The Demi-Monde: Fall

Book 4: The Demi-Monde

by Rod Rees

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure

Synopsis

The Demi-Monde is about to reach its catastrophic conclusion . . . For thousands of years the Grigori have lain hidden, dreaming of the day when they will emerge from the darkness. Now that day draws close. Norma, Trixie and Ella fight doggedly to frustrate these plans, but they need help. Percy Shelley must lead Norma to the Portal in NoirVille so she can return to the Real World. Trixie's father must convince her that, if she is to destroy the Great Pyramid standing in Terror Incognita, she must be prepared to die. And Vanka Maykov - though not the man she knew and loved - must guide Ella to the secret enclave of the Grigori, where she will face the most chilling of enemies. In this explosive finale to the Demi-Monde series, our heroes will come to understand that resisting evil will require courage, resolve . . . and sacrifice.

Release date: August 29, 2013

Publisher: Jo Fletcher Books

Print pages: 576

Sample

1 February 2019

I am pleased to report that all aspects of the Final Solution are now in place and ready for execution on the 30th April this year. Moreover, I am able to advise the Grand Council that Ella Thomas, who since her arrival in the Demi-Monde has manifested the most virulent and powerful of Lilithian tendencies, has been assassinated and with her death a profound enemy of the Grigori and a major obstacle preventing the success of the Final Solution eliminated. Now the only opponent of any note still active in the Demi-Monde is Norma Williams, her last act being to disrupt the ‘Victory in the Coven’ rally sponsored by Reinhard Heydrich, and held on the last day of Summer. The Grand Council should note that measures have been taken to minimise the impact of her intervention on the attitude of the ForthRight population regarding their attending the Ceremony of Purification and that I have ensured that my agents in the one remaining Portal giving access from the Demi-Monde to the Real World have been alerted. It is impossible for Norma Williams to escape from the Demi-Monde and return to the Real World.

Thus all is set fair for the execution of the Final Solution.

Recognising that such an ambitious undertaking as the Demi-Monde - the most sophisticated virtual world ever conceived - would be extraordinarily difficult to conceal - especially as it involved the clandestine accessing of confidential DNA data relating to Fragiles - we chose to disguise the Demi-Monde’s true purpose by persuading the US military to adopt the simulation as a training ground for their neoFights.

The true purpose of the Demi-Monde is fourfold:

– To digitally replicate a coterie of individuals identified as possessing the MAOA-Grigori gene, who, given the appropriate stimulus (notably regarding their appetite for blood and their exposure to Cavoritic radiation), are capable of having this latent Grigori aspect resuscitated;

– To digitally replicate a critical mass of the element Cavorite (aka Mantle-ite) in the Demi-Monde, this in the form of the Great Pyramid located in the region known as Terror Incognita. As the Grand Council will be aware, despite our best efforts, it has proven impossible to fabricate viable quantities of Cavorite here in the Real World and certainly nothing like the quantity necessary to achieve activation of the MAOA-Grigori gene (this being equal in magnitude to the Cavoritic radiation experienced during the meteor strike of 1795);

– To digitally recreate a number of the more talented scientists from history to work in the Heydrich Institute for Natural Sciences in the Demi-Monde’s virtual Berlin to help the Real World scientists develop noöPINC, the latest iteration of our Personal Implanted nanoComputer. NoöPINC is a cyborg-virus, that is a virus with nanocybernetic structures incorporated into its makeup. The virus itself – a development of the unsuccessful 1947 Plague - is Fragile-specific and hence is harmless to Grigori or those possessing an activated MAOA-Grigori gene. The Grand Council may rest assured that there will be no repeat of the unfortunate events of 1947 when the Plague mutated to an extent that it presented a lethal danger not only to Fragiles but also to Grigori;

– To entice the daughter of the President of the United States into the Demi-Monde in order that her Real World body might be inhabited by her cyber-doppelgänger, Aaliz Heydrich. This was achieved and Miss Heydrich has proven herself very accomplished with regard to promoting the faux-religious organisation the Fun/Funs. Six million members of the Fun/Funs will be attending the Gathering on the 30th April, when their Grigorian aspect, nurtured in their doppelgängers (‘Dupes’) active in the Demi-Monde, will be energised.

All four of these ambitions have been or are in the process of being achieved. In three short months the breeding stock of the Grigori will have been enhanced by the six-million-strong nuGrigori created with the assistance of the Demi-Monde; all Untermenschen (notably the Jews, the blacks and the Asiatic races) that contaminate the genus Homo will have been eradicated; and the purified Fragiles will have been culled and the rump remaining reduced to dutiful serfs by the use of noöPINC. After eight thousand years of hiding in the shadows the Grigori stand on the brink of taking their rightful place as the Master Race.

I remain Your Humble Servant,



Professor Septimus Bole

PrologueThe office of Sir Broderick Bole, ParaDigm House, Whitehall, LondonThe Real World: 15 February 1947

Operation Downfall was the codename given to the disastrous American-led invasion of Japan which began in October 1946. The operation was ultimately abandoned when US servicemen contracted a hitherto dormant infection that became known to the world as the Plague of ’47. The surrender of Japan was ultimately realised by the use of atomic weapons against the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the bombs dropped by Vickers-ParaDigm Valiant aircraft of the RAF on the 15th December, 1946.

History of the Second World War, 1939–1946: Dwight D. Eisenhower, ParaDigm Publications

Bole hated Fragiles, the corollary being he loathed Frank Kenton with a passion.

‘I never knew it got so darned cold in England, Broderick,’ said Kenton, warming his backside in a rather exaggerated fashion in front of the large fire that was keeping Bole’s office the warmest room in Whitehall.

‘It’s Sir Broderick, actually, Mr Kenton,’ Bole corrected, who detested anyone, let alone an American barbarian like Kenton, omitting his title. With an effort of will he kept his temper in check and his hands from Kenton’s throat. He needed the Fragile. ‘But you are quite right: this winter is one of the worst in living memory.’

‘Well, I guess that’s the problem with the weather, it’s so darned unpredictable.’

Bole said nothing, though he was tempted to tell Kenton that the Bole Institute for the Advancement of History had predicted that the winter of 1946/1947 would be a bad one. And now the winter was here and the Institute’s forecast confirmed, the difficulties caused by the abnormal cold were such that even the euphoria generated by the defeat of Japan had been dampened. Since the beginning of February Britain had been in the grip of snow, snow and more snow. Roads had been made impassable, railway lines had cracked and power stations had shut down. Even before the Winter of ’47 had run its course, with February not even over, the tabloids had already christened it ‘The Great Winter’.

Bole’s American visitor had obviously massaged sufficient warmth into his buttocks to allow him to begin the meeting. Kenton sat down in Bole’s guest chair and made to light a cigarette.

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Bole tersely.

‘Didn’t what?’ asked Kenton.

‘Smoke.’

‘Really? Why not? Doctors say it’s good for you: the nicotine stimulates the nervous system.’

‘I doubt whether such stimulation can compensate for the inhalation of the noxious cocktail of toxins contained in cigarette smoke. This being the case, I would prefer it if you refrained. I do not wish to be a passive participant in your unhealthy habits.’

Reluctantly Frank Kenton returned the cigarette to the pack.

Bole shot his heavily starched cuffs, arranged his legal pad and fountain pen a little more exactly before him, and began. ‘You must forgive me for asking, Mr Kenton, but which department do you represent? Since the demise of the OSS, the actual make-up of American intelligence organisations has become a trifle confused.’

Kenton gave a rueful grin, which made him look even younger than he was. The dossier the Intelligence Bureau had prepared said he was thirty-four but in truth the combination of sandy red hair, freckles, horn-rimmed spectacles and bow tie gave him the appearance of an adolescent out on his first job interview. He certainly didn’t look like the high-flyer of American counter-intelligence he was reputed to be.

Nor the racist he most certainly was, but then Kenton kept his rather extreme opinions regarding ‘race contamination’ to himself, presumably on the basis that if his secret affiliation to the Ku Klux Klan became known it would put something of a crimp on his career prospects.

‘Well, ya know, Brod … Sir Broderick, my position is sorta … ill-defined,’ Kenton answered as he wrung his hands, made uncomfortable by not having a cigarette to fiddle with. ‘I sorta float around, doing whatever I’m asked to do. But for pay and rations I’m part of the Strategic Services Unit.’

‘And your current responsibilities?’

‘I’m attached to General MacArthur’s staff. I act for the general on matters pertaining to the occupation of Japan.’

‘Then you seem a long way from the centre of those operations, Mr Kenton.’

‘The general asked me to come to London to liaise with ParaDigm Rx regarding the problems we’re experiencing in Japan. The disease situation is getting kinda serious. We’re hoping, Sir Broderick, what with you being majority stockholder in ParaDigm Rx and all, that you might be able to put a little pepper on ParaDigm’s tail. It is, after all, the largest pharmaceutical company in the world: if anyone can help, it’s ParaDigm.’

Bole nodded and then took the opportunity to take up the coal tongs and heap more coal onto the fire. He wanted Kenton’s nicotine dependency to really kick in before the negotiations went much further. ‘Tell me a little of the background to this disease,’ he said as he stoked the fire.

‘As you know, Operation Downfall began with the invasion of Kyushu on the third of October ’46 … as soon as the typhoon season was over. Kyushu was intended to be the staging post for the assault on the main island, Honshu. The land operations were pretty confusing for a while: the Nips were well dug in and there were more of them than our intelligence had predicted. It was Okinawa writ large: a real bloodbath. The consequence was that casualties ran high and the hospital ships attached to the invasion fleet were run ragged, so it took a while for the medical staff to identify that a good proportion of those invalided off the beaches had contracted a fever. They’d got what we now call the “Jap Jitters”.’

‘Describe it.’

‘As best we can tell it’s some form of filovirus, though the symptoms seem to suggest it’s closely akin to the bubonic plague in that it attacks the lymphatic system.’

‘Incubation period?’

‘Four to five weeks.’

‘The vector?’

‘We’re not sure but the smart money is on fleas.’

‘Contagious?’

‘Very. Those with the disease have had to be strenuously quarantined.’

‘How many fatalities from the Plague thus far?’

Kenton shuffled on his chair. Bole knew that the information he’d asked for was something the US Army had been desperately trying to keep under wraps, something most certainly not for public consumption. ‘To date, a little over one hundred thousand members of our armed forces have died from the Jitters. The mortality rate is running at around eighty per cent. That’s why we evacuated Kyushu.’

And also why ParaDigm – prompted by Sir Broderick’s unborn son, Thaddeus – had been obliged to use atomic weapons to persuade the Japanese to surrender, but regarding this, Bole remained silent.

‘I understand the disease has a racial bias.’

‘That’s correct, Sir Broderick. Negroes are particularly susceptible: black GIs have been dropping like flies.’

As it had been intended they should drop, and the other UnderMentionable scum – most notably the Jews – with them. What Bole hadn’t expected was how quickly the Plague had mutated, to such an extent that it now threatened the Grigori themselves. Which was why ParaDigm was making its vaccines available to the Fragiles: the Plague had the potential to cull the wrong subspecie of the genus Homo.

‘Treatment?’

‘None.’

‘And now it has a foothold on the west coast of the United States.’

Kenton eyed Bole suspiciously. ‘How do you come to that conclusion, Sir Broderick?’

‘Mr Kenton, my department was not named the Intelligence Bureau on a whim, it being expert in acquiring, analysing and drawing conclusions from … intelligence. The Jap Jitters, as you so charmingly call this disease, has, according to this intelligence, now been reported in Seattle, where as of yesterday forty-seven people were held in the containment wing of the Seattle General Hospital. Presumably the disease was brought to Seattle by the crews of vessels returning to the navy dockyards from Japanese waters. There are also outbreaks reported in San Francisco and San Diego. My understanding is that the US government is considering the imposition of martial law in these areas and the enforcement of a cordon sanitaire stretching along the Sierra Nevada designed to protect the Midwest from the spread of the infection.’

Kenton sighed in a despairing sort of way. He suddenly looked tired and his shoulders sagged as though weighed down by the responsibilities he was carrying. ‘You are remarkably well informed, Sir Broderick, I was led to believe that that information had been assigned the very highest security classification. As you’ll appreciate, the last thing we want is the civilian population in the USA panicking.’ Kenton took a deep breath. ‘But you are quite correct, the situation is … grave. The disease has reached the USA and we are struggling to contain it. That’s why I’m here. We need the help of ParaDigm Rx.’

Bole pushed a piece of paper across the desk to Kenton. ‘This is a transcript of an article carried in the London Gazette of the twelfth of January 1931. It describes a plague gripping the island of Zanzibar, which lies just off the coast of Tanganyika.’

Kenton read the piece and then looked up at Bole. ‘You believe the Jap Jitters is the Zanzibar Plague?’

Bole nodded. ‘The virologists at ParaDigm Rx have compared the two pathogens and have confirmed them to be very closely related. The Zanzibar Plague was, just like your Jitters, a highly infectious haemorrhagic filovirus. Where your American medical experts are in error is that there is no intermediate carrier: the Plague is pneumatic, transmitted directly, person to person, and it is this which makes it so deadly. Death itself comes from necrosis of the internal organs – they literally melt – and, as might be expected, is hugely painful.’ Bole paused for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts. ‘The Zanzibar Plague, Mr Kenton, is one of the most deadly diseases ever encountered by man. It is not a pleasant way to die.’

‘While, Sir Broderick, I am intrigued by this historical coincidence, I am at a loss to see how it might assist my country.’

‘As Zanzibar is a protectorate within the British Empire, ParaDigm Rx was asked to search for a vaccine that would prevent the spread of the disease.’

‘You were successful?’

A nod from Bole. ‘We were successful.’

‘This is wonderful news, Sir Broderick, wonderful news. How quickly can ParaDigm Rx make the vaccine available?’

‘The first batch of fifty thousand doses could be shipped by the end of February, with a further two million doses being shipped each month thereafter.’

Kenton was quiet for a moment. He was probably, Bole supposed, comparing the prognosis of the American epidemiologists regarding the spread of the Plague through the USA with Bole’s delivery forecast. The two, as Bole knew, were incompatible. To Frank Kenton’s credit he kept a straight face and tried to play a weak hand with as much panache as he was able. Unfortunately, Bole had already seen his cards.

‘Is there any way in which production could be raised?’ Kenton asked.

‘What quantity of vaccine do you require, Mr Kenton, and against how strict a timetable would it need to be delivered?’

‘At least seventy million doses, ideally supplied within three months.’

Bole contained a smile: this was exactly the quantity he had anticipated being requested and was exactly the quantity he had stockpiled in the ParaDigm Rx warehouses in Yorkshire. He gave his head a theatrical shake. ‘To do that, Mr Kenton, would require a Herculean effort.’

‘But it can be done.’

‘Yes, but at a cost.’

‘What cost?’

‘Twenty pounds a dose.’

‘Merciful heavens! Twenty pounds! That’s over eighty bucks a shot! That’s usurious. That’ll cost the US nearly six billion dollars!’

‘That is if seventy million doses are adequate for your purposes,’ Bole observed. ‘The prognosis of the Intelligence Bureau, based on the disease’s rate of infection, is that half the population of the USA will die within the three-month period you cite. And before you ask: no, it is impossible to supply more than seventy million doses of the vaccine within the three-month deadline.’

And by supplying less than half the needed doses, eighty million Americans will die and the US economy will be crippled, Bole added silently. Whilst the Plague hadn’t acted in quite the way predicted, it could at least be used to weaken the British Empire’s most formidable economic and political rival.

‘But six billion dollars!’

‘That’s one way of looking at it, Mr Kenton, the other is that you are valuing the lives of American citizens at a rate of eighty dollars each, which seems to me to be quite a bargain.’

Kenton shook his head. ‘The President … Congress will never wear it. For the love of God, Sir Broderick, Britain and America are meant to be allies …’ For a moment he seemed stunned by the enormity of the numbers. ‘Surely the cost can be cut?’

‘If you want such a huge quantity of vaccine shipped against such an incredibly tight timetable then you must expect it to be an expensive exercise.’ Bole shrugged. ‘But if the terms are unacceptable you are perfectly at liberty to go elsewhere.’

‘You know darn well there isn’t any “elsewhere”. You’re blackmailing us.’

‘I would appreciate it if you could be a tad less emotional, Mr Kenton. Emotion impairs clear thinking and from what I can see from the Surgeon General’s report to the President clear thinking is now of the essence.’

Bole was delighted to see Kenton’s eyes widen. It was obviously beyond his comprehension how the Intelligence Bureau could have got access to such a top-secret document so quickly.

‘According to the Surgeon General, by the end of the year there won’t be much of a USA left to blackmail. What was his prognosis? Ah, yes, I remember: of the one hundred and fifty million American citizens currently extant, if the Plague is left unchecked this number will be reduced to just thirty million. Time to buy stocks in morticians I think, Mr Kenton.’

‘This is no laughing matter.’

‘I never laugh, Mr Kenton. I am taking this matter very seriously and that is why, despite the enormous difficulties ParaDigm Rx has to overcome, it will supply the seventy million doses within three months and hence save seventy million American lives.’ Bole took a sip of his honeyed water. ‘Of course, the supply of the vaccine is just one of the challenges you will be facing.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘You will need to tell those American citizens denied the vaccine – the untreated eighty million – that they are being condemned to death.’

Bole could tell by Kenton’s reaction that this was something that hadn’t occurred to the man. ‘There’ll be panic.’

‘Which could be avoided.’

‘How?’

‘It is not for me to dictate US domestic policy, but it might be possible for ParaDigm Rx to provide you with a quantity of placebo vaccines – imitation vaccines – containing nothing but purified water. These will be useless in fighting the Plague, of course, but it will give some comfort to the recipients and help avert panic. Everybody will think they are being vaccinated even though, in reality, less than half the population will have been protected.’

‘But how to choose who gets the real vaccine and who gets the fake?’

‘Oh, I am sure a good Christian like you will be able to choose those Americans who most deserve to be protected from the Plague. Salvation, as I understand it, is only given to the righteous.’

And the white.

1:01London, the RookeriesThe Demi-Monde: 90th Day of Summer, 1005

Following the successful landing of the Column of Loci on Terror Incognita, the final arrangements for the Ceremony of Purification to be held on the 90th day of Fall are to be enacted. This will involve:

Extract from the minutes of the emergency PolitBuro meeting held under the guidance of the Great Leader on the 1st day of Fall, 1005

‘Queek, mon chéri, fais beaucoup de bang, banging.’

Burlesque Bandstand was only too happy to oblige. He pushed Norma out of harm’s way behind him and then, standing side by side, he and Odette started blasting the Checkya agents who were racing to cut off their escape route out of the Crystal Palace. They were fortunate that the big blond bugger who had thrown the gas canisters seemed to know his business and was using his pistol to good effect, but even with his help, Burlesque knew it would be nip and tuck whether they came out of this alive. There were a lot of the bastards shooting at them, and in the end it was only thanks to the hordes of screaming, running, panicking people milling around that they managed to elude their pursuers and to shove their way along a corridor, through the stage door and into the street.

Outside there was even more chaos, with thousands of men, women and children flooding out of the Crystal Palace as they tried to escape the fighting inside. The one piece of good luck was that the curly-haired item who Norma had slapped – Percy Shelley, Burlesque thought she had said his name was – seemed to have a getaway planned. ‘This way, Comwades! I have a steamer waiting just thwee stweets away.’

Reluctant though he was to follow the man – men who couldn’t pronounce their ‘r’s were not, in his opinion, to be trusted – Burlesque had no other option, so he took a tight hold on Norma’s arm and, with Odette’s help, they bullied their way through the press of people. A few minutes later the six of them – the big blond bugger seemed to have a woman in tow – were scrambling aboard a getaway steamer that was standing puffing and panting down a side street.

Once he had seated himself, Shelley adjusted the pince-nez perched atop his long nose, then spoke. ‘We must move quickly, Comwades,’ he said, seemingly irritated by having to raise his voice to compete with the noise of the steamer’s pistons as the driver opened up the vehicle’s boiler. ‘I suspect that once order has been we-established and Heydwich wealises that you have escaped then a hue and cwy will be waised. We’re not far fwom the docks, and once there, I am sure Comwade Moynahan’s bottomless wallet will secure us six berths on a barge heading for NoirVille.’

Burlesque decided that he’d had enough of all this fucking around with blokes he didn’t know giving him orders. He shoved the muzzle of his revolver up against the side of Shelley’s head. ‘Just ’ang on a mo’, matey. We ain’t goin’ anywheres till I know just ’oo the fuck you are.’

Shelley hesitated as though not quite sure whether he should be taking Burlesque’s threats seriously. ‘I say, Comwade, this is hardly sporting behaviour, ’specially when a chap ain’t even heeled.’

His protest did him no good and to emphasise how seriously she and Burlesque took ‘sporting behaviour’ Odette pushed her pistol into his groin. ‘Et, monsieur, pleeze, do not of the movements mostly sudden make otherwise I will blow away your … ’ow you say, zizi, mon chéri?’

‘Willy,’ suggested Burlesque.

‘Bon! If you make the moves rapide, monsieur, you will go through life sans votre willy. Comprenez?’

Shelley certainly seemed to comprenez. ‘Wouldn’t dweam of it, Comwade, what with a gweat many of the fairwer sex mightily enamoured of that particular piece of artillewy. But all this thweatening ain’t necessawy, don’t cha know? We are members of the Normalist movement sent to wescue Norma Williams.’

‘Norma don’t need no rescuing, mate. Me an’ Odette will do all the fuckin’ rescuing—’

‘It’s okay, Burlesque,’ said Norma quietly, ‘I think these people are friends.’ She gave Shelley a sidelong look. ‘Friends after a fashion, that is. We can go now, Percy,’ and a relieved-looking Shelley rapped the silver pommel of his ebony cane on the ceiling of the steamer and the driver eased it out into the traffic.

Burlesque had to marvel at Norma’s powers of recovery: with the exception of her red eyes – bloodshot if he wasn’t mistaken, which he supposed was to be expected given that she was a Daemon – she’d quite shaken off the effects of the gas attack and had regained her composure. There was a certainty about her that Burlesque found strangely reassuring, but then, he supposed, he was in the presence of the Messiah.

Norma turned to the big blond bugger lounging in the corner of the steamer. ‘You say you’re with the US Army, Corporal Moynahan?’

He nodded. ‘That’s correct, Miss Williams, I’m a proud member of the Fighting Fifth, the best combat regiment in the whole of the Real World. My platoon has been searching for you for almost nine months. You sure as hell have been a tricky dame to track, Miss Williams.’ He pushed a hand out in Norma’s direction which, after a moment’s hesitation, she shook.

‘Well, you’ve found me now so I guess it’s better late than never. I’ve been waiting a long time for the cavalry to arrive to take me home.’ Norma nodded to the really quite dishy girl sitting next to Moynahan. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Corporal?’

‘This is Miss Maria Steele … or more officially, Sister Maria of the exiled Sacred and All-Seeing Convent of Visual Virgins.’

‘You’re an auralist?’ Burlesque wasn’t very keen on auralists. The word was they could read a bloke’s aura and from that tell what he was thinking … though with a bird as good-looking as Maria this wouldn’t be too much of a stretch. One look at her and blokes would only be thinking one thing: what’d she look like with her kit off?

‘I am indeed an auralist, sir, and I am pleased to use my talents to assist in the extraction of the Messiah from the clutches of Heydrich.’

Norma nodded her appreciation.

‘Mr Percy Shelley, I’ve a feeling you already know,’ continued Moynahan.

‘Yeah, I know Percy Bysshe Shelley,’ Norma said, glaring angrily at the man.

‘Please, Norma, do not judge me too harshly,’ replied Shelley. ‘I did what I did to pwotect you. I would never, ever, do anything that would endanger you.’

Norma eyed him suspiciously. ‘Okay, we’ll keep this conversation on hold, Percy, but you better believe that I’ll be watching you like a hawk.’

‘Before we go any further, Norma,’ continued Shelley, ‘I’d be much obliged if you’d ask your chums to stop pointing their pistols at my gwoin. They’re making me a tad nervous.’

Norma laughed. ‘It’s okay, Burlesque … Odette … I think we can put the guns away.’

‘Thou art Burlesque Bandstand and Odette Aroca?’ gasped Sister Maria.

As was her wont whenever there was a pretty girl involved, Odette stuck her oar in. ‘Oui, je suis Odette Aroca et c’est mon homme, Burlesque Bandstand.’

The pretty girl smiled and replied in French. ‘Pardon, Mademoiselle Aroca, je ne vous ai pas reconnue. On ne vous reconnaît pas du tout sur vos photos qui sont exposées sur les couvertures des magazines à sensation.’ (‘I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Aroca, I did not recognise you. You do not look like the pictures shown of you on the covers of the penny dreadfuls.’)

‘Wot? Wot’s this tart saying?’ Burlesque hated it when the conversation descended into Frog.

Norma interpreted. ‘She’s saying that you don’t look much like the pictures shown on the covers of penny dreadfuls.’

‘Wot pictures?’

Here Sister Maria brought a well-thumbed paperback out of her bag. ‘These pictures. Thou and Mademoiselle Odette art legendary freedom fighters, Monsieur Bandstand, and the stories of thy adventures, bestsellers. I am especially enamoured of the tale which relates how thou causèd the Awful Tower to come crashing down on the head of Beria, that most terrible of men.’

‘Gor, look at that, Odette, me and yous is famous.’ The cover of the book showed a man and a woman – a very slim man and a woman, which Burlesque ascribed to artistic licence – each brandishing a devil-may-care look and a brace of pistols. ‘Well, it don’t look a lot like me, but the artist got me titfer right,’ and he tapped the bowler hat that was perched on the back of his head. He handed the book to Odette, who studied the cover and then scowled.

‘Merde! This is, ’ow you say, Burlesque, the mostly fucking terrible. My ’air, it ’as none ov the waves for which I am mostly famous. Quand je trouve l’artiste, je lui arracherai les couilles!’ (‘When I find the artist I’ll rip his bollocks off!’)

‘Oh, it ain’t that bad, me darling. ’E’s caught your charms right, ain’t ’e? I like the way they’re peeking out from under your ripped dress. Real sexy.’

‘Look, when you two have finished admiring yourselves, maybe we can get back to the business at hand,’ Norma scolded. ‘Perhaps, now e