The Good the Bad and the Infernal Read online

  SOLARIS

  First published 2013 by Solaris

  an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

  Riverside House, Osney Mead,

  Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  www.solarisbooks.com

  ISBN (epub): 978-1-84997-492-9

  ISBN (mobi): 978-1-84997-493-6

  Copyright © 2013 Guy Adams

  Cover art by Dominic Saponaro

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

  To Michael George Adams,

  who fathered the outlaw that wrote this book

  and taught him the difference between

  good, bad and ugly.

  IN THE BEGINNING

  1. THIRTY DAYS AGO...

  “THE ATLANTIC IS a cruel and venomous woman, Father, just as likely to snatch you to her bosom, body and soul, as deliver you to your destination.”

  “No mere ocean is capable of taking the immortal soul, Mr Quartershaft.”

  “Father, this is why it’s good that you have me by your side; you may be all-knowing in the matters of spirit, but you are like a child beyond your monastery, naïve of the natural world’s cruelties.”

  Quartershaft, confident that the monk’s gaze was elsewhere, took a swig of brandy from his hip flask.

  “Why, the last time I sailed these waters, I lost two dozen men from my expedition, grabbed by the waves that writhe beneath us like a tuppenny whore earning her change.”

  The monk scowled at that and Quartershaft reminded himself that his lewder metaphors were best saved for the country set. “I had to bring the vessel to dock myself, lashed to the wheel by rags from the dead men’s clothing.”

  “How fortunate that, though their bodies were lost to the ocean, their shirts were not.”

  Quartershaft stared at the young novice who had joined them with a look that he hoped, brandy or not, created the striking profile that appealed to magazine editors the publishing world over. The look that said: intrepid, brooding and authoritative. A man to be reckoned with (or, at the very least, read about). It was a look that he practiced often in the mirror, trying to emulate the sketches that had graced the cover of many a worthy periodical. It was a lot harder to achieve without pen and ink.

  “Fortunate indeed, Brother William. Now, if you will excuse me, I must prepare for our landing, peruse the maps, maybe take an hour’s rest. I shall be in my cabin, Father, should you or any of your order find yourselves in deathly peril.”

  Quartershaft sauntered below deck, leaving the two monks looking over the prow.

  “You really must mind yourself with Mr Quartershaft, Brother William. He seems a sensitive man.”

  “He is, begging your pardon Father, an idiot and a liar. A sham, cultivated to sell lurid publications, and nothing more. I cannot begin to understand why you insist on his joining us in our quest.”

  Father Martin sighed.

  “Money, Brother William; money. Without the financial support of his publisher, we would have been penniless halfway to Plymouth, let alone the Americas.”

  “Ah.”

  “Indeed, and while he may be prone to embroidering the accounts of his previous expeditions, you have no reason to doubt his abilities.”

  “He got lost belowdecks twice, yesterday. I found him relieving himself in one of the galley cupboards. Claimed it was an ancient mariner’s trick to waterproof the timbers. Then there is the persistent sound of vomiting from within his cabin, as well as sundry other noises... I dread to think what he does in there away from prying eyes.”

  “Nonetheless, William, he may have some use in the journey ahead. And do not forget, without the documents he retrieved during his recent journey to India, we would know a lot less about our sacred destination.”

  “If it even exists.”

  Father Martin looked disapprovingly at the novice.

  “Oh, Wormwood exists, my boy, never doubt it for a moment.”

  He gazed back out to sea, where the slim shadow of land grew closer.

  “Although there may be times during our journey when we all wish it didn’t.”

  2. TWENTY DAYS AGO...

  THEY MOVED AS tight as pack animals, hugging the ground as they ran. Four in all, wrapped in dull cloth to cheat lazy eyes. Shadow clothes.

  Los Redo Prison sat within a bowl of open land, surrounded by mountains. They ran towards it, virtually invisible against the ill-lit landscape.

  MANCO SNORTED AND spat a wad of phlegm onto the ground. The dust filled his head. He’d worked here six months and his lungs hurt. He wished he could work somewhere where the air was clear.

  Shifting position, he wedged the butt of his rifle against his gut and ferreted in his shirt pocket for tobacco. He slowly rolled a smoke in one hand, tamping down the tobacco and folding the paper around it with deft movements of his fingers. He gummed the paper down with a streak of spit and shoved the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, then flicked a match alight against the crumbling wall at his back, cupped the flame in his palm and lit up. He took a deep lungful and flicked the spent match to the ground, staring into the mountains.

  The blade came from the left, sliding across his throat; the flesh parted, releasing blood and smoke. Manco slid, twitching, to the floor.

  THEY CAME TOGETHER silently and vaulted one of their number onto the prison wall. Small and stunted, barely more than three foot from toe to topknot, the figure scampered along the edge of the wall before tumbling to the other side.

  The wall backed onto a small courtyard in front of the prison buildings, with their corridors and poky cells. There were three guards, shuffling around the gate. The night was silent but for the distant persistence of cicadas.

  Three shots rang out and the guards went down.

  The midget dropped to the courtyard and, kicking at the bodies as he passed, pulled back the bolts of the gate and let his companions enter.

  HENRY JONES ROLLED off his bunk and got to his feet. He pulled his belt tight and adjusted the fit of his trousers around the crotch, then ran his finger around the waistband, making sure his cotton shirt was fully tucked. Slipping his maroon silk waistcoat over his shoulders, he cleared his throat gently, testing his vocal chords. Buttoned up, silver watch chain evenly slung, he reached for his black jacket and pulled it on, rolling his shoulders to get them snug and flicking his cuffs forward. He just had time to run a careful hand over his oiled hair, checking for runaways, before the door exploded.

  When the dust settled, Jones twitched his head at the sound of the small feet scuffling into his cell.

  “Evenin’ Knee High,”

  “Evenin’ Mr Jones, sir,” the midget shouted over the considerable noise of gunfire.

  Jones strolled out of the cell and towards the courtyard.

  The gunfire had ceased now, the dirt damp with the guts of prison guards.

  “Henry!” One of the figures moved forward, pulling the grey cowl from its head to reveal beautiful red hair. A tanned face, inset with sparkling emerald eyes and rich full lips, surrounded by the bushiest and most luxuriant of beards.

  “Evenin’ darlin’,” said Jones, giving her a tongue-filled kiss and a firm grab between the thighs, romantic as he was wont to be.

  “We’ve got you, baby,” she murmured, stroking the smooth, eyeless skin that made up the top half of his face, and pulling him closer to her. “We ca
n find it together.”

  He twitched his head momentarily, grabbed the gun she had slung in her left thigh holster and snapped off a shot to his rear. A wounded guard, who had nursed thoughts of being a hero, recoiled against the bullet and died.

  “Sorry, darlin’,” said Jones, “you were sayin’?”

  “Wormwood, honey,” she said, “let’s find Wormwood.”

  3. TEN DAYS AGO...

  “CAN I HEAR a hosanna?” Obeisance Hicks, emissary of the Lord and man of means, most surely could.

  He cast a look at his fragile messiah, just to check the man’s eyes were open and bowels in order. People could stand all manner of vagaries in their Gods, he had discovered, but a lack of toilet training was frowned upon, ecclesiastically. People wanted their Christ to smell sweet.

  “I had a vision this morning,” he went on to explain. “A message from God.” Here he put his hand on the war veteran’s shoulder, stroking the white robes he dressed the man in.

  “He was telling me that the people of this town are almost lost to His sight.”

  There was a predictable yell of rebellion.

  “That is what He said,” insisted Hicks, pointing out at the faces of those gathered around the caravan. “I am merely His messenger. He told me that the devil himself had laid claim to this place, thanks to the help of his ministers and dark priests.”

  Again, a roar of disapproval.

  “My friends,” said Hicks, a man who knew how far to push matters, “you have no need to fear. I do not abandon you. And through me, God does not abandon you either. Behold!”

  And with a gentle kick the tame messiah was awoken, calling out and raising his arms to the sky according to his training. Hicks never failed to take pleasure in the response of the crowd, the gasps of holy pleasure as the stigmata begin to flow.

  “See how your sins are washed away in Holy Blood, see how I have the best interests of your souls at heart.”

  He took a sip of whisky from his tin cup (it paid not to advertise one’s choice of beverage while spreading the word of the Lord; the only spirits crowds like this wanted to see were Holy in nature). He liked to leave a long moment after the blood, just to make sure it had really sunk in.

  “We are here amongst you,” he continued, “to save your eternal souls. We want to protect you, oh, yes... we want to see you wrapped up in the warm and loving arms of the Lord. We do! We do!”

  He reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed a small glass bottle. He held it up, letting the glass glint in the light so as to add an extra hint of the heavenly. Then he placed the neck of the glass against the false messiah’s wrist and let some of the blood drip inside. Just a little, a couple of drops; nothing robbed something of its mystery more than quantity. He corked the bottle and held it up to the light once more.

  “Which is why I want to share this gift, this holiest of relics, this charm against the devil, this potent tonic for Jesus!”

  He threw the bottle into the crowd, where it was caught by a young black girl. She held it close to her cheek and sang out in excitement. “Lord, how it sings!” she said. “You can feel God Himself just beyond the glass.”

  “Put it away, honey,” said Hicks, “it’s a precious gift.” And she did so, amid the jealous clamour of the crowd.

  “Friends!” Hicks shouted, “don’t worry! I have a handful more I’m willing to donate to the holiest, most...”—he allowed a small pause here—“generous-spirited amongst you.”

  “I want to show my gratitude,” shouted the girl, holding up a couple of coins. They glinted in the sun just the same as the bottle had done. Holy of holies, Hicks thought...

  “I do not sell gifts from the Lord,” he insisted. “If you wish to offer money to my ministry, then I thank you, and I swear to you that it will be used only in the furtherance of the holy message.”

  He took the coins from her and dropped them into a small basket at the front of his makeshift stage.

  “There,” he said. “In case anybody else might be so Christian in their wishes.”

  He brought forward a wooden chest and began to unload pre-filled glass bottles from it, stepping back slightly as the line began to form. Praise be, he thought; God helps those who help themselves.

  “CAN WE PLEASE get moving?”

  Hicks looked up at the black face of his first ‘customer’ and smiled. “Just as soon as I’ve had a short nap,” he announced, taking another sip of his whisky (from the bottle this time, he had given up on the tin mug now he was out of the public eye).

  “It’s alright for you,” she said, despairing of the man who had never quite got the difference between ‘owner’ and ‘employer.’ “You might escape a lynching, if they catch you out as a con artist. They’d hang me up just to pass the time.”

  By now Hicks was snoring and there was very little that Hope Lane could do to rouse him.

  She gathered up her skirts and shuffled across the caravan to where her beloved Soldier Joe lay. Hicks stored him as you would an animal, boxed away in a straw-lined cage.

  Hope unlocked the door and shuffled in next to the man, pulling him up so that his head rested on her lap.

  “Never you mind, Soldier Joe,” she said, “we’ll soon be moving on, and then you’ll be able to get a little sun on your face.”

  He grunted, dead to the world, and rolled his face against her thigh. Hicks kept him sedated most of the time, fed him on powders meant for cattle, as far as she could tell. Better that than let him cry out, as he was wont to do. Soldier Joe had seen some bad things in his time, she was sure of that. If only the bullet that had taken out a good-sized piece of his brain and most of his sense could have taken the fear away too. When the powders wore off, he screamed like a beaten baby, and nobody did that unless they had something terrible rattling on them.

  Soldier Joe tensed up and mumbled to himself. Wumweh he seemed to say, over and over again.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” said Hope, stroking his hair, “I can’t understand you.”

  “Wormwood,” said Soldier Joe, opening his eyes and speaking as clear as you like. “We need to go to Wormwood.”

  Then he closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.

  4. NOW...

  THE UNION PACIFIC got you as far as Omaha, but no further. In a few years the Central Pacific line, cutting its way east from Sacramento, would come to meet the western line, and travelling the length of the country would be possible from the relative comfort of a rail carriage. Until then, the long-distance traveller had little option but to decamp from the luxury of iron tracks and make way under his own steam.

  “Come along, my dear,” said Lord Forset, raising a wrinkled hand towards the sun as much to keep the dust from his eyes as the light. “They must be around here somewhere.”

  “How can one lose a pack of monks?” his daughter wondered, clambering down from the carriage. “They hardly dress to blend in.”

  “Quite,” agreed Forset. He pulled a pair of goggles from his pocket and put them on, making him look even more bizarre than he had already.

  Elisabeth looked at him fondly. His crumpled suit and mismatched waistcoat. His hair, which appeared to have achieved autonomy from his scalp, writhing in the hot wind and snatching at the occasional piece of litter that flew by. He was quite at odds with his surroundings, but as this could be said of absolutely anywhere in the world, he achieved a universal quality. The only country in which he felt utterly at home was that strange and complex region found between his left ear and its corresponding fellow on the right. Lord Forset was a full-time resident of his own mind; elsewhere, he was only a visitor.

  “Lord Forset?” came a call from further up the platform. “Lord Forset?”

  It was a young porter. The loser, had they but known, of a bet between himself and his superior as to who would have to deal with the English pair.

  “Yes, my lad,” replied the peer, offering a big-toothed grin that made the kid think of sand-blown marker posts.


  “Where do you want your equipment, sir... I mean, my lord...”

  “Never mind the manner of address, young man. After all, I can hardly be described as any lord of yours, now, can I? We’re many miles away from my country seat.”

  “Thank God,” said his daughter.

  “Thank God, indeed,” her father agreed, “considering who’s paying. Speaking of which...” He offered a little bow towards Father Martin, who was walking towards them, the rest of his order hanging back.

  “Excuse me!” shouted the immediately recognisable voice of Roderick Quartershaft, pushing his way through his religious-minded travelling companions. “Can a man not set one foot out without tripping over a cassock?”

  “This young lad wants to know where to put my equipment,” said Lord Forset, turning back to the porter. “Our transport is scheduled to meet us outside. Load everything up and ferry it to the street, there’s a good chap.”

  “The driver should be here to meet us,” said Father Martin. “Perhaps he’s running late?”

  “Taken your money and absconded for the hills, more like,” announced Roderick Quartershaft, on the back of breath so alcoholic it would have made a Baptist weep.

  “I don’t think there’s any need to assume that yet,” said Father Martin. “Has anyone enquired after our arrival?” He turned to ask the porter, but the young lad had already run back to his superior.

  “Can’t wait to be shot of us,” said Quartershaft. “No sense of service in the colonies.”

  “Not colonies any more, old chap,” Forset reminded him.

  “Not for a long time,” sighed his daughter. “Your knowledge of political geography is astoundingly limited, given your reputation as an explorer,” she added. “It sometimes seems startling that you’ve been anywhere. They say travel broadens the mind, after all.”