Jack of Ravens (49 page)

‘Yes, they can.’

‘Remarkable. This woman – she is special?’

‘She is to me.’ Church watched the escapologist disappear into a sack that was tied at the neck. ‘I’ve lost a lot of my memories of us together, but I haven’t forgotten a thing about the kind of person she is, and how much we mean to each other.’

‘It must be difficult to maintain those feelings without the structure of the memories to contain them.’

Church didn’t respond.

‘Would you like one of those memories back?’

‘You can do that?’

‘One. For now. Too many would unbalance you.’ She smiled warmly at Church’s hopeful expression. ‘Here.’

She rested her cool fingers on Church’s forehead and he felt a rush of colour and light that gradually coalesced into images. The early hours of the morning along the banks of the Thames in South London. Thick fog, shortly before dawn. A creeping feeling of despair over the death of his old girlfriend, Marianne. A sound from beneath the shadows of Albert Bridge:
a shape-shifting creature from the Far Lands. It was the incident that had propelled him into his new life as a Brother of Dragons. And Ruth was there, too. She’d arrived from another direction, drawn by the same sound.

But it was more than just a memory, for it explained everything about his love for Ruth. In the moment when their eyes locked for the first time, he saw a person filled with passion, someone with whom he had a deep, instant connection. She gave him hope, there and then, in one glance.

Church withdrew from the memory with a strong swell of emotion threatening to wash him away. ‘Thank you,’ he said. The queen nodded and smiled sweetly.

The escapologist slipped from the sack and his chains in a flash of light and a puff of smoke. He left the stage to thunderous applause.

With his new memory warming his heart and changing his perspective completely, Church felt he had much to consider and so made his excuses and left the Seelie Court.

By the time he was back in his seat, the compère had finished his patter and the next act was coming onstage to loud cheers – clearly a popular choice.

‘And now Max Masque!’ the compère announced. ‘The Dandy of the Dance, with a bag full of songs and smiles!’

A man in a lime-green suit shuffled on, did a pirouette followed by a back-flip. The audience cheered and clapped even louder.

‘Now then, now then, stop yer trouble,’ he said. ‘A copper grabbed me on the Mile End Road, and I said, “’Ang on, mate. I’ll tickle yer ribs for a guinea.” What did I say?’

He put one hand to his ear and the audience responded as one: ‘I’ll tickle yer ribs for a guinea!’

The comedian wore a mask that was split down the middle: one side showed the face of tragedy, the other the face of comedy. It was Jerzy.

2

The Mocker soon had the audience reeling with laughter, with a constant stream of jokes that even had Church chuckling. Slapstick and satire, song and dance, his polished repertoire covered everything the crowd expected and more. Jerzy left the stage to tumultuous applause, with his catchphrase ringing to the roof.

Church made his way to the door at the side of the stage and bribed the attendant to let him in. A grizzled old stagehand was mopping the floor outside the dressing-room door.

‘No point knocking, mate,’ he said. ‘Nobody sees Max Masque without his mask. It’s his trademark.’

‘He’ll see me,’ Church said. He ducked inside before the stagehand could stop him.

There was a shriek as the maskless Jerzy dived behind the changing screen. ‘Get out! Get out!’

‘Jerzy, it’s me. Church.’

‘I don’t know you! Get out before I call the manager!’

‘Jerzy—’

‘I don’t know anyone called Church!’ Jerzy peered round the edge of the screen. Church caught a glimpse of the familiar parchment flesh. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he ventured, ‘Church—?’ Gradually, he emerged from behind the screen, his frightened eyes making his frozen grin uncertain.

‘What’s going on?’ Church asked.

‘I … I do not know. I had forgotten about you for so long.’ He came over to scan Church’s face before throwing his arms around Church. ‘I remember Stonehenge. And then I came here, to London. It seemed the most natural thing …’ He shook his head, dazed. ‘What happened to me?’

‘But you sent me an invitation. And you sent one to the Seelie Court. You said you had some information about the skull and the box.’

Jerzy shook his head slowly. ‘I sent no invitations. I never gave my previous life a second thought.’ He plucked a silk dressing gown from a coat hanger and slipped it on before lighting himself a cigarette in a long holder. ‘Would you like a snout?’ he asked.

Church had to smile at the comical image, but oddly Jerzy appeared more at home, and at ease, than he ever had before.

‘Looks like you’ve been carving out quite the niche for yourself,’ Church said.

Jerzy’s face lit up so it was almost unrecognisable. ‘Church, you would not believe the wonder that has entered my life. Blimey, it’s a real thrill.’ His accent kept shifting between his natural Far Lands lilt and the cockney he had adopted for his act.

‘How did you get into it?’

Jerzy thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘All I remember is being an apprentice. Learning the ropes. Learning how to tell a gag. I have learned a lot of things.’ He grew pensive, and pointed to his mask. ‘I have learned that humour comes out of tragedy. That humour heals tragedy. I had everything good in my life stolen from me, the people I loved most of all. Every night the pain in my heart was so great I could not sleep. And then I found you, Church, and it eased a little, and then I found this.’ He wiped away a tear. ‘I feel at home with the show people. They accept my looks. They understand people may to all intents and purposes be different, yet at the same time be the same.’

‘I’m glad you’re happy, Jerzy.’

‘I am. I truly am. We find humour in the darkest places, and humour is hope. Music is hope. Laughter and mischief are hope. And they come when you least expect it. They form the path to Existence, Church, out of darkness and into the light. And they give the lie to Mr Darwin’s Theory of Evolution – yes, I have been reading! For it is possible to make the argument that we developed love to protect and develop the species, though I do not subscribe to that notion. But there is no argument for humour and song, except to uplift us spiritually. Blessed are the comic and the singer!’ He raised his hands to the air like an evangelical.

‘So you’re not coming back to the Court of the Soaring Spirit?’ Church said wryly.

Jerzy jumped to his feet and paced the room exuberantly. ‘The wonders that exist here and now! Every night the Germans drop their bombs. People die by the thousands. Homes are destroyed. There is not enough food to go around. Children are shipped away from their families.
But
… once a week everyone gathers around their radio to listen to Tommy Handley …
It’s That Man Again!
If Mr Hitler chose to invade between eight-thirty and nine on a Thursday evening, he would have an easy job of it because
everyone
is tuned in to the show. You wouldn’t believe it could be funny when Mrs Mopp the Cleaner says every week – every week! – “Can I do yer now, sir?’’ But it is! Or when Colonel Chinstrap laconically meets every remark with, “I don’t mind if I do.” We all laugh and it brings us together. In the music halls there’s Flanagan and Allen singing “Underneath the Arches” … and Gracie Fields, and George Formby, and Max Miller …’

His eyes took on a plangent cast. ‘No, Church, I am not going back. But if you ever need me, if there is anything I can ever do to help you in this great struggle that is unfolding, call me. I will come in an instant.’

Church was touched. ‘You tell your jokes, Jerzy. The world needs more like you.’ In the moment’s silence that followed their friendship grew stronger still.

‘The questions remain, though,’ Church mused. ‘Who sent the invitation? Why did they want me here to see you, and what do they know about the skull and the box?’

‘And,’ Jerzy added, ‘are they from the same one who spirited me away from you at Stonehenge?’

Before they could debate possible answers there was an outcry in the corridor. Jerzy grabbed his mask and ran out with Church to find an anxious man in a dinner jacket and bow tie, several stagehands and the escapologist’s pretty assistant.

‘Don’t worry, Max. We’re on top of it,’ the man in the dinner jacket said.

‘No, you’re bleedin’ not!’ the assistant shrieked. ‘He jumped right over the top of me!’

‘Who?’ Jerzy asked.

‘Just some gadabout who fancies a life on the stage,’ the dinner-jacketed man said with theatrical reassurance.

‘He was breathing blue fire!’ The assistant looked as if she was about to swoon. ‘He was wearing a black cape and he had eyes like the devil! He was flying … flying—’

‘Bouncing,’ one of the stagehands corrected.

‘Leaping,’ the assistant said, ‘like he was a bleedin’ India rubber man!’

With that, the assistant finally did swoon, and the man in the dinner jacket caught her flamboyantly. The grizzled stagehand with the mop pushed his way forward. ‘You know who that is? That’s Spring-heeled Jack, that is. Hasn’t been seen round these parts for thirty year or more.’

Church pulled Jerzy to one side. ‘Things are starting to make a lot more sense,’ he said.

3

‘My Old Man (Said Follow the Van)’ was ringing around the auditorium as Church and Jerzy followed the trail of Spring-heeled Jack backstage. A man practising the trombone pointed them to the stage door, which hung open. Outside in the icy fog two women clutching each other in terror directed Church and Jerzy towards the East End.

They hadn’t gone far when ear-piercing sirens rose up.

‘It’s another air raid,’ Jerzy said. ‘That’s why there’s a blackout – if the city is in darkness it is much more difficult for the bombers to find a target.’

‘I know what a blackout is, Jerzy.’

‘Ah. I forgot. This is all history to you.’

‘Come on, come on, lively up!’ An ARP warden brought his bicycle to a wobbly halt. ‘You don’t want to be out on the street with the Nazis dropping eggs on your bonces. Get down the Tube, pronto!’

Jerzy grabbed Church and started to haul him in the direction of the nearest Underground station. ‘He is right, Church. I have seen what it is like. The fires blaze like the furnaces of the Court of the Final Word. Even if you are nowhere near the bomb blast it can tear you limb from limb. I have seen arms and legs lying in the gutter … men, women and children. We can search later.’

‘It’ll be too late then,’ Church said, but he knew Jerzy was right. They set off for the nearest Tube station, but after a few feet Church had a very strange feeling about the ARP Warden: something about him was familiar. He turned back, but the street was empty.

4

‘You are a very strange creature, Ryan Veitch. I cannot quite fathom you.’ The Libertarian gnawed the last vestiges of his lamb dinner from a bone in the darkened second-floor room. Outside, the cry of, ‘Get that light out!’ rose up at irregular intervals.

Wearing a too-sharp suit that made him resemble a local gangster, Veitch stood at the window looking out at the silhouette of the city skyscape. He lazily flipped a half-crown, a mannerism he’d picked up from a George Raft movie he’d seen at the Gaumont that afternoon. ‘What is there to understand?’ he said without looking back.

‘Hmm. Well, there is that. The point is, I feel you are completely lacking in self-awareness. Do you have any idea who you are?’ He tossed the lamb bone into the corner of the room. ‘You collude with our forces to bring about our ends, yet at the same time you’ll help some innocent or carry out some futile action to winnow the flame of hope. These two extremes are incompatible. Do you not comprehend that?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.’

The Libertarian sighed. ‘I really should know better.’ He stood up and stretched like a cat. ‘Are you coming to the ritual?’

‘Nah. Seen one, seen ’em all.’ In the distance, searchlights swept the sky. Veitch listened for the approaching drone as the Libertarian closed the door behind him. His footsteps disappeared down the creaking stairs.

Sometimes Veitch’s thoughts felt like a black hole sucking him in, never to escape. He could understand the Libertarian’s confusion, for nothing appeared to make sense, either outside in the world or within him. He was a good person aspiring to good things – it was the reason why Existence chose him to be one of that most select band, a Brother of Dragons – yet nevertheless, here he was, murdering, destroying, tipping the scales towards the darkness.

A column of flame rose up somewhere in the Kentish limits of the city. More indiscriminate deaths.

His own killings, however, were not indiscriminate. They were not innocents, but combatants in a war who knew, or would know, that they were legitimate targets. Veitch held on to that thought tightly, for to let it slip away would mean facing up to unpalatable truths.

He had been wronged, badly, and he should never forget that. Betrayed, when all he had offered was support for the cause, even at the risk of his own life. Treated badly by Ruth and Church, manipulating him even while they established their affair behind his back, secretly laughing at him. Ruth knew he loved her; Church knew he loved her. It didn’t mean anything in the long run, and if love was meaningless, the whole premise on which his
membership of the Brotherhood of Dragons was based was a pack of lies. He couldn’t trust Existence at all; he could only trust himself, and what he wanted was revenge. That’s what he learned when he was growing up: if somebody hits you, you hit back harder. He wouldn’t be taken for a fool ever again.