Brian Aldiss - The Monster Trilogy

The ginger man was alert to all these lost creatures of the shadows, eyeing them with interest as he passed. A thin young woman in an old bonnet came forth from a stairway and said something to him. He tilted her head to the light to study her face. She was no more than fourteen.

‘Where are you from, child?’

‘Chiswick, sir. Have a feel, sir, for a penny, bless you, just a feel.’

He laughed, contemptuous of the pleasure offered. Nevertheless, he retreated with her into the shadow of the stairs with only a brief backward look. Ignoring the two children who crouched wordless on the lower steps, the girl hitched up her dress and let him get one hand firm behind her back while with the other he rifled her, feeling powerfully into her body.

‘You like it, sir? Sixpence a quick knee-trembler?’

‘Pah, get back to Chiswick with you, child.’

‘My little brothers, sir – they’re half dead of starvation.’

‘And you’ve the pox.’ He wiped his fingers on her dress, thrust a sixpenny piece into her hand, and marched off, head down in case he was recognized.

Newsboys were shouting. ‘ Standard . Three Day Massacre. Read all abart it.’ The ginger man pressed on, taking large strides. He shook off a transvestite who accosted him outside a penny gaff.

Only when he turned off down Glasshouse Street did he pause again, outside the Alhambra music hall, from which sounds of revelry issued. Here several better dressed whores stood, chatting together. They broke off when they saw a toff coming, to assume a businesslike pleasantness.

One of them, recognizing the ginger man, came up and took his arm familiarly. Her face was thickly painted, as if for the stage.

‘Ooh, where are you off to so fast, this early? Haven’t seen you for ages.’ She fluttered her eyelashes and breathed cachou at him.

This was a fleshy woman in her late twenties – no frail thing like the girl Stoker had felt earlier. She was confident and brazen, with large breasts, and tall for a street walker. Her clothes, though cheap, were colourful, and bright earrings hung from the fleshy folds of her ears. She faced him head on, grinning impudently, aware with a whore’s instinct that she looked common and that he liked it that way.

‘What have you been up to, Violet? Behaving yourself?’

‘ Course . You know me. I’m set up better now. Got myself a billet round the corner. How about a bit? What you say? We could send out for a plate of mutton or summat.’

‘Are you having your period?’ His voice was low and urgent.

She looked at him and winked. ‘I ain’t forgotten you likes the sight of blood. Come on, you’re in luck. It’s a quid, mind you.’

He pressed up against her. ‘You’re a mercenary bitch, Violet, that you are,’ he said jocularly, allowing the lilt of brogue into his speech. ‘And here’s me thinking you loved me.’

As she led him down the nearest back street, she said, saucily, ‘I’ll love what you got, guv.’ She slid a hand over the front of his trousers.

He knew she would perform better for the promise of a plate of mutton. London whores were always hungry. Hungry or not, he’d have her first. The beef first, then the mutton.

‘Hurry,’ he said, snappishly. ‘Where’s this bleeding billet of yours?’

The knocker was a heavy iron affair with a fox head on it. It descended thunderously on the back door.

‘Eighteen ninety-six,’ said Bodenland aloud, to keep his spirits up. ‘Queen Victoria on the throne … I’m in a dream. Well now – food and rest with any luck, and then it’s back to poor Mina. Can’t even phone her from here.’ He laughed at the thought.

The house loomed over him, unwelcoming at close quarters to a stranger’s approach.

In the sturdy door was set a panel of bull’s eye glass. He became aware that someone was studying him through it. Despite the gathering dusk, he saw it was a woman. Came the sound of bolts being drawn back. A lighted candle appeared, with a hand holding the candlestick and, somewhere above it, a plump and unfriendly woman’s face.

‘Who are you, pray?’ He was surprised to see that as she spoke she held a small crucifix in front of her. Giving her a guarded explanation, he asked for Mr Stoker and inquired if it would be possible to beg a night’s lodging.

‘Where are you from? Who’s that you have with you?’

‘Madam, I am from the United States of America. This is a criminal in my charge. I hope to return him to the USA. Perhaps we might lock him in one of your outhouses for the night.’

‘You actors – all the same! You will not learn to leave poor Mr Stoker alone. He’s not well. He has the doctor to him. Still, I know he would not turn you away. He has a kind heart, like all Irish people. Come in.’

They entered the rear hall, going through into a scullery which contained a large stone sink and a pump with a long curving iron handle. A maid in a mob cap was inefficiently stringing flowers up at the window. The woman, evidently Mrs Stoker, ordered her to get the key to the tool shed.

A male servant was summoned. He and the maid accompanied Bodenland out to a tool shed standing at the end of the terrace to the rear of the house. The male servant had lit a storm lantern. It was already very dark.

The driver was whimpering, and refused food and drink.

‘I shall be gone from here by morning,’ he said. ‘And you’ll have departed from human life.’

‘Sleep well,’ Bodenland said, and slammed the door.

When the back door was closed and the bolts drawn across, the little raw-handed maid picked up her flowers again.

‘What are you doing?’ Bodenland asked curiously.

‘It’s the garlic, sir. Against the critters of the night.’

‘Is that an English custom?’

‘It’s Mr Stoker’s custom, sir. You can ask the cook, Maria.’

Mrs Stoker returned. She was a solid middle-aged lady, impressively dressed in a gown of grey taffeta which reached to the floor. She had over it a small white frilled apron, which she now removed. Her hair was brown, streaked with grey, neatly parcelled into a bun at the back of her head. She was now smiling, all defensiveness gone from her manner.

‘You’ll have to excuse me, Mr Borderland.’

‘It’s Bodenland, ma’am. Originally of German extraction. German and English on my mother’s side.’

‘Mr Bodenland, pardon my hesitation in letting you in. Life is a little difficult at present. Do please come through and meet my husband. We should be happy if you would consent to stay overnight.’

As he uttered his thanks, she led him along a corridor to the front of the house. In a low voice she said, ‘My poor Bram works so hard for Mr Henry Irving – he’s his stage manager, you know, and much else besides. At present he’s also writing a novel, which seems to depress his health. Not a happy subject. I’m not at all sure gloomy novels should be encouraged. My dear father would never allow us girls – I have four sisters, sir – to read novels, except for those of Mrs Craik. Poor Bram is quite low, and believes strange forces beseige the house.’

‘How unfortunate.’

‘Indeed. Happily, I inherited my father’s strong nerves, bless him. He was a hero of the Crimea, don’t you know.’

She showed Bodenland into a large drawing room. His first impression was of a room in a museum, greatly over-furnished with pictures – mainly of a theatrical nature – on the walls, plants in pots on precarious stands, ornate mahogany furniture, antimacassars on over-stuffed chair-backs, books in rows, and heavy drapes at windows. Numerous trophies lay about on side tables. It seemed impossible to find a way through to a thick-set man busy adjusting garlic flowers over the far window.