by J M Bannon
Dolly instinctively pulled himself into the communications truck. Lying on the floor, he could hear the constant patter of dirt and gravel raining down on the top of the communications van.
“What the hell was that?” declared the clerk.
“Wire-type for ambulances and order them to form up at this rally point,” Dolly commanded.
Sergeant Eakins ran up to the communications van. “Wire the other squads to move in immediately, then request updates.”
“Yes, sir.” The two clerks banged away at the piano keys of the wire-type machines.
Williamson had plenty of experience with explosions and bombs back when he was handling the Irish troubles. This one was bigger than anything he had experienced. He searched for Keane, but he was gone, likely towards the blast to discover what had transpired. He desired to do the same and followed suit.
Dolly could see smoke billowing above the metropolis. It had a greenish purple tint in contrast to the familiar grey smog generated by the hundreds of London’s smokestacks. Somewhere there was an LQ gas discharge.
Dolly went to the duty sergeant, who under Eakins’ orders had earlier committed the squads towards the plant. He was coaxing his men forward. “Alright, alright, move up, lads. Keep it orderly. Keep yourself calm, and let’s enforce the peace.” Twenty coppers with truncheons drawn moved in lockstep down the lane behind a line of ten horses.
Dolly grabbed Eakins’ arm to get his attention. “I need a driver and a carriage.”
“Over there. O’Neil is running the motor pool,” answered the sergeant.
The police officer in charge of vehicles was yelling over the commotion to get steam carriages in position behind the police line. “You two saddle up and follow the line in the event they need to toss in prisoners,” he yelled.
Dolly jumped on the runner board of the steam lorry and clutched the sill to steady himself on the car. Not that he didn’t wish to walk, but it gave him a view over the patrolmen to observe what was up ahead. “Just keep moving. I’ll let you know if I see anything,” Dolly said through the passenger window to the two constables inside.
As they closed in on the Works, the air was becoming thick and heavy with soot and smoke from the explosion and ensuing fires. Out of the haze, screams and shrieks were bursting through, then citizens followed. Some people running, some shuffling, others helping the injured away from the disaster within the fog. The line of constables broke as they were rushed and overcome, not by rioters but by the injured and dismayed.
Dolly hopped off the wagon and grabbed a young man walking on his own but visibly wounded. “What happened? What did you see?” asked Dolly.
“There was a blast at the gaswerks. Absolutely horrible. People blown to bits,” said the man through tears of hysteria. The detective looked the youth over for severe wounds. It was hard to tell with all the dirt-caked blood what wounds the man had. Dolly guided him towards the muster point. Dolly assumed he must be in reasonable health that he could walk and talk. “Keep walking this way. There is help ahead.”
Another victim was wandering towards Dolly, clearly looking bewildered, “Sir, continue moving forward toward the aid station.” The man just stared at him. That is when dolly noticed the blood running from both of his ears. He wrapped his arm around the man and walked him back to the muster point and handed him off to a constable.
Dolly jogged over to the line of paddy wagons and called out to the sergeant in charge of the pool. “You need to send more wagons up to help move the wounded.”
The sergeant turned, blew his whistle and waved the steam lorries forward. Dolly jumped on the first one and leaned into the passenger window to speak to the driver and his partner. “Drive right up to the explosion so we can see what is going on. I don’t want you stopping for injured. We must assess the situation, then steam back and let the blokes in the communication truck know the status.”
“Yes, sir,” hollered the driver.
It was slow-going, as debris and bodies lay upon the road. Although the dust from the explosion was clearing, it was replaced by an eerie green haze clinging to the ground as they moved closer to the blast site. This jade mist was not LQ gas; LQ was purple and lighter than air. That alchemical element was streaking up high into the atmosphere, mixing with the smog that over hung the city, giving it a strange beautiful lavender glow.
Dolly stepped off the steam lorry and climbed over rubble blocking the way. Visibility was about eight to ten feet in the green dusty smog. Dolly began to make out shapes of people, horses, wagons and wounded on the streets. Throughout the soupy fog, the moans and cries of the wounded came through clear. The initial squad of police was now overwhelmed helping the victims, and the police whistles and yells of frantic officers trying to help came from all directions. The emerald haze thickened as he closed in on the gaswerks. Reaching the outer wall, he began to use it as a guide through the haze to the explosion. Every step of his path was littered with rubble or gore, but being able to feel the rough stone wall grounded him and helped to fix his location.
The detective reached the end of the wall where it turned to go east at the corner of the perimeter road that passed between the Lloyd Works and the Baden Gaswerks. Dolly looked up and saw the hulk of the HMS Victoria sitting in its berth. Men scurried on the scaffolding and open decks. From what he could tell, the ship looked undamaged, but the same could not be said for the plant. He could see the damage illuminated by the fires in the crater and both plants. A mere twenty feet down the road ahead, the edge of the blast crater started. At the bottom of the crater was the exposed underground pipe that transmitted LQ from the gas works to the aerodrome. It had ripped open and was spewing purple fumes into the sky. It was a monumental disaster. Having no knowledge of machinery or alchemy, he speculated what it would take to stop such a sizable leak. What he did have some knowledge in was the evaluation of a bomber’s work. A crater this size and the damage done to the gaswerks and the aerodrome facilities looked to his eye to be kegs and kegs of powder, and it had to have been under the street. The explosion had damaged both work sites, obliterating buildings, damaging tanks and breaching the walls.
Through the gaping hole in the gaswerks perimeter wall, Dolly could see that the emerald gas was emanating not from the transfer pipe but from damaged tanks on the gaswerks property. The green gas had a sickly-sweet smell and taste, like having a mouth and nose full of licorice. For the first time, he thought if he should breathe in these vapors and what the effect would be on himself and his colleagues.
As Dolly peered through the fog to the other side of the crater, there appeared to be more wounded, but there was no way to cross to help. The north and west squad were cut off by the crater and he could not cross. His stomach sank as he finally oriented to where the crater was. Anyone picketing at the north gate had been standing on top of the explosion. Earlier estimates were there were a hundred protesters at that gate. If so, then there was a guarantee of one hundred casualties. By his assessment, they would need a lot more help. He had observed at least twenty dead and similar number wounded and unable to move.
He yelled to the paddy wagon driver. “Go back and get them to send up more help. Medical help. Have them wire the east road muster to move up and get help over to the other side of that crater. Have them wire the home office. We need the army here to secure a perimeter, and get the fire brigades up here.”
“On it, sir.” The steam lorry let out a big chuff of steam as he ratcheted the gearing into reverse and backed out. Dolly couldn’t recall all the orders he just shouted and figured the driver wouldn’t remember either by the time he got back, but Eakins was a professional on how to get resources in place to regain control of a situation.
As the steam engine faded, he heard another sound approaching from above. A dull hum that grew in intensity. He looked up to see the HMS Warrior break through the smog overhang to take up station at the gaswerks.
That was a good sign for Dolly. It meant that the Army a
nd Air Service would exert an overwhelming force to quell any further rioting.
The air destroyer shone bright arc lights down at the ground. Dolly could make out sharpshooters on the midline walkways.
A loud but tiny voice came from the audiophone of the Warrior. “This is Captain Archer of Her Majesty’s Air Service. You are to peaceably disperse and allow the police and fire brigades to assist the wounded. Any rioters or looters will be shot.”
The detective surveyed the area as the ship moved from over his head around to the other side of the gaswerks. The spotlights from the Warrior helped to burn through the dense fog, aiding Dolly in his appraisal of the area. Several passes of the spotlights helped him make out the edges of the shops and buildings across from the plant. Two buildings were destroyed, and the rest looked like a strong wind could knock them down.
As the din of the ironclad faded, Dolly heard the cries of a woman from one of the buildings across the street from the gaswerks. It sounded to him to be coming from the luncheonette with all the windows blasted out.
It was difficult to see through the jade fog now that the airship had circled, and its beams of light were focused elsewhere. He stepped over the window sill into the café, watching not to cut himself on the jagged remnants of glass. He heard the crunch of the shattered glass on the floor under his boot when he placed it inside the shop. Along the wall were the coin-operated server chambers. The dining area was strewn with tables, chairs, bodies and body parts. None were alive. He heard the woman’s cry again and thought he saw a female form move past a doorway in the back behind the cashier’s counter.
Dolly drew his Colt Navy revolver, pulled back the hammer and brought the pistol up close to his eye. Rotating the cylinder, he made sure that there were caps in place on all the chambers, and then he clicked a chamber into place.
He edged around the doorway, looking down the sights of his pistol. No one was there. This was the luncheonette kitchen. It did not appear to have any damage, but those that had worked there had abandoned their posts and fled to safety.
The chiller was open. On the counter were chopped vegetables, and pots were still boiling on the cooktops. At the far end of the room, the door was ajar and moved.
The detective made his way to the end of the kitchen to check the door, his breathing shallow and irregular. This time he pushed the door open with his shoulder and raised his pistol. He saw someone that resembled Angelica Du Haiti move through the back of the storeroom and out the alley door. It was like looking at the phantasmagraph in Rose’s apartment, a translucent apparition in the green fog. Was this gas making him hallucinate?
Cautiously moving through the aisle between the shelves of the storeroom, he reached the door, turned the handle and threw it open, stepping to the side as the door opened inward.
He peered around the doorjamb before stepping out in the alley. All he saw was the man’s fist point blank as it smashed into his face.
* * *
10:15 AM, Hildy’s Luncheonette, near the Baden Gaswerks
Dolly went down hard on his back.
Struck square in the nose, the Scotsman was blinded by the potent blow, his eyes wet from the sharp pain across his whole face. He wasn’t certain if it was blood or tears in his eyes. He could taste and smell his own blood, a dreadful change from the taste and smell of the gas from the plant. The iron taste was on his lips and running in the back of his throat.
He tried to get up but was quickly slammed down onto the ground with the entire weight of his assailant on his chest, and now he felt hands around his throat. The grip was crushing.
Dolly panicked. He could sense the attacker driving his thumbs under and around his windpipe to crush it. His eyes cleared, and to his horror, he recognized who his assailant was: Cullam Keane. He struggled to cry out his name, but nothing came.
Like any choking victim, he naturally struggled to get Keane’s hands off his throat. He was not strong enough to break his grasp. He stared at Keane.
“She’s in me head, Dolly” Keane struggled through his clenched teeth.
Dolly let go of Keane’s thick wrists, moving his hands to Keane’s face, gouging both of Keane’s eyes with his thumbs. He thrust deep and hard, pushing his nails in between the eyeballs and the nose bridge.
Cullam yelled and released Dolly’s neck. Williamson gasped in precious air. Keane’s arms went straight up, breaking Dolly’s grasp of his face, then Cullam came down with both fists on Dolly’s nose one more time, the blast of pain paralyzing him once again. Keane leapt off Dolly, allowing him to roll left and use the shelving to help himself to a seated position, clearing the second round of runny eyes.
Soon enough, he learned the reason for the reprieve of Keane’s assault. Cullam had found Dolly’s pistol, and Dolly was staring down the business end of his own gun. Keane was just outside the doorway, standing in the alley, and Dolly sat on the storeroom floor.
Williamson could see Angelica’s vague outline in the gloom behind Keane. Was she there or not? “Has Angelica got you under a spell?” Dolly asked in between taking breaths into his burning chest.
“Why couldn’t you leave her be, Dolly? No one else will get hurt,” Keane said as he sobbed.
"She is hurting you,” said Dolly, trying to get through to Keane. Williamson could see Keane had slipped back into his trance and was aiming to take a shot.
Dolly swept his leg to catch the corner of the open door and kick it shut. As it slammed Cullam, a shot flew and lodged in the door. Williamson stood and clambered back towards the kitchen. He struggled to tug on the shelving to see if he could force the racks over to create an obstruction, but they were fixed to the floor.
His chest burned from the deep breaths he was drawing, faltering as he dashed into the kitchen. He flung the door behind him closed, searching for a lock, but there was nothing to secure the door. His eye spotted the knife next to the chopping block and minced onions. He seized it instinctively for protection. His racing mind and darting eyes assessed the area. He grabbed an empty pot and ducked into the open chiller, then threw the pot out of the kitchen through the door, out into the luncheonette hoping his assailant would follow the noise.
Keane burst through the door and surveyed the kitchen. He didn’t fall for the racket of the pot landing in the other room. The detective was pressed up against the racks in the chiller with the knife ready.
"Come out, Dolly. I know you’re in there. I can see your breathing in the cold," said Keane.
Shit. He heard Keane step up to the cooler, loitering just outside the door. Dolly took a deep breath, looked at the knife and thought, What am I going to do? Stab Cullam to death? He could see Keane's shadow on the floor of the cold room. Dolly was cornered. His only move was to kill Keane. "Alright. Tell her I will drop the case. I will let her go." Dolly was out of choices, and he couldn’t kill Keane. He strode out in front of Cullam Keane and dropped the blade.
Behind Keane stood Angelica Du Haiti, near the exit to the storeroom.
Keane didn’t move. He stood frozen, staring at him pointing the handgun at Dolly’s heart.
“Detective, I am not a savage and have no quarrel with you.” The woman said in a lyrical West Indies accent. She was wearing a striking maroon crinoline dress, looking more like a lady strolling the park than a murdering witch, that is until you saw the tall staff decorated with skulls and feathers in her hand rather than a parasol.
“Let him go,” Dolly begged.
"I cannot. He is my only guarantee you will leave me to my business. Your colleague will remain with me until I escape. If you or others follow me, they will die by his hand. Forget me, and I will return him safely,” asserted the enchantress.
Dolly heard Keane mutter, “No.”
His eyes flashed from Angelica to Keane. Keane was back. Dolly could see recognition in his gaze just before the gun went off and a shower of blood covered Dolly’s face. Dolly looked into Keane’s eyes as the life left them. The top of Keane’s skull wa
s missing. Smoke curled out of the barrel Keane had stuck under his own chin. The pistol dropped to the floor just before Keane’s lifeless body did the same.
Dolly bellowed, "No! No!”
As he realized what Keane had done, he reached for the firearm and drew up on the witch to fire. She wielded her staff and howled something undecipherable, a conjuration. Keane’s dead hand grabbed Dolly’s leg. He looked down to see the deceased body moving, trying to seize his other leg. Dolly let out a scream and bolted away from Keane’s moving corpse, his mind swirling in a soup of horror and disbelief.
The detective kicked at the arm that held him to escape the dead man’s grip then suddenly the body ceased its supernatural animation. He glanced back for Angelica, but she was gone. He had to take a second glance at Keane to be positive he didn’t move again. Then he rushed after her back through the storeroom then out to the alley. When he got there, Dolly heard a young voice yell, “Drop the pistol, mister!”
At the end of the alley were three British infantrymen with rifles trained on him.
Williamson dropped the gun and raised his hands. “I’m a detective in the Metropolitan Police Department. I can show you my badge,” pleaded Dolly.
“Okay, real slow,” said one trooper.
Dolly reached into his jacket and pulled out his billfold, opening it to show the infantrymen.
“Bloody hell, mate. I had no idea,” said a soldier. They all lowered their carbines and relaxed.
“Did you see a woman come out here? A negro woman with a staff?"
“No, Detective, and we moved up here quickly when we heard shooting.”
At that moment, Dolly looked down, and just outside of the alley lay a primitive, handmade doll. Upon closer examination, he observed it was a man-shaped fetish with symbols and pins stuck into it. Dolly picked up the doll and began to sob.
