Read Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Online
Authors: Lori Williams,Christopher Dunkle
Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1)
Text copyright © 2012
Christopher Dunkle and Lori Williams
Illustrations copyright
© 2012 Derek and Phillip Marunowski
All Rights Reserved
For those who’ve
helped shape this world, those who’ve encouraged its creation, and my lovely
Lori, without whom the Doll and this work would never exist.
-
Christopher
Prologue –
The Story of New London
Chapter Two –
The Bottle and the Fox
Chapter Four
– The Girl Behind the Glass
Chapter Five
– Beggar’s Vacation
Chapter Six –
Enemies to the Crown
Chapter Seven
– The Bulletproof Gambler
Chapter Nine
– The Gaslight Tea House
Chapter
Twelve – More Than Capable
Chapter
Fourteen – Pocket the Gentleman
Chapter
Fifteen – Gifts and Goodbyes
Chapter
Seventeen – The Doll’s Diary, Part the First: Dreams I’ve Had
Chapter
Eighteen – The Red Flower
Chapter
Nineteen – Return of the Motorists
Chapter
Twenty – The Great Comedy of the Windmill
Chapter
Twenty-One
- Damnable Pity
Chapter
Twenty-Three – The Doll’s Diary, Part the Second: Steps I’ve Walked
The Story of New London
England. June
1840.
Two months into
her marriage and pregnant with her first child, Queen Victoria is taking a
public carriage ride with her husband, Prince Albert. A mad tavern worker named
Edward Oxford interrupts the Queen's ride and fires two shots at the couple,
striking both in the head. Both die along with Victoria's unborn daughter.
Oxford is deemed insane, but because of the severity of his crime, is sentenced
to death by hanging. The Queen's assassination, however, throws the country
into a fevered panic, and with no direct heir left to claim the throne, England
enters its “Black Period,” a time of civil discord, international disapproval,
and broken government.
England. 1850.
England barely
survives a decade under the rule of a string of temporary figureheads.
Determined to find a proper heir to the throne, Parliament hunts down the man
they believe to be the closest living blood relative to the late Queen, a man
named Alexander Renton. Absolute evidence of Renton's royal lineage is never
presented, yet the public accepts him as a successor. He ascends the throne,
becoming Alexander I, and the great suffering of Britain finally comes to a
close. What follows is England's “Bright Period,” a time of incredible societal
and especially technological advancement. Brooding heavily on Victoria's fate,
Alexander becomes obsessed with preventing the country from falling into
another decline, and pushes the advancement of medical, mechanical,
militaristic, and scientific studies. The British Empire soon evolves into an
empire of machines, primarily built upon the developments of the forgone
Industrial Revolution. Alexander's motivations and drive to improve results in
a greater acceleration in these developments, particularly the commercial use
of steam power, burning gas, and even a select few, limited, and experimental
uses of electricity. Thanks to Alexander's fervent enthusiasm, England
progresses over the next thirty years into a technological marvel. To make an
example to the rest of the world, who had lost great faith in the British
Empire over the preceding Black Period, Alexander I decrees the rebuilding of
London, once the centerpiece of the empire that had since fallen into horrible
disrepair. The entire area is rebuilt very nearly from the ground up and
becomes what poets of the period call “a monument in steel and brass, a city
alive with the perpetual turning of clockwork.” Alexander proudly titles his
city “New London.”
Victoria's death
also stirs in Alexander the importance of security. Under his command, the
monarchy becomes heavier guarded and far more secretive. While this creates a
feeling of detachment amongst the citizens, there is no great protest against
this change. The public as a whole accepts these measures, wanting dearly to
prevent another chance at assassination. Alexander becomes increasingly
private, almost never appearing in public. He also creates the Royal Magnate
Militia, a highly-trained, heavily-armed group of advisors who exist primarily
as direct protection for the King, but also as general peacekeepers upon the
streets on the city. The Magnates, as they are commonly known, become a symbol
to the public of the King's unwavering dedication to security.
New London,
England. 1888.
New London continues to grow and prosper, and by 1888, it is again a
culturally-vibrant city and political hot spot. Steamships and zeppelins fill
the sky, electric carriages and steam-fueled motorbikes zip through the
streets, and gaslight lanterns glow upon every corner. As the city grows,
however, so does the inevitable backlash against the aging Alexander I. People
grow uncomfortable and suspicious of the King's secretive demeanor and demand
to be more informed of the country's international dealings. Alexander takes
great offense to these protests and in response becomes even more private with
England' affairs. Further complaints are silenced publicly thanks to the
intimidating presence of the Magnates, but discontented conversation continues
behind closed doors. It is a period of achievement and discord, of growth and
isolation. Of those pushing forward toward modernity and those left behind by
it. Contrast is the flavor of the times.
New London,
England.
October 1,
1888.
Twelve-fifteen
A.M.
It is the meeting
of the seasons, as crisp autumn changes into frigid winter. Snow has begun to
fall and at this silent minute the city seems dead. It is a moment of bleeding
in the city, as the last of the lively pubs open their doors and drain their
patrons out into the streets. In one block of shops, down one such street,
stands one equally-bled tavern, the Good Doctor. The last of the Doctor's
customers
are plodding through the door, and the establishment is quickly emptied, save
for the two remaining at the bar. One's a customer, one's a tender, and between
them is only air and time and a sticky glass mug.
Oh, and one of
them is me.
I suppose that's
relevant to add.
-
W. C. P.
Pocket and Dandy
October 1, 1888
“You ever fall in
love with the end of the world, Mister Alan?”
“That more of your
poetry, Pocket?”
“Not this time,
I'm afraid.”
“Because it's
getting a little late for poetry.”
“Then don't
worry.”
“I won't.”
“Good.”
“All right. I'll
bite.”
“It's a long
story.”
“You finish your
drink?”
“Wait...yeah.
Done.”
“Then go ahead and
talk. Your tab's due.”
“Normal price?”
“Normal price. A
story for a round. But tell it good, Pocket. Lots of flash and pop and romance.
Give me my beer's worth.”
“The beer was a
little watery tonight.”
“Then you can give
me a weak ending. I don't care. Just start entertaining. It's getting dull in
here.”
“Of course it is.
It’s closing hour. I should be leaving, not spinning stories.”
“You think I’m
letting you away with an unpaid tab? Bah. Start spinning.”
“All right, fine.
If you’re so desperate for it, then…let me think. It all started more than a
few weeks ago...in a bar much like this, come to think of it. You were there. I
was—“
“No, no, no,
Pocket. You can't just start off a good story with 'I was sitting in a bar and
then this happened.' You've gotta start strong.”
“All right
then...um...Ah. Got it. The cold British wind never feels quite so present as
it does between the cracks of your fingers as you claw your way, tired and
broken, to the tip of the highest steeple you've ever seen, your hands charred
and dirty, your eyes on the figure poised on the point, framed in her tragedy
by that divine moon.”
“Whoa, whoa. Wait
a minute. Now you're on a steeple? On top of a church?”
“Well, yeah.”
“How did you get
up there? What happened to the bar?”
“You said you
didn't like the bar. And the steeple scene has flash. It's the big climax.”
“You can't just
give me the big flash right away like that! You've got to work forward to it!”
“Well, I thought I
could work backward and—“
“No, no, no.
That's terrible. Look, just stick with the bar scene. Go from there. And none
of that 'divine moon' talk. I've heard it a thousand times.”
“Okay…”
“And at least give
this thing a title. Something that sticks with your audience.”
“You're a demanding
critic for a bartender, Mister Alan.”
“I'm demanding
when I'm bored.”
“Okay, okay.
This…uh…okay…this begins the story of a girl.”
“Oh, good. I like
those.”
“Will you let me
tell it? Okay…this is the story of the unlucky. Of those select, unfortunate few
that funny Mistress Fate picks like fallen cherries from the dirt and throws
together under the baking heat of a fantastical pie. A pie of confusion and
adventure. A pie of curiosity and pursuit and danger and, uh, vivacity! A pie
of heartache and joy, of danger and revelation! A pie—“
“I thought you
were going to tell the girl story.”
“This
is
the girl story!”
“Not the way you
tell it. Sounds more like a cooking story.”
“Look, the image
of the pie is there to paint a picture in the imagination of the audience.”
“So they'll be
thinking about pie?”
“Okay, forget the
pie. This is...sigh...this is, Mister Alan, the story of the most beautiful
girl I have ever seen and the most ugly ride I have taken at her side. This is
the story of your humble narrator, and above all other things, Mister Alan,
this is the story of the turnkey girl.”
It was the dead of
night in the golden city and I was off hiding from the cold and my own boredom.
A few yellow-brown bubbles popped on the surface of my beer, I remember because
I was counting them for entertainment while I waited to be drunk. Alcohol and I
have an understanding. We keep the relationship professional. While a lot of
gentlemen and even ladies I've met hold onto the philosophy that fun lies at
the bottom of a glass bottle, I still maintain that the pastime of drinking is
merely a stand-in for enjoyment, not a source.
I could, of
course, be wrong in this theory. It is equally plausible that I'm just not a
very fun drunk. At any rate, it wasn't stopping me from emptying my glass that
night.
“Another round,
Pocket?” the barkeep asked, leaning over the worn, wooden counter, his elbows
hovering centimeters above the splinter-ridden surface. The Brass Rail wasn't
known for much, and…something…something witty about its atmosphere, lack of
atmosphere...sorry, I'm still drunk. Anyhow, it was a room with two ceilings,
the lower of which was an artificial layer of grey-black smoke provided by the
pub's exhaling clientele.
The bartender
asked again if I was interested in another glassful of distraction. I don't
recall what answer I gave, but if I decided on another beer he must've quickly
forgotten about it, as I never received it. Just as well. I was content sipping
on the remainder of my glass and watching the bartender not serve me a drink.
“Okay, Pocket. I
get it.”
“Stop
interrupting. You're about to make your debut.”
The
barkeeper left his post and began fiddling with a rickety music box that was
rigged up in the least cobwebbed corner of the place. A few kicks to its worn
casing and a flourish of semi-sour notes filled the room.
“Ah!” the
bartender announced, pride in his eyes. “What did I tell you?”
I raised my glass
to him as he slid back behind the bar top. No one else I've met could ever get
that box to spit a song.
“I was an idiot to
ever doubt you, Mister Alan.”
“Yes, you were.”
I caught myself
grinning and hid it behind my glass. The playing needle hit a particular bump
in the turning wax cylinder, and the vocals began. Alan cracked open a new
bottle of something and began singing along.
“Black sky
tonight, and it ain't gettin' any brighter. Ships fly this night, but I think
they're gettin' lighter…”
Alan Dandy. Good
man, really, and an acquaintance I've made over time with very little effort.
He's…I guess you could call him a freelancer, though it's unusual for such a
profession. He works nights, tending bars across the city. I suspect he only
takes jobs at dumps like the Brass Rail
to mess around with the music
boxes. Guy's got a soft spot for music. Like I said, I've never considered
myself to be a career drinker, but he must think I am by now. I keep managing
to run into Alan at various corner pubs and taverns all over New London. I
don't know why. Call it fate. Sometimes I wonder if there's some reasoning behind
which people you get stuck around in life, but then that's a storyteller
response, isn't it? I'll leave it up to you. Anyway, the night rolled on and
Alan rolled along with it, slapping bottles onto the counter for his
whisker-riddled customers.
“Hold off a
second, Pocket.”
“Now what?”
“Why are you
telling me about myself? I know who I am.”
“Look, if I'm
going to tell this whole story once, I may as well be prepared to tell it
again. I've got to get used to setting up characters. This is my meal ticket,
you know.”
“All right. Just
move on, already. You've talked enough about me.”
“You shy, Alan?”
“Just get on with
it.”
“Okay, so where
was I…”
I wobbled on my
stool for awhile and tried hard to listen to the music instead of the
inebriated claims of female conquest that were being wheezed around me.
“I like the song,”
I said to Alan.
“What's that?”
“I like the song.
The singer, she's got a nice voice.”
“Yeah, that's a
classic. Lady Jay.”
“Hmm?”
“The singer. Lady
Jay.”
“Haven't heard of
her.”
“You should. Great
string of hits.” He poured something wet and rust-colored into a tumbler and
slid it to a customer.
I took another
uninterested gulp and realized that someone sitting next to me had been tugging
on my shoulder for a good, I'd say, two minutes. It was a blonde someone and
she smiled at me. I smiled back out of courtesy. The blonde someone was
spinning her ankles around the edge of the stool and spitting peanut shells.
She must have been seven, eight at the oldest.
My luck, the first
woman to ever approach me in a pub…
“Hello, hello!”
the little thing said.
“Hi,” I replied.
“What are you
doing?”
“Sitting.”
“Oh. Me too!”
“Congratulations.”
I took another swallow of beer and watched the child spin in her seat. “Aren't
you a little young to be in a place like this?”
“My daddy says
it's okay. I have ta' wait for him ta' finish doing daddy things.”
“Ah. Good man.” I
tried, without success, to return to my drink.
“My name is
Annabelle.”
“Hi Annabelle.”
“What's yours?”
Sigh. I fished
around in my coat pocket and produced a small, dog-eared, white calling card
and handed it to the girl. She took it in both hands and furrowed her brow.
“Can you read?”
“Of course I can
read!” She furrowed some more, then traced her thumbs over each printed black
letter that spelled out: WILL POCKET, THE ABSYNT BARD OF NEW LONDON.
“You misspelled
'absent,'” she finally said.
“I didn't print it
myse—”
“What's a bard,
then?”
At that point,
Alan returned to my spot on the bar to collect empty glasses and sweep up Miss
Annabelle's peanut shells. I shot him a look, hoping for a little assist in
escaping my present company. He grinned and nodded back to me.
“Yeah, Pocket,” he
said. “What's a bard, then?”
My mood, my face,
and, somehow, my beer instantly soured. I met Alan's question with restrained
annoyance and began to tap on the bar.
“Well…” I said,
surrendering to this barstool interrogation. “It's like a performer.”
“Like an actor?”
asked the girl.
“Sort of, but more
of a storyteller. With tricks and songs and such.”
“Oh! Do you sing,
Mister Pocket?”
“Well…not really.
I mean, not extremely well.” That was slightly understated. I am horrible.
“Oh,” she said.
She stood up on her chair and tried to reach over the bar top to grab at more
peanuts. Alan restrained her and she began a very noisy protest. I thanked the
heavens for the opportunity and tossed the only bills in my pocket on the
counter.
“I'll see you
around, Alan.”
“Whoa! Pocket!” he
shouted back to me, now clinging to the girl's ankles as she thrashed at him.
“Get back here! This isn't going to cover your rounds!”
“That's all I've
got at the moment. Can't I owe you the rest?”
“I don't know when
I'm going to see you again!”
“I'll come back
here tomorrow night.”
“I'm not working
tomorrow night!”
“Watch your
fingers,” I advised as the child brandished her teeth.
“Look, why don't
you—OW!”
“Told you.”
“Why don't you
tell a story for the balance and we call it even?”
“It's getting late
for stories, Alan.”
I realize now how
often I seem to be making this argument.
“A story!” yelled
Annabelle, “I want a story!”
“Fine, a story,” I
said, rubbing my temples, “What about?”
“Tell one about my
daddy!” Annabelle shouted.
“Fine. Once upon a
time, there was a little girl named Annabelle and one day her father went out
and killed a dragon. The end. God save the King. Goodnight, Alan.”
“My daddy never
did that! Tell me a
true
story!”
“I...uh...all
right. What does your daddy do?”
“He works for the
castle!”
“All right, then.
Once upon a time, there was a man named…”
“Annabelle's
daddy!”
“…Annabelle's
daddy, and he worked for the greater good of all of Britain, serving proudly
as…what is it he does?”
“He's a magpie!”
“A wha…do you mean
a Magnate?”
“That's it!”
“Your father's a
Magnate?
All right…eh…so Annabelle's daddy worked bravely night and day, tending obediently
to the whims of our great Alexander. Annabelle's daddy and his fellow men
patrolled the streets of England in grand black robes that bore blood red
emblems in the shape of crowns, the famous mark of the King's personal militia.
They fought hard and true and made sure that the people who didn't realize that
they needed constant supervision were constantly supervised. The end. God save
the King.”
I moved into the
direction of what I thought was the front door only to collide face-first with
the large frame of a barrel-chested man with curled blond bangs and a
squared jaw.
“Evening,” I said.
“You tell
stories?” he said, snorting through his nostrils.
“He tells lots of
stories!” shouted Annabelle, who was suddenly standing behind me. She handed
him my card, and the man stood there for a moment, squeezing it in his sweaty,
thick wrist.
After about a
minute, his extended brow began to furrow.
“Can you read?” I
asked. He flicked the card off of my forehead and huffed.
“You talk a lot.”
“Kinda helps to
tell a story.”
That was when he
threw me onto the bar. It gets better.
“Is there a
problem?” I politely inquired.
“Yer story,” he
said. “Found it a little insulting.”
My head was
resting on the wider ends of two overturned beer bottles.
“How so?”
His meaty hand
grabbed at the buttonholes of his whiskey-soaked jacket, popping it open. From
inside, he retrieved a small leather flap with a red-on-silver symbol of a
crown pinned onto it.