The Dickens Mirror (30 page)

“Dearie.”
On cue. “Would either of you fine gents care for—”

Bellowing, he rounded and cut the hag a vicious blow.
“NOOO!”

Her face caved. The space between her eyes burst wide open in a fume of blood and tissue and broken bone. Ballooning from the pressure, her scalp ruptured, spewing wormy pale-pink brains. Without uttering a sound, she collapsed, but Doyle was already following, this time with his heavy policeman’s boots. Raising a foot, he drove down, square on what was left of the woman’s skull.

“Doyle!”
Battle was screaming. “Stop,
stop
!”

“Fuck no,
fuck
no!” The shrieks cut like knives but felt good. He stomped down hard. There was a loud wet sound midway between a crunch and the
thuck
of a melon smashed on brick. The hag’s skull gave. Gore and bloody gobbets spattered cobbles and splashed his trousers. When he pulled his boot out, it came with a sodden sucking sound. And yet no one stopped; the crowd continued on its murmuring way, and he was mad, going mad, gone gone gone!
“Fuck me, oh fuck me!”
Screeching, stomping hard, hard, harder! His spit flew like foam from the mug of a mad dog.
“Fuck FUCK!”

Then, all at once, the hag’s head—this mash of pulped meat and bony shards—quivered and
heaved
.

“Christ!” Panting, he stared, aghast. The mess pulsed once, twice. A large bubble grew and then ballooned in a red membranous sack—and within, he could see them: a teeming, roiling, gelatinous clot of squirmers.

“N-no,” he said, backing up a slithering step. Hands out,
pleading
. “D-don’t. Stop, s-stop …”

The sack burst.

Squirmers

THE HAG’S BLOOD
expanded in a halo of pink mist. Doyle screamed as wet, wriggling slop sheeted over his face, and then he was choking as squirmers shot for his open mouth, spilled into his throat, nosed his ears. There were sharp pricks at his eyes as they bit in and then burrowed into the whites.

“No, no!” Clawing at his face, gargling blood against an undulating tide down the center of his chest, he staggered. The thin-walled grapes of his eyes pulsed; he could feel squirmers rippling, see their slithery bodies shoot across his vision. His bull’s-eye smashed to the cobbles as he screamed again. “Get them out!” Digging at his eyes, he felt his nails rip skin, and now blood was pouring into his sockets, or that might only be the squirmers thrashing through soft jelly, drilling their insatiable way into his brain, and in the next second, his eyes would rupture in a torrent of snotty jam …

“Doyle!”
Snatching at his shoulder, Battle whipped him round. Staggering, his boots slimy with brains and blood, Doyle nearly went ass over teakettle. Battle grabbed his coat in his fists.
“What’s the matter with you, man?” Bulling his face only inches from Doyle’s own. “Have you gone mad?”

“I think I told you not to touch me again, sir”—and then, with a roar, he swung that billy as hard as he could …

 … AND IT
connects, the sound of his club against bone like the bite of an ax into a stout log.

Battle’s head whips right with a sharp crackle like dry rats’ bones ground underfoot. Black blood jumps from his left ear. Going limp as a rag doll, the big man drops as Doyle—with no squirmers now but only murder on his mind—goes with him.

Been waiting all my life for this
. Gripping his club with both hands, he brings the billy down again in a vicious chop.
Die, you bastard, just die and leave us in peace!

This time, there is a swift, smart
crack
. Battle’s scalp splits in two, from crown to the hinge of his jaw, revealing a glimmer of smeary bone. Blood begins pouring, pulsing in a red torrent. Another chop and Battle’s skull opens in a sodden crunch, the crack of a gourd or rotted pumpkin under a stout heel.

Oh, this feels good, this is good!
Huffing like a blown horse, Doyle stares down, gored billy in hand, blood singing in his veins.

Crumpled on soiled cobbles, Battle is, incredibly, moaning. Through the purple, swirling muck of torn skin and battered bone, Battle’s head pulses and heaves as the pink worms of his brain struggle under a milky, membranous shroud. Battle’s jaws suddenly unhinge, and what comes is a groan—and a word. Actually, a name.

“Ar-Ar-Artieee.” Battle drags in a ragged, wet breath.
“Arrrtieee.”

What?
Still blowing, Doyle gives himself a shake. On his arm, Black Dog’s gone silent, and for once, Doyle wishes the thing would speak.
WHAT?

“Arrrtieee,”
Battle moans again, and now Doyle is positive. The inspector’s lying there with his brains dashed all over snow-covered cobbles going bright red with the seep. But this is not Battle’s voice. No, this is lighter, a little plaintive, with the burr of a brogue.
“Arrrtieee.”

Shite, no
. Gasping, Doyle tosses a wild look. There is suddenly no crowd or mist or smoke or snow. If he were to take himself to the Thames, he’s positive the Peculiar would’ve vanished. The cobbles have disappeared, too.
No … NO …

But the view does not change.

THE KITCHEN IS
small, dingy, dirty. Ancient grease splatters stain the wall over the hob. A large splotch of soot, black and oily, smears the ceiling above a weak gas flame that sputters and spits. Off-true, the room’s one window lists to the left, and there is daylight through the chinks. Yet the room is close and hot and stinks of rotted eggs, fried onions, greasy potatoes. The floor’s awash in blood and smashed crockery. A shimmering white slick of oatmeal and leek soup vomits over tired wood, because it’s Lent and his father … his
father
 …

Oh, good Christ
. Doyle wants to fall to his knees.
I’m back
.

Dogged by the Devil

IT’S THE LENTEN
holidays, and his father—that sot, that drunk, that bastard—has swept everything from the table. In one corner, his mam cowers, belly huge, hair come undone to drag around her face, a blood bib on her blouse. Clustered round like chicks are his brother and seven sisters, all weeping and cowering. On the wall opposite, there’s a large, drippy red arc. A longer, brighter smear paints an exclamation mark all the way to the floor, where his father lies in a red-black pool.

“Arr …”
His father’s got both bloody mitts wrapped around that stag-horn hilt, and he’s managed to pull the blade out a gory inch. A mistake, that, like unstoppering a bottle, because now his blood’s pulsing in great spurts,
splish-splish-splish. “S-sonnn …”

So he’s never left?
I’ve traded one horror for another? Blink my eyes and I’ll be back in London, standing with Battle in the snow … round and round …
Or maybe all the rest has been nothing but a vision provoked by bad gin or cheap beer, both of which he has developed a taste for by now, because he is fourteen and dirt poor and so hungry some days cockroaches look good. The Jesuits, those
prunes, feed him, but the meals are meager and there’s no money or nice packages coming out to Stonyhurst for Artie to buy treats and sweetmeats in town like the rest of the boys, no. He’s charity, and everyone knows it. How his mam wheedled a spot there is beyond him. But that’s what she’s always done,
push-push-push
, because Artie is her favorite, her savior, her jewel.

As this is, perhaps, his. He senses this. This is the pivot about which all the rest of his life will turn, round and round and round.

His face smarts. Working his mouth around a taste of copper, he spits blood, but more trickles down his throat from an aching tongue his teeth have snapped. The sight in his right eye’s bleary, the focus soft. With blood-spattered fingers, he gingerly probes his cheek, wincing at the knot. Above the ring in his ears, he can hear the ceaseless din of voices from their many neighbors below this top flat because the walls of this squalid tenement are so thin. For once, though, he’s glad of the noise, because it’s likely covered his father’s bellows, and what’s one more drunk in Sciennes Hill Place anyway?

“What have you done?” His mother’s eyes bulge in horror. “What in God’s name were you thinking? You
killed
him!”

“He’s not dead yet,” he says, hoarsely, in a voice he barely recognizes. “Are ya?” Toeing his father with a boot provokes another long groan, a plaintive
Arrrtieee
. The flow of his father’s blood is beginning to weaken, the
splish-splish
dwindling to a dribble as thin as the tail end of a good long piss. “Won’t be coming after anyone now, will ya?”

“Have you gone mad?” The fear in his mother’s voice makes all the girls weep even harder. (God, so many damned yammering sisters; that’s one thing he’s not missed being off at school.) “Are you a lunatic?”

This is a very good question.
Not now, but I shall be?
“He was hurting you.”

“And I’ve stood it for years. He’s my
husband
.”

“Yeah?” His fingers are tacky. He stares at his fists flexing and clenching, studying the deep rust-red crescents under his nails. His palms are red traceries, and he sees how one line, quite short, is fairly broken in two on either hand.
Life line?
He should ask a gypsy. “Not for much longer. Then we can get clear of this, of Edinburgh. Find us a nice cottage in the country, with clean air. Keep chickens and a cow and pigs.”

“You’ve gone off your head. How? With what? They’ll take you away,” his mother whispers. “They’ll put you in jail. They might even hang you, and then who’ll take care of us? We’ve no money, no one I can ask.” Her tone shifts, becomes a wheedling accusation. “I’ll be reduced to taking in boarders, you know that. Strangers in my house, bringing in their filth, their women, doing God knows what …”

Oh yeah
, he thinks as he eyes the bulge of her stomach,
like you’re a stranger to what goes on behind closed doors
. The idea that his mother’s let his drunken pap into her bed time after time makes his head turn a giddy wheel.
Steady. See this through
.

“No one’s taking me away. We call the coppers, and we tell ’em. Here’s what’s happened, all right?” His gaze sweeps their faces. He enjoys how they all dodge their eyes.
Good. About time someone was afraid of
me
for a change
.

“He was beating you,” he says to his mother. By the time the police come, this stranger’s voice will be gone. He will be fourteen again, snot-nosed and scared out of his wits, and oh so beside himself with grief over what’s happened to his dad:
But I couldn’t help it. I was afraid. He was hurting my mother. I didn’t mean it. It was him, not me
.

Though he will see this man again, many times over and for years: over his bed, risen from the grave, the body green and bloated with decay and innards rotted to jelly. Always, the thing will fade before it can say his name. A good thing, that. To name is to control. To name is to possess.

“He had that damned knife, too. When I tried to stop him hurting you, he turned on me, and I got my arm up only just in time.” He is now aware of blood coursing down his left arm to drip from his wrist, a wicked slash with that fine scalloped filework and a scar he will wear for the rest of his life. “And I hit him with a skillet. Self-defense, it was, and he slipped, and that’s when he fell on his knife. That’s the story.”

“But that’s not what happened.” Her eyes, large and frightened, remind him of a mouse quivering under a cat. “He slashed you, and he slipped, and then
you
grabbed up the knife and …”

“Shut it,” he says, in a voice that is a whip and more brutal than he thought possible. Certainly, he’s never used this tone with his mam. What worries him, but only a little, is how much he enjoys seeing her flinch. “Wipe that right out your head.” His eyes touch first her face and then each of his siblings in turn. “This is the story. This is what happened. He fell on the knife, and that’s all.”

There is a short silence, one that even the
splish-splish
of his father’s blood does not break. That pump’s run dry. Mouth open in an airless gawp, his father’s face is gray, his eyes already glazing. The edges of that bloody slick are growing turgid as grape jam.

“But …” His mother’s voice is meek now, and this pleases him, too. “But Artie, you didn’t hit him with a skillet.”

At that, he grins, and from her reaction, he wishes he could
see his dial for himself: orange teeth, ruby lips, bruised face. He must look a positive horror.

“Well.” Striding to the hob, he fetches up the skillet. There are still curls of oily leeks and crusted onions stuck to the blackened cast iron. They’ll make a mess, but all that’s to the better. It lends that little bit of credence:
He came at me. I was scared, and the skillet was right there on the hob
. Gripping the heavy pan in both hands, he cocks his elbows and sets his feet. “Not yet I haven’t,” he says to his mother.

And then he brings the skillet down with all his …

“DOYLE?”

“What?” He blinked back to find the hag, with only half a skull and one good hand, still on his right arm. Doyle cleared the rust from his throat. “Yes?”

“I asked if you were all right.” Battle cocked his head like a spaniel. “Your skin’s flushed, and you’re sweating again. Are you ill?”

Round and round and round …
“Me? Ill?” He shook the cobwebs from his mind, and the hag’s hand from his arm.

“A touch green, you ask me.” The hag tipped Battle a knowing wink. “Bit of the old puffer’d set him to rights, you don’t mind my saying.”

“Thank you,” Battle said, icily, “but I
do
mind.”

Oh, speak for yourself
. The image of his moaning father was a red cinder between his eyes.
Look away, look away, Doyle, before you go blind. This is one god you dare not gaze upon for long
. But he couldn’t. It was as if this memory was the only star in all his black sky.