Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (4 page)

“I can't just make
you up an identity!”

“Some writer you
are. Hey, give me a hand with this trunk, will ya, Will? Thanks. Look, if it'll
help, call me Abby.”

“Abby...”

“Sure, why not?
Good a name as any,” she shrugged. I observed in hesitation as the lady
rummaged through the trunk, throwing tiaras, feather boas, and ballet slippers
around the room before removing a pair of cheap, costume faerie wings, green as
her eyes, and donning them.

“There we are!”
she said with a sudden, unexpected sweetness. “Ready to be of assistance,
Master Will! Shall I fetch you ink and paper?”

I watched,
absolutely astonished, as the mad woman bounced on her toes from corner to corner,
humming a tune I could swear sounded quite similar to the knuckle songs I was
rapping into the table previously.

“What are you
doing?” I said at last.

“I am this
evening's Muse, Master Will! Begin as you will!”

I tried to
protest, but I couldn't get a word over her song. Her humming voice became
louder and she swayed to and fro, knocking over plants, which I then tended to,
and knocking open dresser drawers, which I then adjusted, in her rainy night
dance.

On her song's
third refrain she whacked open a cabinet drawer for the second time and in
responding to it, I took notice of a small, framed photograph. Without
thinking, I took it in my hand and observed it. It was a yellowed portrait of
two school-age girls, the taller grinning with sparks in her eyes and gaps in
her teeth. Her hair was up and her body was tilted toward her companion with
the grace of a circus acrobat.

“Give me that!”
Abby snapped, tearing off her wings. “No one said you could start snooping!
Show's over!”

“I didn't mean to
upset—“

“Get out, Will.”

I have no idea why
I didn't. I wanted to like hell, but instead...

“What do you think
you are doing?” Abby barked, leaning in on me.

“One moment.”

“What's that
there?”

“Hang on.”

I had taken from
my soggy pocket a soggy napkin I had picked up somewhere in my travels and a
half-dulled pencil and was scribbling furiously with one on the other.

“I'm almost done,”
I calmly announced.

She leaned in to
observe my work.

“What's the gag,
Will? You're no sketch-painter.”

“Not before this
night.”

I rose from the
table I had again taken rest upon and handed her the napkin. Politely I
squeezed the rain out of my shirttail while she studied my drawing, a crude
stick-bodied caricature of the spark-eyed, gap-toothed young girl.

“I think I should
go,” I said with a bow.

“Will,” Abby said,
barely over a whisper, “I don't understand.”

I could only
shrug, stuffing my hands in my sloshy pants. “Eh, me neither. Inspiration's a
weird thing. I stopped trying to figure it out years ago.”

She let a faint
smile out and folded the napkin into neat fourths. She was standing on the
wings.

“Cynthia,” she
said.

“Pretty name,” I
replied. “Fitting for a bright-eyed girl.”

“Yeah.”

“I'll see ya,
Abby.”

The brass key was
still in the lock. I twisted it and the weight of the doorknob turned in my
hand as I re-entered the hall.

“See you, Will.”

“Yeah, that's all
fine, Pocket. But what about the faerie juice?”

“Can't a guy build
up to a plot point with grace?”

“See, this is why
the fox boy didn't pay you any attention. You linger.”

“I do
not
linger.”

“Sure. Just get to
the faerie juice or move along. You're losing me.”

“Well, you can be
happy then, Alan, because at that exact moment the old Frenchman moved into my
path and pushed a round, glass bottle straight into my gut. Satisfied?”

“I think you're
just skipping ahead because I complained. You're far too reliant on your
audience.”

“Fine! As I was
saying...”

I coughed and
moved my fingers to grip the glass. The old man was smiling ferociously. I
prompted my feet to run.

“Was my friend
able to you assist you?” he asked.

“I don't think I'm
her type,” I said with a smile. “But she led me in the right direction.”

“The room has one
door. The only direction was out.”

Best direction
there is.

“Fair enough,” I
admitted, “What's in the bottle?”

“Faerie juice.”

“Yeah? Where'd you
find faeries to juice?”

He laughed. I
cautiously took a few steps back. The Frenchman let go as I did, leaving the
bottle in my hands. I attempted to give it back to him, but his implication was
clear.

“You want me to
keep it?” I asked.

“Of course!”

“Why?”

“Because it's your
essence, obviously!”

I shook the bottle
and watched the liquid splash and swirl.

“You’re sure?”

“Oh-ho-ho-ho-ho!”
cackled the man, raving like a lunatic. “Was there ever any doubt, my boy? Was
there ever any doubt?”

The Frenchman did
a celebration dance on his skinny ankles and presented little, topped vials
filled with commonplace items he had collected: acorns, ticket stubs, dried
pieces of old cake, rainwater. These things, he proclaimed, were his essence,
invaluable parts of himself.

“And I'm a bottle
of green juice, then?” I mumbled.

“Oh-ho-ha!”

“Are you
completely sure this isn't somebody
else's
essence? It doesn't look much
like me.”

The Frenchman
became suddenly quite rigid and spoke with a wounded and highly insulted air.

“Sir! It has never
been my place to question the judgment of the faeries, and I should dare not
say it's yours! Are you refusing such a gift?”

“But—“

“Just take it,”
called Abby from the other side of the door. “Humor the old fool. You'd look
good with some green on you, anyway.”

“Fine.”

The old man's
demeanor quickly returned to joy.

“Ah! Excellent,
excellent! Listen to the girl, wise head on her!” He grabbed my ear and lowered
his voice. “Incidentally, boy, I've always suspected that one to be in league
with the faeries. Hasn't said a word of confession to such, but I wouldn't be
at all surprised if she was a sprite herself. Never can be too cer—Ho! Did she
reveal anything of the nature to you while she entertained?”

“No, nothing like
that. And for the record, there wasn't any real enter—“

“Ah well! Ah well!
We'll both find our ways, shan't we?”

So that was that.
I was given a room for the night. Tried to convince myself that it was
comfortable and that dozing in such a place was not dangerous in the least.
When the rain cleared up in the morning, I set off. Never saw the old man
again. As a matter of fact, out of sheer curiosity, I returned to the inn
sometime later and found it deserted and boarded up. Oh, there was one other
thing, one final question I asked the Frenchman before we parted ways.

“So what do I do
with my own essence?”

“Whatever you
wish!” he said. “Bear it as proudly as you would your family crest! Make it
your beacon, your mark on this great world! Or if you get bored with it, you
could always sell it.”

The next day I got
hungry and wrote up a price tag.

“Did you ever
drink the stuff?”

“Would you, Alan?”

“No way.”

“There you go.”

“Huh. You meet all
kinds in this city, Pocket. Still...I guess there's a bit of fun there. Mystery
of the lunatics and all that.”

“I suppose.”

“So what did the
fox boy say when you told him the story?”

“He wasn't
listening.”

Kitt tugged at the
scrap of paper that hung by a string tied around the fat neck of the bottle.

“FAERIE JUICE – 5
PENCE,” he read aloud. “Huh. You're trying to sell this stuff?”

“Yeah,” I dryly
responded. “That's what I was just telling you.”

“How much have you
sold?”

“Not a drop.”

“That's too bad.
Did you ever notice how it shines in the moonlight?”

“Yeah, I think you
mentioned that.”

“Bottle's thick
too. Pretty sturdy.”

“I don't know. I
guess.”

“I mean, must be,
right? Thrown out at us like that and not a crack in it. Bet it could take a
few beatings.”

“Sure, probably.”

Kitt's eyes
quickly acquired a shimmer that I, to be blunt, did not trust. I figured it was
time to make an exit before he involved me in whatever thought was forming in…

“Pocket, could you
do me a huge favor?” he asked.

Damn.

“What did you have
in mind?” I had no choice but to say.

“I'd like to
borrow this.”

“Uh...it's five
pence a cup.”

“Not the juice.
The bottle.”

“Why?”

“I've got a plan.”

“For what?”

“What do you
care?”

“It's my bottle.”

“Trust me.”

“No.”

I'll skip the ten
minutes of arguing that ensued and jump to the part where Kitt took off with my
bottle despite my direct and notably vocal reservations.

“I'll bring it
right back, I swear!” Kitt said, running off down the street. “In an hour,
tops! Just stay put here!”

“Wait! Kitt!”

And he was gone.
The only sensible choice was to sit still, conserve my warmth, and trust that
the thief would keep his word and return promptly with my belonging intact.

Either that or...

“Kitt!” I shouted,
running headlong through the dreary streets. “I mean it! Come back!”

The fox boy's
shadow stayed consistently just out of reach as I began to get the impression
that he was ignoring me. Fine, I decided. If he wanted to play it that way, I’d
oblige.

A block of flats
soon appeared on the right. Kitt slid between them and into a side alley,
leaving me alone with the stars and slush. I stopped for a moment and took a
much needed breath as the thief melted quickly away into the shadows. All
right, I told myself as I sucked in the air. You can't outrun the little fiend.

So outthink him.

My eyes skimmed
over the immediate scenery until coming to focus on one towering structure in
particular.

Ah!

I hurried to the
building and ran up a side flight of exterior stairs that led to the second
floor of rooms. Now, before I carry on, allow me to deviate from the scene just
long enough to provide a little context, a little background, so that you, dear
audience, will hold a greater understanding of your humble narrator and his
motivations behind what happened next, lest you misperceive him as…you know…an
idiot.

I’ve spent the majority
of my adult life on the streets of London. As you’ve probably guessed, a life
lived under my profession, if you can even call it such, is not one of great
comfort or extravagance. After all, if corner storytellers were ranked amongst
kings, I wouldn’t need to find a tender who’ll take anecdotes as payment for
his wares.

“Nice to know just
how greatly you value our friendship, Pocket.”

“Oh, come on,
Alan. You know better than to think like that. You’re a rare breed.”

“Hmph. Rare breed
of dupe.”

That’s not to say
that I live a life of vagrancy, but I’ve come very close to it. My only saving
grace, I’m afraid, is that I do not come from a low birth. Lowish, maybe. I’m
certainly not among Britain’s elite, not by any long shot, but my family abroad
are of enough standing and financial generosity that I’m able to maintain a
little hole in the slums in which to rest my head. Anyhow, what I’m trying to
get at is that a life spent out amongst New London’s colorful blend of lower
citizenry, the beggars and the orphans and the ladies for sale, has left me
privy to certain tricks of the cities. For instance, the burn bins.

“Burn bins?”

“You know, Alan.
Those covered, roundish bins on the streets.”

“Those
rubber-coated things the King had manufactured? Is that what those are?”

“I’ll explain.”

“Please do.”

Garbage
incinerators. Smallish, portable ones, maybe the size of half a man. One of the
cornerstones of Alexander’s rebirth of England, after all, was a return to
purity. Wellness. Cleanliness. So when his engineers brought about a cleaner
way of burning our rubbish he dotted the city with them. From what I hear,
they’re actually rather ingenious little devices, essentially miniature
gas-powered furnaces with a butcher's scale wired into the bottom of them. When
the bin fills up, the scale sinks and triggers the furnace, burning the refuge
into more fuel to power the device. Pretty clever, eh? Self-regulating. Anyhow,
one day, a few equally-clever bums figured out that you can deactivate the
whole thing with one clean smack against the back of the bin, rattling the
parts out of their natural order. So say you discard something, let's say
something still fairly edible, it doesn't burn up. Just sits there. And word
spread. Before long, many who call the streets home started doing this, bashing
the bins and then lying in wait for some unsuspecting bloke to toss a free meal
down the hole. “The People’s Banquets,” they call them.

“All right,
granted, that is a resourceful trick, but what does any of this have to do with
you and that cutpurse?”

“Yes, yes, I’m
getting back to that, Alan.”

Forgive me for
digressing, but my point is simply that I've learned a few things in my
travels, and as I found myself giving chase on that cold night, I decided to
put what I’ve learned into action. The possibility that the pickpocket I was
after might himself know a few tricks didn’t cross my mind in that heated
moment. What had caught my eye about the building I was now ascending was its
state of repair. Many of Old London’s preexisting edifices, as I’m sure you
know, survived the periodic burnings and general corrosion of the debilitating
Black Period, and when the city was rebuilt, several of these buildings were
reinforced with thick metal plates at key structure points, plates that were
attached with very large bolts that dug deep into the stone. Big bolts leave
big boltheads, most the size of a fist, and it wasn't long before flocks of
street urchins began using the boltheads as makeshift handles, climbing their
way all over the city.