The Doomsday Machine (Horatio Lyle)

by Catherine Webb

  He called out, his voice muffled in the darkness, ‘Tess?’

  A little voice somewhere in the night - up, down, it all had lost meaning - replied, ‘Bigwig?’

  ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘That were the whole point, bigwig. Just keep talkin’ some, all right?’

  ‘I can see well enough.’ The voice came from close by Thomas’s ear and made him jump. He peered into the night and even though the darkness smothered all sense, he could still feel her bright green eyes looking at him. ‘It’s a beautiful night,’ murmured Lin Zi.

  Somewhere in the dark Thomas could hear rising voices, a strange, far-off cacophony of orders and commands. A bell started ringing, a loud, insistent peal, cutting across the babble of voices.

  ‘What’s going on?’ hissed Tess’s voice off to his right.

  ‘I imagine,’ said Lin, ‘they’re calling out the guard.’

  ‘And that’s a good thing?’

  ‘Panic, confusion - yes, I think it may be good, if used right.’

  ‘An’ how’s that, then?’

  You could hear the smile in Lin’s voice. ‘I may go and say hello.’

  Even with his eyes streaming from the smoke, Lyle strode through the prison with the confident look of a man who belongs here and knows it and you’d better not question it any time soon, thank you very much. He could hear voices and bells ringing and doors banging and feet running, but with visibility down to a yard or two in every direction and more smoke gushing every second from the paper cylinders he’d thrown into the hallways, he didn’t care. Whenever he saw another figure moving, he pressed himself into the shadows and waited for it to pass. The noise was a relief: every shout, every bang, every reverberation gave a reference point for where there was life and activity, something to avoid. It was far better to know that someone was awake and out there looking for you than to pad along in the silence of uncertainty. He didn’t need much light to find where he was going - the few long matches he struck and held up to create a pool of light about his own width were enough - he just needed to go down, and keep going down. In many ways his destination made it easier - coughing and blundering through the smoke, the warders were doing their best to establish a perimeter, armed with batons and truncheons, to hinder would-be escapees. The thing they were not trained to prevent was people trying to break in.

  Outside the prison, the guards were surprised by a number of things. First was the absence of any kind of prison riot. Smoke billowed into the courtyard from the windows, rolling into the fog - but no cell doors were unlocked and, though the prisoners shouted and screamed and coughed and banged their bowls on the metal doors to create a clamour of scrapes and wallops that drowned out all human voices, no one who wasn’t a prison guard emerged from the darkness coughing black phlegm.

  Second was the absence of fire. The smoke was dirty and stank of charcoal and burnt toast, but the guards running through the corridors with their buckets and sticks could find no glimmer of light to suggest an open flame as they tripped over each other’s feet and tumbled down stairways and into walls, feeling and fumbling their way through the darkness by guess-work alone.

  The last thing that took some warders by surprise was the least probable of all. Milling in the dark, looking for another shadow to give commands or establish order, trying to strike lights to their lanterns and shouting out, ‘Who’s there? What’s there? Hello?’ some noticed sharp sounds, like a singer’s intake of breath before the final song and, turning from the group, looked into a pair of bright green eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ said Lin Zi. ‘Will you dance?’

  Below ground level, Lyle’s fingers groping through the dark found the door he was looking for. It wasn’t a particularly exciting door, and when the lock clicked under pressure, it led to a not very interesting flight of stairs dropping further down into darkness - pure darkness, not a trace of smoke except that which drifted in with Lyle: the utter darkness of a windowless space made of very thick brick. Lyle kicked the staircase thoughtfully - it hummed with iron. He ran his hand across the wall - it was cold and metallic. Smiling, he closed the door behind him, and reached into his bundle of goods for a couple of the long glass tubes Tess had brought him. He tipped a liquid from one on to a small stock of powder at the bottom of the other, shook gently and held it well away from his face. With a phuzz-hiss the mixture started to glow, giving off a thin white steam and an angry noise as the little parts of the powder bubbled up and down like pebbles in a storm. By this dim light, Lyle picked his way down the metal staircase, on to the metal floor below, past the silent metal furnaces with their pipes and coal-black open doors, and across a room at the far side of which a metal door sat with the foreboding look of a door not intended to be opened by those who Did Not Know. Underneath it, however, Lyle could see a faint orange light. He walked over, took a deep breath, and hammered on the door.

  A shadow passed across the orange glow. A voice said, ‘What in the name of the Lord is going on up there?’

  ‘Bloody fire, isn’t it?’ snapped Lyle, matching the accent of the speaker, one that he associated with somewhere near the waterfront. ‘And here’s me sent to save your hide.’

  ‘Only the gov’nor can open this door! Who is that, anyway?’

  ‘He gave me the damn key,’ snapped Lyle, fumbling in his pocket for the lock picks. ‘You want to burn?’

  ‘Can’t leave! I need to speak to the gov’nor!’

  ‘You want to die, mate?’

  ‘Is that Steerwell?’

  ‘No, it bloody isn’t,’ snapped Lyle. ‘Now I’m leaving, and you can do what you want, all right?’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait!’

  There was a clacking from the other side of the door, and the voice went on, ‘I heard the bell but, you know, they said never to open it up unless . . .’ The door swung open. The guard on the other side looked into Lyle’s face and said, ‘Hey! You’re not from around -’

  Lyle, grimacing apologetically, hit the man as hard as he could. This didn’t have quite the desired effect - the man staggered back, clutching at his nose and screaming, ‘That bloody hurt!’ Lyle stepped forward, grabbed the man by the back of the neck and rammed a tube of too-thick-looking clear liquid under his nose. The man struggled for a moment, coughed, rolled his eyes, then he went limp in Lyle’s arms. Lyle lowered him carefully to the ground, stepped by him, hesitated, then stepped back. He pulled out the guard’s notepad and stub of pencil, found a clean page and wrote in large letters,

  You have been rendered unconscious by the use of chloroform. Please seek medical attention at your local infirmary. Do not ingest alcohol for at least a week, preferably two (or smoke generally), take some days off work, and do not be alarmed by any contact sores - they will pass in time if you do not pick at them. Apologies for the inconvenience.

  Feeling a little happier, Lyle left the note face-up on the man’s chest and hastened down the corridor. When he reached the solid iron door at the end, the magnet tried to meld itself to it. Lyle slid back two bolts and set to work at the lock.

  Tonight, it is Lin Zi’s turn to dance. There is no other word for it, no other way to describe it: Lin Zi beats out every step to an invisible rhythm, taps across the courtyard to an unheard melody, spins to a distant trill in the music, rolls to a drumbeat in the mind. The legs she kicks out from under their owners, the shoulders she taps in passing, the noses she tweaks, the hair she tugs, the jackets she tears, they are nothing but steps along the way, downbeats at the beginning of every bar. When the men shout and try to catch her, when they reach out into the fog, she has already spun on the tips of her toes, laughing, and is away. The dance is only a simple thing, easy as a child’s skipping game, but ordinary pleasures have such delight for Lin. She leads the warders of Pentonville Prison around in circles and across the yard and through the fog and hardly notices them, lost entirely in the song that tonight only she can hear. And as she dances, she lights up the night, in every way imaginabl
e.

  Later, when asked, she’ll shrug and say it was simply the logical outcome of magnesium and black powder meeting the vapour in the air.

  Down in the depths below Pentonville Prison, Lyle clicked back the last spring in the lock, and carefully pushed the door open. He picked up the guard’s discarded lamp by the door and held it up, looking into the shadows of the small iron room beyond. Iron walls, iron floor, iron ceiling, with a single iron bowl in the corner. Next to it was a shape that was either a man huddled, or a smaller sleeping animal; it was hard to tell, the creature was curled in so tight on itself. Lyle cleared his throat and felt like an idiot.

  ‘This is going to sound unlikely,’ he began, ‘but are you Tseiqin?’

  The black shape in the corner didn’t move. Lyle raised the lamp to let more light fall on it, but it had its head turned away and didn’t react.

  ‘All right: iron prison, iron walls, armed guards, buried away, there’s definitely something wrong; sorry, it was a stupid question. Let me put it another way. Are you prepared to speak to me?’

  The bundle raised its head. Lyle saw bright green eyes and a face the colour of swept Scandinavian snow. The face said, ‘Your bones to dust, Horatio Lyle.’

  Lyle stared at it in horror, let the voice sink down on to his senses, let memories sit up and start rattling the cage, let the realization sink through every part of him until there was no getting round the inescapable, unavoidable truth of the matter. He put the lamp down carefully on the floor, for fear of dropping it, and said, ‘Oh bugger.’

  In the darkness, Lord Moncorvo started to smile.

  CHAPTER 10

  Enemies

  ‘I’ve been cleverly manipulated by evil people, haven’t I?’ said Lyle.

  Lord Moncorvo made no reply, but watched Lyle beadily from his huddle in the corner. ‘And I really thought this enterprise would be a good thing. Open-mindedness, sympathy, understanding and all that.’

  ‘Is something going wrong in your life, Mister Lyle?’ Lord Moncorvo’s voice hadn’t changed. It still had the sound of polished black leather, if black leather could speak. But his face - that was different. There was no longer the charisma and command Lyle had remembered, but something shrivelled, pointed and pale, the way Moncorvo’s companion, Lady Lacebark, had looked when she died, all the beauty and magic faded from her features.

  ‘I’m waiting to find out how much worse things can get,’ replied Lyle. ‘I’m assuming a trap, a plan, something of unspeakable cruelty, yes?’

  ‘If so, I wait with the same anticipation as you do, Mister Lyle, to see how it might transpire.’

  Lyle hesitated, watching those watching eyes. A sense of growing, dreadful unease was starting to creep through his initial horrified reaction. Cautiously, every word an age, he said, ‘You . . . weren’t expecting me.’

  ‘No. Should I be?’

  ‘Old Man White says hello.’

  Moncorvo’s eyes flashed, in a moment of . . . something . . . although his face remained empty and cold. ‘Old Man White?’

  ‘Yes, he says hello.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ Anger in his voice? Hard to tell, the hate drowned out everything else.

  ‘He’s worried.’

  ‘He should be.’

  ‘Why?’

  Moncorvo shifted, smiling a tight, bitter smile. ‘I am good at not answering questions, Mister Lyle. Why do you think he should be worried?’

  ‘I take it you don’t like Old Man White?’

  ‘As I said . . .’

  ‘You’re very good at not answering questions. My God, but you must be one of the few people in this world whom even the saints would hate, Moncorvo.’

  ‘But Horatio Lyle is beyond hate?’

  ‘Don’t test me,’ Lyle muttered.

  ‘It is no great vice to confess to hate - in fact, it probably helps cleanse the soul. I will be punished for hating you, but in admitting that I wish to see you burn to dust and ash, perhaps I’m a little bit closer to enlightenment.’

  ‘Oh, let’s not play the recrimination game, Moncorvo. When it comes to first principles you were the man standing there with the very sharp knife, and besides, I’m working within something of a time limit here.’

  ‘Why are you here, Mister Lyle?’ Lyle didn’t answer.

  Moncorvo started unfolding his long thin body from its corner. His fierce green eyes glittered. ‘You hate me,’ he mused, ‘you are afraid of me . . . yes, I think so. Afraid - you believe so greatly in your own, arrogant, petty, ignorant self-righteousness, you do what you think is “right” without regard for the bigger consequence - but you would not be here without a reason.’ He stood up - he seemed to droop in on himself, standing, as if over time the bones had bent or become rubbery, unable to support his weight. ‘Why are you here, Horatio Lyle?’

  ‘I thought I knew.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s revenge.’

  Lyle looked up sharply from his study of the faint lantern, anger settling across his face. ‘I’d have bloody good motive, which is an important thing in my line of work.’

  ‘You’re too weak for revenge, Mister Lyle. You don’t have the stomach for it. Do you even have a gun with you now?’

  ‘No, but I’ve got all my own brain,’ he spat. ‘How do you know Old Man White?’

  ‘Which answer would upset you more? Friend or enemy?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Lyle stood up sharply, crossed the small space between them and dragged Moncorvo up by the lapels, pushing him against the wall. The man was light, astonishingly skinny under his loose black clothes; Lyle, who wasn’t a particularly strong man, lifted him easily. He glared into his emerald-green eyes, a few inches away. ‘Let’s just clarify this. I have gone to great trouble and personal risk to get down here. I’ve been chased, half-drowned, kidnapped, arrested, tried without due process, locked up, burnt enough carbon compounds to give me a dodgy cough for the rest of my days and generally had an unsettling philosophical change of perspective thrust upon me by the various believers of this life, by all the secret people doing their secret things for secret petty stupid causes and I’m sick of it.

  ‘So, here’s the way it goes: you can tell me the things I want to know, or you can not tell me, and I can leave ignorant and go on holiday just as Tess always wanted. Alternatively, I can leave knowing things that might actually help you stupid bastard people with your stupid bastard plans to survive beyond the next few days. Frankly, I’m nearing the point where I don’t care; because, you know, the whole right and wrong thing is excellent up to a point, and that point is now. So . . .’ He smiled a tight, unsympathetic smile. ‘How do you know Old Man White?’

  Moncorvo grinned. ‘Was that meant to be intimidating, Mister Lyle?’

  ‘Right!’ Lyle let go of him, turned, scooped up the lantern and marched for the door.

  He got two paces beyond it when the tired voice said, ‘Mister Lyle.’

  Lyle turned, eyebrows raised. ‘Yes?’

  Moncorvo opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated, smiling a self-reproving little smile. ‘Remarkable. You’ve been standing in that doorway for less than a minute and already I find myself curious as to all things in your life, wracked with a fascination that I can’t seem to shift, despite myself. So . . . how, precisely, are you going to help my people?’

  Lyle edged back into the doorway, put the lantern down and folded his arms. ‘If I said “the Machine”, with a definite article in front of it and a strong emphasis for dramatic effect, what would you reply?’

  Moncorvo was silent a long while. Then he said, ‘You are helping to build it?’

  ‘I bet you think I would.’

  ‘It would either have been you or . . .’

  ‘Berwick?’

  Now it was Moncorvo’s turn to raise his eyebrows. ‘How much exactly do you know? Or perhaps it should be - how much has Old Man White told you?’

  ‘Oh no. I’ve played that game too, these last few days, and I’m sic
k of it. You tell me about the Machine and it’s just possible that some good comes of it, nothing more.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And don’t try . . . Really?’

  ‘Get me out of here, and I’ll tell you everything I know. Which is . . .’ he smiled again, revealing sharp white teeth, ‘. . . quite a lot.’

  For a second Lyle froze on the spot, trying to absorb the words he’d heard. Then he laughed, a short humourless chuckle, emanating from a face that could have intoned a funeral chant. ‘No, sorry, not a hope,’ he explained.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Shall we go back to first principles with that question?’

  ‘Is the Machine being charged?’

  Lyle hesitated, caught off guard by the other man’s question. Moncorvo drew himself up, and edged an uncertain pace forward. ‘Has Berwick completed the discharge mechanism? Did he get the explosives to work?’

  ‘How much do you know exactly?’ asked Lyle. ‘And no hedging melodramatically around the scientific details, please; I like things with numbers, letters and equal signs.’

  ‘In this . . . place . . . this prison of iron and magnets,’ hissed Moncorvo, ‘I can feel nothing, taste nothing, all senses are flat to me, it is . . . a death. One small black increment at a time, a wasting away, a constant, dull, driving pain. That’s your doing, Mister Lyle.’