K Jeter - Infernal Devices

In the shop, I discovered Creff in furious remonstrance with the villainous Scape. Both had grasp of the kitchen broom between them; Scape resisted my assistant's efforts to push him, and his companion Miss McThane, back out the door.

"Call this sonuvabitch off," cried Scape, catching sight of me at the doorway behind the counter. He wrested the broom away from his opponent and threw it into a corner.

Creff assumed a pugilist's stance, with first circling in front of his face. "They forced their way in, sir," he shouted to me. "Knocked, they did, and before I could recognize the brigands, they was in." He took an easily dodged poke at Scape.

"I'll handle this," I said, interposing myself between them. I drew myself up to full height and directed a stern expression at the other's blue spectacles. "Quit these premises," I ordered. "Immediately; you have nothing of interest to relate to me."

Scape finished straightening his greatcoat, disarrayed by the exertions of his brief combat. A thin smile broke in his angular visage. "Think so, huh? Well, maybe you better think again, fella. Ol' Bendray asked us to come round and… renew his invitation to you. He wanted to make sure you knew just how much he'd like you to come on out to his place."

My voice went colder: "You may tell your employer that I have no desire to accept his hospitality. Not at this time, nor, I doubt, at any point in the future. Convey my regrets however you wish; I would rather return to gaol than set eyes on any of you lot again."

"Really?" Scape's tongue distorted his cheek as he gazed at me. "Maybe we could make the invitation seem more interesting to you… you never know…"

A hand lightly touched my shoulder; I turned and saw Miss McThane, eyes half-lidded, smiling at me. "It'd be really nice if you came," she said. "There's a lot just you and I could talk about-"

I pulled away. "Please remove yourselves; both of you. My mind is completely resolute on the matter. You are wasting your time – nothing will alter my decision."

"Maybe; maybe not." Scape stepped over to the window and flung the shutter open. "How about this for starters?"

Massed torch-flames at the end of the street cast a lurid, flickering glow over my face, as I stepped close to the glass and gaped out at the scene. A mob of people were shouting encouragement to the speaker who addressed them from atop an overturned crate. To my horror, I saw an effigy stuffed with straw, swaying over their heads. It was no Guy Fawkes at the end of the rope; a crudely lettered sign around the figure's neck spelled out DOWER THE JACK.

I staggered back from the window, but not before recognising the upraised speaker as Mrs Trabble. "My God," I said hoarsely. "She's… she's gone and-" I broke off, unable to contemplate with what infamies she could be regaling the riotous assemblage.

Scape surveyed the mob with a calmly critical eye. "Lot more of 'em now," he noted. "Look like a fun-loving bunch, too." He turned towards me. "It's probably nothing against you personally – just an excuse to drink a bit… and bash somebody up a bit… and stuff like that, you know…"

The distant torches waved higher; I could hear some sort of chant beginning. "I've got to flee from here-"

Scape's arms spread wide. "Hey – that's what I was just saying, man. A country vacation; what could be nicer than that? Especially when you got a whole bunch of people who want to kick your ass right outside your front door. You can just cool out at Bendray's place, you know, wait for things to die down back here… this bunch'll forget about you after a while. And if you and Bendray find something, um… interesting to talk about while you're there – hey, that's a bonus." His smile returned as he stroked the point of his chin with one long finger. "So what do you say? Hm?"

The formidable Mrs Trabble, having been the latest terror to appear in my life, perhaps outweighed all other considerations. My resolutions regarding Scape and Bendray, and the entire insane carnival they represented, were washed away in the sudden flood of panic engendered by the sight of the mob being whipped up outside. I turned and shouted towards the rear of the shop: "Creff! Quickly – my trunk…"

"Screw your luggage, man." Scape shook his head in disgust as he addressed his companion. "Can you believe this turkey's just about to get stomped into the pavement, and he's worried about having enough clean socks."

"Pardon, sir… I took the liberty…" A travelling case, with the sleeves of several of my shirts dangling from under its lid, came bumping down the stairs after Creff. Evidently, his encounter with Mrs Trabble had likewise impressed him, and spurred him to appropriate action. I saw that he had put on his much-patched coat, his cap crammed into its pocket.

"Of course, my assistant comes with us," I said to Scape. "We couldn't leave him here – to their mercies-"

"Yeah, yeah, sure." Scape was growing visibly agitated, perhaps by the increasingly louder shouts of the mob. "Bendray's rich, he's got a big place, no problem. Just come on, will ya?"

"And Abel!" cried Creff. "Him too!"

"Who?" This sudden interjection baffled me.

"Abel, sir! The dog! Who'll look after him?"

I looked down at my feet and saw the liquid, trusting eyes of the animal that had once been the wretched Fexton's, and was now apparently mine. It gazed up at me, waiting patiently for its fate to be pronounced. The realisation struck me – of course! – that Creff had taken my introductory explanation of the dog's nature – a bell-dog – as its name: Abel Dog. As good as any, I supposed.

"For Christ's sake!" shouted Scape. "Are you going to just stand there, looking at that stupid mutt? Bring the friggin' dog along – what do I care? But let's get this show on the road, okay?"

Miss McThane gave me a forceful shove in the small of my back. "Out the other way – the carriage is in the alley. Move it, move it."

"One more thing-" Scape grabbed my arm. "You got something ol' Bendray's real interested in. And we know it's here. Get it," he ordered. "Quick."

The commotion from the crowd had grown both louder and higher-pitched. I shook off the befuddlement with which the rapid course of events had seized my thoughts. The device that the Brown Leather Man had lodged with me – that was the item of which he spoke; no doubt it had been Lord Bendray who had commissioned their unsuccessful attempt to steal it from these premises. So he desired it still and the promise of sanctuary was dependent upon my furnishing it to him. Without hesitation, I ran down the hallway to the workroom and came staggering back with the weighty mahogany cabinet in my arms.

In a matter of moments, my trunk was lodged on top of the carriage with Creff and the driver – one of Bendray's men, I assumed – and the balance of the party was safely installed inside. My father's creation, the source of so much skulduggery, lay on the carriage's floor between us.

Abel, as he was newly christened, scrambled up into my lap as the carriage, its brace of horses whipped into flight, shot from the alley. He barked furiously out the side window at the sight of Mrs Trabble's mob moving from its point of assembly towards my now-empty shop, their torches waving in gleeful anticipation. The shrill whistles of the constabulary, summoning others of their number to the scene, echoed through the surrounding lanes.

Such was to be my last sight and memory of that small haven, once so peaceful and undisturbed, for many a day to come. The carriage clattered on towards the dark boundaries of the city, and beyond.

Long periods of travel induce a somnolence that neither refreshes the body nor soothes the mind. Whether one is enduring the nauseating roll of a ship caught between the crests and troughs of the ocean, or having one's spine jerked by the lurching crash of a carriage's wheels in the ruts and holes of England's roads, the effect is the same. One cannot sleep; dismal vistas pass by one's gaze, in day or night; one swallows over and over again the sour, nagging protest of one's digestion, rising constantly into the throat; comfort there is none, nor peace sufficient to order and reconnect the thoughts shaken against each other like the fragments of a crumbled mosaic.