Volta
“It was truly the bomb that fascinated me. Liberation, virtue—utter piffle! Now then, old chap, who is it?”
In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
—William Ernest Henley, Invictus
Unexpectedly and with a tremendous peel, the bomb had detonated along a teeming promenade café. The dense column of smoke sprawled high into the evening sky—some great blossoming on this cruel April day, followed by a shower of glass, the shards glistening in their descent. Streaks of bright, arterial blood coursed through the gaps in the masonry like a stream of water. The pedestrians scattered, not without their departing cries and shrieks of terror, the hurried pitter-patter of soles smacking against the stone footpath, fading to a relative silence. Those who stayed behind were among the dead, the injured, the Good Samaritans, the morbidly curious.
Stephen Whitlock was amongst the many injured. Though the most morbidly curious person at the scene, he struggled to view the carnage. His vision blurred, and his head throbbed as he reeled in and out of consciousness. He toiled against the pain as he desperately tried to stand, but a piece of a wrought-iron chair leg lodged into his calf forbade him. At the far end of the promenade, the distant trill of the police whistle and the various shouts of commands broke the silence.
“There he is!” The shout from the all too familiar voice of Gouverneur Howe. Joined by a cadre of men dressed in overcoats, their collars turned upwards, donning bowler hats shifted forward to further conceal their visage, they apprehensively pitched on their heels. “Never mind your damn police cordon—let me through!” Pushing past the police line without a struggle, Gouverneur appeared at Stephen’s side. Tearing a blood-smeared tablecloth in two and using the smaller piece as a tourniquet, he would temporarily mend his wound. Helping him stand, they quickly absconded from the scene.
The tobacco smoke curled like ghostly serpents through the dimming twilight, its presence a fitting prelude to the tumult within the hallowed halls of the Friends of the Polis, a meeting room nestled in some dank cellar in the city, known colloquially under the appellation, the Consulate. The nerve-riling debates raged on, their echoes penetrating the uneasy darkness that cloaked the night. Within, fervent shouts matched with shaking fists, punctuating the air as order was tenuously maintained by members desperate to uphold decorum. From an ornately carved mahogany chair, elevated slightly upon a daïs, sat Gouverneur Howe, the designated Captain of the Friends. Presiding over the maelstrom, Gouverneur lounged disparagingly in the chair, his elbow resting on the armrest, chin propped in his palm, his gaze vacant and weary. The ceaseless parley seemed to chase its own tail, like some sick cur, reaching no conclusion, until at last, Gouverneur struck his fist like a judicial gavel upon the armrest.
“Silence, damn you!” He commanded with an explosive boom in his voice. Order was swiftly regained, and with fiery orbs, he surveyed the assembled gaggle. The members, with furrowed eyebrows and blinking eyes like children chastened by paternal authority, sank back in their seats.
“We are not some… futile group of bickering ideologues or partisans—we are men of virtue!” To which his voice rang with resonance.
“I will not permit this quorum to devolve any further into these petty and ridiculous debates. You want that, go to Whitehall, or Matignon, or Wilhelmstrasse.” He briefly paused, “The question will be put to a vote, those in favor, say ‘aye,’ those opposed, ‘nay.’”
“If I am guilty,” Consul Reginald Darby raised his voice, standing up from his seat like a shoot of grass trampled in the wild lowlands of the debate floor, “then I am guilty of having obeyed a law this body deemed constituent, born of the indelible virtue we share—like the light of the natural man’s campfire, metastasizing into a great bonfire—his first foundations of proper community. These laws, we call them such, but I would venture to deem that they are equally a part of our personal constitutions. Outside, the liberal order prevails—those countless and idle droves of individuals lacking innate virtue. Here, these laws are our own, we make them—they are not made by others!”
“Here-here!”
“Consul Darby will resume his seat!” Gouverneur had issued. A slight tinge of exhausted annoyance, as if he had heard it all before. “And on that point, this quorum will determine whether those who had once gleamed with virtue are soon dimming right before our own eyes.” To which he received boisterous laughter.
“And furthermore,” Reginald continued, undeterred by Gouverneur’s authority, “This quorum must levy a moral declaration whether my moral liberty has failed, a precedent in its own right—of whether I resorted to tactful and impotent rage against the moral liberty of a fellow compatriot!”
“Enough! We will resume our standard procedure, the question being whether Consul Reginald Darby attempted murder against the life of Consul Stephen Whitlock at the DuSáare café district.”
The bandaged Stephen Whitlock sat unreflective amid the clamor of shouts that emanated throughout the meeting hall, shouts of ‘ayes’ and ‘nays’ clashing against one another. It was clear through this thunderous chorus that the ‘ayes’ had gained a powerful resonance. Soon, they merged into a unanimous affirmation, drowning the hushed and weakening ‘nays’ into oblivion.
“The ‘ayes’ have it, the ‘ayes’ have it!” Gouverneur announced, concluding the vote.
“The question now will come to the punishment.”
“Death!” The call rang out, surreal in its timbre, as if a disembodied voice from the floor of the hall had issued the command. The hall fell silent, heads turned to see who ordered the plea, but none could identify its origin.
“Death! Death! Death!” became the chant that echoed throughout the hall in a sinister unison.
Stephen, struggling against his injury, desperately tried to prop himself up upon his crutch. “Give me a hand! You there, give me a hand—damn you! Anybody!” He hastily pleaded of his colleagues, but it was too late, for they had all fallen into a state of tribal blood lust, with spittle trailing down their chins, caught in their beards, and mustaches, their eyes widening with a maddening glare.
“The question will be put to a vote!” Gouverneur shouted, his bellicose voice cutting through the chants, “Consul Reginald Darby having been found guilty of attempted murder against the life of of Consul Stephen Whitlock, shall be sentenced to death! Those in favor, say—”
“‘Aye!’” The collective chant resounding throughout the hall, sealing Reginald’s fate.
“The ‘ayes’ have it,” Gouverneur, pointing with eyes like daggers, “the ‘ayes’ have it.”
The two guards flanking the Captain’s mahogany chair descended upon the helpless Reginald with the grim precision of automaton springing into action. Clad in trench coats of a brutal gray hue, their peaked caps bore the insignia of the Friends of the Polis. Beneath the short brim of their hats, their visage was statuesque, as if carved into the face of a cliff, erasing all sense of will as they loomed with an authorial edge.
As Reginald was dragged from the hall amidst cries of jubilation, the narrow corridor outside had consumed them. Stephen, hobbling on his crutch, followed behind as best as his bandaged leg would allow.
“Wait!” Stephen desperately pleaded, but to no avail. He saw in Reginald’s gait the resigned steps of acceptance, a wearied embrace of his fate as he was courted down that narrow corridor. With a sharp turn at the end of the corridor, they exited. Stephen, still trailing their path, quickly shifted along. As he turned the corner, the door was slowly closing shut. He thrust his crutch to stop the door, the wooden end snapping under the pinch, as he tumbled forward into a scant courtyard hemmed between a foreboding edifice. Above, the city lights coalesced into a murky glow visible through the narrow shaft.
Reginald knelt in the center, a martyr upon this sacrificial altar of virtue, his head turning slightly with a look of indifferent ratification. The death knell was delivered as a single shot withdrew from each of the guards’ Webley revolvers, the echoes reverberating through the courtyard. Without a word, the guards holstered their weapons across their chests, and absquatulated through the opposite door.
Stephen, prostrate upon the cobblestone floor, propped himself up on his forearms, as Reginald’s body lay bleeding out on its side, the eyes open, and yet staring into nothing, the mouth slightly agape. Blood streaming through the gaps in the cobbles like water through a canal.
The Chief Inspector sat patiently outside the office of the Assistant Commissioner. Inside the busy hallway of the precinct, he watched and listened as a network of information streamed in from the telegrams, quickly dispatched on foot by itinerant receivers for other officers in the great chain of the Metropolitan Police Service. He watched like a cat would with acuity, following the receivers’ every move, his large eyes beaming under his custodian helmet, his thick whisker-like mustache covering his upper lip.
The door to the Assistant Commissioner’s office fell ajar, “Damn it, Pienaert,” the Assistant Commissioner said, arms akimbo, “if only you had as much interest in your observations outside the precinct as you do inside, we might actually catch one of these bomb throwers.” He said, leaning into the threshold of his office before disappearing inside.
Chief Inspector Pienaert, clumsily gathering his portfolio report, tapped the folder’s contents against the bench until the papers were meticulously straightened. Entering the Assistant Commissioner’s office, he took to adjusting his helmet, which sat rather large and awkward upon his head before deciding to remove it completely, holding the helmet to his breast.
The Assistant Commissioner was already seated, his hands crossed upon his desk, glowering at the seeming buffoonery of the Chief Inspector.
“Mornin’ Mr. Simms. I do apologize for the inconvenience,” Chief Inspector Pienaert said.
“Yes,” Assistant Commissioner Simms let in with a passive nasal inflection, “what do we have today?”
The Chief Inspector stepped forward and presented the folder to the Assistant Commissioner. He begrudgingly leafed through its contents, licking the tip of his finger as he turned the pages.
“It’s nothing we didn’t already expect, sir,” the Chief Inspector retorted. “Unidentified members of the Friends of the Polis, from what we could gather.”
“Yes, I see,” the Assistant Commissioner said, merely looking at the pages instead of reading them, “that’s the problem, Pienaert. I need new information. ‘The Friends of the Polis’, yes, but who are they? What do they stand for? And more importantly, where are they located?”
“We’re still trying to piece all of that together, sir. We do have some new information to answer at least one of your questions; there, read that paragraph.”
The Assistant Commissioner reclined in his seat and read the newly added paragraph in an audible whisper, “‘…Friends of the Polis… reacting against the cosmopolitanism that has reduced the perfectibility of mankind…?’”
The Chief Inspector cleared his throat, “Virtue, sir. It is what they are referring to in the latter section.”
The Assistant Commissioner raised his eyes from the report, “Virtue? Well, that is new, isn’t it?” The Assistant Commissioner pushed away from the desk, his hands gripping the lapels of his coat in careful contemplation as he leaned back in his seat.
“Anarchist,” the Assistant Commissioner blurted out. “Yes, anarchist—I will file all case material concerning the Friends under anarchist activity.” The Assistant Commissioner quickly stamped the folder in red ink like an irate librarian.
“Ahem, sir… from what we gathered, it would be rather paradoxical to consider the group anarchistic, but it wouldn’t technically be considered incorrect either.”
The Assistant Commissioner dropped the stamp back into its holder with a thud. He looked up from his desk, his hands crossed, “There’s your bloody paradox, Pienaert,” He said phlegmatically.
“You remember your readings of Rousseau, don’t you?” The Chief Inspector inquired.
The Assistant Commissioner’s eyes wandered, “Go on, but spare the details.”
“The Friends are ardent supporters of Rousseau’s theories. If you give that report a thorough read, you’ll discover that. They probably have staked out some club or hall in the city to profess their beliefs. At its core, the Friends wish to establish a virtuous society, a society that is self-governing, but the notion of self-government itself is predicated on the moral character of the individual participating in said system. It is their militancy—these bombing campaigns—which are reactions against a society they see as morally corrupt, with all its artificial desires which make modern society miserable.”
“You have certainly done your homework, Chief Inspector.” The Assistant Commissioner remarked.
“Not me alone, sir. My unit has diligently assisted in our report.”
“Yes, but you should give yourself more credit, Pienaert. You always were very keen at heading the research aspect of your position,” the Assistant Commissioner argued. He rose from his desk, “After all, it was you who wrote up the report on The Society of the Black Skulls. Nasty bunch of fellows—something right out of Esquemling, and yet we find ourselves on land and an entire ocean away from the West Indies.
Chief Inspector Pienaert smirked, “Yes, well, was it not Robespierre who detested ‘impotent terror?’ We have on our hands terror with virtue.”
“Speak for yourself, Pienaert. Any man willing to kill innocent civilians lacks all the virtue that could ever be bestowed upon him. Now then,” he said, his hands crossed behind his back, “all we need is a location.” He starred attentively at the map of the city, “Mull around the DuSáare café district; cover a radius of 30 kilometers from the blast site, moving south from Port Marrin to the north at the intersection of Cross Street.”
The breeze off the River Marrin was bitter in the early April. It would not be long before the summer would arrive in the city, and such a cool breeze would not only be welcomed, but most desired. Mr. Whitlock and his fiancée, Ms. Constance Blythe, took their seats near the river’s edge at a rather small, wooden card table. Ungainly was his composure, as he fidgeted about, adjusting his seated posture with each gust of wind. Ms. Blythe, her cheek resting in her dainty, thin hands, smiling from one side of her mouth and continuously blinking. A true Gibson girl in dress and attitude.
“Well,” Mr. Whitlock muttered, tightening his woolen coat around his frame.
“We didn’t have to come here, you know?” Her attentive gaze was like a rope ceasing to slacken around Mr. Whitlock.
“Yes, but we are here,” He was quick to retort, staring across the river.
She slowly averted her eyes, contemplating the easy flow of the river, “Yes, it is nice here in the summer, but terribly brisk in early spring. You could go skinny dipping a-ways down, but that doesn’t stop some of the young lasses from taking a dip here where all the café patrons can see them.”
“Y-yes… quite right…”
She returned her eyes upon Mr. Whitlock, “Something’s wrong with you,” she said with assurance. “You should have listened to the doctor and stayed in the hospital for a few more days.”
Mr. Whitlock laughed at the proposition, “Nonsense, dear. What good would a few more days in the hospital do me? I’m quite alright—I couldn’t possibly miss work.”
“Where did it happen?” She inquired plainly.
Mr. Whitlock, statuesque, turned rigidly in his seat, “Down there,” pointing with a solitary finger, “at the opposite end, not far from the thoroughfare.”
Ms. Blythe shook her head, “Madness. This city has fallen into madness. As if the anarchists weren’t bad enough, these new ‘Friends’ insist upon the ‘perfectibility of mankind’ by tossing bombs into innocent crowds. I don’t see a difference—no matter how they decorate their cause.”
“The police will sort them out,” Mr. Whitlock leveled. His intonation was marked with an air comparable to matters discussed exclusively by savants. Dismissive he was in continuing to entertain the reports, and yet authoritative in his need to set the narrative straight—to pull it from the muddied waters of sensational journalism.
“I would refrain from reading what the papers report any further, dear,” he said with paternalistic condescension, “The perfectibility of mankind, ah! What a compelling narrative compared to the pseudo-proletarian theories of the anarchists, no? What happens when your average passer-by picks up the recent issue of the tabloid and reads rubbish like that, eh? Why, of course, they’ll laugh! No better than the utopianism of the anarchists!”
He leaned in, and moderated his voice to an unwavering pitch, “But, I’d venture that there’s something more truly anarchist about the Friends than the anarchists ever were. ‘Human perfectibility’— virtue! Rousseau—a man virtually battling the whole edifice of the Enlightenment project! What would the anarchists say of them then? I’d wager they’d say, ‘pff—virtue? Balderdash! ‘Tis restraining like a shackle clapped ‘round the ankles! We must liberate ourselves from virtue itself!”
Ms. Blythe, softly, “Do you mean to say—”
“Yes, dear! The Friends are more viable a force to be reckoned with! How could you compete against virtue, my love?” Taking her hands in his, “Look at what the world has come to. Pineapple marquises with trois-six chasers, indulging in no-name wine, itinerants hopping from station to station, the decadency of the flâneur!”
Mr. Whitlock’s vision soon became a blur. Over the river on the opposite side of the bank, soaring across the sky within the clouds, a composite of the city reeled into view. Scaffolding was erected on high as columns of marble and limestone shot up, just scratching the heavens—a facsimile of the Greco-Roman tradition.
The sonorous bellow of a steam-liner, now sailing through the estuary of the River Marrin, interrupted Mr. Whitlock’s imagination.
“You talk as if you—”
“No,” He said, throwing back his glass of wine, “Too busy with the upkeep of the store.”
The steam-liner, having just concluded the final leg of its voyage, rested briefly at Port Marrin, now teeming with the next wave of eager passengers preparing to mount the gangplank. A detonation thundered through the deep, as a great eruption of water soon followed, throttling the vessel with such ferocity that onlookers witnessed the ship lifting clear from the river itself. The vessel, swiftly keeling to its side, began to take on water. Onboard, passengers scrambled along the deck, their frantic movements resembling a grotesque Punch and Judy show.
The would-be suspect known to the Chief Inspector by his pseudonym “Mr. E,” led the pursuing officers on a frantic chase through the labyrinthine alleyways of the DuSáare café district.
“We’re not after you, lad!” The Chief Inspector’s voice cut through the dismal air with desperate urgency. The unexpected declaration, piercing the dense atmosphere, caused Mr. E to slowly turn his head, revealing his gaunt profile to the Chief Inspector and his entourage of officers. Mr. E, a thin, lanky figure of man, his poor posture accentuating his peculiar appearance. There was a fierce glint in his eye, a spark of defiance that belied his frail frame. His coat, with the collar turned up, framed his scared, oily-skinned visage, topped with a mop of unruly brown hair. An eye patch covered his left eye, lending to a mystery since last the Chief Inspector saw him.
“You’ve gotten worse,” the Chief Inspector uttered, an air of breathlessness in his tone. He removed his leather gloves, and approaching Mr. E, took his chin in his thumb and pointer finger, turning the man to face him completely.
“Still playing with that pneumatic device of yours, aren’t you?” The Chief Inspector whispered.
“If one of your bobbies even try to detain me, I’ll squeeze this,” he hissed, revealing a small rubber bulb in his pocket, tethered to a tube that snaked through the arm of his coat, “and you’ll all be pasted against the wall!”
The Chief Inspector smirked. “Playing with silane, now?”
“Yes!” Mr. E breathed, his tone dripping with the fervor of a mad inventor. “With just a single squeeze, the silane mixes with the oxygen in these airtight glass tubes,” caressing his chest with a perverse satisfaction, “and a simultaneous gas flame ignites the mixture. The blast is over before you even know it.” He narrowed his gaze suspiciously. “How did you know about my use of silane?”
The Chief Inspector turned to his officers, waving a dismissive hand below his waist.
“But sir!” a young officer protested.
“That’s an order! Now clear out—all of you!”
The officers, their faces marked with confusion and dismay, slowly backed through the alley, leaving the Chief Inspector alone with the enigmatic Mr. E.
“Who’s your informant, then?” Mr. E slyly remarked, his visage contorting like a grotesque mask of unstiched flesh.
The Chief Inspector tilted his head, a bemused smile playing on his lips. “A man with an understanding of your cause—perhaps even sympathetic, dare I say.”
“Ideology, philosophy—poh! I learned to stop worrying like all those flâneurs in the Black Skulls and the Friends and love the bomb! It was truly the bomb that fascinated me. Liberation, virtue—utter piffle! Now then, old chap, who is it?”
The Chief Inspector struck a match and lit his pipe, the smoke curling around him like a conspirator’s whisper. “Even a man without a motive still has a motive. You’re a nihilist.”
“I am an explosionist!” Mr. E declared with manic glee. “I live for the bomb—its design, its placement, its detonation! The blast, the reverberation, the blood, the debris, the cries! Ah, yes! The cries!”
“Yes, he did tell me you were of such a disposition.”
“I know him?” Mr. E’s voice quivered with a mix of curiosity and dread.
“It would be negligent if my intelligence failed me.”
“Who?” Mr. E lashed out, his voice sharp as a lit fuse.
The Chief Inspector’s smile stretched to the snapping point, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He took long, contemplative puffs from his pipe, studying the agitated bomber. “You bobbies—you’re trying to set me up!” Mr. E balled his opposite hand into a fist, his knuckles white with tension. “You want me to come clean, but I will not tell!”
“It’s true,” the Chief Inspector said, his voice calm and unreflective. “I am offering my allegiance to the Friends from the shadows, if you understand. A Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police, in your service—now, that would be something, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s almost too good to be true—no, I cannot trust you to meet at our headquarters. We’ll have to meet somewhere undisclosed. If you are so sure of yourself, we’ll meet here again, tonight.”
“Consider it a deal,” the Chief Inspector extended a receiving hand, but Mr. E recoiled, eying him with contempt. He jostled through the fog of the alley like a hunchback, his gait a testament to the injuries sustained from his own infernal creations. The Chief Inspector watched him go, then turned and walked in the opposite direction, his steps measured and purposeful. He paused at the edge of the alley. Facing south, he observed the River Marrin. The ship continued to billow with smoke, and the air was thick with distant cries and shouts, an ode of chaos that played out against the foggy sky.
Standing shoulder to shoulder, Stephen and Constance lock arms as they shuffle through the packed and anxious streets, drifting east along the DuSáare café district. Behind them, they leave the promenade. Metallic pangs of strain emanate from the sinking steam liner, its groans echoing through the foggy evening like some behemoth, fathoms beneath the ocean. A steam pumper, escorted in the opposite direction, lumbers past like some melancholic circus elephant.
With every few shuffles, Constance tightens her grip on Stephen’s arm, a lifeline in the chaos. Hobbling on his crutch, he inadvertently pulls away to maintain his balance, though never entirely escaping her grasp.
“Stephen,” Constance said, her voice fragile and wavering, “w-we have to move—to the countryside—it’s not safe here anymore!”
“Come now, Constance,” Stephen consoles her, his tone a resuscitation to her frayed nerves, “the business—”
“Oh, forget your business! At least in the country, you’ll be able to build your bombs in peace!” she cried, her desperation maddening in the menace of their surroundings. Stephen looked into Constance’s eyes, seeing the reflection of his own unease. He inadvertently squeezed his arm tighter around hers, causing her to shriek in pain. The surrounding pedestrians eyed Stephen curiously, and he felt the awkward weight of their stares; their silent judgment, eyes piercing the fabric of his resolve.
Hastily, Stephen courted Constance off into an alleyway to avoid any further attention. Stephen, pleading, as Constance stood rigid against the wall, “Do you want a mob to descend upon the both of us, Connie?”
For Constance, she knew that whenever she caught Stephen’s bluff, he would refer to her as Connie. Tears began to stream from her eyes, “Look at these people, Stephen. It’s like it doesn’t even affect them—the bloodshed, the cries—it’s like they don’t even recognize the terror anymore!” She wept against Stephen’s chest, “It’s your doing,” softly, her muffled conviction, “You and your Friends!” She hollered, woefully beating against his chest, desperately trying to wrestle free from Stephen’s grasp. He loomed over her, pinning her left hand against the wall as he balanced on his crutch. They both wrestled with each other’s right hand as Constance tried to break free.
Gradually, and with great exertion, Stephen overtook her, seizing her by her small frame, and hurtling further through the alley. They disappeared into the lingering fog, reappearing on the north side of the DuSáare café district; the wide and empty thoroughfare a stark contrast to the mulling droves moving up from the east-side. The air was thick with the scent of impending rain, and the evening seemed to hold its breath. Stephen’s grip on Constance was firm, yet his conscience wavered; the silence bearing witness to their struggle.
“Control yourself, Connie!” Stephen demanded, shaking her by her shoulders. “My friends are my associates—business partners and customers! They are not the kinds of people that would commit such heinous acts. What would ever make you think of such a thing?”
“Last night, on the parlor,” Constance, hysterical, “You were reading a copy of The Light! The police reports cite The Light as a newsletter of correspondence among the Friends of the Polis! You can’t just go to any old bookstore throughout the city and pick up a copy without first being declared a member!”
“We deal in books and publications of all types, Connie. It’s not out of the ordinary for such a publication to turn up in our store.”
“The issue was addressed to you—or better yet, your secret name—whoever you are!” Constance retorted.
“It was mailed to me from an associate, who received it from someone else, who also received it from someone else!” Stephen returned.
“Really?” Constance said, “If you are so sure of yourself, why bother to pen an article for them?” Tearing from her jacket, Constance produced the very issue of The Light in question, earmarked to a page titled: ‘A Monstrance of Virtue: Theories Regarding the Properties of Exothermicity and Relevant Experiences.’”
Stephen gazed at the passage, his mouth agape, before shamelessly crumpling up the issue of The Light and stuffing it deep into the pocket of his trousers. There was a certain reticence about his movements, as if they were being secretly observed. The rasping, descending voice of Mr. E abruptly silenced the couple.
“Mr. Whitlock,” Mr. E said, enunciating the consonants with a chilling precision. His eyes were hidden beneath a cloaked hood, revealing only his damp mouth and chin. His unnerving smile displayed cracked and decaying teeth, a grotesque contrast in their company.
“And this would be your bride, Ms. Blythe, I take it?” Taking her hand loosely in his and caressing her palm with his fingers, a gesture equally sinister as it was intimate. There was a brief, tense pause in their exchange.
“Not here,” Stephen whispered under his breath, “not now!”
Mr. E bore a garish smile and let out a laugh that echoed through the empty thoroughfare. “No! Certainly not,” he said, his forwardness tempered. “Tonight—on the western side of the alley,” he pointed with a solitary finger before vanishing into the fog once more.
“Who was that, Stephen?” Constance asked softly, her hysterics quelled by the enigmatic encounter.
“A regular customer is all,” Stephen replied in like manner. They began to stroll along the thoroughfare. He gazed out into the fog, his tone ameliorating Constance’s worries. “He’s purchased quite a bit of our paraphernalia and wears over the years.”
“Oh—will you meet him tonight, Stephen? Don’t meet him—not tonight,” Constance pleaded, resting her head on Stephen’s arm.
“An old customer is all. He wants me to deliver something he’d rather not be seen receiving in public.” Stephen’s voice was steady, but as they exited the thoroughfare, his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt as they peeled through the thick, enveloping mist.
Chief Inspector Pienaert sauntered down the alley, his movements firm and with the rigidity of a man on assignment, returning to rendezvous where he and Mr. E had met earlier in the evening. Upon reaching the spot, he found himself alone. The alley was empty, void of Mr. E or any other member of the Friends. He clasped his hands firmly behind his back, rocking on his heels as he circled in place, watching the vapor of his breath dissipate in the brightly illuminating gas lamps.
From within the shadows, a cacophony of concentrated footsteps suddenly arose, converging upon the Chief Inspector. Panic surged through him, and in an instant, he braced himself, ready to counter what he now perceived as an imminent trap.
“Do I have the duty to put you at ease?” said Gouverneur Howe, flanked by his retinue of guards, including the enigmatic Mr. E and the somber Stephen Whitlock. His voice was cold and methodical as he introduced himself, his position within the Friends, and their subversive activities.
“I understand you’ve already made the acquaintance of Mr. E, our esteemed bomber. And this is Stephen Whitlock, our resident chemist, formerly of City University.”
Stephen and the Chief Inspector exchanged brief nods, an acknowledgment fraught with tension.
“Now, I must admit, Mr. Pienaert, the proposition of serving as an informant for the Friends begs the question—why?”
Clearing his throat, the Chief Inspector began, “The Metropolitan Police has been steadfast in its efforts to infiltrate the Friends of the Polis. I was tasked with gathering intelligence and reporting my findings. Your group is remarkably adept at covering its tracks. To be frank, I found some... room for agreement.”
Gouverneur smiled, a paternal smile somewhat tinged with condescension. “Yes, we believe the human condition can be elevated. Our duty is to present society with a mirror, to reflect their degeneracy back at them. Our tactics, dramatic as they are, are but a mirror—an explosive manifestation of our cause. The question remains: will you see your reflection in the bomb?”
The Chief Inspector nervously laughed, his eyes flitting across the faces of the assembly, meeting only stern, unyielding gazes. “Well, I—I—I don't think I am quite... qualified to play with bombs, sir.”
“It is part of the initiation, sir,” Mr. E said mockingly.
“But—but I am to be an informant. What is this about an initiation?”
“Mr. Pienaert, you truly are a fool,” Gouverneur flatly declared. “You hail from the Continent, do you not?”
“I do.”
“I thought so. It is unwise, nay, unvirtuous, to trust you outright. You undoubtedly have ties to Amsterdam, Brussels, Paris, Berlin... You may be at a point in your career where you are having second thoughts, but even then, there was a first; your oath of loyalty and duty as an officer of the Metropolitan Police. You may remain in your position as Chief Inspector, but you must first prove that you can be a Friend.”
With the Gouverneur’s ultimatum issued, Mr. E thrust a metal canister into the Chief Inspector’s chest. The object was heavy and sinister, with a curious gauge affixed to the top, a crude amalgamation of recycled parts and materials. The Chief Inspector struggled to hold it, feeling its weight like an anchor, forever weighing him down.
They paced through the shadows of the night. The streets were but a lull, echoing with the degeneracy of the city—the bawling cries of drunkards, the aimless wanderings of the homeless, and other dregs of society who remained invisible by the day, yet reigned supreme on this lunar side of time. The group halted at a corner, peering down a narrow street. From a doorway, light spilled outside, illuminating three men, swaying on their feet, utterly inebriated and muttering expletives to themselves. A barmaid appeared on the threshold, her figure silhouetted by the light as syncopated piano chords rang out. There was a motherly air about her movements; her arms akimbo, the wagging of her finger in reprimand, the curt pivot and traipse indoors, for she had more productive business to attend to.
“Look at these people,” Gouverneur whispered, crouching low and out of sight. “Malignant—the whole lot of them,” he paused, continuing to observe their drunken maneuvers with haunting precision. “That is your target. Place the bomb as close to the pub as you can. We’ll blow out the entire façade—give them a scare, if they survive it... quickly now!”
With reluctance, the Chief Inspector stepped into the narrow street, advancing with an awkward waddle to his gait, the bomb trailing in his right hand. A drunkard, upon noticing the Chief Inspector, halted his stumbling and gaily smiled. His was a smile that transcended the moment—innocent, yet without direction. So concentrated was the Chief Inspector on this smile that he tripped over himself, constrained by the bomb’s weight. He fell into an all-consuming explosion—the blast illuminating the street briefly before a cloud of debris quenched the light.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the Friends vanished from the scene, weaving through the network of shadows in their escape.
“Stupid, stupid fool!” Gouverneur exclaimed. “It’s a surprise he managed to rise through the ranks, that poor bugger!”
A nervous pang, like a spasm, coursed through Stephen’s frame—a chronic symptom from the bombing of the DuSáare café district. Having been in this state before, he struggled with his thoughts. Like the Chief Inspector, he too had initially been loyal to a cause, but his new loyalties were in question. Struggling to keep up with the group, a guard helped him along, and they disappeared into the coldness of the night.
“We are utterly dismayed by the loss of Chief Inspector Pienaert,” Assistant Commissioner Simms said, closing the file on the late Chief Inspector’s report. Turning, he placed the folder into his file cabinet.
“A loss of one is a loss to all, sir,” the newly appointed Chief Inspector MacVeigh replied solemnly.
The Assistant Commissioner turned again, facing the new appointee. He sat with his hands crossed upon his desk, and looking down, he nodded in agreement. “It’s a funny thing, isn’t it?”
The Chief Inspector tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.
“This police force is steadfast on bringing law and order to the city. Our officers work tirelessly each day to ensure its safety. We share a kind of brotherhood with one another. Naturally, we oppose the terror brought on by these so-called Friends, and they too oppose our opposition. Would it be unwise of me to say that perhaps neither of us are correct? That we are forever locked into a cat-and-mouse chase—that our claims are nothing more than the popular claims of the people? If this call to ‘virtue’ continues to resonate with the people, as it does, perhaps the Friends will have a regime over this city. Perhaps we’ll find ourselves in the place the Friends are in now.”
“Nonsense, Commissioner Simms,” the Chief Inspector replied. “We carry the full weight of the law, singular and indivisible, and wield the truncheon to enforce it. Their bombs are cowardly—attacking passenger liners, cafés, pubs, public centers... They can get away with these attacks because the human mind is the weakest in these environments—it’s the least expected place to be blown to smithereens! It shall forever be the duty of the law, and those who enforce it, to raise the people’s vigilance. Only then, shall you have change.”
“Yes, yes,” the Assistant Commissioner said dismissively, “you may spare me the details next time.”
“Very well,” the Chief Inspector said. He bowed his head and exited the Assistant Commissioner’s office. In silence now, the Assistant Commissioner sat still. After a moment, he returned to the file cabinet and retrieved Chief Inspector Pienaert’s report. He produced a copy of The Light contained within. He read it diligently, but with a watchful eye, peering regularly should his door fall ajar.