The Demi-Monde: Winter (17 page)

‘No,’ said the girl even more firmly.

Burlesque was totally perplexed by her intransigence. ‘You
sure you ain’t a Suffer-O-Gette?’ Vanka knew why he was confused: most girls offered a gig at one of Burlesque’s pubs would be more than delighted to take their clothes off … and more.

‘No. I can assure you, Mr Bandstand …’

The girl’s refusal seemed to convince Burlesque that his suspicions were correct. ‘I bet you’re a Suffer-O-Gette come ‘ere to do me in.’

‘Mr Bandstand, please.’

‘I bet it wos you sending me all them poison-pen letters.’

Vanka sensed Burlesque’s mood becoming decidedly more malevolent. He’d probably been drinking all day, trying to dampen his worries about being assassinated, and now all that drunken anguish was welling out. It was a dangerous moment: Burlesque’s podgy and slightly comical appearance often tricked people into forgetting just how tough and vicious he actually was. No one became as big a duke as Burlesque was in the East End pub trade without being able to fight their corner.

‘Well, let me tell yous this, Miss ‘Oity-Toity Thomas, ‘oo ain’t inclined to take ‘er clobber off, that iffn yous is a Suffer-O-Gette then I ain’t just some no-account ‘erbert. Yous an’ your cronies come after Burlesque Bandstand an’ yous gonna get a real ‘ot reception.’ And for emphasis Burlesque drew the oversized Webley pistol he had hidden under his coat and placed it firmly on the table in front of him.

There was a scrabbling of chairs around the pub as punters sought to place themselves out of the line of fire, which they knew from experience generally meant sitting in another pub at least half a mile distant. A drunk Burlesque was that lousy a shot.

‘I’m sorry,’ spluttered the girl on the stage, her eyes goggling at the sight of the gun. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The remarkable thing for Vanka was that the girl’s confusion was perfectly genuine. She was without doubt the most incredibly naïve creature he had ever met.

She was, in a word, perfect.

The Seventh nuCommandment:
You shall shun all those who are base in the sight of ABBA. You shall revile and disdain all those who are cursed to be UnderMentionables in the knowledge that all UnderMentionables – be they nuJu, Shade, Pole or Chink – are as animals in the sight of ABBA. You shall not know any UnderMentionable carnally. There is no greater sin than the Sin of Miscegenation driven by the Daemon Lilith.

– The UnFunDaMentalist Prayer Book (1004 Edition)

What a screw-up.

But then no one had warned her what a flake this Burlesque Bandstand item would be. Not even PINC, which was odd because PINC seemed to know everything about everyone in the Demi-Monde.

Ella looked up and down the narrow street outside the Prancing Pig. It was dark now and everything looked infinitely more dangerous than it had just an hour before. Who knew what horrors were waiting to pounce out on her from the shadows?

The nerve of that guy … asking her to sing topless!

Squinting her eyes to see beyond the penumbra of the gas lamps, Ella looked around her. It wasn’t the sort of place she
liked to be at night. She was lost in some sort of Dickensian madhouse: wherever she looked all she could see was squalor, dirt and corruption, the whole sorry mess suffused with the stench of horse shit and rotting garbage. And she had the sneaking feeling that it wasn’t just rats of the four-legged variety that came out to play at night.

She shivered as a swirl of snow carouselled around her.

It was then she realised that, in her hurry to get out of the pub, she’d left her coat inside. Her coat that had all her money, her room keys, her identity papers and her derringer in its pockets. She couldn’t believe how stupid she’d been and because of that stupidity she was now back on the streets of the Rookeries with no gig, no home and not a fucking clue as to what to do next.

Terrific.

Now she really was up to her ass in alligators.

She’d have to get her coat back but the thought of going anywhere near that madman Burlesque Bandstand did not appeal. He’d probably put a bullet through her head as soon as he saw her. For a second she had half a mind to forget about Norma Williams and simply to hit the bricks. It was hopeless. Better to slink off to the docks, jump on a barge going to NoirVille, find the Portal and get back to the Real World. Five million bucks was a lot of money but not if she was going to be trapped in this cyber-rathole for the rest of her life.

‘Excuse me, Miss Thomas, might’n I have a word?’

She recognised the man who was addressing her. He was the long-haired item who had been sitting next to Burlesque Bandstand in the pub, the good-looking one with the bruise on his cheek and a glint in his eye that suggested that he knew things other people didn’t. The one PINC knew nothing about.

Trying desperately to disguise her shivering, Ella glowered at the man. ‘What can I do for you, Mr …?’

The man doffed his top hat and performed a somewhat over-elaborate bow. ‘I am Colonel Vanka Ivanovich Maykov, latterly commander of the ForthRight Army’s Fifth Regiment of Foot, at your service.’

Yeah, right.

This Vanka Maykov was never a soldier. He had the look of someone who wasn’t comfortable with taking orders.

‘And with regard to what I might do for you, Miss Thomas …’ The man held out Ella’s fur coat. ‘I believe you forgot this in your quite understandable haste to leave the pig. That’s pig with a small “p”.’

Despite herself Ella laughed, took the coat and slid herself gratefully into its warmth. ‘You are very kind, Colonel Maykov.’

‘I would prefer it if you would call me Vanka. And as for thanks, I would be grateful for a few minutes of your time, Miss Thomas. I have a business proposition I would like to discuss with you.’

‘I’ve had a bellyful of being propositioned tonight, Vanka. As I think you heard when I was in discussion with your friend Burlesque Bandstand: I ain’t that sort of girl.’

‘Oh, I appreciate your sensibilities, Miss Thomas, and what I wish to propose would require you doing nothing untoward.’

He took a step closer to Ella. Too close. She snaked her hand around the butt of the derringer concealed in the inside pocket of her coat.

‘Stop there,’ she said. ‘One step closer and I’ll burn you down.’ To emphasise the threat, she hauled the derringer out and brandished it threateningly.

The man stopped as he was ordered and made the halfhearted gesture of raising his hands to demonstrate that he was
unarmed. ‘I apologise if I have alarmed you, Miss Thomas, but believe me, my intentions are strictly honourable.’

A steamer trundled past clanging its bell, its headlights washing over the man, giving Ella a better look at him. He was tall – over six foot – lean and impeccably dressed. He looked rather dashing. And though a little old – she guessed he was mid-twenties – he was handsome in a bashed-about sort of way. He wasn’t an Anglo, his English was too good for him to be that and from his slight accent Ella guessed him to be a Russki. A good-looking Russki. Ella liked the mischievous twinkle in his eye: the man, unless she was very much mistaken, was a rogue. And Ella had a soft spot for rogues, even computer-generated ones.

Shame about the moustache. Well, nobody was perfect.

‘So what can I do for you, Vanka?’

That impudent smile again. The man was a real charmer. ‘As I intimated to you in the Pig, I am a Licensed Psychic and Occultist and as such I am permitted to conduct séances to enable members of the general public to communicate with the Spirit World. I have been engaged to conduct a series of séances here in the Rookeries but unfortunately, due to illness, my regular assistant is incapacitated. I therefore find myself in need of a PsyChick to help me with my performances. Having seen you perform in the Pig, I am convinced that you are ideally suited to the position I have to fill.’

Ella found herself believing him. He certainly looked genuine enough and he had brought her coat back without – as best she could establish – removing any of her valuables. And she was alone, at night, in one of the most dangerous parts of the Rookeries.

‘I’m listening,’ she said, adding a flavour of indifference to her tone. It wouldn’t do to seem too enthusiastic.

‘Might I make so bold as to invite you for a cup of coffee? It seems a little déclassé for us to be standing negotiating in the middle of the street.’

Déclassé … oh là là.

‘Okay, there’s a coffee house across the road from my rooms. We can take our coffee there, Colonel Vanka Maykov, and we can talk as we walk.’

Fortunately the streets of the Rookeries were considerably less crowded at night and the pair of them were able to amble along side by side quite comfortably. It also seemed that the big, bluff Vanka Maykov with his broad shoulders and his cane deterred even the most determined of those who prowled the night in the Demi-Monde.

‘So, Vanka, perhaps you might begin by explaining to me just what a “Licensed Psychic and Occultist” is.’

Vanka chuckled and gave his cane a playful twirl. ‘I am blessed, Miss Thomas, with certain strange abilities,’ he intoned gravely. ‘These abilities give me the power to communicate with the Spirit World, with the souls of those who have gone before us.’

‘Gone where?’ asked Ella sweetly.

‘If you are familiar with the works of His Holiness Comrade Crowley, you will appreciate that beyond the reality of the DemiMonde is a realm inhabited by the Spirits of the Dead. My gift allows me to open channels through to that Spirit World and speak with those who once lived in this Veil of Tears but who have now passed on.’

Ella had to look away. As part of her psychology studies she had done a paper on how faux-Spiritualists fooled the gullible and the vulnerable into believing their mumbo-jumbo, but she had never for the life of her thought she would ever be asked
to work as an assistant to a real huckster … well, as real as any Dupe huckster could be.

‘And how would I be able to assist you in your channelling? As far as I know I have no great facility with regards to Spiritualism.’

Vanka halted at the edge of the pavement and made a great show of looking about for oncoming traffic before stepping carefully into the road. ‘Unfortunately the practice of Spiritualism has been tarnished – adulterated, if you will – by the activities of a number of sharps who mask their lack of talent with theatrical tricks.’

‘Tricks? What sort of theatrical tricks?’ prompted Ella, dressing her face with the most disingenuous of smiles.

Vanka nudged Ella lightly around a pile of horse manure that adorned the middle of the road. ‘These shysters are prone to stoop to such low contrivances as table rattling, levitation and the manifestation of ghosts and ectoplasm to convince their audiences that they are indeed gifted with the same powers as those possessed by adepts such as myself.’ He shook his head dolefully. ‘It is a sad reflection of the world in which we live, Miss Thomas, that without such artifice and theatricality, the audiences at a séance are now somewhat disappointed.’

As she stepped up onto the pavement, Ella eyed the man carefully. ‘So, let me see if I’ve got this straight, Vanka. All these tricksters, in order to hide the fact that they have no psychic ability, fool their clients with a flim-flam display of tricks and gimmicks …’

‘Exactly.’

‘… but they have been so successful that now, in the public’s mind, these tricks and gimmicks are such an indispensable part of the ritual of Spiritualism that without them a true adept such as you …’

An appreciative nod of the head.

‘… finds it difficult to be taken seriously.’

‘A most pithy and insightful summary.’

‘So where do I come into all this?’ Ella asked.

‘I need an assistant, Miss Thomas – a beautiful, vivacious and intelligent assistant – who can assist me in the execution of certain elements of theatricality I, through necessity, have been obliged to incorporate into my performances.’

Ella smiled. ‘So you want me to be your assistant flimflammer?’

‘That is a somewhat palsied way of describing your duties, but I suppose, in essence, the answer is yes.’

‘I see. And would this beautiful, vivacious and intelligent assistant flim-flammer be remunerated for her efforts?’

‘One guinea a performance …’

Ella laughed derisively.

‘… payable in advance and a further guinea payable after the successful conclusion of each séance.’

‘Two guineas at the end of the performance,’ Ella riposted, ‘three guineas in total.’

‘Very well, but your costume comes out of your advance. I’m not having you scalp me for a new dress and then play the forgetful truant.’

‘I’ll think about it. I’m not really in the mood for making career decisions at the moment. I live just around this corner and over there’ – she pointed across the street – ‘is where you’ll find the coffee house I was telling you about. Let’s get together at noon tomorrow to discuss …’

The words died in her mouth. As she turned the corner she could see the building where she had her rooms but she could also see the three Black Marias stationed outside and the swarm of black-uniformed Checkya officers milling around the
building’s entrance. A large crowd had gathered to see what the excitement was all about. Instinctively Ella looked up to the fifth floor where, so PINC advised her, she had her rooms and what she saw there set her nerves jangling. Her apartment was ablaze with light and through the windows – no one had bothered to draw the drapes – she could see Checkya officers searching her bookshelves.

Her blood ran cold.

‘Those are my rooms they’re searching. I’ve got to see what’s happening …’

Vanka took a firm grip on her arm. ‘I think that might not be a sensible thing to do, Miss Thomas. With the Checkya it is better to know what is going on in advance rather than trusting to those two mythical beasts, luck and the law. Why don’t you stay here, tucked away in the shadows of this doorway, and I’ll just go over and ask a few questions.’