CHAPTER TWELVE
A slow-moving, narrow drainage channel ran down the side of the cobbled highway and was thick with foul-smelling waste. A sudden flurry of brown rain peppered the surface of the sludge, but my mind was blank.
I remembered stepping through the portal, and then, nothing.
The sound of muffled voices pierced through the mist. I raised my head and saw a drab procession of shabbily dressed people shuffling along the damp pavement. Some glanced at me, dull-eyed and incurious without breaking step.
This passive acceptance of my presence was reassuring, and as I relaxed, my memory slowly returned. If the conductor was correct, I must be in the city of London, or more precisely, an alternative version of that city in the year 1880.
By the grimness of the surroundings, it seemed that I had landed in a poor quarter of that great Victorian metropolis, the capital city of England, where the class divide between those of great wealth and those with nothing, was so acute, the distance so great, that it seemed the natural way of life, and preserved a degree of social stability. The church served the interests of the establishment by encouraging people to accept their situation in life as the will of God. The general consensus was that poverty was largely self-inflicted due to idleness and lack of moral character.
A coal-darkened sky cast a grey shadow across the mean streets, and amidst the dull brown of this blighted district, a flash of bright red was as unexpected as a rose bush in a midden. I recognised it as a warning, and my leg muscles tightened; a reflex action that prepared me for immediate flight.
Any out-of-place artefact in a portal world signals caution, red means imminent danger, and sure enough, it was the scarlet tunic of an armed soldier that had attracted my attention. The steel blade of his drawn sword reflected the fading rays of a sullen afternoon sun, but I could see that his uniform was in disarray, and his chest heaved as he struggled to get his breath. It seemed that he had been running, but whoever he had been chasing had given him the slip, and now he was carefully scrutinising every man who passed him by.
There was no doubt in my mind that I was his quarry, turning my face away in an attempt to blend in with the crowd, and flinching at the sound of hooves drumming along the cobbled road, fearing the arrival of mounted reinforcements. To my relief, a horse-drawn hansom cab with huge wheels clattered towards me, the cabman, well muffled against the elements, at the rear, whip and reins in hand.
As the hansom rattled past, a woman wearing a wide-brimmed black bonnet adorned with ribbons pressed her face against the inside window of the passenger compartment. She stared straight at me, even turning her head to keep me in view as the cab disappeared into the distance.
Why was she looking at me?
Was it my style of clothing that had drawn her attention? I checked my appearance and was astonished to find that I was wearing a long black overcoat stretching down to my boots and an ill-fitting bowler hat that almost covered my ears. None of this belonged to me and I had no idea where it came from.
A search of the heavy topcoat failed to provide any clues as to the identity of my unknown benefactor, but a black scarf in an inside pocket proved useful, and I wrapped it like a bandanna around my lower face as protection against the bad air.
My first conscious recollection in this world was awakening by the side of the road, but something must have happened in the period before that that I no longer remembered. I needed to hide somewhere to gather my wits, and I retreated into the shadow of a crumbling tenement to focus on what I knew.
The unmistakable dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral was in the distance, and the style of the hansom cab, the fashionable hat worn by the woman, and the dress of the passers-by reassured me that I was in Victorian London. A fog was coming down, one of the infamous ‘peasoupers,’ that painted the polluted atmosphere in muddy shades of yellow and green. A woman in a shabby black dress, not wearing a coat in this freezing weather, hurried past with a pale-faced infant clutched in her arms. The child, wrapped in a filthy sheet, looked close to death, a grim reminder that this was a period of great want for the vast underclass who lived in the capital city of the richest and most powerful nation on Earth.
I rejoined the surge of pedestrians and let them carry me along in the flow; it may as well be this way as any other, and a blackened sign on a brick wall read, Borough of Lambeth. The dense crowd filtered onto a huge bridge and down a broad pavement beside a road thick with horse-drawn traffic.
Down below, the dark waters of the Thames slopped against the bridge supports in an irregular rhythm. The wide river was a busy thoroughfare, and the surface thronged with working boats of every description. In the rapidly fading light, crewmen lit warning lanterns on the stern of each boat, and it was as if a host of red poppies had simultaneously blossomed on the surface of the river in hazy patterns of crimson light. I banged my arms across my chest to get warm; the night air was much colder in this exposed spot, and the damp mist had chilled my body to the marrow.
The fog thinned over the Thames, and it was possible, even by twilight, to make out details of the passing traffic, mainly steam-driven craft carrying cargo or passengers, with an oilskin-clad Waterman at the helm. Oar-powered skiffs, a familiar sight in the summer, were also about their business, but they were of the commercial type; none of those hard-pulling scullers were out on the water for pleasure.
My knowledge of the social conditions of London in the nineteenth century was largely theoretical—until now, but what I saw confirmed all that I had read. The people crossing the bridge on foot were poor, and the fetid smell of unwashed bodies rose from their close-packed ranks, disagreeable evidence of the lack of proper nutrition, clean water, and crowded, unsanitary housing conditions, not to mention the spread of contagious diseases.
Almost every face on the bridge, including the children, was uniformly pale and drawn, and most people, young and old, were noticeably short in stature, some limping or carrying disfigurements. These physical differences allowed Victorian society to identify the poor as a subclass, an inferior breed, unable to prosper because of a deficient nature, thus providing the wealthy with a convenient and completely dishonest, justification for supporting a rigid class system that not only condemned these unfortunate people to a life of poverty but also denied them the chance to escape their squalid existence. Exclusion from the best schools or access to higher education, guaranteed the dominance of the upper classes from generation to generation, sustained by inherited wealth and privilege.
The crowd on the bridge was mostly self-absorbed and silent, but I found the little conversation that I did hear almost impossible to understand. The brief snatches of conversation were in English, but the accent confused me, only recognising the occasional word or short phrase. Once heard a child asking his mother for the name of the bridge and understood her reply of ‘Westminster.’
Many of the people on the bridge were on their way home from work at the end of this cold winter day. But some were so ill-clad and impoverished looking that I guessed that home for them was nothing more than a doorway or a temporary construction of some sort. It also served as a reminder that I might join them unless my circumstances improved, but I need not have worried; help was at hand.
I hunched forward against the cold, and my numb fingers brushed against the surface of what felt like a heavy leather purse in the folds of my pocket. I carefully eased the purse out, not wanting to attract attention, and gently loosened the drawstrings.
The yellow light cast by the gas lamp above me illuminated the gleam of gold or silver coins and the dull brown patina of copper pennies. It seemed that somebody had anticipated my arrival and given me the means to survive, but my decision to enter the portal had been my own, or so I thought.
I now possessed enough money to pay my way in this unwelcoming city, but the unnerving sensation that somebody was standing too close behind me made the hairs rise on my neck, and I clutched the purse closer to my chest.
“Spare tuppence for a cup of tea and a wad, governor? Ain’t had a bite since morning.”
It was a boy of about fifteen whose sharp ears must have caught the faint jingle of coins, and I furtively drew the purse shut before examining him more closely. He wore a pair of torn trousers, a jacket two sizes too small for him, and a grubby shirt with no vest. Around his neck was a white cloth, artistically knotted so that it hung to one side, giving him a jaunty, piratical appearance. On his feet were a pair of old boots stuffed with newspapers to make them fit and provide insulation against the cold.
He was skinny but looked to have a wiry strength about him, and I sensed that there was more to this youth than first met the eye. His complexion might be sallow, but he had a strong face with unexpected blue eyes that did not drop under my scrutiny.
“Are you alone?” I asked, thinking he could be part of a gang planning to attack me.
“Yes, Governor, sole trader. I don’t go in for firms.”
I decided to take a chance.
“Show me where I can get food and lodging, and I’ll pay you.”
“I’m game. Just two questions, Gov. How much and when do I get it?”
“I’ll buy you some food if we find somewhere to eat, and a silver coin when I find lodgings.”
“Fair enough, follow me. Jack’s me name,” he said over his shoulder.
We walked quickly across the bridge, took the main road into Westminster, and stopped halfway at a brightly lit stall.
“What cheer, Arthur?” he said to the burly man tending the stall. “Two teas for us, mate, milky and sweet. That all right for you, Gov?”
I nodded my head. I was glad he was doing the ordering.
“You got money, Jack?” Arthur knew Jack of old.
“It’s all right; I’m paying,” I said. “Give him what he likes, and I’ll have the same.”
“Right,” said Jack, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll have a ham sandwich apiece, a couple of boiled eggs to go with it, and two pieces of currant cake, big slices, mind.”
Arthur piled up two tin plates.
“That’ll be tuppence each for the sandwiches—that’s four pence; a penny each for the eggs—that’s four pence again; and tuppence each for the slices—another four pence. A shilling all told.”
I scrabbled in my bag, not knowing what a shilling looked like, and selected a large silver coin.
“Not got the right money?” Arthur said, and not waiting for a reply, he reached into his pouch and brought out two smaller silver coins.” There we go, half a crown tendered, and one and six change.”
We took our plates and sat on a wall, both of us ready to make short work of our impromptu supper. I removed my scarf to eat and looked up to find that Jack was staring at me.
“Why, you ain’t much older than me,” he grinned.
“Them false teeth?” He added, peering closely at my mouth. “Ivory or some such? I have never seen Hounslows so white in my whole life.”
“No, they’re my own teeth, but why did you call them Hounslows?”
“Hounslow Heath” rhymes with teef. That’s how we talk on this side. You’re a stranger around here, ain’t you?”
He didn’t wait for a reply, and his thoughts tumbled out in a continuous babble.
“Seaman, maybe. I saw a geezer down the docks one time, his skin all brown with the sun like yours, and ‘is ‘air was yellow. He said he had just come back from the tropics, wherever that might be. Is that where you’re from, mate? Cause God to be my witness; you don’t speak like anybody I’ve ever heard before, and that’s a fact.”
“No, I’m not from London, Jack, but from a similar sort of place, well, mostly, but I have no idea how to get back or even why I am here.”
Jack looked at me with his mouth open.
“No, it can’t be,” he muttered to himself, “but if it is, the silly baskets are all looking on the wrong side of the river, and I’ve come over the bridge without my recognizing who he was. I ‘ad him down for an old geezer; what with him wearing that long coat and his face covered up.”
“What’s the matter, Jack? Speak up. You look as if you have seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have,” he said. “Listen, mate, straight up. Your name ain’t Peregrine, is it?”
I was too shocked to reply.
“You are,” he breathed. “There’s half of London’s street boys looking for you, mate, and there’s a price on your head.”
“Enemies?” I asked.
“Nah, friends, I fink. Young woman, very worried about you she is, and offering a sovereign for knowledge of your whereabouts. Is she your sister or sumfin?”
Something occurred to Jack, and he frowned.
“Now listen to me, mate. You ain’t on the run, are you? If you are, I ain’t interested. Assisting a felon to escape gets big jail time in this borough.”
“No, Jack, I’m not on the run, and she isn’t my sister. Her name wouldn’t be Montana by any chance, would it?”
“Nah, she said her name was Agnes.”
My hopes fell, but this was still good news.
“How did she say to get in touch with her?”
“Down Lambeth Way is a commercial hotel called ‘The Imperial.’ We’ll have to go back the way we came. You do want to go, don’t you?”
“Most definitely, and I would be delighted to have you along with me to collect your reward. Here is one and six on account.”
It was the change I had received for our supper, and I had no idea of its current worth, but Jack seemed happy enough. With that settled, we finished our meal, returned our tin plates to Arthur, and set off back across the bridge to Lambeth. The fog was noticeably thicker again when we crossed, and I realized it must be quite late at night. It made for an eerie atmosphere, and I pulled up my collar, turning my head to look back to see if anybody was behind us.
“It’s not the best time to be walking the streets of Lambeth,” said Jack, sounding worried.
“You carrying Peregrine?”
“Carrying?” I asked.
“A weapon. Shooter, Shiv, something of that sort.”
“No, sorry, Jack, you?”
“Bit of lead piping that I can put to effective use so long as they don’t come team-handed and rush me. I dare say you don’t have much experience in that sort of work yourself.”
He shook his head without waiting for me to answer.
“I didn’t think so. You being a gentleman and all that. We are on a dangerous patch and must change places for a bit. I’m the boss now, and you do what I say, right?”
I wasn’t about to argue.
“Yes, of course.”
“If we get jumped,” said Jack,” then you scarper. I will hold ‘em off as long as I can.”
He held up his hand to stop my protests.
“No time to argue; do as I say. If it comes to a battle, run down to the end of this road, take a sharp right, then a second left. The hotel is straight ahead. You can’t miss it. Agnes said she would be sitting in the lobby and would wait there till midnight. If you don’t see her, ask at the desk for the lady who booked in today with her father and their servant. That is the plan if anything goes wrong, but with a bit of luck, we may not need it.”
He shivered and buttoned up his ragged jacket.
“Hardly see a foot in front of you now. Walk slowly, Peregrine, and stop talking. Keep the white of your face covered, and don’t make any noise.”
And so, we began what felt like the longest walk of my life.
I heard the sound of scuffling feet and hushed whispering on the other side of the road, but we could see nothing in the fog, and then a series of low whistles that could only be signals. I imagined we were walking through a jungle in the dead of night, and unseen predators were stalking us like prey, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
Jack put a finger to his lips and indicated for us to stop. I could feel the tension in the air. My heartbeat increased, sending adrenaline coursing through my veins, and my body shook with suppressed energy. It was the classic fight-or-flight response. Neither option appealed, but the enemy was close by and could be within touching distance in this pitch darkness without us even knowing. We remained silent and motionless, but I was ready to repel any attack that came from the shadows.
Jack clutched his lead piping, and the seconds ticked slowly by.
Then came the sound of a violent confrontation some way behind us, but the footpads seemed to have chosen the wrong victim.
There was a shout of “Stand back, you rogue, or I fire,” and the sound of two pistol shots and a scream of agony. The gang took flight, and Jack and I pressed our backs against the wall as they raced past us, but there was more to come; the piercing blast of a police whistle and the pounding of heavy boots on the road echoed through the fog as four or more constables joined in the pursuit of the villains.
The freezing air could not prevent beads of sweat from forming on my brow.
If the police came upon us, they would be sure to think that we were part of the gang and arrest us. With the crooks in front and the police behind us, we were stuck in the middle, and we set off at a good pace to escape from the trap. I had recovered from my recent ordeal, and Jack, for all his half-starved look and those ill-fitting boots, was a fine runner. We soon made ground on the gang, and no doubt thinking we were the police, they swerved down a side street as we continued down the road.
We began to get tired; this foul air did little to sustain our efforts and all the time we were listening out to discover which group the police would follow. We heard shouts and then the sound of heavy boots as the police went after the gang down the side street, and slowed down, thinking we were safe, but to our horror, we once again heard the unmistakable sound of pursuit.
The police must have thought the gang had split up and divided their forces into two. Unfortunately for us, the policemen who had opted to follow us seemed to be the younger and fitter of the bunch, and they had almost caught us up when Jack signalled for me to go on. Then he turned around, headed back to the way we had come, and yelled out.
“Come on, Sam, follow me down this side passage; they’ll never catch us.”
He ran down the opposite side of the road, and I heard him shout.
“Good man, Sam, stay by my side, nearly there.”
The police came to a halt, and I had the sense to stop myself in case they were still listening out for anybody ahead. Seemingly satisfied, they went in pursuit of the voice in the dark.
Jack’s trick had worked.
I vowed I would somehow find Jack and reward him handsomely for his self-sacrifice and put up his bail, if necessary, but now my head began to spin, and I became dizzy and disorientated. Far too much had happened in a brief period, and I was temporarily unable to cope. I needed to get out of the open, and I crawled under a hedge and into the garden of one of the houses that bordered the road. There was a small, unlocked shed not far away, and I squeezed myself past a stack of gardening tools and found a heap of sacking at the rear. I quickly made up a rough bed, lay down, and closed my eyes, but sleep would not come. The thought of Jack and his selfless act of bravery made it impossible for me to hide myself away like this.
I stuck it for a couple of minutes and then hurriedly abandoned my makeshift bed, leaving the garden by the same route that I had entered. Jack’s directions were easy to follow, and I soon found myself standing outside the Imperial Hotel—a grand name for a very modest establishment.
I hesitated for a moment, unsure who might be waiting for me inside, but taking a deep breath, I climbed the steps and went into the hotel. Straight in front of me was a furnished lounge area, and a young woman, smartly dressed in the fashion of the day, rose to her feet and came to meet me.
She spoke first.
“Peregrine?” She held out her hand and said, “I’m Agnes Wickfield.”
It was the woman I had seen in the hansom cab.
That I should have been shaking hands with Agnes Wickfield would have been unbelievable only a brief time ago, but this was not my first contact with somebody from her world. She ushered me into a side room in the hotel, and a waitress served us tea. There was some polite small talk, and then she told me how she had arrived in London accompanied by her father and his clerk.
“So, you see, Peregrine, we are here in this dimension as refugees, having escaped from the military dictatorship that has taken over the World of Fiction, the name of our adopted home, a world populated by those of us whose lives first emerged as characters in a novel. People in your world do not yet fully understand what it is like to live in a multi-reality universe. The almost infinite number of possible realities means that there is no distinction between fact and fiction. The existence of people like me who have liberated themselves from the constraints of a predetermined existence must appear fantastic—not to you, of course, Peregrine,” she added, with a graceful inclination of her head.
“I am afraid these sceptics who expect our lives to be as colourful as the character we played in our novel will be disappointed; we are boringly normal and no different from anybody else. Most of us who survived all the drama and excitement of the novel ended up living a quiet life, but there are always committees of one sort or another that society expects one to attend, and charities, of course. ‘The poor will always be with you,’ as Jesus said, and gentlefolk like ourselves have a moral duty to help; wouldn’t you agree, Peregrine?”
“I see you mean well, Miss Wickfield, but…”
“Please, Agnes, if you would, one can hardly stand on ceremony in our desperate situation.”
“Very well, Agnes, but do you not think that Jesus meant to shame us with that statement? People are poor because they lack the opportunity to improve their lot in a society where one class unfairly hoards almost the entire wealth of the country. The poor do not need token handouts to satisfy the consciences of the better-off; they need fair wages and equal access to education and training. But most of all, they need decent housing, proper sanitation, and access to health care for themselves and their children.”
“Peregrine!”
Agnes flushed bright red.
“Are you a revolutionary? Surely you are not one of those socialist plotters and anarchists one reads about in the Times newspaper. Agitators who are determined to bring our noble country to its knees and destroy our democratic institutions. I can barely credit what you have just said.”
“I’m sorry if I have upset you, Agnes,” I replied, “but with all due respect, you are unaware of the depths of poverty and social injustice in this country. I do not blame you for your ignorance of such matters, people of your class are generally uninformed. It is somewhat ironic that Charles Dickens, the author of your novel, was instrumental in bringing the attention of society to the plight of the poor.”
Agnes pursed her lips and said in a very measured tone.
“If you care to explain your case more fully, Peregrine: “I will make every effort to understand.”
“You must forgive me once again, Agnes. There are things you do not yet know that are, for the time being at least, best left unsaid.
“But Peregrine…”
You must trust me, Agnes; we are in great danger and must leave the present subject for another time. Now, if you would please tell me again the exact details of your experiences, we cannot afford to miss anything.”
Agnes replaced her teacup on the table and calmly smoothed down the front of her dress; there was more steel to Agnes Wickfield than one might think.
“Very well. After the military dictatorship took over, life in The World of Fiction became intolerable,” she said. “The countryside became overrun with soldiers of all kinds, some of them not even humans, and these were the worst sort, creatures born in hell. Beasts known as Orcs and the like, and Dwarves and Goblins, and every other kind of creature imaginable, including fallen angels whose wings had become blackened by corruption, and Dementors: creatures without bodies who breathed death. We are a tolerant world; there are both good and bad people in our communities, and we live and let live, as they say, but these savage creatures were beyond forgiveness, and we decided to flee. We knew that Earth Minor had open immigration policies and would welcome people of our kind, but we did not know how to get there. There was, however, a direct portal link to an alternative London, a route that others had taken before us, and we decided to go in the hope of contacting somebody who could help.”
“Thank you, Agnes,” I said, “but time is short. Could you quickly move on to the point where you became aware of my arrival here?”
“Of course,” she said sharply, “and I will be as brief as possible. We thought we were safe here, but one night, a squad of soldiers from the rebel army launched a night attack on the temporary haven for refugees in the city centre that had taken us in. Luckily for us, so many of them landed on the roof of the building where we were all asleep that it collapsed, and people scattered in every direction. I intended it to be just me and my father, but his terrified clerk hung on to Father’s coattails, and we had to take him with us.
“We hid out here, in this hotel, and the Pimpernels, a brave group of resistance fighters who arranged our escape from our occupied world, contacted us with the important news. A young man named Peregrine, a portal traveller and a resident of Earth Minor, would materialize in London at Gloucester Road in Lambeth early this evening and would be able to take us back with him to his home world.
“We duly assembled to wait at the spot they indicated, but just as you arrived, two of the soldiers from the search party saw us from the bridge. They began to run in our direction, and my quick-thinking father realized that your odd appearance would make you stand out in any pursuit. He took off his coat and hat and dressed you in his clothes; you were still in a daze after emerging from the portal. All we could do was point you down the hill and set you off. Fortunately, you kept on going in a straight line; it was almost as if you were sleepwalking.
“We made our escape, and later I came back in a Hansom Cab to look for you. I saw a soldier on the other side of the road who was checking everybody who passed, and I did not dare to stop. When I returned later, you were gone, and I gathered up a gang of street urchins and gave them your name, description, and where I was staying. I offered a gold sovereign to the boy who could bring you to me that night. I returned to the hotel and have been waiting here ever since.”
“Thank you, Agnes,” I said sincerely, “and now would you take me to meet your father and his clerk? I will inform your father that I must leave again to finalize the details of our escape, and advise him to rest, but he must be ready to leave the instant I return. I will make a signal to you by clenching and unclenching my fist three times, and you will offer to escort me out. I cannot explain now, but I must have a secure place in the hotel where you can leave me in complete privacy. Do you have something like a small dressing room at your disposal?”
“Yes,” she said, puzzled.
“Excellent! I want you to lock me in there with only a chair to sit on. Once you have locked the door, you must not open it again or attempt to disturb me in any way; that is most important. You must stay in your room and not let anyone in and only open the door of the dressing room and let me out when you hear me shout. I cannot predict how long I will be; time passes differently between worlds. Now, will you do all that?”
“Yes, of course. Take care, Peregrine.”
“I will,” I replied. If this works, we will be in a much safer world before the night is out.”
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