Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

Two and a half hours after Mr. Hawker’s searing handshake had rendered him unconscious, Mr. Dedlock opened his eyes and hoisted himself groggily to his feet. Happily, he had awoken from his stupor without any obvious ill effects, save for a faint, throbbing ache in his head, no worse than he had endured on countess occasions after a night’s overindulgence.

Around him, the fires had been extinguished, the dead were being cleared away and the walking bandaged up — everything polished and cleaned and made tidy. Within a day the battlefield would be restored to its usual condition and the citizens would try to pretend that nothing had really happened there at all. It was as though after Hastings the survivors had simply swept up the debris, stowed away the casualties and hoped everything would be back to normal again tomorrow. Such small-minded behavior — London had come within a hairs-breadth of being saved, and her people had responded like children afraid of the dark, by squeezing shut their eyes and begging it to go away. The Church of the Summer Kingdom had offered them salvation but they were content to live on just as they always had, in iniquity, in ignorance and sin.

Not, of course, that Dedlock thought about any of this when he looked approvingly around him. No, he was merely relieved that the incident was over and that he had survived unscathed. Just a little self-consciously, he cleared his throat, walked across to the nearest group of policemen and began barking orders.

But Dedlock had changed. It wasn’t until hours later, when he was back home and undressing for bed, that he happened to glance into a mirror and see for the first time exactly what the Prefects had done to him, the subtlety of their promised gift.

The scars on his torso had gone and with them the marks upon his face — those milk-white indentations which had once so strikingly criss-crossed his body — all had been wiped away, erased as easily as the Somnambulist might remove chalk marks from his slate. Dedlock looked down at his chest, unlined and newly smooth, and was disgusted by what he saw, now so commonplace, so unbearably everyday and unremarkable.

Suddenly short of breath, he shrugged off the last of his clothes, slumped down upon his bed and did something he’d not done for almost twenty years.

In the morning, when he called the Survivors’ Club to tender his resignation, his eyes were still puffy and red from weeping.

The Prefects knew exactly what they were doing. But compared to the albino, Dedlock got off lightly.

I’m not sure how much I can bring myself to tell you about what happened to Mr. Skimpole. Where should I begin? At which point in that protracted and humiliating death? The long and agonizing journey back to Wimbledon? The moment when he was ejected from his hansom cab after spewing a glutinous red substance over the seats? When he looked down at the mess and wondered, almost idly, whether some of that putrescent slime might not be the last remnants of his stomach lining?

No. I’ll spare you that — we’ll begin, I think, as the man arrived back at his house, wrestled with key and lock for the final time, the roar of pain in his head blocking out even the sounds of his neighbors’ revelry. To steady himself, he leant against the front door for a moment, then half-walked, half-stumbled inside, rasping out his son’s name.

Of course, there was no reply and Skimpole tottered further inside, determined to be with his only child as death collected her due. Reeking of vomit and bleeding from at least a dozen separate places, he stumbled into the kitchen, wailing for his son.

It was then that he saw him. Or rather what was left of him.

Even I (scarcely a squeamish man) can hardly bear to describe the thing. No doubt you have a good idea yourself — you will have guessed by now the nature of the Prefects’ ‘fee.’

The Skimpole boy lay supine on the floor, pale and clammy, a pitiable look of terror on his face. His skin and clothes were spattered with crimson and every bone in his body was broken. He had been expertly battered to death with his own two crutches.

Numbly, Skimpole wondered if they had taken turns.

Too weak to scream out his rage and grief, too tired to cry, the albino fell to his knees and collapsed on his son’s ruined form. With his last remaining strength, he clasped the corpse’s hand (still wet with blood), squeezed it tight and waited patiently for the end.

As for the murderers themselves — no policeman will ever track them down nor any court try them for their innumerable crimes.

After they disappeared, a half-hearted manhunt was arranged but nothing came of it and the matter was swiftly dropped. To be frank, I doubt if anyone wanted to find them.

To the best of my knowledge, the Prefects have appeared twice more since then, though I’ve no doubt that they figure in many other stories yet unknown to me — lurking at the corners of other narratives, some very old, some still to be told, some more strange perhaps even than this.

Twelve years ago, witnesses of an atrocity carried out under the auspices of the new Russian government claimed to have seen two men bizarrely dressed as English schoolboys take a leading role in the massacre. No one believed them, naturally, but those of us who were there beneath the Monument that day recognized at once the handiwork of Masters Hawker and Boon.

They have surfaced again more recently — some appalling bloodbath in New Zealand. I saw a newspaper story about the incident, illustrated by a blurred photograph taken at the aftermath of the scene. Most likely it was my imagination but I could have sworn that Hawker stood at the periphery of the frame. He was fuzzy and indistinct but it seemed to me as though he was grinning delightedly at his handiwork, at the destruction unraveling about him. Sadly, I am unable to verify this, as the paper was taken away from me before an hour had passed. They seem oddly strict here about reading matter.

It should go without saying that, despite all the years that had passed since the Battle of King William Street Station, the Hawker in the photograph looked not a day older. It was as though he had been frozen in time, unaging, like a fly trapped in amber.

Should you ever have the profound misfortune to encounter these creatures, I need hardly caution you to run (not walk) away from them, to block your ears so as not to hear their lies, to flee in giddy desperation for your life.

Not for me the picturesque death of Mr. Skimpole. I have been subjected to a far longer and, in a sense, more gruesome execution. There was talk at one time of my being hanged for treason (I believe Detective Inspector Merryweather was especially vociferous on the subject) but I was able to outwit my captors without a great deal of effort. After some faintly degrading play-acting on my part, they put me here, in a sanctuary where the supposed mental condition of its inhabitants places me beyond the reach of the state’s bloodier excesses.

Time is notoriously difficult to judge in a place like this, the passing of night and day almost impossible to mark save by the irregular rationing of food and drink. When I first arrived, they locked me up on my own for… how long? Days? Weeks? Even now I can’t be entirely certain.

It’s a testament to my tremendous resilience that I was able to endure such solitary incarceration without my mind cracking under the strain. As it was, I emerged from my confinement all the stronger, if, admittedly, rather lonely. I am a sociable creature and I found that I had missed the warmth of companionship and camaraderie, the sound of voices other than my own. Consequently, I was permitted — under strict conditions — to receive guests.

I confess I was surprised that he came to see me at all.