The Equivoque Principle (14 page)

‘I have the perfect target in mind,’ said Bishop Courtney as he forced a wan smile. ‘His name is Police Commissioner Oliver Dray.’

I
T IS OF NO
use, boss, I cannot budge this from its frame,’ cried Butter, sliding his back against the door to the floor. He rubbed furiously at his eyes with the palms of his hands, frustrated at his lack of progress. ‘Would you like try?’

Cornelius Quaint did not answer.

‘Perhaps you will fare better than I,’ called out Butter in the darkness of the ice box, crawling on his hands and knees. ‘Boss? Mr Quaint?’

The Inuit patted his hands through the air around him, searching for Quaint, and suddenly they found purchase on the man’s shirt. Panting as if he’d just run a mile, Butter clamoured at Quaint’s chest. He laid his head down onto it, listening for the beat of the man’s heart.

Nothing.

Scratching along the cold, icy floor of the ice box in the complete blackness, Butter found Quaint’s arm. He wrenched the sleeve open at the cuff, and rushed to check the man’s pulse. It was incredibly slow, but just about there. The cold was slowing down Quaint’s body functions to a crawl.

‘Curse my stupidity,’ Butter yelled at the ceiling. ‘I should not have turned my back on you…now you suffer!’

Again he clamoured at Quaint’s chest, and thumped his fists upon it. In truth this was more a way of him releasing his frustration than anything. To all intents and purposes, Butter was now alone in the ice box, and his curses fluttered in the air like confetti at a wedding. He had not realised just how much he relied on Quaint’s company for all these many years, and now it was being painfully driven home to him.

Without Quaint, the tiny man would surely have died alongside his wife back in the icy wastes of Greenland ten long years before. Walrus poachers had encroached upon Butter’s land, and when he had tried to defend his family, they beat Butter to within an inch of his life, before brutalising and then murdering his wife. The poachers’ final act of evil was to kidnap his young daughter, and they stole her away from him aboard their icebreaker ship, mocking the injured Inuit as he clung onto his life in the snow. He very nearly died that day, and surely would have if Cornelius Quaint hadn’t stumbled across him and dragged him to safety. What on earth the conjuror was doing out in the middle of nowhere that day, Butter didn’t know and didn’t care. He was salvation.

Quaint had promised to help Butter find his kidnapped daughter, and they became united in their dedication. But over the years, the world changed. Borders and countries expanded, empires were formed, and suddenly the globe seemed such a very large haystack within which to find his needle. Butter’s precious daughter had simply vanished off the face of the earth, and despite the best efforts of both men over some years; they eventually had to admit defeat. It was not long after that when Quaint adopted Butter into the circus, but still the Inuit refused to mourn his daughter. The fire still burned inside him to find her, and he had never given up on his hope. As he sat by Quaint’s side on the freezing floor of the wooden ice box, he realised that hope itself was fading fast.

Lifting Quaint’s lifeless body up onto his lap, Butter wept
openly, freely and loudly. The air was extremely thin now, and soon he would join Quaint in unconsciousness. He cursed at the door, finding the last, ethereal scrap of strength still left within him. He held onto it tightly within his clenched fists, nurturing its potency, cultivating it. Rocking his head back, Butter released his anger and bellowed with all his might. His tear-filled eyes were clamped tightly shut, and he prayed for a merciful release.

Suddenly, a flurry of scuffling footsteps outside the ice box door distracted him from his silent wanderings. Had the Lord sent him help already? That was quick work, even for a God. Butter inched himself closer to the metal door, but recoiled instinctively as a thought struck him. Perhaps it was his captors, come to finish the job? Maybe that merciful release would come soon. He listened intently for more sounds with his ear to the metal door, and sure enough, in the warehouse something stirred. It hammered a succession of heavy blows upon the door from the other side, and Butter felt a further chill rip through his nerves. He moved nearer, and pressed his worn hands flat against the freezing cold metal.

‘Hello?’ he called weakly, forcing back his tears. ‘Please, you must help. My friend…he is near death! Release us…please!’

‘Stand away…from the…door, laddie,’ yelled a man’s voice from outside.

The door shifted a little in its frame, accompanied by a rending scream of metal, as someone—or some
thing
—tore at the door’s hinges. A thin seam of moonlight was slowly visible all around the door’s edges. Butter felt his mouth quiver in anticipation. A sudden shock worked its way through his bloodstream as the door that he had spent nearly an hour hammering upon was forcibly ripped from its moorings and tossed aside as if it were made of balsa wood. Landing with a dull clang of metal against stone, it skidded across the warehouse floor. Heavy footsteps again pounded against the wet stone floor, drawing ever closer. Butter
squinted through the onrush of sudden moonlight, trying to define what he saw.

A silhouette of a great, towering man stood in the ice box doorway, almost filling the entire space. Bathed in wistful light as if surrounded by a ghostly aura, the voluminous figure stooped down and gathered up Quaint.

His eyes still fighting to adjust to the light, Butter had no choice but to gawp at the large mountain of a man with Cornelius Quaint’s inert body in his enormous arms. He rose to his feet, and cautiously clambered from the ice box and followed the huge man, as he gently laid Quaint’s body down onto a nearby table. In a daze, he watched anxiously as the shadowed form of the man rubbed busily at Quaint’s chest.

‘Got here…just in time, lad,’ said the juggernaut.

‘Indeed,’ answered Butter automatically.

‘He’s…in a bad way. Need t’warm him…quick,’ said the bulky man in a thick, interrupted staccato drawl. Each word seemed to be a foreign language to him, and he fought to grasp each one clumsily between his huge fists. ‘Butter, are ye injured?’

‘How do you know of me?’ questioned Butter, squinting into the darkness. ‘Who are you?’

The giant of a man smiled, his thick, bushy beard hiding much of his broad mouth. He stepped into the shafts of moonlight streaming into the market through a crack in the wall, and Butter instantly recognised the face illuminated before him.

‘Is it really you?’ he gasped.

‘Yes, lad…last time I checked,’ said Prometheus.

‘B
UT…BUT…BUT
–’ stuttered a stupefied Butter, his mouth failing to respond to his brain’s commands to speak. His eyes and ears tried to grasp the sight and sound before him. ‘Butter?’ said Prometheus. ‘Calm…yerself, lad. Take a…deep breath.’

‘But, no! Is not possible!’

‘Look, if ye’ll just let me–’

‘But…but you are talking,’ Butter declared. ‘With a voice!’

‘Barely, but it ain’t easy,’ said Prometheus. ‘Words’re like soap…can’t hold onto ’em. Can see ’em in me head…but sayin’ ’ems a…dif’rent matter.’

‘But this is not so,’ cried Butter, scratching tufts of thick black hair.

‘Lad, that’s four…sentences you’ve started…with the word “But”.’ Prometheus wiped his hands down his face in frustration. ‘Now please…listen t’me! Cornelius is sick, we need–’

‘Crazy! Yes, that is it,’ said Butter. He stared at the floor, as if that might provide him with some answers. ‘I am crazy. Mad as Hatter! There is no talking Prometheus. The time in that metal prison has addled my senses!’

Prometheus tore off his thick woollen coat, untied his scarf, and placed them both over Quaint’s body. ‘We don’t have…time for this, man! Cornelius needs…help! And fast! Don’t ye see? Where’s the, ah…the Madame?’

‘Madame Destine? Madame not here,’ mouthed Butter robotically.

‘Yeah, I guessed that. Damn it,’ cursed Prometheus. ‘Gettin’ nowhere. Like talkin’…to a bloody parrot. Butter…for…God’s sake, man…snap out of it! I…need your…
help
here.’

‘Prometheus,’ whispered Butter, entranced. ‘Needs…
my
help?’

‘Cornelius is…damn near frozen, Butter, y’get me? His whole body’s…in shock—luckily for him, or else…he’d prob’ly be dead.’

‘Dead!’ snapped Butter, stomping his foot upon the ground. ‘But not dead?’

Prometheus shook his head. ‘This is madness…We need t’warm him up…and we need t’do it
now!’
The giant clamped his bushy mouth onto Quaint’s, holding his friend’s nose with his hand. He breathed warm breath into the still lungs, and then quickly swapped the hand to his chest to pump the heart. It had now been at least five minutes since Quaint had drawn a full breath, and time was of the essence. Again, Prometheus breathed and pumped and breathed and pumped, and again there was no response from Quaint. Prometheus massaged his heart in a rhythmic motion unrelentingly, as Butter’s fragile mind slowly came around to the prospect that maybe it wasn’t quite so addled after all.

With a sudden cough, followed by a gasp for air, Cornelius Quaint sat bolt upright on the table, with Prometheus supporting his back. He coughed again, a dry, hoarse cough, and he clawed madly at his throat. His forehead was speckled with perspiration.

‘Wuh…Wuh…Where…?’ he wheezed.

Butter rushed to his side, snapped out of his confused state.
‘Boss, lie still. You are quite safe…and look,’ he exclaimed. ‘Prometheus is here!’

Quaint craned his neck to see the huge form by his side, rubbing away at his back.

‘Prom? Is…is it really you?’ he whispered.

‘Aye, mate, but…lay still and rest.’

Quaint responded to the giant’s words with a furrowed brow. ‘But…you can talk?’

‘That is what I said…he speaks!’ said Butter. ‘But–’

‘But–’ began Quaint. ‘But you can’t–’

‘Oh, this…this is just grand. Now…it’s infectious!’ said Prometheus, shaking his head. ‘Will ye both…
please
stop saying “But”? Just…ah…just take it easy, Cornelius. I’ll tell ye all…once I c’n…grasp th’words meself!’

Quaint rubbed at his neck, casting aside Prometheus’s thick coat. ‘Forget that! I can recuperate later, man. It’s damn good to see you again, my friend, but we don’t have time for a reunion right now. We need to get back to the…to the…to the train,’ Quaint tried to stand, his legs buckling like those of a newborn foal. He strained, and stared into Prometheus’s large brown eyes. ‘Prometheus, my good man, do me a favour will you?’

‘Anythin’,’ the Irishman replied.

‘Catch me.’

Quaint’s eyes rolled to the top of his head, his legs totally gave out beneath him and he slumped limply into Prometheus’s open arms. He was unconscious once more and, within moments, snoring loudly. Prometheus clutched Quaint’s sleeping form to his warm chest.

‘Some welcome home party this turned out t’be,’ said Prometheus.

Half-an-hour later, Cornelius Quaint re-entered the world of the living and came round again. His mouth was dry, and he stared intently at the huge figure in front of him. As if this was the first time they were seeing him, Quaint’s eyes took in every detail of the strongman. His hands reached out, and clasped Prometheus’s jacket tightly to prove to himself that he was no mirage.

‘Christ, Prometheus, it really
is
you!’ Quaint said, desperately trying to restore saliva to his mouth and dry lips.

‘In the flesh, Cornelius.’

‘I thought we’d lost you for good, my friend.’

‘I
was
lost…an’ bits of me still are I think,’ Prometheus said awkwardly. ‘From…th’look o’those bodies over there…we should move on. Someone’s sure…t’come back and check on ye…and they’ll…expect ye t’be dead. Where can we go? The train?’

‘Not just yet, there’ll be Peelers all over it,’ said Quaint. ‘Butter, how about the boat we came here in? Is it large enough for all three of us?’

‘It is doubtful, boss,’ said Butter. ‘But I agree…I have no wish to remain here long myself.’ The Inuit stared at the bodies littering the warehouse floor, and his mind wandered briefly back to the battle, and the lives he had been forced to take.

Quaint stared at his pocket-watch. ‘Let’s try and make it to Hyde Park and to shelter as quick as we can; the circus is as good a place as any to hide out.’

‘Christ!’ cursed Prometheus, as he scratched at his bald head. ‘Wish I could just…get these damn…words out, man. Surely…th’circus will…be the first place the police…will think of looking.’

‘Or the
last
place, depending how smart they are. We’ll have to take the side roads to avoid bumping into anyone. There’s no better hiding place than in plain sight,’ said Quaint, sizing up
Prometheus and Butter. ‘But look at the two of you…an Eskimo and a giant. I doubt that I could be travelling with anyone
more
conspicuous!’

Prometheus mouthed silently, and smacked the side of his head as if trying to jar the right words into his mouth. ‘Mebbe we should…split up, like? Three targets’re harder t’find…than one, right?’

‘Well, you can forget that,’ snapped Quaint. ‘I’ve only just
found
you…I’m not about to risk losing you again. We need to get word to Destine at the railway station that you’re safe, and let her know what’s happening.’

‘Perhaps I go, boss?’ offered Butter. ‘Boat not hold us all, but I alone? Yes! It shall be not a problem. I go back to station and tell the Madame we found Prometheus.’

‘Actually…’twas
me
that found the two o’
ye
!’ said Prometheus.

‘And just in the nick of time, apparently,’ said Quaint. ‘Butter, if you’re sure you want to go alone, then by all means, but we don’t want any unwanted attention. Just tell Destine to continue as normal. No need to drag her half-way across town tonight. Tell her to leave a skeleton crew onboard the train, and bring her out to the park first thing in the morning.’

Butter nodded dutifully. ‘It shall be done, boss.’

‘And Butter?’ asked Quaint, watching the Inuit spin on his heels. ‘Those men mentioned me by name, remember? So it’s a safe bet someone wants me dead. We don’t know who our enemies are, but they surely know us. Be on your guard.’

‘Thank you, boss, I will,’ said Butter with a bow, and he skipped out of the warehouse towards the rowing boat.

Prometheus and Quaint watched as Butter pulled hard on the boat’s oars, rowing away into the enveloping fog of the night. Within seconds, the misty shroud had swallowed him and he was
no longer visible. Prometheus turned to Quaint, and slapped a huge hand on his friend’s back.

‘He’s…a
plucky
little thing, isn’t he?’ said Prometheus with a tug on his bristles. ‘A proper…little lep…lep…lepre–’

‘Leprechaun?’ offered Quaint.

‘Yeah…that’s the word. Sorry, Cornelius…a bit rusty.’ Prometheus kicked at a wooden post on the wharf in frustration at the disjointedness between his brain and his mouth. Although he knew exactly what he wanted to say, and it was waiting there patiently on his lips, he was finding it immeasurably hard to communicate it. He had been mute for so long. The words teased him, floating from his grasp before he could vocalise them, like trying to catch a butterfly without a net. So much so that each sentence was constructed in such a way that it sounded like a completely random series of words strung together by accident. The haphazard inflections were all over the place, marred even more by his melodic Irish accent.

‘No need to say sorry, Prom. I can imagine it is hard for you. And yes, Butter certainly is priceless. I only hope he makes it safely back. We need Destine up to speed when we see her. Come on; let’s make tracks whilst we’ve still got an advantage.’

‘We’ve got…an advantage?’ asked Prometheus dryly. ‘That makes a change.’

‘Of course we have, man!’ said Quaint. ‘Whoever sent those men to kill me knew the name Cornelius Quaint. Now, I don’t know who or why, but hopefully my enemy now thinks me dead. There’s no greater advantage than that, trust me—and whilst we’re on the move you can explain to me how a man who’s been mute his whole life can suddenly speak, hmm? Not to mention how the hell you knew where to find us?’

‘The tale o’ how…me voice returned…is one for another time, Cornelius,’ Prometheus said, his heavy eyes lowered to the
ground like a chastised dog. ‘I got…more…important things. Been…hidin’ out…along docks for a while. Tell me…what’ve they found out? Police, I mean….’

‘About what? About your escape?’

‘Forget me…
escape
, man!’ growled Prometheus. ‘M’talkin’ about Tom Hawkspear! Are they any…closer t’findin’ ’im?’

‘Ah…’ Quaint puffed his cheeks, trying to find the right words. ‘To tell you the truth, my old friend, I don’t think they have even begun to look for him. They have a much larger target in mind. No, I think that if this Hawkspear demon is to be found…we shall have to get our own hands dirty!’

‘I won’t…let her death go unpunished, Cornelius,’ muttered Prometheus. ‘I just won’t! Even if…I have t’dredge the depths o’ hell meself!’

Quaint slapped his hand upon the giant’s vast shoulder. ‘Then you will have my company in your task, my friend. She was a unique young woman,’ he said, his bottom lip floundering as he clenched the emotion behind his gritted teeth. ‘And I loved her like a daughter. She will not go unavenged, Prometheus…I swear to you.’