Hawley Griffin is a chemist. Mina Harker is a chemist. Henry Jekyll
is a chemist.
Edward Hyde does not think of himself as a chemist, for all that he
can speak the
lingo fluently enough, if asked--though the very idea of making such
a request never
seems to enter the minds of his fellow colleagues, one way or another.
"What a pity you can't let Jekyll out for a moment, every now and then,"
Griffin
murmurs, Invisibly, by Hyde's elbow. "Just for a friendly chat, you
know, and a bit
of well-bred scientific expertise..."
"Why assume I know nothing of Henry's pursuits? We share a brain, after
all; the
total equipage gets *bigger*, not smaller, if you hadn't noticed."
"You'll forgive me for thinking your own areas of focus might lie--heh,
heh--elsewhere."
"Will I? It's easy enough to say such things, 'sight unseen'."
Another giggle, slightly higher-pitched--Griffin's voice is dimmer now,
indicating
he's moved to a spot he thinks is out of Hyde's reach. "Yes, very."
Adding, after a pause: "Rather the point of the whole exercise, really."
Spindly Griffin, with his dancer's gait and his offhand killer's deftness,
his long
and temptingly crackable limbs all aglow in the blaze of Hyde's heat-vision:
Bastard
might as well leave sparks behind whenever he prowls up and down the
Nautilus's
library floor this way, poncing heel-and-toe like Grimm's Wicked Queen
in her
red-hot iron shoes. Pausing to balance here and there, testing his
muscles like
springs...a study in poses, self-consciously unselfconscious. Almost
like he hopes
someone might--some*how*--be watching.
He can't know Hyde's secret, however; his mind's quick enough, like
his knife, but
it simply doesn't work that way. And Hyde certainly won't tell 'till
it
becomes...necessary. An inevitability, really, given Griffin's personality
and
proclivities--the man's barely controllable now, with the full weight
of her
Majesty's government huffing down his almost always-naked back. Hyde
senses it's
only sheer physical cowardice which keeps him where he is, at least
until he can
figure a way to disappear still *further* without endangering his own
precious skin.
And: "Griffin," Hyde calls, inquiringly, watching the Invisible Man's
back. "Are you
still here?"
(Seeing Griffin pause, seeing him smile his cruel little smile to himself:
Small,
sharp teeth like a ferret's, Hyde imagines, though he can't distinguish
in such fine
detail from this distance. Seeing him consider whether or not to answer,
stepping
closer all the while--closer, closer, closer. Just a *little* closer,
said the
spider to the fly...)
Watching Griffin. Watching Griffin watch the rest of them, fingers twitching
as
though taking phantom notes, with all the constant, gelid fixity of
a predator
condemned to spy on his prey even through the filter of his own transparent
eyelids.
It's an amusement Hyde's come to depend on, more and more--the wonderfully
soothing
daily spectacle of a self-enchanted man-ghost measuring out his hangman's
rope, one
scant inch at a time. A pas-des-deux truly worth a thousand daguerrotypes.
At Hyde's ear, now, breath just puffing the lobe: "Might be a good idea
to make dear
'Henry' tinker with the serum a trifle, though, mightn't it? Try and
iron out a few
of those little--inefficiencies."
"Oh, can't say that the mixture needs much work, all told; *I*'m capable
of changing
back, after all."
"Don't much, though, not anymore. Do you."
...frankly, no.
The which fact hints, funnily enough, at the real reason Hyde is willing
to suffer
Griffin's disrespect--that he *likes* to talk to him, no matter how
Griffin goes out
of his way to infuriate him. Or, rather, *because* of it.
Rage produces enzymes, catalytic in nature, which complete the serum's
formula. To
summon Hyde, all one must do is enrage Jekyll beyond the boundaries
of his vaunted
self-control and out into that dim, red region where the monkey-mind
lurks--easier
than it seems, in perfect point of fact. Though it's not as though
Hyde is ever
*truly* absent, even pared of the vital rage that pumps his flesh that
extra, ogrish
matter of degrees past the feeble parameters of Henry's skinny frame...
But it's only a matter of time before the berserker tide ebbs low enough,
inevitably, to allow the human stopgap to resurface. And much as Hyde
has never
pretended he has any great love for Jekyll, his sanctuary/prison, he
has equally
little wish to hover behind those weak, blinking eyes, or eavesdrop
on the "good"
doctor's tremulous attempts at conversation: Ridiculous Henry, forever
meditating on
sins he'd never have the stomach to consider, let alone commit!
So Hyde fights to stay angry, to stay annoyed, knowing it's the best--the
only--way
he can count on staying *himself*. And since Griffin, hands down, remains
the single
most annoying bastard Hyde's ever met...
Hyde's no alienist, but he suspects Griffin truly belongs to some brave
new phylum
all his own: A splendid, dreadful hunger permeates his every move,
impatient and
inattentive, goading him on to ever-escalating feats of self-indulgence.
Masquerading as an erotic phantom in some girls' school dormitory or
beating a bobby
to death just so he can steal his uniform--deliberately worn without
bandages, of
course, in order to shock as many passersby as possible--are only two
barest
crag-tips of that moral iceberg which surely lurks beneath his snide,
teasing
manner.
A study in evolution, spiritual decay caught mid-progress; perhaps Hyde's
been too
rash on the subject of letting Jekyll crawl back to consciousness,
after all.
Considering just how much Hawley and Henry might profit, potentially,
from the
comparing of notes.
Griffin, skulking around on bare and stealthy feet--almost always nude,
often
aroused. Hyde suspects Mrs Harker can sense how often he touches himself,
almost
absently, whenever she speaks; he knows it in the same unspoken way
he knows that
she's far too self-possessed, too innately *practical*, to ever think
of putting
herself in Hyde's huge hands--and applauds that in her, much as it
sometimes riles
the unplumbed depths of his already-base(r) nature. Having already
been swept away
by one monster...and a foreign one, at that...she probably has little
wish to repeat
the experience, even with a true blue British abomination. Patriotism
only takes one
so far, don'tcha know.
Griffin might play, though, if Hyde ever somehow convinced him he had
the upper
hand. He's just that perverse.
*Don't be fooled by the slope of the skull, gadfly. I'll crush you yet,
one bone at
a time, and make you like it.*
On the other side of the library, Griffin lights a cigarette with a
single, compact
flick of the match: Deft arsonist's hands, their long-nailed fingers
scalpel-swift.
Hyde admires the Invisible Man's delicate bronchial tree as it blooms,
outlined in
smoke, flowers briefly, then withers away once more, leaving only a
dissipating
plume hanging in the air above.
Hyde clears his throat, a low rumble. Then ventures, lazily:
"Must have been hard, eh? Training yourself to murder...man of science, and all that."
"Do I strike you as a humanitarian, Hyde?"
"No more than I myself. But perhaps it came more naturally than not:
The simple
legacy of experience, survivor's tactics. A pretty albino, a boys'
boarding-school..."
"I'll thank you not to speculate on my *experiences*, ape-man."
"Mrs Harker would sympathize, surely."
Griffin snorts. "I think *not*."
"Oh, you're in no mood to swap confidences; I understand completely.
But we'll have
to bridge that unfortunate lack of trust sometime in our acquaintanceship,
won't we,
old chap? For the sake of the *team*."
Griffin makes a dry little snarling noise, and stalks off--Hyde can
feel the breath
of his passage, smell the laboratory tang of his sweat. And he's careful
not to
look, so long as Griffin's still facing his way.
So insufferably pleased with the mess he's made of himself: It's what
little they
share, each in their own very particular way--all chemists, all accidents,
unnatural
products of their own insatiable lust for discovery. All of them experiments
gone
terribly awry, fecund with unforseen consequences.
The door slams, announcing Griffin's huffy departure for all to hear.
Too bad he
doesn't know--*can't* know--that Hyde can still see him lounging beside
it, a quiet
sentinel, clear as the monstrous nose on his own monstrous head. Waiting
for an
opportunity to create yet more chaos.
And: One day, Mr Hyde thinks, he really will have to pull Griffin to
him by the
throat and trace that heat-blurry oval he calls a face at his leisure,
learning all
its lines by heart. Before he rearranges them, finally, to his own
personal
satisfaction.
Campion Bond's fatuous claims to the contrary aside, the League surely
exists as
much to provide freaks like Hyde and Griffin (and Quartermain, Nemo,
Mrs Harker
herself) with a place to congregate, congenial company, a "home" away
from home.
Some sense of familiarity, even in this unfamiliar--yet brave, naturally--new
world.
But what does familiarity breed, again?
Mr Hyde returns to his newspaper, chuckling slightly. The Nautilus speeds
on,
silent, through uncharted waters.
THE END