Mayhem

  ‘It’s Jack, isn’t it?’ I said, wearily. ‘They’re only concerned with Jack.’

  ‘And perhaps with good cause,’ Andrews said, his soft voice reasonable.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I countered, and then, without any further discussion, we started to make our way down the steps. The inquest was over and we were all busy men; the world would not allow us to linger for long. I stared over at the green, where nursemaids dressed in starched uniforms wheeled babies around in the fresh air, and men sat on benches, pausing for a moment to enjoy a breath of peace on this crisp autumn day. There was no black-coated stranger among them.

  As I stared at this vision of normalcy, I felt the strange sense of the unnatural wash over me again. My words came almost of their own accord – I certainly had had no intent of speaking them, even if they did fill my mind.

  ‘But this,’ I muttered, my feet pausing as we reached the pavement, ‘this chills me more than Jack’s work. This is … colder. This is something … other.’ The brightness of the green against the darkness of my mind threatened to overwhelm me, and as my heart thumped loudly in my chest, the world around me was lost for a moment.

  ‘Dr Bond?’

  I wasn’t sure how many times Andrews had spoken my name by the time I came out of whatever trance it was that had gripped me. I found him looking at me with obvious concern.

  ‘Are you sick?’ he asked. ‘Forgive me, but you do not seem quite yourself.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I smiled weakly and fought to compose myself, despite the sudden sweat under my clothes. Was this simply a need for opium? Had I become so dependent on the poppy that a lack of it would bring out such a reaction? ‘Sleep and I are not the best of bedfellows, I’m afraid.’

  Andrews nodded as if my explanation was enough, but still his eyes bore into me.

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ I finished, stepping towards a hansom before either could question me further, ‘time waits for no man.’

  It was a relief to feel the sudden jerk as the wheels began to roll. Peace, that was what I needed: a few hours’ peace, and then I would start my search.

  *

  The hours passed interminably, but finally I found myself back in the grim streets of Bluegate Fields, looking the worse for a change of clothes and with my face dirtied, making my way to the den where I had last seen the stranger. I had always varied my choice of den as well as the hour, for fear of standing out because of any regularity of habit, but if I were to find this gentleman who had so fired my imagination, I was going to have to follow some sort of schedule of my own in order to fathom his. From the nature of his actions, the searching, I concluded that he must be following a pattern of some kind; that, after all, was the nature of searching. It had to be methodical, even in the hellholes of Bluegate Fields.

  I had also to admit, even if only to myself, that such was the nature of the smoke of the poppy that I was not always clear about which of the various dens I had visited most often. My memories of the stranger were clear and sharp, but my surroundings were merely a blurred haze.

  I walked quickly through the narrow alleyways, trying to keep my pace purposeful and confident. The dirt I had rubbed into my cheeks might fool a casual glance, but it lacked the ingrained quality that would mark me as one of the hoodlums who belonged, and neither did my eyes have the sharp, feral sheen common to those who had survived here. This was no place for the faint-hearted to wander at night, for these were streets filled with villainy. The worst kind of brothels proliferated, where whatever fleeting pleasures the sailors stumbling in from the nearby wharves might enjoy were as likely to be accompanied by the pox or some other fatal infection. And any seaman innocent – or foolish – enough to carry with him more than just the fee for his evening’s pleasure was unlikely to find himself still in possession of money or goods at the end of his encounter.

  It was with no small amount of relief that I knocked on the familiar door and was ushered silently inside by the Chinaman’s ancient, bowed wife. This was one of the largest of the dens that I frequented. Some were no more than a single room in an Oriental’s cramped house, but this one could hold forty or more clients, though this evening it was quieter than normal. On seeing me, Chi-Chi spread one of his cloths over a vacant cot in one corner. His brown cigarette was clamped between his teeth and he said not a word as I sat down gratefully and waited for him to gather the tools of his trade and bring them to the low table beside me. I found my mouth watering as he picked up the long pipe, dipped a pin into the treacley liquid and held it over the flame until it had bubbled and grown into a ball the size of a pea, and I realised I was like a child waiting impatiently for a promised treat. Although the surgeon in me enjoyed watching the precision with which he prepared the opium, the rest of me wanted to grab him and shake him to make him work faster. I should have been ashamed of myself, I knew that, but instead all I could feel was the need to have the drug coursing through my system. That need eclipsed all else, momentarily at least.

  Eventually, Chi-Chi dropped the small brown ball into the ceramic bowl and lit it. I puffed greedily, relishing the sweet taste and the immediate rush of tingling sensation that flooded my brain. I could feel the veins in my head throbbing as my body absorbed the smoke.

  I lay back on the bed. Around me the grimy gas lamps glowed like stars in the firmament. They detached from the walls and danced before my eyes, leaving trails of light and colour behind them, and my mouth opened in wonder. I tried to focus on the purpose of my visit this evening. I needed to ask the Chinaman about the stranger – it had been my firm intention to do so before I took the pipe, but my need had been too great; it had overwhelmed me. I should have felt shame at that, but all natural sense was rapidly being lost to me. I made up my mind that I would close my eyes for just a moment and then I would call him back. That was what I would do.

  My mind drifted and for a while I was floating amid the kind of visions of the fantastic that might be considered madness by a rational mind. I was aware of my body, but as if it were something distant from my mind.

  When a partial lucidity returned to me, and once again I became hazily aware of my dimly lit surroundings, Chi-Chi, with that innate sense peculiar to the Orientals who ran these establishments, silently appeared by my side and began the job of replenishing my pipe, knowing my habits of quantity perhaps better than I did.

  The room before me had filled with more clients and I wondered how many hours had passed since I had arrived. Time means nothing in the dens; indeed, I believe it moves at a different pace for each smoker. For those whose visions brought sudden, unwanted terrors, the minutes could feel like eternities, while for others who smiled and drifted more pleasantly, surely the reverse was true, and an hour could be over in a heartbeat – just as it had been so for me.

  My arm felt incredibly heavy, but still I raised my hand as best I could, in a bid to stop the old Chinaman in his work for a moment. Although my subconscious might have very recently taken flight, my body was very much anchored to the bed.

  ‘No want?’ he asked. His dark eyes stared at me, endless pools of alien thought.

  ‘There is a man who comes here,’ I said. ‘He wears a black coat. It’s long, and coated in wax. He has a withered arm.’ My words slurred as I tried to keep my sentences short and focused, as much for my own confused mind as to ensure the Chinaman understood me.

  ‘You talk of him last time,’ he said, and I wondered how much this man remembered of all his clients. We came here and dreamed in front of him – perhaps he was the guardian of all our souls.

  ‘He is looking for someone,’ I said. ‘I might be able to help him.’ This was only a partial lie – until I knew for whom he was looking, I did not know whether I could help him or not.

  The Chinaman remained still, his expression unreadable.

  I continued, ‘He takes the pipe and then wanders amongst those who lie here. He studies them.’ I felt as if I were talking to myself. Perhaps I was. Maybe t
his was all part of the opium dream. ‘Although how he has the wherewithal to move at all astounds me,’ I muttered, thinking of my own weakened state. ‘He must have the constitution of the devil.’

  ‘He does not smoke this. This, but not this.’

  The Chinaman spoke quietly, and the words took a moment to filter through my dulled senses.

  ‘What?’

  ‘More expensive.’

  For the first time, the Chinaman looked slightly awkward, a moment of universal humanity on the wrinkled foreign face.

  ‘Is rare. He ask I no tell.’

  ‘But you’ve told me,’ I said, ‘and I must try it.’

  ‘Very expensive.’

  ‘I have money.’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of shillings. I had more tucked inside my shirt, but I had no intention of revealing that, not in a place like this. Although the Chinaman seemed like a decent enough sort of chap given his situation, I had no desire to find myself robbed, murdered and thrown into the stinking Thames on my departure.

  He looked down at the palmful of coins and selected three before disappearing behind the curtained doorway that separated his place of business from what I imagined must be his home.

  I wasn’t sure quite what I was expecting, but Chi-Chi returned with a small silver container, about the size of a thimble, containing a liquid of much the same consistency and colour of that which I had smoked earlier. Was this some kind of ploy? As there was only one way I was going to find out, I lay on my side on the cot. Once the preparations were complete, I drew in a deep lungful of the smoke.

  At first the sensation was familiar to me, but then it changed and settled into an excited tingle in my veins. The world did not blur about me, and my body was no longer heavy – if anything, I felt as if I could walk on air, should I so wish. I smiled and drew in more, until Chi-Chi, watching me carefully, took the pipe from me. For the first time in our acquaintance I saw how sharp those dark eyes really were. Previously, the world had become a swirl of colours and fantasies of the mind. This time, although my body was experiencing the expected pleasant sensations, my mind was quite clear – in fact, the world around me was almost too real as I looked at it. The negative empty shapes between each item competed for my attention as much as those articles themselves. The room around me had changed its dimensions, almost flattening, and yet becoming perfectly clear. It felt as if I were seeing the world as it saw itself.

  I sat up, a restless energy filling me, and looked at Chi-Chi once again, and I gasped out loud. Around his head was a strange glow, an aura of reds and rich purples that clung to his dark hair. I was quite certain that somewhere within the colours, an Oriental dragon danced.

  ‘What is this?’ I asked.

  ‘Those who can see, see,’ he answered. His accent had evaporated.

  ‘Those who can see?’

  Chi-Chi shrugged and got to his feet. ‘Some can see. Others, no. The man can see. Perhaps you also, can see.’ He picked up his tools and disappeared back behind the curtain, then emerged again and scurried over to a client who was feebly waving a hand from his cot.

  I sat for a moment, unsure what I ought to do next, and then I thought of the man I sought. What did he do after smoking this strange opium? He looked at the dreamers – so that was what I would do. I got to my feet, expecting the world to shift beneath me, making me nauseous, as often happened, but I was steady. Neither could I feel the aches and pains that had settled into my bones as the years passed. I felt younger – more than that, I felt awake, and I found myself holding back a giggle at the sheer relief of having shrugged off the exhaustion that had enveloped me for months on end. The opium dens had always brought me some measure of oblivion but I knew it was a false rest. Now I felt the kind of energy that came only with having eight hours’ good sleep each night, and I wondered how long this would last. If anything were to turn me into an addict, then surely it would be this.

  I brought my attention back and considered the stranger’s practices. I began to move between the cots spread around the large room. Some were arranged like shipboard bunks, stacked one atop another. No one noticed my activity other than Chi-Chi, who ignored me. I did as I had seen the man with the withered arm do, and leaned over those lost in their own wild imaginings. As with Chi-Chi, they all had some hue of colour around their heads, varying through the whole spectrum of the rainbow, although it was the rich blues and greens, those colours of the sea, which proved to be most common.

  If I looked carefully I could see seagulls and fish, darting this way and that in some of the worlds swirling around the dreamers’ heads. In others, those the shades of murkier waters, I saw here and there a man drowning, a vast whale, and other monsters of the deep. These latter images appeared most commonly around those who twitched and moaned in their half-slumbers, and I wondered what was it that I was seeing: the nature of their torments? Their fears, even their very souls? I wished for a mirror so I could see myself – but what would I see there? What colours danced around my own tired mind?

  I continued my studies, but fascinating as the sights I saw were, I had as yet no idea what exactly the stranger was seeking. I could not tell if he even saw the same visions as I did, for surely the visions were simply a product of one’s own mind. I was under no illusion that what was appearing before me was in any way ‘real’ despite appearances.

  After half an hour or so, I had finished examining each of Chi-Chi’s clients, and I decided that I should wander to another den and study whoever was there. My meagre plan had been to wait here for the stranger, but that was before the opium haze had hit me; now my feet and my mind were restless. This evening’s drug was showing no signs of releasing me as yet and so, feeling far more brave – or perhaps foolish – than usual, I went back out into the dark streets of Bluegate Fields.

  The cold air stung my face and the fog dampened my skin, sending pleasant tingles through my body as I turned up my collar and strode forward. I could hear raucous noise coming from some of the wretched, overcrowded buildings around me, but I passed no other living souls. This would normally have been a relief to me, but my curiosity to see more of these strange auras was overwhelming my usual instinct for survival.

  I rounded a corner into a narrow alleyway and stopped suddenly. The den towards which I was heading was closer to the other end, and a glow of light cut through the heavy mist: the door was open and someone was leaving. I stared as the tall figure exited, and then the light pinched out as the door was closed behind him. I stumbled forward a few paces to get a clearer view – could it be the stranger I sought? Knowing full well that the opium could be playing with my sight, I scurried forward, sucking in the dank air as I broke into a jog.

  The man had turned away from me so I couldn’t see his arm, but his gait was familiar and he was of the right height to be ‘my’ stranger, as I thought of him. I was perhaps ten feet away when he spun round, his tall body crouching slightly as if in preparation for a fight.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, sounding slightly breathless. ‘I had no intention of startling you.’ I stopped where I was and pulled off my hat, then rubbed at my face in an attempt to try and remove my poor disguise. ‘I’ve seen you – at the inquests.’

  He stared at me, and for a long moment he said nothing. I could not place his age other than between thirty-five and fifty. He was taller than he had at first appeared, perhaps four inches over my own five feet eleven, and his face was like leather, worn and rough in a way that could only come from being battered by both life and the elements. His eyes were little more than black pits in the gloom, yet still they managed to bore into me. The straggling ends of his long dark hair reached to his shoulders, but he was cleanshaven, no moustache nor hint of whiskers gracing that scarred visage. I saw no aura around him, but it was perhaps muted by his hat, or maybe the effect of the drug was wearing off. His arm, as I had seen before, was bent at his waist and as thin as a twig in comparison with the rest of his impressive form, and the
fingernails at the end of the crooked hands were long and dirty.

  None of this shocked me. What drew my eyes and held me in place where I stood was the glint of the heavy gold cross that hung beneath his priest’s collar. Was this why he always wore a heavy overcoat, to disguise his true calling? But why? Although the robes he wore were unfamiliar to me, they definitely belonged to some religious order, and if so, why would any man hide his love of God, if he had taken such vows?

  ‘You are mistaken,’ he said, eventually.

  He had an accent, but from where, I could not determine; I could hear the lilt of Italy in his words but he spoke like a man who had not been in his native country for a long time.

  ‘The Rainham inquest,’ I said, more firmly now. ‘I saw you there. And then you were at the Whitehall site.’ Now that I had found him, I was determined to get at his purpose, though I found myself at the same time almost at a loss as to what to say, without sounding like a madman myself.

  ‘And I have seen you in the dens. You are looking for something, I believe.’

  His back stiffened. I have a natural ability to analyse the actions of men, and with the opium and excitement both rushing through my veins, my senses were more acute than ever. He had risen slightly from the fighting stance he had adopted as he had turned to me, and I knew I had surprised him. He was looking for something.

  ‘Do you know something that would help the police? Do you have suspicions about who might be committing these awful crimes?’ I asked. I took a step forward, and he took one backward, as if we were engaging in an awkward waltz. I was careful in my choice of words, not wanting to sound as if I were in any way accusing him of wrong-doing, for I did not believe him guilty – not with that disfigurement, and certainly not now that I could see he was a man of the Church – albeit one who had clearly seen some hard times. ‘What is it you are looking for? Perhaps I can help?’