Authors: Stephen Palmer
Hairy London (16 page)
“Now look here,” Velvene said. The book showed Einstein with horns and a tail. “This is needlessly vindictive, I think, depicting a popular scientist–”
“No!” Father Further stood back, throwing the book aside and raising the crucifix hanging at his neck into the air. “This evil must come out of you. You’re possessed by Einstein.”
Velvene, now fearing for Father Further’s sanity, took a few steps backwards. “I say,” he said, “I think the isolation has got to you. Congregation not able to come here on a Sunday, eh? As the Yankees say – stir crazy.”
Father Further began muttering. Velvene began walking backwards.
“Father, what are you doing?”
“I’ll cast out this evil
myself.
”
Velvene turned and bolted, but found himself held back, as if his legs were plodding through treacle. He turned to see Father Further grown in stature, his crucifix enormous, his pate reflecting the golden light of a halo. “Jesus!” he swore, turning to run as best he could.
The exit lay fifty yards away. Father Further began to make pulling motions with his arms, as if reeling Velvene in with a fishing net; and a vicious grin appeared on his face, matched by a ghastly light in his eyes. The halo now shone full and gold, and it seemed to Velvene that if this faith-addled man touched him he would be a gonner.
With a cry he flung himself forward, panic lending him extra strength. “Einstein!” he cried. “Niels Bohr! Rescue me!”
Perhaps those two names saved him, or perhaps terror gave him enough strength to escape the clutches of the priest. His legs worked. His strength held. In a few moments he was at the exit, grabbing the door jambs and pulling himself forward, then hauling himself out. And when he was out, the traction ceased. The words ceased. The door slammed shut and he stood outside an ordinary church.
He ran back to the machinora and leaped inside. Nobody followed. There was nobody else abroad in Maida Vale. All lay silent.
He turned to the clay figure and said, “I think I had a lucky escape there.”
The figure said nothing. He did not expect it to. But he noticed that the face was clearer than it had been before: a hint of a nose and a mouth, two half orbs that might be eyes with eyelids shut, two lumps on the sides of the head that could be ears. He could tell from elementary anatomy that the rest of the body was developing, turning into a woman. Definitely a woman...
“Hmmm,” he said. “Well, you must come with me for now. I cannot let you go after all we have been through.”
The figure, he thought, moved, but it must have been the wind or a twitch of the machinora.
“But where to go?” he said.
The clay figure made no reply.
Then Velvene had an idea. “Remember my time in the Land of the Thai?” he asked the figure. “Full of these Buddhist chaps. I wonder... if my own religion cannot answer my questions, perhaps an Eastern one can, eh? Damn clever, the Orientals, I have always said so.”
Smiling to himself, he cast off and floated into the sky.
~
Viennese Harmonia pointed to a map of the locale that he had pinned upon a wall in the chateau’s Industriana room. “Windsor Castle is four miles from here,” he said. “I think you could walk that during the hours of daylight. Even this late in the year. But beware. The hair is thick around here. I would not want to make the journey. Then there are the tribes. Many strange people traverse Windsor Great Park, hunting. They will eat human flesh. They have bows and arrows, and wheeled engines of spume. You take a risk venturing out there.”
“Is there no other way?” Kornukope asked. “What about hiring one of the aerial snoods?”
Viennese shook his head. “They will fly only between here and Biggin Hill.”
Kornukope shrugged. “Yes, yes, then we shall walk. We are strong and resourceful.”
“You will need luck also.”
“Lady Luck watches over my wife and I, of that I am quite certain.”
With that, they prepared themselves and their belongings, then walked with Viennese to the front gate of the chateau. He let them out, then gave them a final warning. “Do not eat anything you find. Much is poisoned, or tainted with hallucinogenic moonshine.”
“We’ll be careful,” Yeggman said. “Goodbye.”
They turned away, then headed along the road leading to the nearest entrance to Windsor Great Park. Late autumn sunlight lit golden brown trees, and there remained a hint of frost in shadows that had not yet felt the sun.
Zarina insisted on walking beside Kornukope, to his small embarrassment but considerable amusement. He realised that he liked the woman, for her charm, her not inconsiderable beauty, but most of all for the vulnerability that came from her modest achievements in mastering the English tongue. She tried to speak well, but knew she could not. Her coquettish smile was a delight to see.
“You are the active man in the great wide world?” she asked him.
“All members of the Suicide Club,” Kornukope replied, “are men of the world. It is a heavy mantle to wear.” He sighed; for effect. “But a man can serve his country in many ways, not just by acts of derring-do.”
“Can a woman be serving her country?”
Kornukope grimaced. “In
some
cases, perhaps. Generally these things are best left to the menfolk. You are considering volunteering your services to the King?”
Zarina laughed, a hand raised to cover her mouth. “There are many things I could be doing for this country,” she said.
“What skills do you have, if I might be so bold?”
Again she tittered. “The arts of amour, as those of Parisi are saying. The persuadings of people. The subtle methods of subterfuge.”
“Those are all valuable skills,” Kornukope said. “The government would be interested.” He paused to consider, then added, “Perhaps I could put in a good word for you with Lord Blandhubble.”
She took his arm in hers in a most familiar fashion. Surprised, Kornukope let her. Eastachia and Yeggman walked ahead; his wife could not see them.
“You easterners are a passionate breed,” he observed. “But alas I am a married man.”
“Marriage is for those who wishing to live in cages. Amour is so much more. Do not tell me that yourself, a strong and handsome gentleman, cannot be feeling the touch of a lady?”
Kornukope found himself fascinated by her stance. Was she some sort of high class trollop? If not, perhaps she was smitten with him. He replied, “In Britain, we follow different rules. I shall abstain from commenting on them.”
By now they had entered Windsor Great Park and were walking through woodland, deer grazing in the distance, chestnuts lying all over the ground. Kornukope brought up the rear, Yeggman leading, with the two ladies secure in the middle of the party. As noon passed they struck a patch of thick black hair, which, seeing no way around, they had to forge a path through. It was exhausting work. Once through, they decided to halt beside a dense copse for luncheon.
It was as they were drinking ginger beer and eyeing a box of cheese moustachios that the tribesmen struck. Before Kornukope could struggle to his feet they had lassoed and bound both Yeggman and Eastachia. Zarina screeched, helpless. Then Kornukope found himself facing a tall, pale man wearing a hay skirt and ivory necklaces. Kornukope brought out his revolver and fired, but the man dodged, and he had to fire again, then again, then a fourth time to kill the blighter. But by then the other three in his party were being carried off into the gloom between trees.
“Halt, you fiends!” he cried.
It was too late. Only a little too late, but the tribesmen had the advantage of knowing their ground. Kornukope stopped, his Suicide Club training kicking in. These savages were no match for a Britisher. He would rescue his comrades...
He used his woodsman skills to follow their trail, which led to a clearing in the copse. At once he noticed an escape route – a wide path between the trees on the far side leading to a tributary of the River Thames. In the open, he could outmanoeuvre these tribesmen; in the copse he was less advantaged. But his wife and the other two were in trouble, Yeggman and Eastachia surrounded by savages, Zarina inside a great black pot, beneath which kindling lay. They meant to poach her!
Kornukope studied their weapons: bows and arrows, little more. No sign of guns. He possessed two revolvers. Could he frighten them into submission? It seemed his only hope.
Then he noticed Eastachia looking in his direction, and at the same time he spotted a light bobbing up and down across the pale skins of his enemy. His platinum tie-pin... at once he masked it with his hand. She must have seen the flickering light – the reflection of the sun – and known what it was. That was close...
But now he knew what to do. He loaded the revolvers, eight bullets each, then stood up. Uttering the war-cry of the Cashmiri Indoo he stormed into the clearing, throwing one of the revolvers to Eastachia before the savages had a chance to react. She caught it, then fired, shooting to kill. He did likewise, scattering the tribespeople. Without delay, and knowing that Eastachia would cover him, he ran to the cooking pot and hauled Zarina out. She was as limp as a boned haddock.
“Oh, my sir, you have saved my life!” She grabbed him and kissed him, then repeated, “You have saved my life. Forever will I be in debtor.”
“Run!” he shouted, pointing to the tributary. Yeggman, freed, led the way; and then Eastachia was at his side, the barrel of her revolver smoking.
By now the savages had put arrows to bows and were aiming for them. Dodging and leaping to provide a more difficult target, they ran, catching up with the other two then exhorting them to follow suit. Moments later all four were out of the copse and in full sunlight. Kornukope halted, fired his last bullets, then turned and ran. A few arrows hit the ground nearby, but the savages seemed dispirited by their loss and did not follow them into open ground.
“That was a close shave,” Kornukope said when they were well away.
Yeggman and Zarina were breathing harsh and heavy, so he called a halt. The land around them was green and lightly haired; easy territory. There was time enough for a rest.
While Yeggman cleaned and bound a bleeding graze on Eastachia’s arm, Zarina told Kornukope, “You are the bravest man I am meeting. I honour you, courageous Britisher, and if there might be anything I can do to repay the debtor, you only have to ask.”
“Decent of you,” Kornukope responded. He walked over to Eastachia and said, “Just a flesh wound?”
She smiled up at him. “I knew you were nearby.”
He nodded. “The tie-pin.” He pulled it off and placed it in his pocket. “Perhaps wearing the full suit today was a mistake.”
The sun was now beginning to set into misty yellow haze, and a chill had come to the air, but with Windsor Castle only a mile and a half away they felt hopeful of safety in the town. They set off, walking the bramble-strewn ground, crossing muddy streams and tramping through docks and nettles before reaching the paved road that led into the shallow valley lying before Windsor Castle.
“There it is,” Yeggman said, pointing to the sun-ruddied stately pile. “There we shall arrive... before the night does.”
“Hurry,” Eastachia said, “I can see them lighting lanterns atop the parapets, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near the park when night falls.”
To this they all agreed, so they hurried down the road.
“I take it you have entry to the castle?” Kornukope asked Yeggman.
“Entry? No. I’ll have to use my wits.”
Kornukope frowned. “You mean, your cunning?”
“All castles have concealed exits and entrances. Windsor is no different.”
Zarina took his hand in hers and gave him a secret smile. “Trust him,” she whispered, “like I trust you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sheremy assisted Missus along the gangplank leading from the Titanic to the concrete embankment of the Old Sun Wharf. He had slept for a few hours on the ferry, but now, as the sun rose through Limehouse fog in the east, he was still tired; and he was hungry. He surveyed Narrow Street. It did not look good. This whole district was dense with pubic hair, thick, black and curly. Many of the disembarking passengers wielded machetes, which already they used to clear paths through to Horseferry Road. Sheremy surveyed the scene with sinking heart. He had no machete.
“Don’t worries,” Missus said, giving his hand a squeeze. “We’ll find a way through, that we will.”
Sheremy considered. He wanted to return to Gough Square as soon as possible, but that meant going through the East End – on foot, as he had no coin, unless he should chance upon some kind aerogator. He said, “We need to find a way to Butcher Row and Cable Street, which hopefully we could follow to Whitechapel. Then it’s a short step through the City to Gough Square.”
“A short steps will be a long steps through all this.”
He nodded. “Limehouse has been merkinised,” he observed, “and we’ve got nothing to cut it down.”
But then Gormane Thinnograde leaned over the gunwale of his vessel and said, “Here, you two scurvoes, have these old dirks. They’re blunt and no use to my tars. ’Tis only a little, but it may help you.”
“Why thank you,” Sheremy replied, catching the dirks as Gormane threw them down. The leather sheaths were rotting and the blades rusty, but he felt they might be serviceable if they scraped them across stone.
“See that ingrowin’ pube over there?” Gormane said, indicating a red and swollen lump at the edge of the quayside. “Use the oil inside it for lubrication and the granite of that there buildin’ for a whetstone. Then be off with you.”
They followed Gormane’s instructions, then turned to face Narrow Street. Sheremy’s stomach rumbled. “I’m starving,” he said.
“Me too,” Missus replied.
Sheremy sighed. “What am I saying... all of London will be starving, and poor folk will be the worst hit – as usual. Yet we two must survive if we’re to discover the reason for all this hair.”
The building on which they had sharpened their dirks was the ruined office of the quay manager, whose name they saw on a brass plate beneath a lock of dark hair: Fonswhile Smithors. Cutting back the hair growing from the front door they forced a way in then explored the place, finding a kitchenette at the back.
“Looted,” Sheremy said, observing the mess of rotting meat and mouldy vegetables that had been discarded by the vandals.
“Tins, though,” Missus said, pointing at a cupboard.
Yes, there were tin cans. This novel form of food storage was unfamiliar to Sheremy, but then he remembered something. “My valet claims there is an implement that allows a fellow to open cans such as these.”
“Tins opener,” Missus said. “There must be one right here if Fonswhile had tins.”
Damned good thinking!
Sheremy ransacked the kitchen drawers until Missus squeaked and said, “There! That metal thing there.”
Between them, and with much panting and puffing, they managed to open three of the tins, to discover plums in syrup and mashed tomatoes. This feast they poured into bowls, eating with gusto. After drinking billycans of water, which they boiled on a gas arc – “Monsieur Pasteur,” Sheremy explained, “tells us there are microanimals in ordinary water” – they readied their dirks and strode out into Narrow Street.
After only an hour they stumbled across the battle.
From the north came the soldiers of Stepney, from the south those of Shadwell. The great bakery on Martineau Street was the prize, and both sides wanted it: the Stepneyites led by Colonel Pomp on his pure white horse, the Shadwellers led by Captain Hanuary, sitting, hunched up, on a steam velocipede. Most of the Shadwellers wore steel-tipped greaves and gloves of nut-macadamia, and their tactic was to use the power of their hydrotechnology to blast a way to their enemy through the fiendish hair. The Stepneyites, by contrast, rode ponies and large dogs, and were mostly composed of midgets who could hide in a curl of pubic hair then spring forth to dislodge a steaming rider when he least expected it.
Sheremy and Missus watched from the sidelines, wondering how they were going to continue, but then Sheremy saw a fallen velocipede that kicked its legs like an upside down beetle, venting steam from clanking joints. Its pennant, a loaf couchant on a field of vert, hung loose, bloody and torn. Without hesitation Sheremy pushed his way through the hair and lifted the machine upright, sitting on the seat so that he could experiment with the controls. A lever to move the thing forward... a lever to move it back... these buttons here to control speed and attitude. Seemed simple enough.
“Missus, come sit on my lap!” he cried, over the clamour of ponies being torn asunder by superheated steam.
Slipping on oil dripping from the pubic hair, Missus ran towards him, then, as Sheremy pressed buttons to lower the seating deck, jumped upon his lap. The velocipede creaked, steam venting from its joints, but she was light and it steadied itself, then groaned and stood upright. Sheremy worked levers to make it walk into King David Lane, then turned right into the Highway.
The velocipede seat was comfortable – leather and satin cushions, with a packet of ginger biscuits beneath one of the cushions – but it was a seat meant only for one: Sheremy hoped he would be free of the battle soon. The machine walked carefully, like a heron on lilypads, moving over the most luxuriant pubic curls with little difficulty. Missus squealed like a girl at every jolt. But then a detachment of ponies appeared on the approach to Cannon Street Road, and Sheremy was forced to stop.
“Are there guns aboard this thing?” Missus asked.
Sheremy saw nozzles, but had no idea what they were. “We’re only a few hundred yards from East Smithfield,” he said, “and that means Whitechapel is close.” Pressing buttons, he lowered the seating deck so that they could jump out, but a rain of miniature arrows made of quills flew towards them, which they had to duck by diving amidst the hair. Crawling beneath oily curls they struggled along the western reaches of the Highway, but just as Sheremy saw the sign for East Smithfield he also saw something else.
“Crabs!” Missus wailed.
“Phthirus pubis,” Sheremy gasped. “What an evil fortune. Crab lice, and I am quite done in.”
The crabs scuttled towards Sheremy and Missus, their pincers clacking, their round bodies swaying like sacks of gruel, while on their evil little faces lay expressions of ravenous hunger.
“Dirks out,” Missus said, standing up and adopting a defensive stance.
Sheremy copied her, his hope fading, but the crabs, it seemed, were intelligent and realised the pair were no easy prey. By shouting and waving their dirks they were able to scare the beasts off.
“Quickly,” Missus said, grabbing Sheremy by the hand, “I’ll lead now, all the ways to Whitechapel.” Past the Royal Mint buildings they ran, across Royal Mint Street, then into the soft and butter-yellow hair of Mansell Street. “We’re in Whitechapel, we is,” Missus said with a sigh.
Sheremy nodded. Already noon had passed. They ate the biscuits then drank the last of their boiled water, at which point Sheremy, exhausted from lack of sleep and his recent exertions, knew he must rest. Missus agreed; she felt little better. In a doorway concealed by a mop of brown hair they curled up, each comforting the other; hand in hand.
Sheremy woke, dozed, woke again. Night had fallen. Whitechapel was quiet; the sky dark, no lamps in Mansell Street, no rain to trouble them, no wind, nor even a hint of a breeze. London Town quiescent, as if waiting, waiting...
Then the sound of a distant scream, a woman’s scream, splitting the Whitechapel air; and Sheremy jumped to his feet.
A scream did not bode well.
~
In Pimlico stood the Buddhist monastery that Velvene intended visiting. He landed in the hairy gardens of St George’s Square, then made his way on foot to Lupus Street, where the monastery stood: an Oriental wooden oddity amongst the pale stone and sash windows of surrounding buildings.
Velvene knew nothing about Eastern religion. He fooled himself into thinking he was learned about the Oriental world, but, as Marx and others had pointed out, that was because he gadded around the Empire serving his King and Emperor. True knowledge, he was beginning to learn, arrived in the mind on different vehicles.
So it was that he went into the temple with timidity, almost anxiety, thinking as he peered up at paintings and tapestries that he was a charlatan indeed, coming here to ask questions. In a distant corner stood a gold-covered statue of the figure he assumed must be Buddah, smiling, his hair like a multitude of individually tied locks, one hand raised palm out.
A monk, shaven-headed and wearing a green robe, approached him. “Can I help you?”
Velvene laughed. “Well... yes. But I have a strange question to ask.”
“You may ask me.”
“Well... you see, the thing is, I do not know much about you types, but I thought you might be able to help me discover...”
“Yes?”
“What love is, eh?”
The monk nodded. “I am asked this often,” he said. “Love is the law of the Wheel Of Becoming.”
“Is it, now?”
“All life is one, and compassion is the directive that motivates it. If you are compassionate, you feel for all forms of life. But compassion is no mere attribute, it is the directive of directives, everlasting, love eternal.”
“Yes,” Velvene said, lost already.
“It is written in the Metta Sutta for the novice Buddhist – ‘As a mother, even at the risk of her own life, protects her son, her only son, so let him cultivate love without measure towards all beings. Let him cultivate toward the whole world, above, below, around and everywhere, a heart unmixed with enmity. Let a man maintain this mindfulness for all his waking hours, whether he be standing, walking, sitting or lying down.’”
Velvene nodded. This was already far too difficult for him.
The monk continued, “Or perhaps as it is written in the Itivuttaka – ‘All the means that can be used as bases for right action are not worth the sixteenth part of the emancipation of the heart through love. This takes all others up into itself, outshining them in glory. Just as whatsoever stars there be, their radiance avails not the sixteenth part of the radiance of the moon, just as the sun, mounting up into a clear and cloudless sky, overwhelms all darkness in the realms of space–’”
“My good man,” Velvene interrupted, “do you have this written down somewhere, because I have not a hope in hell of remembering it.”
The monk paused, then said, “Love is a virtue we cultivate for the service of mankind. To feel love, your heartbeat must become the heartbeat of the universe, your consciousness coincident with all life that lives. We call love one of the four Sublime States of Consciousness...”
But Velvene was not listening. Something the monk had said chimed in his memory:
a virtue we cultivate for the service of mankind.
What was it his brother had said, so many years ago now? “No-one hath any greater love than that of a man for his country.”
Yes! Of course! The highest calling, the highest love, was that of a man for his country, for his King and Emperor. And he, a member of the Suicide Club, was ideally placed to experience and comprehend that love.
He raised his hand, interrupting the monk and saying, “Thank you for helping me, but I have heard enough now. Goodbye!”
He turned and hurried out of the temple, returning to the machinora, where, with a hop of delight, he jumped in.
“Why,” he told the clay figure, “I believe I have found my answer at last – and, rather handily, it chimes in with what I already do, so there is no need to undertake much work or learn anything religious. Tally ho! I am flying off to sign up for the nearest war.”
The figure, it seemed to him, turned its head, and he thought he heard a distant voice, a voice that for the fraction of a moment he recognised. But then the will-o’-the-wisp was gone.
“What’s that, eh?” he said. “In war I won’t find love?”
Silence.
But he was sure he had heard a voice saying those words, so he turned around and called out, “Hello? Anybody there?”
Lupus Street lay quiet, hairy, empty.
He shrugged and ignited the heatorix.
~
As evening turned to night in Windsor, Kornukope and his companions stood deep in shadow beneath the high stone walls of the royal castle. Two flags flapped in pale moonlight upon the same flagpole: the royal standard of the King and the Teutonic device of Queen Alberta.
“They are both in residence,” Yeggman observed.
“Yes, yes, well done,” Kornukope replied, with no little sarcasm. “Have you discovered your secret entrance yet?”
“I am searching for it right now.”
Kornukope found himself more irritated with Yeggman than he had ever been before. And he smelled a rat. A big rat. A rat that had appeared because of a lack of mental analysis in the chateau and an excess of suspicious behaviour afterwards. Why Zarina – a delightful creature in comparison – kept his company was anybody’s guess.
“Why are you wearing spectacles?” he asked. “You never have before.”
“These, sir, are optically expanded spectacles invented by Röntgen of the Camden Town Institute–”
“What? You know him?”
Now Yeggman seemed annoyed. “A little. Is that a crime? Half of London knows Röntgen, if only for his madcap inventions – the cathode-ray velocipede, photogram emulsion, octopus cups–”
“I
know
what the man has invented,” Kornukope interrupted.
“Well
these
spectacles work on a different optical wavelength, allowing me to see beneath the stone. Does that explanation satisfy you?”
“Oh, find the secret entrance and be done with it. The guards will see us and become suspicious if we remain here much longer.”
Yeggman said nothing more, taking the spectacle aerials in his hands, vibrating them, then moving his head from side to side, like a snake hypnotising prey. Then he stopped moving.