Retromancer (26 page)

A certain chill had now entered my bones and a certain squeaking sound came also to my ears. Along the deck trundled the wicker bath chair containing the ancient prune-like nanna, still being pushed by the striking gentleman with the amazing mustachios.

The bath chair was drawn level and the nanna stared at me. ‘Meet my twin sister,’ said Esmerelle.

And the nanna’s eyes glowed in the moonlight.

I would have run like the wind at this point. Or, if not at this point, then definitely at the point where the ancient, wrinkled, prune-like nanna rose from her bath chair and metamorphosed right there and then into a terrible wolf. And it was a proper full-scale animatronicstyle metamorphosis at that, with pruney skin shredding and big wolfy bits bursting out all over the place.

I would have run, I really would. But I did not. I could not. I was all weighed down by that special last supper, which was clearly designed for such effect. So I sort of staggered to my feet and lurched forwards like some B-movie zombie. The werewolf monster was clawing through blankets and old-lady trappings, its jaws all salivaed, its growlings most awful to hear.

And although I could not move too fast upon my wobbling legs, I was still able to lash out with justified and considerable fury and I managed to welt the fellow with the fine moustaches a blistering blow to the hooter, which sent him sprawling over the monster that was scrabbling up to eat me.

Which did not give me very much time, but gave me just enough. There was one of those things that I have never really understood rising from the deck near at hand. One of those things that look a bit like a grossly oversized ear trumpet and are constructed of polished-up brass on period liners like this. And although I did not know just what I might be getting into, anything was preferable to being eaten alive by a monstrous wolf, so I flung myself into this polished brass item and fell into darkness below.

The next thing I knew a couple of stoker-type sailors were yanking me into the light and telling me that I should not have been in there because that was a very dangerous place to be. And I was thanking them very much for this, but emphasising the fact that there were many more dangerous things in this world, when a lot of growling and clawing and scrabbling announced the imminent arrival of wolfish wickedness.

‘I would run if I were you,’ I told the stoker-types. ‘It is what I intend to do and you would both do well to emulate my example.’ Which was quite nicely put, although I think they failed to grasp the full import of its meaning.

I ran at a belly-sagging stagger as fast as I possibly could.

Behind me I heard growls and screams but I just lumbered on. Through a hatchway I went, but there was no lock, nor nothing to bar it behind me. And on and on I went, down a narrow corridor, until I reached a door with a sign that said CARGO HOLD.

Behind me rose growls and horrible sounds, and so I entered the cargo hold.

It was dimly lit and there were many steamer trunks and packing cases and crates of stuff and this, that and the other. I edged this way, that and the other trying to shrink through confined spaces and do my best to make myself invisible. But I was aware of one thing and that one thing was how members of the dog family are so noted for their sense of smell. And the way I smelled, I knew I must be leaving a trail that a half-nosed pup could follow.

But I kept right on squeezing and held my breath as I heard the door to the cargo hold smash and the growlings grow louder and louder.

‘What would Hugo do?’ I wondered to myself. ‘Perhaps he would cast a mystic lightning bolt or simply pull a derringer from his shirt cuff and dispatch the beast in an instant. And then probably have some tailor in Knightsbridge run up a nice wolf-skin jacket for him from the pelt.

I heard the beast do sniffings, then heard it growl once more. And I fumbled along, as quietly as I could in the dim light, hoping desperately that some solution to my dire predicament would hastily reveal itself.

And then something nearly took off my hand.

And I say nearly because I felt it coming at me rather than saw it and I tore back my hand in a rush.

I had got myself a bit wedged against something that looked like a mighty steel coffin. It was all metal plates and rivets and seemed the sort of thing that would be likely to house something really dangerous.

And on this occasion first impressions were not incorrect, because as my hand had brushed past a little barred air-hole kind of arrangement in the bolted lid, whatever lurked within had gone for it.

I flapped my hand. I was trembling now and I had had enough of this business. I stared down at the metal coffin affair and read the label that was pasted upon it:

PROPERTY OF BARON VON BACON.

DO NOT FEED.

DO NOT TOUCH.

AND CERTAINLY DO NOT OPEN.

Baron von Bacon, I knew that name. Creator of the Hell Hound with the human brain that had feasted on dead bodies back at Mons. Was the evil baron aboard this ship? It seemed that if he was not, then his Hell Hound was.

And now there was growling in stereo, Hell Hound to the left of me, werewolf to the right, here I was, stuck in the middle with… just me.

And then an idea dawned that was little less than inspired. Had I had longer to weigh up the disastrous potential attendant to the execution of this idea, I might well have thought twice about translating thought into action. But I was still young and foolish in my way and it did seem such a good idea at the time.

And so I dragged open the bolts on the steely coffin, swung wide the steely lid and cried, ‘Kill, boy! British soldier dressed as a dog! Kill, boy! Good boy! Kill!’

Well, there was always the chance that it understood English and I must say that considering the speed with which it left its metallic prison, it was certainly eager for freedom.

I now did duckings of my head as the fiends fell to hideous conflict.

The Hellish Hound and the Werewolf Monster tore at each other in fury. From what I could see of the maelstrom of violence, they appeared to be quite evenly matched.

I had never been a betting man. It was just one of those things that never had come into my life. And anyway I was too young to enter a bookies and really did not understand quite what went on within them. But if I had had to place a bet upon which monster was going to survive the fur-flying holocaust, I would have been really hard put to it to choose.

So I just slunk away, white-faced and trembling, and left them to sort it out for themselves. And I was halfway back along that narrow corridor when they came bucketing after me, bloody claws and teeth a-snapping and a-tearing. And I found some vigour in my legs now and so I took to my heels.

I made it up to a deck that I had not visited before. Perhaps it was one of those decks frequented by the lower classes, who like to dance jigs upon them, or sing Irish songs about sorrow and spuds. Or sorrow for lack of such spuds. But whatever the case, it was presently deserted and I burst onto it followed by two flailing monsters.

I tried hard to run, but tripped on my face and prepared to meet my maker. Howls and horror, growls and screams and moans and so much more.

Then nothing.

Then a kind of double splash.

And I raised my eyes and crawled to the side and peered down into the water. But the moonlight shone serenely upon the mirrored surface and all was once more calm and peaceful, pale and tranquil.

‘Well,’ I said, rising and dusting down my dining duds, ‘I think that went rather well. We can chalk that one up as a success, I think.’

Which of course was not the thing to say, because whenever you do get a bit smug and make a remark like that, something will always pop up, spoil the moment and smack you back down to the ground.

This of course was just such an occasion, and the voice that I heard chilled my heart.

‘You have murdered my sister,’ cried Esmerelle, and then she was upon me. She hauled me to my feet and swung me around and as I stared into her beautiful face it transformed right there before my very eyes.

‘Only me now!’ she cried and she howled like a wolf. ‘And so I must have revenge for the death of my sister. I’ll tear your throat but let you live, and you shall be like me.’ And so there was a terrible ripping and tearing of clothing and the beast rose up to gnaw at my throat and transform me into a werewolf.

And I prepared once more to meet my maker. Hopefully to meet my maker, for death would be better than the werewolf alternative.

And the terrible jaws with their terrible teeth came closer and closer and cl-

But then I saw that wolf face seem to fold, the jaws gaped wide but then dropped slack and I heard a swish and a swish and a swish and the monstrous beast fell past me.

It plunged over the rail and down and down and into the ocean below.

And I stared boggle-eyed into the face of my deliverer.

For Hugo Rune was wiping down the swordstick blade of his stout stick cane.

‘Well, Rizla,’ he said. ‘This is a sorry business. You look, I must say, just a little pale, caught there in the light of THE MOON.’

THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE

We sat at the bar upon chromium stools and I had an all-over shiver. Hugo Rune ordered me something strong and Fangio served it to me.

‘It was horrible,’ I told the Magus, as I poured out the details. ‘They were going to eat me. Horrible it was, just horrible. And Baron von Bacon’s Hell Hound was on board too. And that was really horrible and-’

Hugo Rune nodded in a manner suggestive of the fact that he knew just how horrible it all was. And then he did sniffings at me. ‘Pooh,’ he said. ‘You really pong. First it was of horses from the Tower of London, and now-’ and he sniffed and did noddings of the head ‘-a perfume created from the gonads of the white wolf. Such a scent would surely attract any wolf, were or otherwise.’

I drank some more and grew sulky. ‘And they all knew,’ I grumped. ‘These rich swine, when they sniffed me and turned away their heads, they knew I was marked for death.’

‘If this has, as I suspect, been going on for some time, then it would be a case of “rather him than me”.’

‘It has been going on since the start of the war,’ I said. ‘Those monsters have been living aboard this ship since then.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I have not encountered one of their kind for more than fifty years. My blade, thrice-blessed for such business, has happily not lost its edge.’

‘And you have saved my life once more,’ said I, brightening. ‘And I am very grateful for that. Thank you so much, Mr Rune.’

‘I could not let my acolyte come to harm. Even if he did ignore my plea and swan off to dinner instead.’

‘Your plea?’ I said.

‘The message you received in the dining salon.’

‘So it was you who wrote the message. But-’

‘You fail to understand. Yes, I see. She slipped me a sleeping draught, Rizla, this Esmerelle of yours. A Mickey Finn, as it were. She arrived at my suite with a cocktail that I had not ordered and then waited while I drank it. I was tricked once more, Rizla. I really do feel that I am losing my edge.’

‘But the message?’

‘I felt the drug taking hold and I feigned unconsciousness. She left my quarters, then I hastily scribbled the note and rang for room service.’

‘It said you were dying,’ I said.

‘I might well have been.’

‘You just looked like you were sleeping peacefully when I saw you.’

‘A sleeping draught will create such an effect, Rizla. They wanted me out of the way while they dined upon you. They were no doubt thinking to reserve me for the next full moon. Had you taken my message at face value you would have sat with me in my bedchamber, and possibly remained safe until I regained consciousness. However, you-’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All right. You just looked so peaceful and all those medics were there.’

‘In on the conspiracy,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I can assure you, Rizla, they felt the wrath of my stout stick when I awoke.’

Fangio served us further drinks and these we downed in silence. Presently Fangio tired of this silence and took once more to the toot.

‘I was chatting,’ said he, ‘with the first mate. And the first mate says that this is the worst trip he’s ever been on. And he’s travelled on some stinkers – he was aboard the Sloop John B, you know.’

‘Really?’ I said. And I yawned.

‘And there’s three waiters working here who survived the Titanic.’

‘Really?’ I said. And I yawned while I said it.

‘And the captain fell overboard on our first night out and was drowned.’

‘Nobody mentioned that,’ said Hugo Rune.

‘The first mate said that they didn’t want to panic the passengers. Lots of posh Eastern European nannas and suchlike.’

‘Hm,’ I said, without a yawn. And then said, ‘Hm,’ again.

‘So, being a democratic crew, they drew lots to see who should captain the ship.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘I think I know what is coming. Break out the lifeboats, Mr Rune – Captain Fangio is steering us into an iceberg.’

‘Oh, don’t be so silly,’ said Fangio. ‘They only drew lots amongst the long-standing seaman types. And a worthy fellow now steers the ship.’

‘Well, thank whatever for that,’ I said.

‘And funnily enough,’ Fangio continued, ‘he’s a Brentford man. I wonder if you ever ran into him. His name is Pooley, Jimmy Pooley.’

There was a moment of silence there.

Just before I screamed.

‘Hold on, hold on, hold on, please,’ said Fangio. ‘No screaming in the posh bar. Not until tomorrow night anyway. I have been elected games and entertainment officer and put in charge of bar fun generally. I thought I’d start off with a Weeping and Wailing Competition tomorrow night.’

‘No!’ I protested. ‘You do not understand. We are all doomed, doomed, I say.’

‘You’d be in with a chance with that kind of wailing. But please keep it down now, you are frightening my monkey.’

‘Sorry, Clarence,’ I said to the creature, ‘but we really are all doomed.’

Mr Rune said, ‘Please speak clearly.’

So speak clearly I did.

‘James Pooley,’ I said, ‘Brentford’s James Pooley is now captaining the ship. And this would be – how should I put this? – well, how about James Jonah Pooley, sole survivor of many a shipwreck, scourge of the seven seas. A man, if ever there was one, who was born to wear an albatross around his neck.’

‘I agree that he does have something of a reputation for that kind of thing,’ said Fangio. ‘But you shouldn’t go tarnishing someone with a sticky brush just because they ate the parson’s nose. Or is it the other way round?’

‘It does not work for me either way,’ I said. ‘But trust me on this: if James “Down-with-all-hands-but-me” Pooley is at the helm, I am wearing my lifebelt for the remainder of the voyage.’

‘I’ve been wearing mine since we left port,’ said Fangio, lifting the hem of his blouse to expose said item, ‘although not by choice. I was trying it on for size in my cabin and sort of got stuck in it. Funny thing that, really. Once I was vacuuming the house and it was a hot day and I was vacuuming naked and I fell forwards and you’ll never guess what happened-’

‘Correct,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘because we will certainly never attempt to. Let us take another cocktail, Rizla, then let us take to our beds.’

I have to admit that I did not sleep well. My dreams were haunted by snapping wolves on sinking ships and all was not right with the world. But then all was not right with the world and I was seriously beginning to wonder whether Hugo Rune and I really would be able to put the world to right. To my reckoning there were three tarot cards left. THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE, THE TOWER and the one with the sticking plaster on it, the terrible card known as DEATH. Just the three. And how near were we to putting the world to right? To stopping America being blown into nuclear fragments? Not too near, in my opinion. In fact just about as distant as we could possibly be. And so I did not sleep well and I did not have pleasant dreams.

Mr Rune woke me early and he looked bright enough. ‘I have been thinking, Rizla,’ he said, ‘and thinking all of the night. We have but three cards left to be dealt and time is running out. If von Bacon’s Hell Hound was aboard this ship, I am wondering what else might be down in the cargo hold. I feel that after we have fortified ourselves with a suitably heroic breakfast we might acquire the ship’s manifest and take a little look around downstairs.’

‘Splendid,’ I said, ‘because I was dreaming-’

‘Rizla, I know what you dreamed.’

We breakfasted in the forward salon. It was all white Lloyd Loom chairs and tables, potted palms and posh folk. And I grew grumpy at the sight of these.

‘Look at them,’ I whispered to Hugo Rune, ‘pointing at me and muttering behind their manicured hands. They know I was marked for death. The horrid rotten bunch.’

‘I think it more likely,’ said Himself, ‘that they are commenting on the fact that you are wearing your lifebelt. It quite ruins the cut of your jacket.’

‘This stays on,’ I said. ‘Even when I am using the toilet. And that is a challenge, believe you me.’

‘I am prepared to believe you, Rizla. Now what shall we take for our brekkie?’

I had made the suggestion to Mr Rune that we should employ the services of Fangio’s monkey as a food taster, just in case there were those aboard who might now seek to poison us. More werewolves perhaps, for they are known to exist in packs. Or SS officers mourning the loss of their Hell Hound. But Hugo Rune sniffed at each course as it came and pronounced that each passed muster.

And he was clearly confident in his talents (if belatedly demonstrated) as food sniffer, because he wolfed down his breakfast and goose-stepped many cups of tea.

‘A stroll now, Rizla,’ he said, when we were done, ‘and let us see what we shall see.’

We wandered topside and mooched about the decks. Ignoring the sporting opportunities of deck javelins, tossing the grimble, sidestepping and that evergreen favourite ‘pluck one out on a bended knee’. Although I never really saw the point of that game. Too many balls involved.

We gazed at the sea, which was flat as turquoise glass with no visible join to the sky. Mr Rune smoked a post-breakfast cheroot and I had another go at a Wild Woodbine but still was not making a lot of progress on the smoking front.

‘I think,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘that we should now evade the eyes of our watchers and slip away to the cargo hold.’

‘Our watchers?’ I whispered. ‘Now this is new.’

‘Two gentlemen, wearing trenchcoats and snap-brimmed fedoras, have been following us since we left the forward salon. Clearly our cards are now marked, as they say, and we must be on our guard.’

I glanced back over my shoulder and noticed two fellows in trenchcoats. As my eyes caught theirs they turned away, confirming Mr Rune’s thoughts.

‘Assassins, do you think?’ I whispered.

‘They have the look of Americans, Rizla. And there’s no telling with them.’

Hugo Rune now performed a number of classic manoeuvres to avoid surveillance without giving the impression of doing so. He employed the ‘double-footed swan-dive’, the ‘partly-taken-aback’ and the ‘there-goes-ninepence-again’ stratagems to splendid effect and soon we were at the cargo hold unfollowed.

The heavy padlocks now barring our entry were dealt with by Mr Rune and he and I slipped into the hold to see what we might see.

‘There are many steamer trunks,’ I said. ‘Did you manage to acquire the cargo manifest?’

‘Sadly, no, Rizla, it is locked in the captain’s safe. The new captain would happily have allowed me to peruse it, but apparently he has mislaid the combination.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said, but quietly. But thought many more ‘oh dears’.

‘So employ your intuition, Rizla, and let us see what we can find.’

And so we searched. And there really did seem to be some most extraordinary things stored in that hold. A London taxicab, for instance, under a tarpaulin. And a number of coffins that I really did not want to open. But then, after much nosing about into other people’s private possessions, I discovered what must surely be the mother lode.

‘Mr Rune,’ I called out. ‘Mr Rune, you will never believe what I have just found here.’

And Mr Rune was soon at my side and Mr Rune asked, ‘What?’

‘See for yourself,’ I said and I pointed. And Himself saw for himself. ‘Oh, Rizla,’ he said. ‘Oh, well done indeed.’

And he read the label aloud.

HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE

MARK ONE TESLA

IONIC FIELD GENERATOR

‘It is the field generator that was stolen from your conservatory,’ I said. ‘But what is it doing here?’

‘Heading for America,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Everything falls neatly into place.’

‘It does?’ I said. ‘Then please explain it to me.’

And I am sure that he would have done just that.

Had it not been for the interruption.

Which came as if a bolt from the blue.

As our ship struck something-

HARD