Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (6 page)

“What's the problem?
You're letting snow in.”

“Where's my
bottle?”

“Oh, I dunno.
Probably still upstairs. Lotta junk up there. I didn't check.”

“Kitt!”

“What? It's up
there. Come up and look while I take care of things.”

“I'm not going to
rummage through an abandoned building while you rob it. Are you mad?”

“Fine. Stay
outside. Be wet and cold.”

The fox scurried
away. Keeping the door cracked with my right foot, I decided to stick to my
morals and wait in the snow.

“Hmph...not so
cold...”

I rubbed my
fingers.

“Not worth it. Not
for a silly bottle of green goop.”

The snow fell
harder.

“You're too
nostalgic, Pocket. So you lose your essence. So what? You give it up at bar
tops all the time.”

I laughed. 
The snow began feeling wetter. I realized it was turning into rain. Soon I was
standing in a faint shower.

“Hmph...still not
that cold...”

Wet. I rubbed my
fingers again and shoved them in my pockets. I smiled a sarcastic grin as I
remembered what I possessed. I pulled a long, purple cigarette, one of four,
from inside and put it between my lips.

“Okay, old man.
Let's look for a little magic.”

I had a match.
Tried twice in the thin rain to light it. Nothing. I got lucky on the third
strike, the rain probably stopped for a second, and a small flame sparked up. I
put the match to my mouth...and...splash. A raindrop hit the light, killing it.
I flicked the match and crumbled the cigarette in my hand. For some reason, it
irritated me. Don't ask me why. It was late.

The rain got
harder. I peeked into the slit behind the door.

“Hmph...Don't know
what you hope to find in a watch shop!” I shouted in at Kitt. I don't think he
heard me.

Fine, I at last
conceded, shaking the water off of my coat. It’s not like I had anything more
interesting to do.

I left the rain
behind and walked into the former home of a watchmaker. Wet rain outside made
the snow mushy and buried a purple paper wad in the dark.

The front room of
the watch shop was uninspiring to say the least. I apologize, dear reader, if
after sitting through the previous set-up of breaking into a deceased
craftman’s residence, you were anticipating a revelation of unthinkable
treasures and mind-melting wonders. I'll admit that I too was half-expecting a
trove of pricey pilferables when I entered the room. As I brushed my shoulder
through the doorway, I was sure I'd see Kitt with sparks in his eyes, rainbows
over his head, and pound signs in his pupils. I thought I'd see the plucky
thief, an image of heartfelt yet unscrupulous youth, filling his bottomless
pockets with a dead man's riches.

I had, it seems,
wrongly assumed. (Fear not, though, reader. The great wonder is coming later.)

The room was
stale, which was to be expected seeing as it had been boarded up. It
looked....well...much like a watch shop. Very clinical, very drab. Dusty desktops.
Papers. Unfinished contracts with Tuesday appointments. Scribbles. A random
tool here and there. Some sort of tiny wrench that I assumed was for adjusting
the very small mechanisms of clockwork.

And on the floor
was Kitt, head back against a dirty wooden case of papers. He had no theatric
gleam about him, no
young-ragamuffin-of-the-city-out-to-steal-his-way-towards-normalcy.

“Hey,” he said to
me.

“Hey.”

“What's the
matter?”

“What?”

“You're frowning
at me.”

“Oh...” I hadn't
been aware. “Why aren't you...eh...”

“Stealing? Helping
myself? Quick fingers? Sweat of the brow?”

“Stuffing pockets,
yeah.”

He didn't smile. I
thought it strange.

“You see anything
worth stealing?” he muttered.

“Not really,
Kitt.”

“Okay, then.”

Some silence
passed between us.

“Uh...” I said at
last. “I mean, hey...”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I mean,
look. At least you won't land on the King's bad list.” I followed it with a
weak laugh and expected a follow-up joke from his end of the room.

“The King is a
figurehead.”

“Wha...what?”

“Did you know no
one's ever proved his bloodline, Pocket?”

“Hey...come
now...don't you think that's a little harsh, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

More silence came
and did a stupid dance.

“You have some
proof of this?” I asked, if only to force conversation forward.

“I listen to things.”

“Oh...All
right...well...if you're not going to look around we should probably—“

“The upstairs is
junk.”

“Okay...”

“But your bottle's
up there.”

I looked him over.
He seemed in that instant a different man, altogether foreign to me and in a
suddenly nasty mood to boot.

“Uh...thanks,” I
said. “You going to be all right?”

“Yeah. Just gunna
sit here 'til I warm up, is all.”

“Sure.
I'll...uh...be in earshot.”

“I know.”

“All, um, all
right,” I awkwardly replied, nodding for effect.

I took my eyes off
him and found the staircase. Again, you are probably expecting me to say that I
found it warped, gnarled, and twisted into a mourner's path, every step met
with the haunting echo of some new creak or moan. To your possible dismay, I
admit that in all actuality it was in rather good condition and even maintained
a slight polish beneath the very thin layer of silver dust.

Just to the top, I
remember thinking to myself. I'd stick my head in the room above long enough to
spot my faerie juice and then promptly leave.

A minister once
told me that a promise is the hardest thing in the world to keep. A drunk once
said a woman. A beggar once said pretty gold and a lonely sailor, good company.

Plans and
well-meanings, I would soon be considering.

I pushed a heavy
door at the top of the stairs and stretched my neck into a not-so-dark room. No
apparent lamps or candlework, yet I could see with absolute ease. The moonlight
was enthusiastically beaming in, I realized, through a clean hole cracked into
an otherwise grimy window.

A broken window.

Brandishing a rather green-goop-bottle-sized hole.

I knew I was in
the right spot.

Kitt's description
of the room as “junk” was a grand understatement. To this day, I have no
inkling as to what color the carpet beneath my feet and the sea of scrap may
have been. Loose screws, soiled napkins, broken clock-bodies, simple machines,
pillows, scraps of clothing, even bits of food littered the place. I made some
clever joke about it to myself that I forget at the moment but would've split your
side, believe me.

I waded my way
through the rusty ocean, nearly lost my balance, and caught myself against a
ceiling beam with a bit of paper tacked to it. Pushing against the beam to
regain my balance, I accidentally ripped the paper scrap from the wall and held
it clenched in my hand.

“What did it say?”

“What?”

“The scrap.”

“Oh...uh...something
about the rhythm of a clock and a symphony and my love.”

“
Your
love?”

“No, not my love,
Alan. Don't be loony. Whoever wrote it...it was, let me think...kind of a
feminine script, the way the L's were looped...and it was kinda formerly
perfumey.”

“How can something
be formerly perfumey?”

“Hard to explain.
See...it’s as if, well, when you put your nose to it, you don't smell the sweet
scent of...um…”

“Young love?”

“Sure, the scent
of young love. But the oily spotting around the paper suggests that  it
had once been doused, the way the adverts hanging in a perfumist's are.”

“Hmmm...you
realize, Pocket, that it's possible you were only reading mildew spots.”

“Sigh...well, how
do you want the spots to be remembered? I'm not revising this story after—“

“Perfume is fine.
Perfume is fine.”

“Good.”

I held the
cherished scrap in my hand, the once scented paper bereft of any fragrance. A
lover's note. A few humble phrases I would never forget.

“Yeah, Pocket. You
just said though that you don’t remem—”

Softly, I put it
aside and continued through the mess. I scanned the room for the shape of my
bottle, only to see more scattered half-gadgetry. I nearly stepped into a kettle
that was wired to what looked like a mousetrap. This watchmaker, I decided,
must've gone a little eccentric in his later years.

A few steps more
and I saw a glassy spark, the very same kind of glassy spark my bottle
regularly made under favorable starlight. I grabbed at the shine.

Oh.

Damn.

I held in my hands
what appeared to be a prototypal music box. It was encased in a thick shell
that reflected the shine that had caught my attention. I grumbled something
stupid and dropped it. The jolt knocked unexpected life into the relic, and the
damned thing started to serenade me.

“It was that woman
singer, Alan. The one you're so fond of.”

“I’m fond of a
few. You mean, Miss Tiffany....Tiffany Chandler?”

“No, no. The one
you mentioned at the Rail
the night I got thrown out of it.”

“Ah. Lady Jay.”

“Right.”

“I see. What song
was she singing?”

“I don't know, but
she wouldn't leave me alone with it.”

I cursed under my
breath and pushed forward through the cluttered room. Behind me, the music box
sang like a songbird looking to peck my eyes out.

“I think I went
to bed too early, far too early for a dream...”

Not a bad line. I
took a few more steps.

“Hang on, Pocket.
You've got the wrong words.”

“What?”

“I recognize the
song. ‘Far Too Early
.
’
A classic. And you're doing the wrong
lyrics.”

“You sure?”

“Completely.”

“Sigh...does it
really matter in the story?”

“Does to me. I'm a
fan.”

“Well, I'm trying,
Alan. I wasn't paying that close of attention at the time and—”

“Wait. How about
this? I'll sing it for you.”

“I'm sorry?”

“You didn't know I
sing, did you, Pocket?”

“No.”

“Well, now's your
chance. Go on. Keep talking and I'll fill in with the appropriate musicmaking.”

“I don't know. I
don't generally work with other entertainers.”

“Go on, go on.
You'll love this.”

“Eh...”

I cursed under my
breath and pushed forward through the cluttered room. Behind me, the music box
sang like a songbird looking to peck my eyes out.

“I think I'm
singing this too early, far too early for this tune.”

Not a bad line. I
took a few more steps.

“But I find
myself here crawling, searching beneath an autumn moon.”

Step, step,
tiptoe, step. Foot in an electric bedpan. Shake. Step.

“And I've got
my worst foot forward, yes, this time, I'm on my own.

Spun and
shaken, I am looking, waiting just to be shown.”

Then I saw it,
sitting between a...I'm not sure...let's say a gyroscopic molecular
proto-stabilizing machine and a beautiful, leather-bound book, its hide only
slightly worn and its pages only slightly yellowed. Anyway, cradled between the
two was my bottle, intact and without a single visible scratch. I was a little
surprised and, for some reason, a little proud.

I carefully dusted
it off and admired it.

“I found a hole
deep in my pocket, and what I put in there is gone.

Because of you
I am down crawling, and I've been down here far too long.”

Huh. I don't know
if it was the lighting, or lack thereof, in the room, or the sea of interrupted
progress I had swam through to get here, but in the moment, my bottle seemed
suddenly...plain.

I really don't
know why.

Well, I told
myself. I can adapt to this evolving age, can’t I? Of course. I am perfectly
able to exist in Alexander's grand Britain.

Progress. That was
the key. So...

I rummaged around
in the nearest lump of metal and cut myself. Ouch. But I am nothing if not
persistent. I found a broken piece of...something. Perhaps an old birdcage or a
candle tin or a lantern bottom. I bent it into a makeshift bottle holder and
lodged my collection of green into it. There was also some rough leather belting,
probably from one of those convenient conveyor contraptions the papers are
always promoting. I worked it into a sling and tied it through the bottle's
small handle loop. Wearing the faerie juice proudly at my side like a
paperboy’s satchel, I smiled. I am William Christopher Pocket! Modern man!

I modernly sneezed
and waded back over the junk.

“And I think
it's far too early to admit that I have lost.

I'm a fool and
you are lovely, so I'll search at every cost.

You're a beauty
on a string, hiding somewhere in the night.

And I need you
hanging on me, so I…ah…so I….sorry, Pocket. Can’t recall the rest.”

I strolled down
the stairs and into the front room, repeating the song to myself.

“…can’t recall the
rest,” I sang.

“What's that,
Pocket?” Kitt said, still sitting on the floor.

“Nothing. Just some music I picked
up. What are you doing?”

He held up a mess of papers.
“Checking this bin.”

“I found my bottle.”

“I see that.
What'd you do to it?”

“Just...you
know...fashioned it to this, eh, bit of metal and strap. Keeping with the
times.”

“How's that
keeping with the times?”

I thought about
it. “I guess I don't know.”