The first thing to hit Captain Robertson was the pungently repugnant smell. The second was the abhorrent sight of what he believed used to be someone’s face. The third was the burning sensation of bile creeping up his oesophagus. The fourth was the sound of the Lorne sausages he had for breakfast splatting against the pavement. The fifth was the bitter aftertaste left in his mouth as he pulled out his handkerchief to plug his nose and wipe his brow.
Whilst serving in China, Captain Robertson spent time in an infirmary as men of red with holes in their chests were carried out in stretchers of white in wailing fright. To this day, he had yet to distinguish the red of their coats from the red of their blood. But even the carnage of war wasn’t enough to prepare him for the brutal fate which befell the poor sod lying before him in a hazy alleyway somewhere in the soot-smothered East End.
Mr Daim crouched down beside the body and muttered a few words. Words he had repeated many times in his long life. Words Captain Robertson could understand, but in a language the Scotsman couldn’t recognise.
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.”
And so, as the angel Azrael guided the soul on its journey to the afterlife, our duo were left to ponder what had happened to its now vacant vessel. According to the officers who had set up the cordon, the body was estimated to have walked the Earth for a grand total of twenty-five years before it was left lying limp in a back alley amongst all manner of gutter trash one would expect to find littering the streets of London. It wasn’t uncommon to see unnamed labourers lying dead in unmarked alleyways. What was uncommon, however, was the nature in which this particular labourer met his fate. Not a victim of the endless march of industrial progress but instead something far more sinister, far more gruesome.
“Ghul.”
“What was that?” asked Captain Robertson, the handkerchief muffling his voice.
“Ghul. The being which killed this young man was a ghul,” answered Mr Daim as he carefully examined the deep gashes mutilating the body’s face.
“A ‘ghoul’?”
“Jinn who try to intrude on the heavens but are struck by comets for their transgression. They are condemned to walk the Earth for eternity, driven mad with insanity.”
“’Genie’? Like in the Arabian Nights?”
“Those are children’s tales, my friend. But believe me, the jinn are more real than you know, and whatever did this was one of them.”
“So you mean to tell me Spring-Heeled Jack, the criminal who’s been giving us the runaround this past week, is actually a genie gone mad?”
“Yes, Jack is a ghul. If he was scum and villainy of the regular sort, you wouldn’t have been tasked with bringing me here all the way from Lahore.”
Captain Robertson wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. Ghuls and jinn were works of fiction. Mr Daim was treating them as fact. On their journeys, he had come to accept the mysterious Mr Daim was a keeper of great wisdom. However, this bordered on lunacy.
“Are you sure you’re not just messing with me?”
“Well, I could be wrong. It may have been a mardkhar which murdered this poor child, but last I heard, they were hunted to extinction by the Sasanians. Not to mention, this climate is far too cold.”
The pair were finishing up their perusal when they heard the sounds of commotion coming from the cordon. Captain Robertson went to see what was happening while Mr Daim remained to tend to the body. After covering what was left of the young man in a white shawl, Mr Daim left the hazy alleyway to find Commissioner Henderson giving his officers a bollocking.
“With all due respect, sir, they had permits signed by the Indian Secretary himself.”
“I don’t care who signed those documents, sergeant. This is the city of London, not the backwater slums of Delhi. No one is permitted to interfere in police business without my say-so. IS THAT CLEAR, SERGEANT?!” Commissioner Henderson admonished the officer before setting his sights on Mr Daim, “well, if it isn’t the Indian faqir himself? I don’t recall giving you permission to operate in this area. In fact, if I remember clearly, Mr D, I said quite the contrary. I should have you arrested.”
“You will do no such thing. Mr Daim is under my protection and authorised to work here by order of Her Majesty, the Queen. You lay a finger on him, and you’ll have to deal with me,” Captain Robertson chimed in to defend his charge.
“Are you seriously going to take sides with this Mohammedan? Disappointing. I expected more from a fellow member of the British Armed Forces,” scoffed Commissioner Henderson.
“Unlike you, I actually saw combat, so I wouldn’t test me if I were you.”
Captain Robertson was in his face now.
“Is that a threat, Captain? Are you threatening an officer of the law? I should have you both arrested. Officers! Arrest them!”
The officers reluctantly obliged, stepping towards Captain Robertson with their batons in hand. The veteran was already bouncing on his toes, ready for a fight, when Mr Daim suddenly appeared beside Commissioner Henderson, firmly gripping his wrist.
Locking eyes with his adversary, Mr Daim sternly dictated, “by the power of the jinn, as ordained by the almighty, I hereby order thou Child of Adam to let us depart freely from this place without molestation.”
Commissioner Henderson stopped struggling, staring straight ahead as though he was hypnotised, giving his men the order to stand down in a dreary, monotonous tone. No inflexion. No intonation. Confused though they were, the officers were thankful they needn’t apprehend a member of the British Armed Forces.
“Hurry. We must leave. This only works for a few moments.”
Mr Daim briskly led the way, the dumbfounded Captain Robertson trailing behind.
“What in the hell was that?”
“You shouldn’t refer to the place of punishment for evildoers when asking for an explanation.”
“Oh, right. Sorry about that,” Captain Robertson apologised and waited for elaboration. Realising none was coming, he continued, “so, are you going to explain what just happened?”
“As I said before, you will not be able to fully grasp the extent of my talents.”
“I guess I should take that as a ‘no’ then.”
“You should.”
To be continued…
This is part of a larger series called Midnights in London