The Lazarus Gate (28 page)

‘One more… question,’ I said, through a fit of coughing. ‘Where will they strike next?’

‘Ah, that is clever, Captain, for it is really several questions in one, is it not? Do you mean to ask where they plan to enter our universe? Or where will they detonate their bombs? Or where will their agents attempt to complete some other nefarious assignment? A pity you do not have the time—nor the necessary funds—to view my paintings, for the answers you seek are there, if you had eyes to see. You’ll be pleased to know that you’ve at least set the Othersiders back, just a little—it is clear that you have deciphered their coded instructions, which they adopted from my own system. I am sure they are working to overcome this irritation as we speak.’

The guard, Hu, cleared his throat—the first sound he had made since we had met—and Tsun Pen took this as some kind of signal.

‘I am afraid the time for questions is over, Captain. Much as it pains me, it seems we have visitors, and it would be rude to keep them waiting. Your fate will soon become clear, but for now I will leave you my pets for company. They are really quite affectionate.’

My skin crawled at the suggestion, and the muculent sound of the two creatures drew nearer. As Hu opened the door and let in some light, I set eyes on them properly for the first time as they lurched towards their master and his manservant on lethargic, bloated limbs. I realised that their chains were no longer anchored, and that they now had freedom to roam the cell, a thought which filled me with disgust. They clambered bodily up the two men, groping and probing with flabby fingers, tongues lolling out of their mouths, acting for all the world like a pair of languid hounds. Hu looked at Tsun Pen imploringly, and the Artist shooed the creatures away, cooing with affection. I could not bear the thought of them touching me, and became terrified of being abandoned in the darkness. But that is what happened—the door closed, and I was alone with the monsters.

* * *

I do not know how much time elapsed, but evidently I had passed out at some point from the after-effects of the drugs in my system, and the horror of my situation. I felt more alert than I had earlier, and quickly oriented myself. The room was the same, and my position was the same. I heard the muffled movement in the corner once more, and I felt sick at the sound. There were voices outside now, too, beyond the door, and I strained to hear what was being said. I recognised the sound of Tsun Pen’s voice, but he was agitated, though I could not make out the words. Presently the door was opened, and three people stepped inside.

The light stung my eyes, but I took in as many details as I could of my captors before the door was closed and we were all plunged into darkness. Tsun Pen and Hu were present again, but the third inquisitor was a surprise indeed. It was a woman, probably in her late twenties. Her face was pale and pretty, but emotionless. Her hair was pinned back tightly, and her garb was entirely black. Her clothes were strangely out of style, close-fitting and trimmed with lace. Her skirts stopped scandalously at the knee, revealing dark stockings and high boots. Even in the dark that followed, her eyes seemed almost to gleam, so that they were all I could see for a time. There was something strangely familiar about her, though I felt sure she was no ordinary Englishwoman; I knew at once that she was one of Them.

‘I know you,’ I said, without thinking.

‘We have not actually met, Captain Hardwick,’ she said, icily. ‘Though I had hoped when I saw you on Commercial Road that you would be out of our way for good. And yet here we are.’

Commercial Road—the woman in the window! It all became clear, and yet I still felt an uncanny connection to this woman. There was something else… something oddly familiar about her bearing, but I could not place it.

‘Captain,’ said Tsun Pen, his unctuous tones fair slithering in my ears, ‘this good woman is here to question you.’

‘I will answer no questions. I consider myself a prisoner of war, and will not betray my country… no matter the price.’

‘Brave words, Captain,’ said Tsun Pen, ‘but you will not find resistance so easy. We have our ways.’

I laughed in his face. I think he was shocked. The woman displayed no emotion of any kind.

‘You know, I was once put to torture,’ she said, running the back of her gloved hand across my cheek. ‘The experience was the making of me. I fear, however, it will be the breaking of you.’

‘This isn’t my first time,’ I growled, defiantly.

‘Oh, of course… Burma, wasn’t it? What a delicious coincidence; that you should break Lazarus’ code as a result of your suffering. I suppose you felt that it was all worth it? That it had all been for some greater purpose? But sadly no—you simply traded one hell for another, and this time there will be no salvation.’

I narrowed my eyes and prepared myself. ‘I have been interrogated by worse than you,’ I said. ‘Do your worst.’

* * *

It began as it always begins. Quiet, persuasive. The questions seeming innocuous at first, then becoming more pointed. The woman wanted to know the names of influential men in Rangoon and Hong Kong, and, of course, in London—in Apollo Lycea specifically. She wanted to know how many people had read my notes on the Othersiders’ secret codes, and who my chief accomplices were. Strangely, she interspersed these questions with further queries about my own life, military service and even childhood. This line of irrelevant questioning was doubtless designed to throw me, to break my concentration; but it did not work.

Then it started in earnest. The clubbing blows from Hu’s hook hand, the whip, the burns, the cutting. More drugs. I was spun round and round, lights shining in my eyes. Hu used a little pen knife in the shape of a silver fish with an inch-long blade—such an understated weapon, the kind of thing that a child might have, and yet it was razor sharp and when it was slid beneath the flesh, or under a thumbnail, it had the required effect.

Through it all, I stayed true, I answered only thus: ‘Hardwick, John. Captain, Sixteenth Lancers.’ I said it as the blood ran. I screamed it as the poker seared my flesh. And, by God, I sobbed it when they took my eye. It was Hu, the guard-turned-torturer, who did the deed. On a nod from the Artist he blinded my left eye with the knife and tossed the orb to his master. I screamed obscenities until I became insensible, and could feel nothing, no pain, but for the hot blood running down my face. When the pain became at least tolerable, and I came to terms with what they had done, I knew then that I had been wrong. The bastards in Burma were not as evil as those who confronted me now. It was this—this rage that had always burned within me, deep down—that kept me from turning. I clung to some small sense of duty, not out of bravery, but out of hate.

‘A city of corruption, a world of reprobates,’ the woman wailed, ‘and I have to find the last honest man in London. For the love of God, make him talk!’

Those words struck a chord with me, for had Ambrose not said the same when first we had met? In fact, hadn’t Sir Toby himself lauded my honesty before sending me off to the Artist’s lair? Perhaps my suspicions earlier in the investigation had not been due to misplaced paranoia after all. The thought that I could have been betrayed steeled me for what was to come.

When the loss of an eye did not break me, they brought out the needles again, and dosed me with opium, expertly bringing me from the depths of indulgent agony to the heights of ecstasy, and then back to fleeting moments of lucidity. The white-eyed old man from the den below was there, I’m sure, a hideous smile etched onto his gummy mouth as he administered the milky fluid to my veins. In the nightmare that followed, I do not know what I said. I think I must have remained defiant, at least to a point, though I will never be sure. I remember seeing more clearly under the effects of the drug, even with one eye. The Artist was a spider—a gigantic arachnid that almost filled the room. The same venom that dripped from its fangs seemed also to drip from the puncture marks in my arm. Hu was an ugly hobgoblin, a squat, brutish figure grunting obeisance at the spider’s every chattered command. The two malformed creatures in the corner were hideous no more. I saw them whole again, huddled together in the corner, half-naked and frightened. In the opium fug, I suppose, I was surprised to see a sort of halo around them—a warm golden light about their heads that marked them as innocents. At one point I remember the women crying and pawing at Hu, begging him to stop the torture. Perhaps I imagined it, for I am sure that these agents of the other universe owed me no kindness. The unnamed woman, strangely, wore that self-same corona of light, though she looked anything but innocent.

I think eventually the pain began to sober me, and I started to understand words, and commit them to memory. The Artist and the woman were engaged in conversation, believing me to be delirious still.

Finally, she glowered at me, and held up a hand as if to dismiss the Artist, a motion that appeared to rankle him more than anything I could ever have done.

‘Leave us alone,’ she said. ‘I would have words with this wretch before he dies.’

‘My understanding was—’ Tsun Pen began.

‘I care not,’ the woman snapped. ‘All of you, get out! Now.’

Tsun Pen ushered his people from the room. Other than the pets huddled in the corner, I was alone with her. She came close to me, peeled off a glove, and placed her hand on my face. Her fingers were cold as ice, and hard. She turned my head to the light, this way and that, and when she pulled her hand away it was blood-slick.

‘You know, it’s uncanny. I have seen doubles many times, of course—our work here depends upon it. But when it is someone so… close to home. Well, that is a different matter altogether.’

I grunted something, I think, but had not the strength to speak.

‘We need to ascertain whether our plans are threatened, John. We need you to tell us all that you know. But have no doubt, that is not the sole reason for your suffering. No… that is all my doing, I’m afraid. Because I hate you, John. I hate you with every fibre of my being, and I want you to taste just an ounce of the pain that I have felt, before you die. Can you understand that?’

‘I…’ The words struggled to escape my lips, but with a great effort they came. ‘I can… now. I’ll… kill you.’

She laughed. Her laughter was musical, beautiful, the antithesis of Tsun Pen’s sneer; but there was nothing behind it. No joy, no mirth, nor even sarcasm. Just coldness, like the seductive sound made by inhuman creatures in fairy stories, shortly before their beguiling form is stripped away to reveal the monster beneath.

‘Until you have lived to see the death of your own world, of all that you ever loved or held dear, I’m not sure you can understand.’

‘It’s… not our fault…’ I said.

‘Perhaps. We know, of course, that the true blame lies with the accursed spiritualists. From the moment those American table-rappers began to contact the dead, the world was damned. When all this is over, every one of them, on our side and yours, will be put to the torch. A fitting tribute, the burning of witches at the stake as in days of old. Then we’ll be free… But some ghosts will always haunt us, John. You are one of them. Which is why I need you to die. So I can be free too.’

I had no idea what she was talking about. The fug was truly upon me, and she sounded just as mad as everyone else caught up in this sorry affair; we were all mad, I was certain of it then. And yet, I sought understanding. I needed a reason.

‘What have I… ever done to you?’ I croaked.

‘Beyond opposing us, you mean? Oh, John, you really can’t see it, can you? I suppose the loss of an eye hasn’t helped in that regard. Look at me!’ She jerked my head up close to hers again, and this time bathed her own face in the light. A face like a porcelain doll, unblemished, pale, eyes glassy and sparkling. The scent of strong perfume and strange chemicals assailed my nostrils, mingling with the copper tang of my own blood. I saw something in her hateful features, something familiar again, and I searched my memory for what it could mean.

‘I… do not know you,’ I said.

‘You did. But in this world, I died long ago. I died in my father’s arms, a little girl brought low by exposure. And that tragic event has made my role on this side of the veil somewhat more… specialised.’

She pulled her hand away once more, but this time my head did not drop. This time I fixed her with my one good eye, and studied her face. My breathing grew more ragged, my heart beat faster.

‘No…’

‘Ah, now you have it. When your double was killed in action, he died a hero. But it tore the heart from me. It took the last of my humanity from me. My brother was the only thing that kept me on the side of the angels; he was my only friend. And when I look into your eyes and see him… no. That will not do at all. You are nothing to him, a pale imitation of a great man. I had hoped to find something more here, but you… you disgust me.’ She turned away. Tears began to sting my cheek.

‘You… are not… Lillian.’

‘Those of us who have well-placed doubles in your world kill them, you know. A rite of passage, almost. My brother was meant to kill you if you ever returned to British soil. You were never meant to be released from Burma… and he was never meant to die in this accursed land. All we can do now is mourn the loss of those who have died fighting for our survival. And honour their sacrifice by taking this universe for our own. Know this, John,’ she said, no longer looking at me. ‘Lazarus is coming, at the head of a fleet so mighty that England will fall in a single night. And then the whole world will follow suit. There is nothing the Order of Apollo can do about it. There is nothing you can do about it… brother.’

‘You are not Lillian,’ was all I could say. ‘You are not Lillian!’ I mustered a shout, and did so again, though she ignored me.

Her cruel work complete, Agent Lillian Hardwick stepped away from me and banged on the door, at which the Artist re-entered, with a face like thunder.

‘He is of no further use to us,’ Lillian said. ‘I want him dead, and I want this mess tidied up.’

‘Why is this any of my concern?’ Tsun Pen replied angrily. ‘His people will be coming for him, and I am implicated. This mess is yours.’