The Finality Problem Page 2

Let me explain…

  One night, Mary and I stood by our door, ushering out the last drunken dregs of her gang of suffering writers (who probably ought to stop suffering and bloody write something). Suddenly a lone waifish, wife-ish person burst in against the flow, nearly knocking me to the floor.

  “Oh!” I cried. “Who is that?”

  “Why it’s…” said Mary, and directed her gaze to our doorman.

  Yes, we had a doorman. Mr. Chives was the one male servant who broke the handsomeness rule. Chives was elderly. Even in his youth, he could not have been an impressive specimen, for he had a somewhat round little body and a head like a discount gourd. No, what truly recommended Chives was his impressive memory. Having once heard a person’s name and any details about their lives, he could be counted on to dredge the information up at a moment’s notice, no matter how much time had passed.

  He discreetly mouthed, “Kate Whitney.”

  “…it’s Kate Whitney!” Mary exclaimed. “Why, Kate, whatever can be the matter?”

  “My husband! Oh, my husband!”

  “Yes, your husband. Er…” Mary looked over at Chives. “Isa Whitney. Yes, poor Kate is constantly having trouble with Isa, because he is…” One more look at our doorman. “…positively riddled with drugs.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said.

  “He’s done it this time,” our guest wailed. “Two whole days he’s been gone. He’s killed himself for sure.”

  “Nonsense, Kate,” said Mary. “I’m sure he has not. John, you are a doctor. Assure Kate that Isa has not killed himself.”

  “Well, I don’t know. He might have done.”

  “John!”

  “What? Drugs do that to you sometimes.”

  “John…”

  “Oh, very well. I’m sure your husband is fine, Mrs. Whitney. He probably just… I don’t know… got extra tired and stopped off somewhere to sleep for a few days. In the presence of no other ladies, I am sure. There. Better? Now, I’m afraid our party is concluding for the evening, so if you could just—”

  “No!” she cried. “I must have some news of him—even if it is the worst. I could not possibly leave this place until I know! Not possibly!”

  And with that, she threw herself onto our fainting couch in a semi-swoon. I hated that couch. All fainting couches, really. I can’t help but feel they encourage such behavior.

  Even worse, when I turned back to Mary, I could tell she was thinking up some kind of cruel plan. By God, I could practically see those hateful gears turning behind her eyes.

  “Well done, dear husband. Now, tell me: how do you intend to put this right?”

  “Me? She’s your friend.”

  “Ah, but you are the one with the medical knowledge to aid poor Isa.”

  “We don’t even know where he is!”

  From our fainting couch came a thin wail. “The Bar of Gold! Oh, The Bar of Gold! I’m sure that’s where he went this time.”

  “Oh, but you can’t go there,” Mary said, with affected concern. “A woman alone? In a place like that? At this hour?”

  “Would you… Would you come with me?” Kate asked.

  “No, no, no! Two women alone? Why, that’s twice as bad!” Mary gave a cold, merciless smile. “But I’m sure John would not turn away in your moment of need.”

  “He’ll come with me?” said Kate, brightening.

  “I’m sure of it,” Mary replied. “Though, you know… the more I think of it… why should you have to go at all? My husband is ever so fond of helping those in distress. I’m sure he could manage it.”

  “What? But… hey!” I protested. “I don’t even know what the man looks like.”

  “He will probably recognize his name, though. Don’t you think?” Mary asked.

  “Well… all right but… Ah-ha! I don’t know where The Bar of Gold is!”

  “Upper Swandam Lane,” said Kate Whitney, most unhelpfully.

  “Oh, come now! That’s halfway across the city!” I protested.

  “Then you’d best get started, I suppose,” said Mary. “And, Kate: don’t go until you’ve had a drink with me. To calm those nerves, you know. When you’re ready, you can head back home and I’m sure John will have Isa there in no time.”

  Clever, clever Mary!

  In only a moment, she had set herself up as neighborhood hero, provided herself an excuse for another drink or two, ensured that Kate Whitney knew she must not attempt to stay the night, and given me an odious mission in the far east of London, just out of spite. Damn! How well she had managed it. Thus, rather than gaining my warm bed, I gathered up my boots and coat and headed out into the night.

  Outside, I found a cab meandering by and hailed it. Apparently, the bohemian dissipation my wife fostered amongst our visitors had spread to the entire neighborhood. The cab man was fairly falling off his seat with drink. I asked to be driven to The Bar of Gold in Upper Swandham Lane and settled in to think.

  Strangely, I had this sudden upswelling of hope. The adventure is beginning! I thought, and it took repeated reflections on the matter at hand to remind myself that this was not true. Yes, in my time with Holmes, such late-night excursions heralded the onset of criminal—quite frequently magical—intrigues. But…

  Those days were gone.

  This was nothing more than scooping up some junkie and delivering him to his wearisome wife. All so I could get back to my wearisome wife. By God, what a lucky fellow John Watson from a year ago had been and he hadn’t even known it.

  Our progress was somewhat ponderous. The cab man—for no reason I could discern—kept trying to turn left. And though the horse would get his head pulled back halfway to his shoulder, he resolutely continued to trudge forward, occasionally giving little neighs of protest as if to say, “But… Upper Swandham! That’s this way!”

  The cab man swore and cursed. Well… and drank. Whenever he wasn’t fighting with his horse, he took constant nips from his flask, which—he assured me—were only meant to ward off the (nonexistent) cold. Yet through all this, the erstwhile steed continued to advance towards East London.

  For my part, I was only glad someone competent was in charge.

  By the time we reached Upper Swandam Lane, the man had fallen silent. Spotting a dirty little sign that read “The Bar of Gold” I cried, “Just here, driver.”

  The man made no response.

  “Just here, please,” I said. But as this produced no result, I decided to try, “Woah!”

  The horse stopped.

  Clambering down from the cab, I went to the front and asked, “What do I owe you?”

  Again, there was no response. With a sigh, I reached into my waistcoat pocket and began producing coins. “Here is what I think I owe you,” I told him. “Now, will you wait for me? My business will not take long and I do not like to be on such a street at such an hour with no transport.”

  As he refused to answer, I turned to the horse.

  “Will you wait for me?”

  He gave me a reassuring sort of snort. That was the best I was going to get, it seemed. I turned away to find The Bar of Gold. Despite the sign, it wasn’t easy. There was no door, you see. There was this irregular sort of crack between two buildings, as if they had once stood straight, but had fallen in against each other. At last, lost for better options, I made my way into that crevice. By God, it reeked! I found it paved not only with human excrement, but more than a few execrable humans. Some lay in the shadows begging, some mumbling incoherent ramblings and one—I will swear—decomposing.

  A dozen feet in, I found the actual door to The Bar of Gold, swung it open, and entered into a filthy den of vice. The air was filled with thick brown opium smoke. The only light came from a few oil lamps, flickering sickly in the gloom. Dozens of men lay in terraced wooden berths, their bodies flung into fantastic poses. Most held pipes in languorous hands, or pressed between their lips. A few seemed to be sleeping—though the distinction between that state and wakefulness might be a bit hazy at the
moment. The air was filled with heavy breathing and muttering.

  It was my first opium den.

  And I could already tell something was wrong.

  Deeply wrong.

  For one thing, all the stupefied men drew their ragged breaths in perfect unison. From a medical standpoint, I understood why they should gasp and wheeze.

  But not why they should synchronize.

  And if one’s powers of observation were not equal to discerning such a subtle cue, there was a more obvious one. Their mutterings. Apropos of nothing, every single drug-blasted sufferer suddenly decided to mention:

  The Spider returns to the empty web.

  His body has left him.

  An empty spider for an empty web.

  He shall live forever.

  The rest shall perish, all.

  Beware the Spider who cannot bite!

  Moriarty! Moriarty!

  My jaw dropped open in dread at this unexpected but familiar name.

  At the back of the room, an old Chinese man with both his eyes plucked out scratched furiously at a leather-bound book with a battered quill. He was smiling, I recall. The loss of his eyes seemed to bother him little, though it must have been recent, judging by the two trails of scabbed blood that ran down his face and onto his threadbare robe. He made sure he had every word scrawled down into that journal of his. He never missed when he dipped his quill.

  A short-haired serving boy bustled by me with balls of opium on a long plank made of fired clay. And do you know, none of the men around me paid him the least attention. He went to a strange metal contraption in one of the walls. At first I thought it was an oven or at least the door to one. Yet when he swung it open, it led not into a fire but out into the alley behind us. The instant he opened it, a feeling of deep discomfort overtook me.

  Was there…?

  Was there a light in the alley?

  If so, it was of no color I could name.

  I had seen such a thing once before: when I beheld my first demon on my second adventure with Holmes. The thing that had so nearly killed me had been of no color either. I could spy it only as areas where my limited, mortal perception failed.

  I was sure there was such an area in the alley by The Bar of Gold.

  The boy dipped his plank of opium out through the strange metal door into the unlight beyond. I saw his head bobbing rhythmically, as he slowly counted to twenty. Having reached that number, he withdrew the plank, closed the metal door, and turned back to the room. Now the men on their wooden beds took note. They reached towards him, howling and whining. Now they found their separate voices and used them to beg, to cajole, to insist that it was their turn—that the man beside him had gotten some of the last batch and they had not.

  The boy rolled his eyes at them. He knew who was due and who was not. Silently, he shuffled down the aisle towards me, handing balls of sticky tar to every happy fellow whose turn had come. These they pushed into their long pipes with trembling hands. Matches flared. Pipe bowls were thrust eagerly to the oil lamps. Parched and puckered lips sucked at pipe stems and—in only the time it took to exhale that first breath of wicked smoke—the chanting started again.

  Who is the thief of secrets?

  Who is come to hear the truths he will not speak?

  The speaker is damned.

  His ear deserves to hear the word that wrecks him.

  Yet who will know the truth, who will not shed his blood for it?

  Shame be upon him.

  I could only assume they meant me.

  “Ha! No. You misunderstand,” I said to the assembled mass of dead-brained men. “I am not a thief. I am a doctor. I have no interest in your secrets. I mean, I’m sure they’re wonderful, but… um… Isa? Isa Whitney, are you here?”

  He was.

  If I’d been less startled, I might have picked him out earlier. Amongst that crowd of poor sufferers—of workmen with broken wills and broken backs—there was only one who wore clothes suitable for my wife’s parties.

  I mean… they might certainly profit from a good pressing, but…

  He sat on one of the splintered wooden planks, staring at me, as if his name were a vaguely familiar thing he thought he might owe some allegiance to.

  When I saw his eyes turn towards me in foggy uncertainty, I urged, “Isa! Hello! Yes, it’s time to get up now, all right? Let us go. Kate is waiting for you! Your wife has been waiting this two days for you! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  “So I am,” the wasted specter replied. “But you’ve got it mixed, for I have only been here a few hours. Three pipes. Four pipes? I forget how many. But I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate... Give me your hand. Have you a cab?”

  “Er…” I said, reflecting on the unconscious cabman and his excellent horse. “Maybe?”

  But at that moment Isa Whitney’s voice—and all the other sufferers’ as well—took on an entirely different tone. They all drew a simultaneous breath—many of them through opium pipes—and spoke as one:

  The eaters of the sacred smoke must arise.

  They must stop the ears of the thief with blood.

  They must throw themselves against him.

  And, if not his ears to stop, they must stop their tongues.

  Either the thief of secrets must die, or the keepers.

  Secrets must abide.

  “No, no!” I cried, grabbing Whitney by the wrist and pulling him to his feet. “As I said, I’ve no interest in your secrets! I am leaving. There’s no need for anything to be stopped with blood, thank you. Good night!”

  Yet, as I turned back towards the door with Isa Whitney’s limp arm over my shoulder, I got the greatest shock of the night.

  He was in the corner, just beside the door. As I’d come in, I’d overlooked him. I’d walked straight by, with him scarcely two feet from my right elbow. But there he was, plain as day: a tall, gaunt fellow with hawkish features and long, bony fingers. He wore a grand moustache, which cleared his face by a good six inches on either side. One of his trouser legs was longer than the other. He wore a jacket of garish color, patched and re-patched with theatrical abandon. His eyes were glazed and dim.

  My mouth fell open in amazement. “How my heart leapt, to find him there! A sudden wave of joy and wonder took me.”

  “H-Holmes?” I stuttered. “Holmes, what on earth are you doing in this den?”

  He smiled at me. “Ha! Disguised as a common Irish working addict, I have infiltrated this house of iniquity!”

  “Well then,” I suggested, “had you best not be a little quieter about it?”

  “Why?” he scoffed. “These fellows are all quite stupefied, I assure you.”

  “Are they? Have you been listening to them?”

  “Well… a bit, I suppose. But I’ve had other things on my mind, Watson. Speaking of which: it’s good to see you again.”

  “Holmes! That is not… Well… It’s good to see you too, actually. Get up, though! We’ve got to get out of here!”

  “But I haven’t solved my case yet!” Holmes complained.

  “Never mind the bloody case! Get up!”

  “I am surprised at you! Why, the John Watson I knew would never—”

  “Get up!”

  “Oh, very well,” Holmes groused, and tottered to his feet.

  He wasn’t the only one. All around us, bleary-eyed men were pulling themselves from their wooden benches on knees and elbows, like shipwreck survivors dragging their weakened bodies out of the surf. There was something horrible about their expressions. There was no malice as they came towards us. No pity. No hint of self-preservation. Just the abiding impression that whichever way this was about to go—whether we were about to die or they were—they were a bit sad about it. The only thing they had resembling hope was the aspiration to get this over as quickly as possible and get those pipes back in their mouths again.

  “We should go now, I think. Now, now, now!” I screamed, hauling my two companions through the door. With
Whitney drooping over my right arm and Holmes sprawled against my left, we burst out of The Bar of Gold and into the filthy alley.

  “Hmm… Dreary sort of place, isn’t it?” Holmes noted. “I believe you said you’ve a cab waiting?”

  “Well, possibly I do. If the cab man’s woken up, he’s probably gone by now. But if not, it’s all down to the horse. And the horse—I think—we may rely upon.”

  “Good horse, eh?”

  The alley was so narrow we had to go down it sideways. I bustled Whitney out first, then myself, and finally Holmes. Behind us, the alley was filling with dead-eyed men. Some staggering after us on their feet. Some crawling. Some writhing in the filth, driving their bodies—wasted so nearly unto death—in vain pursuit. As we hove forth into the notably clearer air of Upper Swandham Lane, I beheld the cab standing just where I had left it, and I answered Holmes’s question.

  “Ha! Yes, he is! The best horse! Just the very best horse!”

  We stumbled to the cab and I began pushing Isa Whitney up into it. He fell into the forward seat, shaking and twitching, seemingly insensible. As soon as he was in, I began the same process with Holmes. To my great surprise, he resisted me.

  “Wait, Watson! Wait…”

  “What is it, Holmes?”

  “What’s the horse’s name?”

  “…”

  “…”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I would just like to know the name of my rescuer, if that is not too much to ask!” he huffed.

  “Well I don’t know it and I don’t care!” I shouted back. “Let’s just call him Best Horse, shall we?”

  Holmes gave a satisfied nod. “Perfect.”

  “Good, now get! In! The! Bloody! Cab!” Each of my last words was accompanied by a mighty shove. Or perhaps a kick. By the time I had Holmes stuffed in on top of Whitney, our horde of shambolic pursuers was hardly ten feet from me. I turned to the front of the cab and called, “Driver, take us to the…”

  But there was no point. The man was completely insensible. So I turned to my only remaining source of hope and shouted, “Best Horse, get us out of here!”

  He gave a whinny of agreement and I only just had time to leap onto the sideboard as he pulled away. One of the besotten men’s hands brushed against my coat tails as we went. Another had managed to grab onto the back of the cab and was dragged some ten or fifteen yards before he finally fell off, shrieking with rage and pain. Our driver gave a sleepy little “harrumph” as if to let us know that it was very rude to interrupt a fellow’s nap in such a manner.