Jago (78 page)

Conductor-in-chief Yellow-Eye made a motion to slit Orlando’s throat and get it over with. Lytton fired again, and the knife-hand vanished into red, gritty mist that went all over Orlando’s face and shirt. The blade blasted into the distance, and clattered against a wall.

Yellow-Eye didn’t make a sound, though the blood was squeezed out of his lips and into his eyes. With his left (remaining) hand, he reached behind his back, for a holster. Lytton didn’t bother with a warning shot, and put his next ball in the man’s head, settling his clouded eye problem once and for all. For a heartbeat, Orlando thought even that wouldn’t stop the artist formerly known as Yellow-Eye, now liable to be tagged briefly as Red-Socket. The conductor-in-chief jerked backward, but continued to draw his own pistol, bringing it round, aiming the long barrel generally at the Captain. Then he crumpled.

The third conductor still had a grip on Orlando’s arms. He swivelled and held Orlando up, using him as a shield.

Lytton stepped forward, gun raised. The fog seemed to part to make way for him. A tall man, he wore a long motorcyclist’s coat and a broad-brimmed hat. His bootfalls were heavy. His eyes glinted, even through the fog.

The surviving conductor backed away, dragging Orlando, but collided with the lamp-post. He dropped Orlando and scarpered into the fog.

Orlando twisted as he fell, jamming his hands against cobbles, feeling the impact in his wrists and elbows. He sat, and found Lytton knelt over him.

‘Nothing broken?’ the Captain asked, like a doctor. His long-barrelled six-shot revolver was still drawn and cocked.

Orlando checked himself and shook his head. He wasn’t really in much worse shape than usual.

Lytton nodded towards the two dead men.

‘I’d heard the Lord Mayor Elect took a tough line on fare dodgers, but this seems excessive.’

Whistles sounded, nearby. The sort that never failed to scrape Orlando’s nerves. Police whistles.

‘It’d probably be for the best if we moved on,’ Lytton said.

Orlando agreed with him.

* * *

One of the Lord Mayor Elect’s most popular campaign promises was revision of draconian licensing laws that had come as a relief in the latter stages of the Civil War. Even pubs forced to close at half past ten of an evening had been welcomed after a spell of brutally enforced temperance. Lord Protector John Minor, desperately trying to sustain the coalition, had committed himself to the experiment to gain the support of one of the more obnoxious Puritan factions. Actually, Prohibition had been a magic time for Orlando; touting for the shebeens that mushroomed into existence, he’d been in the gravy. The stew of ill-advised moral heavy-handedness had thrown up more than a few black economy millionaires.

Until the Assembly passed the new raft of London laws, every street in the city still had its illegal after-hours grogshop or lock-in, but all were wary of new faces. It’d probably be an even worse idea to show himself where he was known. The conductor who had fled knew Orlando’s name and too many of his Sunday best aliases. Yellow-Eye had sneered at his forged papers, but they were of the highest quality. The conductor-in-chief must have had an eye for snide, a skill hardly picked up to cope with a wave of counterfeit bus passes. He had every reason to believe the people the conductors worked for could get the word out faster than a town crier or a Newgate pamphleteer.

So hiding in a boozer was out. And a fancy house—of which there were several within easy distance—was a worse idea. Drunks might be too sozzled to remember to sell you out, but a tart always sniffed potential profit and had no concept of loyalty. Orlando’s Mum, who worked under the nom de slut of Fifi la Française, had repeatedly informed on his Dad, who went by the slightly too-giveaway handle Burglar Bill Boldt, sending him away to Pentonville for long stretches to pocket the escalating reward money. She even nagged the old man to go for quality blags so the Judas purse on him would swell enough to be worth the claiming. They were retired to Hove now; Mum was still at it, grassing on Dad for fiddling his pension claims.

Orlando and Lytton walked across Clapham Common, wading through a knee-high fog pool that soaked trouser-cuffs and would eventually eat through boots.

Where to go?

Orlando’s crib in Streatham would be blown. The Captain was newly arrived in the city, and had yet to secure lodgings for the night.

It was best to keep walking.

He volunteered no explanation of the contretemps with the conductors. The Captain must be wondering if he had not intervened on the wrong side. Orlando could make no claim to good character and his assailants were uniforms, deporting themselves as if empowered to give him a hard time.

That face. The man on the bus.

Orlando still didn’t have an idea what the business was all about, but knew it was momentous.

Police whistles shrilled again, in the distance. There were disturbances at the edge of the Common. With luck, the peelers would turn up enough citizens unwilling to explain their presence to keep them busy until morning.

A gent in a natty cutaway coat hobbled past at top speed, trews around his knees, dickybird waving like a broken spigot, shrieking in what Orlando recognised as Welsh. Taffs were all cracked, from coal dust and lava bread. Without discussion, Lytton and Orlando stopped walking and stepped close to tall bushes, swirling fog cloaking around them. A whistle sounded close by, and a fat plod galumphed past, nipplehead hat wobbling, truncheon out at the ready. He gained on the Welshman and launched himself with a roar, bearing his quarry into the thick of the fog.

Beyond their sight, a severe beating took place. By the sound of it, more constables pitched up to help the queer-bashing. One lovingly whistled the theme to
Dixon of Dock Green
to cover yelps and thumps. The bastards always did that. Anyone who thought community coppers were really like George Dixon on the wireless was in for a nasty surprise. The Lord Mayor Elect had promised yet another inquiry into corruption at the Met, and word on the street was that he might actually mean it.

The hapless perv was dragged off by the rozzers, whining ‘don’t you know who I am, boyos?’ between truncheon-taps. Then, the commotion was over. The fog was thick all around, and they were far enough from gas-light for yellow to seem sludgy grey. In a natural hollow, Orlando and Lytton were surrounded by bushes: a fine site for an assignation or an assassination.

‘Now,’ said Lytton. ‘What is this all about?’

Orlando shrugged.

Lytton turned and walked away, disappearing completely.

Terror rose. Orlando had been abandoned.

‘Wait,’ he shouted. ‘I saw something I shouldn’t. Something important.’

He looked into the dark and saw nothing.

‘Go on,’ said Lytton.

Orlando jumped, at being addressed by an invisible presence. He couldn’t even work out where Lytton was standing.

‘I caught a bloody bus. It was marked “Not in Service”, but I didn’t notice. I had, ahem, been drinking, in celebration of a tidy bit of business and, not to mince words, was fairly bladdered. It was a good old routemaster, with the open platform at the back. None of your OMOV bollocks. I found it at a traffic light, and climbed aboard. The bus had three conductors, and one particular passenger. Unwilling, I’d say. He was handcuffed to a hanging-strap and drugged to the eyeballs. When I got on, the conductors were seeing to the prisoner. A leather-mask was being fitted over his face, like a bondage hood. It had been taken off because Old Yellow Eye was afraid he had choked on his tongue, but they were satisfied he was just zonked and were fitting the thing on again. I saw this man’s face, and I recognised it. Just as I recognised your face, Captain Lytton.’

‘Who was this unfortunate?’

Orlando thought a moment. ‘Not yet. I have to think hard before I say. But, besides the conductors, three other men were on the bus. I knew them too. Those names I will give you. Strawjack Crowe, Geodfroy Arachnid, Truro Daine.’

Lytton’s face appeared. ‘A fine collection of rogues.’

‘The Prime Minister’s Spy-Master, the disgraced High Elder of the Sect of Diana, and the worst criminal in London. Not exactly the sort of folk you expect to find on the last bus to Streatham Hill.’

‘If those three have common interests, it’d be a sorry day for the city.’

‘Believe me, that’s true,’ said Orlando.

‘Still, I hadn’t planned on biding long here. I’d advise you get out too, especially if they know your name.’

Orlando’s insides knotted. Leave London! He’d tried that once, and would not be going down that sad road any time in the near future, no matter what. Beyond the city limits, wearing socks made you unspeakably posh and they sweetened the tea with cat’s-piss.

Besides, he would never be safe. Strawjack Crowe, a poxcheeked Puritan who had been master of the Lord Protector’s Secret Police, ruled the Star Chamber of the Parliament of the Marches, the central agency entrusted by the new Prime Minister with overall command of all police forces, civil militias and honour guards in the country. Famous for having his own son flogged in public for singing on a Sunday, Crowe was the most frighteningly efficient enemy of harmless pleasure England had ever seen. His power—mandated by the Prime Minister of the Marches, not the London Assembly—was on the rise even within the city.

And, if there was a place in these islands beyond Crowe’s reach, it would still be within the grasp of Truro Daine, Emperor of the Underworld, the ‘Cromwell of Crime’. They said the fog itself worked for Daine, whose initial riverside power-base was so permanently thick with the stuff he could no longer breathe fresh air or see clearly without the murk. He lived in rooms especially pumped full of fog and, on the bus, had been taking draughts through a breathing mask which left a yellow triangle around his mouth and nose.

‘You’re in this too,’ Orlando said. ‘The conductor found out my name, but he must have known your face.’

Lytton held his chin, and conceded the point.

‘I’m sorry, Captain, but we’re on the bus together, as it were, until we get to the depot. Between them, Crowe and Daine can have every man against us. Even Arachnid has followers, and he’s a standing joke among his own sect let alone real people. Think of it: coppers, crooks, Dianaheads—all against us. Eyes in the fog. They expect us to run, to try and get out of the city, to head for the walls. The gates will be double- and triple-guarded. Hunting dogs will be loose in the green-belt. They’ll be searching the trains and coaches. Our only hope is to stay in the smoke, to scare up some friends.’

‘We have no friends.’

Orlando understood. ‘Maybe not, but we can find allies. Have you heard of the Diogenes Club?’

Lytton nodded. He accepted casually that Orlando could drop the name of an institution which was supposedly unknown to the general public.

‘They were supposed to be broken up, as a condition of the reunification,’ Orlando said. ‘It’s part of the Prime Minister’s programme of recovery, but the Parliament of the Marches is out there in the sticks, hopping like a bunch of ravers between New Towns and the fens. What the PM says in some jumped-up Women’s Institute Hall doesn’t mean a fly’s fart in London. The Diogenes Club is in Pall Mall. Would you wager that some of its members still take an interest in matters of state?’

‘In the War, I ran ops for Diogenes,’ Lytton admitted.

‘Didn’t we all?’

Lytton looked at him, really taking him in for the first time. Orlando knew he wasn’t impressive, wasn’t tall, didn’t sound like the BBC. But sometimes blending in was more important than standing out.

‘Pall Mall, eh? There’s Battersea, the Thames, Belgravia, the Palace and Green Park between here and there. Quite a stroll in the best of times. We’d best shift ourselves, Goodman Boldt.’

‘Just what I was going to say.’

* * *

By dawn, they had made it to the Thames, and stood on Chelsea Reach. Day brought light but not clarity. The fog was thicker and yellower than school custard. Back in his crib, Orlando had a selection of stylish breathing masks—but he’d neglected to bring any of them out. His perennially troublesome lungs gave him gyp. He clocked Lytton noticing the blood in his hankie after he had a good old Frank Bough.

They’d kept out of the way of trouble, staying off main thoroughfares, avoiding all other early-morning folk. Orlando,
A to Z
imprinted on his brain from birth, knew the city in a way that made a black cabbie with a headful of Knowledge seem like a Geordie wandering out of Victoria coach station for the first time and wondering where his wallet had gone. Lytton let him lead and Orlando had a little puff of pride, understanding the Captain judged him sound in this area of expertise, and was prepared to entrust him with his life.

‘Battersea, Albert or Chelsea?’ Orlando asked. ‘Maybe Vauxhall, if you fancy a bit of a hike.’

Lytton considered. They were closest to the Chelsea Bridge. Beyond the fog-wall that hung over the river was the Chelsea Embankment. Orlando was antsy about the Chelsea Bridge just now, perhaps because there was a Bus Depot attached to the approach road. He still half-thought London Transport was in on this whole thing with the Three Villains, fighting the Lord Mayor Elect’s policies on low fares and public ownership.

They looked up at the span of the bridge. Vague shapes stood idling. Orlando made out the tithead shape of a bobby’s helmet on one of them, but the other fellows wore tricorns like his.

‘They’ll have all the bridges guarded,’ said Lytton. ‘Damn, I hadn’t expected them to be this fast.’

‘We can hardly swim across.’

Orlando was worried when Lytton didn’t immediately agree with him. Because of his back and limbs, he could barely do a width in the Lambeth Baths. And the Thames was definitely not fit for human immersion. Trapped in the sargasso of detergent scum that drifted slowly by the Reach were dead cats, clumps of raw sewage, a myriad partial clay pipes and an amazing amount of assorted jetsam. A faceless grandfather clock bobbed past, a raft for a large, red-eyed rat. More than a few unwary folk of Orlando’s acquaintance had taken a last dip in these waters.