eyeing the other patrons suspiciously – even though many of them appeared to be quite respectable. (Jem had already spotted a couple of law clerks.) ‘I think we should go,’ she continued. ‘Birdie will benefit more from a hot dinner than she will from an extended session in a public house.’
‘We can’t go yet,’ Jem protested. ‘For Mr Bunce ain’t bin paid.’
As Hugh Purdy began to fumble in his pocket, mumbling an apology, Alfred scowled at Jem. ‘It ain’t yer place to be dunning for me,’ the bogler chided. ‘Mr Purdy will settle in his own good time.’
‘Which is now,’ said Purdy, pushing a handful of coins across the table. ‘You’ll forgive the delay, Mr Bunce. My head is full o’ pictures I’d as soon forget. I keep thinking about Billy, and wondering which o’ those terrible things . . .’
He trailed off, grimacing. Mabel laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘You did all you could for him, rest his sweet soul,’ she said. ‘The bogle’s dead, now. And you’ll not be losing no other boys the way you did Billy.’