The Anubis Gates (46 page)

“You mean… you?” asked Jacky uncertainly. “Yes. What, have you lost your memory?”

“Who is he?”

“He’s… you’re Brendan Doyle, a… one-time member of Copenhagen Jack’s beggar guild. Why, who do you think you are?”

The man watched Jacky carefully. “Adelbert Chinnie.”

“What, the prize fighter? But Brendan, he’s a lot taller, and younger… “

“Until two months ago I was taller and younger.” He cocked an eyebrow sternly. “Is this Doyle of yours by any chance a magician?” Jacky had been staring at the man’s head, and now said, unsteadily, “Look at your shoes.”

The man did, though he looked up again when he heard a gasp. The boy had gone white, and seemed for some reason to be on the verge of tears. “My God,” Jacky whispered, “you’re not bald anymore.”

It was the man’s turn to be mystified. “Uh… no… “

“Oh, Brendan…” A couple of tears spilled down Jacky’s cold-reddened cheeks. “You poor innocent son of a bitch,… your friend Ashbless arrived too late.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t,” Jacky sniffed, “talking to you.” She wiped her face with the end of her scarf. “I suppose you really are the Admirable Chinnie.”

“Yes, I am—or was. You find that… credible?”

“I’m afraid I do. Listen, you and I have got to get together and compare notes. Are you free for a drink?”

“As soon as I deliver this to my boss I’m due for a supper break. It’s just around the corner here, Malk’s Bakery in St. Martin’s Lane. Come on.”

Jacky trotted along beside Chinnie, who resumed his exercises. They turned left into St. Martin’s Lane and soon arrived at the bakery. Chinnie told Jacky to wait for him, then pushed his way through the gang of little boys that had been drawn by the warm plum pudding smell to cluster around the windows, and disappeared inside.

A few moments later he came out again. “There’s a public house down Kyler Lane here where I frequently stop for a pint. Nice people, though they think I’m barmy.”

“Ah, it’s the Admirable!” the aproned landlord said cheerfully when they pushed open the pub door and stepped into the relative dimness. “With his pal Gentleman Jackson, I perceive.”

“A couple of pints of porter, Samuel,” said Chinnie, leading Jacky to a booth on the rear. “I got drunk here once,” he muttered, “and was fool enough to tell them my secret.”

When the mugs of black beer had arrived and been tentatively sipped, Jacky asked, “When—and how—did the body switch occur?”

“When was a Sunday two months ago—the fourteenth of October. How…” He gulped more of the beer. “Well, I was fencing at Angelo’s, and just as I was about to do a particularly clever disengage, I—I suddenly found myself at the bottom of the Thames with no air in my lungs.”

Jacky smiled bitterly and nodded. “Yes, that’s how he works. Leaving you that way, I guess he wouldn’t have to chew the tongue to bits before he left.” She looked at the man with some respect. “You must be Chinnie—he’d never have left you in that position if it was at all likely you’d survive.”

Chinnie drained his mug and signalled for another. “I damn near didn’t. Sometimes, lying awake nights in my bed by the bakery oven, I wish I hadn’t.” He gave Jacky a hard stare. “Now you talk. Who’s this he you’re referring to? Your friend, this Doyle? Is he in my real body?”

“No, Doyle’s dead, I’m afraid. He obviously got the same treatment you did, but I can’t see him swimming up from the Thames bottom. No, it’s a… magician, I guess… known as Dog-Face Joe, who can switch bodies with people at will—and has to frequently because for some reason he starts growing thick fur all over himself as soon as he’s in a fresh body.”

“Yes!” said Chinnie excitedly, “right! I was all hairy when I climbed out of the river—even had whiskers between my fingers and toes. One of the first things I did was buy a razor and shave most of my body. Thank God it doesn’t seem to be growing back.”

“I guess it wouldn’t, after Joe’s moved on. I—”

“So this magician is walking around in my body. I’m going to find him.”

Jacky shook her head. “Not after two months, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to find him for quite a while, and he never stays in any one body for more than a week or two.”

“What do you mean? What would he do with it?”

“The same thing he did to poor Doyle’s when it started to get furry—get into a position where death is only seconds away, then switch with someone else who’s maybe miles distant, and just walk off in the new body while the man he evicted finds himself dying before he even knows where he is. The cast-offs never live long, and I think you’re probably the only one to actually survive.”

The landlord brought Chinnie a fresh mug of porter. “Th-thank you,” Chinnie said, and when the man had returned to the bar he stared at Jacky out of Doyle’s eyes. “No,” he said firmly. “He wouldn’t just abandon that carcass of mine. Listen, I’ve never been vain, but that was one hell of a fine… v-vehicle, in his terms.” Chinnie was obviously maintaining his composure only with considerable effort. “Handsome, young, strong, agile… “

“—And hairy as an ape—”

“So he’ll have to shave then, won’t he?” shouted Chinnie loudly enough to make everyone else in the pub turn toward them. There were tolerant chuckles when they realized who it was.

“‘At’s right. Admirable,” called the host, “shave ‘im bald as an egg. But keep the racket down, eh?”

“And,” the blushing Chinnie went on more quietly, “there’s these places, aren’t there, where people go to have hair removed? What’s to say he’d not go to one of those?”

“I don’t think any of those places really—”

“Do you know? Have you been? You ought to, you know, that m-moustache looks like—” His voice had been rising again but abruptly he stopped, and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, lad. There’s tensions involved.”

“I know.”

For a moment they just sat and drank beer.

“You say you’ve been looking for him?” said Chinnie. “Why?”

“He killed my fiancé,” Jacky said evenly.

“And what’ll you do if you find him?”

“Kill him.”

“What if he’s in my old body?”

“I’ll still kill him,” said Jacky. “Face it, man, you won’t get the body back.”

“I’m… not resigned to that. What if I find him, and tell you where he is—will you, in return, help me get him to … switchback?”

“I can’t imagine the circumstances.”

“Never mind imagining them. Will you?”

Jacky sighed. “If you can find him, and set it up—sure, if I can be certain of killing him afterward.”

“Very well.” Chinnie reached across the table and they shook hands. “What’s your name?”

“Jacky Snapp, at one-twelve Pye Street, near Westminster Cathedral. What name are you using?”

“Humphrey Bogart. It came to me in a dream I had, the first night I was in this body.”

Jacky shrugged. “It might be a name that meant something to Doyle.”

“Who cares? Anyway, you can reach me at Malk’s Bakery, St. Martin’s Lane. And if you find him, will you let me know?”

Jacky hesitated. Why should she take on a partner? Of course a strong companion could be useful, and Joe would certainly be in another body by now, so Chinnie’s concern for his ex-body’s welfare wouldn’t be a hindrance… and certainly nobody had a better claim to share in her revenge. “All right,” she said finally. “I’ll take a partner.”

“Good lad!” They shook hands again, then Chinnie glanced at the clock. “I’d better be moving on,” he said, getting to his feet and throwing some change on the table. “The yeast is working, and time and dough wait for no man.”

Jacky drained her beer and got up too.

They walked together out of the pub, though the landlord tapped Chinnie on the shoulder and, when he paused, said, “You’re right about what Jackson’s moustache looks like. If I you can’t get him to shave it off, I advise you to give him an exploding cigar.”

The laughter of the patrons followed them out into the street.

On Christmas Eve the taproom at the Guinea and Bun in Crutchedfriars was already fairly crowded by three-thirty in the afternoon. Aromatically steaming cups of hot punch were being handed, free, to each patron after he’d beaten the snow from his hat, hung his cloak or coat on one of the hooks along the south wall and hurried, shivering, over to the bar.

The bartender, an affable balding man called Bob Crank, had poured punch for the last couple of arrivals and now leaned back against the counter and took a sip from his mug of fortified coffee as he glanced around the low-ceilinged room. The crowd seemed to be cheery—as well they ought to be on Christmas Eve—and the logs in the fireplace were set up for a good draft, and wouldn’t need attention for an hour or so. Crank knew nearly everyone in the room, and the only patron he might have felt even slightly doubtful of was the old man sitting alone at the table nearest to the fireplace—a crazy-eyed smirking old fellow who, despite the warmth of his position, had his shirt buttoned up to the neck and was holding his glass with gloved hands.

With a bang and a squeak the front door opened, letting a swirl of snow into the entry hall. Crank had poured the cup of punch before looking up, and was holding it out before he recognized the newcomer. “Doug!” he exclaimed when the burly, gray-haired man stepped up to the bar. “Cold out there, is it? Let me,” he said, lowering his voice and the cup, “put a bit of flying buttress in that, eh?” He uncorked a brandy bottle and, down behind the bar, topped up the cup. “Thankee, Crankie.”

They both laughed, and Crank stopped laughing first. “Your mates are yonder,” he said, nodding toward the fire. “Ah, so they are.” Doug Maturo drained the punch cup and clinked it down on the bar. “Send over a brandy, will you, Crank?”

“Right.”

Maturo clumped across to the indicated table and sat down, acknowledging with a grin and a wave the drunken greetings of his friends.

“You bums,” he said, helping himself to a stray mug of beer until his brandy would arrive. “Who’s minding the shop?”

“The shop can look after itself, Mr. Doug,” mumbled one of the men at the table. “Nobody gonna want hub bosses on Christmas Eve.”

“Damn right,” agreed another. “Tomorrow too, by God. Here’s to Christmas’”

They all raised their glasses, but paused when the old man at the next table said, distinctly, “Christmas is for idiots.”

Maturo turned around and stared at him, noting with one contemptuously raised eyebrow the effeminate gloves. Crank arrived just then with his brandy, though, so he shrugged and turned back to his companions. He muttered something that set them all laughing, then took a hearty swig of the brandy as the momentary tension relaxed.

“A celebration,” the old man went on loudly, “of all that’s weakest and most unrealistic in the damned western culture. Show me a man that celebrates Christmas and I’ll show you a dewy-eyed bugger that wishes he could still be tucked in every night by his mum.”

“Write it all down, sign it ‘Iconoclast’ and send it to the Times, mate,” advised Maturo over his shoulder. “And right now stop up your jabbering mouth with drink, before someone stops it less pleasantly.”

The old man made an obscene suggestion as to how Maturo would do that.

“I don’t need this today,” Maturo sighed, pushing back his chair and standing up. He walked over to the old man and seized him by the shirt-front. “Listen to me, you unpleasant old creature. There’s plenty of taverns right nearby that’ll provide you with the fight you’re looking for, so why don’t you tote your wretched old bones thither, eh?”

The old man had started to stand up, but lost his footing and fell back into his chair. His shirt tore, and a button plunked into the cup of punch in front of him.

“Now I suppose you’ll want me to pay for your shirt,” said Maturo exasperatedly. “Well you can—” Suddenly he stopped talking and peered at the old man’s exposed chest.

“Holy God, what kind of—” The old man tore loose from Maturo’s momentarily relaxed grip and ran for the door.

“Stop him!” roared Maturo, with such urgency that Crank forgot his never interfere rule and hurled a big jar of pickled pig’s feet into the old man’s path. It burst with a loud pop and splash, and the old man lost his footing on the wet floor, fell heavily on his hip and slid rolling into a bar stool, which toppled over. Maturo was on him in an instant, and dragged the gasping old fellow to his feet. “What did he do, Doug?” asked Crank worriedly. Maturo twisted one of the old man’s arms up and forced it down on the bar. “Open your fist, you bastard,” he hissed. The fist stayed clenched for a few moments, but sprang open when Maturo began to exert pressure against the locked elbow.

“Jesus, his hand’s empty, Doug!” exclaimed Crank with some agitation. “Here we’ve roughed him up and he didn’t take noth—”

“Pull off his glove.”

“Damn it, man, we’ve done enough to—”

“Pull off his glove.”

Rolling his eyes unhappily, Crank pinched the fabric at the ends of the thumb and middle finger and jerked the glove off.

The pale, wrinkled hand was completely covered with coarse whiskers.

“It’s Dog-Face Joe,” Maturo pronounced.

“What?” wailed the flustered Crank. “The werewolf from the kid stories?”

“He’s not a werewolf. He’s the uncanniest murderer that ever walked this city’s streets. Ask Brock over in Kenyon Court what became of his boy Kenny. Or ask Mrs. Zimmerman—”

“He’s the one that did in my brother,” said a young man who quickly stood up from a corner table. “Frank was a priest, and ran off from the rectory one day, and didn’t recognize me when I found him, and laughed when I told him who I was. But I followed him to where he lived, and a week later a thing they said was an ape leaped from the roof of the place. The busted-up corpse in the street was all covered with fur, but I looked in its mouth and saw the tooth I chipped when Frankie and me was playing sword fights when we was kids.”

The captive at the bar laughed. “I remember him. I didn’t have too bad a time in his body—though I fear I made a sad shambles of his vow of celibacy.”

The young man sprang forward with an inarticulate cry and a raised fist, but Maturo shouldered him back. “What are you going to do, hit him?” Maturo asked. “Justice has got to be done.”