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  HAIRY LONDON

  Stephen Palmer

  What is love?

  One evening at the Suicide Club three gentlemen discuss this age-old problem, and thus a wager is made. Dissolute fop Sheremy Pantomile, veteran philosopher Kornukope Wetherbee and down-on-his-luck Velvene Orchardtide all bet their fortunes on finding the answer amidst the dark alleys of a phantasmagorical Edwardian London.

  But then, overnight, London Town is covered in hair. How the trio of adventurers cope with this unusual plague, and what conclusions they come to regarding love is the subject of this surreal and fast-paced novel.

  And always the East End threatens revolution…

  Published by

  infinity plus

  www.infinityplus.co.uk

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  © Stephen Palmer 2014

  Cover © Stephen Palmer

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

  The moral right of Stephen Palmer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  Electronic Version by Baen Books

  www.baen.com

  Books by Stephen Palmer

  Memory Seed

  Glass

  Flowercrash

  Muezzinland

  Hallucinating

  Urbis Morpheos

  The Rat and The Serpent

  Hairy London

  To Allen Ashley,

  whose short story request started the ball rolling for this novel

  Thanks also to Jane Brett,

  for help with the German translation

  PROLOGUE

  Fine blonde hair growing on Waterloo Bridge makes it impassable. The young man, trapped by a rampant beard on the southern banks of the river, looks to the stanchions on the northern side that once were grey stone, but which now are hirsute. He cannot see how he will cross, but he must, because the hair beneath his feet is so luxuriant he is in danger of sinking into it, drowning, smothering in that yellow tide.

  In his pocket he finds a rope with a grapnel on the end, and this he uses to haul himself up to the thinly haired bridge parapet. Like a monkey on a branch he moves along the parapet, slipping on clumps of hair, ducking when the wind gusts, almost losing his balance – but not quite. In ten minutes he is on the northern side. He leaps down into the mass of blonde hair that waves in the breeze coming up Victoria Embankment. The locks cover him to waist level.

  With no other alternative he begins forging his way towards High Holborn, where he has an engagement…

  CHAPTER ONE

  There were so many horseless carriages outside the Suicide Club that Sheremy Pantomile found himself pushing between lampblack-stained running boards, so that to his horror his trousers became blemished below the knee. He clicked his fingers at the doorman and shouted, “Gentleman! Find me a passage between these smoking wrecks, or I’ll have you cashiered.”

  Gentleman Smyth adjusted his turban, glanced this way and that, then descended to street level. “My apologies, sir. There is talk of one of our explorers returning from furthest Oriental reaches. It seems news has spr––”

  “Just find me away in, fellow. Then find me new trousers. I take a thirty four inch waist.”

  Gentleman used his rear to nudge aside one of the horseless carriages, allowing Sheremy to squeeze through, then led him up the steps and inside the great marble edifice that was the hall of Bedwards House, Chancery Lane. Sheremy hurried into an ante-chamber, not wanting any of his peers to see his embarrassment. Gentleman followed. “I will go at once to the Trousery,” the doorman said, “then return with a fresh garment. What colour, sir?”

  “Same as these. And don’t go, run.”

  Gentleman bowed. Sheremy waited, his annoyance fading as the sounds and smells of the Suicide Club calmed his mind. This was home. Here, he could be at peace, be free of the noise and stink of London; and here he could exercise his talents in the service of his fellow men. Damn, that Sikhish fellow was taking his time…

  At last, as the Belladonna Clock struck nine, and then a few seconds later the great Tibetan dinner gong, Gentleman returned. Sheremy whipped off his trousers, adjusted his leather undergarment, then pulled on the clean trousers. “Excellent,” he said, “though they smell of lavender.”

  “We use it to drive away moon moths,” Gentleman explained.

  “What’s on the menu tonight?”

  “A deviled tartar of yak, sir.”

  Sheremy departed, hurrying up the stairs that led to the dining room. Before entering it he checked his appearance in the mirror held upright by the statue of Turkman Hi retrieved from the ruins of Constantinople by Pharaday Lemmington. Aha… tall, dark eyed, black hair slicked down, a subtle moustache on his upper lip. No wonder the girls loved him.

  He walked into the dining room and at once saw several of his associates seated at a pentagonal table; one chair free. He strode forward.

  “Friends!” he said, allowing a servant to pull back the vacant seat.

  “You are a minute late,” said Velvene Orchardtide, examining a gold chronospiel that hung from his waistcoat spigot.

  “An unpleasantness outside the building,” Sheremy explained, “caused by news of some import – or so I believe.”

  Kornukope Wetherbee sat to his left. “Pharaday Lemmington by all accounts,” the old man said.

  Sheremy did not feel inclined to forgive the explorer Lemmington his fame. “Damn well spoiled my trousers,” he said. “I’ll be billing the fellow regardless of how much he’s lionised when he returns.”

  “If he returns,” Velvene remarked. “There is no definite word.”

  Sheremy glanced at the other two diners: Sir Hoseley Fain, white-bearded Treasurer of the Suicide Club, and Lord Blackanore of Highgate, the Secretary. He enjoyed exalted company tonight. “Frankly,” he said, lighting a cigaroon, “I’m getting rather tired of dear Lemmington’s comings and goings. Can’t we find a higher calling than shooting exotic animals and returning them to London?”

  A few embarrassed titters rose from the table. Sir Hoseley sniffed, then said, “What did you have in mind, mon ami?”

  “Oh… just something better, I suppose.”

  “Then you must think of something,” said Velvene, glancing again at his chronospiel. “Where is that soup, eh? It is Arctic onion, and if they do not bring it in soon it will go warm.”

  “This place goes to hell if Pharaday’s around,” Sheremy muttered. “It’s just not good enough.”

  Sir Hoseley shrugged, the ghost of a smirk on his face. “Complain to Juinefere,” he said.

  Sheremy scowled. All here knew of his feelings for Lady Bedwards, though he had done his utmost over the years to conceal them. Sir Hoseley was an impudent weasel. “Very good,” he said. “Meanwhile, perhaps you should comb your beard before the birds start nesting in it.”

  “Now, now,” said Lord Blackanore. “The soup arrives.”

  As he cracked the surface of the soup and began cutting it up, Sheremy’s mind turned to the situation he found himself in, which some might call unfortunate, though he termed it unjust. “You see,” he explained, “I didn’t know she was married. I swear I didn’t know. How could I? She was just a freed slave, little more than a maid. Who’d have thought her husband would be so… well connected?”

  “It seems you protest too much,” Sir Hoseley observed.

  Yes, they all knew the tales here. He hated that. When people discovered his failings, he hated it. He loathed being talked about. Pushing aside his empty bowl he said, “You all think you know me, don’t you? You don’t. Only a lover
truly knows their lover.”

  There came laughs from the other four. “Well, we certainly all know you, Pantomile,” said Velvene.

  “Alas rather too well,” Sir Hoseley added. “Tu me décois.”

  Sheremy felt his face flush. He had gone too far; spoken out of turn. “You are buffoons,” he said.

  “Rather a buffoon than a lovestruck bumpkin,” said Sir Hoseley.

  Sheremy felt his embarrassment turn to anger. “You’ve never married, have you?” he said, staring across the table. “Perhaps that is because you prefer the monocled post–”

  “Enough!” Lord Blackanore cried. “Enough, please, all of you. We diminish ourselves with this horse banter.”

  Sheremy nodded at his associate. “Thank you,” he said. “But you will admit it’s true. Nobody here knows love. Mankind does not know love, it doesn’t even have an explanation yet. We live in pandemonium because of that lack.”

  “Then you have your higher calling,” Velvene said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Explaining the inexplicable.”

  “My dear fellow,” Sheremy said, “those long mornings you spend bathing have done something to your mind.”

  Velvene shrugged. “Explain it for us and you will both solve the inequities of your life and do mankind a service.”

  Sheremy felt he was being mocked by the urbane Orchardtide, whose family were well known eccentrics. “I won’t humour you,” he said.

  “I mean it.”

  Sheremy sat back. The deviled yak supper was approaching. “Then we’ll have a wager,” he declared, “all of us sitting here at this table. If, one season from today, one of us returns to the Suicide Club with an explanation of human love that mankind – from East to West – can accept, they will take the pot.”

  “The pot?” said Sir Hoseley.

  Sheremy took a notelet from his pocket, then an inker from the slate hedgehog in the centre of the table. “I wager ninety nine hundredths of my fortune,” he said. He cast the notelet onto the tablecloth. “There, I have signed it. If you men have courage, if you have vision, if you take me seriously, then you’ll be part of this wager.”

  Sir Hoseley snorted. “I will not.”

  “That’s because you are an oaf, sir.”

  “I also will not,” said Lord Blackanore.

  Sheremy said nothing.

  “I shall take part,” Velvene said. “You intrigue me, Pantomile, but also, I must confess, I find myself short of funds–”

  “As usual.”

  “–and so am tempted by this wager.”

  Kornukope cleared his throat. “I also am tempted to wager, but there is an obvious problem. We are all men.”

  “Women are not allowed in the Suicide Club,” Sir Hoseley said. “Indeed, they are allowed in this building only because it is owned by a woman.”

  Kornukope said, “Then I will join the wager on one condition, that my wife Eastachia stands at my side.”

  “You’ll work as a pair?” Sheremy said.

  “Yes.”

  Sheremy considered. The wager had already outstripped its humble beginnings. Kornukope was a philosopher, and likely knew methods, if not actual answers, to the conundrum of love. As for Velvene, he was half madman. Too late! He had thrown his fortune into the ring. “Very well,” he said. “But we’d need to fetch your wife to sign the papers.”

  At this Lord Blackanore said, “There is a codicil in the rules of our club allowing a woman to appear if she has a cloth bag over her head. I believe Gentleman Smyth has skill with the needle, perhaps he will run up a bag for us.”

  “Then we’re agreed,” Sheremy said. He took a deep breath. “Tonight, when Eastachia Wetherbee arrives, we’ll have our third and final wager signatories.”

  Lord Blackanore shook his head. “This conversation cannot now be revoked. As the Secretary of the Suicide Club, I must accept the terms.”

  “Well of course you must,” said Velvene. “Insane scheming was the reason the club was set up.”

  “And, voila, I shall keep these three wager papers,” said Sir Hoseley, “which I remind you all are legally binding. I shall enjoy disseminating the terms to every member of our club.” He stared at Sheremy, his face set firm and cold. “I am the Treasurer after all.”

  Damn! Sheremy had for the moment forgotten that. But Lord Blackanore, despite being a darkie, was reliable. Sheremy felt safe.

  Kornukope sent for a runner to fetch his wife. Two hours later, as they smoked their cigaroons and drank hot porter, Sheremy heard the lugubrious bellow of the Nepalese temple trumpet that signalled the presence of a woman. Some of the gentlemen departed the dining room, dark expressions on their faces; and then Eastachia appeared, led by an Indoo runner, her head covered in a blue bag embroidered with Chinese silk birds and pearls.

  “Dearest one!” Kornukope exclaimed. Outlining the terms of the wager, then explaining the significance of the men at the table, he concluded, “This is surely a test of our marriage that we cannot ignore. Sign, if you will.”

  And Eastachia Wetherbee signed. She said nothing. Sheremy, who had only met her at masked balls, shrugged and tried to out-stare Sir Hoseley. He failed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sheremy Pantomile lived in rented accommodation on Gough Square, just north of Fleet Street. Peering out of his front window on the morning after the wager was agreed, he shouted to his valet, “McTevish, come here. What’s going on?”

  The street outside was choked with brown hair.

  McMithom McTevish approached, looked out of the window, then shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. Seems to be a wee bit of…”

  “Hair. It’s hair. D’you think Pharaday Lemmington has brought some tropical condition back from undiscovered parts?”

  “Wouldna be the first time,” McMithom replied.

  “Find me my hacking garments. The walk to my club won’t be easy.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Satisfactorily attired, Sheremy allowed McMithom to open the front door, whereupon he strode out and surveyed the scene before him. Gough Square lay hidden beneath hair, so much hair that he could smell it on the breeze; and there was dandruff too, great white clumps of it, like congealed porridge.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” he told McMithom.

  “Shall I fetch your penknife, sir?”

  “Bring that Amazonian machete old Wetherbee gave me for Christmas. And a flask of Dutch courage.”

  “Aye, sir. The ’eighty two perhaps.”

  Out in the street Sheremy found himself pushing through thick hair that rose to his chest. Other residents struggled too, notably Benry Hallowee-Tong, the doctor who lived a couple of houses along.

  “What’s going on, dear fellow?” Sheremy called out.

  Benry halted, raised one hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun, then replied, “I’m sure I don’t know, Mr Pantomile. Some kind of infestation. The ladies are having a terrible time of it, what with their skirts and everything.”

  “They may have to wear something else.”

  “Inadvisable! Their inappropriate regions overheat if they wear anything other than a skirt. I should know, what?”

  “Common knowledge,” Sheremy agreed.

  Fetter Lane was worse. Sheremy gazed out over a sea of hair that choked the thoroughfare, undulating like seaweed in an ocean tide. From the vertical walls of the buildings on either side of the street great locks of blonde hair fell, going dark at the roots, he noticed, as if uncared for. But the street was almost empty of people. A few brave men struggled through the hirsute growth, chopping it aside with knives or swords, but never leaving so much as the narrowest of paths, as if the hair regrew without delay. Every hard edge was softened by hair, every roof shaggy, every window bushy.

  Nearby, an old gentleman stood at his front gate, trying to cut a way through. Sheremy, struck by an idea, called out, “Sir, have you tried setting it alight?”

  “Good idea,” the old man repli
ed, turning to enter his house. A few moments later he returned with a small shovel, on which burned several red hot coals. “This should do the trick.”

  Casting the coals into his hairy front path, he hurried back to his front door. Sheremy watched. After a few seconds tendrils of smoke began rising from the path, and then clouds, but soon there was a terrible stink of singed hair on the breeze, and Sheremy was forced to plunge into the street and struggle on through. After only half a minute he was exhausted and sweaty, and the clouds of smoke were worse. He coughed. He hated that stink. He heard the muffled slamming of windows being shut.

  The other men in the street raised kerchiefs to their faces in an effort to reduce the stench, but it was a hopeless task. One man reached out to strike him on the back with the flat of his sword. “You young fool,” the man said. “This hair regrows at speed. Fire is useless!”

  “I didn’t know,” Sheremy protested.

  “You do now.”

  Sheremy turned and pushed on, annoyed that his brilliant plan had not worked. The men here would know him by reputation, if not personally, and soon local gossip would focus on him. Rather irritating, but what could be do about it?

  In Fleet Street the situation was worse – hair at head height – but it seemed a solution had been found, for coming down the street he saw an Archimedean floating system beneath which a wicker amplitude hung.

  Scruffy lads shouted from their eyrie. “Read all abaht it! London gripped by hairy plague! Riverboats to be commandeered by Government! Read all abaht it!”

  As the floating machinora approached, Sheremy tossed up a silver scriven and called out, “Throw me down two copies, lad!”

  The lad obliged, though one copy unwrapped itself and descended as a cloud of paper sheets; Sheremy caught the other.

  LONDON BENEATH HAIR – OFFICIAL

  Government to launch enquiry, will report next year

  Sheremy tutted to himself, then read on.

  From our Home Affairs correspondent. As our capital city writhes under the great mat of hair that grew overnight, scientists, government officials, engineers and hairdressers have been assessing the situation. So far, nothing is clear. The hair grows from everything, be it stone, wood or earth. Very few can leave their homes, and those that do are in peril. This organ already has fifteen reports of smotherings, suffocations and other losses, as the courageous men of London Town try to keep their city moving. But travel, it seems, will be upon the river and through the air for the foreseeable future. All residents are asked to remain indoors. Do not set fire to the hair! It grows back most speedily. If you cut it you may for a while make safe passage, but by the time you return the hair will be back. And never shave it, for all that you will do is make the hair regrow thicker and stronger!