The Eyeball Collector (4 page)

Truepin sat back and allowed himself a moment to smile. And so it begins, he thought. Now for the next stage. A change of clothes and off to the dwelling of Mr Augustus Fitzbaudly.

Hector sat motionless in the butterfly house. He was hot, almost uncomfortably so, despite being in his nightshirt. His feet were sore, cut to shreds from his barefoot run home, and his nerves were still on edge. All around him flew butterflies of every size and hue alighting on the luscious plants and flowers that grew up the glass walls of their home.

Such beauty, thought Hector, and yet only a short while ago he had been surrounded by ugliness and enjoying that too . . .

The journey home from the south had felt interminable. Loping along, head down, trying to avoid looking anyone in the eye, Hector had still attracted plenty of unwanted attention. Not because he had lost his clothes, but because those that were left were so clean. There were plenty of badly dressed boys about, but none with such white stockings. But soon enough, on account of the piles of manure and rotten vegetables on both street and pavement, he looked no different to the numerous other guttersnipes ducking and diving in and out of the crowds. Hector had just learned, like everyone else, that in this place it was often better not to stand out.

He passed riotous taverns and unlit shops and pawn-brokers’ windows. He looked down alleys and saw crouched and still figures, dead or alive he couldn’t tell, and strange shadows at the gin pipes gulping down the fiery liquid that warmed the throat and dulled sorrows before inevitably leading to their downfall. He dodged carts, milkmaids, foul-mouthed beggars, knife-grinders and travelling players.

When he finally reached the river Hector allowed himself to think for the first time that he might get home safely. He leaned over the low parapet to see up close the dark waters of the infamous Foedus. The smell of the river that day would stay with him all his life. In later years the aroma of just one atom of its chemical make-up would instantly transport him back to Urbs Umida and dredge up bittersweet memories of the south side. For some cities the river was its lifeblood; for Urbs Umida it was more like the Styx in the Underworld and Hector’s fervent imagination momentarily conjured up Charon, the mythological ferryman of souls, and his punt poling down the river. When he looked again he realized it was only a poor river-taxi man.

Halfway across the bridge, as he passed under the sign of the Nimble Finger Inn, a tavern of such ill repute it was known to all, north and south, Hector knew the end was in sight and it spurred him on. In his haste he tripped on an upturned cobble and lurched into a dirty-looking fellow crossing the street.

‘Trying to pick my pocket?’ snarled the man, grabbing Hector’s arm and pinching his chin to tip his face towards his own. It was not a pretty sight. The man wore a filthy black eyepatch and a grey beard, and he gave Hector a violent shake before releasing him. Hector stumbled off as quickly as his tired legs could carry him until he reached the broad, bright streets of the north . . .

Now, some hours later, safe in his father’s butterfly house, the south again was a distant world. Outside the gentle moon glowed through the glass. A butterfly, as black as night, alighted on Hector’s palm where it sat quietly. He could feel its legs delicately pinching his skin. It must be newly hatched he decided, and carefully brought it closer to his face for a better look.

‘Hector?’

The sound of the voice caused Hector to jump. He looked up to see his father standing in the doorway. The butterfly flew off, ascending in a gentle spiral to the glass roof.

‘What are you doing down here at this time of night?’ his father asked, a concerned look on his face.

Hector shrugged. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ Similarly he wondered why his father was out here so late. Hector had noticed that he seemed preoccupied with something these last few days. Business, I suppose, he thought. To divert attention away from himself he pointed to the black butterfly, now settled on the white flowers of a nearby shrub.

‘I see you have a new one.
Pulvis funestus
, if I’m not mistaken.’

His father smiled. ‘Yes, you are correct. Though it’s usually just called Blackwing. Quite striking in large numbers. When they flock together they create a cloud of black dust that has been superstitiously described as like a cloud of death. As you see, they are very fond of
Lippia citriodora
, or lemon verbena as it is better known. They adore its citrusy smell. But it’s late. Come back up to the study. I have something to show you.’

The grass was wet with night dew and Hector took off his slippers and walked barefoot to soothe his feet. If his father noticed, he said nothing.

In Augustus Fitzbaudly’s study glass cases lined every wall, each case holding a butterfly: dark brown Hairstreaks, ragged-winged Fritillaries, elegant Swallowtails and Painted Ladies. Hector prided himself on knowing all their common and Latin names. Augustus’s fascination with lepidoptery, the study of butterflies and moths, started after Hector’s mother died. As his father spent more and more time on his collection, Hector realized that to have his attention he too would have to develop an interest in these insects. At first he had been squeamish about some of the practices, but by now he anticipated eagerly the brown-paper wrapped packages stamped in large black letters ‘
Urbs Umida Lepidopterist Supplies
’ containing cocoons, butterfly eggs or caterpillars.

‘Here it is,’ said Augustus, and he held out a glass case twice the size of all the others. Within, its huge wings spread in the still symmetry of death, was the largest butterfly Hector had ever seen, its colours a myriad vibrant blues and greens and sparking purple.

‘
Papilio ingenspennatus
,’ said Augustus. ‘Its wingspan can measure up to a foot. Like the Blackwing, it is capable of surviving in the cocoon in very low temperatures, developing fully but not emerging until it is warm enough.’

Hector looked on in awe. He had never seen anything like it. Even in such still repose it seemed to shimmer.

‘Did you go over the Bridge today?’ asked his father suddenly, catching him off guard. ‘I saw you come in earlier. You looked a little dishevelled to say the least.’

There was no point denying it. Besides, was that a twinkle in his father’s eye? ‘I wanted to see what it was like on the other side, that’s all,’ said Hector lightly, still staring at the butterfly before him.

‘An adventure then. And what did you think? Ugly, filthy, smelly?’ Augustus was watching him keenly.

Hector knew that was the answer his father expected. And it was true. How could he forget the ugliness, the grime and the stench? But the very thought sent a thrill of excitement through him too. ‘Over here everyone is so polite,’ he explained. ‘Or at least they pretend to be. The ladies twirl their parasols and show off their new gowns. The men bow and smile and make boring conversation. But it’s all a show. They don’t mean a word of it.’

‘There is probably some truth in that,’ murmured his father.

‘But over the river,’ Hector enthused, ‘it’s not just that the people look different, it’s how the place feels: alive, sort of scary but exciting too. Sometimes life seems half dead this side of the Foedus.’

Now Augustus looked alarmed. He lowered his voice and spoke sternly.

‘Hector, don’t be drawn in by it. It might feel alluring, exciting, different, but it is vile,
vile
. Every vice known to man is come alive on those streets. The place is rotten to the core, peopled with bibacious gin-swilling wretches and reprobates. In fact, I forbid you to go there again.’

Hector felt his face fall and his father immediately softened. ‘Your future is this side, son. I have a place for you in the business.’

‘As a wine merchant?’ said Hector ruefully. ‘But I don’t want . . .’

Augustus placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled. ‘Don’t forget, the wine business has served us well. It provides all we have. If you do not take over the business, then who will?’

The long silence between the two, each disappointed in his own way, was broken by the chimes of the study clock. Hector considered his father for a moment more and, doubting his escapades over the river were the only cause of his father’s anger and anxiety, he changed the subject entirely.

‘Have you a riddle for me before I go to bed?’ he asked. It was a game they played nightly. ‘It is your turn.’

Augustus relaxed his furrowed brow. ‘I have indeed, and it is a hard one. E.’

‘E?’ queried Hector with a frown.

‘E, plain and simple,’ repeated Augustus. ‘Can you solve it?’

‘Hmm,’ mused Hector. ‘A single letter. Maybe it has lost its fellow letters.’ His father’s expression told Hector he was on the right track. ‘So how could this be?’ he continued. ‘Perhaps it comes from a word that has shrunk and all that is left is “e”.’

His father grimaced and Hector grinned broadly before declaring, ‘I think that word could be . . .
Senselessness
!’

Augustus clapped and laughed. ‘Hector,’ he said, ‘you are without doubt exceedingly clever. I know you have a great future ahead of you.’

‘But must I really be a wine merchant?’

‘No more buts.’ Augustus wagged his finger playfully. ‘Off to bed with you. I have a meeting.’

Hector raised his eyebrows. ‘This late?’

‘Sometimes it has to be done,’ his father replied vaguely. ‘Come along. I’ll see you to the stairs.’

Upstairs on the half-landing Hector knelt and watched his father return to the study. He had an excellent view of what was going on below but, having turned down the gas light, was himself quite impossible to see. Intrigued by his father’s late-night visitor he was determined to catch sight of him. Surely his father’s odd mood had something to do with this meeting.

He heard the rap of the front-door knocker and observed, with the keen eyes of youth, the maid usher a man swathed in black along the hall to the study. You could tell a lot about a person by the manner in which he dressed, but Hector found it surprisingly difficult to glean much from the fellow below. His attire was remarkably anonymous. The clothes fitted well but were dark as night. It was as if they sucked in every ray of light that hit them. His wide-brimmed hat was pulled low over his forehead and he kept his head down.