by Mark Hodder
Swinburne kicked free of Galton, charged at the thrashing creature, and launched himself into the air, landing amid the flailing limbs and applying his full weight to the pipe. It sank deeper. Blood fountained from its end.
Krishnamurthy bellowed across the chamber, “Get away from it, Swinburne!”
Before the poet could oblige, a knotted fist caught him on the point of the chin. His head snapped back and he toppled to the floor, skidding across it, leaving a smear of Hare’s blood behind him.
Krishnamurthy immediately jumped from cover and loosed a volley of shots. Burton, on his knees, felt the bullets drilling through the air above him and heard them thump into Hare’s body.
Hare shrieked and tumbled backward.
The explorer yelled, “Straight to hell with you, Gregory Hare!”
Beyond the floundering creature, Damien Burke stepped into view, having returned from the Dissenters’ Church. He calmly took in the scene, pulled the odd-looking cactus pistol from his pocket, and shot a spine into Swinburne, who was struggling to his feet. The poet sagged back to the flagstones.
Burke turned his attention to Burton. The explorer scrabbled away from him but felt a sharp pain in the side of his neck. He reached up and plucked a spine from it. His senses began to swim. He sagged onto his side and, with dimming vision, watched as one of the Enochians unstrapped Crowley. The Trans-Temporal Man rose from the throne and shouted, “Enough of this!”
The gunfire stopped. Burton heard revolvers clicking fruitlessly. Those machines that were still sparking fell silent. Nothing that required ignition functioned.
Crowley vaulted over a bench, pounced on Krishnamurthy and Bhatti, and knocked their heads together. They folded to the floor.
Burton tried to rise but the strength was draining from him.
“Mr. Burke,” Crowley said, “check the cell. I want to know how Burton got out of it.”
An Enochian snatched up a large spanner, strode to the explorer, and stood over him. “Shall I kill him, Master?”
“Certainly not. Empty his pockets, and be thorough about it.”
Burton was unable to offer resistance as his clothes were searched. It took all his concentration just to cling to consciousness.
“I think he picked the lock,” Burke reported.
Crowley bent and hauled Krishnamurthy up by his collar. He dragged him toward one of the bays. “Find whatever he used.”
“A locksmith’s tool,” Burke replied. “Mr. Hare has it in his eye. He’s dead. May I kick Burton in the head, Mr. Crowley?”
“Yes, Mr. Burke, but I’d be obliged if you’d avoid doing any critical damage.”
Groggily, Burton pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at Burke as he approached.
“You killed my partner,” Burke said.
Burton sneered and slurred, “Think nothing of it. It was my pleasure.”
A boot smashed viciously into his jaw.
Awareness came, departed, and returned. Hazy shapes moved, and voices drifted in and out of cognition. Slowly Burton realised that the cold, flat surface pressing against the side of his face was a flagstone. Blurs coalesced and gained edges. He saw a barred gate.
He was back inside his cell, with the five coffins, but without Swinburne. Instead, he found Thomas Honesty sprawled beside him.
The explorer stifled a groan, rolled over, and sat up. The cell swayed around him. He held his head in his hands and fought the urge to vomit.
I’m tired. So bloody tired. How much more of this madness can I take?
As much as is necessary to get the job done.
Then Damascus.
Except he didn’t want Damascus any more.
He gritted his teeth, raised his head, and looked at Honesty. The groundsman’s eyes were open but glazed, his face slack.
Burton reached out, shook him by the shoulder, and croaked, “How are you feeling, old chap?”
“Where am I?” Honesty slurred.
“That’s a long story. What do you remember?”
The man rubbed his eyes. “Nothing. Saw you murder John Judge. Nightmares. Have I—have I been in the Cauldron? Why do I think that? I recall—no—I don’t know. By God, I feel weak.”
Burton got to his feet. His head was aching abominably and his lower left molars felt loose. Half-dried blood caked his moustache, lips, and the left side of his face. His arm was throbbing.
He looked through the gate. Crowley’s people were clearing the central passage, moving the machines and equipment into the side corridors. The twisted, multi-limbed carcass of Gregory Hare lay where it had fallen, with blood pooled around it. The Trans-Temporal Man was sitting cross-legged on a table and appeared to be meditating.
A voice hissed from the cell to the right. “Sir Richard, are you with us?”
“Is that you, Krishnamurthy?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, sir—that didn’t quite go to plan.”
“My fault. I shouldn’t have got caught in the first place. Is Algy with you?”
“No, just Bhatti.”
Swinburne’s voice came from the left. “I’m here. What shall we do?”
“Watch and wait.”
Sister Raghavendra, perhaps hearing the whispering, looked up and saw that Burton had revived. She walked over and checked the padlock. “If you attempt to escape again, Sir Richard, you’ll be shot in the kneecaps. The Master wants you alive but he has no reservations about causing you immense pain. Tomorrow you will serve not a primitive government, but a visionary leader.”
“A despot!” Burton snorted.
She winked at him. “Benign. All those who support him will be artificially advanced to a new stage of physical and mental development.”
“And those who oppose?” he asked, puzzled by the wink.
“They will provide manual labour or die.” Raghavendra leaned closer to the bars and, in barely audible tones, said, “I’m free of him but he doesn’t realise it. Stand ready, Richard. I’ll do what I can.” Aloud, she added, “Do not cause further disruption. If you attempt anything, your friends will be killed in front of you.”
“What’s he doing?” Burton mouthed, nodding his head in Crowley’s direction.
“He’s settling into his new form. Its brain has been designed to accentuate his mediumistic connection with his alternate selves but it will take him time to learn how to use it. I have to leave you now, else I’ll rouse suspicion.”
She moved away.
Burton watched her go then turned back to Honesty and squatted beside him, peering into his eyes. “You were possessed, Mr. Honesty. I shall try to explain.”
For half an hour, the explorer spoke quietly and rapidly, describing the nosferatu and how, like a parasite, it had lodged in John Judge before transplanting itself into Honesty. He told how Honesty had been used to create strigoi morti in the East End, their presence causing panic, and how that panic had been channelled into rioting by the Enochians’ seditious anti-German campaigning.
“Un-dead,” Honesty mumbled. “And me? Oh, God! Am I strigoi morti?”
“I don’t think so. Perdurabo can’t feed off the volonté of a body he inhabits and didn’t occupy you long enough to transform you into a nosferatu, but when we’re through with all this, we’ll have Monsieur Levi examine you to make sure.”
Burton pointed past the bars of the gate at Crowley’s new form. “Our enemy has his own flesh now,” he said. “There’s no other presence inside it to resist him the way you did, which means he can move around in daylight as easily as any of us. He’s intent on attacking the British and Germanic governments when they gather in Green Park tomorrow morning.”
“Attack how?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to—”
A low whistle from Krishnamurthy interrupted him. He moved to the corner of the cell and murmured, “What is it?”
“I was listening. I know how he intends to do it.”
“Tell me.”
“For half the length of the Rive
r Effra, where the new sewer tunnel encloses it, there’s a wide brick shelf running alongside the water. For the rest of the way—the upper reaches—the shelf narrows and is of hard clay, but between those two stretches there’s a short section where the clay has been cut away and shaped ready for the next section of brickwork. The workmen have dug a large niche into the wall there for storing their tools and materials. Bhatti and I encountered two Enochians by it. We overpowered them and found they’d been guarding a wheeled trolley on which rested a big barrel-shaped affair. We took a closer look. I’m certain it was a bomb, Sir Richard—a bloody huge one. If Crowley drops it on Green Park, it’ll leave nothing but an enormous crater.”
Burton was silent as he digested this. Then, “Drop it how? He’ll never get past the Orpheus. It would take—” He stopped. His eyes widened. “Bismillah!”
“Sir?”
“He’s going to hijack the Sagittarius!”
“No one knows the secret of the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence. They work with the diseased but never fall sick. They move among criminals but never fall victim. They surround themselves with sinners but never fall from Grace. These women appear blessed. Good fortune favours them. Some say they emanate some manner of mediumistic defence. Others say that God protects them. All I know is that I wish I was one of them, and I would have given anything to have had them with me during the dark days of the Crimean War.”
—NURSE FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE
Hours passed. The prisoners alternated between short naps and watching as Crowley’s people tended to their wounds, loaded their weapons, packed away equipment, and prepared to move.
Swinburne said to Burton, “How can Crowley possibly take the Sagittarius?”
“You’re forgetting,” Burton replied, “even if Detective Inspector Slaughter’s raid on the Enochians’ clubhouse has succeeded, there were only twenty or so members in it, which—if Trounce got his figures right—leaves well over a hundred unaccounted for.”
“Ah, a sizeable raiding party.”
“Exactly, and the airfield isn’t expecting an attack. With Crowley’s ability to quash gunfire, they could wrest control of the ship before anyone realises what’s happening.” Burton rubbed his aching arm. “The Orpheus has been fitted with weapons but it wouldn’t stand a chance against that battleship.”
“Confound it!” the poet cursed. “We have to get out of here!”
“We still have hope,” Burton noted.
“In what form?” came the dubious reply.
“Sadhvi Raghavendra.”
However, four more hours went by before Burton was able to speak to the Sister of Noble Benevolence. She had slept for a period before reappearing at the far end of the passage, only to then vanish into the tunnel that led to the Effra. After an agonising wait, he saw her return to the catacomb. Many more minutes dragged by before she moved close enough for him to attract her attention.
He clicked his fingers.
She glanced at him, then strode over to a tangle of wire, picked it up, and started to unravel and coil it, giving the appearance of industriousness while edging closer to the cells, turning her ear to the explorer.
“Sadhvi,” he whispered, “are you familiar with the hidden passage that connects to the catacomb beneath the Episcopal chapel?”
She gave a barely perceptible nod.
“You have to escape through it and make your way to Battersea Power Station. Warn Isambard Kingdom Brunel of Crowley’s plan.”
“I don’t know his plan,” she breathed. “There’s a bomb. I have no idea what he intends to do with it.”
“I believe he’ll transport it through the Effra tunnel to the river’s outlet beside Vauxhall Bridge. From there, he’ll take it along the bank of the Thames to the Royal Navy Air Service Station. He and his people will attack the airfield and seize the Sagittarius. They’ll use the ship to drop the bomb on Green Park. Tell Brunel and Detective Inspector Trounce to ambush the Enochians at the bridge.”
Sadhvi nodded. “I’ll try.”
“We’ll cause a rumpus so you can get away while the attention is on us.”
At the far end of the passage, Crowley suddenly stretched, uncrossed his legs, and slid from the table.
“Good!” he announced. “I feel stronger.”
Raghavendra moved away from the prisoners.
“Galton, report!” Crowley snapped.
“It’s dawn, Master. We’re almost ready to move. Our fellows will be gathering.”
“We have a few minutes to spare?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Mr. Burke, you have my permission to proceed. Gather around, please, everybody.”
Damien Burke’s naturally woebegone features twisted into a wicked smile. He picked up a six-foot length of finger-thick cable, approached the prisoners, took keys from his pocket, and unlocked the gate to the left of Burton and Honesty’s cell.
Crowley and his people formed a semicircle halfway along the central catacomb, leaving a wide cleared space between them and the cells.
Swinburne screeched, “Get off me, you brute!”
Burke reappeared, dragging the poet by his long scarlet hair. He shoved him forward, sending him staggering into the middle of what, to Burton, was starting to look unpleasantly similar to an Indian fight pit.
“Mr. Swinburne,” Crowley announced. “You rather irritated me earlier and you also have the misfortune of being one of Sir Richard Francis Burton’s truest friends. He values you highly.”
“Nonsense!” Swinburne responded. “He hasn’t known me for more than a few days.”
Crowley laughed, revealing small, pointed teeth. His big, slanted, black eyes gleamed. He opened his long, muscular arms wide and declaimed:
But him we hailed from afar or near
As boldest born of the bravest here
And loved as brightest of souls that eyed
Life, time, and death with unchangeful cheer,
A wider soul than the world was wide,
Whose praise made love of him one with pride,
What part has death or has time in him,
Who rode life’s lists as a god might ride?
“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “That was rather good, though horribly recited. Not yours, obviously.”
“No, Mr. Swinburne, not mine. Yours. You will write it in 1890. It is entitled ‘On the Death of Richard Burton.’ You see—you shall become very good friends indeed.”
Swinburne turned to face Burton and raised his eyebrows.
Burton gave a slight shake of the head, as if to say: Don’t provoke him!
“So,” Crowley said, “much as it pains me to do so—for I admire you greatly—I shall hurt you in order to hurt him. And perhaps in future you will think twice before mocking me.”
“I wouldn’t put money on it,” Swinburne replied.
Burke lifted the cable, whirled it around his head, and cracked it onto the poet’s back. It tore through Swinburne’s jacket and sent him to his knees.
“Ow!” he cried out. “Bloody hell! Ha ha! Yes!”
Burke pulled back his makeshift whip and sliced it down again. It slapped across Swinburne’s shoulders, shredding his outer garments.
“Argh! He he he! Ooh! I say! Golly, that smarts!”
Thomas Honesty moved to Burton’s side and gripped the bars of the locked gate. They watched grimly as Burke set about the poet, his lash striking again and again. Swinburne hopped and skipped about. He fell and got up, fell and got up, all the time squealing and crying out as his clothes and skin were flayed.
“By God!” Honesty groaned. “How can he stand it?”
“Yow!” Swinburne screeched. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Eek!”
“He’s enjoying it,” Burton murmured. He saw Sadhvi Raghavendra surreptitiously backing out of the semicircle.
“Enjoying? Are you mad?”
“His brain doesn’t function as a normal man’s. He feels pain as pleasure.”
“Yikes!” Swinburne yelle
d. “Ha ha ha! Blimey!”
“Pleasure?”
Sadhvi slipped into a side corridor and was gone.
“Yes, Mr. Honesty. He’s in raptures. Look at him.”
Swinburne was laughing hysterically, tears of unbridled joy streaming down his cheeks.
“More!” he shrieked. “Put your back into it, old thing!”
Burke snarled and slashed. The cable wound around Swinburne’s waist then fell away, taking a strip of his shirt with it.
“Stings!” he squawked, and, turning around, pushed down his trousers and showed his buttocks to Burke. “Tally-ho, old chap! Let loose! Swish! Swish!”
Burke obliged, flying into such a rage that the slashing cable became almost invisible to the eye.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
“Yaaah! Ooh ooh ooh, yes! Ouch! Ouch! Ha ha!”
Uttering a yell of frustration, Burke sprang forward, took Swinburne by what remained of his collar, yanked him around, and shoved him hard toward the coffin bay in which Burton was held. The poet crashed against the gate and clutched at the bars. He looked at the explorer, winked, grinned, and said, “My hat, Richard, what a dose he’s giving me!”
The cable smacked across his back.
“Oof! Yow! Has Sadhvi got away?”
“Yes. Go for his eyes, Algy. He’s dangerous. We need him out of the picture.”
Crack!
“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! I’ll see—”
Crack!
“Ha ha ha! What I—”
Crack!
“Aaah! Eek! Oh oh! Can do!”
