The Dickens Mirror (23 page)

“Come here now,” Rima said to the mute. The older girl was crouched over a sack from which the entire upper half of a woman, mouth agape, had slithered like a limp flounder. Crossing the corpse’s arms over deflated bags that had once been breasts, the girl used one hand and a boot to keep the body from moving as she tugged at the burlap the wind kept snatching from her free hand. At the mute’s stricken expression, Rima clucked. “She’s
dead
. Can’t do you no harm.”

Doyle, come on
. “Let me,” he said, hanging his bull’s-eye from a cart handle and then stooping to take hold of the corpse. The dead woman’s skin was colder than marble, her eyes sunken, milky pellets. “You work the burlap, all right? Careful, it’s quite worn.”

“Yeah, most people can’t be bothered to patch them. No one wants a corpse hanging round long, rot or not.” Pulling a roll of string from one pocket, Tony threaded two large needles he’d stuck through the lapel of his thin coat, then handed a needle to both girls. “You sew, too, Rima. These bodies are too heavy for you.”

Yes, and you’re the one spitting up blood
. Still, he half-admired this Tony, the way he looked out for the girls. Brother? Or perhaps he fancied himself Rima’s lover? “Let me,” Doyle said. He saw that Battle had already hoisted a sack to a shoulder. Bending over another body, Doyle looked at Rima. “You’re sure there are no rotters.”

“We don’t traffic in rotters.” Rima was sawing at the twine with her teeth. By her side, the mute was busily throwing in large, looping stitches to seal a rip. “But it’s not worth the risk.”

Rima looked like a savage, working away with her teeth like that. Doyle reached for his
sgian-dubh
. “Here. Use this.”

“Oh. Thank you,” she said, as her hand closed over the stag-horn handle. “That’s very …” Eyes snapping wide, Rima started. The knife tumbled from her hand, and she actually jerked her head to one side as if to avoid a slap.

“Ah …” The mute’s mouth snapped shut as color flooded her cheeks.

“I’m all right.” Rima patted the girl’s hand, though her voice quaked. “I’m fine, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” What was wrong with her? Her cheeks were so pale, her eyes were holes. Retrieving his knife, Doyle asked, “Are you hurt?”

“N-no.” She pressed red, rawboned fingers to her lips. “Just a … it’s nothing.” Waving away his knife, she fished her twine and needle from her lap where they’d fallen. “No, thank you, Constable, but there’s nothing I need so much it’s worth
that
.”

WHAT THE DEVIL
was that about?
By the time they were done, the slash on his right arm was beginning to sting. Whatever sense of well-being he’d felt after Kramer’s injection had fizzled.
But I still feel quite strong
.

“Thank you.” Tucking a curl the wind tried snatching away behind one ear, Rima worked at knotting a rough knit shawl under the mute girl’s chin with stiff, chapped fingers. When she
saw Doyle looking, she mustered a crooked smile. “Been out for hours. You get accustomed to it.”

“Where are your gloves?” It was not what he’d planned on saying. For an instant, he’d had the insane urge to tie that poor mute’s silly shawl himself. “Can’t you …” He made a vague gesture at the cart.

“If there are any.” Blowing on her fingers, Rima said, “Most are already stripped. The ones that ain’t, the clothes are so soiled you don’t really want them if you’ve a choice. Although you never get used to any of it, know what I mean? The bodies? Stripped or not? They’re … eerie.”

“I’d worry they’d open their eyes,” he said, wondering where that came from.

“So do I.” Her gaze slid to one side. “Couple times I’ve thought the sacks might be moving. You know, that they’re come back from the dead for their revenge?” She stopped, a flush of embarrassment creeping up her jaw. “Stupid talk,” she said, placing a hand over a cheek. The gesture was oddly childlike, something a little girl would do to comfort herself at night when she finds herself alone with ghosts. “It’s all right.”

No, it’s really not
. Rima was so small. Not delicate; this wasn’t a girl from a romance novel. But she was thin and not very tall. “Have you et today?” Before she could answer, he was reaching into his coat.

Poppet?
Black Dog had been so quiet, Doyle near about jumped out of his skin. He felt the hound give his mind a curious sniff.
What are you doing? First Meme, and now this girl?

He’d no idea. “It’s toffee.” Withdrawing that paper packet, he held it out. “Only four pieces, but they’re real cream and butter.
Go on. Take it.” He reached to his hip for his sack of peppermints. “I’ve humbugs, too.”

The mute moved as if to take the parcel, but Rima pushed the other girl’s hand away. “No,” she said, roughly. Her dark blue eyes glistered. “He wants something. Isn’t that right? An exchange, a little barter?” Rima’s tone was flat and much harder. “You think I’m some tuppenny upright? Because that’s all I’ve got. I’ve no family, no trade. It’s just me and Tony and this girl. I’ve nothing else to barter for it.”

“What?”
Doyle, you idiot
. Of course she would think that. “No, no. I don’t want anything. I just et, really. Tea and biscuits and real sugar, a few slices of lemon.” He was babbling.
You’re pathetic, Doyle. What, you’ll save this girl with a nice sweet? You really want to help, you’ll put a bullet into her brain, another into that boy and the mute, and save the last for yourself
. Embarrassed, he proffered the packets. The wind whipped, lashing a coil of aromas: butter and sugar and sharp peppermint. “You and this poor girl and your … your brother? You look as if you need them far more.”

“Tony’s not my brother.” He could see the warring emotions chasing over her taut features. “We grew up together, that’s all.”

“Ah.” There were any number of reasons why. He chose the safest, hoping he might be saying something right for a change. “An orphanage?”

She nodded. “Foundling Hospital. Coram … you know, near Gray’s Inn. Tony and me and a boy works here.”

“Works here … you mean, Bode?” He remembered Kramer thrashing the boy, calling him an ungrateful foundling. “Met him. Seems a good sort.”

“He is. We’re all chuckaboos … you know, family. Got out of Coram’s soon as we were old enough. Fog was well north then,
but when it made it as far as Crouch End, we took ourselves back and across the Thames. We kept wondering if we ought to go further, only we’ve heard the way’s blocked.” Ducking her face, she swallowed. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“It’s all right. I’m glad you have. Look here … wouldn’t you like a sweet? Or the little girl here? I don’t know any child doesn’t like a humbug. Here, if it makes you feel better.” Tucking the toffees under an arm, he shook out a small number of peppermints that he pocketed. “There,” he said, resealing the parcel. “Now I’ve some of my own. Better?”

“A little.” Rima smiled. The younger girl was transfixed. Doyle wouldn’t have been surprised if she started slavering like a dog. “Much, in fact. All right, thank you.”

When he handed over the parcels, her chilled fingertips lightly brushed his own. At her touch, he felt a little shock, like the sort of spark that scuffing wool stockings over a silk carpet might produce if you grabbed a brass knob. Before he could process that, he felt something … 
whisk
away, as if his entire body had suddenly exhaled a steamy breath. Something actually
left
—and in his center, right in that black terrible place where the claw of his need always raked first, he felt the knot of his heart loosen.

“Sorry!” He tried turning his gasp into a weak laugh and only came out sounding bewildered. “I must … I’m sorry. A little …” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Dizzy.”

“Yes.” Her skin was glassy, and her voice nearly transparent, more air than sound. Eyes shimmering, she slicked her lips. “Constable? Are you …” Her voice dropped out as the ground suddenly stuttered.

Good God
. Doyle gasped as the jolt, swift and sharp, rippled through snow and into his bones. “Hold on!” Swaying, Doyle
managed a snatch, hooking Rima’s left elbow. With his left hand, he grabbed onto the mute and reeled her in. As soon as he touched Rima, that same
whisking
sensation swept him again, but he was too surprised by the rumble of the earth to pay it as much attention. Drawing both girls to his chest, he set his feet against the bucking snow. Driving up from deep underground, vibrations rattled through his boots and into his hips. Through the guardhouse window, he saw the stout guard actually tumble out of sight. A flash of bright orange fired the window and died fast as the guard’s oil lamp guttered. Platters of snow skated off the guardhouse roof to hit the ground with dull thuds. A portion of the supporting brickwork along the base of the asylum’s front gate grumbled with a series of pops and hollow bangs as stone, under too much pressure, ruptured.

“The gate!” Battle cried. Having stumbled back, the inspector was now braced against the rickety, squealing cart upon which their two bull’s-eyes, dangling from the cart’s handles, danced and threw wild yellow arcs. Tony was skittering like a nob of butter on a hot skillet, and perilously close to the gate. There came a long, high-pitched groan of fatigued metal as, less than ten feet away, the gate’s iron supports began to buckle.

Rima cried out, “Tony! Look out!”

“Watch it!” Launching himself from the cart, the inspector barreled into the boy, knocking him just as there was a large, loud crack of metal. An iron spear shot over snow, its point burying itself not two feet from where the boy and Battle sprawled. If Battle hadn’t shoved Tony aside, the boy would have been impaled.

There was another gigantic jolt, like the last kick of an exhausted child—and then the shivering stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

FOR A MOMENT
, everything stilled. Doyle stood hunched, his arms clasped tight around the girls. “Are you all right?” His voice was a stranger’s. “Are you injured?”

“No, but …” Through his own harsh breaths, the girl’s voice seemed thin and very far away. The mute was white as bone china. “You’re … you’re hurting me.”

“Oh.” Embarrassed, he loosened his grip and shambled back an uncertain step. Catching his heel in a clot of dislodged snow, he swayed and would’ve fallen if the girl hadn’t grabbed his coat. “Thank you,” he said, then tried a laugh that came out as raucous as a Tower raven. “And here I thought to save you. Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Rima looked a question at the mute, who nodded. Then she turned and called, “Tony?”

“He’s fine.” Caked with clots of snow, Battle looked like a mummy breaking out of its wrappings. “Making a habit of this,” he said, pulling Tony upright. “Not hurt?”

“No, but …” His eyes widened when he saw that broken iron arrow jutting from the snow. “We’d have been kebabs.”

Beyond the now-teetering front gates, Doyle caught the clamor of the ever-constant crowd. The note was higher, and frightened, a gabble. Somewhere far to his left along Lambeth Road, there came a growling rumble of stone against stone.

“What is that?” Rima put a comforting arm around the mute, who cringed into her. “Is it happening again?”

Battle shook his head. “Sounds like a wall collapsing, or perhaps a tenement.”

The rumbling subsided. In its wake came shrill stiletto notes
of surprise and fear. With the thick swirling snow, it was impossible to tell exactly where the collapse might be. Doyle hoped Battle wouldn’t succumb to a burst of civic-mindedness. If another tremor struck, the last thing he wanted was to be clambering around rumble, searching for survivors. On the other hand, his own rooms were on the second floor; if the police barracks came down in another shock, all they’d find of him would be a blood smear and squashed guts.

“Rima!” Tony stood by their cart. “We should go. Don’t want to get ourselves caught out in another of those.”

Battle retrieved their bull’s-eyes. “Maybe you should leave off for the day.”

“Can’t.” Stumping around to the head of his cart, the boy ducked under the traces of an ox’s harness. “And we’re here now,” he said, seating the leather collar and straps over his shoulders. “If that happens again, we’re safer in the open anyway.”

Doyle couldn’t argue that. As both girls started off, he said to Rima, “Do be careful.”

“As we can be. Thank you for …” She gestured with the packets. “Constable …?”

“Doyle.” Then blurted, “Where are you staying? At the gasworks near Battersea?” She must; the Battersea furnaces were the only ones still in operation. When she nodded, he said, “I’m at Lambeth Station, you need anything.”
Need anything? Doyle, what are you thinking?
If his performance with Meme was any indication, he could barely care for himself. Still, it felt good to say it to her. “Anything,” he said again. “Whatever you need, I’ll help.”

“Oh, Constable.” She gave him a direct look. “I think we’re all of us past help, don’t you?”

Watcher

THE QUAKE HAD
split the snowpack into wide fissures that made the going even rougher. Tony concentrated on picking a stable path past the row of doctors’ houses that were now so many faint smears of light only just visible through the snow. They’d just begun to skirt the front steps to walk along the asylum’s west wing when Tony paused and craned a look back. “You girls all right?”

“Are you kidding?” Their “mute” let out something halfway between a shaky laugh and a grunt. “An
earthquake
? In England? I didn’t know you guys even
had
them. And then the sacks sliding off, the
bodies
, we had to actually
touch
them, and we can’t even wash our hands or anything? You know how
gross
that is? Does this happen a lot?”

“First I can remember,” Rima said, and felt a tiny tickle of disquiet. How many actual
days
doing
this
—going about their rounds, collecting bodies—did she really recall? Nothing firmed in her mind.