The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions

  ‘Well, don’t think I haven’t seen you doing it.’

  George now choked on his breakfast.

  ‘Jesting, of course,’ said Professor Coffin. ‘Don’t cough your minced pappings into my porter, please.’

  George took sup from his own porter pot.

  ‘I don’t trust the blighters.’ Professor Coffin made the face of disgust. ‘They are all too sweet and kindly. And I have heard it said that they have no machines whatsoever. They cause things to happen through the power of their minds. Move their ships of space through the heavens by the power of faith alone.’

  ‘I did hear that,’ said George, reapplying himself to his breakfast.

  ‘Venusians are a bunch of black magicians,’ said Professor Coffin, spitting onto the sawdust on the floor.

  ‘Steady on now,’ said George. ‘Black magicians, you say? That is rather strong, surely?’

  ‘Then think on this,’ said the professor. ‘You would call yourself a Christian boy, would you not?’

  ‘That is the way that I was brought up.’

  ‘That is not what I asked.’

  ‘Then I am a Christian, yes. I believe in God.’

  ‘And do you believe in magic?’

  ‘Witchcraft, do you mean?’

  Professor Coffin’s head went bob-bob-bob. ‘Magic is presently quite the fashion amongst the London toffs. Seances are regularly held in the parlours of the gentry.’

  George nodded to this intelligence. The papers were filled with stories about a certain Daniel Dunglas Home, who held such seances. And in whose spiritual presence tables moved of their own accord, instruments played themselves and Mr Home himself had been known to levitate. Mr Home was quite the darling of the upper classes, lionised by ladies of the court. A certain expression crossed George’s face.

  ‘Do not even think about it,’ said his employer. ‘Your future does not lie in spiritualism.’

  George tucked into his tucker.

  ‘My point is this,’ the professor continued. ‘Magic is practised here on Earth, but in my opinion to little or no effect. I concede that conditions upon another planet might be conducive to practical magic. Magic that is controllable and employable. But is this Godly magic, or is it the work of the Devil?’

  ‘I have always wondered,’ said George, giving his mouth another cuff-wipe, ‘who was the very first magician? Magicians always claim to have these ancient books of magic. Grimoires penned by Paracelsus, or your namesake Cagliostro. But who wrote the very first one? And where did the information come from? That is what I would like to know.’

  ‘Then I will tell you.’ Professor Coffin finished his porter and called for more from the bar. ‘From Moses is the answer to that. When Moses ascended Mount Sinai and received the tablets of stone upon which God had hewn the Ten Commandments, God took Moses into his confidence. God gave Moses more than just the Ten Commandments. He gave him the very first grimoire. Or rather he dictated it to Moses, who wrote it all down.’

  ‘But why?’ asked George.

  ‘For the improvement and advancement of Mankind. Moses was to employ the magic at his discretion.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘You know that he did not. When he came down from the mountain the first time and found the Israelites worshipping a golden calf, he flung down not only the tablets of stone, but also the grimoire.’

  ‘So how does that make Moses the very first magician if he threw down the very first grimoire and never used it?’

  ‘I said that it was dictated to him. This gave him the status of being the very first magician. The only man ever to receive magic directly from God. He flung down the grimoire but it was not destroyed in flames. It was recovered, and passed from hand to hand and generation to generation. Few could interpret it correctly. The magic got all dissipated. The world would no doubt be a different place if the Israelites had not made that golden calf. Mind you . . .’ Professor Coffin made a significant pause.

  ‘Go on,’ said George. ‘You have me hooked.’

  ‘Some do say that this event gave birth to the very first conspiracy theory. That the making of the golden calf took place through the influence of a certain evil Israelite who planned the whole thing, knowing that Moses, who was noted for the shortness of his temper, would be so upset when he came down from the mountain bearing God’s words and saw that calf being worshipped that he would fling down whatever he had been given and get in a proper huff.’

  ‘Ah,’ said George. ‘I understand. And then this evil man would hastily avail himself of whatever it was that Moses threw down in a huff.’

  ‘Quite so. And what was intended as “good” white magic by God, as a present to Man, ended up as “bad” black magic, in the hands of bad black magicians.’

  ‘It is a good story,’ said George, who had now finished his breakfast. ‘But let me put this to you. What if God not only put an Adam and Eve upon this planet, but also upon Venus, Mars and Jupiter? And what if the Moses of Venus was not caused to cast down his grimoire? Then the magic employed by Venusians would be good magic, would it not?’

  Professor Coffin made grumbling sounds underneath his breath.

  ‘Well, I have nothing personal against Venusians,’ said George. ‘They have yet to do me wrong. Young women of Earth, however, are quite another matter.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Professor Coffin rose to his feet and danced a little jig. ‘I just knew it. You were befuddled and befooled by a pretty young thing last night. I just knew it.’

  George made a mumbled assent.

  ‘Do not feel bad about it, my boy. It happens to us all. Try to learn from your mistakes. You never know, you might prove to be the first man in the history of the planet who actually can learn from his mistakes. And now,’ Professor Coffin bowed before George, ‘the show must go on. We are bound for the fair at Hounslow and I for one would be gratified if we turned a shiny penny or two before this day is out.’

  George Fox smiled and rose to his feet and dusted crumbs from his waistcoat.

  Professor Coffin drove the traction engine. George, on this occasion, stood beside him. The traction engine was marvellous, all barley-twists of polished brass, great whirling flywheels, sniffs of smoke and oil. This wondrous vehicle had but recently come into the hands of Professor Coffin. He had been fortunate enough to win it during a game of cards with a carnival proprietor named Mandible Haxan, who advertised himself as ‘the Sorcerer Genius’ and presented an attraction known as ‘the Hieronymous Machine’ or ‘Intuitive Prognosticator’ – a construction of brass, ivory, leather and tinted gutta-percha that took questions from members of the crowd and replied to them by means of a mechanical voice. The Hieronymous Machine cast horoscopes and offered those who chose to pay an extra florin ‘accurate foretellings of the future’.

  Clearly Mr Mandible Haxan had not had recourse to employ the Hieronymous Machine to predict his own immediate future, before engaging Professor Cagliostro Coffin in that fateful game of cards.

  George Fox knew well the professor’s skill at cards. George Fox had once owned a gold pocket watch. This gold pocket watch now resided in the waistcoat watch pocket of Professor Cagliostro Coffin.

  George had learned from that particular mistake. He would never play another game of cards with his employer.

  The road between Brentford and Hounslow passes by the Park of Syon, that great estate that was the property of Lord Brentford himself. The high walls topped by the distinctive urns of Robert Adam shielded George’s gaze from the cultivated gardens and pleasure domes within. It was rumoured that Lord Brentford had twenty concubines and a monkey butler that wore a fez and an embroidered waistcoat. It was also rumoured that His Lordship, when not pushing though reform bills in the House of Lords to benefit the poor at the expense of the wealthy, engaged in the practice of those Artes Diabolique of which Professor Coffin had accused the Venusians.

  George knew that he was beginning to make that face once again and so he tore his eyes away fr
om the high walls of the opulent estate and fixed them on the road ahead. Beyond the farms and wayside coaching inns lay Hounslow. Hounslow with the Hounslow Fair, that wonderful famous fair.

  George Fox flicked coal-smuts from his jacket and gave himself up to optimistic thoughts.

  6

  ‘In this year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ninety-five,’ called Professor Coffin above the cacophony of the steam traction engine, ‘there are nearly one hundred travelling circuses plying their trade across England. Countless more lesser travelling shows and single sideshow attractions. Hounslow Fair is a yearly event that can be traced back five hundred years. You will see much to amaze and amuse you, but do keep your hands in your pockets.’

  George Fox made a thoughtful face.

  ‘Keep a firm hand on your purse.’

  ‘I see.’

  As they approached Hounslow it was clear that there would be considerable competition in the field of the ‘Educational Attraction’. George espied the rear ends of several wagons that he recognised. ‘Toby the Sentient Swine’, ‘The Dark of the Moon Monster Medicine Show’, ‘Pinchbeck’s Automated Minstrels’, ‘The Travelling Formbys’, ‘Soft Napoleon and the Screaming Nova’. George raised his eyebrows to that one. ‘Dick, Dack and Dock, the Siamese Triplets’ and the ever-popular ‘Mechanical Turk’, which had once soundly thrashed George at chess.

  More than just ‘considerable competition’, perhaps, was this varied ensemble. And the day, to George’s growing misgivings, looked to be turning into a hot one. Which would not suit a small tent housing an evil-smelling pickled Martian.

  Such thoughts as these clearly also entered the head of Professor Coffin, who said to George, ‘You, my boy, will hasten upon our arrival to the nearest pharmacy and purchase five cannisters of formaldehyde and ten of distilled water. Also violet nosegays, to the number one hundred, and two of those new facial masks worn by surgeons at the London Hospital.’

  ‘And all of that they have on hand in Hounslow?’

  ‘Surely you know the musical hall song,’ said Professor Coffin, who, without waiting for a reply, launched into it.

  If you need a lady’s bonnet

  With fine dinky goggles on it,

  Or a stately coat for strolling up and down,

  If they ain’t got one in Brentford,

  Or in Neasden, Penge or Deptford,

  They’re bound to have the lot in Hounslow Town.

  Oh—

  But George cut Professor Coffin short. ‘I will seek out the items you require,’ he said, ‘as long as I am furnished with the financial means so to do.’

  ‘Good boy, we’ll see what might be taken on account.’

  George Fox shook his head. Slowly and firmly. ‘Look at the state of me,’ he said. ‘Ragged and besmutted and stinking of a Martian’s foul and fetor. Trust me upon this, Professor, no apothecary, chemist or fellow of the pharmaceutical persuasion will offer me any credit.’

  Professor Coffin did smackings of the lips. ‘You really must be prevailed upon to spend some of the generous largesse I heap about your person to purchase new duds. The Rubes take not to an evil-smelling zany.’

  ‘Assistant,’ said George Fox. ‘Assistant.’

  ‘Quite so. A trusted and valued assistant.’

  George smiled proudly at this.

  ‘Who I will now require to stoke up the firebox, as pressure is dropping in the boiler.’

  An hour later saw the professor’s engine, wagon and all, positioned on Hounslow Heath. Dick Turpin had once robbed the rich upon this very land. Certain parallels might be drawn upon this very day.

  Professor Coffin pressed a pound note into the outstretched palm of George Fox. ‘I will erect the tent myself, whilst you hasten off to the pharmacy,’ he said.

  George, although an honest lad, looked long and hard at that pound.

  ‘If you choose to abscond with the money,’ Professor Coffin told him, ‘I will of course be forced to have you pursued, tracked down and murthered.’

  ‘Murthered?’ queried George.

  ‘Murdered,’ said the professor. ‘A word sometimes employed by Mr Charles Dickens, who would have it that working folk go about doffing their caps to the gentry and saying such things as “fank you werry much, your ’oliness”.’

  ‘I have never held a pound note before,’ said George Fox.

  Professor Coffin nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you were simply thrilling to the experience – I understand.’

  ‘No,’ said George. ‘Not precisely that. I was simply wondering whether an experienced pharmacist, with such knowledge of chemicals as he must necessarily attain to, would recognise, as I most instantly did, that this one pound note has been rendered in crayon and ink. And is indeed a fraud.’

  With another of those grumbling sounds, Professor Coffin snatched back the bogus one pound note and furnished George with a real one.

  ‘I will be as expeditious in my endeavours as it is possible to be,’ said George.

  ‘And take the handcart,’ said the professor.

  ‘And bring it back!’ he added.

  George Fox reasoned that the transportation of so noxious a substance as formaldehyde was something that should be entered into with considerable care. You just could not rush a thing like that. You had to take your time. Any employer, such as his own, who knew about the volatile nature of such a chemical, would naturally know that such things did take time. He would not expect George to return for at least an hour or two.

  Surely not.

  And so George strode off pushing the cart, but soon slowed to a stroll.

  There was just so much to see. So many marvels.

  Certainly George’s time in the employ of a showman had taught him that what you saw was not necessarily what it was claimed to be. The verbiage splashed across the showmen’s wagons in letters big and bold promised a great deal more than it actually delivered. That gorgeous pouting beauty, with the long golden hair showering over her naked breasts as she coquettishly fondled her fish’s tail, was not entirely representative of the exhibit that lurked within the showman’s enclosure. That wrinkled, varnished, wretched thing, an ungodly chimera of monkey and halibut that was hailed as a captured mermaid.

  But the magic of the showground would never be lost upon George. After all, he had run away from a perfectly respectable family in order to join the circus. And after discovering that the circus did not require his unskilled services, he had taken various lowly jobs in various doubtful showmen’s booths, prior to meeting the professor.

  The professor certainly engaged in numerous doubtful practices. But it did have to be said that at least his Martian was real. Whether the means by which he had acquired it were wholly creditable, who was George to say? But it was a real exhibit.

  Though George Fox hated it!

  George steered the handcart in between the showmen’s tents and through the growing crowd. Not the sophisticated crowd of worthies who had attended the concert the previous evening at the Crystal Palace, this. This was more your common crowd of roughs and ne’er-do-wells. The cackles of laughter from toothless hags and the drunken oaths of their partners failed to raise the spirits of George.

  These were not his kind of folk. Perhaps he should just return to his family. Become an apprentice at this father’s firm, which produced the Tantalus. George gave an inward shiver. He did not want to do that. He wanted adventure and advancement. He wanted to experience the zeitgeist.

  The voice of a ‘barker’ reached George’s ears, bawling out to the crowd. George caught sight of a colourful fellow mounted upon a high podium. Above him and spelled out in the new electric light bulbs flashed the words:MACMOYSTER FARL

  THE APOCALYPTICAL EXAMINER

  The barker wore a red velvet suit of the formal persuasion, topped with a red velvet topper. The hues of his nose mirrored those of his clothes and his fine waxed mustachios coiled like twin watch-springs and jiggled to each exhortation. The substance of the barker’s words
caught George’s interest. They held a certain relevance to his breakfast conversation with Professor Coffin.

  ‘Gather round,’ bawled the barker, raising his cane, ‘and hearken unto me. Would you know your own futures? Would you care to speak directly to the dead? You, sir—’ and he caught a passing fellow’s eye ‘—you, sir, I feel, have recently suffered loss.’

  ‘That is true for the truth of it,’ said the fellow, halting so as to speak. ‘My dear daughter Mary went down with the consumption a week ago. Just as her mother, my dear wife Mary, did a decade past. Though she was one of those carried off to Heaven in the early Rapture, by all accounts. Or at least that was what was telled us by the doctors when I came to view her empty bed.’