Infernal Revolutions (3 page)

‘YOU FUCKERS!' he roared ferociously, before striking one of my captors in the face with a mighty blow of his fist. The man staggered, groaned and covered his face with his hands. A few moments later blood, cartilage and what looked like bits of eyeball started to ooze out from between his fingers. Practised themselves in the art of aggression, the immediate crowd seemed unprepared for this yet higher level of violence. Gasping with horror at their ringleader's literal loss of face, they began to shrink back both mentally and physically. But the giant newcomer had only just started. The man with the tarpot was his next victim, having it tipped over his head in classic comedy manner. Then ‘twas the turn of the frogmarchers, who had their faces crashed together in a spray of flying blood and teeth. Finally, as if for dessert, a couple of drunken roughs were despatched with pistonlike blows to their bellies. Soon there was no-one left with the taste for a fight, and I was led away by the youth through a cowed and disappointed mob.

‘My name is Burnley Axelrod,' said my hero, tossing aside an old crone who could not get out of our way quick enough. ‘Perhaps you've heard of me.'

I couldn't say I had, but he didn't seem disappointed.

‘Your name, Sir?' he demanded of me.

‘Harry Oysterman, and I really am most grateful for what you've done.'

‘Nothing to it, laddie. I like nothing better than a good fight anyway. Stirs your blood in a subtly different way to liquor, whores and cards. A large intake of all four every day and I'm the happiest man alive. Two out of four and I'm middling. None out of four and I'm dead. Now come with me and let's get that bloody mess off your head. You smell worse than a slave ship.'

Alarm bells went off at these words, for I now realized I was in the company of one of those upper-class army hedonists who so used to terrify me in the days when I promenaded the town with my mother. Great big lawless vandals they were, with as much capacity for mayhem as the Mob itself. Admittedly, there was no sartorial proof of his being an army man, but his whole demeanour screamed it out; there was no way this lad sat behind a desk decomposing. Theoretically, I greatly admired his vivacity and bravery, but now he'd played his part and rescued me I would much rather he left me alone to settle my nerves with a favourite garland of poesy. This was my tried and trusted method of regaining composure, and I was apprehensive about what further character dislocation would do to me. Courtesy, however, demanded that I accept his ablutionary offer, so I trotted along after him like a little lamb who had been rescued from the wolves by a bigger wolf. I hoped he was not taking me far.

‘Come on, come on,' cried Mr Axelrod impatiently. ‘Make way, dammit!'

Quaking in the passenger seat of his phaeton, I clung on tight as he used his whip and a pair of Cleveland bays to cut his way through the thinning crowd. Shrieks and curses rent the air, and on several occasions I was almost tipped out of my seat as the carriage trundled over some groaning prostrate body. Eventually, however, we were free of obstructions, and we shot off at a furious pace down to the seafront. There we turned left and drew to a halt at the
Old Ship Hotel
, a thriving hostelry since Dr Richard Russell had pontificated on the efficacy of seawater bathing back in the fifties.

‘Oh no,' I protested, ‘I cannot go in there with my head like this.'

‘Nonsense, Sir. ‘Tis only a short walk up some stairs to my room. No-one will see you.'

We entered just as a bevy of parasoled beauties were emerging for their afternoon stroll, gorgeous in their assorted silks. They saw Mr Axelrod, and giggled flirtatiously. Then they smelt me, and reached for their pouncet-boxes. I was mortified.

‘We cannot all smell as sweet as you, ladies,' joked Mr Axelrod. ‘Some of us are the victims of Mob violence.'

‘Why, I cannot imagine
you
being a victim of Mob violence, Burnley,' jousted the most devastating of the beauties, all
oeillades
behind her gloved hands.

‘No, Madam, neither can I.'

‘Then what happened? We heard there was some commotion in West Street…'

This was the cue Mr Axelrod wanted, and he went on to recount his version of events in agonizing detail while the ladies studied me with distaste. Discreetly, I tried to fight off the flies that were clouding round my head.

‘Still,' concluded Mr Axelrod, ‘that's life. Now, if you'll excuse us, I must get Mr Oysterman here washed and changed before those flies eat him alive.'

‘Oh Burnley, you are so brave,' sighed the devastating one. ‘Wait till I tell Mama.'

‘I will be glad to tell her myself, Madam, if you'd both care to join me for dinner tonight.'

‘Oh!' cried the girl, overwhelmed at the offer, ‘Yes I would love that. Oh!'

The only-slightly-less-devastating others giggled and led her away down the street. All said goodbye to Mr Axelrod; all ignored me.

‘Look at the little fillies,' growled Mr Axelrod as he watched them depart. ‘All here for the season, all in season. Ripe for the prising open.'

A blunt knife myself in that regard, mad heiresses excepted, it was nevertheless clear from Mr Axelrod's knowing inspection that he had devoured more than a few luscious oysters in his time.

‘Ever had Mother and Daughter in one bed, Mr Oysterman?'

Surprised at the question, I nervously confessed not.

‘Highly recommended. Piquant, yet at the same time deliciously sordid. Also wins you a pipe of port at regimental HQ if you can get them both up the spout. Still, that's for later. Come on, let's get you in.'

Enlightened, I followed him into the gloom of the hotel, where I was immediately introduced to a passing waiter.

‘Jeremy, this is Mr Harry Oysterman, a gentleman I rescued from a spot of bother on West Street.'

Nostrils flickered first, then recognition.

‘Oh, you're
him
, aren't you?'

A hand was laid gently on mine, and Jeremy's eyes looked up at me saucily.

‘Who?' I said, worried.

‘That boy who's always trudging along the beach. We see you most days from the dining room. I've tried waving, but you seem to be lost in a little world of your own.'

‘I did not realize I was under such scrutiny,' I said, horrified.

‘Nothing escapes the notice of a waiter, Sir, nothing.'

If that was the case, then he knew full well my purpose for trudging along the beach: to catch a quick eyeful of a bathing beauty the split-second between her appearance from a bathing machine and her disappearance in the ice-cold water. ‘Twas a very hot little world I was lost in, and I wished the saucy dog would shut up about it.

‘And Mr Kettle says he's seen you on several occasions loitering around the graveyard.'

‘Aye, my mother's buried there,' I lied, feeling more uncomfortable by the second.

‘Is she?' said Jeremy ironically, ‘Oh dear. Well, at least we know now.'

‘Indeed we do,' said Mr Axelrod, thankfully not interested in local gossip of this sort. ‘Now, he is in need of a wash, as you see, so while I show him up to my room perhaps you would be kind enough to bring up more water.' Jeremy nodded, and was about to set off when Mr Axelrod called him back. ‘Any new beauties arrived since this morning, Jeremy?'

‘None yet, Sir, though rest assured I will let you know as soon as they do.'

‘What about that one I pointed out yesterday?'

‘Lady Dartington's daughter? Still here, Sir.'

‘Good, good. Now, Mr Oysterman, let us get you cleaned up.'

I was led upstairs to a sunny room overlooking the sea. ‘Twas admirably spartan apart from a clutter of military paraphernalia in one corner, a vast array of empty wine bottles in the other, and a few books on a shelf above the bed.

‘You're in the army then?' I decided to ratify.

‘Yes, I am a cornet in the King's Dragoon Guards. I could have waited until a higher rank became available, but as it is action I want, a cornetcy is perfectly satisfactory for the time being.'

I was about to ask what a cornet was when my head was seized roughly and plunged into a basinful of tepid water. Five gasping, thrashing, spluttering minutes followed, at the end of which I was allowed air and a towel.

‘There, that's the bulk of it off. One more wash with the fresh water that Jeremy brings up and you will have cleaner hair than most of the women here. But I'll leave you to do that for yourself; I've got business to attend to. Come down and join me for a cutlet and a bottle when you've finished.'

Still without sufficient breath to speak, all I could do was nod vaguely until I heard the door slam shut. Then with the towel I rubbed my hair until damp and sat down on the bed to await Jeremy's arrival. As I was still waiting five minutes later, I decided to beguile the remaining time by examining the contents of the room. Moving first to the stack of weaponry, I proceeded to pick up and fondle a pistol, a sword, and a dagger respectively. Thrilling at such fearsome instruments of butchery, I did a quick pirouette around the room with each weapon, imagining the damage they could do to the pates of piemen, before the increasing weight of them induced such a vile aching in my writing arm that I had to desist. But the relief with which I turned to the books on the shelf was short-lived. Far from being the comforting volumes of verse I had hoped for, all but
The Lives, Adventures & Sharping Tricks of Eminent Gamesters
were foul yet fascinating treatises on the sexual arts. There was
A List of Sporting Ladies
,
A List of Covent Garden Ladies and Chelsea Tarts
,
The Whoremonger's Guide to Sussex
, and
Ladies of Delight for Gentlemen of Intrigue
. Trembling both with excitement at the descriptions, and horror at the possibility of finding my mother's name inside the well-thumbed pages, I read the most intimate details about courtesans, whores and mistresses until I was red, flustered and hot, and not just in the face. Indeed, I was so absorbed in imagining the reality of Lady Emma Dympleton's highly-recommended ‘coral-tipped' clitoris that I did not notice Jeremy's entrance.

‘Ah, I see you've succumbed to temptation, Mr Oysterman,' he said, setting down the fresh bowl of water by the washstand. ‘But then who of us is not insatiably curious about the hidden workings of the opposite sex?'

Jeremy himself, judging by the yearning look he gave my groin as I hurriedly put the books back on the shelf; but as I did not intend to satisfy whatever curiosity he had about me, I quickly sent him away and locked the door before continuing with my ablutions, which now had an extra element of ritual cleansing about them. It took a good half an hour before I was sufficiently cooled to go downstairs and rejoin Mr Axelrod, who I found at a table fit for Belshazzar in the corner of the dining room.

‘Like to keep my rear defended, Mr Oysterman, and the enemy in view,' he explained of his position as he rose to greet me. ‘And I'm not referring to Jeremy. But come, sit down. I'm starving and I can't wait any longer. I haven't eaten since midday.'

I didn't bother telling him I hadn't eaten since last night, three mouthfuls of veal pie excepted, for whining didn't seem appropriate in the presence of this man.

‘If you don't mind me asking, Mr Axelrod, how old are you?'

‘Nineteen. Now stop acting like some little schoolgirl and get eating.'

Abashed, I took my chair and did as I was told.

We started off sweetly with crumpets and blackcurrant jam, wash down with a glass of Madeira in my case, three glasses in Mr Axelrod's. Then, perceiving there was no particular method in Mr Axelrod's eating itinerary, I followed suit and took from the abundant table whatever took my fancy, regardless of slavish fashion. So I followed up the crumpets with two bananas, nice and ripe, then turned to the salmon in fennel sauce accompanied by kidney beans, peas, lemon pickle and soy. At intervals throughout the meal I kept looking up at my host to check I was not contravening some obscure cornetman's etiquette, but as I was always greeted by the sight of Mr Axelrod's crown, or, occasionally, the bottom of his wine glass, I assumed I was not. Left to my own devices I continued with a slice of hot pigeon pie impregnated with hardboiled eggs, then deemed the main course over. Although I was bloated and gasping slightly by this stage, I couldn't resist taking a piece of cooked pudding – made of currants, orange peel, egg and suet – and smothering it with the hot brandy sauce provided on request by the ever-smirking Jeremy. Finishing off with a plateful of gooseberries in cream, I drained my second glass of Madeira and slumped back in my chair. As I did so I noticed that we were being watched by about twenty dirty faces pressed to the windows, all examining me curiously as if to deduce the effect the food was having on me. At a loss to know what to do, I was thankful when Mr Axelrod looked up, saw me watching them, and leaned forward from his protected enclave to do likewise. Whether it was the expression on his face or their knowledge of his temper I didn't know, but something made them disperse with unsettling rapidity, leaving only smeared glass and evaporating breathmist as evidence of their presence.

‘Rabble,' he commented. ‘You can't have a piss in a pint pot these days without being gawped at by the lower orders.'

Aware that anything I said now would sound effeminate in comparison, I nodded and began to sip the coffee that had appeared, shyly watching Mr Axelrod as he resumed his gargantuan feasting. I drank two more cups while Mr Axelrod ate on, and then began to think about returning home to ponder further My Dilemma. Somehow, though, seated here with Mr Axelrod after an episode of high drama, the twin ogres of Philpott Hall and Grub Street did not seem so terrifying. On the contrary, as I looked out at the fishing nets, the gulls and the glinting Channel, I felt very mellow and reflective. All sort of things began to seem possible, with the taking of Philpott Hall being just one of them. I was still lost in Visions when a hellish clatter finally signalled the end of Mr Axelrod's gorging. Having finished his gooseberries, he had apparently leaned back in his chair and tossed his spoon back into his dish across the intervening four feet.

‘Excellent,' he pronounced. ‘Infinitely better than the muck they serve you at barracks.' His eyes searched round the table, alighted on the wine bottle, scrutinized its emptiness, then flickered over to the bar.

‘Jeremy!' he roared. ‘More wine!'

I was somewhat surprised by this request, thinking that the drinking had come to a natural end, but I reflected stoically that one more bottle could do no harm; indeed, it would probably assist the gastric juices in assimilating the food.

‘I hope you enjoyed the meal, Mr Oysterman.'

‘Wonderful. Thank you.'

‘Better than a common trader's pie, I'll wager.'

‘Certainly.'

‘What the deuce made you go to him in the first place? Couldn't you see you were asking for trouble? You are evidently a man of means, and have no need to resort to such low dining.'

‘Twas an impulse,' I shrugged. ‘I'd been alone in the house all day, thinking, when I heard the pieman's call. Nothing appealled to me more than a big meaty veal pie.'

Just the very words now made me want to puke copiously, so, brow sweating, I shakily poured myself more coffee.

‘You must have a mighty problem on your mind to spend all day thinking about it. Especially all of a fine summer's day like this. Either that or you're another philosopher, like Mr Hume.'

‘We're all philosophers to some extent, Mr Axelrod.'

A puzzled look crossed his face, indicating I'd stumbled across an exception. He received a fresh bottle of Madeira from Jeremy and refilled both our glasses.

‘Perhaps, but I can't say I've spend even one hour thinking about a particular problem. What's the point? All you end up doing is enfeebling your will and tying yourself up in metaphysical knots. If I'd wasted time
thinking
about rescuing you today instead of actually doing it, you would probably have grown wings by now. Act, Mr Oysterman, act. Whatever the problem is stop thinking about it and act. If things turn out badly then act again to try and remedy them. Otherwise before you know it you'll be on your deathbed full of the most hellish remorse for a wasted life. You're let loose for an infinitesimal fraction of eternity, and what do you do? You ponder problems you could just as well ponder from what I call the ethereal state. Where's the sense in that?'