Penny Dreadful (23 page)

Let’s go, he said.

Poe hesitated then bobbed to his feet like a rubber duck.

Tom sighed, watching him screw the moldy fedora down tight onto his head. They would have to do something about his clothes. The poor man was high, of course, but not unforgivingly so. In fact, Poe seemed very cooperative. He didn’t ask where they were going and he expressed no concern over abandoning Kink. Tom imagined she was a bit too slithery for Poe’s tastes. Poe generally went for women who looked like Catholic schoolgirls but carried a straight razor in their socks. He had always been attracted to false innocence, to girls who looked sweet and pious but might just cut his throat while he slept. He wanted a girl who looked like his sister, a sister who wanted nothing more than to be bound and gagged and fucked in the ass.

Anyway.

Poe stood there, waiting for guidance. Which could be attributed only to the excellence of the Pale. Truly, the game of tongues would not function without the stuff. There would be no new Freds and therefore no new victims. There would be fewer and fewer apprentices. There would be almost no economy, nothing to motivate the lower castes. It would be chaos.

Outside and the air was lovely.

Tom flagged down a cab and shoved Poe into the backseat. He tried to explain a few of these bald truths about the Pale to the pliable Poe, who stared back at him with one unblinking eye and nodded frequently. His other eye was clamped fiercely shut, for some reason, and Tom chose not to ask why. He instructed the cabbie to take them to a particularly isolated spot along Cherry Creek, hoping they would find a small pocket of the game so that he might show Poe the finer points of hunting tongue. Along the way he talked and talked and talked. He could only hope that Poe absorbed some of it.

Vibrating. I was vibrating and for some reason could only see out of one eye. I couldn’t really talk, or I didn’t want to. Griffin was droning on about something, which was nice. I crawled out of my body and settled into the narrow space below the rear windshield and remembered that when I was a child, my grandmother had owned a Siamese cat that always rode around with her in the car, and the cat had liked to nap in this spot. And I, the young Phineas, had often begged and pleaded for the opportunity to nap there as well. But my granny had always refused. It wasn’t safe, she said. It was perfectly safe for the cat, who had superior reflexes and motor skills, but not for a five-year-old boy. And so I would gladly nap there now, or else listen to Griffin’s voice if I couldn’t sleep.

Where oh where shall I start, said Griffin. Of course you must first understand the caste system, as it’s extremely rigid. Movement from one level to another is rare and difficult. But it’s really all that the self-aware Freds and Tremblers may hope for, unless they are happy with their lot in life, eh? There is some sideways movement, naturally. Freds may become Tremblers and Tremblers may become Freds, although they surely wouldn’t want to. The Freds are usually but not always men, and most of them are unaware that they have even entered the game. These are the most common victims of the hunt. The Mariners pull them down like sheep. The Mariners, mind you, hunt everyone. The Exquisitors too, may take an unaware Fred if they are desperate. They tend to prefer the mutual kill, though. The shared tongue. The Redeemers and Tremblers do not hunt, exactly. They practice various forms of seduction. They also prey on the Freds, and on each other. And the self-aware Freds often hunt each other in small packs. Have I left anyone out? The Breathers, of course. They do not hunt, and claim they don’t need to. And the Gloves. They are masters of the game. Each chapter of the game is watched over by a Glove. I don’t know if they ever bother to hunt and no one, not even the boldest Mariner, would dare attempt to take the tongue of a Glove.

I was surprised, shocked to see my head turn to the side. I wanted to ask a question, it seemed.

Excuse me. What are you, then? My voice was dull and flat. I hated my voice.

Griffin shrugged. I’m a Mariner. It’s the only thing to be.

And…what am I?

Hah, said Griffin. You are technically a Fred, but not for long. Already you are self-aware, and I want you to be my apprentice.

What if I don’t want to play?

A brief sweet silence.

I watched the passing cars, lights trailing behind them like honey.

Griffin touched my face. It’s too late for that, I’m afraid. Tomorrow you will awake with a mighty thirst for the Pale. And the only way to get it is to play.

The eyes were so heavy.

I pressed my cheek to the cool glass and wished for sleep.

And you will need a name, said Griffin. Everyone within the game has a name, except for the unaware Freds. They are simply Fred.

Okay, I said. I will be Ray Fine.

Ray Fine? said Griffin. It’s not very sexy, but I suppose it will do.

Who are you?

Oh, said Griffin. Have we not met? I am Major Tom.

Vibrating. I was vibrating and for some reason could only see out of one eye. I couldn’t really talk, or I didn’t want to. Griffin was droning on about something, which was nice.

Major Tom:

A wee bit sluggish from the Pale. He stood under a moonless sky and wished his neck did not ache from the various nasty toxins he had consumed this good night. And he wished he had worn underpants as he was nearly to the breaking point with all this rubbing and textile thrashing of his rig. He contemplated, then moodily discarded, the idea of sitting down right here and whipping the thing out for a fast hand job in the wet grass, if only to relieve a little pressure. But he wouldn’t want to upset Poe, would he? Although that was not fucking likely. Poe stood alongside him and gazed into the gray and purple sky like he had never noticed it before and he would probably not blink if his pal Griffin commenced to hump a hole in the ground.

Never mind the pain. He would save this stunning erection and its brilliant load of gunk for dear Kink. How sweet it was to love someone, even such a manic ninny as the slippery Kink. Anyway. His bare skull was cold and for a moment he looked with some envy at Poe’s crusty fedora. Then laughed softly. Poe turned to him, his face blank as a sleeping dog’s and Tom smiled. Don’t forget, this was his first apprentice.

Right right.

He pulled at Poe’s hand until the poor fellow caught the hint and crouched down beside him. They looked down from a steep embankment of mud and recently transplanted grass at the paltry stretch of water known as Cherry Creek. The creek was dark and silent in its concrete bed and no one ran alongside it at this hour unless he or she was being chased by another.

Do you know where you are? he said.

Poe responded thickly. Denver. This is Denver.

Good. And your muscles, he said. How do they feel?

They feel numb. Not like my own.

Yes, he said. It’s the Pale, it saps your strength. If you will be a Mariner you must find ways to overcome its effects, or resist it altogether.

How? said Poe.

Tom sighed. To resist is unpleasant, he said. Of course. But there are always pills and powders to be had that will restore the senses.

He pulled out a little gunmetal snuffbox and passed it to Poe, who took it from him with endearing caution. Poe’s face was in shadows but Tom thought he might have seen a flicker of recognition in Poe’s one good eye. The mad fucker had the left eye shut tight now, and Tom could have sworn that it was the right eye before. As for the flicker. The box was Griffin’s, of course. And Poe had seen it earlier today. It was nothing to worry about. The identities bleed through easily at first. Eventually one learned to suppress them, or to live with them. He watched as Poe opened the box and tipped it with care, spilling a generous amount of cocaine into the palm of his hand. It was easily enough coke to stop his heart, and Tom was curious to see if the old boy was quite dizzy enough to suck it all down. But Poe hesitated, then separated the little pile with his fingernail and inhaled just half of it. Tom was pleased to see this. Poe’s speech was rather impaired, but his movements were smooth and fluid and his judgment was sound. It was most common for a new apprentice to blink and stumble about like a defective robot for a few days, until his senses adjusted to the Pale. For physiological reasons that Major Tom did not quite understand, and couldn’t be fucked to ponder, women recovered from the Pale much faster than men and were therefore less likely to be cast as Freds. He shrugged and smiled without showing his teeth when Poe offered him his open hand and what remained of the cocaine. Tom bent from the waist and sniffled and soon the little handful of coke was gone. He gently retrieved the box from Poe and checked its contents and felt a rush of the warm and fuzzies upon seeing there was plenty more. He wet his fuckfinger and dipped it into the box, smearing a bit of the sweet powder into his gums. After a moment Poe did the same, then shrugged and said that he was ready. Tom was proud of him, yes.

Let’s go, then.

They dropped down to the edge of the creek, silent and shadowy as wolves. Tom took the lead and they walked along the path, a body length between them. Tom chewed softly on his own tongue. His skin might as well have been on fire, what with the raw coke pushing and shoving his blood through his heart as if death itself were on the wing. He had a good feeling about this path, and soon proved himself a clever boy as the creek bent to enter a dark little grotto beneath a viaduct.

Smoke.

Tom smelled smoke and raised his hand for Poe to stop. They crept closer and saw the glow of a small fire. Four shadows around it. Voices. The pulse of music. A droning and distorted bass line. Deathmetal, his very favorite. He turned to Poe and smiled.

Like mice, he whispered. We will approach them like mice.

Three young Freds in various states of awareness. One little Trembler, thin and pretty and not more than nineteen. She was perhaps overmatched by the Freds, who were filthy and starved to the bone, dressed in black motorcycle leathers that no doubt stank of blood and smoke and urine. They wore heavy boots that were surely excellent for stomping and there were ugly chunks of metal driven through their lips, their noses. Probably their tongues as well. On another night Tom would have watched from the shadows to see which of the Freds would be first to take the girl’s tongue if she failed to Tremble them. And then of course the Freds would turn on each other and soon he would slither from the dark and say hello.

Tonight was different, however.

He wanted Poe to understand the fever, to taste one or more tongues and to know the fear that the Mariners strike in these others. He wanted Poe to recognize the opposite of love and so he whispered for Poe to follow him, to follow his own heart. Major Tom stepped out of the dark, holding his arms out like wings and for once he wished it were more practical to wear a cape. The drama would be delicious, it would be chocolate and strawberries and his throat was tight just thinking of it. But he would be forever tripping over the thing and therefore useless in a fight. Really, he didn’t understand how Batman managed it.

Hello, he said.

Thick head and trying to think was not unlike trying to force a dull blade through overcooked meat while my arms and legs glittered bright with pins and needles from the big spoonful of coke I had just shoved up my snout. I didn’t feel quite like myself, but I was trying. God help me. I watched as Griffin, who wanted to be called Major Tom for some reason, approached three punks and a hippie girl who sat looking stoned and fearful around a little campfire. Griffin had become a much more interesting freak than I had ever imagined.

“Major Tom” was the name of a David Bowie song, right? I tried to summon the lyrics but came up empty. Losing your mind, something about losing your mind in outer space. I shook my head and started to feel myself up for a cigarette but stopped in midgrope when Griffin reached into the little fire and pulled out a burning chunk of wood and without warning tossed it in my direction. Motherfucker. But my reflexes surprised me and I actually caught the thing, my right hand easily snatched the end that was not burning without any complicated guidance from my brain. And now I was twirling this chunk of fire around my head like a cheerleader from the bowels of the earth and of course the fire stretched against the dark sky like rippling orange ink and for a moment it was like I was creating fire, I was fire and this was pretty fucking cool. Then my hand was on fire and I wasn’t sure if I could feel anything but I could hear the distinct crackle and pop of my own skin and I dropped the piece of wood telling myself not to scream, not to scream.

I peered fearfully at my hand, expecting it to be blackened and crispy or at least bubbled with gruesome blisters but hey, it looked okay. It was only hot, very hot. I looked back to Griffin and the four kids and they were all watching me and maybe the whole fire thing had only lasted two seconds or maybe they all knew I was new to this game or whatever it was so they were patiently waiting for me to stop freaking out and get my shit together and flow.