Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

Merryweather (well used to dealing with persons of this class) chose not to reveal his profession but instead that he wished to see the proprietor with a view to exchanging a sum of money for information. The man with the earring shot the inspector a suspicious look but got to his feet nonetheless and slouched away into the mist. The bolder of the two plain-clothes policemen (Moreland by name) unwisely attempted to make conversation with the remaining Romany, an offer ungraciously declined by means of a single, brusque hand gesture.

At length the proprietor appeared, and the fog must have descended still more heavily than before, as there was little or no sign of his approach — he seemed to materialize fully formed mere inches from the Somnambulist’s right elbow. He looked the giant up and down like a farmer eyeing up livestock at the county fair. “Shouldn’t you be with us?” he asked.

He was a slippery, weasel-faced squirt of a man who introduced himself as Mr. King. “What can I do for you, gents? Must be something devilish important to get you out here at this time of night and in such weather, too.”

“We’re looking for a man,” Merryweather explained.

“Lot of men here,” King replied unhelpfully, and sniggered.

“He is known,” Moon interjected, “as the Human Fly.”

A leer spread itself across the proprietor’s disagreeable face. “It’s the Fly you’re after, is it? What’s he done this time?”

“What makes you think he’s done anything?” Moon said carefully.

“Oh, he’s been in trouble before. He’s sprightly, that one.” King’s tongue darted out to dampen his lower lip. “Very sprightly.”

“May we see him?”

The proprietor shrugged. “I shouldn’t like to wake the boy. He’s got a big day ahead of him tomorrow. Being one of our star attractions, you understand.”

Merryweather produced his wallet and pulled out a five-pound note. “I’ll double this when you take us to him.”

King gave a greasy bow. “Follow me, gentlemen. Stay close. This fog can be treacherous.”

They had good reason to take notice of this warning, as the fog had degenerated into a London particular, rendering vision more than a foot in front of them practically impossible. The fog clutched at their bodies, muzzled clammily up against them and permeated their clothes, dank and cold and seeping through to the skin. As the Somnambulist shivered, Moon touched his arm.

“I know, old man,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

King led them toward a peeling, canary-colored caravan set apart from its fellows, the runt of the litter. As they drew closer, Moon saw that painted on either side was the legend THE HUMAN FLY and beside it a strange, daubed symbol: a black, five-petaled flower.

King hammered on the door.

“Visitors!” he shouted. “Visitors for you!”

A muffled snarl issued from somewhere within.

“They have money,” King wheedled.

Another snarl, fierce and animal.

“We only want to ask you some questions,” Moon said reasonably. “We’re prepared to offer a substantial reward.”

The door swung reluctantly open and a bizarre figure thrust his head into the light. At first it was barely apparent that the thing was even human. He seemed a second Caliban — bestial, ferocious, his face covered with vomit-colored lumps and scales. He looked down at them and growled.

Merryweather coughed nervously. “He always look like that?”

King simpered. “Like I said. He’s sprightly.”

Moon ignored them. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

The Fly looked uncertainly back. He growled again and this time it sounded horribly like a word, each syllable crawling broken and mangled from his lips. “Poet…”

“Poet?” said Moon who was trying his best to sound encouragingly cheerful. “I’m no poet. Who do you mean?”

Another inchoate growl.

“My name is Edward Moon and this is my associate, the Somnambulist. We’re investigating the deaths of Cyril Honeyman and-”

Before he could go any further, the Fly yelped in shock. “Moon,” he pointed and screamed in a guttural, unearthly tone. “Moon!”

Moon smiled. “Well done!”

“Moon!”

“That’s right. Have you heard my name before?”

Ignoring his questions, the Human Fly thrust past them and vanished into the thick banks of fog. He moved so swiftly that they were all — even the Somnambulist — too shocked and to slow to stop him.

“Looks like he didn’t take to you.” King smirked and put out his hand. “Now as to the matter of my fee-”

Moon shouldered the man aside. “Devil take your fee,” he cried and ran into the fog, disappearing almost immediately.

Merryweather turned to his men. “Follow me.”

Accompanied by the Somnambulist, they dashed after the conjuror, leaving King to shrug and saunter back to camp.

Moon could just make out the figure ahead of him, a horrible, indistinct shape loping in and out of view. He cursed the fog. Behind him, he could hear the shouts of his friends as they struggled to find their way.

The Fly fled before them, across the common, into the streets beyond. Moon could hardly believe the evidence of his senses as he saw the man leap onto the side of the first house and scamper up to the roof with all the grace and agility of a jungle cat loose in suburbia.

“Please!” Moon called out helplessly. “I only want to talk to you.”

The Fly hissed something back. It may have been his imagination but Moon could have sworn the thing was still shouting his name.

“Stop!” Moon screamed. “Come down!”

The creature took no notice and began to race along the roof of the building. When it reached the end it jumped onto the adjoining house and moved relentlessly on, heading for the church in the road beyond, squirming, wriggling, leapfrogging its way down the street, a vile shadow scampering grotesquely across the skyline. Merryweather and the others appeared, panting and too late, by Moon’s side.

“Where is he?”

Silently, he pointed upward. The creature perched upon a rooftop several houses away. For a moment it tottered uncertainly, then righted itself and scurried on.

“Good God.” Merryweather crossed himself. “Is it real?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Looks like we’ve got our man.”

“He knew me, Inspector,” Moon shouted. “Someone had told him to expect us. This man did not act alone.”

“When we have him in custody,” Merryweather said in his most pedantic voice, “remind me to ask him.”

Above them, their quarry clattered across the rooftops. As they approached the church they lost him in the fog, but an instant later the mist cleared and there he was, atop the steeple, clinging to the weathercock and howling at the sky.

“Come down!” Moon shouted. “Please!”

The creature screeched obscenities into the night.

Moon turned to the Somnambulist. “Could you-?” he began, but the Somnambulist interrupted him with a gesture. He scribbled something on his chalkboard.

FRAID OF HITES

“Marvelous,” Merryweather muttered, and the conjuror shot his friend a disappointed look. The inspector turned optimistically toward his men, but before he was able even to ask the question, they shook their heads as one.

“How in God’s name are we going to get him down?” the inspector asked.

Moon called up to the Human Fly. “Please!” he said. “We won’t harm you. You have my word.”

The Fly screamed again.

“What’s he saying?” Merryweather asked.

“I think I can make it out,” said Moreland (famed in the force for his preternaturally acute hearing). “Sounds like… God be with you.”

“What?” Moon said.

The Fly wailed.