Hairy London (6 page)

They began forging a path down Brecknock Road. Tyko said, “Why don’t you sell it sir, then we could buy us some grub.”

“Grub?”

“Nosh.”

“Nosh?”

“You’re not from ’round here, are you sir?”

Velvene replied, “No, I live in Belgravia.”

“Is that on the Continent?”

Velvene sighed. He could hardly believe that children were quite so inquisitive, quite so forward, and quite so hungry. But though he disbelieved Tyko about the conditions of his house, there was something in the boy’s direct honesty that tugged at the back of his mind. Belgravia, it had to be said, was a district of distinction, and it could be argued that none of the Orchardtides had experienced all the regions of London. And one did hear stories of deprivation on occasion, when they were reported in the back pages of the
Times
...

“Tyko, do you read at all?”

“Yes sir, I steal as many newspapers as I can. The
Filth Gazette
mostly. If I lived abroad like you, I’d steal the
Times
.”

“I do not live abroad,” Velvene said, with no little exasperation. “But you believe in God, eh?”

“No sir. Only fools believe in God.”

Appalled, Velvene stopped, grabbed the boy by the ear and said, “
What
did you say?”

Tyko seemed unaffected by the rough treatment. “Only fools, sir. I’m an agnostician. I don’t think you can prove anything beyond doubt.”

“You are parroting!” Velvene cried. “You heard somebody say that, and you are repeating it to me!”

“That’s right, sir. But I understand what it means.”

Velvene flung Tyko to the ground. But then he looked at the lad and found himself shocked at the violent treatment he had meted out, which must be no better than that of the masters who beat boys with sticks. He took a step back. He shook his head. He did not know what was happening to him.

“Tyko,” he muttered, “I must apologise. I am truly sorry. You rather caught me off guard, eh? Stand up lad, and we shall walk on to Islington. At the very least I shall get you to safety tonight.”

“It’s safer on the streets than in the johnny cab, sir.”

Velvene found himself silenced. There was no arguing with the boy. His honesty was like a shield against which blandishments had no effect. “Follow me anyway,” he said, “and we shall see what we shall see.”

“Are you sure you haven’t got any food? I feel sick now.”

An unfamiliar sensation settled upon Velvene. It was, he realised, guilt.

A few hundred yards down the road Velvene saw a Chips & Fishes bar, but it was shut because of the hairy situation. With the holster of his knife he rapped on the door, until a window opened above the bar and a man leaned out.

“What yer want? Can’t yer see we’s closed?”

“My good man,” Velvene replied, “I will give you six silver spongs for two portions of your finest.”

“Be right dahn, sir.”

Ten minutes later they were eating out of yesterday’s newspapers. Tyko said, “Do we have to go to the johnny cab? Why don’t you believe me?”

“Your story sounds too incredible to be true,” Velvene replied. “I have never been to this district of London before, let alone to Islington, so this is something of a new experience for me. I am hoping you were lying.”

Tyko shrugged. “It’s all true,” he said. “Wish it weren’t.”

They carried on through light blonde hair down York Way, arriving half way through the night at Pentonville Road. Exhausted, they found a doorway choked with soft brown hair, in which they slept, like dormice in a nest.

Dawn. Velvene woke up, alerted by a noise. A small hand rummaged inside his rucksack. He reached out and grabbed it. “You do not want to be a thief,” he said. “Believe me, it causes problems.”

“Sorry, sir. I wasn’t going to mick anything.”

“Is that so, eh?”

Tyko shrugged. “I’m going to lick the fish grease off my fingers for breakfast,” he said.

Velvene stood up, then pulled Tyko to his feet. “Come along. This morning we shall see what this house of yours is really like.”

They made their way as best they could along Pentonville Road, until Tyko stopped by a postbox and with a trembling arm pointed. “There it is sir. Please don’t let’s get any nearer.”

“I cannot see it well enough from here.”

Velvene walked on. The building was tall and black, with high walls in which small windows twinkled. Rotting brown doors pierced the lower sections, and by one a sallow faced, burly man stood. He wore the dirtiest clothes Velvene had ever seen.

“Good morning to you,” Velvene said. The man stared at him, silent, brooding. “Is the name Tyko Matchmaker known to you?”

At once the man stood alert. “Yes it bleedin’ is. Where is the runt?”

“Well–”

The man grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall. Taken by surprise, Velvene felt the breath expelled from his chest.

“Where
is
’e?” the man demanded.

Velvene glanced back at the postbox, hardly able to breathe. The man dropped him and charged through street hair to the postbox, grabbing Tyko from his hiding place. Tyko shouted and struggled, but he was caught.

Velvene, still shocked, found himself frozen, unable to act. This was all too strange, too alien. He felt lost. But when the man closed he stepped in front of him and said, “Is there really any need to be quite so harsh–”

The man struck him in the face, then moved on, throwing Tyko as if he was a bag of corn into the building.

“What are you going to do with him?” Velvene asked.

“Flail ’im ’til ’e’s one inch from croakin’.”

“But... what is the point? He is only an innocent boy.”

“Don’ worry. If ’ e dies, we’s got an inexhaustible supply of ’em.”

“Inexhaustible?”

“It’s called London Town. Now get yer carcass out o’ my sight.”

The man turned around and slammed the door, and Velvene, for all his experience in foreign fields, for all his courage and his medals, could not go inside the building to rescue Tyko. Then he heard the sound of a whip cracking, and screams.

~

The Blutblitzen Zeppelin Corporation in Swiss Cottage covered a large area and was surrounded by a brick wall fifteen feet high. Kornukope was not concerned by this – the site had once been a brick factory. But he was concerned by the noise of guard dogs barking inside the site, and by the six foot six guard standing amidst thick blonde hair beside the main entrance.

“Good morning,” he said. He checked his chronoplast. “Good afternoon. I am Kornukope Wetherbee.”

The guard said nothing. His face remained immobile. He stared.

“And I would like to see the Count von Flugzeug.”

“The Count receives no visitors from the public.”

“Look here my good man, von Flugzeug is a personal friend and will be angry if he discovers you have impeded me. So let me in. Now.”

Something in Kornukope’s manner made the guard wilt. Scowling, he took from the bakelite oyster at his side a small redbreast, into which he spoke. “Man called Wetherbee here to see you... oh, right. Let him
in?
Right sir, at once, sir.”

Kornukope glanced at his wife and raised his eyebrows in mock outrage. Eastachia tried to stop herself laughing.

Kornukope had not been inside the site for a year. It had changed.

The place was full of zeppelins being constructed, a hundred or more, some almost ready, their canvas skins being painted black, white and red, others mere frameworks of wicker and willow. Kornukope was astonished, having never seen more than ten zeppelins at any one time; and suddenly he felt the clammy hand of disquiet upon him.

“Dearest one,” he said, “this is not as it used to be. Keep your eyes and ears alert for suspicious activity. I shall utilise my friendship with the Count and his associates to calm any anxiety they may feel at our presence.”

“They’re preparing for something,” Eastachia replied in her most matter-of-fact voice.

He stopped walking and turned to face her. “You think so?”

She nodded, but then turned to gesture at an approaching man, to whom she said “Namasté,” when he closed.

“And greetings to you both,” the man said. It was Baron Langsam, who was known to Kornukope.

“Langsam,” he said, “it is jolly good to see you. I came here to have a word with the Count.”

“Ja, very good, but he is busy,” Langsam replied. “You won’t be allowed to linger for longer.”

“Just a few minutes should be enough,” Kornukope said, affecting a nonchalant manner. “You know me,” he added, “never one to linger. Ever.”

Eastachia put her finger to her lips and shook her head as Langsam turned to lead them away. Kornukope said nothing more.

The site headquarters was a five storey vision of granite in the Dresden style, from which flags flew and telegraphical aerials emerged, rather like the quills of a porcupine. Already the hair had been shaved off it, leaving that ugly cut known in common circles as the Number One. The building’s main entrance was guarded by a single man built like a pug.

“Have you had a lot of thefts here recently?” Kornukope asked, gesturing at the guard as they passed him by.

Their boots clattered with heavy reverberation in the polished marble corridor. “It is better to be safe than sorrowful, ja?”

Moments later they were left in a reception chamber. Kornukope felt uncomfortable. He stepped outside the chamber and asked a passing man if there were lavatorial facilities nearby. The man pointed to a corridor.

Kornukope followed the corridor to find three doors, two ordinary, one made of polished wood, and seeing that this was the superior door he decided it must lead to the closet for gentlemen and nobility. Inside he found a room of white porcelain decorated with images of German soldiers. A single man stood before a urinal. He turned, saw Kornukope, then looked down and cursed.

“Now look vat you haf made me do! Who are you, huh? You should not be here, zis closet is not for you.”

“I am Kornukope Wetherbee and I am a guest of Count von Flugzeug, who is an old friend of mine. And you are?”

The red faced old man took a cloth and wiped his trousers, then stamped off, trying to conceal his face by scratching his muttonchop whiskers. Kornukope shrugged, then relieved himself.

Fifteen minutes later he and Eastachia sat in a top floor suite filled with chaise longue, Georgian desks and butterfly clocks, the aroma of schnapps and tea filling the air, along with the sound of a tea-party orchestra playing from a scratchy 78 disk.

“It’s good to see you again,” said the Count, resplendent in full uniform.

He seemed relaxed. Kornukope relaxed in response, replying, “You too! My, but there is a tremendous amount of work going on outside. You have many orders to fill, no doubt?”

“Er yes, many orders. Was there anything I could help you with?”

Kornukope sat upright and began explaining the hairy situation, then the gist of Gristofer’s plan. He concluded, “We need to use a large number of aerial vehicles to drop the radioactive substances upon the city, and, naturally, I thought of you first.” He glanced down at his fingernails, smiled, then added, “I am certain there would be a great deal of money in it for the Blutblitzen Zeppelin Corporation.”

“I’ll consider your offer,” the Count replied, pouring himself more tea. “You believe then that the British government would consider your plan?”

“My dear chap, I am a member of the Suicide Club! We are the foremost explorers, geographers and all round cultural experts in this country – indeed in the whole Empire. I personally have the ear of Lord Blandhubble, the Foreign Secretary.”

“Yes... you do, don’t you?” The Count’s gaze defocused for a few moments as if he had floated away in reverie. Then he said, “I’m interested. Tell me, Kornukope, do you have any idea what’s caused this sudden hairiness?”

“Not a clue.”

“None of your scientist people have been in touch?”

Kornukope shook his head. “The nation is baffled. It says so in the
Times
.”

The Count nodded. “Let’s go to the office, where we can set down a few ideas for terms and conditions. This way, please.”

The office was a cavernous room on the floor below. Great tables covered with papers lay everywhere, and there were machines too, flickering with lamps; the place was busy with men and women, and a few armed guards, Kornukope noted. On one side windows let in afternoon sunlight, while on the other side paintings of old men had been hung. The largest painting was of the red faced old man.

“Who is that?” asked Kornukope.

“That’s the Kaiser,” the Count replied.

Kornukope gasped. “The Kaiser is in Britain? In this
building?
”

At once all the guards lowered their bazookettes and pointed them at Kornukope. Eastachia squealed and clung on to him.

The Count, white-faced, said, “What do you mean, in this building?”

“I saw him in the lavatorial facilities.”

Silence. Everybody in the room stared at him. Then the Count turned and waved his hands in the air. “Guards, remain where you are. Everybody else, out. Swiftly now!”

Kornukope stared, open-mouthed. “What is going on, von Flugzeug?”

But the Count said nothing until every last person had evacuated the room. “I’m sorry Wetherbee,” he said, “but there’s been an unfortunate incident. You possess knowledge we don’t want your government to know.”

“I should jolly well say so! What are you doing? Why all this fuss?”

“I can’t tell you that. But I can tell you that, alas, I’ll have to detain you both. I’m so very sorry.”

“Detain?”

“Yes. Indefinitely.”

“In
def
initely?”

The Count clicked his fingers, whereupon two guards strode up. “To the Nibelungen Chamber. Give them lunch, then leave them.”

“Ja wohl!”

And so Kornukope and Eastachia were marched to a dusty attic chamber, where they were left, locked inside. Lunch, it transpired, was kasebrot and water. Supper, it later transpired, was mashed turnip and water.

As night fell, Kornukope paced around their prison cell, unable to rest. At length he asked Eastachia, “Do you still have that monocular?”