Revolution
Chapter 4
"Life without liberty is like a body without spirit."
-Kahlil Gibran
A fine mist was settling down on this part of London, enveloping the city in a curtain of white as the ship pulled into the London harbor, its passengers alighting and heading towards their respective destinations. Amongst them was a young Chinese woman, probably another immigrant from some backward province of China. Few paid her a second glance, dismissing her presence as unimportant, and while cab drivers rushed to help disembarking passengers with their luggage, they left her alone.
Ah, London, she thought, raising one elegant brow, Not exactly welcoming of one of her daughters. She had spent her childhood, right through her teens in London with her father; more specifically, in Limehouse, before moving back to China.
As she walked through the streets, she saw that shops were closing for the night, and workers were heading home. She also saw every manner of laborer passing her by: miners, who worked just outside the city; seamen, returning from a journey to some far-off land; storekeepers, smelling of everything from oily grease, fish, and everything in-between.
In ordinary circumstances they had absolutely nothing in common. Still, she could see the same longing in their eyes and faces: they wanted to be free, to return to their old lives, when trying to earn their daily bread wasn't so hard.
The woman sighed inwardly. She knew the fight ahead would not be easy at all, but they had to try. Their lives had been taken from them by force, and she – along with others who shared the same vision – fully intended that the citizens of the world would take it back.
She would give it back to them, she promised herself, as she headed towards her hotel.
She fingered the pendant of a crow at her neck, marking her as the first of several mysterious arrivals in the capital of the Second Reich.
The Carfax asylum (#1) was big, dark, and foreboding. Tom's footsteps echoed loudly through the hallways, his shadow lengthening and shortening randomly in the shadows. It was almost eight, and night had already fallen on London.
Tom wasn't worried about missing the man he was looking for, because he literally lived in the asylum. The American tried to ignore the cries of madness and anguish coming from the padded cells and rooms around the side corridor, and was largely successful in that endeavor, although he couldn't help but feel a little unsettled.
The person at the front had directed him to the room where he would be able to find the person in question, and so he made his way through the winding corridors that smelled of disinfectant, accompanied only by his wits and the disturbing cries of the mad.
The orderlies he had passed earlier had barely spared him a glance. After making sure he wasn't a patient who had gotten loose they had ignored him, on the whole, and that suited him just fine. After all, in today's world, going unnoticed had its perks.
He had dropped by his place before coming to Carfax to get into one of his many disguises. Tom felt ridiculous in the handlebar moustache, makeup, round hat and the clothes. He wasn't used to it at all...it felt so stifling, so formal. A few of the Underground's members were theatre actors, and so imparted their knowledge of stage makeup and disguise to other members of the Underground, Tom one of them.
Tom's transformation from the young American to the pot-bellied English businessman was astounding. His skin color had been altered using a fair amount of rouge. A pillow was strapped to his waist, and Tom realized that if he fell forward, it would break the impact and he wouldn't be hurt. The handlebar moustache would cause mush pain when he pulled it off later, and it would take a pretty amount of scrubbing to fully get rid of all the makeup. While not Sherlock Holmes or Arsène Lupin when it came to disguises, Tom was pretty good.
Judging by the numbers on the whitewashed doors he passed, Tom guessed he was close to his destination. The yelling and screaming from the earlier rooms were almost non-existent in this part of the asylum, although there was the occasional whimper. The patients here are probably the more sane ones, Tom mused. He wasn't surprised if any of them were perfectly sane, but were in here anyway because they had been deemed "mentally unstable" by the government...which usually meant Reed or Dante.
Acutely aware that he was almost there, Tom paused in his musings as he rounded a corner. Down the corridor, he could see someone at one of the doors. It seemed that they were locking the door, while bidding good-night to its occupant, assuring him that he would be able to leave soon.
"Doctor," Tom called, quickening his pace.
The man who had been locking the door turned to look at the new arrival, and Tom could easily recognize the pale face, ginger hair, and lines of exhaustion. He still has his pocketwatch with him, he thought with slight amusement, catching a glimpse of the chain hanging out of Jekyll's pocket.
"Yes?" Obviously, Dr. Henry Jekyll had not been able to recognize Tom in the dim light, not that Tom could blame him. "How can I help you?"
"I," Tom repeated, finally coming close enough for the gentle doctor to distinguish his features. "am looking for a Dr. Henry Jekyll and a Mr. Edward Hyde."
Jekyll's wide saucer eyes widened in fear and shock. To assure him he wasn't working for Dante, Tom slipped him a 'calling' card. On it was Tom's real name, instead of the alias he used as the fat businessman.
"Tom Sawyer?" Jekyll virtually whispered.
Tom nodded, a small smile touching his lips. "Good evening, Dr. Jekyll."
Damn.
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.
He was lost. After getting off the ship that had weighed anchor in the harbor almost a quarter of an hour ago, he'd made his way to his hotel, but he had taken a wrong turn or something and ended up on the other side of London.
He wished the crow pendant he wore around his neck would come alive and guide him through the streets. Sadly, he knew that that would never happen.
No one was around on the streets, and all the stores were closed. Hopelessly lost with absolutely no idea where he was, he wasn't optimistic that he would find his way back.
Oh, good going, man, he thought to himself, hauling his bag along while looking out for a hansom or cab, It's your first time in London and you get lost.
Grumbling to himself about not bringing a map, he tried — unsuccessfully — to push his dark brown locks out of his eyes. He was desperate to get to the inn, where he had arranged for a room. Perhaps, he thought, if he made it to anywhere with humans around, he could ask for directions, even if it meant that he would have to stray into the world of vice.
Argh, you idiot, he cursed himself. Next time, when leaving the country, bring a map.
The doctor's office was neat, if small, and Tom found an odd comfort in that, as if Jekyll's world had not been touched — or, aversely effected — by war and oppressive rule.
The American had explained everything in hushed tones to Jekyll, who nodded and now, looked deep in thought. Tom wondered if he was debating with Edward Hyde in his head. The two men had been in silence for the past few moments.
"Will you come?" Tom prompted gently. Jekyll sighed and sat down on the chair behind the desk; Tom was seated in the one opposite him.
"I'm afraid I can't, Tom," Jekyll said, while taking a sheet of paper and a pencil and writing something down on it, "It's just not in my nature."
By the time he had finished talking, Jekyll had also finished writing. He pushed the paper across the table
to Tom, who read it and nodded. He tried to keep the smile from his face.
They had been speaking in codes all the while, afraid of being overheard. Dante had spies everywhere. The paper, a part of Jekyll's carefulness, had read
I will be there.
Casually, Jekyll lifted the paper and held it to the candle that flickered on the desk, watching as it caught fire and burned to ashes.
Moving on with the masquerade, Tom sighed. "I'll send your sympathies to his mother, then." His blue eyes twinkled as he said that, the only evidence that there was a lie going on.
Jekyll nodded sadly. "I'm sorry I can't make it, but these proceedings are of the greatest importance to me."
"I understand," Tom nodded, standing up. "I understand fully." He waddled towards the door, making a mental note to use a smaller pillow the next time round. "Cheerio then."
"Good bye," Jekyll said, a little half-heartedly, as Tom closed the door behind him.
The little skipper weighed anchor, and he could feel the swaying of the boat ease up a little. He had been resting in the cabin, but now he got up and headed up towards the top deck. The night breeze was chilly, but refreshing nonetheless.
The wind carried with it the salty tang of the Channel waters. He could see the lights of the small town nearby, and watched as the crew of the skipper quickly moored the small boat to shore. His valise slung over one shoulder, he strode off the bow of the ship and onto the small jetty. He could see the lights of the inn, where he would spend the night before leaving at dawn for London.
The carriage he had already chartered, the driver already booked and paid. At dawn, they would set off on the long journey to London. It would take some time to get there, but he would be able to get there in time for the meeting.
He'd not given the driver his name; no. He would identify himself to the driver by showing him the crow pendant he wore around his neck.
He would be in time for the meeting, he knew, and that was all that mattered.
(#1) The asylum was created by Bram Stoker in Dracula (1897).