The Statue

A hitman prepares to complete his task in this steampunk tale. This was a story written late one night for the Monthly Writing Workshop at Imperial Literature. It had to feature a steampunk gangster unearthing a statue in midair. No, really! First of all I came up with A Scream of Brass which I'm hoping will get published online, and then I came up with this at the last minute. 4,400 words Writing time :4 hours Finished :11th September 2006 Download as Word file

The far-off thrum of the four massive Lycoming engines could be heard in the main hall of the HMD Lord Midwinter, but only after the master of ceremonies had called for attention, and the chatter and noise of the gathered guests finally subsided to whispers.

Victor Cruour watched from behind sips of his mineral water as the master of ceremonies prayed welcome for Vice-Dean Drood of the Royal Institution. At once generous, almost vigorous, applause swept through the hall, echoing off the full-length windows behind which the grey November clouds marched. Those assembled, Victor knew, were the cream of the Institution's crop. Every one of them a Fellow; or an amateur gentleman, as the old days had it. These evening-wear-clad brokers and lawyers and businessmen and politicians in their jewelled deck-shoes and finest black hose and slicked-back hair wanted the Vice Dean to know just how much he meant to them all. Just how loyal they truly were.

Victor settled his drink in the crook of his arm and joined in. He did not want to seem out of place, after all, not when his target was about to make his first appearance of the evening.

The invitations had been for the art, and there was nothing more quintessentially 80s than modern art, or so the fashionable pages of the Times of London kept insisting, but they weren't here for the art. They were here to see the Vice-Dean, and to be seen with him. Jostling for position. For favour. For prestige. It was the poisonous old bastard's birthday, and Victor had been sent with a very particular present. Rather more of a surprise present, he imagined.

With one eye on the Vice-Dean, milking the bought-and-paid-for adoration of the crowd with a few well-chosen platitudes, Victor looked for the Porters. Most were easy to spot, obviously, on account of their black bowler hats, but there were others here and there throughout the crowd. His practised eye picked them out easily enough; the skill was to make it look like he wasn't looking. His gaze wandered here and there, seemingly at random, always returning to Vice-Dean Drood on the podium whenever his self-satisfied, nasal tones signalled a joke coming up. He always got a laugh. He pretended to look at the tall cases that lined either side of the hall, draped with crimson cloth and gold-thread tassels that concealed the artwork within. The society ladies, faultlessly attired to the demands of the Beeton Code, but with just the faintest suggestion of the shortening of skirts that the this new decade seemed determined to introduce. Victor blamed the French for that one. The towering display of fruits, flowers and delicacies from the nine corners of the Empire that nearly touched the polished wood of the hall ceiling.

There were eight Porters in the crowd, Victor decided. No point trying anything here. He would have to see what opportunities might present. As the Vice-Dean drawled a lewd witticism that would have brought the constables in less rarified atmospheres, but that also signified the end of his monologue, Victor began to move through the crowded hall.

The master of ceremonies begged the indulgence of the honoured guests and, as Victor helped himself to another mineral water, the men and women broke into polite applause as the crimson drapes on the tall cases were tugged aside by the aides, revealing what all present were convinced would be another ground-breaking work by one of England's finest modern artists.

One of the guests knocked his arm, nearly causing him to spill his drink. He turned, his face already carefully composed to deliver only the politest of rebukes, but was beaten to the punch by a deluge, of words delivered from the wide-eyed girl at his side.

“Oh my goodness! I can't believe I – I could have been so clumsy. That's so appallingly gauche of me! You must think me an imbecile!” The girl – from her sash she must have only just made her debut at court that season, thought Victor, so she was properly a lady, not a girl – was flushing bright red to outshine her ruby necklace. She whipped out a white satin handkerchief and offered it to Victor. “You must allow me, please.” Her voice dropped to a low, self-berating whisper. “I swore I wouldn't make a bloody display of myself.”

Victor bowed from the shoulders, in the teutonic fashion that he knew the young so approved of. It would be a gross insult to refuse a lady's handkerchief, but an even more obtuse one to actually use it. He made a show of folding it properly. “Don't mention it. It's only mineral water, Lady-?”

She smiled, so open and genuine he was momentarily taken aback, and bobbed a curtsy. “Lady Vandeleur, Mister-. Sorry. Dammit. And you are?”

Victor bowed again. “In the absence of proper thirds to introduce us, Lady Vandeleur – The Honourable Victor Cruour, at your service.”

She smiled again, the exuberance of the raw girl she had recently been still shining effortlessly through the elegance of the society jewel she was fast becoming. She tucked a stray strand of black hair behind her ear in such an unselfconscious fashion that Victor was sorely tempted to laugh out loud. “You are an amateur gentleman, then, Mister Cruour?”

“Foreign affiliate. From Vancouver.” He glanced around discreetly, seeing the guests breaking up into clumps to view the contents of the artist's cases.

“It is such an honour to meet–” She stopped, putting her hand over her mouth, an appalled look on her face. “You must forgive me. This is the first time I have done this. It is – of course it is – an honour to meet any of our colonial cousins. That's what I meant. Please excuse me. I have a tendency to babble nonsense when I get nervous, and I do not have a good head for heights and being in dirigibles, specially old ones, always does this to me.”

The girl was clearly affected by the vapours, or more likely just the alcohol; the HMD Lord Midwinter was newly commissioned. Victor saw that this was his best chance to reach the forward stairs that lead to the private apartments above, with the guests milling around from exhibit to exhibit. He made his move. “I hope I am not making you nervous, but it seems perhaps I should go and-”

She grabbed his arm, giving what sounded like a breathless gasp of delight. “No! Look!” She wheeled around. “It's Julian Hirst!” she hissed, indicating the artist, clad in daring Italian, grey-striped tails and white hose, his thin, arrow-like face jutting out over a prominent adam's apple. She turned back to Victor, innocent enthusiasm shining from her. “Please introduce me. Please?”

Victor did his best to smile. “But of course.” He took her arm in his and pushed his way through the throng to where Hirst was standing, listening politely to a rather well-known Member of Parliament holding forth his views on the work at hand.

“Can't stand this modern stuff, of course. No skill in it, you see? I look at a work of art, I want to see a lifetime of training. Of dedication. Of guts. Hmm? You get me? I want to see the touch of the divine. A fraction of the name of God expressed through the hand of man. And a bloody frame, of course. Got to have a good frame, or it's just not art, is it?” As Victor and Lady Vandeleur approached, the man – Victor recognised him as Lord Somerfield – took out his quizzing glass and popped it in, shaking his head. “I mean, what exactly am I looking at, Mr Hirst? I'm just an old soldier with an arse full of Russian lead, my boy, and I just don't know what the point of it is. You get me?”

Victor stopped, his tall, thin frame and the radiant smile of the girl on his arm drawing the attention of the group gathered around the artist and his critic. “Mister Hirst. Might I introduce the Lady Vandeleur, new at the Court of St. James this season.”

He caught the group looking – so it seemed for a moment – more at him than at the beautiful girl at his side. He was unknown here, and it concerned him that his lack of familiarity might be drawing attention. He had hoped the simple fact of his presence at such an exclusive event would forestall any difficult questions.

Hirst bowed. He did it awkwardly, Victor noticed, but without losing the air of arrogance that suffused him. He gave the impression that bowing properly was something he could do exceedingly well, if he thought it worth the effort to learn. “My Lady. I was just about to explain to the Right Honourable Lord Somerfield just what I have accomplished here. Would you indulge me to continue?” At an inclination of the head from Lady Vandeleur that he did not return, he carried on. “I have cloned myself, as you can plainly see.” He gestured at the numerous tall, glass cases lining the huge main hall of the dirigible. In each, under an intense gas-blue lamp, hung a naked, male body suspended in various coloured fluids. “But in each instance I have introduced genetic abnormalities to the embryo at the earliest stage of development, and then force-grown the resulting foetus to the adult stage before you.” He turned his back on the group and looked up at the floating form before him. “In this case, severe anencephaly. You can see the head is almost unexpressed, although there are rudimentary eyes on the cranial stump.” He turned back. “The others you will see as you go, including craniopagus parasiticus – a second head, for the non-medical among you – Cornelia de Lange Syndrome, diphallia, Robinaw syndrome and so on. I have produced myself as the Almighty might have seen fit to do, had He been of a less generous mind when I was in my mother's embracing womb. There but for the grace of God, Lord Somerfield. And so, with this art, these facsimiles do I express the grace of God not in what He has done, but what He did not do. Does that suffice?”

Lord Somerfield grunted, still peering at the near-headless body drifting in the coral-blue formaldehyde. “Clever words, Mister Hirst, but it doesn't do to tempt the wrath of God with your meddling. Such medicines as you toy with might keep age from our door, or -” He paused for a moment, “- produce entertainments undreamt of in years past, but it still looks like a waste of time and effort to me, and being a member of parliament I can assure you I know whereof I speak.” Polite laughter from the group. A strained smile from Hirst.

“Sir,” Hirst said, seeming to notice Victor for the first time. “Perhaps you would favour us with your opinion.”

Victor sensed the people around him tensing, just ever so slightly. They were looking at him now, as if they had been longing to since he had joined them. This was getting bad; he was starting to attract far too much attention. He would say something dull and inoffensive, and then make his excuses and leave. “It is a remarkable feat. I was not aware that such manipulations were possible. Cloning, yes, but not -” he inclined his head, “- not this. Most commendable. Most expressive. How long does it take to grow each one?”

“About six months, with the right nutrients. I have to destroy their higher brain functions, of course. Those with brains, that is. I have a cocktail of sea-snake toxins that I use at the earliest stages for the purpose. It is quite humane.”

“But of course. I never had any concerns in that department.”

Hirst stared straight at him, and Victor felt the hairs on his back rise. This was one boy who needed to be taught a lesson in manners, but this was not the time or the place. Hirst cracked a smug smile, broke eye contact and started conversing with some of the ladies at the back of the group. Lord Somerfield looked at him as he took his quizzing glass back out. “Enjoying the flight, Mister Cruour?”

Victor felt Lady Vandeleur stiffen beside him momentarily. If he felt like a specimen on a slab under the gaze of Lord Somerfield, he wondered how she must feel. “Very much, my Lord. I assume you know Lady Vandeleur?”

“I come every year. Never miss it. Old Vice-Dean Drood has a wicked sense of humour, don't you think?” Lord Somerfield seemed to have ignored Victor's words, but then he turned to the girl. “Emily, would you walk with me? I'd like to take a look at some more of these monstrosities. You know, I think they're growing on me.”

Lady Vandeleur gave a nervous laugh and Victor felt her grip his arm just a little bit tighter. “My Lord, I was hoping to show-”

“I think you've monopolized the gentleman's time enough, Emily.” The monocle turned to Victor again. “Young debs do get rather excitable at these things. Can spout off all sorts of nonsense, quite wear at a man's spirit. Come along, Emily. I think your mother is calling for you.”

“But, but-”

Victor was relieved to see Lady Vandeleur powered away into the noisy throng by the formidable bulk of Lord Somerfield. He got himself another mineral water and sipped from it as he stalked through the knots and clumps of people. One such sizeable knot were proceeding from case to case in a clockwise fashion, and he realised their next move would take them past the opening that led to the stairwell. He attached himself to their number, fended off the inevitable introductions and comments with polite nothings and, at the opportune moment, slipped unseen into the opening and padded quickly for the stairs.

The private apartments were on the first level. Above them lay only storage rooms and above them lay the crippling cold of the walkways between the struts and girders that held the massive helium balloons. The gas lamps were lit, but the carpeted halls were empty, the noise of the party below fading now to be replaced by the thrum of the gas-turbine engines and the muted roar of the wind outside. Victor could never have got close to the Vice-Dean in the hall, but up here not only would he stand a much better chance but he could get access to the walkways above much more easily, from where he could make his way to the rear section and the emergency parachute exit.

It was at that point he realised that he had not told Lord Somerfield his name.

He felt as if the icy air streaming past outside was flowing in his veins. He had never met Lord Somerfield before. Victor's face was completely unknown in London; one of the reasons he had been chosen for this task. He ducked into the first open doorway he saw – a lightless bedroom – quietly shut the door behind him and stood with his back to it, trying desperately to remember if Lady Vandeleur had mentioned his name at any point. He was certain she had not.

He drew his pistol. This was a trap. He had been made. Somehow, someone had recognised him or – more likely – there had been a leak. The Royal Institution had spies at the Sorbonne just as the Sorbonne did with all their enemies. It seemed the spies were more highly placed than he or anyone else had imagined.

There was no chance of completing his mission. The Vice-Dean would be under heavy guard, wherever he went. Victor shook his head, baffled. If they knew about him, why let him walk about? Why not just have the Porters take him aside and put one in his eye? Why even let him board in the first place?

He quelled these thoughts before they doomed him. He had to get out. There would be time for explanations later. It might be that the way to the parachute exit was clear. The Vice-Dean would live another year, then. Be that as it would, but he must go.

He eased the door open. The hall outside was still empty, no sounds from the stairwell or anywhere else. He ran back to the stairs and began climbing, fast and silent. The stairs gave out on a long, low-ceilinged storage room, with canvas walls and metal shelves bolted to the aluminium floorplates. Gas safety lamps flickered in the gloom. The roar of the wind was louder still and Victor could feel the engines now, shaking the very bones of the great airship. He stole past boxes of food and cutlery and linens and bottles of wine, seeking the next stairway that would lead to the exposed walkways.

He passed glass cases like the ones Hirst had below. Spares, perhaps. Medical chests lay beside them, the contents tinkling faintly in the vibration of the deck.

He stopped. Before him stood a large object, about his height, covered in a fine damask cloth of dark green with brass trim; the livery of the Institution. The triple fleur-de-lys embossed in thread of gold glowed faintly in the gloom. A pair of iron feet protruded from the bottom.

With a sense of dread that seemed to gather around him in the deserted room, formed in the spaces between the shadows and silence, he grabbed the cloth and tugged it loose.

He made a sound, a strangled gasp. He couldn't help it. The statute was himself. He reached out one disbelieving hand and touched the cold, dead iron of his face. He ran his fingers over the slicked-back hair, the broad, angular features, the close-set eyes.

“You weren't supposed to see that.”

He spun, the pistol wavering in the dark, too many thoughts crowding his head to enable him to keep a true aim. It was Lady Vandeleur. He tried to speak, but it seemed he had no words for the confusion he felt. She took a step forward.

“You weren't supposed to see that. You never have before. Was it something I said? Oh, God, I knew I'd messed it up.”

She was alone. Victor got his wayward muzzle under control, pointed it straight between her eyes. He forced himself to breathe. “The statue-”

“Is you, yes I know.” She smiled, and it was sad and delighted all at once. “I've heard so much about you, for so long. I just had to meet you. I've been waiting so long to meet you-”

“What-?”

“To meet the famous Victor Cruour. The man who tried to kill Vice-Dean Drood.”

“Tried to kill?” Victor could feel the situation spiraling utterly beyond his grasp.

“Yes. When my sister got to meet you I was so jealous, I was just green for weeks. She got to stand next to you! I had to do more. I had to speak to you. Don't you understand? I've been dreaming about this day for years.”

“Lady – Lady Vandeleur,” Victor stammered. “Emily. Why in the name of Jesus Christ and all his saints is there a statue of me here? Be aware, girl, that I am pointing a gun at you and have no hesitation in using it.”

“Oh, silly. It doesn't work. It's just a prop they gave you.” She took another step forward, smiling dreamily. “My sister never mentioned your mouth. So strong. So firm. None of the pictures really do your mouth justice, Victor. It was your eyes I fell in love with, but-”

Victor pulled the trigger. His pistol clicked, the sound harsh and quickly lost in the enveloping wind.

“Oh, you poor, poor man. Don't you see? You tried to kill the Vice-Dean fifteen years ago, Victor, but they caught you just before you shot him.” She stood face to face with him. “He's not a nice man, Victor, even though I'm his niece, I can say he's not a nice man. He had you killed, and then -” she paused, looked away, “- he had the chefs, well...he's really not a nice man, Victor. Everyone just had to go along with it, pretend they liked it. And then he had you cloned. Every year, on his birthday, they force-grow you, give you your memories back and set you loose. Everyone down there is pretending they don't know you. You do the same thing every year, and every year Drood catches you, kills you in front of everyone and then – then – then everyone sits down to eat. In front of your statue. I'm not looking forward to that part, Victor, honestly I'm not.”

“You're insane. You're fucking insane!”

“There's a little brass cylinder in your chest, Victor. You can feel it, just here,” she put her fingers just below her left breast, and then touched the same point on his evening coat. Her hand was trembling as she took it away.

Victor, the gun forgotten by his side, put his hand to where hers had been. He felt something there, just under the rib, something foreign, and it made him feel sick. He grabbed her by the throat. “What is it? What the hell is it? Tell me, you stupid bitch!”

She gasped, eyes wide, and he eased his grip slightly. “Pressure tube. Contains gas. Fires into your heart. Kills immediately. Drood and his Porters. Have remotes.”

He let go, throwing her back against the empty glass case behind her. She slumped to the deck, holding her throat, wheezing.

“So if I run, I'm dead.”

“You're – you're already dead. Fif - fifteen times dead. I'm sorry, Victor. I had to see you, to talk to you-”

“Shut up! Just shut up. The last thing I need now is a stupid girl with some idiotic crush.” He sat down on the plinth of the statue. He stowed the pistol and hunted in his shin-guard for his knife. It wasn't there. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Emily looked up at him. “I'm sorry, Victor. I really am.”

He hung his head. “They're going to kill me.”

“Yes, Victor.”

“And then - then they're going to...”

“Yes, Victor. I'm sorry. Drood calls it his birthday cake.”

He looked up at her, a manic laugh escaping his lips. “Birthday cake. That's just fucking great.” He felt lightheaded, and wondered if he could stand up without falling over. He managed to get as far as the medical chest, and leaned on it, sweating. “Tell me Emily. How does Vice-Dean Drood like his birthday cake?”

She stared at him, her face white and drawn. “What? What do you mean?”

He grinned, hopeless but oddly cheerful now. “If at first you don't succeed, Emily. Steak. How does he take it? Well-done? Medium? Rare? You're his niece – you must have eaten at his table before.”

He watched her think for a moment. “Rare. Why?”

He opened up the chest. “Because I think there's nothing for it but to surrender, and let him blow my candles out.”

#

The two Porters held Victor immobile before the hushed crowd. Something hard struck behind his knees and he crashed to the ground with a cry. The Porters twisted his arms violently, wrenching him upwards again. He hung between them like Samson between the pillars of Dagon's temple. Vice-Dean Drood stepped up onto the podium with him, a carving knife in one hand.

“Are we cloning you cleverer, assassin Cruour?” Drood said to general murmers of amusement. “This is the first time you've just given yourself up. Realise it's pointless trying to kill me, did you? Or maybe you're just gutless.” Victor glanced up, feelings of nausea already sweeping through him. His head felt like a blacksmith's anvil, teetering on his tiny, frail neck. It wouldn't be long now. He saw Lady Vandeleur – Emily – watching from the side, her face a mask of frozen horror, a red-jowled Lord Somerfield close by her side. He saw her eyes flash to Drood, realised he was looking at her too.

“It seems you took quite a shine to my niece, assassin Cruour. Can't say I blame you, myself. How about we show you how we do things in the Institution? Not that it's a lesson you're likely to remember!” The crowd bayed at this, eager for blood. Eager for his blood. “Emily, dearest. Come here.”

She didn't move. Drood held the knife up, and then tossed it in the air, catching it by the blade, the handle towards the girl. She stumbled forward; Lord Somerfield had pushed her. Probably didn't want to risk upsetting Drood. She walked forward, short, hesitant steps taking her closer to the knife.

Drood threw an arm round her shoulders, pulled her in the direction of Victor. The gloating grin had gone now; the Vice Dean's face was etched with cruel, cold intent. He gripped her wrist, forced her hand up and pressed the handle into her grasp. “One cut. Across the throat. Make it deep.”

She stood in front of him as the two Porters twisted his arms again. One grabbed his hair, forcing his head back. His vision irised inward as darkness descended. He felt something cool and soft on his lips, heard the crowd gasp in shock. He felt something wet and warm fall on his cheeks. Once. Twice. His sight swam back; he looked up into her face, her eyes red and full of tears, her black hair falling like flocks of ravens about her head. As the cocktail of Hirst's sea-snake toxins he had injected saturated his flesh he whispered, “Remember and skip the main course, Lady Vandeleur.”

Drood's voice came from very far away, victorious and supreme in its arrogance. “Any last words, assassin Cruour? Or at least, until we meet again.”

“Make sure...and ask...for seconds.”

There was laughter, a shouted order, a flash of silver, and then a sunrise of clearest crimson, and then there was nothing at all.

THE END

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