The black carnival, p.2
The Black Carnival, page 2
The women looked between his hands and the ashy remnants that floated away in winking embers. With a deep bow, he ushered the two ladies through the entrance gates and, arm in arm, they ventured into the circus, discussing whether the trick was sleight of hand or some concealed contraption.
Having consulted a clock plucked from his waistcoat, the clown eased the wide, double gates shut before opening the far smaller exit.
It was the Black Carnival’s final evening in Cardiff. Behind the clouds and their wraithlike glow, a sea of stars pulsed. Beneath that glittering silence was the booming heart of the circus—the fluttering lights and garrulous crowds, the roar of ringmasters over trance-like accordion melodies bleeding through bursts of muffled applause—a seemingly unmanageable cacophony humming along in orchestrated chaos. In the distance were the gloomy outlines of Cardiff’s docks and the bobbing silhouettes of ships, their masts bony protrusions nestled in foggy, sable waters.
The clown had precisely thirteen minutes before he was needed elsewhere. With a swift turn of his heels, he disappeared among nearly a thousand guests exploring the grounds.
He strode by sideshow entertainers working pitches, past steaming food stands, beneath the draconic exhalations of fire breathers, and between the legs of stilt walkers. Shadows cast by acrobats, contortionists, and jugglers danced over the throngs, who moved with uncanny precision as they balanced upon high wires strung between tents. He was another painted face among hundreds.
Walking through the circus was not unlike wandering into a cornfield except for every stalk there was a performer, and for every dead end, another exhibit bound to tempt a coin or two—another show to turn hours into minutes. But the clown understood this dizzying maze better than he knew himself.
To slip through the backstage of the aerialists’ tent for a quicker path or cartwheel atop a tightrope to avoid the crowds required no more conscious thought than his own heartbeat. Though the circus may have traveled the world, seldom did he leave its grounds—thus the entire world might as well have been the circus, and the circus his world.
The clown’s striped top was accented by a charcoal, ruffled collar. The patterns stopped at his plain, once jet-black waistcoat. Then there was that hideous, oversized patchwork mess of a fool’s cap he couldn’t be caught without, bouncing with three diamond-shaped bells. Leather belts, harnesses, and straps decorated his body, each for a different prop. Clubs hung from his thighs, juggling balls nestled in a pouch at his hip, and knives crossed at his back, with six red rings hanging beneath. These spoke nothing of his proficiency in aerial acrobatics. He was not merely another performer—he was a walking array of acts.
For all his talents, he lacked a name. A proper one, at least. When Lester had plucked him from Bethlehem Asylum and brought him to the circus over a decade ago, the others quickly noted the permanent unease on his face, as though he’d just been startled.
So “Boo” it was.
Boo moved to the northernmost edge of the circus, just beyond its gates, where the delighted shrieks were drowned by the chatter of wetland toads. There were no guests here, no performers, no signs nor arrows to guide a full purse down a path of liberation. Still, he glanced about to be sure he hadn’t been followed.
A single, solitary tent fluttering with gaslight stood tucked away in an otherwise unlit corner. It emanated a steady clinking—precise, steel tools being carefully used—and the mutterings of a crew working within. Shrouding the place was an unmistakable odor of moldy meat and soured milk, worsened rather than masked by harsh chemicals.
Boo made his way toward a burning brazier behind the tent. The shadow of a towering, brawny man with pallid skin was cast on the trampled grass. He peered at a ledger, his pencil like a matchstick between his fingers.
“Evenin’, Boo,” he said. His milky eyes caught the fire’s glint as he scrupulously examined a list of goods received and shipped out.
“Thomas,” the clown replied.
Thomas opened his cigarette case and plucked out one for each of them.
“It’s sweet at first. Molasses. Biscuits and licorice.” He sighed after lighting Boo’s. “Then chestnut, maybe oak. It ’as layers, like a secret. Or a sausage roll. I pinched it off a shipping vessel a few days ago. It’s Virginian.”
There wasn’t a cigarette strong enough to mask Thomas’s mortifying breath, and not much else besides the flavor of putrefied flesh could get him to wax poetic. His ghoulism gave him an unfortunate appetite for rotten meat of any sort—human flesh being the most satisfying.
Boo eagerly inhaled the smoke through his nostrils. They’d found privacy behind makeshift walls created by dozens of crates stacked atop one another as Thomas checked the contents in each, scratching at his ledger every now and then.
Nearly twice as wide and tall as Boo, Tommy was built like the carnival’s strongmen. The Scottish giant wore a long, gray coat, its collar brushing his clean-shaven jawbones, over gray-and-black striped trousers. Suspenders clung to his bare chest. His white hair—another effect of his malady—was combed messily over his shaved sides. Before Lester Black had recruited him from London’s betting rings, Thomas’s nimble fingers and propensity for brawls made him an excellent gonoph, a thief of varied talents that leeched off London’s high society.
Boo went to sit on his customary chair, only to find it occupied by a large mass covered by a tarp.
“Oh, that?” Thomas pulled away the tarp, unveiling the slack features of a dead man. He was a little over middle-aged, with a spectacularly long line of snot solidifying from his nose. His eyes were uneven and staring. “Somebody found the old bloke in the mirror house. All alone, he was. Imagine that—some real posh-like couple comes around the corner and sees this dead’un’s ugly mug leering from twelve sides. Do you reckon he scared ’imself to death?”
“It is advertised on our heralds that our grounds are not for the faint of heart. Tsk, tsk.”
“Well. His heart was faint. At least we’re living up to our reputation,” Thomas said, snatching up the man’s top hat and fitting it to his own head.
Boo went through the man’s clothes and found a spare shilling, the coin no sooner vanishing into his waistcoat.
“Folks who found him think we reported him to the bobbies. But judging by the state of ’im, no one’s going to come looking. He’s worth much more to us like this, at any rate. Kayne will throw a parade.”
Boo stood up and covered the corpse again. “What do you think he’ll fetch at the medical college?”
“If I were a betting man—and I am—I’d say four pound.”
“Five, at least. He’s still warm.”
"If we can get ’im there before daybreak, that is. And that task will fall on yours truly.” The ghoul sighed.
Boo’s lips curled into a smirk. “You willing to wager on that?”
“One pound.”
Boo and Thomas each spat into their hands and shook.
“It looks as though we’ll be discussing coin soon enough. Best not spoil it,” Thomas said.
Boo recognized the jostling of a carriage in the distance and took off his cap to hear better. Doing so unleashed a sweaty, oily nest of copper locks sticking out every which way.
Then came the woahs from a driver just outside their wall of crates. The carriage arrived with the aroma of cigars and the mutterings of its two passengers.
“That’d be the men of the hour,” Thomas said.
“Late,” Boo noted.
“I ’ave adjusted my expectations. I suggest you do the same.”
Before Boo could grumble any further, two gentlemen turned the corner in matching gray suits. Silver crosses studded the toes of their boots. The two brothers could be told apart by the elder’s moustache, his dead eye, and the younger’s insistence upon sounding more educated than he was.
“There’s my favorite biter!” Arthur, the older sibling, exclaimed with outstretched arms. The movement was purely symbolic, as he’d sooner throw his arms around the Devil himself.
“Just ghoul or the standard cretin will suffice, thank you,” Thomas said. “Shall we?”
“A’right, a’right, I meant nothin’ by it,” Arthur scoffed. “All business, then? That’s fine by me, Mr. Barker. That’s a fine hat, if you don’t mind me saying. We was in a hurry, anyhow. Wasn’t I just sayin’ that, Henry?” Taking off his own bowler, Arthur twirled it between his hands to show just how hurried he was.
“That is verifiable, that is,” Henry said. “You all right, clown? He looks a trifle more forlorn this evening.”
“No more talkative than our last meeting, though.” Arthur grinned. “You a’right?”
Henry pressed closer to Boo. “It’s no wonder a woman like Lester prefers men like you. Nice ’n quiet-like. Do what you’re told. No questions asked, is it?”
Henry was close enough now that Boo could see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes, the scars on his nose—crooked beyond repair. The clown took a deep drag, saying nothing over the gently sizzling tobacco.
“Boo is here for assurance, gentlemen—nothing more,” Thomas explained. “You’d ’ave better luck getting a cat to crow.”
“Yeah, that’s right, eh? The clown isn’t too…mendacious, is he?” Henry looked at the others with a smirk, met only by confusion.
“Loquacious,” Boo murmured.
“What was that?” Arthur asked.
“My colleague ’ere seems to think your brother meant to say loquacious,” Thomas translated.
Henry advanced on Boo. “You painted runt. How about you correct my speaking after I’ve finished recapitulating your insides.”
“Rearranging?” Boo corrected.
Taking hold of the clown’s lapels, Henry stammered, “You bloody mute. Who’re you to correct my English?”
Boo glared back with stiffening indifference.
“For fuck’s sake. I ought to ’ave brought a ruler. ’Cause I didn’t realize we’d gathered to measure our cocks. Where’s your man? Where’s Mason?” Thomas asked.
Relinquishing Boo, Henry said, “Mason’s on hiatus.”
“Oh, Henry,” his brother groaned. “No, he ain't! You oughta stop usin’ words you ain’t knowing the meaning for. Mason’s not on hiatus. He’s off on business elsewhere. New something? What was it called?”
“New Sarum,” Henry said.
A curious spark crackled in Boo’s heart. They’d be making the leap to that city after Cardiff. The circus had never been there before.
Arthur snapped his fingers. “That’s it! So we’ll be checkin’ your numbers ourselves this time around.”
Handing over his clipboard, Thomas hooked his thumbs into his suspenders and stepped aside. They settled into an uncomfortable silence broken only by the opening and closing of crate lids, the popping fire, and Arthur’s guttural mutterings as he went about the stimulating task that Thomas had performed three times already that evening.
“Who’s the cold one?” Henry asked with a nod toward the corpse. “Your supper?”
“I don’t eat rubbish,” Thomas replied. “Somebody could serve you up on a gold platter and I wouldn’t be tempted.”
“You’d do better to watch your tone around a Disciple. I’ve killed for less.”
“Killing? Oh, that’s the cardinal act, is it?” Thomas leaned in with a hand on the boy’s shoulder, speaking low. “Where I come from—the family, it’s sometimes called—I spilt the blood that’d gone ’n built that world. You’re just living in it, kid.”
“If you think you can—”
Arthur interjected. “Oi, oi, pipe down, baby brother. A dead bloke’s not our problem. What is our problem is that you and your crew of the fashionably undead are behind, Mr. Barker.” Shoving the clipboard into Thomas’s chest, he continued. “Your numbers are square. But that’s just the problem, innit? The numbers. Look at this lot! You ’aven’t sold nearly half of what we’ve tasked you with.”
“It was far easier when we were selling your stiffs, aye,” Thomas replied, reaching into a crate and fishing up an expensive piece of china from the straw bedding. “There’s not always a market for oriental teacups on this side of the Thames. Stolen ones, leastways. You want us to make your contraband disappear? We’ll need more bleedin’ time. Will that suffice, Mr. Fletcher?” In all his wisdom, Thomas flipped open his steel case and offered a cigarette to Arthur.
When Arthur took the cigarette, Boo thought for a moment that his circus and the Disciples might finally see eye to eye.
For a moment.
“We don’t want your fuckin’ smokes,” Henry said. “We want the coin promised for goods provided, and in a timely manner!” In a single blow, he slapped both the cigarettes and the case from their hands.
They landed in the brazier’s burning coals.
Though neither of the brothers knew the ghoul as well as Boo did, they seemed to sense that Thomas was stifling a particular breed of wrath.
“If you have half a mind, brother, you’ll get back in the coach,” Arthur said.
“Mason won’t be satisfied with excuses, not from the likes of him!”
Arthur grabbed his younger brother as though reining in a disobedient pup and landed a firm smack to the back of his head. “Coach, now!” he shouted.
Henry’s face flushed red. He strangled his cap, huffing petulantly. Beneath the scars and the tailored suit, Boo saw the Whitechapel youth that learned how to pickpocket before being taught his letters. Giving the dead man a kick, Henry skulked off into the carriage, slamming the door shut.
Rubbing his stubble, Arthur said, “I apologize for ’im. I do. He’s still young, eh? But listen, he’s not wrong. Dealin’ with us, that’s one thing. But Mason is another matter. He’d ’ave your head for this shit.”
Thomas folded his arms. “The facts remain. We fence your goods as quick as we may. But this? All of this shit? We’re only men mitherin’ ’neath the boot of time, just like anybody else.”
“No, Thomas. You’re a bloody circus. You sell the impossible. You’ve the Devil in your corner, to boot, and the Disciples don’t do mercies or confessions. Next time we meet, you’d do well to have replaced all this with the hard coin obliged to us. If you can’t, well, you bloody well know what ’appens then.” Putting on his bowler, Arthur patted the wall of crates as he turned in the direction of the carriage, saying, “We know where you’ll be. You’ve three weeks, Thomas.”
The light from the brazier fluttered across Thomas’s stony expression. Crumbling, the coals spewed sparks and settled deeper. His steel case was blackened, the prized Virginian tobacco ashes among the coals.
Boo listened to the Disciples’ carriage rolling away. He wiped the sweat that had bloomed on his forehead, smearing his makeup in the process. “You a’right?” he asked.
“If it weren’t for Lester’s sake, and of every soul owed to this place, I’d have stripped the flesh from those wee bampots and made ‘em hand deliver it to Mason fuckin’ Cross.”
“The night is young.”
Thomas took off his coat with a snort and bent over the corpse. “Come on, lend a hand. Let’s give Kayne a reason to smile. One, two…”
4
ATHERTON
APRIL 28, 1886
“…three.”
Atherton slid his arms out from beneath Alice, laying the child’s delicate body upon the embalming table. After placing a head block beneath her neck, he smoothed out the girl’s black hair. The deep color was intensified by her ivory skin, the azure of her veins, and her pale eyes growing foggier by the minute.
He draped a spare towel over the only mirror in the preparation room. This part of his home often felt particularly crowded.
As he was gathering implements to set the child’s features, the door to the back room swung open. His father strode through, steaming cups of Earl Grey in each hand.
Allan leaned against another embalming table, the back of his trousers brushing the bare arm of elderly Mrs. Merrick, scheduled for viewing in just thirty minutes. He sipped his black tea, setting his son’s beside an instrument used to wire jaws shut. The steam from the mug reminded Atherton that he hadn’t had a cigarette in at least an hour, which he fixed promptly.
Through the tiny windows in the dead room, he watched another spring afternoon pass over New Sarum. He could hear children playing at the edge of the market—children who weren’t frigid and stiffened with rigor mortis.
Allan removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Must you do that in here?”
“I’m working, aren’t I?”
“Sometimes, I suppose… Well, I wonder if you are becoming rather relaxed in the preparation room.”
“This is our home. My bedroom is a hallway away from where I pump people full of embalming fluids. My personal and professional habits are damned to intersect.”
“Fair enough.” Allan spread out his hands in a sign of surrender. “She’s the third child this month, that one.”
“I know.”
“Does it not bother you?”
“Of course it bothers me.” Atherton pinched his face as if the very thought was a nuisance, only to pinch it further after taking a sip of tea.
Bitter. Far too bitter.
“Because you don’t seem bothered.”
“Fine. It doesn’t bother me. You’re right. But you also over-steeped the tea—again.”
“I admit I became distracted. And you’ve become detached. Cold. Unfeeling.”
“Goodness, I wonder why.” Tilting open Alice’s jaw, Atherton cleaned out the inside of her mouth with a piece of cotton. “That’s what you wanted, anyway. It’s scarlet fever, isn’t it?”
“No, not what I wanted. In fact—”
