The Parliament of Blood (21 page)

‘So where are we going?' George asked. ‘I thought the ceremony would take place in the Club itself. I had no idea …' His voice tailed off and he hurried to catch up with Clarissa as she strode on ahead.

The occasional puddles were becoming more frequent. After a while – after what must have been half a mile – George and Clarissa were walking through an inch of water.

‘It leaks in,' she explained. ‘We are almost under the river here.'

‘You mean the Thames? Here? Above us now?'

She paused and glanced up at the roof as if considering. ‘Westminster. Or near enough.' She regarded him for a moment, then continued along the tunnel. ‘We must hurry, or you will be late.'

The nearest lamp was flickering, throwing bizarre shadows across the dark, damp wall. The stonework glistened as if it was sweating. George ran his hand down the stone, feeling the viscous, wet surface. But it didn't feel like river water.

‘Hurry, George,' Clarissa called back to him. ‘We are almost there.'

Her laughter echoed round the tunnel. But George was standing beneath the flickering light, staring at the palm of his hand where he had pressed it to the wall. It had come away damp, smeared, dark, and as crimson as Clarissa's cloak.

‘What's going on?' George demanded. But his voice was lost in her laughter, and in another sound. The whole tunnel seemed to throb with a low noise that reverberated through the tunnels. George could feel it under his feet, and pulsing inside his head. The sound was like a great heartbeat.

Clarissa seemed to sense how apprehensive he was growing. Seemed to know that if she gave him the chance, George would slip away. But they had come so far, so deep into the maze of tunnels that George doubted he would find his way back to the door into the basement of the Damnation Club.

Make a run for it now, and he might be condemned to wander round these damp, hellish tunnels for all eternity. George swallowed and determined to play along with whatever was happening. For now, at least.

There was a pipe running along the wall of the tunnel they were in. Another joined it, then a third. These connected to more pipes that disappeared into the walls, ran up to the roof, burrowed into the floor.

Clarissa waited while George examined them. The pipes were dark with corrosion and leaking at the joints, but they were obviously much newer than the tunnels themselves.

‘That sound …'

Clarissa nodded. ‘The pumps. We are getting closer to them. A great hall of steam-driven machinery that keeps the water moving through these pipes. They are not always visible, but they line the tunnels and interlink like the arteries of this domain.'

‘To keep the water out?'

‘Of course. Without the pumps, as you have seen the Thames slowly seeps in and would eventually flood these tunnels.'

There was something in the easy manner in which she answered, something in her smile, that made George sure that she was lying.

The chamber where they gathered was smaller than the great cavern beneath the cemetery. There was a stone
table on a dais at one end, which looked to Eddie rather like an altar. Metal pipes were woven into the stonework, running round the walls and connecting together with heavy valves. Rows of stone benches ran lengthways along the chamber, and people were taking their places on them – two rows of benches, facing each other across a central aisle.

The other end of the chamber, opposite the dais and the table, was shrouded in darkness. There were lamps right the way along the walls, but they were dimmed at that end of the chamber – as if the light was afraid to show what might be lurking in the shadows.

The carriage had stopped between the rows of benches, before the stone table. Four men in black lifted down the stained, muddy coffin. They carried it reverently to the table – the altar.

The Coachman climbed down, and the carriage pulled gently away without him. It passed close to Eddie, and his eyes widened as he saw the horses properly for the first time. He had thought their ribs were showing through their sides. He was wrong.

The horses had no sides. The darkness between the bones was not emaciated, shrunken flesh but empty space. They were brittle, pale skeletons. The Coachman followed behind, and as he pushed back his hood, Eddie could see that his face was a skull with empty sockets for eyes, wizened skin drawn back from blackened teeth.

The Coachman stopped beside Eddie and Lord Ruthven. The stench was suddenly so powerful that Eddie almost
fainted. The earthy, stale smell increased as the Coachman leaned forward.

‘Yes,' he rasped. ‘This one will do very well.' He turned in a full circle, arms outstretched as he addressed the gathered crowd. ‘Soon we shall celebrate the arrival of a new member of our great family. Soon we shall pay homage to our Lord.'

He turned back to Ruthven. ‘Despite your doubts and your attempted betrayal, our Lord has returned to us. No one can stop us now. Sir William has been dealt with.'

Eddie felt a jolt of shock, as if he had been thumped.

‘Miss Oldfield is no longer a threat.'

He almost doubled over with sudden nausea.

‘George Archer will be here directly.'

His head was in a spin. It seemed as if the whole place was thumping and contracting in time to his heart. The blood was rushing in his ears as the Coachman turned to Eddie.

‘Which just leaves the boy to be dealt with,' he said. ‘The boy, Eddie Hopkins.'

It was all Eddie could do not to cry out in alarm. Even if he could get away from Lord Ruthven and the others he had no idea how to get out. He might be trapped down here for ever. But maybe it was time to take that chance.

He braced himself, ready to shove the Coachman and Ruthven aside and run for the nearest tunnel.

But the Coachman was already turning away. ‘The boy was at the Damnation Club. He knows too much. Since we know that Archer is out of the way, the boy will be alone at Archer's house.'

Eddie almost laughed out loud. Of course – the Coachman didn't know who he was, how could he? He thought Eddie was just some kid that Pearce had given up to him. His legs were weak at the thought he'd nearly given himself away.

‘I shall attend to it,' Ruthven was saying, with a deferential bow.

‘Already done,' the Coachman rasped.

It was a long time since John Remick had been inside a
home
. It amazed him how much softer everything was. How much more comfortable. Archer's house probably wasn't even that much of a home, but it was very different from the workhouse.

He felt as if he was waking from a long, deep sleep. He was confused and dazed, wondering what the Coachman had done to him. It was almost an hour before he was confident enough to explore the house a little. He felt he was intruding. Usually he didn't care what people thought. Apart from Pearce – and only then because the man would whip him as happily as he would any of the other kids. Remick was a survivor. He'd quickly learned that the only way to avoid being picked on was to be the most brutal of bullies himself.

But here in the easy comfort of Archer's home he began to wonder if he'd got it right. If he'd been able to stay with his mum, would he have lived somewhere like this? Or would they have been shunted from workhouse to poorhouse, to who knew where?

There was even a kitchen. Tiny, but a kitchen at the end of the narrow hallway. He was in the kitchen when he heard the knocking at the door.

The man at the door was a stranger. Tall and thin, wearing a top hat and a heavy cape against the cold of the night. His eyes were deep black.

‘Eddie Hopkins, I presume,' the man said.

John Remick could tell – from the way he stood, the way he spoke, the way he slapped an ebony cane into the gloved
palm of his hand … The man meant no good. Someone had it in for Eddie. Whatever Eddie had got caught up in, whatever Pearce and the Coachman were doing, it was a dangerous business.

Remick had never once asked what happened to the children the Coachman took away. Looking back at the man with the dark eyes, Remick was suddenly sure that Eddie had saved his life. The boy had taken his place – even after the beating Remick had promised him. Whatever Eddie was doing, it was for the good. If Remick could help Eddie, could somehow take the heat off him and let him get on with his business …

He thrust his hands into his pockets. He could feel the crumpled, ragged shape of his mother's letter and gripped it tight in his fist. What would she think of him? Eddie had asked. Would she be proud of her son?

‘Yeah,' John Remick said defiantly. ‘I'm Eddie Hopkins. What's it to you?'

Even as he said them, Remick knew they would be the last words he ever spoke. But Eddie would be safe. And Mum would be proud.

‘Some of this pipe work is new,' George realised.

‘Our requirements change constantly. The river never rests,' Clarissa said.

There was a sound echoing the throb of the pumps. It reminded George of a church – the whole place with its high, stone roof, and the noise. It sounded like people chanting.

‘You said you need an engineer. Is it for this? To keep the pumps working and the tunnels dry?' George wondered.

‘The river is never silent, never quiet, never calm,' Clarissa said. ‘The system needs constant attention. It is so complex now that only Christopher Kingsley understands it fully. But we also need to make use of the newer technologies. For all his expertise, Kingsley is such a traditionalist.'

The chanting was getting louder as they neared the end of the tunnel. ‘So this is what Kingsley was working on when he died?' George said. His throat was dry at the memory of seeing his friend and mentor stretched out on the mortuary slab.

Clarissa turned to George. The flickering light was red across her white face. ‘Why, George,' she said quietly, ‘whatever makes you think that he is dead?'

George stopped suddenly. ‘I saw him,' he said, confused. ‘I saw his body …'

But Clarissa had already moved on. She was standing beside a doorway in the tunnel wall, waiting for George to catch up. ‘The Hall of Machines,' Clarissa said as he joined her. She stepped aside to allow George to enter the enormous cavern.