The Demi-Monde: Winter (13 page)

The Professor made it sound like a walk in the park.

‘Where do I find Norma?’

‘Unfortunately with Norma Williams being a renegade Dupe we are unable to track her accurately, but our last intelligence was that she was active in the Rookeries.’

Marvellous.

‘One final piece of advice, Miss Thomas: the only thing distinguishing you from the other Dupes that populate the Demi-Monde is that you can bleed. We will be introducing a hormone into your body to suspend your menstrual cycle, which would otherwise be mimicked in the Demi-Monde, but we can do nothing to stop bleeding from accidental cuts. I would suggest that you make every effort not to be cut whilst in the Demi-Monde, otherwise your fellow Dupes will know instantly that you are a Daemon.’ He gave Ella what he must have thought was a reassuring smile. ‘All that remains is for me to wish you the very best of luck.’ He turned to the nurse. ‘You may complete the TIS envelopment.’

The nurse placed a mouthpiece between Ella’s lips. Ella felt the black skin of the TIS begin to flow over her chin, over her mouth, her nose, her eyes and then …

MAP OF RODINA.
PLATE 2

It is hereby announced that as from the 31st day of Summer 1003 all use of conjurations, witchcrafts, sorceries and enchantments (including but not limited to the enacting of séances, the making of 4Tellings, the devising of calculations relating to preScientific prognostications, the use of crystals and wands, and the employment of scrying and other forms of divination) is declared illegal (on pain of being declared nonNix) within the frontiers of the ForthRight EXCEPT when said conjurations, witchcrafts, sorceries and enchantments are performed by psychics examined and licensed by the Ministry of Psychic Affairs.

– Decree 8989 relating to the Control and Licensing of Psychic and Occult Practices within the ForthRight: ForthRight Law Gazette, Summer 1003

Of all the seasons in the Demi-Monde, Vanka Maykov liked Winter the best. Oh, he hated the bitter, biting cold, he detested the ankle-deep snow, he abhorred the frosty winds and simply loathed the ice-treacherous pavements. But there were compensations, the principal ones being that during Winter it was permissible for him to wander through the streets of the Rookeries with the collar of his coat turned high, his fox-fur
chapka pulled hard down on his head and a thick woollen sharf wrapped around his face. And dressed like that it was impossible for anyone to recognise him.

Which, when you had Comrade General Mikhail Dmitrievich Skobelev and his bully-boys combing the ForthRight in search of you, was very handy.

Not that Vanka was too concerned that General Skobelev was on the lookout for him: in his opinion the General could look for him for as long as he liked. What Vanka was worried about was the General finding him. That and the small part of Vanka’s anatomy the General had promised to lop off if he did find the psychic.

Vanka had never really understood the emotion of vengefulness, and anyway, how was he to have known that the lady (lady, ha!) in question – Madam Alisha Petrovna Andreyeva – had been General Skobelev’s sister?

The General’s lust for revenge seemed totally ridiculous to Vanka. Why would anyone go to so much trouble just because of a woman? It wasn’t civilised. There were lots of women in the ForthRight and since the Troubles there were a damned sight more women than men. And despite the Party’s urging that they all follow the teachings of UnFunDaMentalism and disport themselves in a modest and ladylike manner, girls would be girls.

Or, as in Madam Andreyeva’s case, very naughty little girls.

At the end of the shadowed street, Vanka made an absentminded left turn into the shit-strewn alleyway that led to the Prancing Pig. He shuddered at the thought of being reduced to asking Burlesque Bandstand for help.

But when Vanka had escaped the General by sliding through the concealed door, out of the back window of his apartment in St Petersburg and down the fire escape, the quandary he
faced was where to run to. And he had to run for it, he had to get out of Rodina while he still had the use of his legs.

He’d immediately corrected himself:
while he still had his legs.
The General’s boys were meant to be really handy with their hatchets.

It hadn’t been much of a stretch to decide to head for the Rookeries. Running to NoirVille was a no-no: Shaka and his gang of cut-throats hated Blanks with a vengeance, and anyway he didn’t fancy being buggered bandy by all the zadniks living there. And an equally unpleasant, if somewhat different, problem confronted him if he was to exit in the direction of the Coven: the Suffer-O-Gettes were so anti-men – well, anti-ordinary-men, Empress Wu had a soft spot for geniuses like Karl Marx and Pierre-Simon Laplace – that trying to hide there would necessitate him having to sing falsetto for the rest of his life. Letting those mad-cow LessBiens chop his bollocks off and turning him into a NoN did not appeal.

The Quartier Chaud had been a possibility. All he would have had to do was pinch a boat and scull across the Thames. His French was pretty good too. And it
was over a year since he’d
sold Godfrey de Bouillon that consignment of adulterated blood. That’s what had finally ruled the Quartier out: Godfrey de Bouillon never forgot and even wearing a mask like all the other CitiZens in the Quartier wouldn’t stop Vanka being recognised. De Bouillon was a mad, vicious bugger and without Madam Alisha Petrovna Andreyeva’s fortune to pay him off …

So the Rookeries were really the only place that Vanka could hide. His English was perfect and with the Rookeries being part of the ForthRight he didn’t need any new documents. He’d done business there too, so he had contacts. The problem Vanka had was blood.

He was sure that the Checkya monitored the Blood Banks, that they had cryptos hanging around noting who was doing what in the Transfusion Booths, trying to spot when transfers and withdrawals were made. And if the Checkya knew, then sure as eggs were eggs General Skobelev would know: someone as important as the General was bound to be able to access Checkya files. If Vanka couldn’t make withdrawals legitimately then he’d have to buy blood on the black market and that was expensive and dangerous, because the black market was run by Shaka’s Blood Brothers.

The other problem he had was that having skedaddled at such short notice all he had to his name was what he stood up in and what he’d squirrelled away in his safe-deposit box at the St Petersburg Blood Bank. Enough to keep him going for a month, tops. A month, that is, if Burlesque didn’t get greedy, didn’t get wind of just how desperate Vanka was for a place to lie low. If he did, then the price of the two shitty garret rooms Vanka now called home would rocket. Burlesque was a master at squeezing people dry. The bastard had really stiffed him on the blood trade they’d done at the end of Autumn.

The odd thing was that yesterday, when Vanka had shown up at the Prancing Pig pub – the dive that Burlesque used as the headquarters for his pub empire – the fat Anglo had been almost friendly, almost as though he was pleased to see Vanka.

Remarkable.

Vanka arrived outside the Pig, stepped over the frozen body of the drunk that was decorating the doorway, took a deep breath and pushed his way inside.

Burlesque Bandstand was sitting in his booth at the side of the pub, dolly-mop at his side, toying with a glass of twenty per cent Solution. He was wearing his usual hangdog expression,
the dog in question being peculiarly mangy and flea-infested.

‘Afternoon, Burlesque, how’s things?’ Vanka said by way of a greeting.

Burlesque looked up from his examination of the hugely fat comic who was fiddling around with the megaphone on the stage and blinked in Vanka’s direction.

‘Hello, Wanker, glad to see the swelling’s going down. Yous look almost human.’

Thanks.

‘My name is pronounced Vanka,’ protested Vanka for the umpteenth time, moderately relieved that in the two days since he’d been beaten up by Skobelev’s boys he had, at last, regained the ability to talk without dribbling down his shirt front. ‘I was born and raised in Rodina.’

‘Vanka, Wanker, Spanker … it’s all the same between friends.’

Vanka grimaced at the thought of being classified as a ‘friend’ of Burlesque’s. Burlesque didn’t do friends, he did debtors.

Waving him into a seat, Burlesque turned his attention back towards the comic and Vanka was – unfortunately – obliged to do the same. It took only a few moments for him to decide that of all the truly diabolical variety acts that Burlesque put on at the Pig – which he laughingly called ‘entertainment’ – Maurice Merriment, the Monarch of Mirth, was perhaps the most dire.

The comedian wasn’t just bad: he’d left ‘bad’ behind several jokes ago and was now exploring that seldom visited and deathly unamusing hinterland that existed somewhere between ‘terrible’ and ‘fucking awful’. So bad that even the fifty-strong audience in the back room of the pub was becoming restless, which was quite remarkable given that Vanka was convinced two of them were dead, and the remainder so blasted by the adulterated Solution Burlesque sold that their relationship with the reality that was the Demi-Monde was tenuous at best. Only
those with a truly outrageous death wish drank ‘Bandstand’s Best Blasting Solution’ and even then they did it with reluctance: no one wanted to go to the Spirit World with nary a tooth in their head.

Fortunately for Vanka’s sanity and Maurice Merriment’s continued good health (the audience was getting
very restless
), the manager of the Pig, the huge and uncompromising Blowback Trundler, strode onto the stage and grabbed the megaphone away from the comic. ‘Thank you, thank you and … thank you. Now, ladies and gentlemen, a big round of applause for Horace Humour, the King of Comedy.’

‘It’s Maurice Merriment, the Monarch of Mirth.’ The comic’s protests were truncated as Blowback’s kick up the arse encouraged him to vacate the stage.

Burlesque Bandstand leant back in his chair and spread his hands contentedly over his ample stomach. The chair gave a protesting groan: Burlesque wasn’t so much round as blobby. ‘So whaddya fink, Wanker?’

‘Think about what?’

‘Abart Maurice-bleedin’-Merriment, ov course,’ said Burlesque, twitching his head towards the now empty stage.

Vanka looked at Burlesque for as long as he was able to stomach it. ‘What do you mean, what did I think? He was terrible, useless, arse-clenchingly bad. It was a uniquely awful performance.’

Burlesque beamed and nudged him in the ribs. Vanka winced: he was still very tender from the kicking Skobelev’s goons had administered. ‘Unique, eh? That’s good, ain’t it? To be unique’s good, ain’t it?’

‘The answer to that question, Burlesque, is both yes and no, or more accurately in the case of Maurice Merriment: no.’

‘So what do you fink ‘e’d ‘ave to do to improve ‘is act?’

‘I’m tempted to suggest suicide.’

Burlesque descended into a sulk: he hated to have his acts criticised. Finally though, after a slurp of Solution, he roused himself to continue the conversation. ‘I’m sorry you fink like that, Wanker. I arsked you ‘ere to get an appreciation ov the standard of artiste I ‘ave performing at the Pig.’

‘Yeah, Burlesque, I appreciate them all right. I appreciate that they’re shit. But I knew that already.’

‘I fort ‘e wos funny,’ observed the girl sitting to Burlesque’s right. Reluctantly Vanka turned his attention to Burlesque’s
trollop de jour
and studied the girl for the first time. Burlesque changed his tarts as often as he changed his socks – more often, decided Vanka, judging by the smell drifting up from under the table – and as the brasses he used and misused were always the most vacuous and stupid of doxies there was little point in engaging them in conversation. But as this one had deigned to express an opinion, Vanka felt obliged to reciprocate with a show of interest. She was just the type of girl that Burlesque preferred: blonde, with a body that looked as though it had been inflated to bursting and then viciously constrained around the neck, waist and ankles. It was like sitting across the table from a sexy blimp, a sexy blimp blessed with the most stupendously enormous tits Vanka had ever seen.

Knowing that his finances were as precarious as the grip the girl’s dress had on her tits, Vanka determined to be as pleasant as possible. He thrust out a hand in greeting. ‘I’m delighted to meet you. I’m Colonel Ivan Ivanovich Maykov, Licensed Psychic, but my friends call me Vanka.’

The girl’s eyes widened. ‘A psychical? Wot, like them seers and such everywun’s bin talkin’ abart? Well, chuffed to meet cha, Wanker; me name’s Sporting.’

An awful feeling of inevitability descended on Vanka. ‘I don’t suppose your surname is Chance by any … er, chance, is it?’

The girl’s dull eyes widened in amazement. ‘Gor blimey, ‘ow d’ya know that? Yeah, that’s me: Sportin’ Chance. You really are one ‘ell ov a psychical, ain’t cha, Wanker?’