Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

THE HORSE-DRAWN COACH pulled up outside the row of dilapidated tenement buildings just after midnight. A lone driver sat high at the front of the carriage, holding his lantern tightly in his clammy hands, nervously scanning the streets around him for any sign of life. Wisps of warm breath trailed like spectres from his mouth into the bitter November wind.

'So this is Crawditch, eh? Can't say I'm thrilled about being here, Bishop,' he said anxiously. 'It's a bit of a hole, int' it?'

'Where else would you find a rat, Mr Melchin?' said the portly man inside the coach. He pulled a gold pocket-watch from within the folds of his dark-purple robes, and squinted in the half-light of the driver's lantern. 'Don't worry, I've no wish to remain in this godforsaken place for long myself,' he said, peering through the carriage's window into the ever-present smog.

Ever since the last days of the eighteenth century, steam and smoke had become the belt and braces of modern society. The masses of coal-burning furnaces and chimneys on the London skyline spewed their filth into the air relentlessly, birthing sulphur-dioxide smog that clung to the damp, cobbled streets like a milky shroud.

Across the street, a tall man dressed in a long mud-coloured coat and flat cap detached himself from the shadows of an alleyway and made his way over to the carriage. The fog spiralled and snapped at the edges of his coat as he strode resolutely through its formless blanket. Drawing a lungful of tobacco from a stub of a cigar perched on his bottom lip, this ghoul of a man rapped on the carriage door with bloodied knuckles.

'Rather off the beaten track aren't you, Bishop Courtney?' he asked, the vague light of the carriage's lantern illuminating the pale scar that tracked down the left side of his long, gaunt face.

'I am here on the Lord's business, Mr Reynolds, not by choice,' said the Bishop dryly, a thin grin spread across his corpulent face. 'I have need of a man of your talents. Surely you have heard of Queen Victoria's dictum? She wishes London to regain its rightful place as the jewel in her crown, and districts all over the capital are to be renovated.'

The tall man matched the Bishop's sly grin with one of his own. 'I'm well aware of Her Majesty's plans. She's been trying to evict the citizens of Crawditch for weeks now. Out with the old, and in with the new. So, what's that got to do with me?'

'She has tasked me personally to come here to Crawditch, and appeal to the residents' better nature, and I do not wish to have to explain to her that the rebirth of the British Empire has fallen foul of one insubordinate little district,' said the Bishop. 'I want to employ your skills to help rid this cesspool of all its inhabitants.'

Reynolds puffed his cheeks and pushed his flat cap back on his head. 'You're not serious, surely? Getting someone like me to do your dirty work? That's not very Christian thinking, Bishop.'

'The Lord works in mysterious ways,' said the Bishop, his face entertaining rare warmth. 'The Queen has set a very…challenging schedule, and even the Anglican Church must make questionable choices now and again. Tell me, Mr Reynolds, can this job be done?'

His pale face clouded in thick tobacco smoke, Reynolds shook his head emphatically. 'Not easily. Crawditch is held together by stronger stuff than just bricks and mortar, you know. You'd need something pretty drastic to make this lot leave,' he said, billowing twin plumes of smoke, dragon-like, from his nostrils. 'But if they could be scared away…make them go voluntarily, that might do the trick.'

'I admire the clarity of your vision, Mr Reynolds. If you were given free rein to do as you pleased, could you organise what needs to be done here?' the Bishop asked delicately, toying with the large ruby ring on his left index finger.

'I could,' said Reynolds, his throaty, gargling voice sounding like a bubbling stew-pot. 'But I'll need help. Blackstaff prison is a veritable market of men who would do your bidding for the right price. Have you got enough coinage and clout to get a man out of a place like that?'

'Mr Reynolds, you insult me,' said the Bishop flatly. 'Of course I do.'

'And Scotland Yard will keep their noses out of it, will they?'

'Am I not God's messenger, Mr Reynolds?' said the Bishop with slight disdain. 'If the Lord has no interest in what happens in Crawditch, why then should the Metropolitan Police? I will ensure they are kept restrained.'

'Then I guarantee you, by this time next week, any resident of Crawditch still left alive will be bombarding Parliament, begging to be re-housed,' said Reynolds. 'Crawditch will be yours for the taking. When do you want me to start?'

'Immediately! With the hint of war in the Crimean peninsula at the moment, the Queen has one eye on London and the other on events in the Black Sea. She is distracted, and now is the perfect time. Until we next speak, Mr Reynolds, you have my permission to recreate hell within Crawditch's streets,' Bishop Courtney said gruffly, and he pounded the silver-topped cane on the roof of the coach. 'Drive on, Melchin.'

The driver instantly cracked his whip, and the horse and carriage moved on, away from the grey, murky streets of Crawditch, and back into the enveloping darkness.

Reynolds watched the coach depart, a black-toothed smile crawling across his mouth. He had much to prepare. Murder was a complicated and serious business, but he was an expert. Removing another thin cheroot of a cigar from his jacket pocket, he forced it abruptly into his thin, lipless mouth. 'My dear Bishop, if you only knew what kind of hell I'm capable of creating…you might think twice before making a deal with the Devil.'

WITHIN FORTY-EIGHT hours of that shadowy meeting, the renowned and respected Dr Marvello's Travelling Circus had rolled into London in preparation for a forthcoming event in Hyde Park. It would take the better part of two long, weary days to transport equipment from the nearby Grosvenor Park train station, where the circus's steam train was housed, and the crew were working hard into the night to ensure the show would be ready in time. A large oval area of the park, the same site that had entertained the gleaming spectacle of the Crystal Palace just two years before, was the perfect stage. The engineers were busy constructing the skeletal structure of the Big Top, along with various other smaller encampments. Climbing down from the construction, two technicians strode over to a gangly Asian man wearing a coiled white turban. He was crouched with his arms through the bars of a large metal cage, tenderly stroking the ruff of a muscular tiger as if it were his grandmother's tabby cat.

'Oi, Kipo? Is Prometheus about?' one of the men asked.

Kipo clutched his thick overcoat tightly about his body, and shuffled around to face the men, his face a picture of displeasure. 'Mr Harry, Mr Bert, why must we come to this place? Spain was nice, I liked Spain. Spain was warm,' he said with a shiver. 'Even Rajah is grumpy in this place.'

The two men looked at each other and grinned.

'He's a bloody tiger, man, he's supposed to be grumpy,' said Bert, a scruffy man wearing blue overalls, and a large stripe of grease down his cheek.

'London in November gettin' to you then, Kipo?' said Bert's colleague Harry. 'Listen, me and Bert could do with a bit of muscle to shift some scaffolds. Have you seen Prometheus about anywhere?'

'I understand the strongman is visiting the nearby borough of Crawditch, and I shall wager he is far warmer than I,' said Kipo, and he shuffled away like a penguin, flapping his arms at his sides to keep warm. 'I am off to my bed to dream of Spain.'