The Devil's Workshop (24 page)

S
he was tall and lanky, with big hands and blunt fingernails. Her hair was stringy and pulled back from her wide forehead, emphasizing her eyes, which were set too far apart. She stood at the corner outside the Whistle and Flute, waiting for a man to come along and give her a coin she could spend on a bed for the night. Or on a pint of gin.

Jack watched her from across the street until he began to feel the old familiar call, that special burning sensation in his fingertips and across his shoulders. He waited for a cab to pass by, then made his unhurried way across the street. She watched him coming, and her face rearranged itself from a sullen scowl to something she apparently thought was sexy, lowering her eyelids and pouting her lips, a half smile fighting with her arched eyebrows. Jack thought she looked more
like a jester than a seductress, but he appreciated the effort. He stepped over a mound of steaming horseshit and hopped up onto the curb next to her.

“Good evening,” he said.

She affected a disinterested attitude, looking away in the other direction as if she had no idea who he might be talking to. He was amused by her attempt at subtlety. She played the game as if there were no transaction in their future, as if she were simply a woman and he a man.

He tried again. “I have sixpence here for you if you wish it.”

“I don’t go nowhere for less than half a crown.”

He laughed out loud and was startled to hear that there was no anger in the sound of it. His laugh was genuine and robust and free of malice. He looked at the girl, this weathered, big-boned woman, and he smiled at her. And there was nothing in his smile to frighten her, nothing that gave her any indication
that she was looking at a god or a monster. He was simply a man, like so many other men she had known in her unfortunate life.

“Shouldn’t you be worried?”

“Worried about what, love?”

“They never caught Saucy Jack.”

“You don’t scare me. I know a good man when I see one, and you ain’t no Saucy Jack. And you ain’t gonna bargain me down.”

“I thank you,” he said.

“For what?” she said. “I ain’t done nothin’. Not yet, at least.”

“For the marvelous birthday gift you’ve bestowed. You have shown me something I did not know until this very moment. I suspected it, but I didn’t realize it for a certainty. And I am a changed man.”

“Your birthday? Well, bless you, but the price ain’t changed none, birthday or no birthday. I got my standards.”

“And I’m sure they’re very high indeed, but I regret to inform you that I cannot afford the pleasure of your company this fine evening. Still, I believe you have earned this.”

He pressed the sixpence coin into her eager hand and walked away from her. He heard her calling to him, anxious to get more money from him, but he didn’t turn around. The thrill had left his bones. He had no business to conduct upon her well-worn body. No business of the kind she expected and no business of the kind he preferred.

Jack really was a changed man. A year or more of torture had given him new ideas about the world.

He was keen to begin testing those ideas.

The Devil marched off with a spring in his step, and the woman, her sixpence coin clutched tight in her fist, hurried into the Whistle and Flute. She remained blissfully ignorant about the thing she had met in the street that evening and never knew how lucky she was to be alive.

C
an I push? I want to push.”

“Please wait a moment, Claire. Control your breathing and be calm.”

Kingsley had set out his instruments on the wash table next to the door, blocking them from Claire’s view with his body. He thought it probable that she had never seen a pair of forceps and he didn’t want to frighten her. He took a small stack of flannels from his bag and set them beside the forceps. He picked up a small glass vial, uncorked it, and sprinkled a few drops of clear liquid onto the cloth. He turned and held the cloth up in front of Claire.

“I’m going to place this near your nose and mouth for a moment. It’s ether. We talked about this before, remember?”

“Yes. Please do.”

He held it up to her face and she breathed in slowly. When he removed it, she appeared to be more relaxed.

“Good,” he said. “That will help with the pain.”

He set the rapidly drying flannel back on the table, separate from the clean cloths. He didn’t want to get them mixed up. He went back around the end of the bed and helped Claire position herself more comfortably.

“Is that better?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. Will there be a lot more pain?”

“Every woman is different, my dear. You’ll be fine.”

“Then I can push?”

“It’s time.”

He averted his eyes as she bore down. A moment later, she relaxed again, gasped, and began to pant quietly.

“Good,” Kingsley said. “You’re doing very well, Claire.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to stop.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t an option. But the baby’s going to be here soon enough. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t want the baby.”

“Of course you do. You may push again when you’re ready.”

“I’m going to stop.”

“Do you require more ether?”

“No.”

“Then let’s get ready to push.”

“Walter doesn’t want a baby.”

“Nonsense.”

“He doesn’t. I can see it in him. He disappears at night.”

“He loves you. And he loves your baby. Now I want you to stop talking about Walter and concentrate on this task right now. You’re in the middle of a very difficult job and you needn’t distract yourself with worry.”

“I think it’s his own father. Arthur Day wasn’t good at being a father, and Walter thinks—”

“Few of us are good at being fathers. But we try. And eventually our children grow into men and women who make their own mistakes and blame us for them. It’s the way of the world.”

“He’s so unhappy.”

“He’s nervous. I’ve seen this many times. He’ll be fine. And you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I do. Now I want you to push again.”

“What if—”

“Claire. Push now.”

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and pushed.

I
can’t feel my leg anymore. It’s gone numb.”

“That might be for the best, Walter Day.”

“Am I bleeding to death?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “But very slowly.”

“Can you stop the bleeding?”

“Now why would I do that?”

“If I die, you won’t be able to talk to me anymore.”

“But of course I will. You just won’t be able to talk back.”

“Will you take the hood off again? It’s hot and it’s hard to breathe.”

The hood was lifted off and Day felt cool air against his face.

“It really is beastly, this hood,” Jack said. “One forgets one is a man under there.”

“I thought you said you were a god, not a man.”

“I was speaking of you.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back. Where do you go?”

“I’ve had several interesting experiences today. Any experience is interesting after a year or so under that hood, and I suppose I’m only doing my best to make the most out of life.”

“Did you kill someone?”

The shape in the dark was quiet for a long moment.

“You know, I don’t think I have. Aside from that fellow in the cell next to yours, of course, but that was an accident. I got overexcited. Yes, aside from him, I’ve killed no one. That might be the most interesting thing about today. After all, it’s what I’m known for. Killing. That’s not what I call it. It’s a different thing for me. But your senses are not so refined as mine. Killing is the only reason you’ve ever heard of me and the only thing you’re aware that I’ve ever done. And yet, here I am, a free man after all this time, and I’ve been . . . well, I’ve practically been an upstanding citizen, haven’t I?”

“Did you hurt anyone else?”

“Oh, well, of course. Quite a lot of hurting. But it’s not the same thing as killing, is it? Not at all.”

“Maybe you’re done killing. Maybe you won’t kill anyone again. Maybe the Karstphanomen were correct and what they did has changed you.”

Jack laughed, a deep rich baritone.

“They changed me, all right. But I don’t think they’ll appreciate their work when I’m done. And please, Walter Day, rest assured, I will most certainly kill someone. More than one. The day is not yet over.”

There was another pause in the conversation and Day could hear Jack breathing heavily, as if he had run through the tunnels and had not yet caught his breath. Day could feel the sharp end of the cufflink pressed against his palm. He hoped Jack had not noticed that Walter’s cuff was loose. The tiny pick was difficult to hold on to, and Day was having trouble maneuvering. He wished he’d been quicker and wondered if it was too late. And he was tired of wishing and wondering and he was tired of being frightened.

“Then do it,” Day said. “Get it over with. I’ve no interest in being your plaything.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I wasn’t talking about you. You’re terribly self-absorbed, Walter Day.”

“We both know you’re not going to let me go.”

“Do you actually want me to transform you? To kill you? You seem to be goading me.”

“Of course not.”

“Good. You said you have a baby on the way, didn’t you? When we last spoke.”

“Never mind that.”

“But if I kill you now, you’ll never see your baby. I wonder, would you prefer that? A baby is a terrible responsibility.”

“What do you know about responsibility?”

“You know nothing about me, Walter Day. I assure you I’m
quite familiar with the concept of responsibility. I take it very seriously indeed. But we were talking about your family. Your little family. Just you and your pregnant wife, who is transforming herself, who is creating life. She’s marginalizing you, isn’t she? And controlling you? You’re not at all ready to be a parent and you hate her for forcing you into the situation. Am I right?”

“No.”

“Yes, I am. I can see it in your black beady eyes, Walter Day.”

“Stop it.”

“I joke. Your eyes are probably lovely. It’s the lantern light that makes them look like the eyes of a rat. I should pluck one out and take it up to the sun and see how sensitive that window to your soul really is. I’m sure your wife loves your eyes. I should make her a gift of them. Put them on a silver chain for her throat. Or put them in a box for cufflinks.”

Day closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and said nothing. He tried to concentrate on his leg, tried to feel something, but there was nothing there. He turned his attention to the sharp little lockpick in his hand. Perhaps he could jam it into Jack’s eye, if Jack came close enough.

“Do you kiss her, Walter Day? Your wife, I mean. Isn’t it fascinating how all skulls are basically the same? Just under the skin, you all look so frightfully similar. Wait here, I’ll show you.”

The dark shape stood and moved away, into the tunnel. The lantern light that was reflected on the wall shimmied and flowed as the shadow passed through it. Day hung his head and bunched the muscles in his shoulders, trying to alleviate the pain there. He curled the toes of his right foot and rubbed them against the
inside of his shoe. He tried the same movement with his left foot, but nothing happened. Then Jack was back, standing next to Day. He held a dirty brown skull. The jawbone had fallen off. Or perhaps Jack had removed it.

“Who do you suppose he was?” Jack said. “Or she? It’s hard to tell, isn’t it? I’m told there are people, doctors and the like, who can tell the sex of a person based on its bones, but they’re really all the same, aren’t they? Bones, I mean, not doctors. There are profound differences between doctors.”

Jack smacked his lips and turned the skull this way and that in his hands. “You’re not being a good guest right now, Walter Day. I expect livelier conversation from you. Look at this skull, so similar to yours. But then imagine some mushy pink and brown bits on top of the bone and, voilà! A person is formed. When you kiss your wife, you’re pressing against the bone, the bone is the structure, but it’s the mushy bits you really like. Yes, those are the best part. People are made up entirely of the saggy flesh they carry around on their poor tired bones. How is that? Why should that be? Why is the hard part, the strong part, of a person not the best part? It’s the soft gentle parts that make you different from your friends and neighbors. Isn’t that awfully interesting? I think about this sort of thing a great deal.”

“Is that why you cut people?”

“Well, there are so many reasons to cut people, don’t you think? Really, there are too few reasons not to, when you think about it. Everyone ought to be running about cutting everyone else.”

“There’s decency. That’s a reason not to hurt people. Do
you have any of that in you? Do you have any common human decency?”

“I don’t know. Let’s cut me open and take a look round for it.” Jack laughed again. “Is decency something you learned from your father, Walter Day? Your father, the valet?”

“Yes.”

“He taught you a great deal, didn’t he? Taught you subservience and putting others before yourself. He taught you to be unhappy and unfulfilled, didn’t he? What a wonderful man he must be. And what of your mother?”

Day said nothing.

“Oh, your mother’s a touchy subject. I quite understand. Did you know her?”

“No.”

“Why not? Did you kill her, Walter Day?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I see. May I take an educated guess? You transformed your mother even as she was creating you, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“I feel very close to you right now.”

“And what about you? What did your father teach you? And what about your mother? Did your mother teach you to murder women?”

Day heard Jack sniff. The atmosphere changed, like a breeze blowing in from another direction, and the tiny underground cell seemed to grow colder. Day felt fabric rustling against his right leg, the leg he could still feel. There was the sound, once more, of rending cloth, and then the feel of air against his skin.

There was another sensation that caused chills to move up his body.

“You don’t mention my mother,” Jack said. His voice was low and very quiet. So quiet that Day could barely hear him over the sound of blood pounding in his ears.

“You cut my other leg.”

“I’m sorry. I really am, but you made me do it.”

The realization that he’d had hope almost broke Day. He felt his throat close up and his eyes sting and he couldn’t breathe. He’d been holding on to some belief that he might make it out of the catacombs alive, and now that belief left him in a rush and he knew the hopelessness of Jack’s victims.

“This is what they felt at the end, isn’t it?”

“Who? Who are you talking about, Walter Day?”

“Those women, those five women that you murdered.”

“Only five? Funny how little you know, Mr Policeman.”

“How many, then?”

“Oh, so very many. I’m weary. But I slept in a bed today. Did I tell you that?”

“No.”

Day felt moisture trickling down his right leg and knew that he would soon lose the feeling there. Even if he managed to free himself from the shackles, he would be unable to walk back to the street above them.

“I slept, Walter Day, as men sleep. In a real bed. And I had the most interesting dream. Would you like to hear it?”

Day didn’t answer. Without hope of escape, there was no reason to talk to Jack or listen to his ravings.

“In my dream, I transformed five people. I don’t know whether they were men or women. I honestly don’t remember that part of the dream. But they died during the transformation, as they so often do. And then I brought them back. I brought them all back from the place I’d sent them. I forgot to say, three of them were bad people and two of them were good people. The good people thought that they were going to visit a magic kingdom in the afterlife. They thought they deserved such a thing because of the entirely unimportant little decisions they’d made on this sphere. But all five people came back terrified. What they had experienced on the other side was too much for them. And do you know, the bad people became good. They thought that if they mended their ways, the next time they died they would perhaps have a better experience. But the good people gave up all hope and became indifferent. They did bad things after that. Do you see? They all experienced the same thing, but their individual perception of who they were changed everything. Their perception of what they deserved changed how they lived their lives. Those two good people learned that there was no justice or consequence.”

Day raised his head and looked at the shadow next to him.

“That’s why the Karstphanomen will always fail,” Jack said. “Because justice is not a thing one can pursue. It is a perception.”

“What did you do to Adrian March?”

“March? The policeman? Would you like to know what
he
did to
me
, what beautiful art he created on my body over the past year or so? I could show you.”

“I only want to know what you have done to him.”

“I think he might be alive. I’ve tried, at least, to keep him alive. You have to give me credit for that.”

“If you’ve killed him . . .”

“What, Walter Day? If I’ve killed him, you’ll be unhappy with me? What is he, your mentor? That’s what he is to you, isn’t he? Your father failed in certain critical ways, and so Adrian March has become important to you.”

“Don’t speak about my father anymore. That is not your right. If I am not to speak of your mother, then—”

“Ah. Touché, as the Froggies say. You’re right about that, and I ought to allow you to cut me in return, oughtn’t I? You see how I think about things? How thoughtful I am? I think it’s time for you to have a new mentor. Is it too forward of me to put myself out as a possibility?”

“If I am ever free of this place,” Day said. “I know it’s not . . . No, but if I ever am, I will see that you are brought to justice. Then you’ll see what a real thing that is. You’ll see that justice is a thing to strive for, not a thing to be mocked.”

“Bless your heart.” The shadow was quiet again for a long time, and Day began to drift off. Then Jack spoke.

“I have an offer for you, Walter Day. A thing I will do for you, if you wish. To make up for having dragged your father and mother into our dialogue. It was wrong of me to punish you for mentioning my mother when I had already mentioned yours.”

“Why me? Why do you keep talking to me? What did you do to the man in the next cell?”

“He wasn’t special.”

“And I am?”

“I see potential.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Do you think you’re better than the man in the next cell?”

“No.”

“Do you think you’re worse?”

“No.”

“Believe it or not, that makes you unique. You don’t judge them, those many many people out there, all of them rooting about in their own messy fleshy lives, never looking up. You try to understand them.”

“Maybe you should try, too, instead of killing them.”

“I don’t kill them. That is only your perception. I try to help them understand themselves, to appreciate what is always there beneath the surface. I transform them. They are caterpillars, unable to see beyond the leaves they eat and shit upon. There’s an entire tree waiting for them if they would only look up and see it.”