Michael Gallagher's Blog, page 7

2015’s Reading Challenge: the books I loved the most

‘I done it! I done it!’ as Bertha cries joyously in my forthcoming novel Octopus . And I have; I’ve completed my Goodreads 2015 Reading Challenge. Now for a confession: it was only sixteen books—eleven of which were for the Crime & Thrillers group I attend and therefore chosen for me rather than by me—but that’s still double what I might have comfortably read, had I not tried to push myself.

And what a fine crop of books they were! Many thanks to Alice King, who runs my reading group; because of her choices I got to discover the Kate Shackleton series by Frances Brody. The resourceful widowed Kate sets herself up as a private detective in 1920s Yorkshire. I love how Brody manages to ignite the reader’s indignation on her detective’s behalf every time some man or other comes out with a patronizing sexist slight. It’s 1924, so, believe me, “unwitting” slights against women pop up with depressing regularity. It’s part of an author’s stock-in-trade to milk sympathy or gain empathy for his or her protagonist by having them insulted or put down…but I’ve never before seen it used as a way of anchoring a novel in its time!

I also got to discover The Crocodile on the Sandbank by Elizabeth Peters. Wow! It’s more than likely that you’ll already know this series, but this was my first introduction. Having researched this period when writing The Scarab Heart , let me just say—and it’s not a spoiler—the real-life archaeologist Flinders Petrie is Peters’s archaeologist Radcliffe Emerson! And look! Could that be his younger brother Walter watching him stride away across the sands?



In 2014 my group read Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone, which led me to use his characters in my novel Gooseberry , that was published as a serial throughout the summer on Goodreads and then edited and released as an ebook. This year we read The Woman in White. If anything I enjoyed it even more. It’s Collins at his darkest and most Gothic. The chilling Count and Madam Fosco, and Laura’s effete, malingering uncle, Mr Fairlie are a treat! It is at least based in part on a contemporary scandal, in which Rosina Bulwer Lytton publicly accused her husband, a Member of Parliament, of carrying on an affair with another woman. The result? She was declared insane by two doctors (a necessary requirement) and confined to a lunatic asylum. One of those doctors, L. Forbes Winslow, made his living from such practices. He later tried the same tactics on a woman named Georgina Weldon, and you can read about what happened on my website. Fancy a free download of The Woman in White courtesy of Project Gutenberg?. Simply click on the link! I give you fair warning, though: it is L……O……N……G. It should have counted towards the challenge as three books at the very least!

But the title that threatens to rival Collins as my favourite read of the year is in fact one of my own choosing (or rather it was recommended to me by another librarian friend): The Fifteenth Life of Harry August by Claire North. I wrote a review for Goodreads for all the books I read this year, but this one received only one word: Fantastic! Harry August gets to live his life over and over again; indeed he has no choice in the matter. Do not despair: this is not some Groundhog Day, time travel, or reincarnation thing. To some degree, certain events change within each lifetime. This is the existence that Harry’s kind face for all eternity. Then, one day, as Harry lies dying in his hospital bed (and waiting with mixed emotions to be born again—back in the northern railway station where he’s always born), a young girl comes to him with a message: the future is being eroded away and the timeline is rapidly shortening. The Fifteenth Life of Harry August is a thoughtful and thought provoking book, concerning itself as much with history and humankind’s effect on the planet and on our future as it concerns itself with any storytelling. I looked at the reviews on Goodreads and was not surprised to find that it’s a marmite book; like the eponymous yeast extract spread, you either love it or hate it. There’s a plethora of 5-stars sprinkled with the odd 1-star review that often says, simply, “I don’t get it.” It’s a literary work, not an action-packed genre title. And I, for one, loved it.

Starting Friday January 22nd, my website will be publishing the first six chapters of my forthcoming novel, Octopus , in the lead up to its release on March 1st. Why not join me each Friday to catch up on young Gooseberry’s latest instalment! Octopus is available to pre-order now at a never-to-be-repeated pre-order price.

So. Those were the highlights of my reading year. I’d love to hear your thoughts! Very little remains for me to do except to wish you a very happy new year, and to consider how many books to aim for in this year’s reading challenge. Call me a wimp, but I’m kind of thinking sixteen.

Happy reading!
Michael
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The passage of text that inspired Gooseberry

The Crime & Thrillers book group I attend at Canada Water Library recently read Anthony Horowitz’s The House of Silk, his 2011 addition to the Sherlock Holmes canon. The thing that most impressed me was how perfectly Horowitz channelled Watson’s narrative voice. Its tone and pacing are sublime. Close your eyes and you are there. Not to make light of this achievement, but Horowitz had Conan Doyle’s entire body of work to draw on (a mixed blessing, since readers will quickly spot any shortcomings). When I wrote Gooseberry , which draws on characters from Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone, I had to find young Gooseberry’s narrative voice for myself, for the boy doesn’t feature as one of Collins’s narrators. In fact if you run all of his speeches together, you’ll find that he contributes a mere 121 words to that illustrious tome. His character is so slight, readers of the book (even great fans, for that matter) may have trouble recalling who he is. He’s Mr Bruff the lawyer’s errand boy, who appears at the novel’s climax when the diamond is about to be redeemed from the bank. He—and only he—sees that it’s the sailor who redeems it and sets about tailing him.

I thought readers might like to see the passage of text that inspired me to write Gooseberry and had a profound effect when it came to distilling its narrative voice. It is Mr Bruff, the lawyer, who is currently narrating:

I felt another pull at my coat-tails. Gooseberry had not done with me yet.
‘Robbery!’ whispered the boy, pointing, in high delight, to the empty box.
‘You were told to wait down-stairs,’ I said. ‘Go away!’
‘And Murder!’ added Gooseberry, pointing, with a keener relish still, to the man on the bed.
There was something so hideous in the boy’s enjoyment of the horror of the scene, that I took him by the two shoulders and put him out of the room.
At the moment when I crossed the threshold of the door, I heard Sergeant Cuff’s voice, asking where I was. He met me, as I returned into the room, and forced me to go back with him to the bedside.
‘Mr. Blake!’ he said. ‘Look at the man’s face. It is a face disguised—and here’s a proof of it!’
He traced with his finger a thin line of livid white, running backward from the dead man’s forehead, between the swarthy complexion, and the slightly-disturbed black hair. ‘Let’s see what is under this,’ said the Sergeant, suddenly seizing the black hair, with a firm grip of his hand.
My nerves were not strong enough to bear it. I turned away again from the bed.
The first sight that met my eyes, at the other end of the room, was the irrepressible Gooseberry, perched on a chair, and looking with breathless interest, over the heads of his elders, at the Sergeant’s proceedings.
‘He’s pulling off his wig!’ whispered Gooseberry, compassionating my position, as the only person in the room who could see nothing.
There was a pause—and then a cry of astonishment among the people round the bed.
‘He’s pulled off his beard!’ cried Gooseberry.
There was another pause—Sergeant Cuff asked for something. The landlord went to the wash-hand-stand, and returned to the bed with a basin of water and a towel.
Gooseberry danced with excitement on the chair. ‘Come up here, along with me, sir! He's washing off his complexion now!’
—From The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins

Compassionating. Now there’s a word you don’t see very often. But isn’t Gooseberry a beautifully drawn and very comic character?

Fancy a free download of The Moonstone for the perfect Gothic holiday read? Visit my website for a link.

Happy holidays! Happy reading!
Michael
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Seance! The real Florence Cook?

November is here and for the past month the London Dungeon (one of London’s many tourist attractions) has been running a special Halloween entertainment entitled Séance! Punters were “transported” to 50 Berkley Square, thought by some to be the most haunted house in Britain, on an evening in 1873 when the world-famous materializing medium Florence Cook communed with the dead. Readers of my books may be aware that Florence provided the model for Lizzie, heroine of my Involuntary Medium series. Séance! (and, yes, that exclamation mark is part of the title) sounds like it might have been great fun—but based on fact?—I doubt it!

In 1871, when Florence Cook turned fifteen, she was serving her apprenticeship with two established mediums who worked collaboratively, Frank Herne and Charles Williams—and if they taught her anything, it was that her job was to thrill people, not to terrify them. And thrill them they did, in what I consider a very comical way. Here’s one example. Early in the June of that year, Herne and Williams were conducting a séance for eight sitters around a table at 69 Lamb’s Conduit Street, when the voices of Katie King and her father were heard in the darkness (Katie, I should explain, was Florence’s spirit guide; Herne’s was Katie’s father). Katie offered to produce a gift for the group in the form of an apport (yes, the word existed long before J. K. Rowling used it). One of the sitters suggested—half jokingly—that she bring them Agnes Guppy, an extremely stout medium who lived some miles away in the London suburb of Highbury.

Katie laughed—everybody laughed—and though her father protested that she really oughtn’t to, she agreed to try. Suddenly there was a loud thump; somebody screamed. When one of the company had the presence of mind to light a lamp, there on the table in front of them, apparently in some kind of trance, was perched the stout Mrs Guppy in a state of semi-undress, account book and pen still in hand. Not exactly scary, then, but perfectly thrilling. I certainly hope the producers of Séance! saw fit to include it in their show!

At that point in time, spirit guide Katie King was merely a disembodied voice in the dark. It took another year or so before Florence was finally able to manifest her. And when she did? Well, she talked mainly about her worldly life when she was alive, and of her mission in this world now that she was in spirit. You can read more about Florence Cook on my website. I’m proud to say that it’s one of the finest articles about her you will find online.

Happy reading!
Michael
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The problem with new cookers

My landlord, Southwark Council, recently replaced my kitchen and my bathroom and toilet. Thank you, Southwark Council! To celebrate this momentous event, I decided to invest in a new washing machine, a new fridge, a new freezer…and a new cooker. This is not as extravagant as it sounds—they needed replacing; they were were on their last legs. And I love all my choices…even the cooker, as disappointing as it turned out to be.

A gas cooker with a fan oven? Sounds too good to be true? Of course it was! Whereas electric fan ovens burn hotter than their non-fan counterparts, this gas one actually burns colder! It spreads what little heat there is around, dissipating the temperature dramatically in the process. Nothing browns in it, so the food looks as bland as if it’s been nuked in a microwave. When the engineer came to fix the faulty ignition on one of the gas jets (don’t ask!), and I complained how slow and sluggish the main oven was, his first question was, ‘Were you using the fan?’ ‘No,’ I replied, ‘I already learned not to do that!’

According to him, under UK guidelines, a cooker may be out by up to 15 degrees Celsius either way, and still be considered fit for purpose. That’s a range of 30 degrees Celsius! Celsius!

Long story short, he tested the oven, and apparently the temperature’s spot on. Hmmm. When I pointed out that frozen crumbed fish from the supermarket was barely cooked at the end of the recommended half hour, he reminded me that the cooking times listed were only a guide. I might have come back with, ‘Supermarket timings are usually quite cautious—overly so, on occasion.’ The problem was, I could think of a number of instances where they were not. I’ve seen terrifying timings for chicken—and known people who actually used them. ‘Why are these chicken wings not rubbery?’ a friend once asked, at a lunch where I served him chicken wings. ‘Mine always are,’ he added glumly. ‘Rubbery and kind of white.’

There is a point to all this wittering on. Since taking receipt of my new cooker I have been struggling—STRUGGLING—to adjust temperatures and cooking times for THAT bread recipe, the extraordinary no-knead wholemeal loaf that you’ll find on my website, which will feature in my forthcoming novel Octopus . It’s certainly not very extraordinary when it turns out damp (it should be moist, not damp), or when the crust burns to a blackened crisp (as happened to me on a recent attempt). In my old oven, it cooked perfectly at gas mark 5; 190 degrees Celsius in 1 hour 10 minutes. In this new one, the best results I’ve achieved so far are at gas mark 6; 200 degrees Celsius for 1 hour 20 minutes, followed by popping the loaf out of the tin, turning it upside down, and returning it to the oven for a further 10 minutes.

You can see my problem. When writing a recipe (which I sincerely hope readers will try—not only is it simple, it’s delicious), what temperatures and timings do I give, knowing that there could be up to 30 degrees difference between my oven and theirs? If anyone has the answer, please, please get in touch.

Best wishes,
Michael
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OCTOPUS (Send for Octavius Guy, 2)

Octavius Guy and the Case of the Throttled Tragedienne

Gooseberry, the fourteen-year-old Victorian boy detective, is having his fair share of problems. Not only must he juggle the task of being Mr Bruff’s newly-appointed chief investigator with the unwanted responsibility of managing London’s entire criminal underclass, he also has to decide whether a drunken wretch of a man—who turns up on his doorstep claiming to be his father—is who he says he is.

But when the leading actress dies in mysterious circumstances on stage during a performance of The Duchess of Malfi at the Sadler’s Wells Theatre, Gooseberry feels duty-bound to investigate. It is, after all, a great deal more exciting than the last case he was assigned to: the tracking down of a rich old lady’s errant cat!

Released March 1st, 2016. Available to pre-order now at a very special price!

Today, Wednesday, June 24th, 2015…free downloads of Gooseberry!

Yes, all day long I’m giving away free downloads of my novel, Gooseberry, featuring my fourteen-year-old Victorian boy detective and his ragtag bunch of friends.

Based on characters from Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone, here’s what some of the reviewers have said: “this is a very modern book…and a very Victorian one”, “be prepared for a total immersion—every bit of scene setting, speech, character and historical detail is perfect”, and “after reading so many poorly researched Victorian novels recently, it's a welcome change to come across an author who knows the era so well”.

Please visit my website for details of the code you’ll need, plus a link to the page you download it from. Downloads are only available from Smashwords.com.

Enjoy!

Gooseberry and the British Library

It’s March, and I’ve just had some exciting news. Gooseberry is to appear in a promotion by the British Library’s digital arm to persuade small digital publishers—such as my own Seventh Rainbow Publishing—just how easy it is to upload their titles using their portal.

Although digital publications have been around for quite some time, it often takes governments a while to recognize a new technology, to work out how it ought to be dealt with (a minefield of a question, which they could easily get wrong), and to find the necessary funding to implement their proposals.

In Britain in 2013, a law came into effect requiring digital publishers to fall in line with their traditional counterparts in offering a copy of any newly-published title to the British Library’s legal deposit. Thus the portal, the interface between digital publishers and the British Library, was born. I was proud to be included in the very first intake, and I am thrilled to be represented in the portal’s new promotion. I wish them the very best of luck.

Gooseberry is released

Today’s the day, the day the novel goes on sale. So far I’ve had a fabulous response to Gooseberry from LTER reviewers, who really seem to have taken the little chap into their hearts. It’s had a massive re-edit, which it needed, and now sports UK English spellings and punctuation as a result of one such review from a reader in California. See their reviews at LibraryThing.

I knew fairly early on when I was writing Gooseberry that there would be at least one sequel and quite possibly a whole series. Characters like Mr. Bruff, George and George, Julius, Bertha, and Mr. Crabbit—good Lord, even the detestable Misss-ter Chrisss-topher—deserve the long-term character development that only a series can provide.

So what can you, the reader, expect of Octopus, the next instalment of Send for Octavius Guy? I see promotion in the offing for young Gooseberry, while Julius’s spoken English continues to deteriorate nicely under Bertha’s dubious care. The Georges’ “reducing” diets begin to take effect (or not), and Mr. Crabbit relaxes his policy on receipts. Actually, you can strike that last one. Gooseberry and Julius find themselves adopted by a dog, and man arrives from Glasgow claiming to be the pair’s father. I would have liked Gooseberry to have taken Julius to a piano recital of Bach—but instead he ends up taking both him and Bertha to the theatre, in this case a revival of the Jacobean tragedy The Duchess of Malfi at Sadler’s Wells. The duchess is strangled to death in Act 4, but revives briefly, causing Bosola, the character who witnesses this, to remark, ‘Her eye opes!’ I imagine most readers of Gooseberry will know exactly what Bertha makes of this! I’m aiming to release it on July 1st next year. It’s a tight schedule, but I think I can do it.

Next summer’s project, which I hope to serialize on Goodreads, will be set in the Lake Taupo region of New Zealand during the 1870s and 1880s. Hopefully it will be the first of three novels to explore how our sense of national identity was eventually forged. It’s based on historical events and characters that I’ve spent the past three years researching. I do hope you’ll join me then.

Michael

Gooseberry: Chapter Nineteen

‘Uneccesary’.

I forced myself to read the accompanying sheet.

‘Thames Tunnel. Tomorrow night. Come alone if you don’t want Sprat’s last smile to be the one I carve in his throat.’

“Wot does it say?” asked Bertha, having noticed the strained silence. He’d finished stacking the last of the firewood and was leaning back, straightening his spine.

“Bertha, did you tell anyone about Julius?”

“Wot?”

“Did you tell anyone about Julius?”

“I ain’t told no one about no one. Why? Wot’s the note say?”

“You must have told someone.”

“I tell you I ain’t! I gave you me word I wouldn’t, and I ain’t.”

His answer seemed genuine enough, but who else would know where Julius worked? Who else would refer to him as Sprat?

“What about your friend who gives you the firewood? Ever mention Julius to him?”

“Nah. To be honest, we don’t talk that much. Now, tell me wot that note says.”

I held out the one from Julius for him to examine.

“This is Sprat’s ’and writin’,” he concluded, his dark, bushy eyebrows knitting into a frown. “Wot’s ’e doin’ sending you notes? Wot’s it say?”

“It says, ‘unnecessary’.”

“Unnecessary? Ain’t that the word wot you told me that night when you went to the Bucket of Blood? If you didn’t come back, like, I was meant to pass it on to Julius?”

“It’s our panic word, Bertha.”

“Panic word?”

“If I ever found myself in real trouble, all I had to do was say the word in his hearing, and he was to make a dash for it. After that, he had a list of instructions to keep him safe.”

Bertha grunted. “So wot’s ’e doin’ writing it to you, then?”

“He’s telling me he’s in trouble.”

“Trouble?” Bertha’s pock-marked face clouded over as I read out the accompanying letter. “Oh, Octopus, I swear to you I didn’t tell no one! I swear it on me old ma’s grave! May she come back and cut me bleedin’ tongue out if I so much as tell you a word of a lie!”

“Then how did Johnny find him? How, Bertha?”

Bertha gave this some thought. Suddenly he slapped the middle of his forehead with the heel of his big, fleshy palm. “Oh, Gawd, oh, Gawd, oh, Gawd!” he squawked. “It’s all ’cause of that blasted nickname I give him…and the fact I been callin’ you Octopus. ’E wanted to call you that, too, see?”

Unfortunately, I did.

“The lad’s been usin’ both ’em names on the fish stall. Johnny must’ve put feelers out and somebody ’eard ’im. Oh, Gawd, if anything happens to him, I’ll never forgive meself!” A look of grim determination fixed itself stubbornly to his face. “So wot’s the plan? Wot we gunna do?”

“We are going to do nothing. It’s me who Johnny wants. If it means he’ll free Julius, he can have me.”

“For such a smart lad, you really can be dense as two short planks. This is Johnny we’re talking about. Yeh can’t trust ’im as far as as yeh can throw ’im. We need a plan. We need a plan.”

Bertha was right. “Is there anything Johnny’s afraid of?” I asked.

Bertha shook his head. “Nah. ’E ain’t afraid of nothin’. Well, nothin’, that is, ’cept cats.”

“Cats?”

“I caught him one time, down this alley, right, cowering—cowering, I tell you—in front of this big black cat. I just figured ’e were superstitious, like. Didn’t let him see me there—he’d of killed me if he ’ad—and I sure as ’ell kept me screech shut about it, after.”

“Cats?” I said again.

“Well, it’s somefin’, ain’t it?”

Yes, it was something, but I sincerely doubted it would be enough. Between us we ate a miserable supper then, though the last thing I felt like was sleep, I spread out my bed-roll and lay down to try and rest. The hours of the night crept past at a snail’s pace, and it was only when the patch of sky through the window had paled from a vivid Indian ink to a dark sludge-gray that I finally dozed off.

When I awoke some time later, the room was awash with watery sunlight. I glanced about, looking for Bertha, but he must have taken himself off out while I slept. I got up and sat at the table. Beside the remains of the previous night’s meal Bertha had laid out half a dozen or so sturdy, sharp knives. I tried each of them in my hand to see how they felt. In all honesty, they just felt foreign.

The day wore on. Bertha failed to reappear. As evening fell, I pocketed the two knives that handled the best and went out in search of a cab.

Considering the tunnel was meant to be closed, it was attracting its fair share of visitors. I’d been standing in the doorway of one of the surrounding warehouses, keeping watch on the building for quite some time. People were coming and going, just as they might do during the day. If I only knew what I was walking into, I reasoned, I should be able to prepare myself better. But I did know what I was walking into. I was walking into a trap. Realizing that these negative thoughts were not helping to free Julius, I stowed one of the knives in a sheath in my boot and set off inside.

There was no one in the ticket booth; in fact, the octagonal room was deserted. The door to the shaft stood open and, through it, I could see the flicker of firelight and hear the savage screeches of men. Cautiously, I stuck my head round the doorway and peered down at the circular floor below.

It had certainly seen some changes. At its center there now stood a boxing ring, flanked at each corner by a blazing metal drum. Stripped to the waist, two men were pitting themselves against each other in a bare-knuckled bout. As the blood flew, the crowd of onlookers bayed their hearty approval. On the marble counter top that ran between the two tunnel entrances, Johnny Knight sat perched on a chair, ruling over this grisly empire like a king. Beside him, to his left, stood Colin—Eric’s slightly plumper twin brother. It appeared that, since Eric’s arrest, Colin had been promoted to the lofty position of deuce—not that he seemed happy about it. His face couldn’t have looked more miserable. On the counter, to Johnny’s right, stood Mallard’s young conspirator, Josiah Hook.

I crept down the spiral steps to the first landing, which afforded me a view of the opposite side of the room. I spied Julius in the alcove normally reserved for the monkey, gagged and bound to a stake…and seemingly unguarded. Keeping to the shadows, I made my way down. At the bottom, I swiftly merged in with the throng. The smell of human bodies was overwhelming as I jostled through the crowd to get to my brother. The heat from the burning drums had everyone sweating. Julius hadn’t seen me coming, so he gave a little start when I suddenly appeared before him.

“Keep very quiet,” I whispered, as I began to pull his gag off. He nodded in response. “I’m going to have to cut you free, so stand still as you can for me, all right?” Another nod.

I started with his feet, then moved slowly up the pole, hacking through the ropes as fast as I was able to.

“Octavius…”

“Shhh!”

“No, Octavius, you have to look…”

I turned my head and saw Colin and Hook running towards me. The crowd were parting before them like the Red Sea. Even the two opponents in the ring had ceased their fighting. They were standing and watching like everyone else. Behind them, on his throne, Johnny let out a shriek of laughter.

“Well, well, well,” he crowed. “Look who’s come to join us. Colin, get his knife off him, then search him.”

Colin grabbed me by the wrist, tugged the knife out of my hand, and gave me a thorough patting down.

“And his boots. Take his boots.”

Hook held me in an arm-lock as Colin removed first one boot then the other. When he came across the second blade, he held it high, like a hard-won trophy.

“Forget the blade,” ordered Johnny. “Hold up the boots.”

Colin seemed surprised, but did as he was asked.

“It was me,” said Johnny, “all those years ago. It was me what took your boots.”

“Really?” I replied, though I’d suspected it all along. “Then it’s you I have to thank, Johnny.”

“Thank?”

“Why, yes. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be up to my neck in the Life. You took my boots and Fortune smiled on me.”

Johnny frowned, then tried to laugh it off. “And will it smile once more, now that I get to take them all over again? See, that’s what I’d call Fate. And Fate ain’t no smilin’ matter.”

“Yet it’s always served me well throughout the years. Can the same be said of you, Johnny? Apparently not.”

Again the frown. “Enough of your damn philosophizing! You got any last words for your brother, Octopus? ’Cause I’m sure he’s got some choice ones for you.”

I turned to Julius. He was trying to put a brave face on it, but I could see the tears starting to well up in his eyes.

“I’m truly sorry,” I said. “I tried my best to protect you from this, but I failed.”

“They told me you’re a pickpocket,” he sniveled. “Is that true, Octavius? Are you a pickpocket?”

“Julius—”

“Please…I want to know.”

“Yes. I am. Or, at least, I was.”

“A pickpocket? A pickpocket?”

Julius hung his head. Initially I thought it was because he couldn’t bring himself to look me in the eye, but then I realized he was actually staring at his trouser pocket. I gave it a brief glance, too. When they’d taken Julius from the fish stall, they hadn’t bothered to search him. He was still carrying his gutting knife. Oh, well done, Julius! I placed one hand on my brother’s shoulder and hugged him to me.

“You two make me sick!” cried Johnny. “Throw Octopus in the ring! We’ll make the small fry watch as the little beggar dies!”

Colin took one arm and Hook the other, and together they dragged me across the floor and hurled me face-down into the blood-spattered ring. As I sprang to my feet, the two men, who five minutes before had been knocking each other senseless, eased themselves through the ropes and out into the audience. Johnny rose and leapt lithely to the ground.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” came the call from all round, as he bounded over the ropes to join me. For a moment we merely circled each other, then, when he eventually launched himself at me, I tried to dodge him, but my foot slipped in blood and I ended up sliding on to my bottom. A roar of laughter went up from the crowd. Johnny, as vain as ever, held up his hands and cried, “I didn’t even touch the runt.”

My eyes were level with his boots at this point. As he paraded round the ring, I spied the hilt of a knife protruding from the right one. Then he made a serious error. Having milked my fall for all it was worth, he proceeded to plant a swift kick to my kidney. I caught hold of his boot just before impact, but though the blow still hurt, I didn’t let go. A quick tug had him sprawling on the ground beside me.

As I scrambled to my feet with his knife in my hand, I beheld a curious sight: Bertha, in his disguise, scurrying down the marble steps, carrying his bulging—and heaving—canvas bag. I had no time to ponder on this, however, for one angry, hissing Johnny was upright once more, and coming at me with a knife of his own.

The blade swiped the air an inch from my stomach. I jumped back, only to find myself pressed against the ropes. Johnny lashed out again, catching the side of my wrist with the blade and sending my knife flying. The very next second, his went flying too, as Bertha appeared at the ringside and flung the contents of his bag in Johnny’s face. Suddenly Johnny was fending off two furious, spitting cats.

Bertha’s moment of glory was soon brought to an end when Hook threw himself at Bertha and tackled him to the ground. The crowd, less sure about this turn of events, rapidly made way for the pair as they tussled back and forth across the floor. If Hook thought Bertha was easy game, he was mistaken. Bertha was laying into him with a rapid succession of close body-punches, while clinging to him with his other arm.

By the time Johnny had pulled both the cats off his face, his skin was in bloody tatters. He wasn’t trembling with feline fear, mind, but instead with a pure, unfettered rage. He advanced on me slowly, backing me into a corner, where I could feel the lick of the flames on the back of my neck. I drew out Julius’s gutting knife and held it out before me. Johnny lunged forward and grasped me by the wrist. I tried to pull away, but his vice-like grip held me tight. With his free hand, he wrenched the four-inch blade from my fingers and tossed it blindly into the crowd. He hoisted me into the air like a bale of straw and hurled me across the ring. The next thing I knew, I was having the wind knocked out of me, as he landed, feet first, on my back.

“One of you bring me my god-damned chair!” he bawled. “I need me some height if I’m gunna grind this worm into the ground!”

As I struggled to kneel on all fours, I felt something being pressed into my hand. My fingers closed around the solid, wooden handle of a knife. I looked up at the ropes and saw Colin, his mouth set in a thin, grim line.

“It’s Eric’s,” he muttered. “My brother’s going to swing for what he did, and all ’cause of bleedin’ Johnny Knight. Kill him for me, right? Kill him for me, Octopus.”

Using the ropes, I hauled myself to my feet, and barely turned in time to see Johnny diving through the air at me from his chair. I staggered towards him and, in the very instant before our bodies collided, I raised the blade. That’s all I did. His own weight and momentum drove it home as we hit the floor together.

His pale, colorless eyes grew wider. His breathing fast became ragged. All the fight went out of him at once. There was a look of profound bafflement upon his scratched and bloody face, a look that froze, almost as if he were posing for a photograph. A daguerreotype of Johnny Knight, dead, burned into my brain for ever.

As I scrambled out from under his corpse, Bertha appeared at the ringside. There was a considerable amount of blood all around his mouth, though there was no way to tell whether it was his or whether it was Hook’s. Otherwise he seemed breathless but undamaged.

“Go on,” he said, attempting to wipe some of the blood away, “you go and take Sprat ’ome with yeh. I’ll see to what needs doin’ ’ere. Go on, you go.”

Feeling sick to my stomach, I went.



Epilogue

The invitations arrived at the office on Monday the second of February. Despite my bruised ribs, I’d struggled in to work in the afternoon to ask for a short leave of absence. They arrived just as I was pleading—and sadly losing—my case, for I couldn’t exactly reveal the extent of my injuries, let alone say how I’d come by them. One letter was addressed to Mr. Mathew Bruff, Solicitor, the other to Master Octavius Guy, Detective. Detective, no less. I knew they were important when Mr. Bruff stopped in mid-sentence while explaining how he expected me in as usual the next day. He passed me mine, then sank into his chair and stared morbidly at his. Never one to let the grass grow under my feet, I tore mine open. The letter inside read:

‘The Master of the Household is Commanded by Her Majesty Queen Victoria to invite Master Octavius Guy and his family to an evening reception at Buckingham Palace on Friday, 6 February, at 7 o’clock.’

Suffice it to say, when Mr. Bruff finally plucked up the courage to open his, he readily agreed to a week’s leave of absence.

“Wot the blinkin’ ’ell am I gunna wear?” shrieked Bertha, when I read out the letter that night.

“Your disguise?” I suggested hopefully.

“Nah. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I wear the damn thing again.”

“Then we’ll buy you something.” Prince Albert had included a satisfying number of pound notes in my envelope along with a note suggesting that the money might help me defray any expenses. There, I thought, was a man with a great command of even the most subtle of English phrases.

Friday evening saw us in a cab, heading down Bird Cage Walk. Julius and I were dressed in identical jackets and bowler hats, though we’d both chosen different designs for our waistcoats. Julius had been plagued by bad dreams all week, but the prospect of getting his first waistcoat and bowler had lifted his spirits no end. Bertha had opted for much the same as he usually wore, though at least his skirt, blouse, and shawl were clean and decent, as were the primrose-colored ribbons he’d affixed in his hair.

On arrival, were were shown into a long gallery, where we were told to wait in line. Mr. and Mrs. Blake were there; so, in fact, was everyone else involved in the case. We weren’t kept waiting long. Presently the doors at the end opened and Queen Victoria entered, accompanied by her husband, the prince. Smiling, chatting, and shaking their guests hands, they slowly made their way down the line towards us.

“And this, my dear, is my good friend, Octavius,” said the prince, when they eventually reached my little band. “It is he you have to thank for the safe return of your diamond.”

“Your Majesty.” I gave a stately bow that would have even warmed the heart of that fussy little steward from the East India Company. “May I present my brother, Julius?”

“I know you,” Julius said brightly, as he shook her by the hand. “You’re the lady what’s on all the coins. I’m learning me money, see?” Hmmm…

It was impossible to tell what Bertha said to her—even for the queen herself—for he gave a beautiful curtsey, pulled his shawl across his mouth, and began whispering whatever it was through the folds of wool. Old habits die hard. After repeatedly leaning in and applying her ear, Queen Victoria shrugged and moved on.

When the formalities were over, we were ushered into a large hall and people began to mingle. I noticed Mrs. Blake’s aunt peering suspiciously at Bertha, so I steered both him and Julius over to the other side of the room—straight into the path of Mr. Bruff.

“And who is this?” asked my employer, looking down at Julius.

I knew this moment had been coming. “This is my brother, Julius, sir. Julius, this is my employer, Mr. Bruff.”

“How do you do, young man?” Mr. Bruff offered him his hand.

Julius, speechless, stared up at Mr. Bruff as if he was somehow even more important than the queen. I suppose that’s what comes of having the ‘unnecessary’ catechism drilled into you for the past six years.

Mr. Bruff, alarmed by the boy’s gawking silence, murmured, “Carry on, carry on,” and beat a hasty retreat.

I left Julius in Bertha’s care and sauntered over to the window, where Sergeant Cuff stood gazing out over the Quadrangle. On my appearance, he slowly turned his head.

“Gooseberry.” The sergeant gave a nod of greeting, but his voice remained cool.

“Sergeant Cuff.” I can do cool myself.

“Still no sign of Johnny Knight and his friend, I regret to say.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps they fled the city. Perhaps they’ve gone abroad.”

“Perhaps.” The seconds ticked by. “By a strange co-incidence, on Wednesday last, a wherryman pulled the bloated bodies of two young men from the river,” he said at last. “Their faces had been beaten to a pulp.”

“Any identifying marks on their bodies? Any papers on their persons to suggest who they were?”

“None.”

“Curious.”

The sergeant pursed his lips. “Is there anything you wish to tell me, Gooseberry?”

I put on my innocent face, raised my head, and squarely met his steely eyes. “I should like to be able to tell you that good has prevailed, Sergeant Cuff, that God in His infinite wisdom has seen fit to exact justice. I should like to be able to tell you that everything is right with this world—so much so that, even now, an entire colony of stoats is looking on and smiling their heads off.” By the puzzled expression on the sergeant’s face, I gathered I’d come a cropper with the last part of that sentence. “But what would I know? I’m simply an office boy who’s just starting out in life, keen to pursue his chosen career.”

The sergeant smiled. “And I’m an old man who’s at the end of his, and yearning to place it behind me,” he remarked drily. “I shall go back to growing roses and getting under my good wife’s feet when she’s trying to clean the house. I shall end my days in contentment.” He reached into his coat pocket, extracted a card, and held it out to me to take.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“My address in Dorking, if you ever need to pick these old brains of mine. And I’ve a feeling you will. When I hear the word ‘career’, I always think of rearing horses galloping wildly off into the sunset. Ha! You don’t choose to run with a career, Octavius. It chooses to run with you.” With that snippet of advice, he bade me a fond farewell.

There’s very little left to tell, except perhaps for two tiny items. Mr. Blake’s party came to power on the twenty-third of February—much to everyone’s disappointment, I might add, apart from the British farmers. Because his party opposed free trade with other nations—whereby Britain is at liberty to choose the lowest possible price for various commodities from all over the world—people fully expected the cost of their food to rise.

The other thing that happened came a day or two later, by which point my ribs were healing, my wrist was on the mend, and Julius’s nightmares had abated somewhat. It was a Wednesday evening. Julius and Bertha were sitting at the table, working on money together, when there came a tentative knock at the door.

“You gunna answer that, Octopus, or you just gunna sit there?” shouted Bertha.

I got up from my seat by the stove and went and opened the door. It was a new moon, so it was difficult to see who it was on the landing. As the figure stepped forward into the light, I suddenly recognized Florrie, the girl who’d been minding Bertha’s flower stall for him all this time. Though her shawl was pulled tightly round her shoulders, she still appeared to be shivering. Before I could open my mouth to call Bertha, Florrie placed her fingers across my lips to stop me.

“Bertha says the first assignation is free,” she whispered huskily, anchoring her body to mine, “and nor will the second one cost ya. But even for you, the great Octopus, there ain’t no third unless it’s a wedding!”


Copyright Michael Gallagher 2014.

Well, thank you for coming along for the ride. I’m astonished that we actually got here.

Gooseberry launches on November 21st. Add it on Goodreads and pre-order it on Amazon today.

If you’ve been enjoying John Thomson’s wonderful Victorian images that populate these posts, make sure you catch Gooseberry’s cover reveal on the Gooseberry Facebook Page. You can also click on the LSE link below to download a free pdf file of the book that these images were taken from—it really is an extraodinary historical document of London in the mid-1870s, with Thomson’s photos used to illustrate Adolphe Smith’s text.

Over the next few weeks—at least till the end of November—I’ll be assessing how the project’s gone and revealing any developments regards its impending publication. Just click on this link to his blog: Writing Gooseberry.
Photograph: Italian Street Musicians by John Thomson, used courtesy of the London School of Economics’ Digital Library under a CC BY-NC-SA 3.0 licence.

Gooseberry: Chapter Eighteen

The three men—well, two men and a boy, to be precise—who shuffled nervously into the library were clearly in a state of nervous exhaustion. They were so thin that their filthy, tattered garments hung from their bones as if from a peg. Their complexions were sallow and their skin was caked with grime.

James struggled to his feet and went to embrace his brother. Thomas’s companion—Dr. Login, I presumed—gasped and rubbed his eyes when Sandeep raced forward to shake the maharajah by the hand. His surprise was amply justified, as each boy was the mirror image of the other—literally the mirror image, for while Sandeep’s scar ran down the right side of his face, the maharajah’s ran down his left.

The maharajah was also taken aback. “Who are you?” he asked, gawking at the twin who stood before him.

“Your Highness, I am Sandeep Singh, though most people call me Mutari—”

“Mutari?” Suddenly the lad’s gaunt features became just as animated as his double’s. “You’re Mutari? The Magpie? The fleetest-of-foot, least likely to be caged pickpocket in all of Lahore? Why, I have heard many fascinating tales of your daring exploits!”

Oh, really!

“Come,” the maharajah continued, “I would have a demonstration of your talents. I will stand here and you will try to steal something from me.”

“Excuse me,” I tried butting in, only to find myself ignored.

“Why would I do such a disreputable thing, Your Highness?” asked Sandeep, looking anxious and bewildered.

The other boy shrugged. “Because I command you to? Surely that is reason enough.”

As Sandeep bowed his head in acceptance, his hand darted out. I quickly slapped it aside before he could breech the maharajah’s jacket. Both boys turned to me and stared.

“Enough of this! I didn’t bring you here for this nonsense! Mr. Bruff, what time is it, sir?”

“It’s twenty minutes to eleven by my watch. Why?”

I glanced at the library doors, which Samuel, the footman, had closed on his departure. They firmly remained shut. “Perhaps we should get started,” I said. “May I have the daguerreotype, please?” Mr. Bruff rummaged in his pocket and handed it to me.

“I know that one or other of these boys is the subject of that accursed portrait,” Mrs. Blake’s aunt declared loudly. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say it was the one who arrived first.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you, miss,” I said, holding up the photograph in question beside Sandeep’s face before presenting it to its true owner, the maharajah. “But the fact is, due to the very nature of the process, a daguerreotype is always laterally reversed.”

Although I had everyone’s attention, I didn’t get the reaction I was hoping for. Only Dr. Login and one of Sergeant Cuff’s officers nodded sagely—though, in the case of the officer, I strongly suspected he was doing so to impress his boss. Everyone else was still looking to me for an explanation.

“They’re mirror images,” I said, as I took my own daguerreotype from my pocket and gave it to Mr. Blake to pass around. Sighs of comprehension filled the room as, one by one, people saw my portrait where I was holding up a sheet of paper with the words, ‘The scar should be on the left, not on the right’. The words, of course, were mirrored. “Which leads me to believe that Cyrus Treech had never set eyes on the real maharajah when he took his knife to Sandeep. He was working from the photograph that was later found in Mrs. Merridew’s bag.”

“Speaking of eyes,” Mrs. Blake’s aunt interjected, as she studied my portrait, “whoever took this picture has certainly done justice to yours.”

“Aunt Merridew, it might be best if we stick to the point,” Mrs. Blake admonished her gently.

“All he says is true,” said Sandeep. “Mr. Treech was simply a lowly surgeon. When I was arrested on the streets of Lahore last year, he came to me and gave me the choice of working for him or going to prison. Even when he said he must cut my cheek, I did not flinch, for it is a well known fact that, in Lahore, people meet their deaths in prison. I remember all too well how he needed to consult the daguerreotype many times before he wielded his razor.”

“But Treech was unaware that daguerreotypes are laterally reversed,” I pointed out. “In his own dying words, he said he ‘picked the wrong side’.”

Mrs. Blake shifted uneasily in the seat beside her aunt. “I still don’t understand,” she said, inclining her head to acknowledge the maharajah, “what these people were hoping to gain by replacing His Highness with a double.”

“They were after the Kohinoor diamond, madam,” replied Sandeep. “It used to belong to the maharajah, and to his father before him. How natural it would be, when the stone is presented to be re-cut, if His Highness requests to hold it one last time. They chose me to play the part, not just because I look like His Highness, but because there is no fleeter-of-foot, less likely to be caged—”

“They chose him because he had the skills to exchange the stone for a replica!” I snapped. “Absolute child’s play!” I added, under my breath. “A toddler of four could have done it!”

“So by this point,” said Mrs. Blake, feeling her way through the narrative, “His Highness had already been taken prisoner?”

“Yes,” Sandeep replied. “After many weeks of healing, Mr. Treech and I boarded a boat bound for England. By the time we arrived at the East India Docks, Josiah Hook, his partner in crime, had kidnapped the maharajah and his guardian and removed them to one of the outlying farms that serviced the doctor’s asylum, to clear the way for me. I never got to meet His Highness. They made sure they kept us apart.”

“Hook needed someone to watch over the pair,” I took up the story again, “someone who was ambitious enough to stay the course, so he roped in his junior colleague, Mr. James’s brother, Thomas. As far as it was possible, though, they kept him in the dark. Thomas knew nothing of the diamond, and he’d been warned that his prisoners would make false claims about being people of some importance.” I had no idea if this was true or not, but I knew that, as things stood, it would be Thomas’s best and only defense.

“That’s not strictly the case,” piped up Thomas, right on cue. Trust the people you’re trying to save to go and put their foot in it. I threw him a warning glance—as did his brother—but he took no notice of either of us. “I knew exactly who these people were,” he admitted.

“Be that as it may,” I said, “you didn’t know what Hook and Mallard were planning, and when you found out that your charges were to be murdered, you took them into hiding—and with them, the daguerreotype. You kept them safe at considerable risk to yourself.”

“I can attest to that,” Dr. Login agreed.

Trembling and overwrought, Thomas appeared to be on the verge of tears. “Well, yes,” he said, lowering his head, “if you care to put it that way.”

“Where?” I said.

Thomas looked up, his face perplexed.

“Where did you hide them?” I clarified. “Your brother couldn’t tell me, and it’s the one thing I couldn’t figure out for myself.”

“Oh…there’s a warehouse…a large one…not too far from Hyde Park. It’s where they store the sections of glass that made up the frame of the Crystal Palace. The guard on the gate’s an old friend of my late father.”

“Sir, your actions helped save two innocent lives.” I was trying not to lay it on too thick, for I knew that Sergeant Cuff was unlikely to be taken in by such sentimental tricks. Even so, Thomas received a round of applause led by Mr. Blake. I saw the sergeant glowering at one of his officers who had dared to join in. It was not a good sign. “Mr. Bruff, what time do you have, sir?”

“Must you keep asking me to consult my timepiece, Gooseberry?” my employer answered sharply. “It’s coming up for eleven of the clock, if you must know.”

Nearly eleven, and still the doors remained closed. Yet it seemed I had little choice but to carry on. “Thomas was not the only hero,” I continued. “When Sandeep thought the daguerreotype was about to be destroyed, he too tried to thwart Mallard’s plans. He escaped from Treech and came to London.”

Sandeep beamed at me. “Yes, carefully—oh, so carefully—I made my way to London on foot, keeping to the quieter lanes and byways. The days were cold and the nights even colder. When the sun went down, shivering to the very core of my bones, I sought refuge in—”

Oh, enough! “Undaunted, Sir Humphrey Mallard, the brains behind it all, came up with a different plot,” I plowed on, leaving Sandeep floundering. “He enlisted the help of Johnny Knight, the deranged head of London’s underworld. Sergeant Cuff, would you care to do the honors and take up the story?”

A trace of a smile crept across the sergeant’s weather-beaten face. “When you’re doing such a fine job spinning the tale? I’m afraid my poor contribution would seem dull and disappointing by comparison,” he said drily.

“Please, sir. I’m sure the Blakes and their guests would much prefer to hear the official version of what happened. After all, it occurred on your watch.”

“Do you mean to say the blackguard went through with it, Cuff?” cried Mr. Blake, aghast. “This Mallard chap stole the Kohinoor diamond?”

By now Sergeant Cuff was fielding questions from all sides.

“Very well, very well!” he conceded, holding his hands up in surrender.

As he started into his story, I kept my eyes on the doors, willing them to open, but they stubbornly remained shut. Had I made a dreadful mistake? Could Robinson Crusoe possibly be wrong for once? Eleven o’clock came and went. Another five minutes crawled by, then ten—by which time the sergeant was reaching his nail-biting climax—Johnny firing volleys of shots through the door, then leaping to his freedom through the window.

“There have been no sightings of this Johnny Knight character,” the sergeant concluded, “nor of Josiah Hook, but I’m confident we’ll get them both in the end. The Yard always gets their man.”

This, too, received a round of applause. Only the officer who’d been taken to task over clapping Thomas remained perfectly still; his blank expression didn’t waver. Once again he received a filthy look for his poor sense of judgment.

“Unfortunately, that brings me to my purpose here today,” intoned the sergeant in his deep bass voice. “Sandeep Singh, Mr. Thomas Shepherd, it is my solemn if unpleasant duty to place you both under arrest.”

The protests came fast and furious. Miss Penelope rushed to Mr. James’s side as he tried to prevent one of the sergeant’s men from reaching his brother. Dr. Login also joined the fray—although, in his weakened state, his feeble, doddering efforts were of little use. Cuff’s other man was faring no better. To get to Sandeep, he had go through the Maharajah of Lahore, who was sticking to his fellow countryman—and, dare I say it? hero—like a rabid guard dog. The officer clearly had some notion that the lad was royalty, and that laying his hands on him was an out and out transgression. Sergeant Cuff was having a time of it, too, responding as best he could to Mr. Bruff’s and Mr. Blake’s demands to see the warrant. That wasn’t even the worst of it for him, for he found himself on the receiving end of Mrs. Blake’s sharp tongue. Eventually he took a whistle from his jacket pocket, and blew it as loudly and as long as his breath would allow. The shrill, piercing note stopped everyone in their tracks.

“IT IS USELESS FOR THESE MEN TO RESIST ARREST,” he bellowed. “THEY ARE CRIMINALS AND THEY MUST BE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE. AID THEM IN THEIR ENDEAVOR AND I SHALL HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO ARREST YOU, TOO.”

Slowly, unwillingly, Sandeep’s and Thomas’s protectors stepped aside, allowing Cuff’s men access to their quarry.

“What time is it, please, Mr. Bruff?” I asked, as the doors to the library finally parted, and a truly speechless Samuel appeared. I didn’t hear his indignant reply, for I was too busy watching the jabbering footman.

“What is it, Samuel? What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Blake.

But Samuel’s tongue failed him still. “Sir…sir…sir…” was all that came out, as a figure materialized behind him in the doorway and strode breezily into the room.

“Ah, Octavius, my good friend. I apologize for my lateness, sir. My wife, she has had an extremely busy morning.”

The stunned silence was broken only by the crackle of logs on the fire and the snoring of old Mr. Betteredge, asleep in his chair. Everyone stood eyeing the visitor with their mouths open wide.

“Hello there, Your Royal Highness,” I greeted him. “Thank you for coming. I knew you wouldn’t want the honor of two good men to be dragged into disrepute.”

Prince Albert gave me a glorious smile. “‘Sir’ should suffice between friends, no? So where are these stalwarts of moral perfection? I believe introductions are in order.”

“This is Sandeep Singh, sir. And this is the Maharajah of Lahore.” I noted the look of shock on the prince’s face, presumably from seeing double. The officer holding Sandeep mistook it for displeasure and immediately let go of the boy.

“Sandeep chose to abscond rather than co-operate with Sir Humphrey Mallard,” I added quickly, before Sandeep ruined it all by introducing himself, “effectively foiling his plot. I’m afraid he doesn’t speak English too well.” I could see that Sandeep was about to object, so I did the one thing I could—I stamped on his foot.

“Ouch! Why did you go and do that?”

“As I said, sir, he doesn’t speak English too well. And these men over here are Mr. Thomas Shepherd and Dr. Login. Mr. Thomas risked his own life to save the maharajah and the doctor.”

“He did, Your Royal Highness,” declared Dr. Login, speaking in Thomas’s defense. “But now this preposterous man wants to arrest him—him and the poor boy they disfigured.”

The prince followed the doctor’s glance as it fell on Sergeant Cuff. Sergeant Cuff gazed back quite impassively.

“Is this true, Sergeant?”

“It is, Your Highness. The pair were involved in Mallard’s scheme.”

“Then it is a good thing I have royal pardons for them both, signed this very morning by my wife’s fair hand.”

The sergeant nodded gracefully. Then he pursed his lips and said, “Well played, Gooseberry. Decidedly well played.”

Prince Albert stayed longer than I’d anticipated. Though he was clearly charmed by Mrs. Blake, who was bemoaning the fact that her entire household seemed to be cursed by diamonds, his accent returned every time Mr. Blake tried to bring up the subject of politics. When Mr. Betteredge finally woke up, he was so affected by finding Prince Albert there in the room with him that his daughter had to administer a restorative drink. His book had fallen on the floor while he slept, open at a page roughly a quarter of the way in. I wandered over, curious to see what it had to say:

‘It would have made a stoic smile, to have seen me and my little family sit down to dinner: there was my majesty, the prince and lord of the whole island…’

Note to self: find out what sort of animal a stoic is. Could it perchance be a misprint? Was the writer in fact talking about ‘stoats’?

As I made my way back to my lodgings that evening—without Sandeep, I hasten to add, for he’d chosen to make his home with the maharajah and Dr. Login—I reflected that having to walk places wasn’t such a terrible ordeal. You could always rely on your own two feet to get you to your destination eventually. Being a Friday, I stopped at Mrs. Grogan’s to pick up a selection of pies, some ginger beer, and a big roasted fowl for our supper. Even though we would now have to cut our cloth accordingly, as the saying goes, I thought we all deserved a good blow out, and we could always pick at the bird the next day.

Neither Bertha nor Julius was there when I arrived home, but it wasn’t long before Bertha returned, carrying a basket of firewood and a string bag full of potatoes.

“Where are you getting all this?” I asked, aware that Bertha had no money.

“Bloke with the stall on the corner of Rodney Street,” he sniffed. “’E gives it me.”

“Gives it to you?”

“You heard.”

I thought about it for a moment and decided it was best not to pursue the matter.

“A note came for you,” said Bertha, as he stacked the firewood in the crate. “’S’on the table.”

I picked up the envelope and opened it. Inside were two folded sheets of paper, both yellowing with age.

My heart chilled to ice in a single beat.

Scrawled in pencil in Julius’s labored writing, with too many c’s, and not enough n’s or s’s, the sheet on top contained just one word. Our panic word.

Unnecessary.


Gooseberry ends next Friday, November 7th.
Copyright Michael Gallagher 2014.

Tomorrow, October 1st, sees Gooseberry’s cover reveal. Catch it on the recently launched Gooseberry Facebook Page. If you’re enjoying John Thomson’s wonderful Victorian images that populate these posts, you’ll LOVE the video, I promise.

You can follow Michael’s musings on the foolhardiness of this project. Just click on this link to his blog: Writing Gooseberry.
Photograph: Italian Street Musicians by John Thomson, used courtesy of the London School of Economics’ Digital Library under a CC BY-NC-SA 3.0 licence.

So what did you think? Did you find any typos or continuity errors? Please let me know—use the comment box below.