Turnkey, Chapter One: Pocket and Dandy

The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket: Turnkey
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by Christopher Dunkle with Lori Williams

For more excerpts and info, please visit www.gaslightvolumes.com

Copyright 2013 Christopher Dunkle

Chapter One: Pocket and Dandy

October 1, 1888

“You ever fall in love with the end of the world, Mister Alan?”
“That more of your poetry, Pocket?”
“Not this time, I'm afraid.”
“Because it's getting a little late for poetry.”
“Then don't worry.”
“I won't.”
“Good.”
“All right. I'll bite.”
“It's a long story.”
“You finish your drink?”
“Wait...yeah. Done.”
“Then go ahead and talk. Your tab's due.”
“Normal price?”
“Normal price. A story for a round. But tell it good, Pocket. Lots of flash and pop and romance. Give me my beer's worth.”
“The beer was a little watery tonight.”
“Then you can give me a weak ending. I don't care. Just start entertaining. It's getting dull in here.”
“Of course it is. It’s closing hour. I should be leaving, not spinning stories.”
“You think I’m letting you away with an unpaid tab? Bah. Start spinning.”
“All right, fine. If you’re so desperate for it, then…let me think. It all started more than a few weeks ago...in a bar much like this, come to think of it. You were there. I was—“
“No, no, no, Pocket. You can't just start off a good story with 'I was sitting in a bar and then this happened.' You've gotta start strong.”
“All right then...um...Ah. Got it. The cold British wind never feels quite so present as it does between the cracks of your fingers as you claw your way, tired and broken, to the tip of the highest steeple you've ever seen, your hands charred and dirty, your eyes on the figure poised on the point, framed in her tragedy by that divine moon.”
“Whoa, whoa. Wait a minute. Now you're on a steeple? On top of a church?”
“Well, yeah.”
“How did you get up there? What happened to the bar?”
“You said you didn't like the bar. And the steeple scene has flash. It's the big climax.”
“You can't just give me the big flash right away like that! You've got to work forward to it!”
“Well, I thought I could work backward and—“
“No, no, no. That's terrible. Look, just stick with the bar scene. Go from there. And none of that 'divine moon' talk. I've heard it a thousand times.”
“Okay…”
“And at least give this thing a title. Something that sticks with your audience.”
“You're a demanding critic for a bartender, Mister Alan.”
“I'm demanding when I'm bored.”
“Okay, okay. This…uh…okay…this begins the story of a girl.”
“Oh, good. I like those.”
“Will you let me tell it? Okay…this is the story of the unlucky. Of those select, unfortunate few that funny Mistress Fate picks like fallen cherries from the dirt and throws together under the baking heat of a fantastical pie. A pie of confusion and adventure. A pie of curiosity and pursuit and danger and, uh, vivacity! A pie of heartache and joy, of danger and revelation! A pie—“
“I thought you were going to tell the girl story.”
“This is the girl story!”
“Not the way you tell it. Sounds more like a cooking story.”
“Look, the image of the pie is there to paint a picture in the imagination of the audience.”
“So they'll be thinking about pie?”
“Okay, forget the pie. This is...sigh...this is, Mister Alan, the story of the most beautiful girl I have ever seen and the most ugly ride I have taken at her side. This is the story of your humble narrator, and above all other things, Mister Alan, this is the story of the turnkey girl.”

It was the dead of night in the golden city and I was off hiding from the cold and my own boredom. A few yellow-brown bubbles popped on the surface of my beer, I remember because I was counting them for entertainment while I waited to be drunk. Alcohol and I have an understanding. We keep the relationship professional. While a lot of gentlemen and even ladies I've met hold onto the philosophy that fun lies at the bottom of a glass bottle, I still maintain that the pastime of drinking is merely a stand-in for enjoyment, not a source.
I could, of course, be wrong in this theory. It is equally plausible that I'm just not a very fun drunk. At any rate, it wasn't stopping me from emptying my glass that night.
“Another round, Pocket?” the barkeep asked, leaning over the worn, wooden counter, his elbows hovering centimeters above the splinter-ridden surface. The Brass Rail wasn't known for much, and…something…something witty about its atmosphere, lack of atmosphere...sorry, I'm still drunk. Anyhow, it was a room with two ceilings, the lower of which was an artificial layer of grey-black smoke provided by the pub's exhaling clientele.
The bartender asked again if I was interested in another glassful of distraction. I don't recall what answer I gave, but if I decided on another beer he must've quickly forgotten about it, as I never received it. Just as well. I was content sipping on the remainder of my glass and watching the bartender not serve me a drink.

“Okay, Pocket. I get it.”
“Stop interrupting. You're about to make your debut.”

The barkeeper left his post and began fiddling with a rickety music box that was rigged up in the least cobwebbed corner of the place. A few kicks to its worn casing and a flourish of semi-sour notes filled the room.
“Ah!” the bartender announced, pride in his eyes. “What did I tell you?”
I raised my glass to him as he slid back behind the bar top. No one else I've met could ever get that box to spit a song.
“I was an idiot to ever doubt you, Mister Alan.”
“Yes, you were.”
I caught myself grinning and hid it behind my glass. The playing needle hit a particular bump in the turning wax cylinder, and the vocals began. Alan cracked open a new bottle of something and began singing along.
“Black sky tonight, and it ain't gettin' any brighter. Ships fly this night, but I think they're gettin' lighter…”
Alan Dandy. Good man, really, and an acquaintance I've made over time with very little effort. He's…I guess you could call him a freelancer, though it's unusual for such a profession. He works nights, tending bars across the city. I suspect he only takes jobs at dumps like the Brass Rail to mess around with the music boxes. Guy's got a soft spot for music. Like I said, I've never considered myself to be a career drinker, but he must think I am by now. I keep managing to run into Alan at various corner pubs and taverns all over New London. I don't know why. Call it fate. Sometimes I wonder if there's some reasoning behind which people you get stuck around in life, but then that's a storyteller response, isn't it? I'll leave it up to you. Anyway, the night rolled on and Alan rolled along with it, slapping bottles onto the counter for his whisker-riddled customers.

“Hold off a second, Pocket.”
“Now what?”
“Why are you telling me about myself? I know who I am.”
“Look, if I'm going to tell this whole story once, I may as well be prepared to tell it again. I've got to get used to setting up characters. This is my meal ticket, you know.”
“All right. Just move on, already. You've talked enough about me.”
“You shy, Alan?”
“Just get on with it.”
“Okay, so where was I…”

I wobbled on my stool for awhile and tried hard to listen to the music instead of the inebriated claims of female conquest that were being wheezed around me.
“I like the song,” I said to Alan.
“What's that?”
“I like the song. The singer, she's got a nice voice.”
“Yeah, that's a classic. Lady Jay.”
“Hmm?”
“The singer. Lady Jay.”
“Haven't heard of her.”
“You should. Great string of hits.” He poured something wet and rust-colored into a tumbler and slid it to a customer.
I took another uninterested gulp and realized that someone sitting next to me had been tugging on my shoulder for a good, I'd say, two minutes. It was a blonde someone and she smiled at me. I smiled back out of courtesy. The blonde someone was spinning her ankles around the edge of the stool and spitting peanut shells. She must have been seven, eight at the oldest.
My luck, the first woman to ever approach me in a pub…
“Hello, hello!” the little thing said.
“Hi,” I replied.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting.”
“Oh. Me too!”
“Congratulations.” I took another swallow of beer and watched the child spin in her seat. “Aren't you a little young to be in a place like this?”
“My daddy says it's okay. I have ta' wait for him ta' finish doing daddy things.”
“Ah. Good man.” I tried, without success, to return to my drink.
“My name is Annabelle.”
“Hi Annabelle.”
“What's yours?”
Sigh. I fished around in my coat pocket and produced a small, dog-eared, white calling card and handed it to the girl. She took it in both hands and furrowed her brow.
“Can you read?”
“Of course I can read!” She furrowed some more, then traced her thumbs over each printed black letter that spelled out: WILL POCKET, THE ABSYNT BARD OF NEW LONDON.
“You misspelled 'absent,'” she finally said.
“I didn't print it myse—”
“What's a bard, then?”
At that point, Alan returned to my spot on the bar to collect empty glasses and sweep up Miss Annabelle's peanut shells. I shot him a look, hoping for a little assist in escaping my present company. He grinned and nodded back to me.
“Yeah, Pocket,” he said. “What's a bard, then?”
My mood, my face, and, somehow, my beer instantly soured. I met Alan's question with restrained annoyance and began to tap on the bar.
“Well…” I said, surrendering to this barstool interrogation. “It's like a performer.”
“Like an actor?” asked the girl.
“Sort of, but more of a storyteller. With tricks and songs and such.”
“Oh! Do you sing, Mister Pocket?”
“Well…not really. I mean, not extremely well.” That was slightly understated. I am horrible.
“Oh,” she said. She stood up on her chair and tried to reach over the bar top to grab at more peanuts. Alan restrained her and she began a very noisy protest. I thanked the heavens for the opportunity and tossed the only bills in my pocket on the counter.
“I'll see you around, Alan.”
“Whoa! Pocket!” he shouted back to me, now clinging to the girl's ankles as she thrashed at him. “Get back here! This isn't going to cover your rounds!”
“That's all I've got at the moment. Can't I owe you the rest?”
“I don't know when I'm going to see you again!”
“I'll come back here tomorrow night.”
“I'm not working tomorrow night!”
“Watch your fingers,” I advised as the child brandished her teeth.
“Look, why don't you—OW!”
“Told you.”
“Why don't you tell a story for the balance and we call it even?”
“It's getting late for stories, Alan.”
I realize now how often I seem to be making this argument.
“A story!” yelled Annabelle, “I want a story!”
“Fine, a story,” I said, rubbing my temples, “What about?”
“Tell one about my daddy!” Annabelle shouted.
“Fine. Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Annabelle and one day her father went out and killed a dragon. The end. God save the King. Goodnight, Alan.”
“My daddy never did that! Tell me a true story!”
“I...uh...all right. What does your daddy do?”
“He works for the castle!”
“All right, then. Once upon a time, there was a man named…”
“Annabelle's daddy!”
“…Annabelle's daddy, and he worked for the greater good of all of Britain, serving proudly as…what is it he does?”
“He's a magpie!”
“A wha…do you mean a Magnate?”
“That's it!”
“Your father's a Magnate? All right…eh…so Annabelle's daddy worked bravely night and day, tending obediently to the whims of our great Alexander. Annabelle's daddy and his fellow men patrolled the streets of England in grand black robes that bore blood red emblems in the shape of crowns, the famous mark of the King's personal militia. They fought hard and true and made sure that the people who didn't realize that they needed constant supervision were constantly supervised. The end. God save the King.”
I moved into the direction of what I thought was the front door only to collide face-first with the  large frame of a barrel-chested man with curled blond bangs and a squared jaw.
“Evening,” I said.
“You tell stories?” he said, snorting through his nostrils.
“He tells lots of stories!” shouted Annabelle, who was suddenly standing behind me. She handed him my card, and the man stood there for a moment, squeezing it in his sweaty, thick wrist.
After about a minute, his extended brow began to furrow.
“Can you read?” I asked. He flicked the card off of my forehead and huffed.
“You talk a lot.”
“Kinda helps to tell a story.”
That was when he threw me onto the bar. It gets better.
“Is there a problem?” I politely inquired.
“Yer story,” he said. “Found it a little insulting.”
My head was resting on the wider ends of two overturned beer bottles.
“How so?”
His meaty hand grabbed at the buttonholes of his whiskey-soaked jacket, popping it open. From inside, he retrieved a small leather flap with a red-on-silver symbol of a crown pinned onto it.
An off-duty Magnate.
He stumbled over his boots and breathed over me. A drunken, off-duty Magnate. My luck was immeasurable.
“Well, for starters…” he grunted, cracking his knuckles. “I thought yer interpretation rang a little anti-Alexandery.”
“Did it?”
“Personally I felt yer wordplay smelt of rebellion.”
Now, dear readers, it has never been my practice to question the criticisms of those larger or drunker than I, but given the situation at hand, my first response as author was to defend my artistic point of view.
“Rebellion?!? Where in God's name did you find rebellion?!?”
“You 'ere talking 'bout our crowns 'n buttons, and you called them, I believe, blood red.”
“Did I?”
“You did.”
“You have a problem with adjectives?”
He grabbed my shirt's collar and lifted me off the bar. At the moment, I had wished he would make up his mind on where exactly he would prefer me to lie in intimidation.
“As I see it, blood is a fairly suggestive word.”
I was hanging in the grip of a literary scholar, it would seem. My feet dangled over the ground.
“Well, yes, of course it is,” I replied. “I was merely trying to create an image of color in the minds of the audience.”
“Blood suggests violence, death, and whatnot.”
“Well, that's one reading, sure. But—”
“Are you implying that the monarchy operates under a thinly...hiccup...thinly-veiled pretense as a bunch of murdering crooks?”
“Not at all. I didn't realize you military men were such sensitive scholars.”
“That a crack on our intelligence?”
“No, I—“
“Because I don't like insinuation! I once knocked a man cold for insinuation!”
“I'm sure you did, but I can assure you—”
“Do you swear yerself loyal to our King and our great lady England?”
“Look, if you could put me down—”
“Or do you stand as an enemy to the Crown?”
“No, of course not! I believe your interpretation may be slightly askew, is all.”
You know those points in stories where a dangling protagonist is saved from a perilous situation by the innocence of a child?
“You gunna throw him real far, Daddy?” little Annabelle, sweetheart of the city, asked my assailant. Lovely.
I was soon introduced with “real far,” as Annabelle's daddy threw me headlong out of the Brass Rail. I remember thinking in midflight that this would make for a lousy beginning to a story.
Moments later, I collided with a man-shaped fox and the night took a turn for the strange.