Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute

by Catherine Griffin

  He was moving away from the house, and the wind had dropped. We must have reached the shelter of the brick wall that ran part of the way along the drive, near to the stable yard. He stopped, pulling me up so we stood face to face.

  'This will do well enough. Any last words, Miss Wright?'

  I could barely see his face inches from my own, but I felt the tension in his arm and voice. He was trembling with excitement.

  'I want to know the truth,' I said. 'Did you kill the Professor?'

  'What difference does it make now? Do you want me to say, yes, I killed the stupid old man. He followed me one night when I went out to collect seaweed. I knocked him down and held his head under until he drowned. Is that what you want to hear?' He yanked on my arms, pulling me closer.

  'You won't get away with this.'

  'I rather think I will.'

  'I'm wearing Mrs Jones’ clothes. When they find my body, they will know I was at the house.'

  'Are you? I hardly think it matters. After you've been in the water a few days, no one will ask too many questions. Mrs Jones will say whatever I tell her to, and so will her husband. But now, I really must end this. Time and tide wait for no man.'

  I struggled, but his grip on my wrists was iron. With his other hand, he grabbed my shoulder, pulling my face towards his. His breath warmed the skin of my throat.

  He bit me.

  His teeth dug into the side of my neck, through skin and flesh, veins and arteries and nerves screaming in shock and agony. My legs buckled under me.

  A solid lump of wood hit my side, driven with the unstoppable strength of the flood. I dropped and water surged over my head. My arms were free. I gripped the timber reflexively and half-crawled, half-swam, flowing with the current, one piece of flotsam among many. My feet found ground. I flailed and my hand hit brickwork. My nails dug into the mortar as I clawed for purchase. Weight of water pressed me against bricks.

  Brick pillar. The entrance to the stable yard, one of the brick pillars of the gateway. I still gripped the floating wooden object which had saved me. It was the wheelbarrow, I realised with numb amazement. I let it go and the flood snatched it past me, through the gateway into the yard. I followed.

  The deep, roiling water knocked me down. I rose gasping for air and fought my way to the wall, feeling for a door. Smooth wood slid against my numb hands, interrupted by the curve of a metal handle. The big double doors into the workshop. I grabbed and pulled.

  Useless. The doors opened outwards, and all my strength was nothing against the weight of the water. I waded along the wall. There should be a smaller door further along.

  It seemed miles in the dark before my hand found the painted wood. I clung to the handle. My arms felt like wet wool. Having reached sanctuary, I didn't have the strength for this final effort. I breathed deeply.

  There was no choice. The door stood between me and safety. Doors are made to be opened. I had to find the strength from whatever my battered body still held in reserve.

  I braced my foot against the brick wall, turned the handle and pulled. The door opened a fraction before slamming shut again as water gushed into the gap. Nearly. I could do this. I gripped the handle with both hands, braced myself again and leaned backwards, throwing every ounce of desperate effort against the dead weight. The door moved. I jammed my foot inside, shoving my hand and arm into the gap after it.

  The door held me like a vise as the sea rushed past me. Ignoring the fresh pain, I forced myself inside. The door slammed shut behind me. I sagged to the floor, sitting chest deep in water with my back against a wall. It was pitch black.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  WARM BLOOD TRICKLED from the wound in my neck. Cold owned the rest of me, cold that bit to the bone. I wasn’t shivering. That was a bad sign. I should get up, but my legs didn't want to move. I needed to rest, just for a few minutes.

  My neck hurt though. The urgent nagging messages dragged me back to the here and now. How badly was I hurt? I explored the area with my fingers, wincing as I touched raw flesh. Since I hadn’t bled to death already, it wouldn’t kill me anytime soon. But if I didn't get out of the water, I would die, and then what would be the point of all that running?

  Leaning against the brick wall, I got my legs under me. There should be a door to my right, into the workshop. I fumbled along the wall.

  My clothes snagged on the door handle my numb hands hadn’t found. I heaved the door open and stepped into the flooded room, feeling around for a bench or table. My hand hit something hard and smooth, rising vertically above my head. Of course, the Walking War Machine. I had found one of the legs. I worked my way around the machine. The water buoyed me up as I clambered up the mounting steps into the driver’s seat. It was no comfortable seat under normal conditions, but I clung to the hard metal like a long lost friend.

  Safe enough, for a while. But what then? Langstone would search for me. If he didn’t find me, he’d return to the house. Kill Enfield, helpless in his sleep. Then search for me in daylight and find me dead of hypothermia. Not good.

  Langstone held all the cards. What did I have? Myself, battered and bleeding and exhausted. The Giant Walking War Machine, broken. A flooded workshop full of tools, with no light.

  As I hugged my sodden clothes around me, a hard edge nudged my ribs. The reel of tape, still in my pocket. I fished it out and chewed off a length. Wrapping it round my neck proved painful, and I didn’t think it would do much good, but felt better for trying. I had done something, taken a step towards a goal. I wouldn’t sit here and wait to die. I wouldn’t let Enfield die if I could help it.

  Nice sentiments. What exactly was I going to do? Despite my lethargy, my brain was working, putting together fragments of a plan. It was my tired body that didn’t want to move, telling me I was weak, the situation hopeless. I closed my eyes against the darkness. What would Father have done?

  No. Stupid. Father was dead and gone, and I didn’t need him to tell me what to do. He had taught me everything. I had to save myself, because no one else was going to. What did I need?

  First problem, light. Among all the tools in the workshop, there was bound to be a lamp and matches. Not much chance of finding those useful things without any light. A chicken and egg problem, without even a chicken, or an egg. I giggled. Don’t get hysterical, you idiot. Think. Remember the workshop as you last saw it.

  The workbench ran along the wall, under the windows. In the corner a small stove stood on the floor. Stove meant matches.

  I climbed down. My legs trembled as I stepped into the water. The cold burnt like fire.

  In memory, the Machine almost filled the room, but the back wall of the workshop seemed acres away. Junk hidden by the water snagged my numb feet. At last, my hands found the wall. I felt my way along. Where was the stove? My shin hit metal.

  Right. I’d found the stove, a little cast-iron island, reassuringly solid. Where would the matches be? Most likely floating away on the flood. I stood up. Blinding pain stabbed through the top of my head.

  A shelf. I’d forgotten the shelf. I groped through the debris. Loose screws, a small hammer, small cardboard box… matches. I clung to my prize with shaking hands, almost squashing the precious box. After many dropped matches and failed attempts at lighting one, I found something on the workbench to strike against instead of the damp box.

  Light sizzled and flared, a hypnotic point of flame. I stared. The match fizzled out in my fingers before I could do anything useful. I took a deep breath and lit another.

  With that tiny flame, I scanned the jumbled workbench for a lamp. Just tools and machine parts. The match went out. I cursed Rickett, and lit another match. There had to be a lamp. I willed one to appear so hard, maybe I called it into existence. It hung from a nail on the other side of the workshop.

  My luck was changing. There was oil in it.

  Light. A pool of yellow light shivered on the lapping water. Gratitude brought tears to my eyes. No wonder our ancient ancestors wors
hipped fire.

  First problem solved. Now for the next step. The light played over a jumble of engine parts on the workbench. Rickett had left the place untidy. Oiled metal glinted as the beam caught a rack of tools. I ran my hand along the warm wood and cold metal. A crowbar seemed the best choice. It fit snugly in my hand, the weight comforting.

  I had light and a weapon. Now what? I turned back to the Machine. It crouched black and lifeless in the water, but something in that mass of metal called to my soul. If I could only drive it. But I didn’t even know what had broken in the demonstration.

  One way to find out. I scrambled up into the driving position.

  Levers, wheels and handles shone in the lamplight. Somewhere must be the fore engine starter, rear engine starter, drive to the legs, power, steering. I picked something and pulled. The rear engine roared into exultant life. So that other doodad must be the fore engine. I started that too. The sound enveloped me, reverberating off the walls and rippling the surface of the water. Exhaust fumes stung my eyes and nose.

  The Machine juddered with contained power. My power. I laughed. If Langstone was still out there, I hoped he heard. I released the lock on the front legs, trying to feed in the power gently. The whole vehicle lurched, taking me by surprise.

  I cut the power. The Machine had canted to one side. Ah, there was the problem. One leg hadn’t moved. Hydraulic hose dangled loose. I got down to inspect the damage. The valve was closed before the break, but oil seeped out, warm as blood. Rickett had been right; it was a simple breakage. Under normal circumstances, I’d replace the hose. These were not normal circumstances. What if I mended the break with Jones’ Waterproof Tape? Would it hold?

  One way to find out.

  I wrapped plenty of tape round the split hose, then opened the valve. No oil escaped. Promising. The Machine in motion would put a lot more strain on the repair, but it would have to do. I gave the Machine a pat before restarting the engines.

  The fumes were really getting thick in here. Time for some fresh air. The workshop doors should be ahead. Big double wooden doors, soaked in water, and a couple of feet of water inside and out. Impossible for me to open by hand. Fortunately, I didn't need to.

  I fed power to the front legs. They both moved smoothly, the repair holding. I nudged the Machine forwards until I heard the fore legs scrape against wood. I took a deep breath.

  'C'mon, then. Show me what you can do.'

  The doors squealed and creaked as the legs drove into the elderly timber. For a moment I thought there wouldn’t be enough power, and then the doors tore from their hinges like paper, falling outward into the darkness.

  I patted the Machine. 'Good girl.'

  The controls were far from easy, and these weren’t the best conditions for learning. The Machine wanted to continue in a straight line without regard to inconveniences like buildings. Shouldering aside part of the gateway, it strode out of the stable yard. The water might as well have been air.

  Lightning danced in the clouds over the mainland. The Machine grunted and swayed. I lost myself in concentration on the controls, the flow of lever and gear and the song of the engines. We plodded onward, in what I hoped was the right direction. I didn’t dare drive her harder, even if I could manage it. Now and then I stopped and lifted the lamp, hoping to see the house.

  Light caught the fluted columns of the porch. I fought to steer the Machine in. With her usual obstinacy, she side-swiped a column before I could cut the power.

  The silencing of the engines left me alone again. I would have taken her inside, if I could, but she wouldn’t fit through the doorway. Instead, I had my small, weak self, and a lamp, and a crowbar. If Langstone was waiting for me, the crowbar wasn’t going to be much use, but what else could I do? Hide in a hole? There was no better option.

  I dropped down onto the front steps, knee deep in water. Lamp in my left hand, crowbar in my right. The front door stood ajar.

  A film of water covered the tiled floor. I shone light into the corners. Nothing moved. I crept up the stairs. Perhaps Langstone wasn’t here. He might have drowned in the flood. I reached the top of the stairs. In the silence, my breathing seemed loud enough to rouse the dead, and my heartbeat thudded in my ears. Step by step, I edged along the landing. My muscles wanted to freeze in place, to go anywhere except where I was going. But there was no choice.

  The lab door stood open. A guinea pig scuttled away from the light. I inched past towards the half-open door of Langstone’s bedroom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ENFIELD STILL SAT in the high-backed chair. Jones still lay on the bed. Of Langstone, there was no sign. I went to Enfield. His head was thrown back, exposing the white skin of his neck where his collar shielded it from the sun. His cupped right hand lay relaxed on his lap beside the steel hook. His eyes were closed and he was very still.

  I could hear nothing but my own breathing and the wind rattling the windows. I set the lamp down on the floor, then touched his arm. He felt warm.

  ‘Enfield! Wake up!’

  He didn’t move.

  ‘For God’s sake, Enfield, wake up.’

  I seized his shoulders and shook him. His head rolled limply.

  ‘You’re not dead, you idiot, wake up.’

  There might have been a rustle of clothing, a weight shifted on a floorboard, a barely noticeable change in the air. I was snatching up the lamp and turning before I heard Langstone speak.

  ‘You won’t wake him.’ He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. He stood in the doorway. The acid I’d thrown on him had eaten holes in his trousers.

  I held the lamp up so the light fell full on his stark white face. He shrank back from the light, raising his hands to shield his eyes.

  ‘What have you done to him?’

  He stepped back onto the landing. ‘I told you. Both of you had to die.’ His face twitched. ‘What do you think you’re doing? You know I’m stronger than you.’

  The crowbar burned in my hand. I ran at Langstone. He side-stepped. I flailed with the crowbar. A shock ran through the metal as it connected with his raised arm. I saw that shock reflected in his eyes before I followed up with another desperate swing. He crumpled to the ground. I hit him again, a solid blow to the ribs. He didn’t cry out or flinch.

  I staggered back, barely able to lift the weight of the crowbar. ‘Don’t even think of getting up.’

  He didn’t move. He must be unconscious. Blood streamed from a cut on his forehead over his closed eyes before dripping to the floor. Perhaps he was dead. I couldn’t summon up much concern for him.

  On trembling legs I tottered back to Enfield. The crowbar thumped to the floor. I set down the lamp.

  Enfield couldn’t be dead. I couldn’t believe he was dead.

  I slapped his face. No reaction. Overpowering anger gripped me. After everything I’d gone through, everything I’d done, he couldn’t be dead. I pummelled his unresponsive body with my fists, shouting and screaming until I ran out of breath.

  Still nothing.

  I collapsed on top of him and lay with my head pillowed on his warm chest. My eyes closed and I just lay breathing, in and out, in and out. Gradually it dawned on me that his chest rose and fell, pressing against my cheek. Enfield was breathing. He wasn’t dead.

  When I lifted my head to look at his face he blinked at me in sleepy confusion.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said.

  ‘You’re all right,’ I said, rather stupidly. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

  I was still draped across him, but didn’t want to move. He put his arms around me and we kissed. It seemed the thing to do.

  After a few minutes, I peeled myself away from him to check on Langstone. He still seemed to be out of it but to my regret, was alive. I used the tape to bind his wrists behind his back.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Enfield wobbled on his feet but looked more alert.

  ‘Langstone tried to kill me.’

  That tape really was useful stuff. I reminded myself
to thank Jones when he recovered. I crossed over to him and checked he was still breathing.

  Enfield bent over Langstone. ‘He’s out for the count. What did you do to him?’

  ‘Crowbar.’

  Enfield picked up Langstone’s torso.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Putting him on the bed. We can’t leave him lying on the floor like this.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ I said, but picked up his legs.

  We dropped him on the bed beside the sleeping Jones.

  ‘He must have gone mad,’ Enfield said. ‘Poor chap.’

  ‘Poor chap? What about me? I nearly died! He meant to kill you too!’

  ‘Did he?’ He looked down at the unconscious man. ‘I suppose I should thank you, then.’

  ‘Too damn right you should.’ I sat down in the chair he had vacated, still warm with his body heat. It had been a long day.

  ‘Thanks. For saving my life,’ he said. ‘What happened to your neck?’

  ‘He bit me.’ I touched the makeshift dressing. The pain had settled to a dull ache.

  ‘Let me have a look.’

  ‘Ow!’ I yowled like a scalded cat.

  ‘Sorry. This is a mess. You really need a doctor but I can at least clean you up and dress it.’

  He insisted on bandaging the wound. That hurt. When he finished I thought he’d let me sleep, but he kept asking questions.

  ‘I’ll explain everything. Later,’ I said, and was already dozing when he tucked a blanket around me. ‘Keep an eye on Langstone.’

  When I woke, sunlight flooded through the windows. I lay still for a while, enjoying being warm and dozy and knowing everything I ought to be worried about could wait. Then I remembered. On the other side of the room, by the window, Langstone sat in the matching bedroom chair. His back was to the window, his eyes screwed up against the light. He smiled nastily when he saw I was awake.