F.E. Higgins - The Eyeball Collector (Tales from the Sinister City, Book 3)

Prodigious praise for previous books by F. E. Higgins:

This clever, atmospheric debut... with its richly drawn and sometimes grotesque characters, its mysteries, its magic... is a piece of perfectly constructed, old-fashioned storytelling of the most compelling kind Sunday Times Childrens Book of the Week

A deliciously rich mix of Gothic nastiness... and black humour... terrific verve, with glittering descriptive flashes Guardian

You are in for a terrific read... fierce yet sophisticated The Times

Young readers with a taste for the macabre will find it deliciously scary Observer

Writing so atmospheric that the fumes from the noxious River Foedus seem to seep off the page and swirl round the reader Telegraph

Also by F. E. Higgins

The Black Book of Secrets
Winner of a CBI Bisto Book of the Year Honour Award
www.blackbookofsecrets.com

The Bone Magician
www.thebonemagician.com

www.theeyeballcollector.com

MACMILLAN CHILDRENS BOOKS

First published 2009 by Macmillan Childrens Books

This electronic edition published 2009 by Macmillan Childrens Books
a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
20 New Wharf Rd, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-0-230-73980-2 in Adobe Reader format
ISBN 978-0-230-73979-6 in Adobe Digital Editions format
ISBN 978-0-230-73981-9 in Mobipocket format

Copyright F.E. Higgins 2009

The right of F.E. Higgins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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To Beag Hickory,

Heres to your eyes,

may they never be in your potatoes

(Also known as Mothers Ruin, kill-grief, comfort,
hearts ease, Devils sweat and diddle)

At one stage gin was considered safer to drink than water, the city water often being contaminated with disease. As it became cheaper and cheaper, it was not long before this highly addictive tipple became known as Mothers Ruin. As a result laws were passed that made it more difficult to sell gin openly. There arose the gin pipe as a consequence: a pipe in the wall beside which was a slot. For a payment in the slot, gin would be dispensed into the waiting cup.

from Urbs Umida. A City Beyond Salvation
by K. B. & G. W. Porter-Scott

PART THE FIRST: A DIVIDED CITY
Ode to Urbs Umida by Beag Hickory

Extract from Myths and Folklore, Flora and Fauna of the Ancient Oak Forest

Extract from the Menu at Trimalchios Feast

A Note from F. E. Higgins

Extract from
A letter from Hector Fitzbaudly to Polly

... It was my father taught me how to kill a butterfly. To take it in your hand, unsuspecting as it is, and to pinch it underneath with finger and thumb, at the thorax, to stun it. Then to place the body swiftly in the killing jar, tighten the lid and allow the fumes to finish it off painlessly. Father often asked me to net the butterflies, because I was nimble and had a lightness of touch; they were never damaged when I caught them. It is still a source of wonder to me that, from a lowly caterpillar, such a beautiful creature can come into existence.

Then, when I was older, I learned to mount them. We worked in Fathers study, in the comforting glow of the fire and beneath the soft light of the gas lamps. I remember how he gathered together, quietly and unhurriedly, the equipment from shelves and drawers and I laid it out neatly on the desk boards and pins and paper. Next, with a flourish he would present me with the butterfly, a bright yellow Brimstone or perhaps an Orange Tip, and I would begin.

I knew Father was ever watching closely from behind me and I was always keen to show him that he had taught me well. Slowly, so slowly, I would push the long, pointed insect pin through the middle of the butterflys body, right between the wings careful not to rub off the tiny scales that gave them their captivating iridescence and into the mounting board. Next I would position the wings open, exactly how I wanted them, with their patterns matching, before pinning them in place, one at a time, just behind the larger veins. Finally I would place thin pieces of paper over each wing to prevent its curling up while the insect dried. Father wouldnt say anything, just place his hand firmly on my shoulder, and I always knew from the look on his face that he was pleased.

Father gave me a gift shortly before it all happened a small ebony cocoon to wear on a cord around my neck. I still have it, and every time I touch it I am reminded of those happier days.

But, Polly, that all seems a very long time ago...

The description above of the process of butterfly mounting, a common hobby of the age in which this was written, is to be found in one of a number of letters still surviving from a correspondence between a young lad named Hector Fitzbaudly and the girl called Polly (her surname is never given). I found the letters deep in the heart of the Moiraean Mountains, tied together by a leather cord with the ebony cocoon mentioned above hanging from it. I dont think they were all there, and I cannot say if they were ever sent, but I suspect not.

This revealing bundle is just one of many items I have picked up on my travels since last we met in Urbs Umida, that vile city where I uncovered the mystery of the enigmatic Bone Magician and the Silver Apple Killer. I have travelled further abroad since then and my collection of oddities has grown considerably. It now contains:

The story that follows relies heavily upon this correspondence. And, together with the false eyeball, what a story they tell! As is often the case, I am left with more puzzles than answers.