The Feaster From The Stars (Blackwood and Harrington) (4 page)

‘Wait!’ she said in an urgent whisper.

‘Nothing from the world,’ Morgan cried. ‘
Nothing from the world!
Oh no, not from here. Everything wrong… everything about it…
all wrong!
Carcosa… Carcosa.’

‘What?’ said Blackwood. ‘What did you say?’

Sophia glanced at him. ‘Thomas…?’

‘I think that’s enough for now,’ said Davenport. Without looking back, he beckoned with his hand. Immediately, the door opened, and the two orderlies came in.

‘Another few minutes, Doctor,’ said Blackwood. ‘Please.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Blackwood, but I must think of my patient. He is becoming far too agitated. He needs to rest.’ He indicated the open door. ‘If you please.’

Blackwood sighed. ‘Very well.’

‘If you would kindly wait for me outside, I shall be with you presently.’

Blackwood and Sophia left the room. Before one of the orderlies closed the door, they heard Alfie Morgan crying out again and again, ‘Don’t go down there!
Don’t go down there! Carcosa! CARCOSA!
’

Ten minutes later, they were once again in Dr Davenport’s office. His secretary brought in some tea, which they all sipped in nervous contemplation.

‘Most remarkable,’ said Davenport.

‘That poor man,’ said Sophia. ‘His mind has been quite undone by his experience.’

‘And yet, we did glean something of use,’ observed Blackwood. ‘Whatever he saw in the Loop, it was not some run-of-the-mill phantom.’

‘I should say not,’ Davenport agreed. ‘Although as to what he
did
see, I wouldn’t like to speculate.’

‘Something not of this world,’ Sophia murmured. ‘Which could mean… something not
native
to this world, something that does not belong here and has never belonged here. And what was that strange word he uttered? Carcosa… what does that mean?’ She looked at Blackwood, but he did not offer any answer.

‘I have no idea,’ said Davenport. ‘Gibberish, I shouldn’t wonder: a random product of the turmoil in his mind. As to what he saw… well,
perhaps
an apparition of some kind, but as to its nature and origin, I’m afraid that’s outside my area of expertise.’

‘But not ours,’ said Blackwood.

Davenport glanced at him. ‘You have experience of such things?’

‘Most assuredly,’ the Special Investigator replied, setting his cup and saucer upon the desk. ‘Dr Davenport, I would like to thank you for your time. Now we must take our leave, for we have much to do.’

Davenport stood up and shook hands with his visitors. ‘You’re welcome. And if there are any further developments with Mr Morgan, I will be sure to let you know.’

As their carriage drew away from the hospital, Sophia gave a small sigh of relief. ‘I’m glad to be out of there,’ she said.

‘As am I,’ Blackwood agreed.

‘I wonder if poor Mr Morgan will ever recover.’

‘Whatever the prognosis, there can be little doubt that he is in good hands.’

Sophia nodded, and then turned to her companion. ‘That word he said… Carcosa… in his room, you looked as though you recognised it. Did you?’

Blackwood hesitated. ‘I’m not entirely sure: it had the ring of familiarity to me… I’m sure I’ve heard it – or read it – somewhere before. But I can’t for the life of me remember where.’

‘I’ve certainly never heard of it. I wonder what language it is. Is it a place? A person’s name? Was it, perhaps, the name of the thing he saw?’

Blackwood remained silent as the hansom made its way through Southwark. Away in the distance, a pair of Martian omnibuses could be seen striding above the rooftops, heading north, their spindly tripod legs stepping delicately upon the shallow trenches of the purpose-built omnibus lanes which threaded the city. The sight brought back unpleasant recent memories, and he looked away, returning his attention to Sophia.

‘Do you think it would be worth trying some psychometry on that train?’ he asked.

‘An intriguing thought,’ Sophia nodded. ‘I’ll go to the SPR headquarters and enlist the aid of our best psychometrist.’

‘Excellent.’

‘And what about you, Thomas? What are you going to do next?’

Blackwood gave her a brief, troubled smile. ‘For a start, I’m going to try and see if I can remember where I have encountered the word
Carcosa
. I’ve a strong suspicion that it will shed some much-needed light on this case.’

Seamus Brennan crouched down beside the steel pressure tube and placed the curved plate over the inspection opening. Holding the plate with one hand, he inserted the six locking bolts around the edges and tightened them with a large spanner.

His friend and co-worker, Barrymore Tench, walked across the railway line and stood beside him. ‘All right, Seamus?’

‘Sure, I’m done now,’ Brennan replied.

‘About time,’ said Harry Fraser, the site foreman, who was standing on the platform looking down at them, fists balled on his hips like he owned the place.

‘Ah, stick it up yer arse,’ Brennan muttered.

‘What was that?’ Fraser snapped.

Brennan smiled up at him. ‘Nothing, sir! I’m just sayin’, job done.’

Fraser nodded. ‘Good. Now clear the line both of you, and we’ll start the test.’

The two maintenance workers climbed onto the platform and looked down at the tracks. Now that they had stopped working, they began to feel the deep chill of the night air. Farringdon Street Station had originally been the terminus for the Metropolitan Railway, the first of Central London’s urban lines; as such, it was above ground and open to the elements. It now had the additional honour of being the first section of the Underground to be fitted with the new atmospheric railway. The pressure tube, twelve inches in diameter, ran between the rails from Farringdon Street to Baker Street and was fed with compressed air from the great pumping station at Bethnal Green.

Further along the platform, the test train stood waiting. It was comprised of a single carriage fitted with an atmospheric drive cylinder, which was bolted securely to the underside. The cylinder was enclosed within the pressure tube, the pylon which connected it to the train passing through the single slit in the top of the tube. A strip of Martian rubber sealed the opening, preventing the escape of the compressed air and only parting to allow the passage of the pylon while the train was in motion.

After making certain that the line was completely clear of workers, Fraser nodded to a man who was standing in the doorway of the ticket office. The man went inside and sent a brief telegraph message to Bethnal Green. At the pumping station two miles to the east, the powerful Vansittart-Siddeley Ultra-compressors were switched on and began to pump air at fantastically high pressure into the system.

Less than a minute later, there was a barely audible hiss, and the test train began to move forward, gradually gaining speed as it passed the observers on the platform. As he passed them, the driver, Bert Smallwood, gave them the thumbs up, a wide grin on his stubbly face.

‘Nice one, Bert!’ called Tench, giving him a wave.

‘See you at Baker Street!’ he called back.

Tench looked down at the pressure tube, which had instantly resealed itself behind the train. ‘How do you think that stuff works?’ he asked Brennan.

‘Buggered if I know,’ the Irishman replied. ‘Them Martians, sure they know a lot o’ things we don’t.’

‘You’re right there, mate,’ said Tench, glancing up at the black sky and the tiny pinpoint of ruddy light that was Mars.

‘All right men,’ said Fraser in his officious bark. ‘Let’s pack up here and get over to Baker Street.’

‘Right you are, sir!’ said Brennan and added under his breath, ‘Arsehole.’

‘Ex-corporal,’ whispered Tench. ‘What d’you expect?’

Brennan sniffed. ‘Corporal? He acts more like a general. Look at him there, swaggerin’ around. Bastard.’

Tench chuckled as he leaned over the edge of the platform and looked into the tunnel. The lights of the test train were growing steadily fainter as it headed towards Baker Street. ‘Come on, mate,’ he said. ‘This bloody cold’s gettin’ into my bones.’

They were about to leave the platform when a sudden squeal echoed back along the tunnel. Both Tench and Brennan instantly knew what the sound was. It was the squeal of brakes: for some reason, Smallwood had brought his train to a halt.

Fraser turned away from the platform exit. ‘What was that?’

‘Brakes, Mr Fraser,’ Tench replied.

‘The test train?’

‘Yes, sir.’
Bleedin’ idiot
, Tench thought.
What other train would it be? It’s the only one running on the whole bloody network
.

Fraser came back from the exit, and together the three men leaned over the edge of the platform and peered into the tunnel. In the distance, they could see the train’s lights. They were not getting any smaller or dimmer: the train was indeed at a standstill.

‘What the devil is he playing at?’ demanded Fraser. ‘Brennan, Tench, go and see what the matter is.’

Brennan looked at him askance. ‘Us, sir?’

‘Yes, you sir! There might be a blockage on the metals. Go and see – and if there is, get it cleared immediately.’

Tench sighed. ‘Yes, Mr Fraser.’ He jumped down from the platform and looked back up at Brennan. ‘Come on, mate.’

Brennan hesitated, and Fraser turned to him. ‘Well go on, man! What’s the matter? Afraid of the dark?’

‘No, sir,’ muttered Brennan as he climbed down to join his friend on the tracks.

‘Off you go, then, and be quick about it,’ snapped Fraser. ‘I’m going to telegraph Bethnal Green and see if there’s a problem at their end.’

Brennan and Tench looked at each other, picked up their Tilley lamps from the edge of the platform and headed off into the tunnel.

‘You ain’t afraid of the dark, are you Seamus?’ said Tench as they trudged along the tracks, holding their lamps out before them.

‘Of course not!’ Brennan snapped. ‘And I’ll knock down any man who says I am.’ He paused before adding, ‘It’s what’s
in
the dark that bothers me.’

‘Oh, shut yer bleedin’ mouth!’ Tench chuckled. ‘You don’t believe any of that, do you?’

‘Any of what?’

‘You know… what they’ve been sayin’ lately. About things…
happenin’
… down there.’

‘And what things might they be?’

‘You know what I’m talkin’ about. Ghosts and things…’

Brennan said nothing for a moment. Their feet crunched loudly on the ballast as they walked through the pitch-darkness, the light from their lamps playing strangely upon the walls of the wide tunnel.

‘Ghosts? That wasn’t no ghost that Alfie Morgan saw.’

‘How do
you
know what he saw?’ demanded Tench. ‘Maybe he didn’t see anything… maybe the Loop just got to him.’

‘
Got
to him!’ Brennan gave a short, derisive laugh. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, no one likes the Loop, but bein’ in there doesn’t drive you
mad
! No, poor old Alfie saw somethin’ – and it wasn’t no ghost.’

‘What was it, then?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Well, if you don’t, then –‘

Brennan cut him off suddenly. ‘Shh!’ He stopped and took hold of Tench’s arm.

‘What?’

‘Listen…’

The two men stood still in the darkness, their lamps held out in front of them. They were now more than halfway to the train. Its lights burned like bright stars in the near distance.

‘What is it?’ asked Tench.

‘I heard something.’

‘It’s your imagination.’

A sound drifted along the tunnel to them, faint but unmistakable. It was a voice; the voice of a child.

‘Saints preserve us,’ whispered Brennan.

Tench felt his skin crawl. ‘It can’t be…’

‘Listen to it!’

The voice sounded again, a tremulous moan which echoed delicately through the tunnel. Tench peered into the darkness, swinging his lamp this way and that, searching for the source. ‘Must be some poor little street urchin who’s got into the network… probably looking for a place to spend the night.’

‘Bert!’ shouted Brennan. ‘Are you all right there, fella?’

There was no reply.

‘Come on,’ said Tench.

They hurried along the tracks until they had reached the train. The driver’s door was open, and they climbed into the cab to find Bert Smallwood sitting there, staring straight ahead into the darkness.

‘Bert,’ said Tench. ‘Are you all right?’

Smallwood shook his head slowly.

‘Come on, mate. Fraser’s going to have our guts for garters if we don’t get moving. What is it?’

‘Can you hear her?’ Smallwood asked in a thin, strained voice.

‘Who?’

‘The child.’

‘We heard her,’ said Brennan.

‘I thought I’d hit her. She was on the line, right in front of me. That’s why I stopped.’

Smallwood gasped and put his hand to his mouth as the thin, tremulous little voice echoed again through the tunnel.

‘I don’t like the way that sounds,’ whispered Brennan.

‘Shut yer gob, Seamus!’ said Tench. ‘If there’s a child on the metals, we’ll have to tell Fraser and do a tunnel search – and I don’t like the way
that
sounds.’

‘It isn’t a child,’ said Smallwood.

Brennan and Tench looked at him, and then at each other. ‘What are you talkin’ about, Bert?’ asked Tench.

‘It isn’t a child,’ Smallwood repeated. ‘Not anymore.’

At that moment, the light from their Tilley lamps faded, as if they had suddenly run out of fuel, and then the train’s lights went out, plunging them into impenetrable darkness. Smallwood moaned in terror.

‘What the bleedin’ hell’s going on?’ whispered Tench.

The darkness did not last, however, for presently the three men became aware of a faint blue glow which seeped into the driver’s cab, evidently from somewhere up ahead.

‘What’s that?’ said Tench. ‘Another train? Can’t be.’

‘It isn’t,’ said Brennan, pointing through the cab’s front windows.

There was a shape on the railway tracks, made hazy and indistinct by distance and the glow which surrounded it… or which perhaps emanated from it, and as the shape drew nearer, the men saw that its outline was that of a human being, small and frail.

It was a little girl.

The silence in the cab was broken only by the ragged breathing of the three men, who watched in disbelief as the glowing figure drew up to the front of the train and looked up at them through the windows.

‘God,’ whispered Brennan. ‘Oh God…’

The girl was perhaps twelve or thirteen years old and was terribly thin. The long gown that she wore trailed behind her, and Brennan quickly realised that it was a burial shroud. Her pale blue face was drawn in anguish, or perhaps fear, or perhaps a mixture of the two, and her eyes were wide and filled with the darkness of the grave as she looked up at them.

The men were terrified, of course, but it was not fear which smote their rough hearts as much as sympathy, a searing compassion which flooded their entire beings at the sight of this poor, benighted, lonely little creature.

‘Who is she?’ whispered Tench.

His companions did not answer.

‘Is she… alive?’

The waif looked up at him, and then at Brennan, and then at Smallwood, her face bathed in the blue glow.

And then she opened her mouth and let out such a piercing scream that the railway men clapped their hands to their ears and shut their eyes, thinking that their eardrums would burst. She screamed again and again, and such was the loudness and the anguish of it that they thought they would go mad. The screams echoed back and forth along the tunnel, filling the darkness…

Across the city in Chelsea, Thomas Blackwood’s eyes flashed open, and he sat up in bed. His mind, drifting on the edge of sleep, had suddenly revealed the source of his vague memory of having read a strange word somewhere…

‘Carcosa,’ he said into the darkness of his bedroom. ‘Oh, good God!’