The Third Midnight

Captain Robertson paced the length of 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, then it meant everything the ghul had been saying about The Company plot was true, and the Eighth Duke of Argyll was at the very heart of it. It would also mean Captain Robertson himself had delivered Mr Daim right into the palms of their hands. He had condemned his friend, and potentially Jinnkind as a whole, 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 that wouldn’t bat an eyelid if he were to die on the field of battle? The Captain felt used.
Yet, at the same time, 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 was: no matter how much he tried to pretend that all of this wasn’t real, he could never return to that 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, and Mr Daim was the sandstorm that washed it all away to reveal the bedrock of truth beneath. Having seen the unseen, how could one go back 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 once the ghul was 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 the ghul’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 into the air, his claws glistening in the moonlight, striking blood-curdling fear into his prey. With nothing more left to say, the ghul 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 the Captain, letting him collide with the floor in a pathetic heap gasping for air.
“Well, be out with it, human,” hurried the ghul, “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 the Captain.
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 Beni Adam 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 the Captain in utmost candour, “But I’m your best shot at saving Mr Daim.”
A moment of silence passed between human and 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 for but a moment before graciously accepting.
“Very well, Beni Adam,” smiled the ghul, “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, fearing his hand would be crushed beneath the ghul’s might.
As soon as he was released, the Captain immediately rubbed his injured hand, thankful it wasn’t broken. Truth be told, he probably deserved that.
“Good. Now that we’re in agreement let us get down to business.”

The Double-cross

The Eighth Duke of Argyll studied the ornamental lamp, mesmerised by the intricate emerald inscriptions, cool beneath his touch. In his hand, he held the key to untold power. And oh boy, was it intoxicating.
Everything had succeeded as planned; the jinni was bound to his will, and with Spring-Heeled Jack finally out the picture, nothing stood in his way. But this was just the beginning. The path that lay ahead would change the world, leading the British Empire to greater heights than the world had ever seen, leaving no corner untouched by her majesty’s grace. All he had to do now was wait for all the pieces to fall into place.
A knock at the door told the Duke it was time he put his new toy away, closing it behind the glass casements of his display cabinet.
“Come in!”
The Duke didn’t have any meetings planned for the day, so he was surprised to find that the man who entered his office was none other than the good old Captain Robertson.
“Captain!” beamed the Duke, “I thought you’d be halfway up to Scotland by now. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Truly it is my pleasure, Mr Secretary. I was hoping I could have a word with you in private before I left. You know… without the insufferable Henderson,” smirked Captain Robertson.
That last remark made the Duke laugh. The Commissioner was indeed insufferable. Just because he played his part didn’t mean the Duke had to like him. The Captain, on the other hand, was a man who was both useful and likeable. He would go far in his career.
“Of course, of course. Please, take a seat,” insisted the Duke as he walked over to his desk drawer, pulling out two glasses and a bottle of scotch, “would you like a drink?”
“I really shouldn’t, Mr Secretary, I—”
“Nonsense! You’re off duty. Relax,” reasoned the Duke, pouring both glasses, “just pretend we’re two friends having a good old chat.”
Captain Robertson awkwardly smiled before grabbing one of the glasses and raising it in thanks. In response, the Duke also raised his glass, clinking it against the Captain’s before taking a generous swig.
“Ahhhh. That hits the spot. So, tell me, what is it you wished to discuss?”
“Henderson.”
“Henderson? What of him? I know he’s a nuisance, and, believe me, I despise him as much as the next man, but I can’t be slandering him when he’s not here. After all, how’s he going to hear me insult him?” jested the Duke.
“Mr Secretary, I have reason to believe Commissioner Henderson has betrayed us,” divulged Captain Robertson, seriousness etched into his voice.
“You can’t be serious! That man hasn’t the guile nor courage to do such a thing,” the Duke was shocked into disbelief, “What makes you say this?”                                            
“He lied to us. Yesterday. When he claimed to have succeeded in dispatching Spring-Heeled Jack.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Because Spring-Heeled Jack visited me last night.”

To be continued…

This is part of a larger series called Midnights In London

The Hospital

Captain Robertson awoke sometime later – how much time? He wasn’t sure – to find himself in a place he did not recognise. His body: stiffness that straddled the line between lassitude and torpor. His mind: a murky haze that comprehension’s lantern couldn’t penetrate. His sight: blinded by light with an intensity that rivalled the sun.
With time, Captain Robertson’s eyes adjusted to the blinding light, allowing him to take in the details of his surroundings. He found himself in what he believed constituted a civilian medical ward. Having spent much of his adult life on the frontlines of battle, Captain Robertson was used to the urgently raised tents of haphazard chaos the military optimistically referred to as field hospitals. The place he found himself in now replaced that chaos with a quiet serenity that left him with a feeling of unease as he tried to piece together the fragments of his shattered memory.
Before long, Captain Robertson was able to discern some past events from his mind’s murky haze. He had collaborated with the Eighth Duke of Argyll to ambush Spring-Heeled Jack at the Temperate House. As per the Duke’s orders, Captain Robertson didn’t inform Mr Daim about the plot due to concerns over whether the jinni’s allegiance lay with the jinn or the crown. That more or less marked the boundaries of his recollection. The contents of the meeting itself were still a blur, much like the details of a far distant memory, and the last thing he remembered was lying on the ground with Mr Daim as policemen stormed the premises. It seems Spring-Heeled Jack must have got the better of them.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
Captain Robertson turned to face the newcomer, a raging pain burning through his stiff shoulder. She wore a simple black dress covered in white overalls akin to that worn by the dwellers of a nunnery.
“Um… hello,” Captain Robertson wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed, so he opted to ask the obvious, “where… where am I?”
“St Thomas’ Hospital,” answered the nurse.
“How long have I been here?”
“Two days.”
“Okay.”
The nurse nodded in agreement, and so did Captain Robertson in what soon became an excruciatingly awkward pause.
“Well, I guess I’ll be off then,” declared the Captain, slowly making his way out of bed to get dressed.
“I’m afraid I cannot allow that, Mr Robertson. You need more rest,” insisted the nurse.
“Unfortunately, I have urgent business to attend to with the Indian Secretary,” Captain Robertson quietly winced as he buttoned his shirt over his bandaged clavicle, “You wouldn’t happen to know the whereabouts of the gentleman they brought in with me, would you?”
“As far as I’m aware, you arrived alone.”
This made sense. After all, Mr Daim was a jinni and probably didn’t need human medicine to recover from his injuries. He was most likely back at the hotel reading poetry or whatever else it is he did in his spare time. Captain Robertson would go see him after stopping by the all-important India Office.
“Sir, I really must advise you to take a leave of absence before returning to work,” continued the nurse.
“Then, by all means, advise away, but regardless I will be leaving,” countered Captain Robertson, ceasing the nurse’s insistence as he donned his overcoat. Realising that he may have come across a little too harsh, the Captain added a smile to soften the blow, “I promise to return and take advantage of your prescribed rest as soon as I am no longer preoccupied.”
It wasn’t until he crossed Westminster Bridge that the thought occurred to Captain Robertson that perhaps promising to return to a hospital wasn’t exactly the most optimistic of assurances.

The Epiphany

After his brief walk across the Thames, Captain Robertson arrived at the India Office. Once again, he traversed the marble Durbar Court overlooked by interlocking crescents and crosses, ascended the Muses’ Staircase flanked by the fossils of millennia-old sea lilies frozen in stone, and entered the Indian Secretary’s office, to find the Eighth Duke of Argyll immersed in discussion with Commissioner Henderson.
“Ah, Captain Robertson. Glad you could join us,” greeted the Duke, “we weren’t expecting you to be discharged for at least another week.”
“I’m a fast healer,” responded Captain Robertson, glossing over the fact he outright disobeyed the nurse’s orders.
In the wake of their salutations, the three men got down to business discussing the events of two nights prior.
“So, Captain, tell us what you remember of your meeting with Spring-Heeled Jack,” entreated the Duke.
“To be perfectly honest, I do not remember much other than being shot in the shoulder—”
“For which the Met deeply apologises,” interjected Commissioner Henderson, “the officer responsible has been discharged, and we will cover the cost of your medical bills.”
The Duke gave the Commissioner a slight nod of acknowledgement as if to say: Okay, you can shut up now. Of the many things Captain Robertson and the Eighth Duke of Argyll agreed on, their impatience for Commissioner Henderson’s nuisances ranked amongst the highest.
“Please, Captain, continue with your account of the meeting,” adjured the Duke.
“Of course, Mr Secretary,” Captain Robertson took a moment to gather his thoughts, “Mr Daim and I arrived at Kew Gardens about ten minutes to midnight. As requested, I did not inform him of our plan to ambush the meeting. As soon as the clock struck twelve, we entered the Temperate House, where we encountered Spring-Heeled Jack. However, as mentioned before, the next thing I remember was lying on the floor as Commissioner Henderson stormed the building.”
“Do you remember anything that was said between Mr Daim and Spring-Heeled Jack?”
“Unfortunately, I do not,” frowned Captain Robertson, “Quite frankly, I have no idea if the ambush was even a success. Did you manage to capture the target?”
A look was shared between the Duke and Commissioner.
“Captain, are you sure you don’t remember anything that was discussed between the target and Mr Daim?” asked the Duke, concern etched into the wrinkles of his forehead.
“That is correct.”
Again, a look was shared between the two men of authority. It was as if they’d found some magical way to communicate in the absence of speech. Captain Robertson patiently waited for one of the two men to speak. Preferably the Duke. Commissioner Henderson was annoying.
“I can confirm that we succeeded in dispatching Spring-Heeled Jack,” affirmed Commissioner Henderson, in that annoyingly smug way of his, “he will no longer pose a threat to the good people of London. Thank you for your service, Captain. The Met will forever be in your debt.”
That last bit of gratitude caught Captain Robertson by surprise. He didn’t expect such humility, but he accepted it with grace nonetheless.
“Indeed, not only have you protected the citizens of London, you have protected subjects of the British Empire the world over,” seconded the Eighth Duke of Argyll, “I’ve already sent a letter of commendation to your superior officer. You’ve also been cleared for a month-long leave of absence. I trust you’ll be on the next train back to Scotland? It’s been a while since you’ve visited home, hasn’t it?”
“Most certainly,” beamed Captain Robertson.
“Good man,” the Duke patted Captain Robertson on his good shoulder, leading him to the door, “I look forward to working with you again, Captain. But for now, go and get some well-deserved rest.”
Before he was ushered out the door, Captain Robertson had one last question:
“May I inquire as to the whereabouts of Mr Daim? I wish to bid him farewell before he leaves for India.”
The Duke frowned, “Unfortunately, Mr Dame had an important matter to attend to and left for India last night. However, he did wish me to pass on his thanks for your help in his investigation.”
“That is most unfortunate. Oh well, perhaps we may cross paths again in the future,” hopefulness gleaming in the Captain’s voice, “It’s been an honour working with you, Mr Secretary.”
“Likewise.”
The two men bid farewell with the shake of a hand. Just as the door was closing, Captain Robertson was able to sneak a peek at the latest addition to the Duke’s display cabinet. A beautifully golden ornamental lamp studded with glistening emerald inscriptions, written in a forgotten oriental tongue. The sight of the lamp was enough to brighten comprehension’s lantern, clearing the murky haze of Captain Robertson’s mind. He remembered. He remembered everything.

To be continued…

This is part of a larger series called Midnights In London

The Second Midnight

It had only been a week since the events at Murdstone & Co, but despite his better senses, duty forced Captain Robertson to stare into the crimson eyes of trepidation yet again. For the past week, he had been in covert conversation with the Eighth Duke of Argyll about the upcoming meeting with Spring-Heeled Jack, unbeknownst to his companion Mr Daim.
Part of him felt guilty about going behind his charge’s back, but the truth was that any loyalty Captain Robertson felt towards Mr Daim was overshadowed by that which he had towards queen and country. After all, the jinni was but a means to an end. If everything went to plan in the coming hour, then Captain Robertson would finally be able to put all this madness about ghuls and jinn behind him. He even considered requesting a leave of absence to visit his parents in Scotland before being shipped off to another far-flung colony.
For Mr Daim, the past week was spent in secluded contemplation on the possible implications of Spring-Heeled Jack’s assertion of innocence. He had assumed that this would be yet another routine hunt, but then again, there was nothing routine about it.
For starters, he had been approached by Europeans. It’s not that Mr Daim didn’t like Europeans; it’s just that they were usually blind to the possibility of the unseen, opting to explain away the existence of jinn with flawful human rationality. So, when that letter arrived from the Viceroy requesting his services, Mr Daim was caught by surprise, his untamed curiosity driving him to comply with the Viceroy’s wishes.
The second red flag was the insistence of a bodyguard. Mr Daim was used to working alone, and governments would usually give him free rein to go about his work unhindered. The Ottomans were so hands-off to the point that Mr Daim felt as though he had impunity. The British, meanwhile, were crippled by bureaucracy. Whenever he requested more information on Spring-Heeled Jack, it was classified. Whenever he wished to leave the hotel alone, it was unsafe. Even when he finally got down to work, there was always the threat of Commissioner Henderson’s interference. The British were indeed a well-oiled machine. They ran an enterprise of such proportions even the jinn were put to shame. But at the same time, one always got the feeling they were being watched.
Then there was his conversation with Spring-Heeled Jack himself. Experience had taught Mr Daim that ghul’s weren’t usually so hospitable. The average ghul would attack you and rip you to pieces the first chance they got. The fact Spring-Heeled Jack was willing to converse instead gave credence to the possibility that he was telling the truth. Guilty people don’t talk; they run. Then again, there was always the chance that perhaps Spring-Heeled Jack was just a particularly cunning ghul. If so, what game was he playing? Regardless, something larger was afoot, and Mr Daim was going to get to the bottom of it.

“Of all places to meet, why here?” Captain Robertson gesticulated towards the large glasshouse bathed in the faint glow of the crescent moon.
“I’m guessing he must be a plant enthusiast,” hypothesised Mr Daim.
The pair found themselves standing amongst the foliage of Kew Gardens. The building that stood before them was made of clear crystal glass roofs pitched by wrought-iron ribs, the penetrating moonlight halted by the thick vegetation that lay within. Just as the Koh-i-Noor was the centrepiece of her majesty’s crown jewels, the building that stood before them was the centrepiece of her majesty’s botanical gardens: the Temperate House.
“How can you be so sure he’s going to show up?” asked Captain Robertson.
“The word of a jinni, ghul or not, far outweighs that of a human,” answered Mr Daim.
This wasn’t true. Jinn were just as cutthroat as humans; he just didn’t want to be made a fool of. Mr Daim was gambling the entire investigation on the word of a ghul. A ghul who was either extremely cunning or extremely honest. He prayed it was the latter.
“If he said he will show, he will show,” insisted Mr Daim, more so for himself than his companion.
A few moments later, Captain Robertson consulted his pocket watch, “it’s midnight.”
“Very well. Let us see what Jack has to say for himself. And, please, try not to shoot him this time.”
“I’ll try.”
Mr Daim took the lead. Captain Robertson followed.

The Temperate House

The Temperate House was packed with flora retrieved from around the furthest extremities of the globe, which together transpired to create its humid atmosphere. There were enough exotic specimens in that greenhouse to rival the grandeur of Babylon’s Hanging Gardens, from the brightest azaleas to the rarest lilium, all of which were towered over by the jubaea tree, primed to burst through the ceiling. Mr Daim was impressed.
Captain Robertson, on the other hand, couldn’t care less. To him, the greenhouse was just a greenhouse. Albeit a large greenhouse – most certainly the largest he’d ever seen – but a greenhouse nonetheless. The variety of flora it exhibited were not rare specimens to be goggled at but rather potential hiding spots from which a ravenous ghul could pounce on you with the ferocity of a panther. Captain Robertson kept his wits about him.
After a few minutes of aimlessly wandering about in the darkness, Captain Robertson decided to snarkily puncture the jittery silence of the night, “it seems as though the word of Spring-Heeled Jack isn’t worth much after all.”
“YOU WOULD DO WELL NOT TO DISHONOUR ME,” bellowed a guttural rasp that reverberated throughout the Temperate House.
Captain Robertson froze to the spot, an unsettling chill running down his spine as he remembered what it was like to be petrified. On the contrary, Mr Daim was unphased, exhibiting the epitome of politeness.
“Jack, it’s good to see you! I’m glad you could join us. How have you been?”
The jinni was staring into the rafters. Captain Robertson tracked his eye line to find Spring-Heeled Jack, donning his mangled tailcoat and contorted top hat, leaning against the balcony of an iron walkway in the moonlight’s bluish tinge. Just like before, his attire failed to obscure the fear-inducing countenance of his crimson fire eyes, resulting in a hauntingly peculiar appearance that made a mockery of the ideal Victorian gentleman.
“I see you brought the human,” averred Spring-Heeled Jack.
“He insisted he come,” explained Mr Daim, “he owes you an apology after what happened last week and wished to express his regret in person.”
“Is that so…”
Within the flutter of an eyelid, Spring-Heeled Jack dived off the walkway, gliding across the ground before coming to a halt, looming his slender frame over the terrified Captain Robertson with the agility of a formless shadow. Captain Robertson could feel the monster’s putrid breath against his forehead as he eyed its menacing claws, his fingers grasping for the clasp of his revolver’s holster.
“I’m waiting, Beni Adam. I believe there’s something you wish to say,” sneered Spring-Heeled Jack, licking his chapped lips.
“S-s-sorry.” Captain Robertson gulped down the urge to scream, “I’m sorry for shooting you. Please don’t eat me.”
Spring-Heeled Jack let out a grisly guffaw, “Oh, aren’t these humans just delightful? For the record, young one, I was never going to eat you.”
Captain Robertson breathed a sigh of long-overdue relief.
“I’m not particularly fond of the taste of Scotsmen.”
The Captain was now confused as to whether he should be relieved or offended after that last remark.
“Okay, great. Now that we got that out of the way, shall we get down to business and discuss what we came to discuss?” offered Mr Daim, attempting to steer the conversation away from Spring-Heeled Jack’s discriminatory diet.
“We shall,” accepted Spring-Heeled Jack as he leaned against the wrinkled trunk of the jubaea tree.
“Very well. Why don’t you begin by telling us how it is you came to be living in Albion?”
“I have always lived in Albion. This island has been my home for millennia, long before the arrival of the Beni Adam.”
“If your claim is true, then explain why we’ve never heard your name until now?” interjected Captain Robertson, immediately regretting his pronouncement.
Mr Daim shot his companion a glare that said: Stop agitating the ghul and let me handle this. The ghul, on the other hand, wasn’t agitated but simply amused by the Captain’s boldness. Especially considering that it was only a moment ago that he was terrified beyond measure.
“Oh, but what you fail to realise, young one, is that I have been given many names throughout the ages. It wasn’t long ago that the people of Albion revered me as a great wizard by the name of Merlin. Of course, this was many centuries before I came to be affected by my current affliction.” Spring-Heeled Jack, formally known as Merlin, stared into the abyss of darkness in abject woe as though he suddenly remembered a life that had been snatched away from him. “I wasn’t always a ghul, Mr Daim. I was once a jinni just like you. But then I was betrayed.”
“Betrayed by whom?” inquired Mr Daim.
“The Company.”

The Betrayal

“I was approached by The Company in the early spring of seventeen fifty-five. To my surprise, their board of directors were well acquainted with the existence of jinn. I have no doubt that their agents abroad had their fair share of run-ins with the unseen. My job was simple: use my knowledge and power to expand the territories of The Company.
“I set sail for India alongside Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Clive. By this point in his career, the Lieutenant-Colonel had already achieved great feats of warfare over the previous decade, but these would pale in comparison to those he achieved when I was in his service. We arrived in Madras to find The Company’s holdings to the north in a sorry state. Fort William had been captured by the tyrannical Nawab of Bengal, who subjected his British prisoners of war to conditions that violated every modicum of moral decency. With a righteous fury, we made our way to Calcutta and, from the jaws of defeat, liberated the city from the tyrant’s grasp.
“By this point in our expedition, the Seven Years’ War was well underway against our arch-rivals: the French. I remember the time King Richard and I spent fighting Philip Augustus with great fondness and jumped at the chance to wage war against our perpetual nemesis. Together we travelled up the Hooghly and laid siege to their colony of Chandernagore.
“With the French out of the picture, we turned our attention back towards the tyrannical Nawab and dealt him a whopping defeat at Plassey. In time, the entirety of Bengal was liberated from his despotism, and we placed our own puppet on the throne. Clive soon found himself made Commander-in-Chief of Fort William while I returned home with the satisfaction that I had brought honour and glory to king and country.
“You may think my motivation was purely economic, but the truth is that I did it out of sheer love for my people. I have lived amongst this island nation from its very inception. In that time, I had grown to love the British like a father does his children. I was prepared to do anything to help them become the greatest nation amongst the Beni Adam. You can imagine my heartbreak then when I was betrayed by those I had dedicated my life to nurturing.
“As time went on, our rule in Bengal was cemented, and I returned to Calcutta in seventeen seventy. To my dismay, the state of the country was far worse than it had ever been under the rule of the tyrannical Nawab. The streets were filled with starvation, entire towns were deserted, mothers sold their children into slavery, and the land was wrought with vile bandits looking for an easy score. I was appalled by the turmoil I helped create.
“Yes, it was true I wanted Britannia to rule the waves, and I was even willing to do it at the expense of other nations, but the scenes I witnessed during that great famine etched themselves into the deep rifts of my conscience. We were meant to bring peace to that region that had so far been ravaged by ceaseless war. Yet, we depredated that land for our own senseless greed.
“Upon my return to Albion, I left The Company, but of course, they were not willing to let their most valuable asset leave so easily. The directors begged me to stay. After all, I was the real determinant behind Clive’s success and had turned The Company from a group of mercantile holdings into a fully-fledged sovereign state. However, the horrors of famine were a burden too cumbersome for my spirit.
“A month after I left their employ, The Company, on the brink of financial ruin, began sending envoys to my door, each of whom I turned away. Then one day, Clive, now a Major-General, paid me a visit. He had with him a wooden box that I assumed contained some sort of farewell gift. Owing to the fact we had served together on the battlefield, I welcomed him into my residence and poured him a glass of ale. He begged me one last time to return to The Company’s employ. I refused.
“With great remorse, he opened the box to reveal a golden oil lamp carved upon with emerald runes written in the old tongue. Many centuries ago, I had heard tales of such vessels built by the Beni Adam to imprison jinn. How he came to possess one such vessel, I do not know. What I do know is that it is a fate I would not wish on my worst enemy, for it is a fate I was subjected to for over sixty years.
“For decades, I was bound to the will of the directors, forced to do their bidding. I was compelled to commit acts of great evil for the pursuit of wealth, the most wicked of human vices. The only respite I had was the confines of that abhorrent prison. My torture continued until one day a Governor-General, in service of The Company, required my usage in the summer of eighteen thirty-six. He was concerned about recent complications in neighbouring Afghanistan and compelled me to intrude upon the heavens to ascertain the trajectory of future events.
“There is a reason this act is forbidden amongst the jinn. To intrude upon the heavens is no small feat, and it almost cost me my life. I had made it as far the gates before I was struck down by a blazing comet, reducing me to my current ruin. As painful as it was, it did free me from my servitude. I’ve spent the last forty years wandering the streets of London attempting to bring an end to The Company. I even travelled back to India for a short time and instigated the Sepoy Mutiny. As it stands, The Company is still operating, albeit in a vastly vestigial state, but I fear the directors are in the process of attempting one last grab at power, right here in London.”
“Well, that was most certainly a lively tale,” jested Mr Daim, the only laugh being those of the crickets nestled amongst the Temperate House’s collection of flora.
“This is no laughing matter, Mr Daim. If their scheme succeeds, it could spell the end of the jinn,” warned Spring-Heeled Jack.
“You still haven’t explained what happened with that poor lad in the East End,” chimed in Captain Robertson with a renewed interest in the conversation that was slowly dispensing with his fear of the ghastly ghul.
“That’s a good point,” seconded Mr Daim, “I was just about to ask you the same thing. What happened in White Chappal?”
“Whitechapel,” corrected Captain Robertson.
“What happened in Whitechapel?”
“That poor man worked as a clerk at the India House and had some information regarding The Company’s nefarious plans that reached all the way to the top. It was supposed to be an easy, straightforward exchange, but we were intercepted. Just when he was about to give me names, someone attacked him.”
“Did you manage to catch a glimpse of the attacker?” probed Mr Daim.
“No, but he was most certainly a Beni Adam, dressed in all black.”
Mr Daim wasn’t sure what to make of the ghul’s claims. For one thing, they didn’t explain how the body came to be so mutilated. Spring-Heeled Jack seemed the most obvious suspect, given his menacing claws. However, that conclusion seemed to fit a little too easily for Mr Daim’s taste. After all, who’s to say a Beni Adam didn’t take a knife to the body to make it look like the work of a ghul?
“What were you doing at the bottling factory?”
“I was following up on a tip I received from an insider about a new contract The Company had signed. They had ordered a batch of golden lamps studded with emerald inscriptions written in the same old tongue that confined me to my prison. Murdstone was tasked with acquiring those lamps. Mr Daim, I am convinced The Company may be planning to do what they did to me, but on an industrial scale. And I have good reason to believe you have been lured to Albion as their first victim.”
This revelation was met with scepticism from Mr Daim. There was no way The Company had the means to embark on such a venture. In that same moment, Captain Robertson came to a guilt-ridden realisation.
“Gentlemen, I fear I’ve made an egregious error.”
All at once, the western wall of the Temperate House burst into a thousand shards of angry glass that nicked at the Captain’s skin. Chaos filled the empty air as policemen stormed through the thick jungle, firing sporadically towards the jinn. Captain Robertson was caught in the erratic barrage as a stray bullet collided with his clavicle. He instantly buckled over in agony, his consciousness receding.
He spotted Commissioner Henderson, through the smoke of gun barrels, giving orders to secure Mr Daim, who lay on the ground in a befuddled heap. Upon seeing Captain Robertson’s predicament, the Commissioner ordered a medic to be brought forth to tend to his wounds. Once he was turned on his back, the last thing Captain Robertson saw was Spring-Heeled Jack perched atop the jubaea tree. Within an instant, the ghul was gone. And within the next, so was the Captain.

To be continued…

This is part of a larger series called Midnights In London

The Truth

One moment, they were there, in the confines of that little office in Murdstone & Co. The next, they were somewhere else entirely. Within the blink of an eye, the moonlit interior was exchanged for a starlit sky, the hard oak floorboards were exchanged for damp blades of glass, and the scream that got stuck in Captain Robertson’s throat was exchanged for vomit that generously slopped to the ground.
“It’s okay. Let it all out,” Mr Daim comforted his companion with a gentle slap to the back, “everybody vomits after their first place-jump.”
“Stay the hell away from me, you devil spawn!” roared Captain Robertson, stricken with fear. The force that sealed his lips was no more.
“You’re in shock, Captain. Take a few deep br—”
“NO! Stay back!” The pistol now had its eye on Mr Daim, “You were about to sell me out to that thing.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. I saw you speaking to that monster in the devil’s tongue.”
“First of all, that was Cymric. And, no, I was not about to sell you out. You’re my friend.”
Captain Robertson wasn’t going to fall for Mr Daim’s sentimentalism, “if I was really your friend, why didn’t you tell me you were a genie?”
“I did!”
Captain Robertson raised a sceptical eyebrow as if to say: Are you sure about that?
“I did tell you. At the tea house,” the more Mr Daim thought about it, the more confidence he lost in his own assertion, “at least I’m fairly certain I did,” until eventually, he lost it all, “Okay, maybe you’re right, I may have forgotten to mention it,” the Captain was pulling back the hammer of his revolver now, “but in my defence, it was fairly obvious from the start.”
“Really? How so?”
“I mean,” Mr Daim chuckled nervously, “my name is Mr Daim.”
Captain Robertson returned a blank stare. He wasn’t amused. Or maybe he just didn’t know.
“Um… Daim means immortal in Urdu. Jinn are… well we’re not immortal… but compared to your human lifespan, we may as well be.”
Mr Daim gifted his companion one of his award-winning smiles along with a thumbs up for good measure. Unfortunately, that was the very end of the Captain’s tether.
“I’ve had enough of your games, Mr Daim. Tell me the truth right now, or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
“Very well,” the jinni had his hands up now, “what do you wish to know?”
“First, you can begin by telling me where we are and how we got here.”
“After you ruffled Jack’s feathers, I thought it prudent that I get you out of there before you ended up missing a face.”
Images of that poor sod lying in the soot-smothered East End crossed Captain Robertson’s mind yet again as bile crept up his oesophagus. Part of him was surprised he contained so much vomit, given the number of times he’d puked these past forty-eight hours.
“So, I transported us to this hill,” continued Mr Daim, “I believe it’s called Green Witch Park.”
“Greenwich,” corrected Captain Robertson, gulping down the creeping bile as he surveyed his surroundings. The observatory behind them confirmed that the jinni wasn’t lying.
Mr Daim nodded in recognition before eyeing the gun still levelled at his chest, “I see that my efforts in preserving your life do not warrant your trust.”
“You see correctly. Now, tell me, Mr Daim. Who are you?”

The Jinni

Long before the advent of humankind, the Earth was ruled by jinn, beings made of smokeless flame. Like their younger siblings, the jinn were a divided people, separated into many nations from the Titanian Empire to the Republic of Atlantis. However, none could surpass the might of Mount Qaf, the city of shining emerald, the conduit between the terrestrial and celestial.
It was here, at Mount Qaf, that a jinni, whose birth name has been long forgotten even to himself, was born. Unfortunately for the jinni, he came into existence during turbulent times. The Creator had conferred stewardship of the Earth to a new people: the Beni Adam. As you can imagine, this sent shockwaves across the world. If the Beni Adam were to rule, then what would become of the jinn?
Many jinn saw this as a new beginning and decided to live amongst their counterparts of flesh and blood. Others were fearful of the Beni Adam’s bestial nature and retreated into their own realm. Some jinn, those of the more disobedient kind, saw it as an opportunity and began to take on the Beni Adam as worshippers, building large monuments to false gods. However, the most pre-eminent amongst the jinn, one who had come closest to the Throne of the Creator, refused to accept the sovereignty of the Beni Adam and was subsequently cast out of Heaven. As revenge, he vowed to spend eternity tempting the Beni Adam to do evil.
And so, the jinni, born at Mount Qaf during turbulent times, watched humanity emerge from caves to build cities of magnificence. He watched humanity commit deeds of great malevolence with one hand and deeds of great benevolence with the other. He watched them build machines that could transport people over great distances and others that could transport messages even further. He watched them build weapons that could take a life with the single flick of a finger and others that could tear through entire battalions as they screamed in terror. Every day, he was inspirited by their ingenuity, their tenacity and their nobility. Every day, he was appalled by their cruelty, their brutality and their barbarity. Through better times and worse, he watched them grow from lighting their first spark of flame to generating their first spark of electricity.
As time marched on and millennia after millennia passed by, the jinni grew restless. For all the places he’d visited, all the loved ones he’d lost, all the poetry he’d read, he was still missing something crucial: purpose. It is in search for a purpose that the jinni began wandering aimlessly from one end of the Earth to the other. He was looking for a sign. Any sign that could point to a greater meaning to his existence. What was his place in the world?
One day, while passing through the labyrinth of a busy city, the jinni overheard the most beautiful of recitations. Day after day, he would return to that exact same spot to hear its message. It spoke of a gracious and merciful God who would reward those that did good deeds and exhibited the qualities of the righteous. It was then that the jinni finally found his purpose. From that day on, he vowed to break the shackles he had placed upon himself and dedicate the remainder of his life in service of his God.
In the proceeding years, as the empires of yesterday were replaced by those of tomorrow, the nations of the Beni Adam grew in strength while those of the jinn fell into decline. Without safe havens to offer protection, the jinn became victim to the greed of the Beni Adam. Thus, began the Great Upheaval. In the proceeding centuries, countless jinn were captured and enslaved by the Beni Adam within the confines of enchanted ornaments, forcing those that remained to go into hiding. In retaliation, some jinn began to torment their counterparts of flesh and blood, fuelling the fear that drove humanity’s enterprise.
Amidst the chaos, the jinni, as old as humankind, took on a new role. He would hunt down those that spread corruption in the world, whether they be amongst the jinn or Beni Adam. He would free the enslaved and relieve the tormented. He would take on many names. The most recent of which was Mr Daim. An arbiter between those of sounding clay and smokeless flame.

“… and that more or less sums up my life story.”
Captain Robertson was astonished by what he’d just heard. The being that stood before him was as old as humankind itself. There was no telling the wealth of knowledge the jinni had stored away. The things he’d witnessed. The people he’d met. The life he’d lived.
“Is that all?” asked Mr Daim, hoping his companion was satisfied enough to lower his weapon.
Captain Robertson shook his head, partly to answer the question, partly to joggle his blown mind. “No, tell me exactly what you discussed with Spring-Heeled Jack.”
“Okay,” Mr Daim took in a deep breath before barraging Captain Robertson with a complete transcript of what was said, “I introduced myself by saying, ‘pleasure to meet you. My name is Mr Daim, and you must be the infamous Spring-Heeled Jack everyone is talking about.’ He didn’t reply, so to break the ice, I said, ‘Depressing weather this week, wouldn’t you say?’ To which he responded, ‘Why are you here?’ If you ask me, I found that rather rude so to display my dissatisfaction I replied, ‘Sorry?’ To which he res—”
“Daim!” Captain Robertson halted the jinni’s word-for-word transcript, “I’m not in the mood for this tomfoolery. You know what I mean. Tell me what it is you said in Cymric.”
“Oh, I see,” but he didn’t see, “I said, ‘Daethpwyd â mi i’r wlad hon i’ch olrhain i lawr.’ Then Ja—”
“IN ENGLISH!” Captain Robertson was turning red with frustration, “Tell me what you discussed in Cymric, but in English.”
“Ohhhhhh,” Mr Daim finally understood what his companion was asking for, “why didn’t you just say so?”
Captain Robertson held back the urge to scream. The respect he had just accumulated for Mr Daim was quickly dwindling.
“I explained to Jack that I have only been in Albion for a week and that I was brought here to bring him to justice. However, it appears that things are not as straightforward as they seem,” Mr Daim’s mischievous demeanour was replaced by one of grave seriousness as he pondered how to break the news, “Jack claims that he was set up.”
“But that makes no sense. Didn’t you find evidence to prove Spring-Heeled Jack was at the scene of the crime?”
“Yes, I found his residual aura at the scene of the crime, but that’s not sufficient enough evidence to prove he committed the crime. Without witnesses, there’s no way to prove what happened. For all we know, Jack may have been acting in self-defence.”
“You’re seriously taking the side of the ghoul here?” Scoffed Captain Robertson, “that thing tried to eat me!”
“Only after you shot him. Besides, I’m not taking anyone’s side; I still need more information. If what he says is true, there may be greater forces at play here than I initially thought, which is why I agreed to an audience with our friend Jack a week from now.”
“You can’t be serious,” sighed Captain Robertson as he lowered his revolver.
“I most certainly am.”

To be continued…

  This is part of a larger series called Midnights In London

The First Midnight

Captain Robertson slowly drew his revolver from its holster, the moon glistening off the sweat that trickled down his brow. Images of the mutilated face lying in that hazy alleyway somewhere in the soot-smothered East End 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. In comparison 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 chat with our friend.”
As much as Captain Robertson would have jumped at the chance to sit this one 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, the Captain 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, they had yet to actually encounter Spring-Heeled Jack, and so there was no guarantee that 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 the fact he was referring to yesterday’s incident with Commissioner Henderson with that last remark. If the circumstances were 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 Murdstone & Co 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 that 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 his 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 his 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’s stepping.
They were only 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 of solid, liquid sand flying in all directions. Together they 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 screw 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 to fly about 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.

The Ghul

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 that stood before them – was of both tall and slender stature with a diabolical countenance that could instil a primal fear into even 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 began to cramp around the pistol’s grip. He dared not pull the trigger. It seems 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 off the ground, 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 the ghul’s menacing claws. The same claws that mutilated that 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 seems he wasn’t the only one who was confused, as the infamous Spring-Heeled Jack stared blankly at the hand that was offered to him. And there it remained, long enough to deem the situation awkward. It took Mr Daim a few moments more 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?” The ghul 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 that revealed a set of yellowing skewers perfect for ripping into both meat and bone.
Mr Daim turned to look at the pathetic excuse for a human 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 that, unlike their nebulous counterparts, ghuls are real. Mr Daim decided to switch to another language; perhaps that would help calm down his terrified companion and save him from having to hear Spring-Heeled Jack’s disparaging comments.
Unfortunately, just like at the tea house, this had the complete undesired 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 from top to toe with disgust.
After a few more minutes of utter despair, the conversation seemed to reach its conclusion. Mr Daim turned around with that smug grin of his as Spring-Heeled Jack stared intently at the silent Captain Robertson. The ghul smiled a sinister smile before licking its 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 the ghul. Just like that, a single moment was dragged out into eternity. The entire room flipped inside out as a lone bullet marched from barrel to target through a cloud of 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