Broken Meats: A Harry Stubbs Adventure (13 page)

“I don’t
understand.”

“Read me
the words here, by the dragon-tail symbol.”

I leaned
close, trying to make out the writing. At first it looked as if it was in a
foreign alphabet, but I gradually made out an old-fashioned script where the
letters flowed together.

“It’s not
proper words, “I said. “This one looks like—‘thro-dog’?”

A low tone,
deep as an organ pipe, sounded in the chamber, echoing and re-echoing as though
through many caverns farther below us. Then it arose again on a slightly
different note. Chun Hua let out a shriek as the face of the thing from the pit
appeared over the edge. Yang shot at him, and I believe he hit several times,
but the bullets had no more effect than a peashooter.

As the
monster pulled himself fully up to our level, I disengaged from Chun Hua’s
hold. The knuckle-duster was still on my left hand, and as he rose, I punched
the monster square in the face, sending him tumbling back into darkness.

I peered
down, trying to see through the gloom, and saw him rising up on the other side.
I could not fathom how he was climbing that sheer surface. I went round to
tackle him, but the monster had already achieved the stone floor and adopted a
fighting stance. When I closed, he threw a straight right at me, which I
dodged.

The thing
looked quite different now that D’Onston occupied the body. His face was a
grisly mask of cunning and malice. Howard had never boxed in his life, but D’Onston
held his guard like a decent amateur and knew how to use his reach. His blows
were inexpert but dangerous.

My right
hand was less useful without the weight and power of a knuckle-duster, making
me a one-armed fighter. He was one armed too, but his left elbow was not as
badly damaged as I'd expected—as though it was healing even as we fought.
His attacks were not frenzied but deliberate. After being confined to the
short, dumpy frame of Howard, D’Onston was revelling in the power and strength
of his regenerated body.

I was aware
of the booming from the pit, rumbling and rolling. Some corner of my mind
registered the fact that the sounds were resolving themselves into words. And
the rhythm of it… was the same as in the séance. But a thousand times stronger.

Movement
was my only means of survival, and I used the space as best I could to avoid
his blows while trying to maneuver him around. He followed me, pressing
closely. I tried a left hook, angling to knock him back into the pit. My blow
staggered him, but his counterpunch knocked me down.

D’Onston
ignored me and loped towards Yang—who, unable to read himself, held the
book up for Chun Hua. She was reading haltingly, following the words with a
finger. As D’Onston closed on them, Yang shouted out a string of words she had
deciphered.

Like a
sandcastle kicked over by a bully, or a snowball struck by a cricket bat, the
monster disintegrated into fine particles. There was nothing left but a cloud
of grey dust settling to the ground.
 
Those words had somehow unbound the atoms
that had been bound together by Palingenesis.

Dust to
dust: the mortal remains of Robert D’Onston Stephenson, falling like featherdown
from a burst pillow.

“Was he
just a bad dream?” Chun Hua asked me, looking wonderingly.

“A dead man
who dreamed he was alive,” said Yang. “Until we woke him.”

The booming
from the pit had faded into a single mournful note. Then, the drumming started
up again, quickly becoming louder. Whatever D’Onston had called on had passed
through some veil, and it was still rising from the deep.

“Come now,”
said Yang as I goggled at the cloud. He took the oil lamp in one hand and Chun
Hua by the other and hurried back to the corridor. I followed, the stone flags
cold under my one bare foot.

As soon as
we reached the surface, Yang instructed me to replace the manhole cover. I saw
that there was another light, flickering in many colours, which was blotted out
when I closed the lid. Even with the cover down, I could hear the bass voice
rumbling and feel the vibration through the ground. While I was staring at it,
Yang tugged my sleeve and ushered me outside with Chun Hua.

“What is
it?” I asked. “How can we stop it?”

Yang shook
his head. I recalled how the formless ectoplasm had reached for him, and for
some reason I thought of an earthquake of boiling mud.

As soon as
we were outside he placed his hands against the wall. “Heaven and Earth are
without limit.” Yang looked as though he was trying to push the wall over.

“Can I
help?”

“Please
stand back.”

It was a
physical impossibility to push a wall over. But that wasn't quite what he was
trying to do. It was more as if he was shaping the vibration that was coming up
from below, channelling it with tiny movements of his hands. There was no sign
of strain on his face; Yang was as serene as if he always leaned against walls
that way.

The sound
grew louder, a thrumming note that I felt all the way through my chest, like a
locomotive passing inches away.

They say a
singer can shatter a wine glass with a high-pitched note, though I’ve never
seen it done. Perhaps a similar effect occurred when, just for a moment, the
solid wall wobbled like cardboard under Yang’s hands, and the next second, the
vibration rippled through it, and the whole building tumbled like a house of
cards, collapsing in on itself with an oddly muted rumble. It was not an
explosion but an implosion. The building just seemed to decide not to want to
stand anymore and slumped into a compact heap with hardly any dust.

Then it was
quiet again. There was no sound from under the ground. Yang turned to see Chun
Hua and me gaping at him. He replaced his hat and flicked dust off his lapels.
A tabby cat rubbed round his ankles. Yang petted it distractedly, saying something
in Chinese.

I was
forced to consider my own appearance: torn jacket, buttons gone from my shirt
where I had scrambled out of the pit, face bloodied and bruised, one shoe
missing. I removed the knuckle-duster from my left hand and wiped my face with
a handkerchief.

“It is
inconvenient for the Si Fan for you, who know so much, still to be alive,” Yang
told me.

I was
looking down the barrel of his pistol. But I could tell now that this was
merely a formality, like the cups of tea poured by the Wu brothers.

“I will
report your death to my superiors,” he said, putting the weapon away. “Just as
you reported my death to the authorities.”

“That was
Reg Brown who identified the body for the police,” I said. “Wrongly. Who was the
it—the man I rescued you from?”

“He pierced
me with two
chuan
; I returned them to
him. The Si Fan are not attacked with impunity.”

“And you
gave him your suit and your papers so D’Onston would think you were dead. Then
you used me to lure out D’Onston so you could get a shot at him.”

“Indeed,”
he said.

“But you did
save my life.”

“No doubt
you would have survived without my assistance,” he said smoothly. “I apologise
for interfering.
 
However—if
we do meet again, I warn you that it may be necessary to kill you.”

“Oh,” I
said.

“Now, as
you have been of such assistance, I will answer one of your questions.”

I did not
know what question to ask; there were so many. But Yang had already decided.

“Make your
fist like this.”

I followed
his direction, holding my fist at waist level, thumb outwards.

“Strike
like this.” Yang extended his arm, exhaling and rotating his fist as he did so.
I copied the action, repeating it several times under his direction. “Focus
your energy. Concentrate on the fist.”

It was an
unfamiliar move, quite unlike the Western style but not altogether strange.
There was something natural about it, as if my muscles were already tuned to
it. It was like going back to a movement that I had known as a child but had
forgotten.

“You must
never share this knowledge with anyone,” said Yang. “But if you practice one
thousand times a day, one day you may break stones. Yes. Now, do it three times
more, exactly like that.”

I repeated
the move as directed, wondering at now easy it felt. When I looked up again,
Yang had disappeared.

“Can I go
home now?” asked Chun Hua.

I walked
half a mile with her, discarding my one shoe at an early stage. Walking on the
pavement in stockinged feet is not a pleasant experience. She was exhausted. I had
to carry her the next mile until we reached Brixton Hill, where I was able to
flag down a cab. I had not formulated an explanation as to why I was
accompanying a small Chinese girl, and the driver looked doubtful about taking
us at first, but then his face lit up.

“Here—ain’t
you Harry Stubbs, the boxer?”

“As a
matter of fact, I am.”

“Well, I
never! Hop in, Harry. I saw you fight Davy Berg at the Winter Gardens three
years back.”

The cabbie
was a keen follower of the sport. He was less interested in why I was escorting
Chun Hua than in reliving my contest against Davy Berg and why I let him get up
in the third round, and soliciting my views on the current state of the fight
game with particular reference to Frank Goddard’s prospects for holding on to
the title. Another man might have thought of contacting the National Society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children; the cabbie was more interested in
what I thought of the colour bar and whether rumours of my return to the game
were well founded.

The cabbie
was well-informed, firing off questions and opinions at a rapid pace. I worked
hard to keep up while Chun Hua dozed next to me.

There was
light at the windows of the Wu house, and the door opened as soon as the cab
drew up. Most of the family spilled out onto the street to greet us. Yang must
have apprised them of their daughter’s rescue. I remained just long enough to
see Chun Hua reunited with her tearful mother. Her father wanted to get on his
knees in front of me, but I was having none of it. I stepped back into the cab
and ordered the driver back to Norwood. The return of their daughter was more
important to the Wu family than anything else.
 
And it had been a long day.

When I
finally reached home and escaped the friendly interrogation of my driver, a little
ditty was going round my head. It was the final verse of Kipling’s famous poem
about East and West not meeting—the lines that Reg never got to:

“But
there’s neither East nor West

Nor border,
breed nor birth

When two
strong men meet face to face

Though they
come from the ends of the Earth.”

Epilogue: Breakfast at the Electric Cafe

Not long after these events, I was having breakfast at the Electric
Café with Arthur at his special invitation. I had already given him a
brief summary of the foregoing events, but now he was between consignments and wanted
to hear the whole thing from start to finish.

He listened
to my account without demur, methodically working his way through a Full
English, cutting up his bacon, sausage, egg, tomato and mushroom into small
pieces, hardly stopping me to ask a question. Listening to myself telling it, I
was more incredulous than he was. It sounded in my ears like a mishmash of
Frankenstein’s monster, Count Dracula, and Jekyll and Hyde. Arthur took it all
in with no appearance of concern.

“And that explains
your casual appearance, Stubbsy,” he said at the end, as though that was the
mystery he wanted solving. He was referring to my old jacket, and the cap I was
wearing in place of my missing bowler.

“My
wardrobe is undergoing renewal.” I had refused payment from Chun Hua’s family,
but a round little Chinese tailor had turned up at my lodgings a day later. He
insisted on measuring me up for a list of missing or damaged items, namely “one
gentleman’s suit, one pair shoes, one bowler hat.” The tailor was a cheerful,
busy man who laughed at his difficulty in reaching around my chest and assured
me that he would make me a suit in the latest style, soliciting my views on
whether double-breasted would be best for my build.

“I will
return for fitting next week,” he beamed as he finished. “Also, I will include three
first-class gentlemen’s shirts and three ties to go with suit.
 
Necessary to have with a good suit.”

“Thank you.
Pass my thanks on to the Wu brothers.”

“No, no,
no!” he said, still smiling. “Not from any of the Mr Wu. This suit is
complimentary on the special orders of Mr Henry Yang.” He spoke the name
reverently.

I had only
ever worn ready-made suits, which were never quite a satisfactory fit on my
physique. I would have been doubtful of a Chinese tailor before, but as this
man had Yang’s seal of approval, I looked forward to being the best-dressed man
in Norwood.

Henry
Yang, the tailor had called him. I
never knew his name was the same as mine. I don’t know why he never mentioned
it.

“What you
need to do now is to write the whole thing down from beginning to end,” Arthur
was saying. “Just as you’ve told me, minus a few incriminating details. Once
you’ve got it all straight, make a fair copy in your best office handwriting.”

“But I’ve already
told you everything.”

“I know you
have. And a few others have told me a few things. Like who dug up Bill McCann’s
grave and what other grave they dug up a week later. Also, I can tell you that
there’s nothing under that workshop that collapsed—I had a couple of lads
try it with pickaxes. Solid all the way down, and no sign of a manhole anywhere.”

“I was
there,” I protested.

Arthur shrugged,
and hinted that I might have been hypnotised by Yang or D’Onston or both of
them, and that the power of the human mind to deceive was a wonder. Well, my
bruises and torn suit were real enough.

“Nevertheless,
you need to write your version down just as you remember it. It’s for a
gentleman who’s very interested in this case. I’m telling you, Stubbsy, it will
be to your advantage.”

“Who is he?
How does he know about it?”

“I can’t
give you a name,” Arthur chided. “As to how he knows… it’s ripples. Every
action makes ripples on the pond, as our honourable friend from the mysterious
East would say. Like in the fight game. Once a bloke wins a couple, word gets
out and the fancy takes notice. Trust me, write it down.”

Of course,
I trust Arthur. Now, I have finished writing it all down, but the results are
hardly satisfactory. I have tried to keep fact and fiction separate, though
Yang might laugh at me for the attempt. I doubt how well I have succeeded; some
passages leap out as dreams or hallucinations. Though perhaps hypnosis is
easier to contemplate than the alternative—that such things are really
possible, and the dead walk, people like D’Onston wield genuine powers, and
ungodly things inhabit spaces beyond our reach.

If I knew I
was going to write fiction, I could at least have written myself wiser. And
wittier. I could have made myself less of a blundering oaf and more of a sharp
thinker who had figured it all out from the start. I could have written myself
handsome. I could have at least chopped the truth a little less close to the
bone and not have my bacon being saved by a six-year-old girl who reads better
than me.

I do at
least understand a little more how fact and fiction work together. It’s like a
steak and kidney pudding: without steak, there’s no substance; without kidney,
there’s no savour. You need the proper mixture. Pure fact is too indigestible
without the imaginative part that fills in the spaces between. That’s the only
way to make a satisfying pudding.

But I have
also begun to apprehend the dangerous power of writing. Howard died because he
read Roslyn D’Onston’s work and was sucked into it. Powell, too, was probably a
normal enough man until he started reading detective stories and was overcome
with a mania for solving the Ripper case. If Victor had taken to horticulture
instead of reading Theosophy books, he would never have been harmed.

Roslyn
D’Onston himself only wanted to be a magician because he read Bulwer-Lytton
when he was a boy. Otherwise, maybe he’d have stuck with being a Customs
officer and would never have dreamed of re-animation and human sacrifice and
the rest of it.

While I am
at it, maybe I should add Harry Stubbs to that list of unfortunates whose lives
were derailed by reading too much of the wrong stuff. I don’t see myself any
closer to a decent clerical position now than I was before. Everyone knows I
was in some sort of punch-up; they assume it was some business of Arthur’s. It
won’t help my reputation.

At any rate,
it’s too late to change the story now. I told Arthur yesterday that it was
nearly finished.

“Well done
Stubbsy,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “He’ll be very glad to read it.”

“I still
wish I knew who ‘he’ was and why he wants to reads it.”

Arthur
smiled knowingly.

“Think of
it,” he said, “as a job application.”