Timecurse

by Tom Becker

  There was a long, painful silence, and then Alain said in a small voice, “I miss her so much, Elias.”

  “I know,” Carnegie replied, with an unexpected softness. “I do too.”

  As the sound of his father crying floated in from the next room, Jonathan leaned his head against the door, unwilling to intrude on a private moment between the two men he loved most in the world, even as he felt the tears mist in his eyes and the world begin to flood around him.

  Eight hours later, it was a sombre quartet who settled down to eat at The Last Supper, Darkside’s most exclusive restaurant. Despite the fact that it normally took years of violence and skulduggery to get a table, and that the other clientele could barely contain their excitement as they smacked their lips and loosened their waistbands in anticipation, the atmosphere at Jonathan’s table was subdued. The aromatic delights of the pickled eel left them unmoved, while even the spectacle of the immolated pigeon failed to lift the mood.

  That afternoon, Jonathan had eventually emerged from his room pretending he had just awoken. He dutifully feigned surprise at the news that his dad had worked at Bartlemas Timepieces, and had agreed to accompany Alain and Carnegie on the long journey back to the shop. They arrived to find it a charred ruin. With the fires doused, the local residents had already forgotten about the building, passers-by barely bothering to glance at the devastation. As Jonathan and Carnegie looked on, Alain picked his way through the smouldering black timbers, distraught at the wreckages of watches and clocks littering the floor.

  “All those years of work,” he murmured to himself. “What a waste.”

  He had barely said a word since. Now he pushed a serving of devilled ostrich eggs around his plate, barely eating a mouthful. In stark contrast, Harry Pierce tucked hungrily into his food, one eye trained on Alain’s leftovers. Posing as the new food critic of the Informer, Harry had managed to get them a table at the restaurant, and he appeared unwilling to miss the opportunity to try everything. Next to Harry, one seat on the pentagram-shaped table remained empty: Raquella had refused the invitation to dinner, citing duties at Vendetta Heights.

  “Well, one thing’s for sure,” Jonathan said glumly. “If Holborn and Lucien were looking for Bartlemas, they didn’t want anyone else picking up the trail.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Carnegie said. “Why go to all this trouble over a watchmaker?”

  “Maybe it’s not Bartlemas they’re after,” Harry said, swallowing a large mouthful of floured jellyfish. Dusting his hands clean, he removed a sheet of paper from his pocket and spread it out on the table. “Maybe it’s this.”

  “Of course!” Jonathan exclaimed. “The plans!” With all the drama of the past twenty-four hours, he had nearly forgotten about them.

  Alain looked up from his meal. “Plans?” he said curiously.

  “Harry found them in Bartlemas’s workshop. And this guy in the Psychosis Club said Bartlemas used to talk about some secret project he was working on. I think this might be it.”

  Instantly invigorated, Alain pushed away his plate and stood up. Pulling a small pair of spectacles from his pocket, he began poring over the plans.

  “It’s a clock, right?” asked Harry.

  “Something like that, I’d guess,” agreed Alain. “There’s something very familiar about it.”

  Jonathan peered at the diagram over his dad’s shoulder. The mechanism was a square casing, within which three cogs with jagged teeth revolved around a tiny sphere. Bartlemas had labelled the diagram at the top of the page – Jonathan frowned as he tried to decipher the watchmaker’s crabby handwriting.

  “What’s a . . . corset whelk?”

  “Ah,” Alain chuckled. “I should have known. It’s not ‘corset’, son, it’s Chronos. Chronos Wheel, in fact.”

  Jonathan’s mind cast back to the Psychosis Club, and what Isaac Lacrimoso had said about the night Thomas Ripper had died: “Josiah was babbling that he had cracked some sort of code, and now a wheel could start turning. . .” Was this the wheel Bartlemas had been talking about?

  “Whatever its flaming name,” Carnegie butted in. “You know what it is?”

  Alain nodded. “Only too well. And I know where we can find it.”

  “Where?”

  “Greenwich. In Lightside.” He gave Jonathan a challenging glance. “Still sure you don’t want to go back?”

  13

  Later that night, on the other side of London, a small rowing boat was attempting to navigate the black, churning expanse of the Thames. A fierce wind had stung the river into life, large waves tossing the craft around as if it were driftwood. The rowing boat met its fate blindly: no lights signalled its presence or illuminated its path.

  As another wave crashed over the edge of the boat, soaking Sergeant Charlie Wilson to the bone, the young policeman wondered for the hundredth time how he had managed to get himself in this mess. He was hunched in the stern, shivering as the boat lurched and rolled. Considering the conditions, it was a miracle they hadn’t capsized – a feat due entirely to the hulking figure in the rowing seat, who was covered from head to toe in a cowled cloak. He battled the river with two giant oars that looked like tree trunks, the forelocks creaking and straining with the weight. The oarsman hadn’t said a word from the minute Wilson had stepped uncertainly into the boat down by Southwark Bridge. If he knew where they were going, or why their journey necessitated such an unusual method of transport, he wasn’t going to share it.

  Which was just typical these days, Wilson thought to himself sourly. From the moment he had agreed to join the mysterious Department D, the certainties of his previous life as a normal policeman had vanished. He had spent the past few months holed up in a windowless room in the depths of a London police station, rarely seeing his old friends and colleagues. There was no regular police work as such – Wilson hadn’t visited any crime scenes, interviewed any suspects, or even gone out on patrol. Instead he whiled away the hours making notes on old military books analysing battles he had never heard of, and poring over maps of modern London. His only companions were a couple of sallow-faced old men and, of course, Detective Horace Carmichael.

  Wilson’s boss sat beside him in the stern of the boat, wrapped up in a blanket. He was staring out over the water, his mind elsewhere. An untidy, hunchbacked man, Carmichael was renowned as one of the sharpest coppers on the force, and one of the strangest. He spent his days reading newspapers, ignoring the high-profile crimes on the front page only to take interest in the most innocuous and ridiculous of stories. He never gave straight answers, preferring to talk in riddles – mumbling about how there were “two sides to every coin”, and that “the truth was around the corner”. If he was being honest, Wilson wasn’t sure that Carmichael was entirely sane.

  Despite the late hour, London was still alive: as they passed under Tower Bridge, Wilson could hear the rumble of traffic overhead. The rowing boat pitched violently over the crest of another wave, and Charlie looked back wistfully at the bright lights of the city and wished that he were anywhere but here. This was not the life he had imagined when he signed up to the force.

  “Sir?” he shouted, above the roar of the waves.

  Detective Carmichael shook his head, as though waking from a dream. “Yes – what is it?”

  “I was just wondering, sir, now that we’re on the water, whether you could tell me what we’re actually doing?”

  “Going to meet someone.”

  “In a rowing boat, sir?” Wilson spluttered, receiving another faceful of Thames water.

  Carmichael looked away again, and then said, in a barely audible voice, “You’ve worked hard for me, Charlie. I appreciate that. Hopefully tonight will bring you the answers you’re looking for.”

  A giant wave rose up in front of them like a wall of water, preventing Wilson from asking any further questions. Digging his oars into the river, the oa
rsman skilfully rode the wave, landing the boat safely on the other side with a mighty splash. He had been rowing for nearly half an hour without so much as a murmur. Despite everything, the sergeant couldn’t help but marvel at the superhuman effort.

  It had begun to rain, heavy drops pelting down upon the boat. The river bent to the left, winding round past Rotherhithe and towards the Isle of Dogs. Behind Wilson, the centre of London was fading from view, the last lights on the riverbank winking out until they were only a memory. He felt his superior relax by his side.

  “We’re nearly there,” Carmichael said. “Look.”

  Straining to see through the rain and the darkness, Wilson could just make out the squat outlines of the old dock warehouses on the right-hand side of the river. And then he saw it: beneath the warehouses, down at the waterline, a yawning archway carved into the brickwork. A Londoner from birth, Wilson had lost count of the number of times he had travelled up and down the Thames, but he had never seen anything like this before.

  “What is that?” he gasped.

  Carmichael smiled. “A gateway.”

  “But that’s impossible . . . I would have known about it!”

  “There’s a lot about this city you don’t know, Wilson,” the hunchback replied. “As it happens, most of the time the archway is closed – you could pass it a thousand times and not know it’s there. Tonight, however, we are expected.”

  Pulling on his left-hand oar, the oarsman began to navigate the boat through the waves towards the archway. As they passed through the entrance and were swallowed up in a tunnel of darkness, a shiver of foreboding ran down Wilson’s spine. Although the water became calmer, the waves less ferocious, he found himself fighting an irrational urge to jump out of the boat. He felt suddenly sick, a tide of nausea rising up his throat. The ceiling crowded in over their heads – it was padded with a thick coating of green moss that made Wilson shudder every time it brushed the top of his head.

  All in all, he was mightily relieved when they emerged from the tunnel into a small, circular pool surrounded on all sides by high stone walls. It was good to be able to see the sky again, even if it was scarred with curling wreaths of smoke, and the air soured by a foul odour. High above Wilson’s head, a fog lamp had been placed on top of the wall, illuminating an iron ladder trailing down into the water. The oarsman manoeuvred towards the ladder, grunting for the first time as he tried to hold the vessel steady against the riverfront wall.

  “Grab the ladder then, lad,” Carmichael said sharply. “We haven’t got all day.”

  Stung into action, Wilson reached over and took hold of the ladder. The boat was still rocking on the current, and the rungs were treacherously slippery, but he was a young, fit man, and he made quick work of the ascent. Clambering over the riverfront wall, Wilson sighed gratefully at the feel of solid ground beneath his feet. It was several seconds before he appraised his surroundings – what he saw took his breath away.

  He was standing in the grounds of a building so vast that it made him dizzy to look up to the very top. With its extravagant confusion of gothic spires and arches, it possessed the grand beauty of a warped cathedral. But there was something else, a powerful atmosphere of dread that Wilson felt in his bones; as though each brick was stained with the blood of an awful crime. In front of him, a paved walkway led up to a side entrance in the building, gas lamps forming a solemn honour guard along the way.

  Wilson stood staring, open-mouthed, until a loud rumbling sound behind him brought him to his senses. He turned to see Carmichael’s hand appear on top of the riverfront wall. As the sergeant ran over and hauled the hunchback on to dry land, he was astonished to see that the rowboat was rocking emptily on the current. The oarsman had disappeared.

  “Thanks,” the detective panted. “I always have trouble with that bit.”

  “You’ve been here before?” Wilson said, a note of awe in his voice. “What on earth is this place, sir?”

  “Blackchapel,” Carmichael answered calmly. “The ancestral home of the Rippers.”

  “The Rippers? Who are they?”

  The detective fixed Wilson with a serious look. “Listen to me. Tonight you’re going to see and hear a lot of things you won’t understand. In good time, everything will become clear, but it’s imperative that for now you keep your questions to yourself. We’re meeting a very important man, and one mistake could prove very costly indeed. Do you understand?”

  Wilson nodded numbly.

  “Good. Let’s not keep him waiting, then.”

  Carmichael set off down the pathway towards the side entrance, where Wilson now saw a figure waiting for them in the doorway. He was a large man with hair as white as snow who held himself with a stately assurance. Wilson was surprised to see him greet Carmichael with a warm, familiar handshake.

  “Abettor Holborn,” Carmichael said respectfully. “It’s good to see you again.”

  The white-haired man nodded. “As with you, Horace. It has been quite some time.”

  “We have Thomas to thank for that. I was worried he was going to outlive us all.”

  “Alas, no,” Holborn said, with a thin smile. “Thank Darkside. Please, come inside.”

  Without even glancing at Wilson, the Abettor turned and led them inside the building. They walked down a long, straight corridor, each wall boasting a giant mirror that ran along its entire length, before entering a small antechamber. It was lavishly decorated with plush armchairs, intricately carved furniture and a thick purple carpet that threatened to swallow up Wilson’s feet.

  As Carmichael and the sergeant settled into armchairs, Holborn walked over to a drinks cabinet and poured three measures of red wine into ornate silver glasses.

  “I hope you will find this comfortable,” he said, handing out the drinks. “I am afraid Lucien will not be joining us this evening. There has been a . . . complication regarding the Succession.”

  “Nothing I need worry about, I hope?” asked Carmichael.

  “It is a trivial matter,” Holborn replied, airily waving a hand. “It shall be resolved soon enough.”

  “It will need to be. We cannot delay the Blood Succession for long. You have made something of a gamble, aligning yourself with Lucien. Even if he wins, will Darkside accept him?”

  The Abettor shrugged. “What choice will they have? Once he is crowned Ripper, the people will have to forget, or face the consequences.”

  “And of course,” Carmichael added shrewdly, “there will be the reassuring presence of Thomas’s faithful Abettor by Lucien’s side. Always ready to take over should the need arise.”

  Holborn inclined his head. “Naturally. I live to serve the borough, after all.”

  Struggling to follow the conversation, Wilson lifted the silver goblet to his lips and took a sip of the thick red liquid.

  Only to discover that it wasn’t, in fact, wine.

  Wilson cried out in shock, spitting the liquid on to the carpet. Holborn looked at him sharply.

  “You’ll have to forgive my companion’s somewhat crude manners,” Carmichael said, glaring at the young sergeant as he deliberately took a sip from his own goblet. “He hasn’t been to Darkside before.”

  The Abettor cast an appraising eye over Wilson, who felt himself wilting beneath his inspection. His hands were trembling now. What kind of place was this?

  “Can he be trusted?”

  “I wouldn’t have brought him if he couldn’t,” Carmichael replied levelly. “Wilson’s been researching locations for the upcoming battle for us. If Lucien is going to fight Marianne in Lightside, we need to ensure that the odds are stacked in his favour. Thanks to Wilson, I think we’ve found the right place.”

  “Really?” Holborn said, his eyes lighting up. “Where?”

  “Battersea Power Station, on the south side of the river. If we start preparing now – get our men in place, become
familiar with the terrain – Marianne won’t know what hit her.”

  Holborn raised a single white eyebrow. “We?”

  “Department D will be present to make sure that things run smoothly,” Carmichael said. “And that there is no . . . overspill out into the city. There is only so much I can cover up before people start to ask awkward questions. And, after all, it is my duty to ensure that the Darksiders don’t cause too many problems in London proper.”

  “A duty for which Lucien shall reward you greatly.”

  “Let’s just say that, like you, I have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo.”

  Holborn raised his glass of blood in a toast.

  “To the status quo,” he said, and drank deeply.

  14

  Raquella was down in the kitchen of Vendetta Heights when the phone began to ring.

  Exhausted by the frenetic activity of the previous few days, she had woken late that morning, pulling on a dressing gown before padding out barefoot into the corridor. Normally in a house of such size, the servants’ quarters would have been a hive of industry: solemn footmen hurrying to do their master’s bidding, scolding the maids en route for gossiping as they folded bed linen and polished the silverware, while the rattle of pots and pans echoed up from the kitchens. Yet Raquella walked down through the house alone.

  She knew that others couldn’t fathom why she had chosen to stay in Vendetta’s service. It was hard to blame them: after all, Raquella knew better than anyone the cold abyss that masqueraded as her master’s soul. But the vampire and the maid had been living together for so long that he was all she knew. Vendetta’s smallest human gestures – an amused smile, a brisk nod of appreciation, the biting back of an insult – carried the same weight as the most generous tribute or precious present. Although she would die before admitting it to another soul, the truth was Raquella didn’t know what she would do without the vampire.