The Lazarus Gate (2 page)

He was being marched towards the perimeter wall of the tiny prison complex, along a dry dirt path that sloped down a steep hill. Tall, spindly palm trees lined the track on either side, black against the night sky like spectators on a gallows-walk, perhaps. John could just make out the silhouetted huts and rickety tower that passed for a guardhouse here, and by the moon and starlight he could see that there were half a dozen armed guards beside the tall bamboo gates, and some activity outside them. That such small numbers of rebels had proved sufficient to hold this position in a country that was mostly British-ruled was unnerving. This region had been claimed in the name of Her Majesty almost five years hence, and although the local government paid its taxes to the British governor at Rangoon, the hills were still wild and full of bandits and freedom fighters.

John was flanked by two guards. One set the pace, yanking his chains to hurry him along, the other strolled more nonchalantly. John knew the little bastard only too well, though only as ‘Maung’—an honorific name of sorts, which the sadistic and diminutive rebel was entirely undeserving of. A few hours ago, John had been dragged from his cell for more midnight interrogations. Why they persisted in the charade God only knew—if John had known anything of interest, he’d have told them long ago. In fact, after all the drugs and the beatings, he’d probably have told them many times. He couldn’t be sure. By now his intelligence must be woefully out of date, and yet the Burmese rebels continued to torture and interrogate him, and the other prisoners, on an almost daily basis. John believed truly that they were merely going through the motions to sate their sadistic desires, and that they hadn’t killed him because one day they’d need a British officer to trade. Was this that day? Perhaps, but he was unsure. All he knew was that his torture had ended, for now at least, and he had been brought outside. Outside! This was the first time that he’d breathed the open air for what seemed like an eternity. He refused to let the fact that it was the air of this God-forsaken country sully his pleasure.

Before he knew it, John was bundled into an ox-cart beside a muscular guard, who grunted at him contemptuously. The cart rumbled away from the prison, flanked by two mounted rebels. John looked back to see Maung spit at the ground in his direction, watching his prisoner’s departure with enmity in his eyes.

* * *

By the time the trade was made, the sun was already high in the sky and the day was hot. They were no longer in the foothills of the Yamethin District. The Burmese guards who accompanied him now were not rebels, but liveried servants of the Crown. His manacles were gone, and he was being half-carried by disciplined soldiers into the shade of a small courtyard. John’s head swam. He had passed in and out of consciousness for the whole journey, oblivious to the fact that he must have travelled nearly three hundred miles.

‘Welcome back to civilisation, Captain Hardwick. Welcome to Rangoon.’ The Englishman who greeted John smiled broadly. That smile was the last thing John saw before he passed out and was caught by the colonial guards.

The Artist daubed the last stroke of oil paint onto his canvas and set down his brush. Smiling to himself, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. Any other man would have struggled to see the painting in the wan light of the apartment, but the Artist appeared pleased.

‘Another triumph, my sweet pets. But what does it all mean? Shall we meditate upon it, hmm?’ The Artist spoke as if to no one, but turned his head at the sound of movement in the corner of the room, from where his pets looked on.

The Artist pulled a loose robe of Chinese silk over his tattooed nakedness, tying the cord at the waist before tossing his long black hair free of the garment. He strode across the wood-floored room, his slippered feet making barely a sound. The midday sun struggled to find its way into the austere room through two small, grimy windows that overlooked a half-derelict warren of slums and gambling houses in the dark bosom of the Isle of Dogs. The few rays that pushed through were diffused by the constant swirl of opium smoke from the den below. The Artist walked to his bed and sat down upon it, savouring the feel of the thick mattress and satin bedclothes. Reaching to his nightstand he picked up a large glass pipe, lit it and took a draw, sighing as the opiates entered his system. He closed his eyes momentarily, savouring the sensation, before setting down the pipe and taking up instead a silver-tipped cane. Grasping the head of the cane, he rapped its tip hard against the wooden floor. Almost immediately, he could hear footsteps on the stairs below, racing to his door, followed mere moments later by a quiet knocking.

‘Come!’

A burly Chinese servant entered the room, bringing with him a billow of smoke from the corridor beyond. He bowed low, his black braided hair almost touching the floor as he did so.

‘Master,’ he said. ‘I am at your service.’

The Artist rose from the bed and stepped forward. Tall and lithe, he towered over the servant who himself was not a small man.

‘Hu, I have several errands for you.’ The Artist gestured towards a far corner, where six canvases lay wrapped in brown paper beside a lacquered cabinet. ‘Deliver those today, and be sure to insist upon the usual price. I am in no mood for bartering.’

Hu bowed again in acknowledgement and waited for further instructions, absent-mindedly fingering the wicked hook that passed for his left hand.

‘I would also ask of you to call on Mr. Ruskin again. Tell him that his canvas is ready, but it is too large to move with any degree of secrecy. He must come here—it is in his best interests to view the painting before month’s end. And it will be double the usual price. Remember, Hu, that Mr. Ruskin requests the utmost discretion in our dealings. You will be invisible on this errand, understood?’

Hu nodded.

‘That is all for now,’ the Artist concluded.

Hu moved for the parcels, but hesitated when his eye caught the fresh canvas in the centre of the room.

‘What is it, Hu?’ asked the Artist, impatience creeping into his tone.

‘Will you require a… buyer for your latest work today, master?’ Hu asked.

‘Ah… no. Not today. This is something altogether more interesting than a mere commission.’

Hu gathered the parcels and bowed again. A bumping and scratching from the closet in the corner caught his attention, and he bowed once more before hurrying backwards in the direction of the door, casting a nervous glance at the corner before heading down the stairs whence he had come. The Artist strode across the room towards the closet, pausing only to take down a jar from a shelf on the wall. When he reached the closet, he reached inside the jar for some strips of dried pork, which he threw down to his pets.

‘Yes, yes. You see it too, don’t you, my pets; my muses? This is most unexpected. The picture shows us what will come to pass, but how should one interpret such an image? If I am right, then it is all happening rather sooner than expected.’ He paused to throw more meat into the closet. Chains rattled as his pets scrabbled for the titbits.

‘What am I to do with this information, do you think? Who can I trust?’ His ears pricked up as a low murmuring began. He smiled as one of his pets struggled to make a noise—first a gurgling, then a mumble.

‘L… L… Lazarussss,’ came the weak reply. The Artist’s smile broadened with pleasure.

‘Yes, my sweet. I rather thought you’d say that. Who’s a clever girl?’

The world was never made;

It will change, but it will not fade.

So let the wind range;

For even and morn

Ever will be

Through eternity.

Nothing was born;

Nothing will die;

All things will change.

A
LFRED
, L
ORD
T
ENNYSON

A
s I sit here at my desk to write this narrative, outside my window the night draws in all too quickly, and the orange-hued London fog that so characterises winter in this great city has dropped. It is at once enveloping, smothering and yet oddly comforting; comforting because it means that I am home at last. Little less than a year ago I never would have dreamt that it could be so.

The events I am about to record are true insofar as my memory allows. When reading the memoirs and monographs of others, it has often occurred to me that the recorded facts contained within cannot be wholly accurate. The human brain, after all, can only store so much information before it becomes fragmented or distorted. Therefore I have set down in writing every relevant detail as faithfully as I am humanly able, such as my skill with words will allow. I testify to you that this tale is true and in earnest. Though you might well think this story odd, or impolitic, or even unbelievable, it must be told—for who could believe that this document is anything but a work of fiction after reading it? I can scarcely believe it myself, and I wish it were not the truth. For what this ‘adventure’ has taught me is that there truly are more things in heaven and earth—to misquote the Bard—than one can dream of. And precious few of them are wholesome. I am changed, quite irrevocably, by my experiences. I have learned, this past year, what fear truly is, and I doubt if I shall ever sleep well again knowing it.

This then, is my story; the true and honest testimony of John Hardwick.

My arrival in London had been unceremonious, but nonetheless long awaited. I had spent forty days at sea with but two brief stops, and no hardship that may have lain in store for me could have dampened my enthusiasm for dry land. Of course, the English weather and the grimy London docks conspired to do just that, but it seemed like paradise to me. I disembarked the Navy steam cutter, HMS
Gannet
, for what I hoped was the final time, finding myself peering through thick swirls of mist on a drear and chilly morning. I closed my eyes to drink in the sounds and smells of London—labourers and ships’ captains calling out and barking orders; bells tolling from departing ships across the mist-wreathed Thames; the creaking of ropes and timbers; the clanking of chains, winches and pulleys; the smell of tobacco, coffee, rum and sugar drifting from containers, and mingling with the salty air and smoky London particular. This, then, was home. A home that I had not seen in some six years, yet which still burned brightly in my memories.

My escort awaited me at the gates, and he was not quite what I had been expecting. Not that I’d really known what to expect. Captain James Denny of the Royal Horse Guards was a young, thin-faced man with a surprisingly garrulous nature and easy sense of humour. He and the two soldiers he had brought with him were not in uniform, but presented me with salutes regardless. When I returned the honour, Denny winked and said, ‘Oh no, sir. You’re a civilian now.’ I cracked a smile, albeit a humourless one.

Captain Denny, who insisted I call him Jim, was under instruction to meet me and help me get my bearings. He was at my disposal for a day or two, and whilst I initially felt irked that Horse Guards had sent a nursemaid for a man of my experience, I quickly became at ease in Jim’s company and was glad of the companionship. No sooner had we stepped outside the main gateway to the docklands than my head swam. Any sense of relief I felt at the British weather, the cobbled streets and plain architecture was immediately countered by my confusion. I had hoped for a swift return to a more familiar district of the city and, as if reading my mind, Jim showed me to a waiting cab. The soldiers took my few bags—a great relief, for I was still gaunt and weak from my long convalescence—and secured them on the cab’s stowage, and in a trice we were away.

My first task, and one of no small importance, was to find somewhere to live. My father had spent so much of his later life on the move that anything resembling a family home had long since been lost to me. After Mother had died my father had grudgingly supported me, but even then I had been unable to lay down roots whilst my studies took up most of my time. What had become of our old properties after Father’s death remained a mystery to me.