seven—thirty and take you to the Music Hall.’
Joseph Merrick bowed his bulbous head. Then placed the cup of steaming tea in the hand of Sir Frederick Treves.
The surgeon general gave the tea a sniff.
‘ Cascara,’ he said. ‘A powerful laxative. Why do you do these things, Joseph? The nice gentleman is taking you to the Music Hall.’
Having mildly admonished the Elephant Man, and thanked Sir Frederick Treves for his assistance, the nice gentleman left the London Hospital and hailed a hansom cab.
‘Carlton Road,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Number ninety-five. ‘The cabbie climbed down from his perch, aided Mr Bell into the cab proper, closed the waist-high door upon him and returned to his perch. ‘How would you like it, guv’nor?’ he called down to his fare through the little hatch just above Cameron’s head.
‘How would I like what, exactly?’ replied Mr Bell.
‘The journey, guv’nor. Would you care for it all nice and sedate? Or should I whip the ‘orse into a frenzy and go orf like a batsman out of ‘ell?’
‘The former,’ replied Cameron Bell. ‘It is but a five— minute journey at best.’
‘I can make it more like ‘alf an ‘our.’
‘I’ll only pay a shilling either way.
‘Right, as you like then, guy’ nor.’ The cabbie stirred his horse into a gentle trot, then sought to engage his fare in conversation.
‘Lovely weather we’re ‘aving,’ he said.
‘Delightful,’ said Cameron Bell. His mind upon other matters.
‘We had a mild winter.’
Cameron Bell just nodded his head.
‘But things’ll liven up when we’ve summer all year round.’
‘I suppose they will,’ mused Cameron Bell. Then, ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
The cabbie called down to him from on high. ‘The End of the World,’ quoth he.
Cameron Bell said, ‘Perhaps, on second thoughts, you might drive just a bit faster.’
‘Don’t want to spoil our conversation,’ called the cabbie. “S’not often I get into a the—o-ma—logical discussion.’
Cameron Bell said nothing.
‘It’s technology to blame,’ called the cabbie, ‘techno-flipping-nonology. All this elec-ti-ma-tricity buzzing about in the hatmosphere.’
‘Right,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘You know what they ‘ave now?’ asked the cabbie, but he did not wait for a reply. ‘A flyin’ platform, so they ‘ave. More of that Johnny Yugoslavian Tesla’s fiddling with the elements. They say it’s the size of Piccadilly Circus and can ‘ave upwards of an ‘undred toffs parading about on top of it as it sails through the sky like a flipping artichoke.’
‘Artichoke?’ asked Cameron Bell.
‘Airship,’ said the cabbie. ‘Don’t mind my pro-nunce-ific-cation. I’ve been up ‘alf the night drinkin’ gin. I can ‘ardly speak, let alone steer this flipping ‘andcuff.’
‘Hansom,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘Well, I do take care of meself,’ said the cabbie.
There was a brief pause there, possibly for applause, before the cabbie continued, ‘Them’s messing with the natural laws,’ he continued. ‘Wireless trans-mis-if-ic-cation of electrickery through the sky. If man was meant to be fluttering around in the ‘eavens, the Good Lord would ‘ave given im wings on his back like the flipping angel that Zeus sent to care for Castor and Polly Parrot.’
‘Pollux,’ said Cameron. ‘Pollux.’
‘Language, please, guv’nor, this is a public thoroughfare.’
‘I think I’ll get out and walk from here,’ said Cameron Bell.
And so he walked the rest of the way. Stopping only at a headwear emporium to purchase a straw boater. Having left his top hat at Lord Andrew Ditchfield’s and his bowler at Aleister Crowley’s. He had left them there for reasons of his own, but a gentlemen should never go hatless.
Carlton Road wore fine and pink-bricked houses to its either side. They were capped by London slate, with chimneys tall that offered smoke no matter whatever the weather.
Cameron Bell stopped before
Joseph Merrick bowed his bulbous head. Then placed the cup of steaming tea in the hand of Sir Frederick Treves.
The surgeon general gave the tea a sniff.
‘ Cascara,’ he said. ‘A powerful laxative. Why do you do these things, Joseph? The nice gentleman is taking you to the Music Hall.’
Having mildly admonished the Elephant Man, and thanked Sir Frederick Treves for his assistance, the nice gentleman left the London Hospital and hailed a hansom cab.
‘Carlton Road,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Number ninety-five. ‘The cabbie climbed down from his perch, aided Mr Bell into the cab proper, closed the waist-high door upon him and returned to his perch. ‘How would you like it, guv’nor?’ he called down to his fare through the little hatch just above Cameron’s head.
‘How would I like what, exactly?’ replied Mr Bell.
‘The journey, guv’nor. Would you care for it all nice and sedate? Or should I whip the ‘orse into a frenzy and go orf like a batsman out of ‘ell?’
‘The former,’ replied Cameron Bell. ‘It is but a five— minute journey at best.’
‘I can make it more like ‘alf an ‘our.’
‘I’ll only pay a shilling either way.
‘Right, as you like then, guy’ nor.’ The cabbie stirred his horse into a gentle trot, then sought to engage his fare in conversation.
‘Lovely weather we’re ‘aving,’ he said.
‘Delightful,’ said Cameron Bell. His mind upon other matters.
‘We had a mild winter.’
Cameron Bell just nodded his head.
‘But things’ll liven up when we’ve summer all year round.’
‘I suppose they will,’ mused Cameron Bell. Then, ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
The cabbie called down to him from on high. ‘The End of the World,’ quoth he.
Cameron Bell said, ‘Perhaps, on second thoughts, you might drive just a bit faster.’
‘Don’t want to spoil our conversation,’ called the cabbie. “S’not often I get into a the—o-ma—logical discussion.’
Cameron Bell said nothing.
‘It’s technology to blame,’ called the cabbie, ‘techno-flipping-nonology. All this elec-ti-ma-tricity buzzing about in the hatmosphere.’
‘Right,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘You know what they ‘ave now?’ asked the cabbie, but he did not wait for a reply. ‘A flyin’ platform, so they ‘ave. More of that Johnny Yugoslavian Tesla’s fiddling with the elements. They say it’s the size of Piccadilly Circus and can ‘ave upwards of an ‘undred toffs parading about on top of it as it sails through the sky like a flipping artichoke.’
‘Artichoke?’ asked Cameron Bell.
‘Airship,’ said the cabbie. ‘Don’t mind my pro-nunce-ific-cation. I’ve been up ‘alf the night drinkin’ gin. I can ‘ardly speak, let alone steer this flipping ‘andcuff.’
‘Hansom,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘Well, I do take care of meself,’ said the cabbie.
There was a brief pause there, possibly for applause, before the cabbie continued, ‘Them’s messing with the natural laws,’ he continued. ‘Wireless trans-mis-if-ic-cation of electrickery through the sky. If man was meant to be fluttering around in the ‘eavens, the Good Lord would ‘ave given im wings on his back like the flipping angel that Zeus sent to care for Castor and Polly Parrot.’
‘Pollux,’ said Cameron. ‘Pollux.’
‘Language, please, guv’nor, this is a public thoroughfare.’
‘I think I’ll get out and walk from here,’ said Cameron Bell.
And so he walked the rest of the way. Stopping only at a headwear emporium to purchase a straw boater. Having left his top hat at Lord Andrew Ditchfield’s and his bowler at Aleister Crowley’s. He had left them there for reasons of his own, but a gentlemen should never go hatless.
Carlton Road wore fine and pink-bricked houses to its either side. They were capped by London slate, with chimneys tall that offered smoke no matter whatever the weather.
Cameron Bell stopped before
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