Captain Robertson paced his hotel room with absent urgency, contemplating the implications of the Duke’s ornamental lamp. The soreness of his shoulder no longer insisted its presence at the forefront of his consciousness. He had bigger things to worry about.
There was no doubt the Duke’s lamp matched the description of the kind Spring-Heeled Jack warned them about. If so, it meant everything he said about the Company plot was true, and the Duke was at the very heart of it. It also meant Captain Robertson delivered Mr Daim right into the hands of the Company. Thanks to him, Mr Daim – and jinnkind as a whole – were condemned to a lifetime of imprisoned servitude.
And for what? A letter of commendation and a month’s vacation? Had he really sold out an entire people to an empire which wouldn’t bat an eyelid if he were to die on the field of battle? Captain Robertson felt used.
Yet, a tiny part of him felt relieved. With Mr Daim out of the picture and the mission accomplished, Captain Robertson could finally put all this madness about jinn and ghuls behind him. He could finally return to the comfortably simple life he had before he met the mysterious jinni as old as humankind. But that was only a tiny part of him, for he knew the truth; no matter how much he tried to pretend all of this wasn’t real, he could never return to a simple life as a rifleman in the British Army.
The events of the past month had flipped everything he thought he knew on its head. Everything he’d ever known about humanity, the world and his little part in it inextricably altered beyond recognition. It was as though he had been standing on a sand dune made with grains of lies. Mr Daim was the sandstorm which washed it all away to reveal the bedrock of truth beneath. Having seen the unseen, how could one return to a life of willfully blissful ignorance?
Captain Robertson had made a mistake. He had let himself be used as a tool of imperialism for far too long. But no longer. With renewed vigour, Captain Robertson removed the shackles of empire, banishing all the intrusive lies of loyalty to queen and country from his conscience.
No longer was he going to be a pawn on the chessboard of pillage and plunder. He was going to be free; write his own destiny. But first, Captain Robertson needed to right his wrongs and save Mr Daim from the clutches of the Company.
And with that final thought, the clock struck twelve, the distant chimes of London’s macabre Clock Tower echoing in the night as a cold chill drifted through the open window.
“YOU!”
Captain Robertson was left in want of time; Spring-Heeled Jack swiftly upon him, pinning him to the far wall before the minute hand had a chance to reach twelve-o-one.
“YOU WRETCHED SCOUNDREL!” roared Spring-Heeled Jack in his hauntingly guttural rasp, “give me one good reason why I shouldn’t gut you where you stand and leave your carcass as carrion for the ravens to feed upon.”
Captain Robertson’s voice escaped him as he was hauled up by the throat with a single arm.
“Well? Has the cocksure Beni Adam anything to say for himself?” scowl etched into Spring-Heeled Jack’s fiery crimson eyes, “no? A pity. I would’ve loved to relay the traitor’s last words to Mr Daim once I’d foiled his wicked schemes.”
Spring-Heeled Jack raised his other arm, his claws glistening in the moonlight, striking blood-curdling fear into his prey. With nothing more left to say, he made for the traitor’s head.
“WAIT!” screamed Captain Robertson through a compressed windpipe, halting the jagged cutters an inch from his forehead, “please! I can explain!”
Spring-Heeled Jack released Captain Robertson, letting him collide to the floor in a pathetic heap, gasping for air.
“Well, be out with it, human,” hurried Spring-Heeled Jack, “I haven’t got all day.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea what the Duke was planning,” snivelled Captain Robertson, “I was just following orders, being a good soldier.”
“We’ve all been there, Beni Adam. It doesn’t mean our hands are clean of sin,” dismissed Spring-Heeled Jack.
“I know. I know. I have made a grievous error. But please, let me make it right. Please, give me a chance to redeem myself,” begged Captain Robertson.
Spring-Heeled Jack paused, giving the idea some thought.
“Give me a chance to redeem myself the same way you did during the Mutiny,” Captain Robertson entreated further, “let me help you deal a final blow to the Company once and for all.”
“And what use could you possibly be to me in this endeavour?”
“For starters, I can go places you cannot.”
Spring-Heeled Jack raised a sceptical eyebrow.
“I’m listening.”
“The Duke doesn’t know I intend to move against him. We can use that to our advantage. I can get close to him without raising suspicions and find out exactly what his next moves are,” elaborated Captain Robertson, “with that information, we can discern the perfect time to strike and dispatch the Company in one fell swoop.”
Spring-Heeled Jack had to admit the human made a good point. The only reason it’d taken him this long to destroy the Company was that they could smell him coming a mile away. With a military man on the inside, he had a real chance at putting an end to his nemesis. But there remained one cause for concern.
“Why should I trust you?”
“Given the circumstances, you shouldn’t,” answered Captain Robertson in utmost candour, “but I’m your best shot at saving Mr Daim.”
A moment of silence passed between the human and the ghul.
“Besides, if I were to step out of line, you’d no doubt strike me down before I drew in a second breath,” jested Captain Robertson.
With a light chuckle, Spring-Heeled Jack was convinced. He presented his hand to his newfound ally, who hesitated at the ghastly claws before graciously accepting.
“Very well, Beni Adam,” smiled Spring-Heeled Jack, “It must be said you most certainly have a way with words.”
“I’m glad we could come to an agreement.”
That smile soon became a scowl as Spring-Heeled Jack tightened his grip, causing Captain Robertson to wince through gritted teeth.
“Remember this: if you so much as err out of line the length of a mongrel’s lice, I will remove you from existence in the most excruciatingly painful way that can be possibly fathomed.”
The grip tightened.
“Is that clear?!”
“YES! Yes, it is!” panicked Captain Robertson.
As soon as he was released, Captain Robertson immediately rubbed his injured hand, thankful it wasn’t broken. Truth be told, he probably deserved that.
“Good. Now we’re in agreement; let us get down to business.”
To be continued…
This is part of a larger series called Midnights in London