Night Music (32 page)

I attacked it with the broom handle, striking at Maggs's face so hard that I felt his teeth shatter under the impact, and the broom itself broke in two. Maggs's body toppled and fell to the floor, landing on its back. The blow had caused the creature to retreat into his mouth, seeking the safety of his gullet, but I was not to be denied. I could see its dark eyes gleaming in Maggs's throat, so I took the sharp end of the broken broom and forced it again and again between the dead man's lips, beating at it until his palate and his tongue were reduced to so much meat, and his teeth had been knocked entirely from his head, and the mess of the creature inside him was barely distinguishable from the general ruin.

And then I wept.

I don't know how long I stayed that way, seated in a corner of the filthy kitchen with Maggs's body lying beside me on the floor. During that time, it seemed that I fell in and out of my earlier life—no, not life, but
lives
, for in each one was a different man: a son, a husband, a father, a soldier, a patient, and now a soul adrift. I felt and heard again the broom handle striking Maggs's flesh, and then it was no longer a broom handle but a rifle, and the bayonet at its tip was lodged so hard in the breastbone of the man in the mud before me that I had to place my right foot on his chest in order to wrench it free. I was crouched down at Crucifix Corner, beside the pitted figure of the tortured Christ, High Wood in the distance, Death Valley before me, with the shelling, the endless shelling. I was standing over a crater on a September morning, watching as the first of forty-seven men from the London battalions was interred in the gray mud, enveloping their forms so that they became part of it, presaging the greater decay to come.

And then I was broken, and the world itself became a fragmented place.

Craiglockhart: a nurse was wheeling me into a small, private room where a chaplain and a brother officer were waiting, and someone was whispering the impossible to me, tales of a raid by Gotha bombers on June 13, of a woman, and a girl, and a boy buried in rubble.

Finally, I was standing by another hole in the ground, and more bodies were being lowered into it. I had not been permitted to see their remains before the coffin lids were screwed down, as though I had never before witnessed human beings reduced to raw meat and shattered bone by bombs, as though what I imagined could be any worse than the reality of the damage done to them.

If I am not a husband, not a father, not a soldier, then what am I?

Who am I?

•  •  •

I should have called the police, but common sense prevailed. Maggs's face was terribly damaged, and I was responsible. The dead creature on the floor had finally cooled. As it did so it turned to a dried husk, and when I touched it with my shoe it fell apart as though it were made of ashes. The one lodged in Maggs's throat had disintegrated in a similar fashion, coating the dead man's mouth and gullet with flakes of dark matter. If the police came, I did not doubt that I would be charged with the mutilation and murder of the book scout. I remembered the girl who had directed me to his rooms. She did not know my name, but she would be able to describe me without any trouble, and I didn't believe I had paid her enough to buy her silence. Maggs was a scrawny man, and, were we in a more isolated place, I could have carried his body from the house and disposed of it, but I could hardly walk through the streets of Spitalfields and Whitechapel with Maggs's remains hanging over my shoulder.

There came a knocking on Maggs's door. I ignored it, but it came again, and I heard a woman's voice, a familiar one, calling out from the other side.

“Sir? Sir? Are you all right?”

It was the girl from the lane.

“Sir?” she said again.

I got to my feet. If I ignored her, she might well take it upon herself to call the police. I had no choice but to answer the door.

I opened it about halfway: just enough to let her know that I was safe while preventing her from seeing into the rooms behind me. She looked both relieved and puzzled.

“I was worried,” she said. “Mr. Maggs—”

“Has a reputation,” I finished for her. “Undeserved, I might add, or no longer applicable.”

“Is he all right?” she asked. “You didn't have to hurt him, did you?”

“No. Actually, he's just a little under the influence.”

I made a gesture of drinking, for I had seen the empty bottles of cheap gin piled up in a corner by Maggs's bed. The girl nodded in understanding.

“That'd be him,” she said. “I don't know if he's better with or without it. It's as little as makes no difference.”

“Well, I'll put him in his bed and turn him on his side so that he doesn't choke in the night, and then I'll be on my way,” I said.

“You look ill,” she said. “Are you sure you're feeling yourself?”

“Now that you mention it . . .”

There was sweat on my face. I could taste it on my lips.

“Why don't you come down to the Ten Bells,” she said. “A whisky will sort you out. It'll be on me, for your kindness earlier.”

I was tempted to refuse, to get as far away from there as quickly as I could, but a drink sounded good, and not the poor stuff that Maggs was in the habit of imbibing. Neither did I want to look in any way suspicious by fleeing the scene.

“You know, I'll take that drink,” I said. “Just let me see that Maggs is fixed, and I'll be with you shortly.”

“Do you want some help?”

“No, I can manage.”

“Right then. I'll wait for you downstairs.”

I smiled and closed the door. I returned to the kitchen and looked at Maggs. There was nothing to be done about him for now, but we were not far from the river. If I waited until the city was quiet, I could perhaps carry him to the bank under the pretext of his being the worse for drink, as long as I kept his face covered, and then dump him in the Thames. It might be days before he was found, and there was the possibility of the damage to his face being ascribed to his time in the water, or the propeller of a boat. In the meantime, I took the envelope of money from the table and placed it in my pocket.

In case you take me for a thief, let me say that I did not intend to keep it, but to pass it on to Quayle for safekeeping. It was Lionel Maulding's money—of that much I was certain—and, if it were left in these rooms, it would eventually find its way into the pockets of another. Quayle would look after it. Quayle would know what to do. For a moment, I was almost tempted to seek his help, to tell him about what had transpired in Maggs's kitchen, but I feared he would not believe me, and might even hand me over to the police.

Quayle was cunning and careful, but he was not actively dishonest, or certainly not when it came to the possibility of a killing. I believed it would pain him to turn me in (“He was never the same after the war, poor fellow”), and he might even act on my behalf if it came to a trial, but he would not shelter me if he thought me guilty of murder.

I went downstairs and joined the girl, who told me that her name was Sally. I walked with her to the Ten Bells on Commercial Street. The bar enjoyed a certain notoriety for its associations with Annie Chapman and Mary Kelly, two victims of Jack the Ripper, although any number of local establishments might have boasted of a similar connection. It didn't seem appropriate to discuss the murders with Sally, and she didn't bring them up. We talked instead of her life, steering clear of her profession, and I told her a little about myself, but not too much, and I did not give her my true name. After an hour, some women of her acquaintance appeared, and I made my excuses.

By then, Sally was tipsy. She tried to kiss me as I left and asked me to return to her rooms with her. I declined, but promised I would seek her out on another night. She saw the lie, though, and the hurt in her face pained me. She was a good girl, and I had not been with a woman in so very long, not since my other life.

I left money at the bar and ordered a round for her and her friends. She watched me depart, regarding me with dark, wounded eyes. I wonder now what became of her, but it is too late. It is too late for all of us.

So when did I begin to suspect that I was going mad? When the first of those creatures appeared in the bathtub, perhaps, or when that entity comprised of stars and exploded, frozen darkness appeared to me in the night? Yes, I came close to doubting my sanity then, although they were real to me, of that I was convinced. Was it when I met Fawnsley, and he told me that a week, not a day, had passed since his telegram to me? Possibly then. Yes, perhaps that really was the start of it. The presence of two more of those strange, segmented crustaceans in Maggs's rooms was simply further proof that, if I were being tormented by my imagination, then it was in a most profound way, and my grip on reality was weakening so much that eventually all doubt would cease, and I would be well-advised to end it all with a bullet while some clarity of thought still remained.

But I truly began to fear for my reason when I returned to Maggs's rooms, buoyed with Dutch courage and ready to throw his corpse into the Thames, and found that the book scout was gone. His body no longer lay on the kitchen floor.

And that was not the worst of it. The very quarters themselves had changed: the position of his furniture, the distribution of his books, even the arrangement of his lodgings—all were different. The kitchen was now to the left as one entered, not to the right. The unmade bed was on the other side of its room. The bookshelves were gone, and the books were now arranged in neat, formal piles, like the beads on an abacus.

“No,” I said aloud. “This is not possible.”

But it was. It had happened. I could see it with my own eyes.

I checked the pocket of my coat. The envelope was still there. I looked at the palms of my hands and saw the marks left on them by the broom handle. I felt giddy, and the whisky was curdling something in my stomach. There was a chair by the window, and I sat down on it and tried to compose myself.

I had been seated for only a few seconds when I detected movement in the shadows of the lane below. I stayed very still, hidden by Maggs's filthy, fly-speckled lace curtains, and watched as Dunwidge, adrift from his daughter's anchorage, slipped away into the night.

So this, I think, is how it transpired.

Eliza Dunwidge was woken by a noise from the rooms below, the rooms that housed those wonderful books. Many of the most valuable were now packed in boxes, safely stored for transportation, and she and her father would have the rest ready to be moved within the next twenty-four hours. Well, they would when her father eventually returned. He should have been back by now, but he was a man of nocturnal habits, and she was not about to begin worrying about him at this stage of her life.

The sound came again: the faint shifting of a body against leather, the creaking of wood. Perhaps her father had come home unbeknownst to her, but he always made a point of telling her that he was back, whatever the hour.

No, there was someone else downstairs.

She removed a baton from beneath her bed. It had once belonged to a Liverpool policeman who was dismissed from the force during the 1919 police strike and died soon after. His uniform he had surrendered; his baton he had not. Eliza Dunwidge had acquired it from his widow, along with a small library of occult volumes that had been bequeathed to the officer by his grandfather, and of whose value he and his family were ignorant. Eliza had made the widow a more than fair offer for the books, given that she could have bought the lot for a fraction of what she paid. Eliza was not in the habit of cheating people, though. She knew the nature of books better than most. Books had histories, and history was a form of remembering.

And occult books were better at remembering than most.

Carefully she descended the stairs. She heard the crackle of logs burning and saw the light from the flames reflected on the walls. She panicked then, fearing that the house was on fire, and the books in danger. She entered the room quickly, her thoughts only on saving her volumes.

“Hello, Miss Dunwidge,” I said. “I was wondering when you might join me. I have a nice little blaze going here, for it's a cold night out.”

I tore another handful of pages from the book in my hand and added them to the fire in the grate. The volume was entitled
The Book of Ceremonial Magic
by Arthur Edward Waite, originally published in London in 1913, although this was apparently a later, private printing, according to the introduction. I had chosen it because the pages were large, and of good quality paper. They burned very well.

Eliza Dunwidge let out a shriek and prepared to descend on me with the baton, but the screech and the advance died simultaneously when I showed her the gun. It was a Luger with a four-inch barrel that I'd taken from a German corpse at Crucifix Corner. I had never had cause to use it, but I'd returned to my rooms to collect it following my talk with old Dunwidge. I'd caught up with him on Commercial Road and encouraged him to return to Maggs's rooms with me. He had proved less cooperative at first than I might have hoped, but I had found ways of convincing him to help me with my inquiries.

“I don't know,” he had said, over and over. “I don't know. Don't ask me.”

But he did know something, just not enough.

“It's the
Atlas
,” he said at last, after I'd been forced to bruise him a little. “It's the
Atlas
. The world is no longer the same.”

Which was why I was back at the premises of Dunwidge & Daughter. I placed the police baton by the side of my chair: it seemed safer for both Eliza Dunwidge and me if I had it. I told her to sit down and she did so, wrapping her dressing gown around her in case a glimpse of her flesh might sire lascivious thoughts in me. I asked her about the baton, mainly out of concern that she or her father might have enjoyed some connection with the police, which would not have been helpful. Her description of its history put my mind at ease on that score.