WEIRD HEROES:
HAIRY SHANKS
by Josh Reynolds
Published by Pro Se Press
Part of the SINGLE SHOTS SIGNATURE line
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.
Copyright © 2015 Josh Reynolds
All rights reserved.
The hole gaped like an open mouth in the centuries-old brickwork of the cellar. A rank, musky smell wafted from the dark opening, and a faint susurrus from the nearby Thames could be heard by those who examined the mouldy facade of brick and crumbling mortar. Something dark and wet glistened on the flagstones that led up to the wall, illuminated in the flickering glow of an electric lantern hanging from the ceiling.
Charles St. Cyprian puffed on his cigarette and eyed the hole from a safe distance away. "What does that smell remind you of, apprentice-mine?" he asked. Dressed in one of the finest sartorial creations to ever leave a Savile Row tailors’, he looked out of place in the dank confines of the cellar. He fiddled with the hang of his coat as he observed the hole. Clothes made the man, and vanity was one of the few indulgences he allowed himself.
Ebe Gallowglass sniffed the air and sneezed. Pawing at her nose, she said, "Smells like a zoo, don't it?" Dark and thin, Gallowglass was dressed like some hybrid of a cinematic street urchin and a Parisian street-apache, with dashes of color in unusual places, and a battered newsboy cap on her head.
"I don't know, does it?" St. Cyprian said. He flicked ash from his cigarette and looked at the other man in the cellar. "We really must get you elocution lessons. Can't have the apprentice to His Majesty's Royal Occultist wandering about miming about like a stock character from Dickens, now can we?"
Formed during the reign of Elizabeth the First, the office of Royal Occultist (or the Queen’s Conjurer, as it had been known) had started with the diligent amateur Dr. John Dee, and passed through a succession of hands since. The list was a long one, weaving in and out of the margins of British history, and culminating, in this, the Year of Our Lord 1924, in Charles St. Cyprian. In time, the office would pass to Gallowglass, though neither of them had discussed the inevitable as yet.
Regardless of who held the post, the purpose was the same; namely, to see to the investigation, organization and occasional suppression of That Which Man Was Not Meant to Know—including vampires, ghosts, werewolves, ogres, fairies, boojums, boggarts, barghests and the occasional worm of unusual size—by order of the King (or Queen), for the good of the British Empire.
"I don't know, can we?" Gallowglass said, mimicking his tone. "And I'm your assistant," she added. She took a step towards the hole. What sounded like the clink of old chains sounded from the hole and she froze, one hand beneath her coat, her fingers wrapped around the grip of the Webley-Fosbery revolver holstered beneath her arm. It was an innocuous sound. It could have been anything—water on a pipe, settling pavement, falling mortar. But it wasn't.
It was the sound of something stirring.
St. Cyprian reached out and grabbed the back of her coat. "Back up, slowly," he murmured. "It's agitated enough, what?"
"What is it?" Gallowglass asked.
"We were rather hoping you could tell us, ma'am," said a new voice. A thin figure stooped and entered the cellar through the opening opposite the hole. He was a short man and built spare, with a wilting grin and a long face, clad in a boiler suit and a hard-hat with a lamp mounted on the brim. He had a Mauser pistol holstered on his hip and a Webley revolver hanging beneath his arm.
Ian Stanhook, night-manager for the Thames Section of the London Tunnel Authority, took off his helmet and ran a hand through his sweaty mop of hair. He lit a foul-smelling cheroot with a match and sucked in a lungful of smoke. He proffered the pack to Gallowglass, who eagerly snatched one.
The London Tunnel Authority was older even than the offices of the Royal Occultist, having existed in one form or another since the street signs of London had been in Latin. They were the wardens of the secret places beneath the city and had fought long wars in the dark and the quiet, beneath the streets and homes of unsuspecting Londoners in order to keep His Majesty's subjects safe.
Sometimes, however, even the doughty men of the LTA, ran up against something which even they could not put down. And that was when they requested the services of the Royal Occultist.
Such was the case now. The house above was under reconstruction. The cellars below extended further than they ought, and that had pricked the curiosity of the men of the Thames Section. As had strange noises and odours the workmen had reported. A dislodged brick had revealed a false wall, and a further chamber, catty-corner to the cellar. When Stanhook and his men had investigated, they had found the hole, likely created by the reverberations of the work going on above. And when one poor young man had squeezed into the hole, something had found him. And when it had, it hadn't been gentle, going by the blood drying on the stones.
"Hello Stanhook. How's your fellow, then? Not too badly hurt, I hope," St. Cyprian said. He extended his hand. Stanhook hesitated, but took it.
"He'll live. Nearly had his foot off, though. Whatever it is." He shook his head. "We didn't even see the blasted thing. One moment there's nothing, then that smell, and poor Wilbur screaming..." Stanhook trailed off. "Thought it was one of them, at first." He shivered slightly. St. Cyprian couldn't blame him. There were things in the earth, things that walked that ought to crawl, things that even the Royal Occultist had little power over, and when they climbed out of the depths it meant trouble for everyone. "Thought we'd stumbled into another nest, like that one in Deptford last year," Stanhook went on.
"Thankfully, we're too close to Blackfriars for that," St. Cyprian said. "Something about the bridge puts quite the fright in our—ah—'downstairs neighbours'. No, this is something else." He scratched his chin. If he squinted, he could almost see movement in the dark. Not human, or even anything living. It was more like dust stirred by a strong wind. But there was no wind down here. Not even a breeze. "That's old stonework. Fairly unsophisticated as well. Several centuries old, wouldn't you say, old chap?" He glanced at Stanhook.
Stanhook sniffed. "Older than that, sir. That mortar's fair turned to powder, and those bricks...well. Roman that is, or not long after." He peered up at the ceiling. "We're in Bankside. Might be a well," he said.
"It almost certainly is," St. Cyprian said. The longer he stared at the hole, the stronger the impression of movement became. "I took the liberty of doing a bit of research before coming here..."
"Spent a bloody hour pouring over old books," Gallowglass said.
"Knowledge is a weapon as surely as that artillery piece you wear under your coat," he said. "And what I learned was very interesting indeed." He gestured airily. "Bankside was outside of the city of London's authority, once upon a time. As such, it was the home of London's violent delights. Cockfights, bull-baiting and...bear-baiting."
"So it was a shithole, then," Gallowglass said. She'd lit the cheroot Stanhook had given her and puffed on it fiercely.
St. Cyprian was about to reprimand her, but then fell silent. In truth, he agreed with her. Whatever its reputation now, Dockside had once been home to great tragedy and senseless pain. Then, the same could be said for much of London, or, indeed, all of the British Empire. He smiled thinly. In fact, the very word '
empire' conjured phantoms of murder and sadness. Empires were built on the bones of the slain.
"Whatever it was," he said, after a moment, "It had its share of legends. One of which took place in this area and featured an old Roman well as its setting." He smiled. "I do believe we've found the tomb of old Hairy Shanks, chums."
"Hairy whatsit?" Gallowglass said. The sound of chains came again, louder this time. Metal rasped across stone, and a rough noise, like a bellows, sounded just below it. It was as if something were responding to the name.
"Hairy Shanks," Stanhook whispered. He stared at the hole wide-eyed, and ran a hand over his head. "It can't be. Can it?" St. Cyprian wasn't surprised he recognized the name. It was the sort of story a man of Stanhook's profession would know.
"Oh, I'd bet my last shilling," St. Cyprian said.
"What's a hairy shank? Besides something a lady shouldn't hear about?" Gallowglass asked impatiently.
St. Cyprian snorted. "Well, good thing there are no ladies here then." He raised his hands defensively as Gallowglass cocked a fist, and spoke quickly. "To answer your question, Hairy Shanks was a bear. A foul-tempered one, at that." He frowned. "Though how anyone could tell the difference, I have no idea."
Another sound. Chain links clashed and rustled. The