Hairy London Read Free

folded the newspaper and tucked it under his right arm. Time to move along.
    After a while he discovered a way of walking as if through water, whereby he moved his legs slowly and rhythmically, allowing the hair to move naturally, as if well conditioned. It was exhausting, but not so exhausting as his earlier, frenetic attempts at motion. Where he needed to – thick clumps of old white hair, tight curls not unlike those of Lord Blackanore – he used the machete to clear a way. Half an hour later he was forging his way through brunette thickets up Chancery Lane, with Bedwards House in sight. At last!
    Gentleman Smyth waved to him. “Sir! This way, sir!”
    Sheremy clambered out of the hairy street and struggled up the steps; at the top he sat down, fatigued beyond endurance. “My word,” he said between hoarse breaths, “I’m quite exhausted. It’s taken me well over an hour to walk here from Gough Square.”
    “I have heard similar tales, sir.”
    “Are there many at the club?”
    “Very few this morning, sir. Most of your associates have not been able to escape their homes.”
    “It’s the very devil of a pickle,” Sheremy said. “Fetch me a double brandy, then find out if Sir Hoseley is available.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    Sheremy regained his breath then, when Gentleman did not reappear, entered the marble hall, spotting the doorman high up on a balcony. “Gentleman! My query?”
    “Sir Hoseley is in the Chinese breakfast room, sir. My apologies for not returning sooner, I was detained by a phantasmagorical Mongol.”
    Sheremy ascended to the breakfast room, where he found Sir Hoseley and Lord Blackanore busy with plates of Saharan baboon. Lord Blackanore gestured him over. “Quite melts in the mouth! Tuck in.”
    Sheremy glanced at Sir Hoseley, then took a seat, allowing a servant to deliver a plate of steaming bushmeat. “What’s going on?” he asked.
    “Nobody knows,” Lord Blackanore replied. “I’ve been on the tele-combustion machine, but not even my man in Whitehall knows the score. I can’t understand it.”
    “Damn papers are saying the entire city is beneath hair. Can that be true?”
    “Until more reports come in, we can’t be certain. I fear insurrection if truth be told. The Cockneighs will be up in arms and tearing down the East End before you know it – you simply can’t trust them, you know.”
    “You just can’t trust them,” Sir Hoseley mournfully echoed.
    “What will the club do?” Sheremy asked Lord Blackanore.
    “For the moment, continue as if nothing has happened. I find that is usually the best way to proceed. Alas Pharaday has not yet appeared, and I fear he is entangled in this wretched wig somewhere.”
    “With luck,” Sheremy mumbled under his breath.
    “What was that?” Sir Hoseley asked.
    “He’s stuck,” Sheremy said. “Decent bit of baboon, this. Any stewed leeches for dessert?”
    Sir Hoseley frowned. “So, Pantomile, know any good barbers?”
    “I have my man see to that kind of thing,” Sheremy replied. “I find barbers to be vulgar more often than not. Don’t you agree?”
    “Quite,” Sir Hoseley replied, with an acid smile. “But Pantomile... the wager is unaffected by this hirsute development.”
    “I had realised that, dear fellow.” Sheremy stood up, dabbed a napkin to his lips, then said, “I’m too full for leeches. If I can, I’ll be here for supper. Farewell gentlemen.”
    Returning to the front of the building Sheremy stood for a moment on the top step, Gentleman Smyth at his side. The doorman said, “Are you planning to return home, sir?”
    “I don’t know what I’m going to do. Try to see if aught can be done about this cursed hair. There must be some explanation.”
    “No doubt the illusionists at the Institute will be dreaming up scientific experiments right now. That Rutherford chap seems sound.”
    Sheremy nodded. “Why yes... the Institute! Good notion, that. Those chemical-stained boffins will have some