Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

Sleep did not come so easily in Newgate.

Barabbas stank and he knew it. Matters have come to a terrible pass when the stench and toxicity of one’s own perspiration are enough to make one nauseous. Owsley had procured him many favors, but it seemed that a decent bath was beyond even him.

Barabbas yawned, scratched at his shaggy beard and shuffled his elephantine bulk across those few paces that measured the floor of his cell. It was quiet now as the clock moved into the slow hours of the night — the only time when the shrieks and lamentations of his fellow inmates died down. The next cell was currently occupied by a member of a fundamentalist Methodist sect who occupied his time in endless repetitions of the Lord’s Prayer, occasionally interspersed for variety’s sake with a small selection of the better known psalms. The man must have fallen asleep shortly before midnight, exhausted and hoarse from his day’s labors, as Barabbas had heard nothing from him for almost an hour.

“Meyrick?” he hissed. “Are you there?”

Owsley’s face appeared between the bars. “Always,” he murmured, his tone that of a patient mother soothing a particularly obstreperous child.

Barabbas sighed — a rattling, skeletal sound. “I’m bored. Do you have any conception of what it’s like for me in here? The miserable, numbing tedium of it all.”

Owsley’s voice was as obsequious as ever. “Yes, sir, I do sympathize.”

“A man of my brilliance incarcerated in a space not fit for beasts. A coruscating intellect penned in with criminals with nothing to do but wait. It’s one of the great tragedies of our age.”

“Indeed, sir.” Was there a hint of resignation in Owsley’s voice? A glimpse behind the disciple’s mask, a momentary revelation of a man long-suffering, put upon, resentful? Perhaps.

“When will Edward come again?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“When he comes, I’ll-”

“Yes, sir? What will you do?” Just the faintest undertone of sarcasm, barely detectable.

“I’ll tell him everything.”

This had an unexpected effect on the listener. A thoughtful pause, then the carefully worded reply: “I should not advise such a course of action.”

Barabbas spluttered. “I don’t ask for advice. Yours is not to reason why.”

Owsley, unruffled but insistent: “You would regret it.”

“You are my creature. Never forget that.”

But his disciple did not reply, and the prisoner heard only soft footfalls as Owsley padded away down the corridor in discreet abandonment of his post.

“Meyrick!” Barabbas shouted, but still the footsteps receded frustratingly into the distance. “Meyrick!” he screamed, desperate and confused at this sudden, inexplicable dereliction. “Come back!”

Too late. He heard the faint rattle of keys, then the uncaring clang of the iron door as Owsley left the innards of the gaol and headed back toward the outside world.

“Meyrick!” Barabbas rattled the bars of his cell in despair, then threw himself onto the stone floor, on the brink of tears. He heard a loud rustling from the next cell — a moan, stumbling footsteps, followed soon after by the first, familiar words of Psalm 130: “Out of the depths I cry to thee…”

At last Mrs. Puggsley’s establishment was shutting up shop after twelve exhausting hours of business. Mina (always the darling of the salon) had been in great demand, and after dealing with her last john of the night she was grateful to walk downstairs to the reception room, hoping to sit with the other girls, gossip, chat and share a glass of wine or two. She was surprised, then, to find no trace of them but only Mrs. Puggsley, who sat on her usual chair, her vast buttocks drooping gelatinously over the seat. A prim, precise, pale-skinned man stood over her.

Puggsley gave a weak smile. “Mina, my dear.” She coughed, and as her enormous frame shuddered in sympathy, she wheezed like a worn-out steam train bound for the scrap heap. “I’ve sent the other girls away.”

“Away?”

Mrs. Puggsley shuffled uncomfortably. “For their safety.”

“Where?”

No reply. Mina transferred her attention to the pale man. “I’ve seen you before,” she said boldly. “You’re a friend of Mr. Gray, aren’t you?”

“Oh, we’re old pals,” he answered and smiled the way Brutus might have smiled the day he wielded the blade.

Mina began to fiddle absently with her beard, a nervous habit from childhood she had never quite managed to suppress. “What’s going on?”

Mrs. Puggsley turned toward her. “Please,” she said gently. “Go.”

“Tell me what’s happened,” Mina protested, despising herself for the plaintive quality in her voice.

“I’m afraid it’s bad news,” the pale man said smoothly. “Your usefulness has come to an end.”

Puggsley made a strange, uncharacteristic snuffling sound.

“I’ve decided to close you down. A terrible pity. But needs must…”

Mina looked at her employer, hoping for a denial, for some shred of hope, but the woman was unable even to meet her gaze.

“You’ve been a great help. Mrs. Puggsley says you were quite his favorite. The details you supplied were invaluable.” He paused to readjust the pince-nez that perched ridiculously on the tip of his nose. “It would be no exaggeration to say that there are those in the highest echelons of government who are grateful for your assistance.” He gave an oleaginous smile. “Take heart. Even a wretch like you can serve King and country in your way.”

“Get out,” Puggsley said to Mina, hoarse now, almost whispering, not bothering to hide the desperation in her voice or stem the rising tide of hysteria.

“I suggest you take your mistress’s advice. In a few minutes’ time this place will be in flames. The Directorate has scheduled it for demolition.”

Mrs. Puggsley did not move.

“My credentials as an arsonist are impeccable. You might say I’ve an eye for catastrophe.” He smirked again but, still silent, Puggsley did not stir. Mina gazed at this tableau in horror.

“Do you know,” the pale man said conversationally, “I fancy I can already smell the smoke.”

Mina turned and ran, fleeing out into the street, bent almost double with sobbing, tears stinging her face and trickling down her beard.

She left Goodge Street and was some way toward Tottenham Court Road when she saw the smoke, stopped and thought of going back. Her loyalty was about to win out over her instinct for self-preservation when a gang of men rolled rowdily out of a nearby tavern and began to point at her and laugh. Her decision made for her, she did her best to ignore their derision and hurried onwards in the hope of finding some sanctuary in the city. As she walked she felt a cold, implacable certainty that, whilst the pale man was even now returning home, Mrs. Puggsley had never left her chair and sat there still, the flames licking about her feet, toying with her hungrily, her great fat frame shuddering and sweltering in anticipation of the inevitable roast.

Moon woke three hours after he had lost consciousness, stumbled to his feet and vomited copiously in the basin. He washed the worst of it away and as the yellowed water spiraled down the plughole it seemed to mock him, chuckling quietly. He sank back onto his bed and surrendered himself to the pain, the interior of his skull assailed by battering rams, limbs rubbery like blancmange, mouth Sahara dry.

When he opened his eyes again, the physical pain had subsided but the tempest in his head was worse than ever. All at once the events of the past few months seemed to round upon him, jeering and ridiculing, crowding out his thoughts. He looked at the spotless, soulless luxury of his bedroom and under the influence of an ineluctable compulsion began — quite deliberately and with clinical precision — to smash it all up.