Mariah Mundi (28 page)

‘It’s you!’ he said as his mind raced to recognise what lay behind. ‘And the Colonial School?’ he asked slowly, unsure that the faded eaves and slate roof in the picture were those of his home for the last years.

Charity said nothing. He crossed the room and went into the kitchen. A short time later he appeared through the scullery door clutching a folded piece of parchment. Religiously he cleared the table by the window and with great ceremony unfolded each flap until it was laid out before Mariah.

‘Recognise this?’ he asked as he smoothed the paper with the back of his hand.

‘A writ of worthiness,’ Mariah said as he read the lettering at the top of the page. ‘
I, Professor Jecomiah Bilton, in this, the first
year of my incumbency as head of the Colonial School, do hereby
discharge from duty John Mariah Charity into the company of
Her Majesty’s Army for Colonial Service – Student First Class –
23rd December 1866.
’ He read the lines again and again. ‘It was twenty years ago today. You’re a Colonial boy. You have my name. You … you …’ He gulped his words; his head was full
of tears that burnt his lips and tore at his throat. ‘It can’t be true – that means you would have known my father.’

‘Why do you think you carry my name? How did you ever not know who I was? I was your father’s best friend. We shared everything, closer than brothers. When you were born he gave you
my
name. I was in India at the time and never saw the young lad that he wrote so much about.’ Charity pulled a wad of finely wrapped letters from his pocket and placed them on the table. ‘You can see for yourself – they’re all in your father’s hand.’

Mariah untied the wide band and slipped the letters from their clasp. He carefully opened the first one. It was written in purple ink on white vellum. His eyes scanned each line and followed each curl and scrawl. In the bottom corner of the note, folded back to stop the ageing, was a pen drawing of a small boy wrapped in a swaddling band, his head full of wiry hair. A line underneath read:
Mariah – the only time he’s quiet is when he
sleeps
…

‘See,’ Charity said as he smiled at the boy, ‘all I have said is true.’

‘Why didn’t you say?’ the lad asked.

‘Bilton wrote to me and told me of your discharge. I had been in the Sudan searching for your father and mother. The professor was concerned that so many boys had left the Prince Regent, and having had the letter from Otto Luger I took the fastest ship I could find. The train was a coincidence. I never expected a Colonial boy to travel First Class. I would have waited my time and kept watch. Then, when the moment was right, I would have made my presence known.’ Charity looked to Smutch who had fallen asleep in the window seat. ‘There is more to tell, but tonight we must end what has gone on. I know you have it in you. Just like your father. I can see a lot of him in your eyes.’

‘What was he like?’ Mariah asked. ‘He was away so often my memory fails me.’

‘Fine people, Mariah, fine people, kept from you by
circumstances
,’ Charity said, stifling the words.

‘Are they dead?’ Mariah said, rubbing his hands together nervously.

‘That I do not know, but I will return as I cannot rest until I have found proof.’

‘And what of tonight?’ Mariah asked as he stacked the letters on top of each other and tied them again into a tight bundle.

‘We will find Sacha, Felix and Perfidious Albion, and who knows what will become of us?’

A
BOVE the steaming beach, in the darkness of the entrance to the Prince Regent, Sacha felt she was being watched. She had slipped quietly from the moonlit sand and into the cover of the brick portico. Looking back, she saw long moon shadows reaching in like dark fingers. To her right was a large storeroom filled with bathing carriages with their candy-striped covers and large wheels. The wooden lattice door that led into the labyrinth of underground tunnels was unlocked; its chain hung limply as she slipped the bolt and sneaked within.

The sound of the steam generator chugged over and over, the faraway hiss, hiss, hiss echoing though the passageways like a whisper inviting her further inside. The sound came as a reassurance to her, though her journey was blunt and harsh like entering a madhouse against her will.

She was gladdened to see the oil lamp by the door of Luger’s workshop was still lit. Its feeble light shone towards the entrance, clipped by a corner of shadow from the tunnel wall. The ceiling dripped with hot dew that slithered along the stalactites and then fell to the floor, forming large steaming puddles. Sacha knew she would have to find Felix alone. She
couldn’t wait for Captain Charity to decide how it would all be done – it had to be her,
she
had to be the one who set Felix free. As she walked on she tried to justify tying up Smutch and leaving him turkey-trussed and gabbling to himself.

Within a minute she had reached the door at the end of the passageway. It was wedged slightly open by a small dune of sand that had been washed into place by the last high tide. She pulled against the thick iron handle, and the door opened with a low moan like a growling dog. Sacha shuddered as the urge to look behind overwhelmed her. For a moment she thought she could hear faraway footsteps. Quickly she pulled the door shut and slid the bolt on the inside, breathing heavily as she caught her breath. She fought against the urge to run. She began to regret leaving Mariah behind and coming alone. The thoughts of what could be following her multiplied with each step.

In ten paces she had turned the corner and was now spiralling deeper beneath the Prince Regent. To her left was the long dark tunnel that would lead her back to the oyster lagoon; ahead was the passage that would guide her to the Pagurus. She stopped and looked about, sure that the sound of footsteps echoed somewhere beyond – it was the tap, tap, tap of metal tips clattering against the sharp stone floor. Occasionally the sound would come through the tunnel as a muffled thud, then back to the crisp click of metal on stone.

Sacha found the noise would vanish and mix with the sound of the steam generator, and then suddenly it would be there again, echoing closer to where she stood. For a moment she looked at each tunnel, unsure as to where the echoing came from. Far away a door slammed shut, sending a chilled draught towards her. Sacha set off into the narrow chasm towards the oyster lagoon. Her footsteps danced rapidly over each stone as she ran from whoever was behind her.

Drawing nearer and nearer was the sharp sound of clicking
heels. Just ahead was another wooden door, strapped with iron braces. She pulled the metal ring and the door edged slowly open, grinding against the hot stone floor. Her hands sweated upon the metal and she could feel panic slowly rising from the pit of her stomach. She rushed through and pulled the wood against the frame, then slammed the bolt and turned the key.

Sacha looked along the tunnel. To one side was a cutting in the rock as if a burrow had been commenced and then abandoned. It was warm and dark and deep enough for her to hide in without being seen. Quietly she went inside, pressing herself against the wall, holding her breath to stop the panic from breaking out. From beyond the door she could hear the clatter of footsteps coming along the corridor; then they stopped, and the door was suddenly rattled against the lock. Sacha stepped one pace closer and saw the iron ring of the door handle move again.

The rumbling of the steam generator seemed far away. In her heart she knew that someone stood on the other side of the wood and metal slats firmly bolted into their stone casement. She tried to listen even more intently, but all she could hear was the thump of her own heart. The door handle rattled again as someone pressed against the wood. Sacha instinctively slipped a little further into the darkness, just far enough that she could still see the door, and pressed her face against the warm stone. It was soft and dusty against her skin and smelt of the sea.

It was then that she saw a black-gloved hand, the tips of its fingers breaking though the fabric like red talons. It slipped through the wood of the door as if it wasn’t there. The hands grasped for the bolts, attempting to slide them back from the frame.

Sacha cowered down, trying to make herself as small as she could, hunching into the darkness and covering her face with her hands. She felt a twist in her gut as it rumbled and groaned.
Sacha looked again, hoping the hands had vanished back to the far side of the door, but to her terror they had grasped the lock. There was a sudden painful groan like the sound of a dying animalconvulsing. A shoulder was pushed through the solid wood, then a foot, a long white ankle and finally half of the body.

It was clad in a long black dress that clung like a second skin to its wearer. Sacha had seen this person before. It was Monica.

From her hiding place Sacha could see the woman convulsing every fibre of her body, attempting to penetrate the solid wood. It was as if the door fought against her, making a trial of her effort to pass through it. Where Monica’s body had been squeezed through, the wooden slats were dripping with a glistening blue liquid that sparkled in the faint light as it slithered slowly down. By her incredibly neat right foot, sheathed in a shining black shoe, was a pool of the viscous liquid. It was as if it oozed from each molecule of her constricted flesh.

Sacha watched as the first layer of the woman’s forehead was forced through the door. A long, white and very powdered nose slowly appeared and then a bright red-painted lip pushed against a perfect set of American dentures. They sparkled white and twinkling in the soft light of the tunnel as a thin chin then appeared, unmoulding itself from the dark wood and leaving yet more liquid to trickle to the floor. It was a smile Sacha knew well. From inside the cutting in the rock she quickly got to her feet and began to hug the wall as she made her way along the passageway, hoping that she could sneak out of sight before Monica realised she was there.

In a matter of moments, the whole of Monica’s head had been forced through. She peered suspiciously into the tunnel, her sharp eyes looking around her. In a long glance she saw Sacha’s shadow as it crept further away.

‘Don’t think this door will keep me for long,’ Monica said as she pushed with her gloved hands against the stone, trying to
pull her struggling flesh to freedom. ‘If a door can’t keep me then running away won’t do you any good.’

Sacha stopped like a rabbit trapped in Monica’s stare. She felt a sharp tremble of her fingertips as fear took hold of her.

‘That’s a girl,’ Monica growled. ‘Look at me …’

Sacha huddled against the wall, hoping the stones would speak and tell her what to do or that they would suddenly open and swallow her up. ‘I won’t,’ she said as she tried to walk on, suddenly realising that her feet were as heavy as lead.

‘You’re charmed, girl. You won’t get far. Feeling weaker?’ Monica said as she struggled to free herself from the door.

Sacha turned and sheepishly looked towards her. ‘I’ll still get away, I’ve got to –’

‘Get the boy? Felix?’ Monica said as Sacha stared at what looked like a disembodied head stuck to a wooden door. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘You can’t keep him!’ Sacha shouted, pulling against the walls in an attempt to free herself from whatever power now held her fast.

‘And you can’t move,’ Monica grumbled. ‘Caught like a spider in a web and never to escape.’ She mused for a moment and rolled her tongue around her mouth and then moistened her ruby-red lips. ‘Now, what shall were turn you into?’

‘Nothing!’ she shouted, the words echoing down the long tunnel to the oyster lagoon. ‘I’ll be turned into nothing. You won’t call me Scratty and have me china-faced.’

‘So you know? Very clever … Who’ve you been speaking to?’ Monica asked in her Yankee drawl, her neck appearing to be stuck in the door. ‘You’d make a better waxwork than a china doll, or perhaps … perhaps a
stuffed
child would look nice in my room. Covered in paper mashie and painted in bright pink. I could hang an umbrella from your arm and a coat over your head. You could be a hat stand or a lampshade.’ Monica giggled.

‘And you’ll be dead if the Kraken finds you,’ Sacha said, her feet rooted to the ground as if they had penetrated the rock and taken root.

‘The Kraken? So, you’ve found a new friend? How charming. Is he still pining for his companion? Still weeping for his loved one? How romantic. I know many a man who would pay a golden guinea to have his lovers turned into ageless china dolls that sat in the corner and never complained or spent their money.’

‘He said you were a sea witch,’ Sacha said as her feet began to brittle in a fine white powder. A growing stench of brine and old cod oil filled the tunnel, billowing from Monica with every breath.

‘And that I am, gloriously powerful and here for a purpose – to capture you.’ Monica pushed against the stone doorway and managed to pull her dripping flesh halfway through the wood. She stood one-legged, her left foot stuck on the other side. Sacha was frozen to the spot. She glanced to her feet and saw what looked like a rising frost slowly climbing up her legs and crisping her clothes inch by inch.

‘Salting.’ Monica laughed as she tugged on her leg to release it from the grip of the door. ‘It’ll hold you until I am free of this door and can get you myself.’

With a final pull she freed herself from the wood and shook like a wet dog. Drips of bright blue liquid showered the tunnel and mixed with the dank smell of sea salt. Monica looked at Sacha as she stepped towards her. The salting had crawled up to her waist, holding her fast.

‘Now let me see who you are,’ Monica said as she peered at Sacha through eyes that were milky white and misted with a fine skin. She reached out with a long gloved hand, the red fingernails piercing through the black silk.

Sacha panicked as the hand came towards her face, the thick
claws reaching to touch her skin. ‘Leave me!’ she screamed as she pulled away, wanting the sea witch to stop. ‘Leave me now!’

‘Or what will you do?’ Monica said looking even closer to make out her complexion and the shape of her face. ‘Nothing, you’ll do nothing. Just like all you creatures.’

Sacha cowered as the first finger stroked her skin and Monica slid her thin hand around her neck. It was then that she noticed Monica’s face began to dry and crinkle. The pool of brine grew about her feet and the stench of the sea became even more intense – it was the smell of dead fish, fish left in the sun and covered in flies, eaten by maggots and festering until the guts retched. She tried not to breathe, gasping quickly through clenched teeth as Monica’s face was pressed closer to hers. The sea witch peered at her through an ever-milkier eye, the membrane thickening as the fluid seeped from her body.

‘It’s Sacha, isn’t it?’ Monica asked quietly as she scanned the girl’s features for a single point of recognition. ‘Worked for Bizmillah – he’ll be sad you’re gone.’

‘What’ll you do?’ Sacha asked, unable to get away from the stench.

‘Otto’s been looking for you. Who did you come with? There were two of you,’ Monica whispered closely, almost like a kiss. ‘Don’t tell me you came back on your own. Grimm and Grendel chased you from here this morning. I wasn’t foggy-eyed then and even I caught a glimpse of your friend.’ Monica let go of her grip and she counted her fingers like an eagle’s talons. ‘Imagine, Sacha, what these could do to your pretty face. Was it Mariah Mundi who was with you?’

Sacha cast her glance to the floor, her downcast eyes speaking all truth.

‘I knew there was something troublesome about that boy. Otto should never have taken him on. Told him he was one too many but he never listens to any of my thoughts, never listens
to any of his own.’ Monica curled her long nails in front of Sacha’s face like a cat. ‘Still, come midnight, Otto will have enough trouble of his own.’

‘He’s gonna turn you into a waxwork,’ Sacha blurted as she grabbed Monica’s hand and pulled the glove.

‘Never,’ she replied.

‘Saw it myself, hidden in his laboratory. There you were, as bold as brass and made of wax. You’re done for – he doesn’t want you any more.’ Sacha spoke fearfully as slowly the salting that now encased her legs began to crumble. Monica pulled against her, the glove slipping from her arm, then hand and finally from her reddened fingertips.

Clutching the sequined black silk in her hand, all Sacha could see were fleshless bones tipped by painted fingernails. She stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed, her voice stuck in her throat. Monica smiled dryly as the moisture seeped from her painted face.

‘So you finally know. First one to see that in a long time. Can’t have you tell anyone about this, my little girl. The secret has to stay in here. I was gonna take you to see your friend, let you spend your time with Felix and all the others Otto has got stuck in that hell-hole of an oyster farm. Now … now it’s a different end to the story.’ Monica reached into the small purse that she carried around her shoulder. From within she brought out a pair of silver handcuffs. ‘Had other plans for these but I guess you’ll have to be the lucky lady.’

‘I won’t tell, I never saw anything, nothing,’ Sacha said as she closed her eyes, not wanting to see any more.

Monica snapped one cuff upon Sacha’s wrist and squeezed the metal against the flesh. ‘Too late, my girl, far too late. I wouldn’t want Otto to see his hot date was rotting from the inside out.’ Monica sniffed as if about to cry. ‘But if what you say’s true then maybe he won’t be around for much longer
either,’ she said as she slipped the handcuff on Sacha’s other wrist and squeezed tightly. ‘There, my baby. I’ll rest you with your friend and see what Otto has to say for himself before I deal with you.’