Captain Robertson slowly drew his revolver from its holster, the moon glistening off the sweat trickling down his brow. Images of the young labourer’s mutilated face flashed across his mind. The prospect of having a closed-casket funeral wasn’t one he looked forward to. For the first time in a long time, fear began to rear its ugly head. Mr Daim, on the other hand, was far more relaxed. Compared to what he’d witnessed all those years ago in Cuba, this was child’s play.
“What now?” inquired Captain Robertson, trying his hardest not to betray his inner turmoil.
“Now, I shall head inside and have a nice chat with our friend.”
As much as Captain Robertson would have jumped at the chance to sit this out, the Duke had tasked him with keeping a close watch on Mr Daim. Orders were orders, and good soldiers followed them.
“And what shall I do?”
Mr Daim took a moment to consider the question. So far, Captain Robertson had proved himself quite capable, and his eagerness was a promising sign. He was also a military man, making him far more reliable than some of Mr Daim’s previous companions. Not to mention the fact he’d manage to stick around this long. That being said, he had yet to actually encounter Spring-Heeled Jack, and so there was no guarantee he’d be able to hold it together when confronted with his first ghul. Having reached an impasse within his own thoughts, Mr Daim decided to err on the side of caution.
“You’ll come with me, but stay close, and it’d be preferable if you were to refrain from doing anything rash.”
Captain Robertson didn’t need his companion to spell out he was referring to yesterday’s incident with Commissioner Henderson with that last remark. If the current circumstances had been different, he would’ve answered back that he was only acting in defence of Mr Daim’s honour, but they were not. Anxiety held his tongue.
The inside of the wine-bottling factory was vast but not sparse. Moonlight trickled through large rectangular windows, bathing everything in a bluish tinge. Machinery, whose purpose was too complex for our duo to discern, lined the length of the factory in neat, orderly rows. A giant clock was prominently displayed on the far wall, both hands pointing straight up to the heavens. It was midnight. Whoever ran this operation certainly prized efficiency above all else. Multiple splodges of dried blood served as a testament to the fact health and safety were most certainly included in the list of things efficiency ranked above.
As agreed, Mr Daim took the lead, Captain Robertson following closely behind, finger itching by the trigger. A bitter chill ran through the factory and up Captain Robertson’s spine, causing him to uncontrollably shiver for a fleeting moment. Once the sensation ceased, he went back to scanning the rows of machinery for any sign of their quarry.
Silence occupied the room until the faint crackling of glass beneath boot sat still in the empty air. Mr Daim turned to look down at the broken glass bottle, then back up to his clumsy companion. Captain Robertson quietly mouthed his apology, making a mental note to pay more attention to where he was stepping.
They were halfway across the factory when a glass bottle flew past, missing Mr Daim’s head by a hair’s breadth before shattering against the wall, specks flying in all directions. Together, they frantically searched the darkness for whatever threw the bottle but turned up nothing.
“It seems he must be a little shy,” murmured Mr Daim before turning his attention to the darkness, “COME OUT, JACK! WE ONLY WANT TO CHAT!”
Captain Robertson screwed his face at his charge as if to say: what the hell is wrong with you?!
“What?” shrugged Mr Daim, “I told you not to do anything rash. I didn’t say I couldn’t do anything rash.”
But alas, his smug invitation was met with an eerie silence. At least, that was until another bottle found itself flying across the room. And then another. And another. Until, eventually, the entire factory was filled with flying bottles, the duo left stranded in the middle of it all.
“Perhaps we should depart from our current location?”
“Good idea,” answered Captain Robertson as he dodged yet another bottle coming to take his head off, “lead the way, my friend.”
Mr Daim obliged, leading his companion through the cacophony of shattering glass to the far wall and up a steel staircase before diving into an office overlooking the factory floor. Captain Robertson slammed the door shut behind them, drowning out the chaos as glass bottles continued flying outside.
Convinced they had reached safety, the pair slowly sank to the oak floorboards and went about catching their breath.
“Well, that didn’t exactly go as planned,” remarked Mr Daim between short, calculated gasps for air.
“You can say that again,” seconded Captain Robertson, equally in want of much-needed oxygen.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen another of my kind,” announced a third unfamiliar voice.
Captain Robertson swivelled around, the barrel of his gun firmly tracking the owner of the third unfamiliar voice. The creature – human did not seem to be the appropriate noun for the being standing before them – was tall and slender with a diabolical countenance capable of instilling a primal fear into the bravest of men.
“You’re under arrest by order of her maj—”
“SILENCE BENI ADAM,” bellowed the beast in a guttural rasp.
Captain Robertson’s lips froze shut, cold sweat trickling down his brow as his hand cramped around the pistol’s grip. He dared not pull the trigger. The hunter had become prey.
“It’s okay, Captain. I’ll handle this.”
Mr Daim signalled his companion to lower the weapon before turning his attention to the creature with eyes of crimson fire. He stood up, brushing shards of glass off his personage to regain some sense of presentability, and made his way across the room until he was within striking distance of Spring-Heeled Jack’s menacing claws. The same claws which mutilated the poor sod in the soot-smothered East End.
Mr Daim extended a hand in greeting, “pleasure to meet you. My name is Mr Daim, and you must be the infamous Spring-Heeled Jack everyone is talking about.”
Captain Robertson was perplexed. Of all the ways he imagined this meeting going down, this was not one of them. It seemed he wasn’t the only one confused, as the infamous Spring-Heeled Jack stared blankly at the hand offered to him. And there it remained, long enough to deem the situation awkward. It took Mr Daim a few moments to read the room before finally retracting the hand he so freely gave in greeting. He had to save face.
“Depressing weather this week, wouldn’t you say?”
“Why are you here?” Spring-Heeled Jack demanded an answer.
“Sorry?”
“What are you doing here in Albion? It’s been decades since I’ve seen another jinni.”
Captain Robertson’s eyes widened. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing; however, no matter how hard he tried to speak, his lips wouldn’t budge.
“It’s a long story. Would you like the short answer or the long answer?”
“I have no time for frivolity. Cease your antics now, or I’ll devour that pathetic excuse for a human,” threatened Spring-Heeled Jack with a sneer, revealing a set of yellowing skewers perfect for ripping through meat and bone.
Mr Daim turned to look at Captain Robertson, whose face had now been flushed of all colour. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. To be fair, he was looking at a ghul, which is arguably even more frightening considering, unlike their nebulous counterparts, ghuls were real.
Mr Daim decided to switch to another language, known only to himself and Spring-Heeled Jack, to help calm his terrified companion. It would be better if Captain Robertson were ignorant of the ghul’s disparaging comments. No one – human or jinn – should ever have to suffer such abuse.
Unfortunately, just like at the tea house, this had the complete opposite effect. For where comprehension is lost, imagination rules supreme. Captain Robertson was now left to panic while two very real, very scary jinn conversed in a tongue he couldn’t possibly fathom. For all he knew, they could be plotting to kill him or worse.
What if Mr Daim was considering offering him up as a full-course meal? A closed-casket funeral was far more desirable than being digested and excreted. The thought made him shudder with disgust from top to toe.
After a few more minutes of utter despair, the conversation reached its conclusion. Mr Daim turned to face Captain Robertson with a smug grin while Spring-Heeled Jack stared intently at the silent veteran, smiling a sinister smile and licking his cracked lips.
Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! He’s actually gone ahead with it! He’s offering me up to that monster!
But Captain Robertson wasn’t one to give up without a fight. Within a split second, he raised his pistol and fired at Spring-Heeled Jack, a single moment dragged out into eternity. The entire room flipped inside out as a lone bullet marched from barrel to target clouded by smoke. Amidst the ceaseless ringing of his ears, he could make out the creature’s faint maniacal laughter. Once the smoke cleared, the already widened eyes of Captain Robertson grew even wider as the marching bullet bounced harmlessly off Spring-Heeled Jack’s chest.
Realising his mistake, Captain Robertson didn’t even have a chance to scream as the monster lunged towards him, teeth and claws bared forth in the slim streams of moonlight coming through the windows. However, Mr Daim got to him first, gripping him firmly at the shoulders. Then everything went quiet.
To be continued…
This is part of a larger series called Midnights in London