Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

“That’s right, sir. A spat, sir. It meant nothing.”

A grateful sigh. “Good.”

“Sir?”

No reply (although his neighbor had begun again his favorite psalm).

“You have visitors.”

A sudden stirring, a pacing, a shuffling sound, then Barabbas appeared at the tiny aperture of the cell, his bloated, toad-like face segmented by its bars. “Edward?” His breath was fetid and rank.

“He’s here with me,” Owsley said calmly. “He wants to speak to you. Stand back, sir. I’m letting him through.”

On hearing the iron rattle of keys, the mocking creak of the door, Barabbas fell to the floor and cowered in a corner of his tiny world. Somebody stepped inside, the door clanged shut and when the prisoner looked up he saw that not one but two figures stood before him in the gloom.

“Edward?” he murmured again.

“I’m here.” The voice was strong, compassionate, but with a hint of unworthy pleasure at seeing him reduced to such a condition.

“Edward? Who is this?”

Moon stepped forward. “You remember my sister?”

“Charlotte?” he breathed. “My but you’ve changed. When we last met you were still a girl. Barely out of school. But you’re a woman now.”

Charlotte stared at him, fascinated, repulsed.

“Please forgive the mess,” the prisoner said, slouching back against the wall. “Try to ignore the smell. I had no idea you were coming.”

“What have you done to yourself?” Charlotte asked, curiosity winning out over disgust.

“You’ve grown, haven’t you?” said Barabbas, ignoring the question. “Swollen in all the right places. Ripened and budded.” His tongue darted lasciviously in and out of his mouth and he winked. “You feel safe with me, don’t you?”

With admirable self-restraint, Charlotte replied, “I feel sorry for you.”

“Barabbas,” Moon began, then stopped himself, exasperated. “Do I have to call you that? Charlotte — she… We knew you by another name.”

“Like poor Edgar’s, my name is lost.”

Moon sighed, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small padded box. “I brought you something.”

“A bribe,” Barabbas muttered sulkily.

“A gift,” Moon said firmly. “Here,” and he held out the box. “Take it.”

The killer shuffled his behemoth frame across the floor, grabbed at the box and tore it open. “A tiepin?” he said once he’d examined its contents. “For me?”

“It was very dear. Gold-plated. Thought you’d like it.”

“You were right.” Barabbas stared avariciously at the thing. “Oh yes, you were quite right. You’ll have to excuse me whilst I put it with my collection.” He slithered back across the room and added the gift to his stash of precious things. “Thank you,” he said, then added: “I shall wear it the day I die.”

“They may not let you. They have strict rules here about that sort of thing.”

“I’m sure Meyrick can make the necessary arrangements. He’s awfully good at organizing these things.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask — how did you and Owsley meet?”

“He came to me, sought me out, to offer his services — said he’d been transformed by what I’d done. He’s — dare I say it? — an admirer of mine.” Barabbas glanced suspiciously at his guests. “Surely you’re not jealous?”

“I wouldn’t trust a man like that.”

“You trusted me,” Barabbas snapped. “Now what do you want?”

“We need to talk.”

A sneer stretched itself across his suety face. “I knew you’d come back.”

“You spoke of a plot against the city, of a guiding hand behind the murders. You knew about the fire at the theatre.”

“You want to ask me how I came to know such things?”

“If it’s no trouble,” Moon said lightly.

“Magic,” Barabbas replied, and laughed.

Moon tried not to rise to the bait. “When was the last time you saw the albino?”

Loathing clouded the prisoner’s face. “Not for an age. You still blame him?”

“I blame him for your corruption, yes.”

Barabbas sounded thoughtful, like a dictionary editor searching for the perfect, the Platonic, definition of a word. “I don’t think ‘corruption’ is right. He bored me by the end. But I had been introduced to a new world — one above morality, where all experience and sensation were mine for the taking. I drank deep, explored the outer reaches of transgression. The only truly sinful act left to me was murder. What I did in that room in Cleveland Street, Edward, it was the high-water mark of my existence — nothing before or since has measured up. It was the death of my old self, the birth of Barabbas.”

“That’s history,” Moon insisted. “I came to talk about the future.”

“You may have a future. I do not. Nonetheless I have some small compensation.”

“What?”

Barabbas whispered: “In the end I was glad it was you who caught me.”

Moon sighed. “You were a worthy opponent. The last worthy opponent. Ever since, I’ve been beset by minnows. Unpersuasive confidence men, murderers who can’t shoot straight, would-be bank robbers who burrow into sewers.”

Barabbas grinned. “I heard about him.”

“I wish I could remember his name,” Moons said, allowing himself to become distracted. “I don’t suppose you…?”

Barabbas gave a desultory inclination of his head. “You saw Mrs. Bagshaw?”

“You knew?”

“Of course.”

“She’s a fraud,” Charlotte said sternly.

“Ah, but then you would say that, as a loyal devotee of the Vigilance Committee. I’d expect nothing less. I must say, Edward, that you ignore the Madame’s warnings at your peril.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s close now,” the killer said quietly. “Four days. The disappearances start soon.”

“You know, don’t you?” Moon sounded as though he hadn’t quite believed it before. “You really know what’s going on?”

Barabbas laughed. “Lean closer,” he said, and Moon scrambled across to where he lay. The fat man spoke quickly. “Naturally, I was approached. They needed someone like me. P’raps I should be flattered. They’ve great plans for us all, Edward. They’re engineers. They want to change the world.”

He was interrupted by the ostentatious rattle of a key in the lock. The door swung open and Owsley appeared at the mouth of the cell. “Time’s up. Visiting hours are over.”

“Visiting hours?” Barabbas protested.

Owsley ignored his master and favored Moon with a glacial stare. “You have to go.”

“I’m not finished.”

“Leave at once or I shall alert the prison authorities.”

Quickly, Barabbas rummaged around in his stash of beauty for a few moments and pulled out a slim book. “You brought me a present,” he said, at which Owsley shot Moon a look of barely controlled fury. “I’d like you to take this in return.”

Moon was surprised. “What is it?”

“The Lyrical Ballads by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth.” He sounded like a provincial schoolmaster introducing the poetry of the last century to a class wary and suspicious of verse. “It’s been my most constant companion here. A beacon in this abyss. It opened my eyes, Edward. As I hope it will open yours.”

“Thank you.”

“Edward?” Barabbas tapped the book’s cover. “Ask him. Ask the poet.”

“Poet?” Moon snapped. “What poet?”

Barabbas giggled, then pointed toward one of the names on the front of his book, chuckling to himself as if this were the punch line to a joke of which only he knew the beginning.

“Coleridge?” Moon snapped. “Why should I be interested in Coleridge? The man’s been dead for sixty years.”