The Lazarus Gate (43 page)

I stepped out of the tent, my head hung low.

* * *

With relations strained to breaking between Rosanna and I—though I barely understood how they had become so—I took my leave of the gypsy camp the next morning, and headed back to Bluebell Cottage. Rosanna, true to her word, ordered Gregor and a dozen able-bodied men to accompany me, and stay with me until the time came to return to London.

The cottage would not be safe until we had made it so. We made a thorough search of the house and gardens and, satisfied that we were alone, found as many tools as we could and set about dismantling the wall of the kitchen garden, and the ominous blue-painted garden gate. I was almost surprised to find the portal still active, and the gypsies were loath to go near it at first, crossing themselves and spitting in its direction. I knew trying to explain the science of the thing was useless, and was surprised when Gregor stepped in and stirred the men to action.

‘Yes, my friends, this thing is bad magic, a gateway to evil, perhaps to the spirit world itself. But our friend John has told us that our enemies used this very door to travel here, and to attack us. They killed Elsbet.’ At this he choked back his emotions. ‘If we do not destroy this foul thing, who is to say that our enemies will not return? Would you let them come and kill our princesses, like assassins in the night? We men must take action, or we are not men at all!’

With those words, Gregor overcame his own superstitious fear, raised a hammer and smashed it against the lintel of the gateway. Red bricks fell away from tired masonry, and the energy of the portal seemed to lap around the hole like waves filling a rock-pool. I confess I had no idea what would happen if we tore down the wall. Would the energy merely dissipate? Or would it react violently, inflicting injury on us all? Even worse, would the portal remain in place, floating in thin air? Regardless of the answers to these questions, and the inherent dangers of dabbling with such uncanny forces, we followed Gregor’s example. We took the door off its hinges, and attacked the archway with picks and hammers. The honeysuckle and ivy was torn from the walls, the dead wood and the new, bringing down cement in powdery clouds as it reluctantly gave up its purchase. Bricks fell to the ground in heaps as we toiled, and with each new breach made in the wall, the portal ebbed and flowed, and let off a frightening noise as though we were wounding it.

Finally, with a tremendous swing of his hammer, Gregor dealt the blow that sent the archway and a good part of the wall toppling to the ground, rendering it nought but a pile of rubble and a cloud of dust. As he did so, there was a blinding flash of light that made us step quickly away. One of the men cried out in alarm; another cursed. And then there was calm.

The sheet of amber light that had fluctuated and writhed beneath the arch now grew dim, turning a deep, luminescent orange, and seeming almost to solidify before our eyes. Then it began to break up, small holes appearing in its surface at first, then larger ones. And each part of the dead portal that gave way shattered into tiny orange fragments, which drifted upwards, spiralling into the sky and scattering on the breeze like the sparks from a bonfire. Up and up they travelled, until there was nothing left of the portal before us and we saw only a gloomy meadow beyond the wall. But in the sky, something was happening. As the trail of tiny sparks began to fade and dissipate, strange colours rippled above us in the air, shimmering fans of purple and gold appeared to us against the darkening sky, as though some heavenly hand had taken a rainbow and smudged it against the grey clouds. A faint rustling noise could be heard, as of wind blowing through reeds, followed by an indistinct whispering like the hollow chattering of distant ghosts. The noises faded almost as soon as they had begun, and as the wondrous colours in the sky grew dim, I stood next to my silent companions, and I remembered William James’ tale about the aurora borealis, and the strange events that he had experienced; strange events that had signalled the coming storm, and had perhaps changed the fate of the world.

* * *

That night, we sat in the garden around a bonfire. The men had spent too long on the road to feel comfortable in the cottage, and I for one felt disinclined to return to what was once my home. We formulated plans and strategies for the coming storm, and prepared as best we could for our return to London. There was still time to prepare before May Day, which was only a small mercy. We would have to arrive in the city in the dead of night so that my band of wanted men would be able to go unnoticed. Any policemen we encountered during the hours of darkness were as likely to be Othersiders as friends, so any sway I held over the Metropolitan Police would be of little use. I needed friends in London if the plan was to succeed—I was expecting to face an invasion force, and needed an army to stop them. But there was only one man I could trust for certain, if he were alive at all. I deliberated on that question long and hard, before finally setting pen to paper and sending a lad off to the nearest telegraph office. I prayed that my missive would reach James Denny, and reach him in time.

‘I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true.

I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do.’

A
LFRED
, L
ORD
T
ENNYSON

I
stood in the doorway of the derelict boathouse, looking out across the black waters of the Thames, which refracted the light from the large moon in its gentle ripples. London Bridge loomed over the river, a wispy fog curling around its noble granite arches. The bank of the Thames opposite was almost invisible in the dark and fog, giving the impression that the bridge went on for ever, spanning an endless black gulf that led to who-knows-where, its gaslamps faint smudges painted on a gloomy canvas. It was May Day, and this was the calm before the storm. I drank down the last dregs of a cup of strong coffee and turned back to the boathouse, where my prisoner had stirred again.

‘Look here,’ he cried in muffled tones through the hessian sack over his head, ‘this is a bloody outrage! Do you know who I am? I’ll have your heads for this!’

The gypsies stood around the boathouse, stifling laughter at the prisoner’s impotent rage—he was tied to a chair and surrounded by men, and was going nowhere. At a nod from me, Gregor removed Ambrose’s hood, and my former friend blinked up at me with a look of disbelief on his face.

‘John… what the devil? How?’

‘Hello Ambrose. I suppose you’re surprised to see me alive. Unless, of course, you’ve seen Lillian recently.’

Ambrose looked uncertain for a moment, but found his composure remarkably quickly.

‘John, have you lost your mind? I’m overjoyed to see you alive and well, but what are you doing? Tsun Pen killed our men—we thought he’d done away with you too—and now William Melville is baying for blood. If Special Branch have their way there’ll be a war on the streets, and you’re here playing silly beggars! Let me go, and we’ll go and report to Sir Toby.’

‘War on the streets? That is exactly what he will have, though not against the Chinese underworld or Irish anarchists. I know everything, Ambrose,’ I said. ‘I’ve learned all I need to know about the Othersiders, about Lazarus and Lillian, and about you.’ Ambrose looked more agitated again.

‘What are you saying? You believe James’ fairy stories? And you think I’m part of it? Listen to yourself, John; it’s insane.’

‘It does sound that way, doesn’t it,’ I agreed. ‘Your treachery was unexpected, Ambrose. But now everything is clear to me.’ I leaned towards Ambrose, revealing my eyepatch to the light. ‘The loss of an eye has, if anything, helped me see more clearly than ever.’

‘What have they done to you? John…’

‘Are you honestly pretending that it wasn’t you I encountered on the Embankment, Ambrose? That you didn’t assist Lazarus in my attempted murder?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ he said, desperation gripping him. You’ve suffered terribly, that is clear, and you’ve had some great mental strain. But the Artist… the torture, the opium—it’s taken its toll on you old chap.’

‘I never mentioned torture, or opium, and I doubt it made the papers,’ I said, calmly. ‘You gave yourself away that night, Ambrose. I tried to persuade myself at first that it wasn’t you, that it was your double, but that’s impossible.’

‘What are you babbling on about?’ he snapped. ‘It must have been my double. Yes, maybe James was right all along. There’s another me in London… What’s he done, John?’

‘Gregor,’ I said, turning to the big gypsy who stood waiting for my orders, ‘is this the toff who paid you to take me out of the city?’

Gregor nodded. ‘Aye, that’s him. Oily fellow.’

‘A witness places you at the scene, Ambrose. Hard evidence.’

‘But… why would I save you if I was trying to kill you?’

‘Guilty conscience, I shouldn’t wonder. Perhaps you started to believe that we really were friends. I don’t care.’

‘John, you can’t condemn a chap on the word of a bloody gypsy!’

I turned and picked up Ambrose’s cane, unsheathing the concealed blade in front of him, ensuring that the threat was not lost on him.

‘In the Artist’s lair, Lillian told me some interesting things. She told me how the Othersiders always kill their doubles on our side as a rite of passage, before assuming their identity. You must have killed Ambrose Hanlocke what… six years ago? Seven? That’s a long time to keep up such an act. It’s made you soft.’

‘What poppycock!’ Ambrose snorted.

‘Captain Denny over here has been busy these last few days. Busy digging into your affairs. It’s interesting, don’t you think, that you were a go-between for the government and a group of Chinese drug-traffickers on the Isle of Dogs? Jim tells me that you have used your network of Chinese criminals as informants from the underworld ever since. I know you had those thugs assault me after my first night at the club, so that you could “rescue” me and earn my trust. I now know that you left me deliberately in that flat on Commercial Road, probably hoping I’d die in the blast.’

‘John… you can’t honestly believe that!’ he protested, rather half-heartedly, I felt.

‘Honestly? An interesting choice of words. Remember when you mocked me, and called me the “last honest man in London”? An unusual jest, and one that I heard again shortly afterwards. Lillian used those exact words when she tortured me and ordered me killed. And judging by your reaction so far, the last you saw of her was when she told you I’d been dumped in the Thames; correct?’

‘John, listen; you have it all wrong.’

‘You still haven’t asked me who Lillian is,’ I said. ‘But that’s because you already know full well.’

‘An imaginary friend, for all I know!’ he retorted. ‘You’re not in a fit state for this, John. You’re twisting the facts to suit your hypothesis. Let me go… we can go back to the club and sort all of this out like gentlemen. I won’t hold it against you, after what you’ve been through.’

‘And I think you know exactly what I’ve been through. There is one other detail that you got wrong, Ambrose. One little slip… I don’t believe you meant it, but I also don’t think you expected me to live long enough to press you on the matter. You told me you had met my father, and whether you joined the club four years ago, or six, or seven, it matters not: my father apparently died ten years ago.’

‘It was before…’ he began to say, desperation finally creeping into his voice.

‘No, Ambrose. You and Marcus Hardwick would never have moved in the same circles. And you spoke about my father in rather disparaging terms… if you’d known him before his “demise”, you would not have done so. He was a hero.’

‘Look, let’s say all this is true, why would I do it? Why would I try to destroy the world—a world that lets me live a good life? A normal life.’

I drew the sword fully from its lacquered black sheath, and held its point to Ambrose’s chest.

‘To save your people from extinction. To claim our world for your own because yours is in a sorry state. And the greatest reason of them all: survival. I don’t know if the real Ambrose Hanlocke was as callous and carefree as you, the kind of man who would leave his supposed friend to die in an explosion, or let him meet his doom in an opium den. If he was such a man, then I suppose you play your part well.’