The Singular & Extraordinary Tale of Mirror & Goliath: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Lovehart, Esq., Volume 1 (Notebooks of John Loveheart, E) (4 page)

T
he demon had come
for the grandfather clock. He questioned my father and then he tortured him. When he still had no answer as to its whereabouts he stuffed my father into his obsidian sarcophagus. Shut the lid on him.

When the lid was finally opened my father was gone.

He let the servants go; took over the house and stole my father’s money. Sent out advertisements with a reward promised for information on the missing clock.

And he waited.

“I am your father now,” Mr Fingers said.

I
wake up in a plump
, pillowed bed to see Goliath sitting quietly by the window, reading
The Times.
His great bear bulk blocks the sunlight, blanketing me in shadow. The darkness spreads out before me like a roll of carpet to stuff Cleopatra in. Roll her up like a sausage and dump her in front of a Roman Emperor, who’ll unravel her whilst licking his lips and plucking a grape from its skin.

Goliath smiles at me gently. “Good morning.”

“Is Mr Loveheart dead?” I say.

“No. I chased him away. Have some breakfast, little one. There’s toast and honey.”

I stare out of the window at the sea. We are in a fisherman’s cottage. We are still in Whitby. An envelope rests on the table by the honey jar.

“What is that?”

“Mr Loveheart has invited us for afternoon tea.”

“Why? What does he want?”

“He wants to talk to us both. He wants to negotiate.”

I spread my toast with a big dollop of butter and honey. “I want to hear what he has to say for himself.”

“Very well, then.”

“And if he tries to hurt me, I know you will turn into a lion and eat him,” and I stuff a large piece of toast and honey into my mouth.

Late morning, Goliath carries me up the steps to the abbey and tells me stories of sea imps and underwater worlds.

The skies are full of soft cocoon-like clouds and the air smells of salt and seaweeds. I stare out at the sea on top of Goliath’s shoulders and it is as blue and as deep nightmares. “Do you think Captain Mackerel has found a mermaid to marry?”

“I think he has found two. And they catch fish and pearls for him. And he is very happy, and the cat has a pearl necklace and is very happy.”

We arrive punctually at our tea and cake destination. It is the home of Mrs Foxglove who, Goliath informs me, has a collection of death masks and an interest in tea-leaf reading. It is a large green cottage looking over the sea on the cliff, purple flowers and ferns overgrown in the garden and a bronze fox head as a doorknocker.

Goliath knocks three times and a tall lady with long white hair and delicate tortoiseshell spectacles opens the door, eyes like bright blue periwinkles, her voice impish and light. “Do come in. Mr Loveheart is already here. He does love my cakes.”

The cottage has low ceilings, which make Goliath stoop, his great bulk negotiating the corners and doors. The air smells of sea-flowers and something else, something sinister. Goblin green walls are the backdrop for Mrs Foxglove’s collection of plaster of Paris death masks; there must have been hundreds of them, each with a different grimace and look of horror eternally fixed upon their faces.

We enter the sitting room, where more masks line the walls and an elegant table is laid with numerous cakes and a large pot of steaming tea. And there sits Mr Loveheart, in green velvet with red hearts embroidered on his jacket; he has a mouthful of cake and a big grin upon his face. He remains seated as we enter, while Mrs Foxglove pours the tea. “Now help yourselves to cake. I have six sorts: Victoria sponge, chocolate, vanilla cream, lavender, cherry and almond, and Mr Loveheart’s favourite: lemon drizzle.”

Mr Loveheart continues to grin, while chewing his mouthful.

“May I ask how you two are acquainted?” asks Goliath, helping himself to the chocolate cake, an especially large slice, while I point to the vanilla cream.

“Mr Loveheart is a dear friend, as is his employer, Mr Fingers. They both help me acquire my beautiful death masks. So helpful. Clever boys, they are.” And she ruffles Mr Loveheart’s hair, playfully.

“Quite a collection you have,” Goliath remarks.

“Oh yes, I have nearly five hundred. Hangings, decapitation, drownings – you name it, I will most likely have it. It’s a fascination for me to see the human soul trapped in its final moments. The collection is very precious to me. They are my children.”

“You really believe you have their souls?”

“Of course. They are trapped within the mask.”

I look at the faces and lick my fingers of vanilla cream and think, she is wrong and she is quite mad. Mr Loveheart is staring at me, reading my thoughts and he too licks his fingers, gently mimicking me.

“Shall we get down to business?” he asks.

Goliath nods and Mr Loveheart, wiping the remainder of Lemon Drizzle from his lips, continues.

“My employer, Mr Fingers, would very like much like to meet Miss Mirror, and suggested that the ideal location would be my ancestral home, this evening. A carriage will be collecting us after this delightful tea. My father, like Mrs Foxglove, was also a collector, although his obsession was time travel. I have invited many guests to view his machines this evening, with an interest to buy. They have been cluttering up the place for too long.”

“And what exactly does he want with my ward?” grumbles Goliath.

“Well, she is of immense value to him due to a peculiar set of circumstances. You see, one of my father’s prized time machines was a clock, which was stolen by your ward’s grandfather, who I understand went quite mad and locked her inside it.”

“And your point is?”

“Mr Fingers wanted the clock. Or, to be more exact, he wanted what was inside the clock. The man who made it was a most unusual fellow, and he had trapped a creature inside it. Some sort of deity (and he chuckled as if it were amusing to him). My employer finally acquired the clock through some inconvenience, but it is unfortunately now useless.”

“Useless?”

“Yes, it seems that your ward has become the clock. The deity has been absorbed into her, become her. She was, I understand, essentially dead when she was taken out. The spirit of the clock has simply moved from one container to another – into her body.”

“What does Mr Fingers intend to do with Mirror?”

Mr Loveheart rolls his eyes and drums his fingers rhythmically against the table, as though playing an invisible piano. “He would like to talk to her.”

“And if we refuse?”

“You cannot keep running from us both. Surely you would like this situation resolved quietly. If you refuse, we will simply take her from you. You cannot protect her all the time. All he wants is a little chit chat.”

Goliath stares deeply at Mr Loveheart and then rests his hand gently on my shoulder. “You and your employer are a pair of monsters. And I believe that you both intend to harm or kill my ward. It is true that this situation needs to resolved, so she can become free of the pair of you. I am her protector until the day I die.”

“Understood.”

Goliath turns towards me. “Little one, want do you want to do?”

“I want to meet Mr Fingers, and I want to see Mr Loveheart’s collection of time machines, and I would like a piece of the chocolate cake.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” and I don’t know why I keep thinking, yes, yes, yes, yes. But it is the right answer to give.

“Then we agree to your employer’s terms, Mr Loveheart,” Goliath sighs.

“Super. We were going to drug the tea if you had refused, which would have been frankly impolite.” Mr Loveheart pours himself some more. “I must say I was surprised and quite impressed with your little gift, Mr Honey-Flower. Your transformation into a tiger was quite unexpected. Satisfying, almost.”

“Throwing you out of the window was very satisfying.”

Mrs Foxglove, who had been dusting the death masks while we were talking, reseats herself. “Mr Honey-Flower, when you die, do you think your face will remain human or morph into an animal?”

“If you intend to have my face as part of your death mask collection then you are to be sadly disappointed.”

She turns towards Mr Loveheart. “Perhaps, Mr Loveheart, we could come to some arrangement? The usual fee, of course. I have a spot over the mantlepiece free.” She looks towards Goliath, “It has a view of the garden.”

“Madam, please. I intend to remain alive for quite some time,” Goliath growls.

The small clock on the mantlepiece chimes, delicately. The death masks mutter amongst themselves. One of them speaks to me directly and I mouth the word “Aunt Rosebud.”

Mr Loveheart looks startled. “What did you say?”

“Aunt Rosebud,” I say again. The death mask smirks. “You should have killed her.”

The death masks are laughing. Mr Loveheart grips the table; the teapot is shaking.

“Perhaps you will have a second chance.”

Mr Loveheart composes himself. “Clever girl.”

Mrs Foxglove gathers the empty teacups. “And now I shall read the tea-leaves – my other great passion. Drink up, Mr Loveheart.”

Mr Loveheart drinks the remains of his tea and hands over his cup. She views her own first, turning the cup in her hand, examining the dregs. “Well, it seems a sudden and unexpected event is about to befall me.”

Mr Loveheart takes out a silver pistol from his waistcoat and shoots her in the head. She falls to the floor in a great heap, the lavender cake plopping off the table after her.

Goliath stands up, a protective wall in front of me.

“The lemon drizzle sponge was a little dry, don’t you think?” Mr Loveheart remarks. “Time for us to depart.”

Outside we can hear the arrival of a horse and carriage.

“You shot her because the sponge cake was unsatisfactory?” Goliath says, bewildered.

“Of course. I’m a connoisseur of homemade cakes, you know. Now come along,” and he motions us to the door.

“You’re insane,” bellows Goliath.

“Of course.”

The death masks watch us leave, happy as fat pumpkins in a field.

“I should warn you. My carriage doesn’t understand the concept of time.” Mr Loveheart adjusts his cuffs.

“And what do you mean by that, exactly?” asks Goliath.

“Step inside. Let’s take a ride.” He bows, playfully.

The carriage is lined with red silk, violent as a murder scene.

The horses scream, and we are moving – the carriage juddering, moving into darkness. The landscape morphs into a hell realm: the sea turns black with bloated corpses floating on its foaming lips. I see an angel fall out of the sky, black-winged and screaming. It lands in a heap by the road, bones shattering, giant wings a mass of blood and broken architecture.

“Whoops!” says Mr Loveheart, and shuts the carriage curtains, which are red silk.

Goliath holds me tight and glares at Mr Loveheart, waiting for an explanation.

“Short cut,” Loveheart answers. “Spot of black magic.”

I
have no heart
, so to speak. I am made up of dark matter and clock mechanisms. I tick, I tock. I have arrived from the underworld because I am looking for something. Tick tock. It is a very precious thing. It holds time, it holds something I want.

A god has become a clock. A clock has become a girl. A wicked little metamorphosis.

I am really quite hungry, now.

E

   a

      t

                E

                   a

                      t

                               
 E

                                   a

                                      t

T
ick tock
.

W
e emerge from the darkness
. Pink dazzles the night sky as our carriage drives along the country roads. It is the pink of Egypt; it sizzles. I think the pyramids were giant time machines where the King’s body was transported to the Land of the Dead and the black-ooze river of the underworld. I remember seeing the burial chamber of a king and his treasures found by Goliath’s father – ostrich feather fans, ebony statues, a solid gold sarcophagus.

Inside the tombs were magical maps to help the King through the underworld, to help him pass the demons who guarded the doorways. If you failed the test your soul was eaten by a demon.

Why do those words make me think of Mr Loveheart? Is he a king? Is he wandering in the underworld on a quest to keep his soul? Wicked, beautiful, mad Mr Loveheart. You are stuffed with hearts. They burst out of your eyes, fall to your feet like severed heads. Your guts are red ribbons. Your heart is a rose. I can see you, Mr Loveheart. I can see what he has done to you. He has murdered part of you. Buried you beneath deep earth, buried you alive.

You are a forest on fire.

Burn them, Mr Loveheart. Burn them all into nothing.

I remember the Sunday sermons I used to attend with my sisters. The vicar never mentioned magical maps or scarab beetles. He never mentioned the hippopotamus goddess or the crocodile god, the one who gobbled everything up. Instead, he would roll his eyes and point a long, pale finger at a statue of a man nailed to a cross. He talked about pain and hellfire. He talked about sacrifice a lot. I think that was his favourite word.

I bet the Egyptian priests would laugh themselves silly.

I remember the sermons on forgiveness. I remember the rain miserably pounding on the church windows. I remember the long sighs and much rolling of eyeballs of the vicar. I remember wishing he would drop down dead just so it would end, just so it would be over.

I think about those Egyptian priests, who have knives and mirrors in their hands, banquets and harvests, magic books of the dead, dragonflies in their ears and honey on their lips.

I look up at the sky; the pink is disappearing. Egypt is slipping away. I have been dazzled. I have been infected by it. When this is all over I want to go back there and lick the tombs of the pharaoh and dance with the priests.

Mr Loveheart leans over towards me. “Your name interests me very much. Mirrors are portals to other worlds.”

“I would like to see other worlds,” I say.

“Be careful what you wish for.” He winks.

The carriage pulls up in front of the house of Mr Loveheart. It is a fairy tale palace. There are white turrets with secret, slitted windows, battlements for archers and banners, perhaps a princess locked in a tower waiting to be rescued. Other carriages are nearby: guests have arrived to view the machines of Mr Loveheart. I can hear music and laughter within, a rustle of skirts and the smell of cigar smoke. Goliath takes my hand as we enter the kingdom of the wicked prince.

An Egyptian mummy’s sarcophagus perches in the hallway, inspected by a monocle-eyed gentleman as round as an apple, a gentleman whom Mr Loveheart pats on the shoulder and greets enthusiastically. “Mr Orion, a pleasure. You like the Pharaoh?”

Mr Orion raises his bald head. “Really marvellous. What a treat. And you think this may transport me back through time to see Cleopatra?”

“My father believed in these objects and their power. I am simply grateful to be able to get rid of them.”

Mr Orion says, “I am sure we can strike a deal.” His monocle wobbles as he inspects the Pharaoh closely. “Perhaps I need to climb inside to be transported, so to speak?”

“As you wish, dear sir, as you wish,” and Mr Loveheart manoeuvres us around Mr Orion into the sitting room, where a half dozen characters are viewing a great metal spiked wheel with a seat engineered in the middle, which rocks gently back and forth.

We are escorted towards a little room where the fireplace is roaring, and a small gentleman wearing little black glasses is watching the flames. Mr Loveheart leads me towards him. “There is Mr Fingers. Go and chit chat with him,” and he gently shoves me in.

Goliath and Mr Loveheart stand by the door while I step closer towards him. Each footstep drawing me nearer to those flames, each footstep marked by the ticking of a clock. He raises his head slightly and looks at me, his voice rustling like leaves.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Mirror.” He extends his hand towards me. I touch it and feel a thousand clocks tick tock, tick tock. Such immense pressure, my head hurts. I let go of his hand. The fire flickers like devil tongues.

“I went to visit your grandfather in the asylum.”

I say nothing.

He continues, “We had a long conversation, mainly about the clock he stole. He knew what it was. He obeyed its instructions without question. Killed your sisters. How frail humans are, don’t you think, Miss Mirror?”

“You are wrong. Goliath is strong.”

Mr Fingers gazes at Goliath. “Your guardian. Mm hmm. He’s not really human either, is he though, eh? He certainly gave Loveheart a surprise.”

“And so here we are on this beautiful evening, the four of us in a house stuffed full of humans, curious about a collection of strange, useless artefacts that they believe can carry them across time. It’s very funny watching them cooing over these metal contraptions as though they magical. They really are unbelievably stupid.” He gazes at the crackling fire, “Do you want to know what your grandfather said about you, or should I say, your former self?”

“No, not really. I never liked him. I wish Goliath had killed him.”

“Human relations. Another stupidity. Well, your grandfather told me you had turned into a ladybird. I happen to like ladybirds very much. He was of course completely insane.”

I notice the ladybirds embroidered on his waistcoat, red and black and jewel-like.

“Do you like Mr Loveheart?”

“I think in some ways he is like me. Something very bad happened to him and has changed him.”

“Ah,” Mr Fingers sounds interested. “Do you think he is capable of redemption?”

“I think he has been poisoned. His heart has turned black. Maybe if he kills those responsible for hurting him, he can be free.”

“A wicked prince in a fairy tale, under a curse. How romantic. Let me tell you a secret, Miss Mirror. He is both terrified of you and yet he loves you. And this is because you can see straight into what is left of his soul.”

I don’t know how to respond so I gaze at the floor, the sound of the fire crackling and bubbling.

Mr Fingers bends his head towards me. “You know this house is on the edge of London, the great capital of the world. The river Thames oozes past this great house, like a giant serpent. Do you like London?”

“It was my home. When I think of it, I think of my sisters. It makes me feel a great sadness. It is part of my past.”

“It is my favourite place on the planet to visit. Full of magic, if you know where to look,” he says curiously.

“I am tired of your questions. What do you want with me?”

“And now we come to that.” He raises his hands to his chin, as though in prayer. “I want you to leave with me, tonight. Be a good girl and do as you are told and please me.”

“You plan to kill me?”

Mr Fingers takes off his spectacles. His eyes are two black holes. It is like looking at a shark. “No. I plan to eat you.”

Goliath has Mr Fingers by the throat, held up in the air like a rag doll. He is choking and spluttering. I hear his neck break. Goliath throws him to the floor and picks me up in his arms and runs through the house. I look behind to see Mr Fingers rise up with the help of Mr Loveheart.

We cannot kill him. We cannot kill him.

We race past the huge metal wheel and then down a long corridor. Goliath kicks in a double door, which swings open to reveal a large chamber with a few guests, including Mr Orion, examining a series of contraptions: a mirrored coffin, an enormous metal chamber with cogwheels and a set of shrunken heads displayed in a cabinet. The room is a dead end.

We turn to see Mr Loveheart and Mr Fingers by the door. Mr Fingers speaks. “Miss Mirror, come to me.”

Goliath looks around the room for an exit. He puts me on the floor and turns into an enormous wolf and leaps into the air. There’s a tremendous shriek from the people in the room. The giant wolf sinks his teeth into Mr Fingers’ neck, almost decapitating him. And then there is the sound of laughing and all is quiet and Goliath is no longer a wolf, but himself lying on the floor. Mr Fingers removes his hand from Goliath’s chest, holding his heart.

Goliath is not moving. I run over and touch his face. “You cannot be dead,” I cry. Something is breaking inside of me. Such rage. Mr Fingers towers over me. “Come with me, now. It is over.”

I step back from him into the middle of the room. Mr Fingers raises his voice. “Do not be foolish. Come along, child.”

I can feel those stupid metal contraptions around me, dead and unmoving. I can hear the shrunken heads, bickering, stuffed in the cabinet. I can feel the river Thames lapping around my feet. I can smell the blood on Mr Fingers’ hands. I let the rage boil through me like electricity.

And the machines start to move. A clattering, a shifting of cogs and mechanisms, rusty and ancient. They are shifting and pulsing. The great wheel spins round and round. The glass coffin shatters into a thousand pieces. The cage is hit by a lightning bolt and judders into action. The shrunken heads are chanting. I feel the river Thames turn black and boil.

Mr Loveheart and Mr Fingers stand transfixed like statues, utterly speechless. The house is full of screams and people running. I look at Goliath’s great body, lying on the floor and I say, “I am going to bring you back, whatever the consequences.”

The time machines whir. Time shifts. Every window in that great house breaks. Energy moves through me. The house spins like a spinning top.

And then it is quiet. Goliath rises from the floor and carries me out of that house while rest of them are caged in time, porcelain statues, only able to watch us leave. I blow a kiss to Mr Loveheart as Goliath kicks open the front door to the house and we walk into the moonlight, the stars above us shimmering like diamonds. The house of Loveheart and its inhabitants frozen like mannequins on a stage.