The Demi-Monde: Winter (30 page)

‘I can’t wait to see the punters’ faces when yous an’ the Daemon disappear inna puff ov smoke.’

‘I wouldn’t hang around too long after we disappear, Burlesque. Chances are Heydrich will be a little bent out of shape when he finds his prize Daemon has done a runner.’

‘Don’t worry abart me, Vanka. Me an’ the Witchfinder are like that.’ He showed Vanka a pair of crossed fingers. ‘They ain’t never gonna believe that their mate Burlesque Bandstand ‘ad anyfink to do wiv it.’

Vanka kept his face as bland as he was able: he found Burlesque’s optimism almost unbelievably naïve. ‘I hope you’re right, Burlesque, I hope you’re right.’ He gave the hounfo another pat. ‘You know, this will make an amazing swansong to the career of Vanka Maykov: Licensed Psychic.’

‘Wossa “swansong”, Wanker?’

‘Burlesque still hasn’t twigged just how pissed off Heydrich’s going to be,’ said Vanka as he came up alongside Ella. She was staring out of one of the windows at the rear of the ballroom, watching the SS troopers marching up and down in the garden.

‘Oh, don’t worry about Burlesque, Vanka, he’ll be all right. He’s done so much work for the Witchfinder he’s practically a member of the SS. They won’t punish one of their own for the Daemon disappearing. Anyway once I get to a Blood Bank he’ll have half a million guineas to compensate him for any aggravation they might give him.’

‘I just hope we survive to get to a Bank. To my mind making the Daemon disappear is the easy part: escaping through that gate is the real problem.’

Through the ballroom’s windows Ella could see what he meant. Neither she nor Vanka, even in their wildest imaginings, had anticipated that the Daemon would be quite so well protected. The gardens were crawling with black-uniformed SS troopers, these goons supplemented by a detachment of redcoated
regular soldiers. And as the only exit to the outside world seemed to be via the very heavy and very heavily guarded gate they’d passed through when they’d arrived that morning, the inevitable conclusion Ella was coming to was that escaping with Norma Williams would not be easy.

Scratch ‘would not be easy’ and substitute ‘would be nigh on impossible’.

So it was little wonder that Vanka was so concerned. As he had so succinctly put it when he had first seen Dashwood Manor, Ella was giving him ‘a terrific chance to be the richest fucking dead man in the whole of the fucking Demi-Monde’.

Ella felt Vanka shuffle awkwardly.

‘We haven’t got a prayer, you know,’ he said in a conversational sort of way. ‘I thought the Daemon would be guarded, but this is ridiculous. It must be the presence of Heydrich that’s got them spooked. There’s a small army garrisoned here.’

‘We’re going to have surprise on our side, Vanka,’ she suggested encouragingly.

Vanka’s expression turned to one of disbelief. ‘Surprise, Ella? We could have total fucking bewilderment on our side for all the fucking difference it’s going to make. If this hounfo of mine works correctly and if we are able to wriggle through a window without being spotted we’ve still got to run fifty yards across a wide-open lawn that’s guarded by a hundred or so of the best troops in the ForthRight and if, by some miracle, we manage to do that’ – a nod towards the gate leading to the world beyond the Manor – ‘we’ve still got to find a way to vault over a fifteen-foot gate.’

Ella was determined to remain upbeat. ‘It’ll be dark by then.’

‘I don’t want to be a party pooper, Ella, and correct me if I’m wrong but my understanding is that it’s fucking difficult to see in the dark. So difficult that I would give good odds on us all
finding ourselves pitching arse over tit into one of the trenches these SS bastards have dug or getting entangled in the barbed wire these sods have been so enthusiastic about spreading around the garden.’

Ella had never heard Vanka so pessimistic and she found his mood affecting hers. ‘Do you think we should call it off?’

Vanka laughed ironically. ‘Nah. Life’s too short to pass up the opportunity to piss Crowley off as much as you intend to. Anyway, a million guineas is a million guineas. Don’t worry: something will turn up, it always does.’

Trixie left the morning room in a state of shock. She had started the day as a schoolgirl, the daughter of a high-ranking and highly respectable member of the Party, a girl who expected her life to proceed in a well-ordered and predictable manner. She looked to be ending it as a fugitive, with her father arrested for being a counter-revolutionary and a Royalist, and with her safety – even her continued existence – depending on a Polak who was an admitted spy and would-be assassin.

It was almost too much to bear.

It was as though she had wandered into a nightmare. Drained and bemused, all she felt like doing was sleeping and crying. When she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom the temptation to throw herself onto her bed and abandon herself to despair was almost overwhelming, but something stopped her. In that moment Lady Trixiebell Dashwood: schoolgirl and closet RaTionalist, mutated into Trixie Dashwood: resolute young woman.

With an act of will she took all her misery and all her heartbreak and sealed them up inside a ball of hate. It was Heydrich and the ForthRight who were intent on killing her and her father and she swore that she would have her revenge on them.

And those seeking revenge had no use for regret or remorse, no use in squandering time and energy on ‘if onlys’. Her old life was dead – gone – and if she was to have a new life then her first task was to survive. And to survive she had to be strong. She would never cry again.

She stood up straight and threw back her shoulders, then, with a determined nod to herself in the mirror, went to her wardrobe and pulled a box from the bottom shelf. Inside was the costume she had worn in the Academy’s 1003 Spring Eve drama production performed in celebration of the Party’s defeat of the Royalists during the Troubles. Entitled ‘Forward to Victory’, Trixie had played the villain of the piece – a Royalist soldier – and as such she’d had to wear a uniform. It had been the first time she had ever worn trousers and, despite the rather spiteful teasing she’d endured from the other girls, she had thought them eminently practical. And if ever she was in need of a costume that was both practical and a good disguise it was tonight.

She hauled herself into the black serge pants and strapped on the boots she wore when the RightNixes went on their ‘Winter Walks’ into the Hub. She completed her outfitting by donning a thick woollen sweater and an old, but very serviceable, shooting jacket. Then, having packed a small haversack with one or two precious pieces – under no circumstances was she leaving the wedding daguerreotype of her parents for the SS crows to pick over – a change of clothes and a purse of golden guineas, she settled down to wait for Captain Dabrowski.

And as she sat she wondered what her new life in the Warsaw Ghetto would be like. The comfortable, pampered life she had enjoyed in this house was over and a new one, a much harder one, was beginning. She didn’t know a lot about the Ghetto except that it was the sinkhole of the ForthRight: it was where
all the unclean races – the Poles, the nuJus and, ugh, the Shades – were confined, where all the mongrels – the reviled mixlings – hid themselves, where the HerEticals, Royalists, RaTionalists, Suffer-O-Gettes, ImPuritans, HimPerialists and all the rest of the disaffected and the just plain lunatic had scuttled off to in an attempt to avoid the attention of the Checkya. It was a cesspit where all of the ForthRight’s shit was dumped.

It was most certainly not a place where a respectable young woman ventured. Trixie laughed: she wasn’t a respectable young woman any more. If she was captured she would be charged with Complicity in the Execution of Crimes Against the State and that would mean she forfeited all rights as a citizen of the ForthRight. She would be nonNix, just like Lillibeth Marlborough. But the difference between her and Lillibeth was that the Checkya had caught Lillibeth. And if there was one thing of which Trixie was certain, it was that the Checkya would never take her … not alive anyway.

The séance was scheduled for eight that evening.

Vanka checked his watch: there was less than an hour to showtime. As he strapped his mask over his face, he took a deep breath, trying to settle his jangling nerves.

He felt Ella snake her hand through his arm and when he turned towards her he found himself being given the broadest of reassuring smiles. He wasn’t reassured. He was beyond being reassured. But, by the Spirits, she was beautiful. He stopped himself. Surely, he wasn’t doing this because …

He shook his head: Vanka Maykov didn’t do love.

‘I like your mask, Vanka, very dashing. Do you like my makeup?’

‘You look lovely, Ella,’ he admitted. Even swathed in a neck-to-ankle, all-enveloping black cloak she looked lovely. Even with
her face daubed with really quite outrageous stage make-up she looked lovely. Even wearing that strange half-mask she looked lovely.

‘There’s time for one final check,’ Ella said and kissed him on the cheek. The kiss and the sensation of that deliciously soft body pressed against his sent shivers of excitement coursing through him. He wished she’d stop doing that: whenever she kissed him he stopped thinking straight. In desperation Vanka turned his attention to the hounfo and, looking at it in the shadowed half-light of the ballroom, he began to believe that maybe, just maybe they could pull this stunt off.

Dressed in shadows and black netting, the hounfo looked ominous, just like Vanka imagined a temple dedicated to the celebrating of WhoDoo magic should. It was an effect enhanced by the lighting Ella had insisted on using: the ballroom’s gas candelabras were turned down to their lowest setting and limelights had been used to flood the bottom of the walls. It looked decidedly sinister and decidedly spooky.

Which, Vanka supposed, was the whole point.

The sound of loud and insistent hammering from the back of the hounfo brought Vanka out of his reverie. ‘Is everything all right back there, Burlesque?’ he shouted.

‘Yus,’ said Burlesque Bandstand as he appeared from behind the hounfo where he’d been making what he called ‘last-minute adjustments’, which appeared to necessitate him hitting things very hard with a big hammer. ‘Everyfing’s right as ninepence, Wanker. Straight as a die.’ He wiped his oil-blackened hands on the arse of his trousers and leered at Ella. ‘Nice mask, Miss Ella. Iffn you’re innerested I knows a coupla punters who’d pay good money for a bird who’ll dress up like that an’—’

‘Do you remember your instructions?’ interrupted Vanka.

‘Yus. ‘Cors I does. First Miss Ella shouts out “Lord Bondye ‘as
come”, then I let off the bangers and Sid and Alf throw the levers. An’ then I just stand around lookin’ all innocent when the dust ‘as settled and they twig that you two ‘ave ‘ad it away on your toes wiv the Daemon.’ A frown crossed Burlesque’s brow, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Yous got the details ov my bank account in Venice all snug, ain’t cha, Miss Ella?’

‘I have, Burlesque, and as soon as I’m able I’ll transfer your money.’

Burlesque beamed.

‘Excellent,’ muttered Vanka.

The three of them stood for a couple of minutes in silent consideration of the hounfo and what they were about to do … to try to do. Their musings were interrupted by an unexpected visitor.

‘Most impressive,’ sneered a voice from the back of the ballroom.

All three of them jumped in surprise. The doors of the ballroom were locked: Vanka had seen Ella lock them behind her. No one was meant to be able to get into the ballroom.

But Aleister Crowley had.

Crowley, dressed in his ceremonial robes, appeared out of the darkness and gestured towards the hounfo. ‘I had no idea that WhoDoo hounfos were quite so profound.’

Disturbed though Vanka was by Crowley’s sudden material-isation, he didn’t miss a beat. ‘Good evening, Your Holiness. A hounfo of this size is needed because, as the subject for tonight’s séance is a Daemon, it is important that all the astral energy the mambo Laveau conjures is concentrated. That is the purpose of this hounfo: it better enables her to commune with the loa – the good Spirits – and so encourage them to possess her body. The loa are needed to aid her to dominate the Daemon’s
will.’ As Crowley edged closer to the hounfo, Vanka could feel his heart starting to flutter. If he made too close an examination of their box of tricks, he would be sure to spot its none-too-subtle secrets. Vanka gave Ella a quick, anxious glance and then, remembering the rigmarole she had taught him about WhoDoo magic, he did his best to distract the man. ‘The hounfo also keeps out the djabs and the baka, the devils and the evil Spirits that are associated with Daemons,’ he said at a rush.

Unfortunately Crowley didn’t seem to be of a mind to be distracted.

‘Is that important? Surely a mambo of Miss Laveau’s power won’t be troubled by evil Spirits?’ Crowley mused as he tested one of the gates.

Please …

It was Ella – or rather Ella in her role of Marie Laveau – who saved the day. ‘If any ov dem mischievous baka mount me, Yous Holiness,’ she said in a very dusky voice, ‘den dere ain’t no telling what will happen.’

Crowley paused in his examination of the hounfo and turned to look at Ella. ‘Mount you?’

Ella nodded. ‘Sure ting, Yous Holiness. Dat’s what it’s called when de bad baka take possession of a serviteur like me. But as ah’m up against a Daemon tonight ah need to conjure de Great Lord Bondye himself to help me and to do dat ah’ve gotta look mah best. De trouble with looking mah best is dat if a baka was to see me he might be liking a taste ov some ov what ah’ve got on offer. That’s why I need a hounfo to protect me.’

Crowley’s interest in the hounfo faltered: he eyed Ella carefully. ‘And what would happen if you were possessed by one of these baka?’

She dropped her eyes as though embarrassed. ‘Well, wit you being such a mighty mystic, Yous Holiness, yous know dat de
most powerful incantations are made when dere is a lot of sexual energy in de air. Dat’s what ah’ve got to do tonight … rouse de desires of de Spirits.’

‘Why?’ asked Crowley, his voice having risen an octave or two.