Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

Surprisingly, the green fluid seemed to affect the Somnambulist just as badly as it had me, and his face contorted in pain. Moon and I could do nothing but watch. It was like seeing two lions fight for dominance of the pack — no, more than that, grander — like two ancient reptiles, megalosaurs clashing on some primeval killing ground, twin gods, colossi grappling of the fate of worlds.

Another sight distracted us even from this awful vision, at first nothing more than a wispiness, then a faint disturbance in the air, then a swirling, shimmering rush of color. A foot or so from where the conjuror and I stood transfixed, the Prefects flickered into existence. In their hands they carried four absurd sticks of dynamite — the kind you see in newspaper cartoons, great red sticks of the stuff, their enormous fuses spitting sparks.

Oh, you’ll say they couldn’t possibly work. Explosives don’t actually look like that , those are just comical representations intended for the amusement of children.

Of course you’re entitled to your opinion, but I was there and I can assure you of their efficacy. Hawker or Boon (one of them — I get confused) flung the dynamite into the center of the great hall.

Leaving the red sticks spitting on the floor, the Prefects fled from the hall, peals of cackling laughter in their wake.

Moon stumbled forward, hoping, I imagine, to help his friend, but it was already too late. The first piece of dynamite exploded in the far corner of the room, bring half the roof down with an ear-splitting roar. I could hear the whole of the building’s structure creak and groan in protest and begin to fall in upon itself. Thick clouds of dust all but obscured or vision, but from what I was able to make out the giant and the dreamer ignored it all and fought on.

I have no shame in admitting that I picked myself up and ran, back through the tunnels and out into the street. I have many faults, but at least I know when to cut my losses.

The last thing I saw as I glanced back was the Chairman and the Somnambulist — monsters locked in conflict, an emerald miasma hanging about them, whilst Moon, not knowing what to do, gazed helplessly on.

He ran away in the end, just like me, though he stayed, I believe, to see the second explosion. He was later to claim that, before the great hall fell utterly in upon itself, the Chairman’s acid had begun to eat its way through the rock itself and that the adversaries had begun to sink into the earth, swallowed up as if by quicksand. He called out for the Somnambulist but the giant fought wordlessly on, and Moon had no choice but to flee. I wonder sometimes what he might have shouted before everything fell down, what final words he might have had, and I wonder, too, if the Somnambulist called back, if — at long last — he spoke.

All I know is that Moon escaped just before the last explosion. Behind him I saw the headquarters of Love, all that I had worked for, buried forever by rubble. I was glad not to be there to see that.

For the second time that day I emerged panting back onto the street. The fighting was over; police, medics and other professional busybodies were arguing over what to do with all the mess and corpses. Even the press had started to sniff about.

On seeing all of this commotion, I felt a sudden surge of hope. I thought I might still escape and slip away in the midst of the confusion. No such luck. I felt a revolver pressed hard against the back of my head.

“The Somnambulist is dead.”

“Edward?” I asked feebly.

He spun me around, placed the gun at my forehead. “The Somnambulist is dead,” he repeated in a flat, toneless voice.

I wondered how I could possibly apologize without sounding insincere. “Sorry,” I said eventually, and shrugged. “Thought he was indestructible.”

I doubt you’d have done any better under the circumstances.

Moon placed the gun harder against my head and seemed on the cusp of pulling the trigger when he was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“You must be Edward Moon.”

“What do you want?” Moon hissed.

“My name is Thomas Cribb.” I realized that the ugly man was standing behind me, facing the detective. “I would offer to shake hands but I can see you’re a little tied up.”

“What?”

“You’re about to make a considerable mistake.”

“I thought you’d joined Love.”

“Me? Well, I suppose I may do. But that will happen tomorrow.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot him.”

“Only this.” Cribb smiled. “You don’t. I’ve seen the future and the Reverend Doctor here is languishing in a prison cell.”

Out of the corner of my eyes I could see the approach of several policemen and the inspector. They hung back, waiting to see how the situation would play itself out. I suppose I’ve no right to be angry but I rather think it was their duty to save me, not stand by and watch my murder.

“Does he die?” Moon asked, sounding — I have to say — unnecessarily bloodthirsty. “Is he executed?”

Cribb pulled a face. “They won’t hang him.”

“No justice, then?”

“I can promise you this: He gets punishment enough. He suffers. Please. Put down the gun.”

For a moment, Moon looked as though he still might go through with it.

“Please,” the ugly man said again. Moon seemed to relent and started to return the gun to his pocket. But at the last second he brought the gun back up toward my face.

“No!” shouted Cribb.

Moon, distracted by the sound, pulled the trigger too soon. The bullet went wild, missed me (though I fancy I felt it brush my cheek) and hit the ugly man instead. The damage can’t have been all that serious but he fell to the ground nonetheless, whimpering like a soccer player hoping for sympathy, clutching at his left hand and muttering to himself.

The police finally appeared (not before time) and I was wrenched roughly to my feet. Handcuffs were slapped on me with little or no consideration as to how they might chafe. I was led away and Moon said nothing.

As I walked, however, I heard him call out to someone. Cribb? Perhaps, but I have always felt a strange certainty that he was addressing someone else entirely. “The Somnambulist is dead,” he cried, then more quietly: “The Somnambulist is dead.”

It happens every morning underground. Chances are you’ve noticed it yourself.

In the rush hour, as all those beleaguered commuters fight their way off the trains at Monument Station, pinstriped and bowler-hatted to a man, ready to submit themselves to the merciless grind of another day’s work, they bear witness to an extraordinary phenomenon.

Shit. The choking stench of it becomes on some mornings almost overpowering. I am reliably informed that there is many a nose wrinkled in distaste, many a copy of the Times folded into an impromptu fan, many a handkerchief pressed discreetly against the face. But so used are these passengers to the city’s creaking, dilapidated railways that they make no comment at this indignity but, teeth clenched and pride swallowed, travel stoically onwards. I’ve no idea why such an effect should occur, though I imagine it has at least something to do with the tunnels’ unfortunate proximity to the sewer system.

I think this is significant. It seems to me that London reveals something of its real self at such moments, shows the skull beneath its skin, its true cloacal nature. It is meant as a warning, I think, and as a rebuke.

How different things might have been had we succeeded! Poppies and daisies would grow now where the banks and counting-houses stand. London in its corrupt state would have passed away and in its place the state of Pantisocracy would flourish and bloom. A dream, you say? A childish fantasy? Perhaps.