James Blaylock - The Aylesford Skull

Last time, under London Bridge, there had been darkness, a ray of moonlight to see by. He had heard the Crumpet coming for him and was ready, a cold, black anger commanding his mind, drowning the fear. Afterward, when he was running, he knew what had happened only by the blood on his hand and clothing and the sharp intake of breath in the instant that the Crumpet had clutched his stomach and fallen. Finn had left the vision behind him when he left London for Kent, and the thought of poisoning his life and his dreams again sickened him. Even so, he had now become Eddie’s keeper, to use the old phrase, and there was no turning your own cheek when it was your neighbor who was struck, or so his mother had taught him. If it was in him to do it, he would send the Crumpet to Hell.

They soon arrived at a door set into the wall of the tunnel, the chalk cut out to admit a timber frame and a long, heavy lintel overhead. The door stood open an inch, showing a line of light. The Crumpet pushed it open and gestured Finn and Eddie through, into the basement of Narbondo’s cottage, the Crumpet standing behind him, the Crumpet’s hand clamped onto Finn’s arm. Narbondo stood before the wall full of surgical tools, regarding Finn curiously as soon as he appeared, and then smiling when he looked at Eddie. His two guests – Lord Moorgate and the woman, she wearing her veil again – stood nearby, Moorgate looking imperious, but the woman a mere mystery behind the veil.

“What of George?” Narbondo asked the dwarf.

“Don’t you worry about George…” the dwarf started to say, holding up the bloody knife.

“Dead,” the Crumpet said, “or as good as. McFee’s seeing to him.”

Narbondo shook his head. “Terrible shame,” he said. “The man showed such promise, but he had a sentimental streak that he couldn’t hide. Strap young Edward to the table, Sneed,” he said to the dwarf, who slipped his knife into a scabbard attached to his ankle. “We’ll catch his shrieks in Lord Moorgate’s silk topper.”

Finn looked around, calculating but seeing nothing – no way out, but aware in his mind of the sand flowing through the hourglass. There lay the door, fifteen feet away, and sunlight through the bars of the window, the wood beyond. But the door was shut, the window barred. Sneed hauled Eddie to the block, terror in the boy’s eyes, and lifted him bodily, heaving him atop it. Finn heard Eddie speaking now, in a voice that was unnaturally normal. “Finn,” he said, very low at first. And then louder: “Finn!”

“I’m here, Eddie,” he said, hearing the uselessness in his words. “Your father’s coming, Eddie, along with the others. Hold on!” Finn’s mind was sharpened by his hatred of the evil in this room, by the things that had been done here, that had left their poison in the stones of the floor. No one was coming. It was just him and Eddie.

He felt the Crumpet’s grip relax, and heard a high, barely discernible liquid mumbling coming from the man’s mouth, which was near Finn’s ear – strange endearments, pet names, a soft trilling sound that was an abomination. The Crumpet was standing very close behind, his hot breath on Finn’s neck, and Finn felt saliva drip under his shirt collar. Once again he considered the knife in his pocket, wishing now that it had a longer blade. Eddie was incapable of helping himself. The boy could have no idea what fate awaited him, which was a small comfort, at least for the moment.

The room fell silent, aside from the Crumpet’s loathsome mewling. Sneed let Eddie lie atop the table, turning to the implements on the wall. He stepped up onto one of the wooden chairs and fetched down two of the leather-covered chains, dumping them onto the ground before climbing down again, then bending over to pick one of them up, which he carried around to the other side of the block. Finn looked at his own open palm, at the coal-blackened line that crossed it.

Clenching his fist, he twisted suddenly and drove his elbow hard into the Crumpet’s stomach, then slammed the heel of his shoe down onto his toe, wishing he’d worn boots. The Crumpet reeled back a step, a vicious and surprised look on his face now, still clutching the fabric of Finn’s coat.

“Run!” Finn yelled hopefully, into the Crumpet’s face. “Run, Eddie!” And before the Crumpet could react, Finn leaned forward and spat into his eye. The Crumpet’s face contorted with surprise, and Finn lurched forward and jammed a thumb into his other eye, twisting and pressing it in, then yanking it out, slick with a bloody slime now, the Crumpet shrieking and releasing Finn’s coat.

Finn whirled and ran just as Eddie rolled off the table, falling onto the floor and scrambling away, Sneed throwing himself across the table in an effort to grab him.

“The door!” Finn shouted, ducking past Lord Moorgate’s stodgy effort to grab him. Eddie, not witless at all, but apparently keen on escape, leapt to the door and reached for the latch, but the woman in the veil was a step behind him, bolder than Moorgate, and Sneed right behind her.

The way was barred.

Finn snatched up a leather-covered chain now, some four feet in length, and swung it around his head, advancing on Narbondo, who had backed against the wall and was watching with amusement, but whose demeanor changed at the sight of Finn and the whirring chain. Narbondo was canny, and at once plucked up one of the wooden chairs, holding it in front of him with one hand, and reaching into his coat with the other, where his pistol no doubt lay. Finn spun away, angling to his right, rushing forward, and slinging the chain hard at the Crumpet’s neck, holding tightly to the end as it frapped itself tight and fast. Finn yanked hard on it, the Crumpet pitching forward, his mouth open wide, his hands tearing at the chain. Finn rushed in and levered his foot against the Crumpet’s back, wrenching on the chain, drawing hard on it, the Crumpet gagging.

“He’s a dead man!” Finn shouted, but even as he did, he could see that it wouldn’t do. The amusement had come back into Narbondo’s face, and although his hand was still in his coat, he had set the chair down again. No one appeared to care greatly if the Crumpet lived or died, least of all Narbondo. The woman grasped Eddie tightly by the hair. Lord Moorgate held a pistol now, Sneed a knife. The Crumpet, coming to his senses, reached out and grasped Finn by the ankle, tripping him. Finn let go of the chain, and the Crumpet rolled clear. He struggled to stand, sucking air into his lungs, his left eye jammed shut, blood flowing down his cheek. He stared at Finn with a dead look in his good eye, something far beyond mere anger. His breath rasped in and out, and there were the marks of the chain on his neck, pressed right through the leather.

“Crumpet, when you’re quite finished with your paroxysms,” Narbondo said, “we’ll continue. You’ll be so kind as to wait your turn. It will come, I assure you.”

There was a noise, then – the tunnel door rasping open across the ragstone floor, and into the room stepped a tall, gaunt man. His damp clothing was smeared with chalk, and his hair stood straight up on his head. His mouth was working, as if he were chewing something, and he looked from one to the other of them, one eye asquint, everyone in the room startled into surprised immobility, except for Narbondo, who bowed at the waist and swept his hand out.

“My old friend Bill Kraken!” Narbondo said. “I rather thought you’d pay us a visit. You’re an acquaintance of my dear mother, I believe, and so you won’t be surprised at my having anticipated you. She sent to tell us you were coming. I owe you a small debt, I believe, from our last meeting in Aylesford, which I intend to repay with interest. Come, join our little jollification.”