by Mark Morris
Her words were like a hypnotist’s suggestion. I closed my eyes and within seconds I was gone again.
The next thing I remember is feeling uncomfortably hot, pushing my bedclothes away with arms that felt too weak for the task. I heard someone say, ‘He’s burning up,’ in a booming, hollow voice. Then some more time must have passed, because when I next bobbed to the surface I was aware of something soft and cool and damp on my cheeks and forehead. I put my hand up to see what it was, and another hand intercepted my own, squeezing gently.
‘He’s coming round,’ someone said.
Clover? No, it was a male voice this time.
Suddenly I realised who the voice belonged to, and felt a lurch of excitement, which gave me the impetus to open my eyes.
And there he was, as austere and immaculate as ever.
‘Hawkins!’ I croaked.
Hawkins’ lips twitched in a smile. ‘Correct, sir. I’m relieved to find that you appear to be in full possession of your faculties.’
I struggled to sit up. Clover, on the other side of the bed, who had been dabbing my face with a cold cloth, leaned forward to help. She supported my back with one hand while plumping up the cushions behind me with the other.
‘I was worried,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know what had happened to you.’
The words, coming in a rush, were scratchy in my throat and ended in a coughing fit. Clover passed me a glass of water, before hurrying out on to the landing to find one of the maids and ask her to bring me something more substantial. When my coughing had subsided Hawkins told me his story.
‘The instant I leaped from the Wharf, the Society’s interest in me, such as it was, ended. It was you they wanted, sir, and you only. When I landed in the river – a somewhat bracing experience, I must admit – I had no inkling of your whereabouts. I called out your name, but, receiving no reply and knowing that remaining in the water and searching for you would be a futile exercise, I struck out immediately for shore. I reached the harbour wall, but it was too sheer and slippery to ascend. I therefore made my way along it until I came to a set of stone steps, whereupon I climbed out and hurried back to Blyth’s Wharf.
‘By the time I arrived, the place was deserted. Even the remains of our unfortunate guide had gone. Still unsure whether you had been captured or lost in the river, I searched the surrounding premises as best I could, by which time my wet clothes and the inclement weather were beginning to take their toll. Much as it pained me to abandon my search, I made my way back to where I hoped I might find a cab, but collapsed in the street, overcome with the cold. I was fortunate that within a very short time I was discovered by a Chinese lady, who was on her way home after completing her nightly toil waiting tables in a nearby restaurant. She ran to fetch her husband, and together the two of them carried me back to their living quarters, where they kindly revived me with a warm brazier and a bowl of excellent fish soup.
‘As soon as I was well enough and dry enough to take my leave I thanked them for their hospitality and made my way back here, hoping that you might somehow have preceded me. It was not to be, of course – but then, not half an hour after my return, a knock came on the door, whereupon you were discovered lying on the doorstep, deeply unconscious but otherwise none the worse for your ordeal.’
Clover, who had come back halfway through Hawkins’ story, leaned forward when he had finished and murmured in my ear, ‘As usual Mr Hawkins is doing his stiff upper lip routine. Fact is, he thought you were dead. He was very upset.’
Hawkins frowned. ‘Well, naturally I was concerned—’
‘Very upset,’ Clover repeated. Looking at me meaningfully, she pulled a sad face and trailed a finger from the corner of her eye down her cheek.
Hawkins harrumphed and flared his nostrils. It was such a haughty gesture that Clover giggled.
‘I hardly think this is the time for flippancy, Miss Monroe,’ he said, which only made her giggle all the more. Dismissing her with a toss of the head, he turned back to me. ‘As I said, sir, I was concerned. I still am. What happened to you after we lost touch with one another? I assume you fell into the Society’s clutches?’
‘I did,’ I said, and told them my story. Clover’s laughter dwindled into a smile, which, by the time I’d finished, had hardened into a frown.
‘Well, he can fuck right off for a start,’ she said, referring to the Dark Man’s proposition. ‘There’s no way he’d ever honour that agreement.’
I shrugged. Clover’s frown deepened into a scowl.
‘Come on, Alex, don’t tell me you’re actually giving this load of bollocks some serious consideration?’
I was saved from having to answer by the arrival of Hattie carrying a tray loaded with tea things, a couple of boiled eggs in eggcups, and a plate stacked high with hot buttered toast.
‘Hattie, you’re a life saver,’ I said.
She blushed and muttered her thanks.
Clover took the tray and placed it across my lap, before transferring the teapot, milk jug and cup and saucer to the washstand beside the door, where she could pour the tea on a more stable surface. I bit into a slice of toast, then lopped the top off an egg with a knife.
‘Well?’ said Clover, putting one cup down with a rattle of china on my bedside cabinet and handing another to Hawkins.
I shot her a sidelong look. ‘Delicious.’
‘You know what I’m talking about!’
I sighed and rested my head back against the pillows, still chewing.
‘I haven’t really had time to think about it. But I’m not sure I’ve got much of a choice.’
She scowled. ‘You’ve always got a choice.’
‘Do I, though?’
‘Of course you do! I mean, all right, without the heart you’ve got nothing to fight the Wolves with – your gun and all this security are just so much window dressing – but, and this is a big “but”, Alex, we now know that the Wolves think you’re the only person who can find the heart for them, which means they definitely want you alive.’
I pulled an expression of general agreement, but she hadn’t yet finished.
‘The way I see it, that means it’s a pretty dodgy game they’re playing. Because the heart makes you strong. And as soon as you do find it, you’ve got a weapon to fight them with. At the very least you’ve got a way of getting out of here.’
I raised my right hand, which now held a knife smeared with butter and egg yolk.
‘Correction: I would have if I knew how to use it properly. Plus you’re forgetting, they’ve still got Kate. I’m not going to put her at risk by defying them.’
‘I’m not forgetting,’ she said. ‘It’s just… well, the heart is your only asset. Your only weapon. Your only bargaining chip. What’s to stop the Dark Man from killing you when you hand it over?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘But if I don’t hand it over he’ll kill Kate – or at least hurt her.’
‘But will he? Isn’t she his only bargaining chip?’
‘Are you suggesting I take a risk with my daughter’s life?’
She threw up her hands. ‘No! I don’t know! Oh, for fuck’s sake, there must be some way we can turn this situation to our advantage!’
Silence fell in the room. I took a sip of tea and stared into the fire.
‘What do you think, Hawkins?’ I asked.
‘I think we should do as we have done, sir. We should continue to concentrate our efforts on finding the heart. Once it is back in your hands, perhaps a solution will present itself.’
‘It’ll be too late then,’ Clover said.
‘Maybe so,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know what else we can do.’
Once I’d eaten, Clover and Hawkins left me alone to get some rest. I lay back, still groggy after last night’s ordeal. I wondered what I’d been injected with: laudanum? Opium? Of course, it needn’t have been a contemporary sedative. Tallarian had turned up in my own time too. Then again the Tallarian I’d seen last night, though his body had been
modified, had been fire-scarred, which presumably meant he was still healing from the burns he’d suffered three months ago.
Exhausted, I closed my eyes, and immediately my thoughts began to spin away like water down a plughole. I didn’t realise I’d swirled with them, back into sleep, until I felt myself jolting awake again.
For a moment I couldn’t work out why the room was dark, why the fire had guttered down to glowing embers. I felt so disorientated I wasn’t sure whether I’d been shaken awake or shocked from a dream. Then someone on the other side of me spoke my name.
I twisted round, but before I could turn all the way, a hand grabbed my shoulder.
‘Brace yourself,’ said a voice that sent an immediate thrill of fear through me. ‘This is going to be a shock.’
The hand on my shoulder relaxed and I spun all the way round, my heart pumping.
The man sitting beside my bed, illuminated by the fire’s glow, was myself.
He looked – I looked – done in: haggard, haunted, hair tousled, eyes dark-rimmed in a pale, waxen face. It was one thing seeing yourself in a mirror, but being confronted with a physical, three-dimensional representation – no, not just a representation, but an exact double, and one that you instinctively knew wasn’t just a double, but was actually you – was… well, there are no words that can do justice to the experience.
The phrase that immediately occurs to me is ‘mind-bending’. And yes, although the experience was mind-bending, it was also much, much more. Would it sound strange to say that I was scared? Because I was. Deeply and profoundly. In fact, I wasn’t just scared, I was bloody terrified.
It wasn’t that I thought I’d hurt myself, or that the other me was some kind of evil twin, or anything like that. The whole experience just felt deeply, intrinsically wrong. It felt as if what was happening was against the laws of nature and time and… well, everything. It felt, at that moment, as if two mes being in the same room together – the same person occupying twice as much space as they should, possessing two brains, two hearts – was enough to make everything fall apart, to make reality shatter. I know that sounds stupid, and I know it’s difficult to grasp, but I could almost sense chaos trying to push its way in through the rift we’d created – I’d created. I could almost hear the approaching howl of the void.
For this reason – because I was so taken aback, so affronted – my first response was angry, almost petulant:
‘What are you doing here?’
The other me leaned forward. His face was etched with anguish, with horror. His eyes widened, and I waited for him to say something.
But then he turned his head to one side, leaned over and puked.
It was as he was puking, filling the room with the hot stink of vomit, that I noticed what the simple shock of seeing myself had stopped me from registering immediately. Firstly the other me was wearing trousers and a jacket which he had pulled on over the very nightshirt I was currently wearing. And secondly, and far more importantly, I noticed that clutched in the other me’s right hand was the obsidian heart!
I gaped at it, dumbstruck. Slowly I raised a hand and pointed at the heart like a very small child pointing at a toy it wanted. As the other me straightened up, looking wretched (using the heart made me sick again, I thought, and felt a wriggle of concern at the potential damage being done on my future body), I rediscovered my voice.
‘Where did you find it?’
The other me scowled and flapped a dismissive hand.
‘It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is what I’m here to say. Are you listening?’
I nodded, wondering whether the other me was remembering my responses and thoughts from his own past. ‘Go on.’
‘I’m you about… five minutes from now. You’re just about to get the heart back. And when you do – as soon as you do – the Dark Man will arrive and he’ll ask you for it.’
The other me suddenly clutched my arm and I realised he was trembling.
‘As soon as he does you have to give it to him. Don’t think about it, don’t hesitate. Just give it to him, okay?’
As I frowned, I saw an expression cross his face. Perhaps it was a realisation of how weird and intense he was being, or maybe a memory of how he’d felt at this precise moment, just a few minutes earlier. He let go of my arm, muttering an apology.
‘Why should I give it to him?’ I asked.
I could see he was traumatised, trying to hold himself together long enough to explain.
‘Because if you don’t he’ll kill Kate.’
I jerked, as if he’d suddenly grabbed my balls. Now it was my turn to shoot out a hand and grip his arm.
‘What do you mean? Where is Kate?’
‘She’s with the Dark Man. He’ll have her with him. And if you hesitate, even for a second, he’ll kill her. I know! I’ve seen it! He did it right in front of me…’ His voice suddenly broke into sobs; with an almighty effort he pulled himself together. He leaned forward, wild-eyed and distraught. I could smell the vomit on his breath.
‘Promise me! Promise me you’ll do what I say!’
I had no idea how to respond. My thoughts were pinballing inside my head. As well as the sheer shock of meeting myself, I felt horrified at the prospect of seeing Kate killed in front of me. Yet at the same time I also felt a wriggle of suspicion.
I’d seen the shape-shifter turn itself into perfect replicas of Clover and McCallum and DI Jensen, so how did I know this really was me five minutes from now? Instinctively I felt as though it was – but could I trust my instincts? This was an extraordinary situation, after all.
Was it another of the Dark Man’s tricks? Was he just trying to panic me into doing what he wanted? But how could I make a decision one way or the other? I couldn’t gamble on Kate’s life.
Stalling simply because I didn’t know what else to do, I said, ‘But won’t that change the future?’
The other Alex stared at me, astounded and furious. Why is he angry? I thought. Why didn’t he know I’d ask this question when he must have asked it himself five minutes ago? Then again, if he was also visited by his future self, why didn’t he obey his own instructions and hand the heart over before Kate could be killed?
Before I had chance to even begin to think this through, the other me barked, ‘Fuck the future! Who wants a future where Kate’s dead? Anything would be better than that!’ The anger slipped, became desperation again. ‘Say you’ll do it, Alex! Promise me! For both our sakes!’
Still I hesitated.
‘Please!’ he wailed. ‘Believe me, you don’t want to see what I’ve seen. You don’t want to feel what I’m feeling right now!’
From below there came a frantic pounding on the front door. I leaped in shock, my nerves already stretched to breaking point, my head snapping round, as if I expected the bedroom door to burst open.
‘What’s—’ I said breathlessly, turning back to the other me – but the words died in my throat.
The chair beside my bed was empty. The other me had gone.
EIGHTEEN
A SHADOW ACROSS THE MOON
My initial thought on hearing the pounding downstairs had been that the Wolves were at the door. But then I realised how unlikely that was: firstly because I didn’t think the Wolves would knock; and secondly because how could I give the obsidian heart to the Dark Man if I didn’t yet have it?
Clearly, though, if the future me had given an accurate account of what was about to happen, things were coming to a head. In which case, I didn’t want to have to face the Wolves barefoot, unarmed and wearing only a nightshirt. It wasn’t a question of vanity, but practicality – what if we had to leave the house at a moment’s notice? For this reason, instead of racing immediately downstairs, I decided to prepare myself.
Yanking open the top drawer of my bedside cabinet, I reached in to grab my gun – and then remembered that the last time I’d seen it had been when I’d pulled it on the knifeman in Limehouse. For a moment I thought it wasn’t g
oing to be there, and felt relief wash through me when my hand closed around its familiar shape. It must have still been in my jacket when I’d been dumped unconscious on the doorstep, and Hawkins, knowing my habits, must have transferred it to the drawer – though probably not before drying and cleaning it first. I checked the weapon was loaded, then threw back the blankets and leaped out of bed, taking care not to step in the puke that the future me had left on the carpet and that was now stinking out the room. I ran across to the wardrobe, grabbed a jacket and trousers and pulled them on over my nightshirt (I assumed they were the same ones the future me had been wearing), then I pulled my boots on over my bare feet and swiftly laced them up.
By the time I reached the top of the staircase, which overlooked the hall, Clover had already answered the door. The girl who’d entered looked agitated, scared. She had skin like polished mahogany, a thin face, big dark eyes and masses of curly black hair. I suspected the rest of her was thin too, though it was hard to tell; like many of the poor she kept as warm as she could by wearing as many threadbare layers of clothing as possible. I knew this girl. She was a prostitute, who lived and worked around Covent Garden. She was also one of my watchers. She had an exotic name, something like Mayla, and on the few occasions she’d seen me she’d been cheerful, even cheeky.
She wasn’t cheerful or cheeky now, though. Her fear was making her aggressive. I heard her voice – strident and weirdly accented, somewhere between Cockney and African – insisting she’d speak to no one but me.
Clover, facing the girl, was holding up her hands as if to placate a dangerous animal.
‘I’ve told you, Mr Locke is sleeping. Can’t you just—’
‘No, I’m not,’ I called, whereupon Mayla, Clover and Hawkins, who was hovering silently at Clover’s shoulder, all swivelled their heads in my direction.
It was only as I descended the stairs that I realised Mrs Peake and the girls were there too, lurking in the shadows further back along the corridor to the left of the staircase. All of them were staring in wonder and trepidation (and in Mrs Peake’s case, disapproval) at the new arrival. Hattie in particular was gaping at Mayla as if she was some rare and exotic creature.
