Mariah Mundi (15 page)

‘The locals get frightened if she’s not on the lead. Only reason they tolerate Cuba is that they believe she keeps the Kraken away. It was an old fisherman gave her the name, said it was that of an angel that kept guard over children as they slept, and she’s looked after this place whilst I’ve been away.’ Charity tugged the lead and the crocodile shuddered, rising on her back feet and scratting the door. ‘Must be a rat somewhere. Loves the chase and you never hear a single squeak when she crunches them in her mouth.’ He laughed, wrinkling the lines upon his face etched by many hours of warm smiles.

From the door of the Golden Kipper Mariah could see the outline of the Prince Regent drawn against the fragmenting mist by the full moon. He stepped ahead of the crocodile and its keeper as the beast pulled against the leash and sniffed the salt air.

‘Still can smell a rat,’ Charity said as he locked the front door and pulled up the collar of his coat. ‘Mist bad again,’ he whispered. ‘Ever since they built the Regent, the sea’s got warmer and the mists last longer.’

They crossed the cobbled street, down the slipway and on to the sand. Cuba sprang back and forth like a young puppy, snapping at the air as she gulped breaths through her leathery nostrils. Charity quickly slipped the leash from her neck and watched her sprint across the sand and into the darkness. Mariah followed on close by as he looked for the creature.

‘Don’t worry lad,’ he said merrily. ‘Old Cuba will be chasing sea hawks. You’re far too big a mouthful for her tonight, even though you are stuffed with the best fish and potato.’

Mariah reached into his pocket and pulled out the calling card he had been given by Charity on the train.

‘For my feast,’ he said as he tried to hand it to him.

‘Not needed,’ Charity replied quickly. ‘If I take the card I may never see you again. This way I know you’ll be back for a free meal – whenever you need one, of course.’ Charity held Mariah’s arm as they walked on. ‘Tell me one thing – Isambard Black, the man from the train, what became of him?’

Mariah paused, not knowing if in speaking he would say something out of turn. He looked to the houses and shops that littered the foreshore. Far to his right were three new bathing machines with candy-striped hoods, half-doors and ladders that led to the sea. ‘Saw him a couple of times,’ Mariah said, not wanting to speak too openly. ‘Bizmillah keeps us busy. Him and Bizmillah keep company. Last night they were together in a room speaking and that.’

‘And what of the hotel? Do you get further than the place of your work?’ Charity asked quietly as he guided Mariah across the sands towards the Prince Regent.

‘Seen as much as I need. Sacha knows it better than anyone. Took me all round the place. From the highest towers into the dark depths. Can be hot as hell down there. Dark and steamy and smells of fish.’

There was a cry of gulls far across the strand by the water’s edge. The steady beat of Cuba’s feet sounded across the soft sand, telling of her coming. Like an obedient dog she sat at Charity’s feet, her long reptilian tail curled about her, its tip giving away the tiniest hint of excitement. In her mouth she gently held a fat squawking herring-gull, its bright white feathers pressed against her dark skin. She blinked constantly,
growling to herself as she moaned and wailed, several drops of tear-water slowly trickling from each eye.

‘Let it be, Cuba,’ Charity scolded the crocodile. ‘Not for you.’ The crocodile obediently opened her mouth and the frightened bird leapt from the jaws of death and took flight. Mariah clapped his hands at the spectacle and Cuba danced on her back legs, swirling the sand beneath her with her long tail as the seabird circled and called out overhead.

‘So warm for such a winter’s night,’ Mariah said innocently as he picked a piece of driftwood from the sand and threw it far away for the crocodillo to chase.

‘Touch the sand and feel the warmth underfoot,’ Charity said as he scooped a handful of steaming grains from the beach. ‘The sea is as hot as bath water and the sand no better.’ He tipped the sand into Mariah’s palm. ‘Do one thing for me, Mariah. Find me the reason for this and I think you will have the answer to all that you search for.’ As Charity spoke, the mountainous dark shadow of the Prince Regent towered above them.

M
ARIAH had always thought that the longer he slept, the longer he would live. So much so that he had even contemplated the idea that if he were to sleep ad infinitum then he would be able to live forever. It was a notion that had often kept him going when the world with all its problems had grown too much. He would keep a diary listing the hours he slept and the hours waking, always hoping to have an excess balance, an abundance of time when his eyelids were firmly shut and he was oblivious to the outside world. Since the apparent death of his parents, Mariah had tried to sleep even more. In the Chiswick Colonial School he would find a place far away from the others, often by the refectory fire, to close his eyes to the world. Lunchtime and the long free hour following tea and before vespers were his favourite times to sneak away and try to sleep. More often than not he would close his eyes and just listen to the world, thinking those inner thoughts and living an interior life known only to him. Mariah imagined that by thinking hard enough he could change the course of life. In his dreams he would see his mother, talk to her, know her again. They would fill each second with unending chatter like two turtle-doves, always in the same place. They would be on a bridge by a river, staring at each other’s reflection in the changing
waters. There was no sun, just a radiant light that edged its way around the high grey clouds that blanketed the sky.

In every dream he had never looked at her face to face. It was only her shimmering reflection that he had seen, often broken by the wisps of breeze that blew through the tall oaks and cedars that surrounded them. He would then slip deeper away from his dream, knowing that soon he would wake, but holding fast to the hope that he would see her again.

Waking was always the same. The bitterness of rousing would snatch the glory of her life and allow the memory of shouting out that she was dead to come to his mind. Sleep was, for Mariah a great comforter. Kindling to life cheated him of all that he held dear.

As he left Charity on the beach and climbed the long steps that ran the height of the cliff by the Prince Regent he thought of sleep. He knew that somewhere ahead there would be a door, and that far behind Charity and Cuba would wait until he was out of sight and safe within the red brick walls of the hotel. Mariah gripped the cold iron railing as he dragged himself foot over foot, higher and higher, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. A quartet of tall black gas lamps lighted the treads of the steep stone staircase. Their amber light flickered in the thinning swirls of mist that followed his every step. Set in the thick brick wall was a dark wooden door, clearly marked in bright white paint with the word
Deliveries
.

Mariah turned to the sea and looked far below. There was Charity, waiting and watching from the shore as Cuba scratched in the sand and swished her tail back and forth, relentlessly chewing the driftwood that he had thrown for her. With one hand he pulled on the brass door handle as he waved to his watcher. The door pulled open easily, squeaking on one hinge and dragging itself across the chipped brickwork of the threshold.

He looked back momentarily, a noise from the top of the steps catching his ear. There, by the tiny parade of shops, the Italian café and gentlemen’s hairdresser, was the lamplighter. He looked to Mariah and nodded as he hooked the gas handle under the wick and turned off the hissing supply.

‘Two-thirty,’ he moaned with a gargling voice of chewed tobacco, feeling he had to explain his presence to Mariah. ‘Light ’em up then snuff ’em out, bit like life really. All off at two-thirty … Night shift?’ he asked Mariah as he fumbled in the pocket of his tattered wax coat for another wad of black masticate. ‘Never see daylight, dusk to dawn, dusk to dawn,’ he moaned mournfully through his long bushy beard, not caring if he got a reply but thankful he had seen another living soul.

Mariah smiled to him as he stepped inside the doorway of the Prince Regent, pulling the wooden door firmly shut, waiting as the steps of the lamplighter clattered down each stone tread. He listened as the man made his way to each lamp, leaving darkness behind as he snuffed out the quartet one by one.

Inside the Prince Regent he was greeted by the sound of the steam elevator and the smell of sulphur and goose grease. It was as if the walls of the delivery room had been coated with a thin covering of brown slime, painted upon the whitewashed walls. By the side of the door were several crates of stacked bananas, their long yellow fingers reaching out to him through the timber bands that made up every box. Each one was sealed with a brass wire that ran through the wooden spars, linking the lid firmly to the side so it could not be opened. All was as it should be for that early hour. The baker would arrive in a while to knead the dough that had been left in the small china pots to grow overnight. The breakfast chef would steal his way in, still drunk from the night before, and slowly and surely the gigantic whale would come to life. Five hundred slick waiters and two
hundred housekeepers would soon rush to fulfil every desire of every patron, and Mariah would set and clean every magical trick for that night’s performance.

From the delivery room he made his way quickly via the back stairs to the theatre. As he strode the passageways and dark corridors, he mused on the idea of doing his work before he went to sleep, hoping to please Sacha by having everything done. This would also give him time to understand what he had seen in the night. The thoughts of the Kraken crossed his mind again and again. It was an image of which he could not rid his wits. No matter how he tried to force his mind to think of other things, the wheedling thought came back, the image of the creature stronger and more recognisable.

As he turned into the last corridor and up the final flight of steps to the stage door, Mariah heard the clear crisp sound of scraping feet coming from far behind. He shuddered, stepping into a black shadow out of the glare of the lamp, and looked back. All was still. He dismissed the sound as a gesture of his imagination, coughing to clear his throat, half out of fear and half worrying that he might have to run at any moment. The echo went on and on. He gripped his hand into the shape of a fist, digging the nails into his palm as he clutched the gold coin tightly, never wanting to let go. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked, hoping there would be no reply.

Mariah waited and waited for whoever was in the darkness. No one came, no sound, no scraping, just the gentle hum of the steam generator far below, rumbling on as it always did in its melancholy way.

In two steps he was through the door and into the theatre. He stood in the pitch black, knowing that to his right would be a small table with a brass candle-holder and stout candle, and by the side would be the Lucifer and striking plate. Mariah fumbled blindly, rubbing his hand across the table as he felt for
the holder. Outside, the scraping footstep came again. He pushed his back against the door and felt for the bolt; taking it in his fingers he slid it home, then crouched in the blackness and listened. Again, all fell silent.

‘Imagination,’ he whispered to himself as he at last found the candle and the Lucifer. There was a bright spark, an all-engulfing light. Mariah gripped the lighting match in his fingers and pulled the wick ready for the flame. Gone was the darkness, banished from the room. He sighed loudly. It was as if the light cast out all his fear, as the dawn would kill the night terrors. With a shaking hand he lit the candle and allowed the match to burn out in the gutter of the holder until it had curled itself into a crinkled stalk of brittle charcoal.

Taking the candle he went to the stage. There he lit the gas lamp in the wings and pulled out the saw box, checking the mechanical feet and all of the latches. He wanted nothing to go wrong; after all, he was the one who would put his life into Bizmillah’s hands. Mariah would sweep the stage, set the backdrops on their long twisted ropes and take twelve fat doves from their cages and press them into hats and boxes ready to be brought to life as if by magic.

He had almost forgotten the fear of the Kraken when the stage door rattled on its hinges. It was as if a sudden gust of cold wind had blasted against it for the briefest of moments. The curtains that hung from the high arch over the stage shook a little as a myriad of tiny specks of dust fell from the roof to the floor. They would have been invisible, had they not danced through the shaft of light that flooded the stage from the wings and cast out into the dense blackness of the auditorium. Mariah watched as one by one they slowly waltzed this way and that, sometimes touching each other like snowflakes.

The shudder came again, as if the whole of the Prince Regent had skipped the slightest grain of an inch. Mariah
quickly pushed the box back to its place, stacking the other tricks in order of use upon it and covering them all with Bizmillah’s purple silk cloth.

‘Very late to be doing your work, young Mariah,’ came the voice from the blackness of the vast auditorium.

Mariah stared out, unable to see anyone.

‘Thought a Colonial boy would be tucked up in bed, in safety,’ said the man sarcastically from the cover of darkness.

‘Mister Bizmillah wants it to be perfect. Can’t pack the pigeons in the daylight, they fly away.’ As he spoke the slow realisation of who he was talking to came to mind.

‘So you give away the secrets … Be bound by oath never to divulge the secret of the Order of Magicians. It would be on pain of death to give such vital knowledge to the uninitiated,’ Isambard Black said loudly as he walked through the darkness towards the stage. ‘Before you ask, like you I couldn’t sleep. It is something that has avoided me recently. No matter what I do I just can’t manage to let my mind go to the Land of Nod.’ He coughed as he walked slowly down the dark aisle, clearing his throat as if he were about to make some majestic speech. ‘I have even taken to walking the streets by the harbour. Interesting place, especially at night. You meet the most remarkable class of fellow – don’t you think?’

‘I wouldn’t know, Mister Black. I am gainfully employed,’ Mariah replied, trying to pick the shape of Isambard Black from the shadows.

‘And so you are, so you are … I forget, you are a Colonial boy and as such would never venture away from where you are supposed to be.’ Black grinned as he stepped into the shaft of dust-filled light and looked up at Mariah. ‘But I’m intrigued. There is something about you that fascinates me. I was only saying to my good friend –’ He stopped abruptly as if he had said too much. ‘Pick a card,’ he exclaimed loudly, and suddenly
a deck of bright red-backed cards appeared in his hand as if from nowhere. ‘Just one, that’s all you have to do.’

Mariah walked slowly across the rake of the stage, bent down and picked a card from the offered deck. He looked at the card and held it close to his chest.

‘King of Clubs,’ Black shouted.

Mariah nodded in agreement.

‘Pick another … ’

Mariah picked yet another card and before he could even look Black shouted the suit, colour and crown of the King of Diamonds.

‘One more for luck?’ he asked excitedly, walking up the small wooden steps and on to the stage. ‘Just take one more card and then we will end this frivolity.’

Mariah hesitated. He knew this was all a sleight of hand, that Isambard Black had memorised the cards or in some way had presented them to him so he could pick certain cards from the deck. He eyed the cards one by one, feeling his hand forced in some way by Isambard Black. Purposefully he plucked the card furthest from Isambard’s fingers, at the outer edge of the fan. The sight of the Joker with its telltale cribbed edge and brightly coloured mantle flashed before him.

Mariah tried to hold in the gasp and not give away his churning heart. He had held the card before. It had looked at him with its cross-eyes and magical wand in the carriage from London. Now it stared at him again.

‘The Joker,’ Black said gustily. ‘It keeps coming in your life, Mariah. Perhaps the cards are trying to speak to you.’

‘I would prefer it spoke in the language of men. If you don’t mind, Mister Black, I have to work and Bizmillah will be angry if things are not done for the morning.’

‘Bizmillah, the friendly magician? He’ll be well pleased, especially with
my
magic,’ Black said. He twisted his hand and
from inside his coat slipped a triple-bladed dagger, looking like that which had been carried by the Kraken. ‘Now this is of interest, I am sure,’ he said as he held it out towards the boy. ‘Only three were ever made. They say they were forged in the burning volcanoes of Iceland from a piece of metal ore that has never been found again. It has the sheen of gold and the strength of steel. I am searching for them all and I will hopefully find them.’

Mariah closely scrutinised the triple blades with their jagged tiger-tooth points – gleaming, sharp metal, a whalebone handle and golden hilt. The blades matched perfectly the marks he had seen on the murdered body outside the Three Mariners.

‘Do you think you’ll find them?’ he asked as he stepped away from Black, picking up the sweeping brush. He looked at the knife and then idly sauntered to the shelter of the wings.

‘I search for many things – a pack of cards, a precious box and the daggers. I am a collector of trickery and mechanical conjuring,’ Black said as the shudder came again, spilling more dust from the high ceiling and gently shimmering the stage.

Mariah turned to reply, but Isambard Black had vanished. He looked back and forth, feeling this was part of yet another trick and that Black would appear as quickly as he had vanished. ‘Mister Black!’ Mariah shouted as he walked across the stage and peered into the gloom of the auditorium. ‘Mister Black!’

With great reluctance Mariah turned the gas tap to extinguish the lamp. The stage vanished in the gloom that covered the falling sparkles of silver dust. He held the candle-holder nervously in front of him as he slowly retraced his footsteps to the stage door. Slipping back the bolt, he looked into the passageway leading to the stairs that would take him to the tower. Far away he could hear the voice of the baker, singing as he stacked the oven with the first loaves of the morning. Mariah
was cheered that he was not alone and that if he were to call out then at least there was the faint possibility that someone would hear him.