Darkside (9 page)

 

 

R
icky opened his eyes, and then immediately wished that he hadn't. There was a horribly bitter taste in his mouth, and it felt like someone was crashing a set of cymbals together inside his head. He reached up and gingerly touched a swelling on his forehead. Even the brushing of his fingertips made him wince. All in all, he felt in dreadful shape.

He was sitting on the floor of a metal cage, suspended from the ceiling of a cavernous hall by a chain attached to an iron hook. Even in the gloom, he had a sense of imposing vaulted walls rising up around him, as if he was in some sort of dark cathedral. His cage creaked with every draught of air. Ricky whimpered softly under his breath. Where on earth was he? The last thing he remembered was being chased through Trafalgar Square and hiding out in that church, and then he had met that woman. . . It all seemed so unreal, like a bad dream. But now he was hanging in a cage, and it was only too real. A detached voice in Ricky's head was surprised that he had taken things so calmly. Perhaps he was in shock.

Either it was late at night, or the hall had no windows, because it was difficult to make out anything in the darkness. From the odd tortured groan of metal he got the impression that there were more cages gently shifting in the air alongside his, although how many, and how far the hall stretched on for, he couldn't be sure. Faint rustles and mutters floated up from the floor, suggesting that there were more people down there. Although a filthy blanket had been left lying on the floor of the cage, it was stiflingly hot. Ricky unzipped his coat and used it as a makeshift pillow. He may have only just woken up, but his head hurt so much and the situation seemed so hopeless that all he wanted to do was fall back to sleep.

He wasn't to be that lucky. At that moment a shaft of light appeared in a wall far down below, briefly revealing several stacks of large cages on the hall floor. Inside the cages, animals shied away from the light. Then two figures padded into the room. One was a thin man carrying a flaming torch above his head like an umbrella. The other, her hair glimmering in the torchlight, was his kidnapper. Instinctively, Ricky shrunk away from the light source. He needn't have bothered. They were focused firmly on each other. Despite the fact that they were speaking in hushed tones, it was clear that they were arguing.

“I don't need a bounty hunter to tell me how to count, Marianne. I asked for two half-Darksiders, and you've only given me one.”

The man's voice was as parched as dried bones. Every syllable rasped against the back of his throat like sandpaper. Marianne poked him angrily in the chest. “And I don't need a pet shop owner to tell me about bounty hunting, Grimshaw. I've given you everything that was available.”

“A pet shop owner?” His voice rose in indignation. “I am a collector, a scientist, an entertainer! I bring the strangest and most exotic creatures from Lightside and display them here. They fight; they kill; they die. People travel from far and wide to see me. The Beastilia Exotica is the jewel in Darkside's crown!”

With a flourish, Grimshaw whirled the torch around the room. The light shimmered over more cages. It startled a mangy wild cat, which swung a futile paw through the bars of its cage. As Ricky looked on, he noticed narrow pairs of eyes glinting in the darkness on the other side of the hall, and realized that the space was crammed with captive animals. And him.

He shivered, and reached for his blanket.

“OK. Whatever. The fact is, you have a half-Darksider that you didn't have before.”

“Marianne, I have been advertising this show for months. It is supposed to be the greatest spectacle ever staged at the Beastilia Exotica. The climax of the show is two half-Darkside boys fighting a pack of starved jackals.
Two
boys. That's what the posters say. Not one, two.”

“So you've got one less. Who's going to care?”

“These things are very finely balanced. The jackals will polish off one boy in less than a minute. The audience will be unhappy.” Grimshaw drew himself up. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Well, it's not all bad news. We think the second boy's managed to cross over to Darkside.”

“Shouldn't that make things a little easier for you? Surely even you can't fail to get him now.”

“If he's not dead already, Skeet will track him down,” came the icy reply. “He's hunting for the boy's scent as we speak.”

“I don't know how you can trust that strange little creature.”

“That ‘strange little creature' is the only reason I can collect the little ones. Skeet can follow the scent of Lightside blood better than anyone else. That's why you hired me, or have you forgotten that?”

“And the giant mute?”

Marianne shrugged. “Size comes in handy sometimes. And I feel responsible for the way that Humble is. It seems only fair that I should look after him.”

Grimshaw chuckled; a thin, tearing sound. “And you call
me
a pet shop owner.”

“Enough, Grimshaw. I've had a busy few days, and I'm tired. This hasn't exactly been my favourite job, and I want my payment.”

“Feeling sorry for the children? Maybe you
are
too well-bred to be a bounty hunter after all.”

Marianne let out a lazy sigh. “People have said that to me before, you know. Some of them even lived to regret it. Now, are you going to pay me the money you owe me, or do I tell Wren to go and cut the cage down?”

Ricky squeaked with panic, and both heads arced up towards his cage. He scrabbled away from the bars and hid under the blanket.

“Either you've got rats in your collection, or the little one is awake.”

“I sold the last giant Sumatran rat years ago.”

Through the gaps in the floorboards, Ricky could see Grimshaw looking up at him. The torchlight played across his face, revealing translucent, papery skin that barely covered his skull. His eyes were different colours; one green, one blue. He looked more disturbing than anyone Ricky had ever seen.

“Stay still up there!” he rasped. “You're a valuable commodity, and I don't want you getting injured.”

Surprising himself, Ricky summoned the courage to answer back. “W-where am I? What do you want with me?”

“Try not to worry, little one,” Marianne called back. “It will all be over very soon.”

Ricky could feel waves of panic and anger swelling within him. “What will be over soon? What am I doing here?”

Grimshaw grinned hideously. “You're backstage at the Beastilia Exotica. With all the other animals. Make the most of the glorious scenery – you haven't got much time left to enjoy it.”

“But I'm not an animal! I don't want to be here – you can't keep me here! Let me out!” screamed Ricky. Fury at the injustice of it all rose up like vomit through his system and made his face burn red. He began rattling the bars, sending the cage swinging violently through the air. “LET ME OUT!”

Beneath him, a guttural chorus of barks, squeals and howls broke out in sympathy, and the hall shuddered with the sound of the animals' protests. Marianne shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and looked away. “Come on, Grimshaw,” she said. “Let's get out of here.”

With that, the bounty hunter swept out of the hall. Grimshaw gave Ricky one last warning glance. Then, abruptly, he doused the torch in a bucket of water, plunging the room back into darkness.

 

 

 

T
he carriage moved smoothly off the Grand and the horses began clopping northwards. Jonathan's mind was racing, and he was desperate to ask about his mother. Twice he opened his mouth, but both times Carnegie growled at him to keep quiet. It appeared questions were going to have to wait until later. Instead he stared out through the window at his surroundings. The streets became progressively quieter, though the air of poverty and decay never went away entirely. Packs of children in tatty clothes roamed the area, running alongside the carriage with their palms outstretched, pleading for money. Every so often Jonathan caught a glimpse of a house on fire, or a body lying prone in an alleyway. The carriage rattled on regardless.

Eventually the roads began to broaden out and tall trees lined the road, the first Jonathan had seen in Darkside. The wind had picked up, and their brown and brittle leaves rustled uneasily in the breeze. The tightly-packed rows of decrepit buildings had given way to luxurious mansions that hid behind high hedges and spiked railings. The road reeked of money.

Carnegie noticed Jonathan's inquiring gaze. “This is Savage Row. The richest people in Darkside live here. And Luther, of course.”

He patted the driver on the back, a little too hard for it to be a friendly gesture. Luther flew forward, and hauled on the reins, halting the carriage. He spun round angrily.

“You shouldn't push me, dog boy. You might not make it to Vendetta's, at this rate.”

The burly wereman laughed in response. “Nonsense! We're nearly there. Come on. You're not going to keep him waiting, are you?”

Luther glared at him, and then reluctantly geed up the horses again. The carriage swung swiftly around the winding bends of Savage Row, and Jonathan noticed how the street was getting steeper and narrower. The mansions had disappeared from sight, and the trees had closed in on all sides, forming a sinister guard of honour. It was getting colder now, and Jonathan pulled a blanket over his legs. Carnegie gave him a grim smile, but said nothing. He was looking tense.

The road abruptly levelled out and came out on to a wide, broad avenue. Here the trees were almost tall enough to block out any light from the murky sun. Nothing moved, and there was no sound except for the horses' urgent progress across the cobblestones. The avenue led to a set of imposing stone gates, which were being slowly strangled by green fingers of climbing ivy. Behind the gates, Vendetta Heights lay in wait for them.

It was a vast, brooding structure. The brickwork was old and coated with moss and shadow. Rows of elegant arched windows looked loftily down. Gargoyles perched in the eaves, their faces contorted into permanent stony leers. On the east wing of the mansion a spindly tower poked the sky. No lights could be seen anywhere, giving the building the air of an ancient mausoleum.

As the carriage approached, two shadowy figures emerged from the grounds of the house and opened the gates. Then they melted away into the undergrowth, as if fearful of being seen close up. The carriage rolled up the lengthy gravel driveway, skirting round an ornate fountain topped with a statue of a small child crying. Water spurted out from the child's eye and tinkled gently into the pool beneath its feet.

“Vendetta wants you to meet him in the glasshouse,” said Luther, bringing the carriage to a halt. “It's round the back.”

He cast another malevolent glare at Carnegie, who grinned. “Always a pleasure, Luther.”

It had started raining gently. Judging by the colour of the sky, it was late afternoon. Jonathan had lost track of what time it was. It didn't seem to make much difference in Darkside. You were only ever five minutes away from trouble, and that was the only thing that mattered. As Luther drove the carriage away, he and Carnegie followed a path that cut around the side of Vendetta Heights.

The grounds running off behind the mansion were as imposing a sight as the house itself. They must have covered a couple of square acres, before ending at a small wood that appeared to mark the end of the estate. Someone had lavished a great deal of attention on the lawn, cutting and trimming until it resembled an immaculate green carpet. A network of gravel paths ran across it, linking different parts of the estate. In the far corner of the lawn an intricate maze had been fashioned from dark-green hedgerows. Despite the beauty of the view, there was a silent starkness about it that chilled Jonathan to the bone. There wasn't a sound, neither the chirrup of a bird nor the rustle of an animal in the undergrowth. Carnegie seized the opportunity to lean over and speak in Jonathan's ear. “Vendetta's a banker, and the richest man in Darkside. He's also one of the most dangerous. I don't know why we're here, but it probably means we're in trouble. Keep your mouth shut, boy. And if I shout ‘move', don't stop running. Ever.”

Jonathan nodded. There didn't seem to be anything he could say.

The glasshouse was a circular white building that stood alone on a terrace several levels lower than the mansion. As they wound their way down towards it, Jonathan could see a figure leaning casually in the shelter of the doorway. He was a tall, handsome man dressed in a three-piece suit with a dark red waistcoat. His skin was pale, and his hair so fair as to straddle the boundary between blonde and white. A pair of sharp, half-moon spectacles pinched his nose. He straightened as they approached and spread his arms out in a welcoming gesture. His smile was as cold as death.

“Carnegie! Welcome to Vendetta Heights. You haven't been here before, have you?”

Carnegie doffed his hat. “No. I think I lost my party invitation.”

“Still the same biting wit, I see. For once, though, you don't appear to be alone. Who's the boy?”

“Name is Tobias. His father hired me to find him. Only, when I do, he decides he can't afford to pay me. So I have to hold on to the boy until he changes his mind.”

Vendetta ran an appraising eye up and down Jonathan, who shivered. “Cut off one of the boy's hands and send it to his father. That should speed up the process.” He paused, and smiled again. “Sorry Tobias, but business is business. Anyway, why don't the pair of you come inside? I fear the weather is going to break.”

The glasshouse was hot and damp, and immediately Jonathan could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Tropical plants and flowers crowded around on all sides, flashes of brilliant reds, blues and yellows standing out among the heavy ferns. A small stream trickled in and out of the soil beds, before running off into the unknown. In the middle of the glasshouse there was a raised patio scattered with wicker chairs. Vendetta sat down in one and removed his spectacles.

“Bit warm in here, isn't it?” asked Carnegie pointedly.

“These flowers are probably as valuable as the Grand itself. It's worth my while to look after them. Sit.”

It was more of an order than a request. Perspiring heavily, Jonathan did as he was told. A sweat patch was already forming on his back. Fitting awkwardly into a chair beside him Carnegie was looking uncomfortable too. Only Vendetta remained unruffled by the heat. He doused a purple orchid with a water sprayer, before returning his attention to his guests.

“So you're probably wondering why I called you here.”

“The thought had crossed my mind, yes,” the wereman replied.

“Truth is, I need your help.”

The shock must have been plain on Carnegie's face, because Vendetta burst into a peal of laughter. The high-pitched sound echoed off the glasshouse's roof panels. “Come on, it's not that amazing. Even the best of us need a hand from time to time.”

“You could afford to hire anyone you want. Why me?”

“How should I put this? Word spreads about the . . .
effectiveness
of your approach. And I do so enjoy your company. I don't have any pets, you understand.”

Vendetta clearly relished goading Carnegie. Though everything he said was delivered in a light, careless tone, the words were intended to cut and wound. Jonathan remembered the look in his eyes when he had suggested cutting one of his hands off. It had been devoid of any emotion, save for utter malice. Any involvement with this man would be a perilous affair. Carnegie was certainly unnerved by his proposition. He scratched his head vigorously. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, finally.

“I want you to find something for me.”

“What? A gem? A weapon? An enemy?”

“A boy.” Vendetta looked Jonathan straight in the eye. “A boy from Lightside called Jonathan Starling.”