The Parliament of Blood

by Justin Richards

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ruthven said quietly. ‘Truly sorry.’ He leaned forward.

  The pressure on Sir William’s neck was released. But immediately replaced by the sharp pain of something hard slicing into his flesh. He could feel the warm blood pumping out and running down. The world was a misty red as Sir William sank to the ground.

  The last thing he heard was the Coachman’s brittle voice. ‘Welcome to Damnation.’

  CHAPTER 13

  The pale, nervous man who got into the carriage before they left the British Museum looked familiar, but it took Eddie a while to recall where he had seen him. It was at the Mummy Unwrapping. The gaunt, grey-haired man with a white moustache had been there. Eddie kept his expression blank and hoped the man wouldn’t remember him.

  Eddie could see snatches of the journey through the fog. The streets were lined by warehouses and storage buildings rather than houses now. He could hear the clanking of machinery and the sound of steam engines.

  A train was passing them, dragging a long line of trucks. Behind it Eddie could make out the dark shapes of engine sheds and huge piles of coal. They were approaching one of the sheds. The double doors were open ready, and the carriage clattered inside without slowing at all.

  Eddie braced himself, afraid they were going to crash. But instead the whole carriage tilted downwards and he almost fell forward off the seat. The carriage charged on into the sloping darkness – far further than was possible inside an engine shed. A gas lamp sped past the window, then another. They were in a tunnel, Eddie realised, racing down into the earth.

  It was a struggle for Eddie to keep his face blank and betray no feeling as the coach clattered through dimly lit tunnels for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, it slowed to a halt.

  ‘You know what you must do, Lord Ruthven,’ the Coachman said as soon as the grey-haired man had climbed out.

  ‘Of course.’ He turned and beckoned for Eddie to follow him.

  The carriage had stopped in the middle of a great cavern. It was like an enormous cave, but the roof and walls were held together by intricate stonework. The place was lit with sputtering lamps that made the walls glow a dull, moist red.

  The vaulted roof sloped down at one end of the cavern. There was then a huge area where the roof was much lower and flat. The carriage had arrived under this flat area, the top of the Coachman’s hood almost touching the roof as he sat on the driver’s bench.

  Lord Ruthven led Eddie a short distance away. ‘We will watch from here,’ he said quietly, without looking at Eddie.

  More people were arriving in the cavern, from the various passageways and tunnels leading off. They walked with a formal, measured gait, dressed in black and red. Men and women, even a few children. Pale, emaciated figures that grouped themselves round the carriage. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds of them.

  Despite the gathering crowd, Eddie still had a clear view of the carriage. When it seemed that everyone was present, the Coachman reached down beside the bench seat. Then he straightened up abruptly, raising a sword above his head so that its point was touching the roof. The blade was stained bronze, flashing as it caught the sputtering light.

  ‘The age-old ceremony,’ Lord Ruthven said quietly. He glanced at Eddie, and smiled. ‘Not that you know or care.’

  Eddie kept looking straight ahead, though he dearly wanted to see Ruthven’s expression. Dearly wanted to ask him what was going on.

  But it seemed Ruthven was going to tell him anyway. ‘The cemetery is so close above us that I sometimes wonder if the gravediggers might excavate too deep and discover us.’ There was a tremor in the man’s voice. Was he nervous? Afraid? ‘But of course, they are well paid to put the right bodies in the right places.’

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the flickering light, Eddie could see something else. The stones that lined the flat ceiling – some of them were engraved. He had thought it was just the natural texture, but Ruthven’s talk of grave digging made Eddie realise that they looked almost like tombstones.

  The Coachman was dragging the sword along the edge of one of the large, engraved roof slabs. It bit deep into the ground above, dark, damp earth showering down and rattling on the roof of the carriage.

  When he had cut all round the large slab, the Coachman lowered the sword and the coach moved forward a few yards. The horses were so pale they almost glowed. They were so thin that it seemed as if their ribs were standing proud of the sides of their bodies. There were black plumes attached to their skull-like heads, like those on undertakers’ horses.

  The Coachman held the sword in both hands for a moment, then swung it suddenly upwards like a club.

  The sword smashed into the slab above, shattering it into fragments. Lumps of stone fell and bounced off the carriage roof. There was a tearing, wrenching, groaning that seemed to come from the ground above Eddie’s head. Then something crashed down through the hole where the stone slab had been. A long wooden casket thumped on to the roof of the carriage.

  A coffin.

  The carriage was moving again now, heading for one of the wider tunnels leading from the cavern. The figures in their red and black finery followed it. Ruthven and Eddie joined the back of the procession as they walked slowly, stiffly, formally through the crimson gloom. Like a funeral procession.

  The red mist was clearing, but Sir William could feel the fire burning in his neck where Lord Ruthven had bitten. He clutched at the arm of his chair and dragged himself to his feet.

  At the side of the desk was a carafe of water. He grabbed at it, and with a shaking hand poured some into the glass. Then he splashed it over his neck, hoping to ease the pain. It had no effect.

  The room was spinning and his vision was blurring again. He did not have much time. But how to counteract the bite? He struggled to lift the carafe. Held it in front of his face and tried to focus. With his free hand he described the sign of the cross. How did you make holy water?

  ‘Our Father,’ he murmured, ‘Which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name …’

  He hurried through the prayer, then emptied the carafe over the burning pain at his neck.

  The water turned to steam as it touched his broken skin. Scalded, he cried out in pain and collapsed to his knees. His hand scrabbled at the drawers of the desk.

  In the middle drawer was a simple letter opener – a long, thin strip of shaped silver. It took all Sir William’s remaining strength to bend it back and forth. He jammed it in the drawer and worked it until the metal gave and snapped in half. It would have to do. He was fading, he could feel it – even with the wound cleaned, he needed to cauterise it. To burn out the remaining infection.

  He pressed the two strips of silver together in the rough shape of a cross, and clamped them to his neck.

  The angry hiss of burning flesh.

  A scream of violent agony.

  A body falling.

  As soon as George and Sir Harrison Judd were inside the Damnation Club, Judd excused himself.

  ‘I have certain things to prepare,’ he told George. ‘Clarissa will look after you.’

  ‘This way, Mr Archer.’ Her voice was as soft and silky as ever. She was standing in a doorway, wrapped in her scarlet cloak. ‘Bring your coat,’ she told him. ‘You will find it cold. For a while.’

  Clarissa led him along a dimly lit oak-panelled passageway. It ended with a flight of wooden steps, the middle of each tread worn down by the passage of feet over the years.

  The stairs led down into darkness. They seemed to descend for ever. But eventually George found himself in a small panelled room. There was no furniture, no windows – and he guessed they must be well below ground level. A single gas lamp sputtered unevenly on the wall.

  ‘Where are we?’ George asked nervously.

  ‘Oh my poor George.’ Clarissa stroked an ice-white gloved hand down his cheek. ‘Do you want to know a secret?’

  She did not wait for his reply, but pressed at the edge of one of the wooden panels in the wall. I
t sprang open with well-oiled ease.

  ‘A hidden door,’ George said.

  ‘I told you it was a secret.’ Clarissa beckoned for him to follow and stepped through.

  It was like stepping into another world. George was indeed glad of his coat as the chill air clung to him. He was at the end of a long passageway. More than that, he realised – it was a tunnel. The ceiling was vaulted stone, supported by interwoven arches. Clarissa’s cloak rippled in the breeze that George guessed was caused by whatever ventilation there was. Hot air escaping and drawing through cold air.

  ‘We must be right under the building. Is this the cellar?’ He looked around in astonishment and admiration. There were oil lamps burning at intervals along the wall, throwing pools of light, illuminating puddles of dark water on the tunnel floor and sending coils of smoke towards the roof.

  ‘It is more than just a cellar,’ Clarissa said.

  ‘But it must be ancient. The design – the architecture …’ George shook his head. ‘Centuries old, at least.’

  ‘At least,’ she agreed. ‘Come – this way.’

  They walked slowly along the tunnel, George’s feet splashing in a shallow puddle. The whole place looked and smelled damp, but even so it was a remarkable feat of engineering.

  And that was before the tunnel was joined by two more, even larger tunnels.

  ‘It’s massive,’ George realised. ‘What is this place? It must extend under several streets.’

  Clarissa smiled. ‘It’s a little bigger than that. I knew that as an engineer you would appreciate it.’

  ‘You know of my training?’

  ‘Kingsley,’ she said simply.

  George felt suddenly embarrassed and ashamed that he had forgotten the man – the reason he was here at all. ‘Of course,’ he said quietly.

  ‘And it is for your engineering ability that we sought you out.’

  ‘What? But I thought Kingsley …’

  ‘Recommended you. He has great admiration for your expertise, as we have for his. And our enterprise has grown so big that Kingsley can no longer manage alone.’ She walked on slowly. ‘You know that several lines of the underground railway were diverted, the plans changed, so that they would not interfere with our caverns and chambers.’

  ‘You mean – people know about them?’

  ‘No. No one knows. No one outside the Damnation Club.’

  ‘Then, how …?’

  ‘Our influence is extensive.’ She was striding more quickly ahead now. ‘I am glad you are impressed. It will make things easier.’

  ‘So where are we going?’ George asked. ‘I thought the ceremony would take place in the Club itself. I had no idea …’ His voice tailed off and he hurried to catch up with Clarissa as she strode on ahead.

  The occasional puddles were becoming more frequent. After a while – after what must have been half a mile – George and Clarissa were walking through an inch of water.

  ‘It leaks in,’ she explained. ‘We are almost under the river here.’

  ‘You mean the Thames? Here? Above us now?’

  She paused and glanced up at the roof as if considering. ‘Westminster. Or near enough.’ She regarded him for a moment, then continued along the tunnel. ‘We must hurry, or you will be late.’

  The nearest lamp was flickering, throwing bizarre shadows across the dark, damp wall. The stonework glistened as if it was sweating. George ran his hand down the stone, feeling the viscous, wet surface. But it didn’t feel like river water.

  ‘Hurry, George,’ Clarissa called back to him. ‘We are almost there.’

  Her laughter echoed round the tunnel. But George was standing beneath the flickering light, staring at the palm of his hand where he had pressed it to the wall. It had come away damp, smeared, dark, and as crimson as Clarissa’s cloak.

  ‘What’s going on?’ George demanded. But his voice was lost in her laughter, and in another sound. The whole tunnel seemed to throb with a low noise that reverberated through the tunnels. George could feel it under his feet, and pulsing inside his head. The sound was like a great heartbeat.

  Clarissa seemed to sense how apprehensive he was growing. Seemed to know that if she gave him the chance, George would slip away. But they had come so far, so deep into the maze of tunnels that George doubted he would find his way back to the door into the basement of the Damnation Club.

  Make a run for it now, and he might be condemned to wander round these damp, hellish tunnels for all eternity. George swallowed and determined to play along with whatever was happening. For now, at least.

  There was a pipe running along the wall of the tunnel they were in. Another joined it, then a third. These connected to more pipes that disappeared into the walls, ran up to the roof, burrowed into the floor.

  Clarissa waited while George examined them. The pipes were dark with corrosion and leaking at the joints, but they were obviously much newer than the tunnels themselves.

  ‘That sound …’

  Clarissa nodded. ‘The pumps. We are getting closer to them. A great hall of steam-driven machinery that keeps the water moving through these pipes. They are not always visible, but they line the tunnels and interlink like the arteries of this domain.’

  ‘To keep the water out?’

  ‘Of course. Without the pumps, as you have seen the Thames slowly seeps in and would eventually flood these tunnels.’

  There was something in the easy manner in which she answered, something in her smile, that made George sure that she was lying.

  The chamber where they gathered was smaller than the great cavern beneath the cemetery. There was a stone table on a dais at one end, which looked to Eddie rather like an altar. Metal pipes were woven into the stonework, running round the walls and connecting together with heavy valves. Rows of stone benches ran lengthways along the chamber, and people were taking their places on them – two rows of benches, facing each other across a central aisle.

  The other end of the chamber, opposite the dais and the table, was shrouded in darkness. There were lamps right the way along the walls, but they were dimmed at that end of the chamber – as if the light was afraid to show what might be lurking in the shadows.

  The carriage had stopped between the rows of benches, before the stone table. Four men in black lifted down the stained, muddy coffin. They carried it reverently to the table – the altar.

  The Coachman climbed down, and the carriage pulled gently away without him. It passed close to Eddie, and his eyes widened as he saw the horses properly for the first time. He had thought their ribs were showing through their sides. He was wrong.

  The horses had no sides. The darkness between the bones was not emaciated, shrunken flesh but empty space. They were brittle, pale skeletons. The Coachman followed behind, and as he pushed back his hood, Eddie could see that his face was a skull with empty sockets for eyes, wizened skin drawn back from blackened teeth.

  The Coachman stopped beside Eddie and Lord Ruthven. The stench was suddenly so powerful that Eddie almost fainted. The earthy, stale smell increased as the Coachman leaned forward.

  ‘Yes,’ he rasped. ‘This one will do very well.’ He turned in a full circle, arms outstretched as he addressed the gathered crowd. ‘Soon we shall celebrate the arrival of a new member of our great family. Soon we shall pay homage to our Lord.’

  He turned back to Ruthven. ‘Despite your doubts and your attempted betrayal, our Lord has returned to us. No one can stop us now. Sir William has been dealt with.’

  Eddie felt a jolt of shock, as if he had been thumped.

  ‘Miss Oldfield is no longer a threat.’

  He almost doubled over with sudden nausea.

  ‘George Archer will be here directly.’

  His head was in a spin. It seemed as if the whole place was thumping and contracting in time to his heart. The blood was rushing in his ears as the Coachman turned to Eddie.

  ‘Which just leaves the boy to be dealt with,’ he said. ‘The boy, Eddie Hopkins.�
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  CHAPTER 14

  It was all Eddie could do not to cry out in alarm. Even if he could get away from Lord Ruthven and the others he had no idea how to get out. He might be trapped down here for ever. But maybe it was time to take that chance.

  He braced himself, ready to shove the Coachman and Ruthven aside and run for the nearest tunnel.

  But the Coachman was already turning away. ‘The boy was at the Damnation Club. He knows too much. Since we know that Archer is out of the way, the boy will be alone at Archer’s house.’

  Eddie almost laughed out loud. Of course – the Coachman didn’t know who he was, how could he? He thought Eddie was just some kid that Pearce had given up to him. His legs were weak at the thought he’d nearly given himself away.

  ‘I shall attend to it,’ Ruthven was saying, with a deferential bow.

  ‘Already done,’ the Coachman rasped.

  It was a long time since John Remick had been inside a home. It amazed him how much softer everything was. How much more comfortable. Archer’s house probably wasn’t even that much of a home, but it was very different from the workhouse.

  He felt as if he was waking from a long, deep sleep. He was confused and dazed, wondering what the Coachman had done to him. It was almost an hour before he was confident enough to explore the house a little. He felt he was intruding. Usually he didn’t care what people thought. Apart from Pearce – and only then because the man would whip him as happily as he would any of the other kids. Remick was a survivor. He’d quickly learned that the only way to avoid being picked on was to be the most brutal of bullies himself.

  But here in the easy comfort of Archer’s home he began to wonder if he’d got it right. If he’d been able to stay with his mum, would he have lived somewhere like this? Or would they have been shunted from workhouse to poorhouse, to who knew where?

  There was even a kitchen. Tiny, but a kitchen at the end of the narrow hallway. He was in the kitchen when he heard the knocking at the door.