Darkside (11 page)

 

 

C
arnegie and Jonathan walked down Savage Row in silence, the rain slanting down through the leafy treetops. The sky was an unforgiving black, and the wind nipped at the tips of ears and fingers like a small angry dog. Inside the huge mansions there would be lamps and roaring fires to ward off the darkness and the cold, but outside there was no escape. In the distance Jonathan could see bolts of lightning crackling over the chimneys and roofs that clustered together around the Grand.

Raindrops dripped down from the brim of Carnegie's hat on to his face. He loped along the road, his hands deep in his pockets. Once he made as if to say something to Jonathan, but bit his lip and turned away again. Feeling thoroughly miserable, Jonathan trailed behind and wished that he was inside. He would have given anything to have been back in his bedroom in London, watching TV in bed, but that seemed like another world. At that moment in time, he would have settled for the sparse comfort of Carnegie's lodgings.

He caught up with the wereman and tapped him on the shoulder. “Look, I'm sorry I've caused you so much trouble. . .”

Carnegie grimaced. “That's all right, kid. I'm used to trouble. Though even by my standards, this is a lot of trouble.”

“It's all my fault. I should never have come here,” Jonathan said bitterly.

“Your dad knows what he's doing. If he thought you weren't safe in Lightside, he wouldn't have sent you over here.”

“I don't exactly feel safe here either.”

“No,” he conceded. “You may have a point there. But don't worry about it. We'll sort out Marianne, and then we'll sort out Vendetta, and then we'll get you back to Alain. Everything will be fine.”

Jonathan gave him a dubious look. “You really think so?”

“No. But you've got to be positive about these things. I mean, I was this close to eating you. But you're still here, aren't you?”

“If you get me out of this,” Jonathan said mournfully, “you can eat my hand if you want. Vendetta's going to chop it off anyway, so I won't be needing it.”

Carnegie barked with laughter and ruffled Jonathan's hair. He reflected that maybe things could be worse, after all.

They continued their slow progress back towards the centre of Darkside, and gradually the expensive houses and the trees became obscured behind vast factories and the columns of black smoke churning out from their chimneys. Carnegie led the way through a warren of side streets and alleyways, never faltering or taking a wrong turning. The factory walls were so high and unforgiving that they made Jonathan feel like a rodent in some sort of laboratory experiment. For all the loud clanking of machinery, the explosions of steam and the ceaseless billowing of smoke, he couldn't see the people who actually worked in the factories. There were no windows in any of the walls, hiding the ranks of Darksiders who toiled away inside.

In one alleyway a pair of young men were leaning idly against the wall. Their muddy, worn clothes barely covered their skeletal limbs. On spotting Jonathan and Carnegie, they stepped out into their path. One of them produced a dirty knife from his pocket and waved it under Carnegie's nose.

“Give us your money,” he spat, through broken teeth.

The wereman shook his head. “Can't do that, boys.”

“Give us your money, or I'll cut you open!”

“Have we not met before? I'm Carnegie.”

At the mention of his name, one of the robbers blanched. He tugged his companion's sleeve urgently, and motioned with his eyes to move away. Carnegie watched them back away with benign interest.

“That's right, boys. You've made a very grave error. Shouldn't you be running?”

He bent his head back and unleashed a high-pitched howl that reverberated off the factory walls. As he watched the two robbers flee, Jonathan was reminded of Raquella's words on the Grand:
Everyone knows Carnegie
.

Two streets later, he concluded that thinking about Vendetta's maid only made him even more confused. She had clearly recognized him in the glasshouse. But he had told her that his name was Jonathan. Why hadn't she said anything when he was introduced as someone else? If Vendetta found out that she knew who he was. . . Jonathan thought back to the corpse in the glasshouse and shuddered.

They had been walking for some time now, and the wound in his side was beginning to throb again. He stopped walking and bent over, holding his side. Carnegie looked on with concern.

“You all right, boy?”

“Yeah. Just a bit tired.”

“That wound giving you pain?”

“Little bit. Be all right.”

Carnegie's eyes narrowed to slits. “That's very brave of you, son, but we'll get a hansom cab anyway. We're coming out on Princeville Street. We'll be able to get one there.”

They came out on to a wider road packed with terraced housing. Carnegie shooed away a couple of small children from a front doorstep and made Jonathan sit down on it. The rain was coming down harder now, and bouncing off the cobblestones. The road was clear of carriages, and Jonathan wondered how long they were going to have to wait for a cab to pass. It wasn't as if they could phone for one.

As it turned out, it didn't take that long at all. After a couple of minutes a hansom cab drew smoothly up to the pavement.

“Fitzwilliam Street, driver,” barked Carnegie.

The driver, immersed in a thick brown cloak and hat against the elements, nodded and gestured at the door. Carnegie helped Jonathan up the steps and into the cab, as the horses stamped their hooves impatiently.

The interior of the carriage was cramped and dark, but it seemed like paradise to Jonathan. It even smelt familiar somehow. Carnegie followed behind him, hunching over to fit through the door. A woman had already occupied one of the seats. She was dressed for mourning, in all black, and a veil was drawn over her face.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” began Jonathan. “I didn't realize. . .”

“It's fine,” replied the widow. She spoke in a whisper they could barely hear. “I am happy to share the carriage. It is not an evening to be standing waiting in the cold.” She paused. “And it is nice to have the company.”

Carnegie removed his hat and shook himself vigorously, sending a spray of water droplets flying across the carriage. “Excuse me,” he said, looking entirely unrepentant.

“Good evening, sir. Are you travelling far?”

“Fitzwilliam Street.”

“What a pleasant coincidence. So am I.”

The widow settled back into her seat, seemingly satisfied. Jonathan rested his head on the door of the carriage, taking comfort from the sound of the raindrops throwing themselves against the window. They were travelling nearer to the heart of the storm, and thunder rumbled continuously above their heads, as if the black sky was tearing apart at the seams. Every now and again, a flash of lightning would sear his vision, bathing the carriage in a brilliant white light.

Despite the loud frenzy of the weather, the combination of his painful wound and the long walk had made Jonathan feel very tired. He was just about to drift off to sleep when the widow opposite adjusted her bonnet. A single shining white hair dropped into her lap, stark against the black folds of her dress. As the thunderclouds unleashed another monumental roar, a wave of fear swept over Jonathan.

“Carnegie!” he screamed. “It's Marianne!”

Beside him, the wereman had slumped into a daze, overcome by the effects of her sleeping scent. Marianne chuckled and lifted her veil up, revealing her pale skin.

“Hello, Jonathan. You didn't think we'd forget about you, did you?” She drew a slender dagger from her boot. Carnegie slapped himself around the face, trying to clear his head. Marianne laughed again. “You both look tired. Why don't you go back to sleep?”

Carnegie lunged towards her, but his energy had been sapped. The raging beast that had attacked Jonathan was nowhere to be seen, and in his place was a large, tired man. His lumbering movements contrasted with Marianne's speed and sharpness. She flashed her dagger at him, slicing him across the arm. The wereman yelled with pain. He aimed a blow with his other fist, but missed Marianne completely. Instead his fist shattered the near window, and rain and cold air flooded into the carriage.

Jonathan felt the cobwebs begin to clear from his head, and realized that had been Carnegie's plan. The wereman was down on the floor of the carriage, blood pouring from his arms. Marianne swore and made to stab him in the back, but Jonathan snaked out a leg and kicked the dagger from her hand.

Up on the roof of the cab, the driver began to lash his horses mercilessly, urging them to go faster and faster. The carriage hurtled onwards into the night, rocking from side to side like a boat in a storm. Inside, it was nearly impossible for anyone to stand up. As Marianne scrabbled about for her dagger the driver took a sudden right turn, sending all three occupants crashing into the door. For a second Jonathan could feel Carnegie's bulk slumped against him, and hear Marianne's breath close by his ear, before the carriage righted itself and the three of them fell back to the floor.

Carnegie groaned and tried to push himself up, only to receive a swift knee in the ribs from Marianne. He collapsed again. Clearly, the wereman was having trouble shaking off the effects of the bounty hunter's scent. Jonathan dived for the dagger, curling his fingers around the hilt. Marianne went after him, trying to prise the weapon free with her nails. As they tumbled about Jonathan became aware of a loud scratching noise coming from the roof of the carriage. He glanced up, and with a sinking heart saw Skeet's sharp, bald head poking down from the top of the window. Unaffected by the breakneck speed of the carriage, the creature swung down from the luggage rail and rested his feet on the ledge by the door so that he was pressed flat against the side of the vehicle.

“Carnegie! Wake up! Skeet's coming!”

There was an angry snarl in response, and suddenly Jonathan felt Marianne being hoisted off him. The wereman tossed her into a heap on top of the seat and turned back to face the other threat. He was just in time. Having yanked open the door, Skeet was already inside the carriage. He went straight for Carnegie, fingers aiming for his eyes. The detective wrapped his arms around him and wrestled him to the floor. In the melee Marianne caught a stray boot to the chin, sending her sprawling across the carriage. Behind her head, the door banged excitedly open and shut.

The bounty hunter lodged herself in a corner and screamed “Humble!” at the top of her voice. At the signal the driver took another devilish right turn, lurching the carriage over on to two wheels. Jonathan took a painful tumble into the corner of a seat, the impact jarring Marianne's dagger from his hand. Carnegie and Skeet slid across the floor, still grappling, and heading inexorably towards the open door.

“Noooo!” Jonathan cried.

It was too late. The two creatures rolled over once more, and then dropped out of the side of the carriage, hitting the road with a loud crash. Marianne whooped with triumph and banged on the roof. The carriage fell down on to all four wheels again, and began to slow to a normal trot. She carefully rearranged her ruffled widow costume, reclaimed her dagger, and shut the door. The blade gleamed menacingly in her hand. Marianne smiled.

“I think that should do it. Well now, little one, shall we go and see William Grimshaw? He's been just dying to meet you.”

 

 

T
he carriage flew on like a bat through the maze of backstreets. This part of Darkside reeked of poverty. The streets were dank and strewn with rubbish, the houses on the point of collapse. On the pavement, young children huddled round small fires, their ragged clothing struggling to keep a grip on their thin limbs. They looked up as the coach went past, and cast envious glances inside it.

At that moment, despite the cold and the rain, Jonathan would have happily switched places with them. He sat on his hands, trying to think. Marianne had placed her dagger down on the seat next to her, and withdrawn a small compact from the folds of her dress. Now she dabbed at her face with powder.

“I really should think about doing something different,” she mused. “All this fighting is playing havoc with my complexion. If only it didn't pay so well. . .”

Jonathan remained silent.

“What is it, little one? Are you upset with me?”

“I want to go home,” Jonathan said stubbornly. “Let me out of here!”

“I almost wish that I could. But you're much too valuable to let go, little one.” She leaned in closer to him, and stroked a finger across his cheek. The familiar scent of her perfume drifted back under Jonathan's nostrils. “You might be angry with me now, but you'll forgive me. Because I know how unique and special you are. Has anyone ever told you how unique and special you are?”

He shook his head slowly, unwilling to catch her eye.

“Well, I am now. And Grimshaw thinks you are too. He just has a different way of expressing it. Oh good! Here we are!”

The carriage had turned up a devastated street, where the houses had collapsed into dazed piles of rubble. There were no signs of life among the ruins. And then, in the middle of the wasteland, Jonathan caught sight of a dilapidated concert hall, with a small, railed courtyard protecting it from the harsh outside world. As the carriage drew nearer, it was possible to see a crowd of Darksiders milling in the courtyard outside. They were dressed in sombre coloured suits and long dresses, but their eyes were wild as if they were on drugs. Ten-foot braziers blazed with flames that twisted and danced over their heads.

In the driver's seat Humble reined in the horses, and the carriage came to a complete stop. Jonathan stayed frozen in his chair, suddenly afraid of stepping outside. The front doors to the hall were closed, and studded with iron bands. On either side a squat plinth bore a creature carved from marble: to the left, a leopard, and to the right, a rhinoceros. A banner had been draped above the entrance, which read “William Grimshaw's World Famous Beastilia Exotica!”. Tatty posters had been pasted on to the walls, boasting lurid paintings of snakes, lions and spiders. Every animal had its jaws open, as if it was ready to strike. From somewhere, Jonathan could hear the faint strains of mournful classical music drifting up to his ears.

The giant mute, still wrapped in the thick, long coachman's coat, opened the carriage door and pulled Jonathan out of the carriage. Marianne descended daintily after him, lifting the hem of her dress away from the wet cobbles.

“Thank you, Humble. That was some rather amazing driving back there.”

The mute bowed his head in reply. He made a signal to Marianne with his hands. She wrinkled her nose. “Skeet? He rolled off the carriage a few minutes back. He knows where to find us. If Carnegie hasn't killed him first, of course.”

Humble and Marianne positioned themselves on either side of Jonathan.

“Don't try and run off again, little one.”

“I'll scream for help,” Jonathan threatened fiercely.

Marianne cackled. “Look around you, dear. You're in Darkside. Who do you think is going to help you here?”

In the midst of the crowd a bald, elderly man with a monocle turned round to stare at the new arrivals. Jonathan gave him a pleading look that shouted out
help me!
The man bared his teeth in response. They had all been filed down to sharp points. Jonathan shrank back in horror, and moved closer to Marianne.

“I thought you might see it my way. Is it nearly time yet? I'm not standing in the rain all night while Grimshaw decides when to open up.”

Humble gave her a sympathetic glance, and draped his enormous coat over her shoulders. She patted his hand in thanks. The classical music was growing in volume, and beneath the yearning strings there was a rumble of percussion that Jonathan felt in the depths of his belly. A murmur of expectation ran through the crowd. The music got louder and louder, ringing round the deserted street and exploding like fireworks into the Darkside night. Then, without warning, the music stopped, and the front doors swung mysteriously inward. The crowd began to shuffle inside.

Marianne sighed. “I think Grimshaw's getting too melodramatic for his own good.” Struck by a sudden thought, she turned to Jonathan. “Stay close to me, little one. There can be some nasty things inside the Exotica, and I haven't spent all this time hunting you down only to lose you now.”

They were the last of the crowd to head up the steps, and make their way down a curving corridor. Dirty red light bulbs cast a sullen glow over the darkness. Glass-fronted cabinets had been built into the walls, where scraggy animals sat glumly. As Jonathan walked past one, a chimpanzee leapt forward and banged furiously on the windowpane, making him jump.

“Are you sure we're safe here?” he hissed at Marianne.

“Not really. That's the point of the Exotica. The animals are allowed to get very close to you. You see, you don't pay to get
in
. You pay to get
out
. That's a very important difference.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's probably best for you that you don't, little one.”

She squeezed his hand, and again Jonathan found himself confused by his kidnapper's capacity to show him kindness. He knew that she was dangerous and that he should hate her, but he just couldn't. In a strange way, at that exact moment in time, he was glad she was there.

The corridor continued to wind around in a leisurely circle. Jonathan stuck close to Marianne and Humble, and took great care not to go too close to the display cases. It was like no zoo he had ever been near before. There were no signs by the windows, so he was often unsure of what was inside. But he could hear the creatures rustling, could see shapes scuttling away to the safety of the dark corners. There was a lingering threat in the air that made everyone quiet and tense. Even Humble appeared to be affected, his strange near-permanent smile replaced by a watchful look.

They had dropped back far behind the rest of the visitors, and when the silence was shattered by a yell of surprise, it came from far ahead. Instinctively Humble and Marianne shielded Jonathan. Suddenly the old gentleman with the filed-down teeth came back round the corner, staggering like a drunk and clutching his throat. It took Jonathan a moment to make out the snake wrapped around his neck like a noose, its scales gleaming in the blood-red light. He gasped as it casually, almost lazily, tightened its grip, sending the man crashing to his knees. He scrabbled desperately for another breath, but it never came, and in a matter of seconds he had fallen to the floor, dead.

Marianne looked on impassively. “Grimshaw's been removing the windows from the display cases again,” she said. “We really need to keep an eye out.”

“Shouldn't we have done something?” Jonathan asked, fixated by the scene in front of him.

“Like what? He was dead the second he went too close to that snake. Now for goodness' sake mind your step.”

Without a second glance, she skirted around the prone figure of the old man. His face had turned blue, and there was a look of shock etched on to his face. The snake lay coiled around him, unmoved by all the commotion except for the vicious, hungry flicking of its tongue into the air. Jonathan met its unblinking gaze and edged carefully around it.

After several nervous minutes the corridor came out into a large circular room that lay at the heart of the Beastilia Exotica. Banks of seats led down to a lowered stage area in the centre of the room. In a balcony overlooking the stage, a conductor was leading an orchestra through a mournful lament. The members of the audience who had survived the walk down the red corridor were now dotted around the room. They waited in complete silence, focusing on the empty scene in front of them.

“What are they waiting for?”

“The main show. That's when the really dangerous animals are allowed out. We don't want to be around for that. Come on. We're going backstage.”

Marianne and Humble walked down an aisle between two rows of seats, and made for a side door in the wall to the left of the stage. A hand-painted sign bellowed “Extreme Danger! Professionals Only! Keep Out!”. The warning seemed a little unnecessary to Jonathan, given that extreme danger seemed to lurk everywhere in the Beastilia Exotica. Nevertheless, he followed his captors through the door.

They had entered a high-ceilinged hall that bustled with activity and shook with the squawks and growls of a menagerie of animals. There were cages as far as the eye could see: on the floor, piled on top of one another, even hanging from the ceiling. Each one was a tiny prison for a rare animal. In front of Jonathan a rangy cheetah paced with frustration up and down his cage, patchy fur hanging from its haunches. To his immediate left, a black widow spider hung menacingly from the roof of her confinement, while at the top of a stack of birdcages a proud bird of paradise sang songs of fresh air and freedom. Assistants in long brown overalls hurried between the cages, dodging the mounds of fur and feathers that covered the floor. The room stank of fear and desperation.

In the far corner, a man was standing on a wooden walkway that ran round the top of a square glass aquarium. He was tossing chunks of meat from a bucket into the water, causing a frenetic activity among the aquarium's invisible occupants. Fine lines of blood trailed in their wake.

“Grimshaw!”

The man placed the bucket down, and waited for Marianne and her companions to clamber up the steps to the top of the walkway. As Jonathan approached, he could just make out the slim, dark shapes cutting through the water, and a sign gleefully advertising “Grimshaw's Pool of Pain”. Jonathan gripped on to the support rail and stayed well away from the edge. For the first time in a while, the thought of trying to escape re-entered his head. Humble was paying close attention to him, however, and it seemed that being alone in the Beastilia Exotica was probably more dangerous than here. For the time being, at least.

“Ah. Marianne, my sweet.” Grimshaw bowed, and kissed her hand with a theatrical flourish. He was dressed like a circus ringmaster, in a red top hat and tails. A whip hung from his side. But it was his face that transfixed Jonathan: the crêpe paper skin that showed every gnarl and crevice in his skull; and the different coloured eyes, one green and one blue.

“You are too kind.” She crouched down and stared into the water. “What have you got in there? Piranhas?”

“No. The audience got bored of piranhas. There are only so many times you can show them stripping the flesh from a human. I managed to acquire some barracuda instead.”

Marianne wrinkled her nose. “Barracuda?”

“They're a spectacularly nasty species of fish. I have high hopes for them.”

“I preferred the piranhas. Anyway, I have the boy.”

“So I see.” He cast his eyes over Jonathan, each pupil moving with total independence from the other. “You are the one who's been causing all the problems? You'd better be worth it.”

“What do you want with me?” asked Jonathan nervously.

The green eye narrowed. “Don't you know what you are, boy? You're a crossbreed. Half-Darksider, half-Lightsider. Personally, I prefer thoroughbreds, but you do have a certain . . . freak-show appeal to some of my less discerning customers. So you will take the stage at the Beastilia Exotica. For one night only. With a pack of jackals.”

“What am I supposed to do there?”

Grimshaw leaned in close to Jonathan. “You're supposed to die.”

“You're mad! This is all crazy! I'm not getting on any stupid stage! Let me out of here!”

Grimshaw exhaled slowly, a horrid slithering sound. “Life can be very cruel sometimes. And so can I. You will perform like a natural, believe me.”

Jonathan said nothing. Marianne ruffled his hair affectionately. “Look after him, Grimshaw. He's a good boy. In great demand, too. It turns out that you're not the only one who's after him. You're lucky I'm a woman of my word.”

“Your honourable reputation precedes you, my dear.”

“I should really charge you more for him, but never mind. Speaking of payment, I think you owe me some money. And perhaps an apology for doubting me?”

“Apology? I never doubted you for a second.”

From the main hall there was a deafening roar of a wild animal, and a howl of terror. Grimshaw nodded expectantly. “Sounds like the show has begun. There's death in the air.”

He picked up the bucket and threw another hunk of meat into the aquarium. The water churned as the barracuda flocked to the surface to feast upon the flesh. The screams continued to carry from the main hall.

Jonathan gulped. “What's happening out there?”

The ringmaster of the Beastilia Exotica scratched his head. “Difficult to say for sure. We sent out an African lion and a snow leopard tonight. Neither of them has been fed for a few days. They might be fighting each other. Or trying to eat the audience. Sounds to me like it's the second one.”

A ferocious roar ripped through the air.

“Yes. Definitely the second one.”

“Aren't you going to stop it?” gasped Jonathan.

“Stop it? Why the hell would I want to do that? That's the reason people come here! What are they supposed to do otherwise? Just stare at the animals?”