Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

“Does she have a name?”

“Mina,” the woman purred. “You’ll like her.”

“And Lucy? Mary? Where are they tonight?”

“They’re with other clients at present. Why don’t you meet our Mina, Mr. Gray? I promise you shan’t be disappointed.”

Moon winced inwardly as Mrs. Puggsley used his pseudonym again. He was certain she had realized long ago that it was an assumed name, and in his darkest moments feared even that she had stumbled upon his true identity. He wondered occasionally if she used “Gray” to tease and taunt him, as a way of telling him she knew.

He nodded. “Show her in.”

Puggsley gave an oleaginous bow. “Settle back, Mr. Gray. Relax. See your darkest dreams come to life before your eyes.”

Six soft taps came at the front door, the same code Mr. Moon had used moments earlier.

“Excuse me.” Puggsley waddled across the room, peered through a small hole bored at eye height and let out a wet, gurgling giggle. “It’s Pluck.”

She unbolted the door and admitted her latest customer, a short, balding, well-fed man with painfully pockmarked skin. The madam spread wide her arms in a florid gesture of introduction. “Mr. Gray? Meet Mr. Pluck.”

Warily, the two men shook hands. Pluck’s handshake was moist and feeble and Moon was barely able to resist the impulse to wipe away the stranger’s dampness from his palm.

“Charmed,” he said acidly.

“Gentlemen, talk amongst yourselves. I’ll be back shortly with a little slice of paradise.” With a final bow and a chubby flourish, Mrs. Puggsley disappeared from the parlor and vanished into the bowels of the house. Pluck pulled up a chair.

“I love it here,” he confided. “Come whenever I can. Whenever I can afford to, you understand. You know, before I discovered this place I thought nobody on earth felt the same way as me, I thought I must be ill. You understand, Mr. Gray? I thought I was a freak.”

“Quite so,” Moon said vaguely.

“Course, I knew you’d understand. We’ve prolly got a lot in common. This hobby of ours, for one. Tell me — when did you realize that you shared our… inclinations?”

Moon, having no desire to dignify the man’s question with an answer, took a cigarette from his pocket and lit up. For courtesy’s sake he offered his neighbor the same. Happily, Pluck accepted, and for a few moments there was just smoke and blissful silence.

“I hear there’s a new girl,” Pluck said between puffs. “Any idea what she’ll be like?”

“None.”

“Seems we’re about to find out.” Pluck managed a rough approximation of a light laugh — an awful, anxious, scraping sound.

Mercifully, Mrs. Puggsley returned at that moment, rolling back into the room with her usual mastodon grace. In her wake was a most unusual woman who nonetheless, at first sight, appeared wholly unremarkable. She was fetching enough (one would expect nothing less from the Puggsley stable) with a pleasingly symmetrical face and a smooth, attractively dimpled complexion. She was dressed in a filmy white gown tied at the waist by a slender piece of cord, clasped tight enough to accentuate her natural curves. But what marked her out from the legions of similarly pretty but unassuming women one passes every day on the street was that she also sported a monstrously bushy black beard.

“Is it real?” Pluck asked, his voice hushed and reverential.

Mrs. Puggsley was scandalized. “Mr. Pluck! What do you take me for?”

“May I touch it?”

Puggsley turned to the girl. “Mina?”

She nodded and simpered with practiced coyness. Pluck reached out to her facial hair and stroked, eyes half-shut, transported in bliss. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. Mina gave a smoothly professional smile which suggested she was well used to this kind of compliment.

Moon yawned. “Anything else?”

“You always want more, don’t you, Mr. Gray?”

“I pay you for it.”

Puggsley ushered Pluck back to his seat, then untied the cord around Mina’s waist, gently slipping away her gown to leave the girl naked before them. Her body had a ripe, plump sensuality but was not in itself remarkable.

Dangling between her breasts, however, was something extraordinary — a curious deformity, a grossly pink piece of flesh which bore a ghastly, visceral resemblance to the severed arm of an infant. It flopped and twitched slightly as they stared, almost as if it were aware of their fascinated attention.

Moon licked his lips. “Magnificent.”

“Gentlemen.” Puggsley beamed with pride. “She’s yours for the asking.”

Moon and Pluck smiled wolfishly as one.

“What am I bid?”

Pluck named a sum most likely equal to his wages for a week. Without hesitation, Moon doubled it. Pluck suggested a modest advance, only for his opponent to instantly double the offer again. Crestfallen, the little man admitted defeat. “She’s yours.”

“Use her well,” Mrs. Puggsley said sternly.

“I’ll use her as I please.” Moon took Mina by the hand and led her from the room, heading for a boudoir on one of the upper floors of the house. As he left he could hear Puggsley doing her best to cheer up the loser.

“Bad luck, sir. But I’ve plenty more as would love to meet you. The seal girl will be free in an hour. The pinhead’s ready now. And if you’re happy to wait a bit, we’ve got a new Siamese coming in later.”

Edward Moon disappeared upstairs and heard no more. And for the next three luxurious hours he gave himself up to the caresses of a bearded lady.

Moon stepped out of Mrs. Puggsley’s house, gingerly pulled shut the front door and looked cautiously about him. Mistakenly thinking himself unobserved, he waked to the end of the alley and turned left into Goodge Street, starting for home. The pavement was deserted, eerily silent, and his footsteps rang out loudly as he walked, but he had gone no more than a few yards before the still of the night was interrupted by a discreet, dry cough. Moon turned to see a man standing close behind him.

He was neat and small and fussy in appearance, with a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez balanced precisely on the tip of his nose. His complexion was chalky and unusually pallid; his hair pure white.

A look of grim recognition crossed Moon’s face and he nodded with icy politeness. “Mr. Skimpole.”

The albino gave a curious bow. Despite his faintly comical appearance there was something threatening about him, a tangible air of menace.

“I didn’t see you,” Moon explained.

“People rarely do.”

“And how long have you been following me?”

Skimpole brushed the question aside. “Give my regards to Mrs. Puggsley.”

“What do you want?”

The albino stared impassively at him, the lower halves of his eyes magnified weirdly by the pince-nez. “I need your help.”

Moon snorted in reply and began to walk away.

Skimpole hurried after him. “Wait.”

“I’ve refused before. My answer has not changed.”

“There is a plot against the city. Some conspiracy has been set in motion. The Directorate needs you. Your country needs you.”

“Find another stooge.”

“Something’s happening. Can’t you sense it? Some great crisis is upon us.”

Moon stopped dead in the street and turned to face his tormentor. “Must be your imagination, Mr. Skimpole. Too much cheese before bedtime.”

“I could make you…” Skimpole spoke lightly. “ Mr. Gray .”

Moon said nothing.

Skimpole’s pale face contorted itself into a semblance of a smile. “You’ll help me.”

Moon smiled back with excruciating civility. “Even I have some scruples. You’ll have to put a gun to my head before I’ll help you.”