The Vorrh

aiming for. He returned, grinning, with one arm behind his back.
    ‘I want to give you this; I know you like it.’
    He thrust the brown paper parcel in her face and she frowned as she accepted it. Two days before, he had taken the peripherscope from its normal place, wrapped it up in thick, brown paper and placed it in a drawer. Now she held it in both hands, turning it, feeling its obvious form. She immediately knew what it was and started to pick at the string.
    ‘Oh no, not here – it’s yours now. Take it to your room, you can open it there.’
    She was suspicious, delighted and confused. Unable to convey all three emotions at once, she beamed at him and crunched into her toast.
    ‘After breakfast, I will show you my new machine; it’s a bit like that one, only better,’ he said, jabbing a prurient finger at the parcel.
    She finished her breakfast and went to dress, while he prepared his nameless device. He had moved its component parts around so that she might lie down on the table with her head between the reflecting mechanisms. He had brought the sunlight to the machine with the aid of three parabolic mirrors. It was less smelly and irksome than using the oil lamps, and the day was very much brighter than recent weeks.
    She was at the door, observing his joyful demonstration. ‘See? It works just like the other device; these little mirrors spin around, cupping the light from over there. There are lenses all over, look!’ He was pointing and fluttering his hands over the polished wood and brass; the sunlight glinted in the lenses. ‘There are two disc shutters and a rotating drum shutter back here. It’s all controlled by this crank, which I shall turn for a few moments. So, what do you think? Are you ready?’
    She hesitated a moment, then nodded and sat on the table, swinging her legs up to lie flat. He positioned her head, and put a simple, thin restraining band across her forehead.
    ‘Excellent! Let’s begin. Ready?’ Her eyes blinked ‘yes’.
    He pushed against the crank and the machine spun into motion. By the third turn, he had found his rhythm. The lenses turned into glowing, spinning spheres, stretching, chewing, sphinctering and splitting the now-invented light, which drilled into the sides of the black, responsive eyes, as the shutters chopped and shaved pulses of shadow, brilliance and darkness. For the first time, the machine hummed. He looked back and forth from it to her face and body, which remained motionless, and to his half-hunter pocket watch, propped up on the shelf nearby. After three minutes, he began to slow down, eventually bringing the machine to a stop. He removed the head strap and helped her to sit up. She was breathing normally, her eyes looked normal and there wasn’t the faintest trace of any effect. He gave her some water and asked her to walk around the room, which she did while drinking. He was mildly perplexed; there should have been some effect. He consulted his logbook, made a few minor adjustments and said, ‘Could we try again, please?’
    She nodded with a shrug and climbed back into the device. He cranked it into action again, this time for five minutes. He was perspiring under his tight, itching collar and cuffs. He sat her up again. Nothing. He asked her to lie down and close her eyes, expecting at least dizziness to manifest. She fell asleep. He gently but irritably shook her awake. ‘One last try, please. Just one.’
    They went back to the table. He fastened the strap and cranked again. Eight minutes later, he stopped: the machine was a failure. It only worked for him, she was totally impervious to its influence. It did nothing. He dismissed her with great irritation and sat, gloomily staring at the ridiculous hand-built tangle of disappointment.
    He sat until it started to get dark, then he dragged himself together, snatched up his topcoat and hat and left, slamming the door and waking her again in his exit. He stomped the gritty and dissolute streets for hours, walking in circles, trying to exhaust his rage and fathom what had gone wrong. He stopped at a public house and quietened it for a long moment with his wrong, brooding entrance. He made his way to the bar and ordered Nelson’s Blood from the surprised barman; men of Muybridge’s class were never seen in such neighbourhoods, and certainly not drinking concoctions as potent as the Admiral’s blood. Of course, unbeknownst to his unwilling bar-fellows, he had been in much rougher