The Somnambulist

“Certainly did, sir. Pal of yours, is he?”

“He’s an absolute brick, old Skimpers.”

“Tip-top.”

It was around this time that some understanding of what was taking place finally dawned on Arthur Barge. He was about to make a run for it when the larger of the two men gripped him by the shoulders and steered him firmly across the room. Barge tried to fight back, only for the stranger — quite casually — to break his right arm. As Barge screamed in agony, Hawker began to whistle.

“Thank you,” Dedlock said weakly, his words barely audible over the sound of his assailant’s torment.

Boon touched the brim of his cap. “Pleasure, sir.” He and Hawker bundled Barge swiftly out of the window, then disappeared the same way themselves.

A moment’s silence, then Dedlock swung himself out of bed and peered through the shattered remains of his bedroom window. The old man with the eyebrows doddered into the room, his hair disheveled and askew. “What happened here? Are you all right?”

Dedlock barely spared him a glance.

“There’s the most ghastly mess,” the old man moaned.

“I was almost murdered in my bed.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Dedlock snapped, “Fetch the brandy. I’ve an awful feeling today’s about to get worse.”

A deferential twitch of the eyebrows. “Very good, sir.”

When Arthur Barge came to, Hawker and Boon were leering over him like a couple of prep-school gargoyles. He was lashed to a chair with twine which cut into his wrists and ankles, drawing blood. Aside from the bright light shining in his face, all was darkness.

“Good to have you back, sir. Marvelous to see him, isn’t it, Hawker?”

“Marvelous, Boon.”

“Who are you?” Barge mewled. “What do you want?”

“He’s not heard of us, Boon.”

“Not heard of us? I’m disappointed. Thought we were living legends.”

“Silly old josser.”

“How much have you been paid?” Barge asked desperately. “Whatever it is, I’ll double it.”

“Don’t bandy words with us, sir.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m afraid we’ve been told to give you a bit of a wigging.”

“A… wigging?”

“A damn good slippering, that’s what he means.”

“A sound hoofing.”

Barge began to cry. “Please-”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“My name?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Arthur Barge. My name is Arthur Barge.”

Boon looked disappointed. He nodded toward his companion, at which Hawker rooted around in his blazer pocket and retrieved an immensely large knife, two or three times the size of the one with which Arthur Barge had intended to murder Dedlock and far, far too large for the size of the Prefect’s pocket.

Barge boggled at it in fear, a sticky yellow warmth coursing unchecked down his left leg.

“Cor! Hawker’s got a wizard new penknife.”

“It’s a smashing knife, sir. Look — it’s got a bottle-opener and a corkscrew and all sorts.”

Barge wept.

“Tell us your name, sir.”

“I told you. I’m Arthur Barge.”

Boon raised his voice just ever so slightly. “Don’t be an ass, sir.”

“Please. Please, I-”

“Name, please, sir. Your real name.”

Barge could see no alternative but to tell the truth and submit to the uncertain mercy of these creatures. Strangely, after all these years, it actually felt good to admit it out loud, to own up at last. He groaned: “I’m the Mongoose.”

Boon beamed. “Thank you, sir. You understand, of course, that we had to make sure.” They laughed. Hawker leant over Mr. Barge and, with enormous gusto, began to saw away at his neck.

I should put up my hand here and confess that I was, at least in part, responsible for all the unpleasantness. I needed to stop the Directorate becoming too interested in our activities, and following the failure of that old soak Slattery, I set this killer on their trail, a former Okhrana sleeper agent living in deep cover as Arthur Barge. I allowed Donald to take care of the specifics and I fear he may have been a little overzealous in his duties. Certainly, I never intended matters to go so far or for poor Mrs. Grossmith to suffer as she did. But how was I to know? I’m an important fellow, and delegation is a necessary evil of my job.

Much as I had enjoyed explaining to Moon the ease with which I had manipulated him, I had begun to weary of exposition.

Moon spluttered, “You want me to join you?” His face had turned an interesting shade of mauve, puce with righteous indignation.

“When you see what I have to show you, I think you’ll understand.”

I sauntered from the room, certain that Moon and his companion would follow — led on now not by fear or even simple curiosity but by the most basic and primal desire of all: the need to know how everything will end.

I have long had a fascination with underground London, her secret subterranean, for the dark places of the earth. Since wresting control of Love, Love, Love and Love from its odious President, Donald McDonald and I had constructed an entire world beneath our headquarters. We had sculpted great vaults and chambers to be a hiding place and refuge from the tumult of the world above.

I led Moon and the Somnambulist back to the balcony above the great hall. The place had filled up with my people, men and women packed shoulder to shoulder, crammed against the walls. It seethed with life, it brimmed with Love. Standing before us were London’s edge-people, the poor, the ugly and the deformed, the indigent, the dispossessed, the ragged and the hopeless, all the marginalia of the city. At my appearance a mighty roar went up, which I acknowledged as best I could with a modest bow and a diffident wave.

Moon stared down at the multitude, trying no doubt to spy his sister amongst them, or Thomas Cribb, or Mr. Speight.

“So many,” he murmured. “I had no idea there’d be so many.”

“Love assembled,” I said, unable (I admit it) to entirely hide my pride. “The foot soldiers of Pantisocracy.”

“Soldiers?” Moon was being contrary again. “Why would Paradise need soldiers? Why the violence? Why the death? Why not simply take your followers and go? Build your Eden by the banks of the Susquehanna and leave the rest of us be.”

I marveled at the man’s obtuseness. Despite all I had told him, still he hadn’t realized the truth of it. “The Susquehanna?” I tried to keep the contempt from my voice. “You really believe we’re going to America?”

“That was Coleridge’s plan, was it not?”

“American is unsuitable. Corrupt.”

“Where, then?”

“Here, Edward. Here, in the city.”

“I thought you hated London.”

“No city is irredeemable. We shall rebuild. Start again. A new city where we will live as true Pantisocrats. I’m giving London a second chance.”