Jack of Ravens (43 page)

He had grown up across the river in South London, an area of similar hardness and struggle. South Londoners and East Enders were rivals, but there was an affinity beneath the surface that forged an unspoken bond. They knew life wasn’t easy, that it was about compromise, and attempting
to mine whatever nuggets of happiness you could find in the thick seam of day-to-day hardship. That was life; no point moaning about it.

Though the East End had changed a great deal by his own time, thanks to German bombs and out-of-town developers, he could still find his way around. The old familiar markers were still there: Mile End and Whitechapel, Shoreditch and Ratcliff Highway. The names were comforting. They brought back memories of running with his brothers when he was in his teens, of hot nights and beer and girls, before his mother’s death and his father’s descent into booze, when their only option had become petty crime. That’s when the shutters had started to come down.

‘Mister, mister! A fuck for a farthing.’ The reedy voice floated out of a nearby alley. Veitch paused as a woman slowly emerged like a ghost from the shadows. She was hunched over, her hair wild, her arms like sticks. Veitch at first took her to be in her sixties, but only when she neared did he see she was a young girl of around thirteen. Her face and body bore the weight of life on the street; it didn’t look as though she had many years ahead of her.

‘What are you doing out here at this time of night, love?’ Veitch already knew the answer.

‘I’ll suck for less. Or a quick handshake. Just a farthing, mister. You can put it anywhere.’

Veitch went over and the girl’s smile was filled with a pathetic gratitude. Behind the hardness of her face he saw something that spoke to him.

What’s your name?’

‘Annie, mister.’

She looked as if she might faint, and when Veitch put an arm around her for support she felt like a bundle of sticks. ‘You shouldn’t be out here, Annie. It’s dangerous at this time of night.’

Her look told him that the danger was ever-present. ‘I haven’t earned enough for my lodgings yet, mister, and I don’t want to spend another night under the arches in West Street.’ She looked hunted. ‘My friend was stabbed to death there the other night.’

‘Where’s your mum and dad? You should be home with them.’

‘My mum died of the pox, not two years gone. I’ve never known my dad. Mum always said he was good for nothing, and spent her pennies on gin.’ She hacked a cough. ‘Will you come down the alley with me, mister?’

Veitch was horrified by her plain, workaday tone. He dug into his pocket and found the guinea that would have bought his own food and lodgings until the business was finished. He pressed it into her hand.

‘You take this and get out of this shit-hole, all right? Get yourself some food. Get up West or … or … down to Bromley or somewhere. Get yourself a maid’s job.’

Even as the words left his lips he realised the hopelessness in them, but the girl didn’t care. Gasping for breath and words that wouldn’t come, she stared at the guinea on her palm as if it were a sign from God.

A shadow fell over them both. Veitch glanced around, saw nothing, then looked up as he caught a glimpse of movement dropping from on high. A figure landed before him. Veitch was not easily unsettled, but what he saw shocked him with its sheer strangeness. The figure was white and slippery, though he couldn’t tell if it was clothes or skin for a black cloak billowed all around it. The hands were clawed where they clutched the material. As it raised its head, Veitch saw goat horns and blazing red eyes, a face that was part-human and part-bestial, but before he could fix on it, the thing opened its mouth to release a blaze of Blue Fire.

Grabbing Annie to protect her, Veitch threw them both backwards. Then the creature gave a remarkable bound and cleared a good twenty feet, where it turned and waited for Veitch to follow.

‘God help us!’ Annie shrieked. ‘It’s Spring-heeled Jack!’

At her cry windows were flung open and men and women stumbled out of the rank tenements in various states of drunkenness.

‘Oi, you bleeder!’ one broken-nosed man yelled. ‘Be off wiv ya!’ He ran for the creature, three other men quickly joining him. The thing waited until they were almost upon it before giving a massive leap that sent it sailing up to the rooftops, its cloak folding around it like bat-wings. It landed on the roof in a clattering of tiles, and turned to look back. Veitch thought he glimpsed a demonic grin and then it was away across the rooftops.

The broken-nosed man hurried up. ‘Are you all right, mate? Did he hurt ya?’

A prostitute in her forties came over wearing dirty white muslin and greasy blue silk. She reeked of cheap gin, and her face was seamed with smallpox scars and the scabs of some sexually transmitted disease.

‘That was Spring-heeled Jack, that was. Lor’, you were lucky,’ she slurred.

What is it?’ Veitch asked.

‘The Devil hisself,’ the broken-nosed man said.

‘He’s been coming round these parts for thirteen year,’ the prostitute said. ‘Lost souls aplenty in the East End.’

‘Surely you’ve heard of ’im?’ the broken-nosed man said. Even the Lord Mayor of London talks about Spring-heeled Jack.’

‘He blinded poor Lucy Squires down in Limehouse with that fiery breath of his.’ The prostitute staggered around, talking to no one in particular. ‘Down in Green Dragon Alley. Only eighteen, she was, the little darlin’.’

Veitch looked around for Annie, but she’d run off in the confusion.

Irritated by the distraction, he pushed his way past the prostitute and marched into the maze of stinking alleys.

Ten minutes later he found his way to the courtyard. He could smell the horses and hear the rattle of their hooves and the hiss of their breath long before he saw them. In the shadows the Brothers and Sisters of Spiders stood like statues, dead eyes staring damnation.

Veitch kissed Etain on her dry, cold cheek. She turned the icy lamps of her eyes on him, and Tannis, Branwen and Owein followed suit immediately, like the gears of a machine turning.

‘I’m glad you lot are here,’ Veitch said. ‘You need friends in a city like this. It’s a sewer. All the poor left to fend for themselves in the shit, dying from diseases, killing each other slowly. And all the rich up West, sipping their claret and not giving a toss.’ He couldn’t get the image of Annie out of his mind and he was surprised how much it troubled him.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘No point moaning about shit you can’t do anything about. I’ve found where the first one is. Let’s get to business.’

3

2,300 girders. 3,300 columns. 300,000 panes of glass. The Crystal Palace was a cathedral dedicated to Victorian ingenuity and excellence. It sprawled across the southern edge of Hyde Park for nineteen acres and soared up 108 feet to tower above the London skyline, encompassing several of the park’s elm trees within its massive bulk.

Church stood in the shimmering celestial interior and marvelled; nothing that he’d read about the Great Exhibition had prepared him for the spectacle. A rich spectrum of hues burst from the displays on every side. In the centre a gigantic fountain rose up, illuminated by shafts of sunlight. To the north was a bank of forest trees and verdant tropical plants. Everywhere sculptures had been placed in the most harmonious settings, some of them colossal and of unrivalled beauty.

Niamh stood close, so entranced she appeared unaware her shoulder was brushing his. ‘Why, this is a thing of wonder. It would not look out of place in one of the great courts.’

Tom snorted. ‘Open your eyes. It’s a big shop to sell spoons to foreigners.’

You’re just a cynic,’ Church said.

And you are a small child, entranced by shiny things.’

Must you two bicker all the time?’ Niamh sighed regally.

‘I wish Jerzy could see this,’ Church said.

‘Oh, will you stop worrying about the prancing buffoon.’ Tom sniffed. If he’s too empty-headed to accompany us on our jaunt, he deserves all he
gets.’ He shuffled towards one of the halls displaying the wares of Persia, Greece, Egypt and Turkey. ‘Besides, the lad’s only just gained his freedom. He should have some time to follow his own feet.’

Church heard the half-buried note of sympathy, but Tom refused to meet his gaze.

‘Where do we find this man with whom you wish to speak?’ Niamh asked.

‘He’s here with the Archbishop of Canterbury on an official visit,’ Church said. ‘Queen Victoria opened this place with Prince Albert yesterday, and today all the other dignitaries get their chance at being big shots. So just look for a bunch of stuffed shirts pretending they’re something important.’

They moved through the crowded courts amongst the exhibits of arts and crafts from all parts of the globe until they came across a crowd of finely dressed men and women being led by a guide. The archbishop in his ceremonial robes was near the front with a small group of ecclesiastical advisors.

Church indicated a stern-faced man with a long, greying beard.

‘How do you know he’s one of your Watchmen? You don’t keep that close an eye on them,’ Tom said.

‘I visited a couple of days ago by our time, during the late seventeenth century in this timeline, when Sir Christopher Wren and Nicholas Hawksmoor were building a new series of churches to replace the ones lost in the Great Fire of London. I met with the Watchmen and we decided that there would always be a representative at Christchurch, Spitalfields, so I’d always have a contact.’

‘So you have got a brain in there. You manage to keep it well hidden.’

Though Niamh wore the voluminous yet restrictive Victorian dress, her beauty and the faint glimmer of gold glowing through her make-up gave her an exotic appearance that drew many stares. Church watched the bearded clergyman’s eyes fall on her, then move to Tom and Church. Realisation slowly dawned on his face, and he slipped away from the group.

‘Is it true?’ he said quietly to Church. ‘You are the one in the information passed down to me by my forebears? I have a drawing, a rough thing, but the likeness is uncanny.’

‘I’m Jack Churchill.’

‘Francis Cole. Sir, I must shake your hand.’ Cole pumped Church’s hand furiously. ‘You have some new information for me? A mission, perhaps?’

Church handed him a crisp, white envelope. ‘In here are directions to a roadside café … a tea-room, if you like. It’ll be meaningless to you, because it hasn’t been built yet, but it will be. I want you to pass it down to your successors until the early years of the twenty-first century, when
one of them must go to the café to write a message on the walls of the toilets.’

‘The lavatories?’ Cole looked uncertain.

‘A message to someone who will be born in around a hundred and thirty years’ time.’

Cole looked into Church’s eyes, intellectual excitement growing on his face. ‘Remarkable! All they said about you is true. A message across the years, to times yet unwritten. Remarkable.’ As Cole slipped the envelope into his pocket, his face darkened. ‘I am afraid I have some distressing news, Mr Churchill. Before I set off this morning I heard word of a brutal murder in my parish. I have not yet had time to establish the truth of the matter, but I fear it is a gentleman who recently made my acquaintance – a bookkeeper by the name of Richard Tanner.’ He leaned in conspiratorially. ‘He announced himself as a Brother of Dragons, and had just made contact with two more of his group.’

‘Veitch,’ Church said.

‘You’re not thinking of confronting him, are you?’ Tom interjected. ‘There’s only one of you this time.’

Church wavered. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Veitch is playing the long game,’ Tom pressed. ‘You should, too.’

‘That’s easily said. How do you walk away when you know something bad’s happening that you might be able to influence?’

‘Best stay away. You don’t want to be forced into facing him before you’re whole.’

‘If it is any help, there was another sighting of Spring-heeled Jack in the vicinity,’ Cole added. ‘If such a fearsome thing exists, it may well have been involved.’

‘Walk away, Jack,’ Tom insisted.

Church was torn, but before he could reach a decision he glimpsed a familiar figure through the crowd. It was fleeting, but Church was sure he had seen correctly. ‘Jerzy’s here,’ he said.

4

Veitch leaned against the chimney stack, examining his silver hand. The view across the rooftops had been spectacular, to St Paul’s and beyond, to the gleaming white manses of the West End. But now it was rapidly being obscured by the descending smog as thousands of fires pumped up greasy smoke from the cheap coal slack the poor shovelled into their grates.

Veitch clamped the mechanical fingers into a fist. ‘Not even a whole man any more.’

He slipped his other arm around Etain, who was sitting next to him.
‘Who’d ever have thought a dirty little urchin from South London would end up here? When I was at school, the careers wanker told me I wouldn’t amount to anything. Not smart enough to take my exams. I could train as a mechanic if I was lucky. No point having any
hopes.’
He said the word bitterly. ‘Can you imagine telling a kid that? Basically saying, ‘‘Sorry, mate, you life’s over.’’ Wanker. All those nice middle-class kids, they have parents who tell them they can do anything. Then they’re set up, no boundaries. They just head off and do the best they can.’