Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

  Four steps led to the heavy double doors of the Leman Street Police Station which opened into chaos. Bodies milled about, and fists flew. A group of drunken dock workers were causing a commotion as two young constables struggled to restrain them.

  “What the bloody hellfire is going on here?” boomed a voice from the stairs. A huge overweight fellow, his uniform jacket stretched to its limits, burst into the fray. “Jenkins, what have I told you if they get bothersome?” The three white stripes on the man’s upper sleeve showed this was the desk sergeant Simmons was here to meet.

  One of the younger constables jumped in shock. “Not to spare the rod, sergeant?” he managed.

  “Not to spare the bloody rod,” the sergeant replied. “You lot,” he pointed at the dockers with his polished truncheon. “Shut it, or I’ll give you something to complain about.”

  Three of the group backed away from the sergeant, but the largest squared up. “We don’t take no orders from the likes of you, mutton shunter,” he slurred. “You better watch—”

  Two rapid blows from the wooden cosh cut the speech short, cracking hard across the big man’s left ear and shoulder. He dropped like a sack of coal, face-first onto the polished wood with a crack. Blood streamed down his face and pooled on the floor.

  The sergeant advanced on the three remaining dockworkers, truncheon raised to eye level. “Anybody else going to give me trouble?”

  Whether it was the sergeant’s tone, the felling of their leader or the thick smear of blood dripping from the weapon, Simmons wasn’t sure. But, hands raised and voices lowered amongst a chorus of placating negatives as the fight drained from them.

  “Jenkins, get this rabble downstairs. And for the love of God, remember what that weapon on your belt is for. It’s not for poking the bloody fire now, is it?”

  Two constables entered from the stairwell and hauled the collapsed man down the stairs while Jenkins and the other young constable ushered the remaining group to follow.

  “Too bloody soft these days,” the sergeant muttered as he rounded the front desk to take his position facing the main doors.

  Simmons stepped around the pool of blood and approached the desk. “Sergeant Carter, I presume?”

  “That’s right, sir,” there was a questioning tone in his voice. “What can I do for you?”

  “They told me to ask for you about payment for the Rockwell case.”

  “Ah, so it was you what brought him in the other night?”

  “Yes. The night sergeant said you handled all the payments now and that I should come back during the day shift.”

  “That’s right. We’ve had a few changes. Need to keep things in order. Everything in its proper place.” Carter retrieved a large leather-bound ledger from under the desk and flicked through the pages. “Pelham Simmons, isn’t it?”

  “It is, and just Simmons will do.”

  “Well, Mr Simmons, it seems you’ve done a fair amount of work for H Division.”

  “I like to keep busy.”

  Carter was an enormous fellow. Simmons felt his eyes straying from the bushy-bearded face down to the stretched uniform jacket, its buttons straining to hold back the man’s bulk. One had already failed in its duty. Conspicuous by its absence, it exposed an expanse of white shirt between the gaping dark blue fabric.

  “So it seems. Harris?”

  A young constable poked his head around an office door. “Yes, sergeant.”

  “Two Guineas from the safe please.”

  The large man returned his attention to Simmons. “I take it you have your paperwork?”

  Simmons pulled his permit from an inner pocket, unfolding it for the sergeant to inspect.

  “Yes, this all looks fine. I’ll make you a receipt.” Carter scribbled in a smaller book, then tore a sheet and handed it to Simmons before copying the entry into the log book. “If you’d like to countersign that everything is in order, sir,” Carter said, offering a silver fountain pen.

  It was one of those modern ones with a self-pressured ink reservoir—the type Simmons hated ever since he’d ruined a long letter when the reservoir burst while signing. Since then he’d kept to what he knew and trusted, a quality nib and a good inkwell. He signed both documents without incident and returned the pen to its owner just as constable Harris stacked two gold sovereigns and two shillings in a neat pile.

  “There you go sir, a pleasant day to you,” Harris said before retreating to the safety of his office.

  “And to you also,” Simmons replied. He returned his gaze to Carter. “That seems to conclude my business for today, sergeant. I’ll check the boards for anything of interest and then take my leave.”

  He turned towards the job boards but stopped, returning his gaze to the man behind the desk. “You appear to have lost a button from your uniform, sergeant.” He motioned to the swathe of white cloth on the other fellow’s chest.

  “Bugger it—” Carter said. “I mean to say, thank you for drawing it to my attention, sir.”

  Simmons stifled a smile, imagining the massive fellow on hands and knees searching for the silver button which must have made its bid for freedom during the coshing.

  He crossed to the notice boards by the main entrance. It wasn’t quite the Wild West, with wanted posters plastered around to tear down for the rewards offered, but it wasn’t far removed. Notices lined the wall for work the local force couldn’t complete. Many involved criminals escaping Fogside, or requests to locate missing persons.

  It reminded him of the walls surrounding Hyde Park, and the new Empress’ residence at Kensington Palace. It was where people first posted photographs of their missing loved ones. Those poor souls now known as ‘The Lost’.

  After the invasion faltered, and the Martians succumbed to the earth’s bacteria, people tried to reconnect with their scattered families. It started with pictures pinned to trees. Photographs or hand-drawn, they all had names and the hope that their loved ones would return one day. As time passed, and a high wall of black steel grew around Hyde Park, it became a focal point for those still searching.

  Tales of tearful reunions were common in the press but much fewer in reality. It had been almost four years now, and through all the hardship, new pictures still appeared daily. Some replaced the old damaged notes while others sought aid in locating more recent losses.

  Most of the notices here were typed on Met paper, but several, handwritten in a variety of scripts, remained pinned in the personal section. Simmons took notes of a few, even though these were pleas for help with little or no payment. I know it’s not much, Surita. But I am still trying to help them.

  He skipped the police notices. For now, he’d concentrate on finding Maddox. As with all police jobs, it paid well—in this case, better than most—the force looked after their own. Something felt good about helping them locate a killer of Maddox’s reputation.

  On his return to Wentworth Street, Mrs Colton presented a letter. “This came for you, Sir Pel. Delivered by hand, so I thought it must be important. The fellow said to give it directly to you.”

  “Thank you. This fellow, anyone you’ve seen before?”

  “I didn’t recognise him. Well dressed, a butler or valet to some city gent, I reckon.”

  Simmons frowned. Who’d be sending me hand delivered post? He flipped the envelope over, inspecting the front. It was quality paper, heavyweight and addressed to ‘Pelham Simmons’ in a flowing script.

  “Thank you, Mrs C.”

  “It’s always a pleasure,” she said, hovering for a few seconds before realising he wasn’t going to open it there.

  Simmons continued to his room and sank into his armchair, reaching for a letter opener. The silver blade slid through the envelope with ease.

  Simmons,

  I find myself in need of your help in a rather urgent matter. I know that we have not been on the best of terms and your grievance is understandable. With hindsight, it seems I could have handled the situation better. But I hope that even
if you hold me in your contempt, you will not ignore this matter which involves the safety of your goddaughter, Annabelle.

  I do not wish to speak further of this by letter and so hope you will find it in your heart to meet with me to discuss matters further. You are the only person I can turn to who may be able to help Annabelle. If you won’t do it for me, please do it for her sake.

  Hoping to hear from you favourably, I am,

  Sincerely yours,

  Sir Edward J Pemberton.

  “Damn you, Pemberton. This is just typical.” Simmons cast the letter aside.

  Pemberton comes begging for help when it suits him—where was he when I returned to London with Surita? Nowhere to be found.

  They’d been friends once, many years ago. But with Simmons’ appointment to India, they had lost contact. What made him think Simmons would help now? His damned daughter—that’s what.

  Simmons sighed, it wasn’t Annabelle’s fault that her father was an arrogant prig. In fact, he hadn’t seen her since the christening, almost seventeen years ago. Now she was in some kind of trouble, and he was her godfather.

  3

  Nathaniel Bazalgette coughed up a lungful of putrid water, gagging at the stench. Shadows danced across the arched brickwork from the rolling arc-lamp, dropped when he’d tripped.

  He retched, stomach heaving from the greasy muck burning his throat, and spat a mixture of water and mucus back into the slow-flowing stream of effluent. As he pulled himself onto the raised walkway, edging the sewage tunnel, he reached for the lamp.

  Shifting shadows resolved under the intense glare of his prized invention. Countless hours of design, build and late nights had paid off. The lamp battery was the size of two house bricks which fit into a neat leather satchel. Its power output was what Nathaniel was most proud of, far better than anything he’d seen in the rest of the city.

  Water dripped from him as he squeezed the liquid from his soaked beard and hair, careful to avoid it falling onto the battery pack. He found a cloth to wipe his filthy spectacles, but his efforts smeared more mud around the circular lenses than cleaned them.

  Despite his sodden state, he loved the sewers. Part of it was family pride—his grandfather had designed the immense network of tunnels that ran for countless miles under the capital—that wasn’t the only reason though. They were works of art. Even now, almost thirty-five years since their construction in 1865, they were a marvel of form and function. The sheer beauty of the ornamental brickwork lining them was staggering. Incredible when you realised nobody was ever expected to see the results.

  He sat there, admiring the vaulted ceiling of the massive node. Perfect curves of red and yellow bricks melted into brass dividers. No wonder they called them Cathedrals.

  He took his notebook from the leather satchel, along with his favourite mechanical pencil. With a few practised strokes, he completed a sketch of the cathedral, marking its location before returning the book to safety.

  His effort to re-map the sewage system was progressing well, but it might take as long as it had to build the damned things. The original plans were lost during the war but, determined to complete the meticulous job of exploration, he visited whenever he could. It drove him in his plan to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps, despite the tunnels now holding greater dangers than they ever had before. It could become a lifetime’s work.

  He checked his pocket watch, though damp, it still appeared to be working. It was just after eight in the evening, time to be heading back before the curfew. He consulted his map for the best route to retrace his steps. The sewers were a maze of similar looking tunnels and junctions, and he was running short on time. If the Black Guard caught him in the streets after nine there would be trouble, and they weren’t known for their leniency. He’d heard the tales of people disappearing after being detained.

  It only took fifteen minutes to locate the side tunnel into the main sewer. From there he could find a ladder to street level and be home well before the curfew. As he approached, a high-pitched shrieking and the skittering of hundreds of tiny clawed feet reached him. Rats.

  The sewer ahead was full of them, the typical brown variety that lived there in their thousands. On their own, or in small numbers, they weren’t too much of a threat. They could give you a nasty bite, and some carried disease, but when they swarmed, then they could strip a body of flesh in minutes. They were like urban piranha, and not to be trifled with. The best course of action was to keep your distance, retreat to high ground or hope they had recently gorged on something else. His gut clenched as he turned and fled back the way he’d come.

  A small upward sloping tunnel caught his sight, just large enough for him to squeeze into. He’d mapped this part of the sewer and knew the shaft connected to a more extensive section via a ladder. That should slow them down.

  The shrill squealing approached at an alarming rate as he scrambled up the incline. His rubber-soled boots gripped the shallow grooves in the floor, designed for these ascents, but water trickled down, making the surface slick and treacherous. He spotted the ladder and pulled himself onto the rusted rungs.

  The ladder creaked, large orange flakes of metal fell where his gloved hands clung to the narrow bar. With a shriek, it cracked and gave way. He grasped for a handhold but found only empty space. His boots hit the incline and slipped out from beneath him, dumping him face down on the slippery surface.

  Air exploded from his lungs, fear rising as he slid back towards the screams of the swarm below. His right boot struck something soft, which squealed in protest, but his toe caught in a ridge while his heart thundered in his chest.

  The vile creatures scrabbled around him, tearing at his boots and trousers as he tried to dislodge them. He slammed the boot tip down, feeling it skid off one with a sickening crunch, but the rubber sole stuck, and he threw himself forward, back to the corroded ladder. Hell, why didn’t I leave earlier?

  This time, the rungs held. He pulled himself away from the gnashing jaws. A few of the little horrors leapt at him, desperate to deny his escape. He kicked out, sending them tumbling into the mass of fur and teeth that boiled below.

  He collapsed onto a ledge six feet above, panting white clouds of breath into the frigid air. The squealing and scratching of the frenzied mob continued below. He turned the dial on the battery pack to full, and the arc-lamp flared, burning an incandescent after-image into his sight as he squeezed his eyes shut.

  He thrust the blazing lamp over the edge, electricity crackled furiously, arcing into the ladder. Frantic squeals followed the smell of scorched fur as the rats skittered to rejoin the swarm in the safety of darkness.

  As his internal count hit sixty for the second time, he set the arc-lamp to a more comfortable intensity. He opened his eyes, still blinking the bright image away. The lamp now crackled with blue-white arcs forming along the enclosed filament, a tiny raging lightning storm.

  Above the heavy thumping in his chest was just the lapping of water against the edge of the narrow overflow. He descended past the charred remains of half a dozen rats, back towards the central tunnel. Everything had returned to the calm, peaceful silence he was used to as he retraced his steps.

  The high sewer was a sheet of black glass, thirty feet across. Walkways lined both edges with a series of parallel supporting pillars in the main flow, their reflections in the low light seeming to dive deep into the void.

  As there seemed to be nothing here to cause alarm, Bazalgette dialled the arc-lamp back towards full power. The light sliced through the blackness. Shadows fled the pillars like fingers grasping for the receding safety of the darkness beyond.

  At the edge of his circle of light, he glimpsed colour between the brickwork and the dark water. A floating mass of red weed had somehow found its way into the main channel and wrapped around a solitary pillar.

  Crossing the walkway towards the cluster of pale tentacles, he noticed the weed was brighter on the far side where it met the opposite bank. A slow pul
sing from those strands looked a deeper vibrant red, the others grey and withered by comparison. He focused the beam on the healthier section where they wrapped around themselves, gripping several small brown and white lumps.

  It was fur and bleached bones, the lifeblood leached from the creatures that had stumbled too close to the weed. He’d read the details released by the government about the alien plant. It clogged the Thames and grew wild out beyond the protective city walls. The Martians seeded it during the war, feeding it a vile cocktail of blood from both animals and captured humans. Now it spread unchecked, especially near water, and drained any living thing of its life essence. Blood, sap—it was all the same to the weed—just sustenance.

  That’s enough for today.

  He would investigate where the red weed entered the sewer tomorrow when he’d come back prepared for battle—with fire.

  4

  Simmons rang Pemberton’s Piccadilly number from the telephone at his lodgings, organising to meet with the man that afternoon. The maid he spoke to had been chatty and discussed the terrible time the family were having. He found it strange that a maid should express such open opinions. It reminded him how much London had changed in just four years. The Martian invasion had touched every aspect of society and must have made finding good staff harder now than it had ever been.

  He left an hour before his meeting, heading to the Whitechapel High Street. Hansom cabs were plentiful, and soon he was skirting around the massive steel walls surrounding the Inner-City. Two Black Guard squads patrolled each of the gates, and they permitted access into the noble enclave only to those on official business.

  Electrical discharge crackled above, followed by the clanking of carriages. Simmons craned his neck, watching the segmented black train as it passed high overhead, speeding between the walled districts that made up the Inner-City. This one was racing north from the Square Mile towards Regent’s Park—where most of London’s fresh food grew. Sparks flew as it crossed one of the pylons which suspended the track fifty feet above street level. Children stopped to point at the vehicle’s passing, while the rest of the crowds ignored it and continued with their daily business.