The Lazarus Gate (29 page)

‘You know the price, Tsun Pen. You’ll find a way to save yourself, as you always do. But he dies tonight. Make it look like an accident, and trust to your patrons to save you from the noose. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Pefectly.’ Tsun Pen’s voice was acidic. Lillian left the room, and Hu went with her, leaving the door ajar, so that a pale light crept in from outside. The Artist faced me, again appearing to stare straight at me despite his lack of sight.

‘So, the task of killing you falls to Tsun Pen,’ he said, softly. ‘A pity. You know, John, that your efforts have been for nought. Your nightmares are set to be realised. Soon, the Othersiders will flood through the Lazarus Gate—a fleet of destruction carrying armies untold will take this world for their own. London will fall, the Empire will fall, and the whole world shall follow. You will be spared this hell on earth, but countless millions of others will be slaughtered like cattle to make way for the refugees from beyond the veil. And I—I shall endure. It is foreseen.’

He held up a hand, and through my addled stupor I saw that he had my eye, grasped betwixt forefinger and thumb. ‘I told you, Captain, that I would answer further questions only when you had the means to pay me. I think this token is more than enough for one more revelation, especially for the condemned man.’

Tsun Pen moved towards me, so close that I could smell his cologne. I was too exhausted even to recoil. Such was his height, that even though I was suspended a foot off the ground, he leaned in closer. ‘There is one more secret, Captain Hardwick. A secret meant just for you. This is why you were chosen, and this is why you will die.’

And he whispered into my ear such secrets, that my heart near broke.

S
lowly but surely I began to come round from the exertions of my torture. My body was almost broken, yet I had somehow managed to remain lucid. There was a tattered cloth tied around my head, covering my empty eye socket, though I do not remember how it got there. The opium fug had already begun to wear off, perhaps due to my tolerance to the hated drug, or perhaps to the indeterminate length of time I had spent there; in its place, the deep, aching pain of my lost eye and the thousand keen cuts on my body conspired to bring to me to my senses.

The Artist was gone, and there was not even a crack of light from beneath the door, if I was indeed in the same room at all. I was alone in a Stygian blackness, hanging limply in a dark void, with the pain from my bound wrists the only indicator that I was not already dead, and drifting in some yawning chasm of Purgatory. I listened hard, and heard the muffled grunts of the pitiable female ‘agents’ near to me—were it not so horrifying it would have been a relief, for at least I knew then that I was very much alive, and most probably still within the House of Zhengming. I felt one of them brush against my legs, causing me to swing slightly, but I felt no revulsion this time. My own state was so poor, and my mind so overpowered by trauma, that I had no room for further terrors. Instead, I took some small comfort that I was not alone in my suffering.

Then I felt a podgy hand paw at my leg. I tried to ignore it, but it seemed to persist, until it had a hold of my trouser linen. I felt the ropes strain at my wrists—the creature was using me to pull itself upright, and I could barely take the strain. I hissed at it to leave me alone, not wanting to raise my voice for fear of alerting my captors, but it was no use. My one eye adjusted to the gloom, and I saw the dark shapes around my feet. One of the slothful creatures seemed to lie down to support my weight, so that I might rest a second, and it gave me such relief not to have the rope cutting at my flesh even for a moment. Then the second creature began to climb once more, and now I did start to feel the fear and loathing creeping back into my heart, for that noisome remnant of a woman climbed higher and higher, its clammy, misshapen hands gaining purchase on my shirt breast, then my collar. Somehow, laboriously, and with an effort that made it grunt and wheeze, it pulled itself upright so that it was almost facing me, and I felt its hand scrabbling towards my own. I squeezed my eyelids tight, hoping that the nightmare would end, but it did not. Not immediately.

When the proximity of the creature had become truly unbearable, and I thought I would go mad, I felt something in my hand. The creature had pressed something cool and smooth into my right hand, and I needed no time at all to recognise it simply by its shape. It was Hu’s pocket knife, the one that had blinded me. The creatures were helping me!

Sure enough, even as I exclaimed my relief, and as the creature who had brought me the knife collapsed to the floor in an exhausted heap, the other one strained to bear my weight. I found reserves of energy somewhere deep inside myself, and set about the bonds with the razor-sharp knife. Two or more times I almost fumbled and dropped the blade, but I clung to it and steadied myself before continuing, for I knew that the creatures would be too weak to repeat their magnificent feat of bravery were I to fail.

I do not know how long I worked, but eventually the rope gave, and I tumbled to the floor, half-falling on one of the pitiful things. At first I could not get to my feet, so numb were my legs, but inexorably the desire for freedom overwhelmed the frailty of my body, and I stood at last. I cut away the last of the ropes and threw aside the bonds, before beginning a thorough search of the room in near pitch-dark.

With the help of the two creatures, I found a box of matches and the stub of a candle, which I risked to light so that I might better find a means of escape. By weak candlelight I saw that the only furniture in the room was a small table, on which sat a pitcher of water. Again, I took a risk and drank the water down, because I was dehydrated and still heady from the opium. There were only two ways out of the room: the door and a small window, which was covered by a blind. The door was locked, and there was no key in the keyhole, so escape by that route seemed impossible. I considered trying to pick the lock with the penknife, but I was no expert in such matters and feared alerting any guards that might be posted nearby. The window it was, then.

I carefully drew back the blind, making sure the candle was away from the window, and peered out into the darkness through the filthy glass. I guessed it was the early hours of the morning, but could not be sure. There was a new moon, and so little light to see by, but I could make out a tiny yard below. I was in an attic room, it seemed, and I would have to climb along the roof to see if there was a way of getting to the ground. There was a lot to do, but it was far less daunting a prospect than staying in that room and awaiting my executioner. With that thought spurring me on, I opened the sash window as quietly as possible, and looked out onto the roof. It was not raining, although the slates were still damp. I was considering the best course of action when I heard a sound behind me that chilled me.

‘P…p…please,’ came the voice. I froze, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I turned to see the two creatures staring up at me with pleading eyes. One of them stretched out a clammy hand and tugged piteously at my trouser leg.

‘P…p…please,’ it said again, in a croaking voice that was far from human. ‘K…k…kill us!’

I could have cried at their plight in that instant. The other creature let out a low keening sound, in the way that dogs whine when they are despairing. I held my head in my hands. What was I to do? Was there any hope whatsoever for these creatures? And I remembered that they were still people, beneath all of their deformities. How ignominious their lives, to be treated as pets by the very man who made them so. What dignity would they ever be afforded? Anger filled me. I swore to myself I would kill Tsun Pen for all of his ills, if only I could survive this night.

‘Kill… us,’ they said. Their pleas were now in unison, and I knew in my heart I could not leave them there in that state. Taking each in turn, I cradled their lolling heads, slowly choking the breath from them. I had not the strength to finish the task in this manner, and once they were asleep and peaceful, breathing with difficulty, I opened their throats with my knife. Even in their last moments they did not struggle, for it was what they wanted. The now-familiar high-pitched whistling sound began to drone in my ears almost immediately. Now they were dead, they would be returned home, in one form or another. But the unexpected noise lent urgency to my actions. I turned again to the window, with tears from my good eye trickling down my cheek.

* * *

The scramble across the rooftop was precarious, but somehow I made it to the edge, where I used a small pediment to reach a drainpipe, and climbed down onto a flat roof that jutted from the back of the House of Zhengming. The yard was only eight feet below me, though I had to be careful to avoid being seen. In the yard, next to a small brick outhouse, a wiry man chugged on a cigarette. I instantly took him for one of Tsun Pen’s guards, perhaps taking a break after a night of unlawful work. In any case, I would have to get past him if I were to escape, because there was no other way out of the grounds of the Artist’s shady establishment.

I dropped almost noiselessly from the low roof, and crept towards the outhouse. As I went, I saw a log store nearby. Praising my good fortune, I slipped the penknife into my trouser pocket and instead picked up a stout log, which I brandished, ready to dash the man’s brains in.

I was within striking distance when the alarm went up.

‘There he is! Stop him, you idiot!’

It was Tsun Pen’s voice. The man flinched into life, and looked about himself, uncertain whether his master was shouting at him or someone else. When he clapped eyes on me, he had scant moments to react, and he was not fast enough. I bashed him over the head with the wood so hard that the impact jarred it from my hands, then I raced forwards to the gate and rattled open the latch. I turned back for a second to see a flurry of movement behind every window, and Tsun Pen staring down at me from the window of the attic room. He leaned forward over the sash, his long black hair scraping the roof tiles, his face contorted into an impotent snarl. He needed no eyes to see me, and I knew that the loss of his beloved pets would stoke the fires of hatred within him. I opened the gate and, with that, I was away.

The cold night air washed over my face in a euphoric wave, giving strength to my leaden legs, and helping me focus on my escape. The House of Zhengming was behind me in a trice. The shouts of men and baying of hounds faded, until all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears, and my heart pounding in my chest like an echo of my heavy footfalls on the pavement. I slowed only momentarily to catch my breath, and when I did I realised that the danger had not passed, for already there was another clamour rising up from somewhere behind me, and I could hear the barked cries of a party of thugs taking to the streets after me. How many men the Artist could rouse to action at such short notice I did not know, and did not wish to find out.

I ran. I don’t know for how long, or how my legs managed to carry me, but I ran. Using the moon and stars as a guide as I had learned aboard ship, I headed as directly west as I could, hoping to reach a dockyard that might still perhaps be open for business. My only chance was to find some civilised people to aid me, or at least hide me—there was no chance of finding a policeman in this part of London, and if I did, the Artist’s men would have little regard for their authority, or their lives. So I drove myself ever onwards, keeping to the shadows, using narrow alleyways where I could, darting behind shacks and outhouses when I thought my pursuers were close. But they gained on me with every step; I was tiring fast.

I turned down a dark alley, no more than three feet wide, and raced along it only to find my way blocked by a wiry hoodlum in a flat cap. They must have had men searching for me in every direction, for they could not have got ahead of me except by chance. I perhaps surprised him as much as he had me, because it was all he could do to grapple with me as I barrelled into him from the pitch-dark tunnel. He was strong—or else I was weak—and he wrenched my head back and swore at me, and pressed me up against the wall. Then I realised that I was still clutching the little fish-shaped penknife, and I thrust it up into the wretch’s armpit, burying an inch-and-a-half of steel into his flesh. He screamed as if the devil himself had seized hold of him, and I rolled across his prone figure and out into fresh air once more, still holding the knife in a blood-slicked hand.

I was disorientated for a moment, but I knew the villain’s cries would alert the Artist’s men, and so I powered onwards. I scrambled over a high wooden fence, dropping unceremoniously into a dirty yard on the other side, and scrabbled backwards quickly as a mastiff’s jaws snapped at my face. Its muscular neck bulged as its collar cut into its rolled flesh, and the rope that secured it to the wall of the house strained and creaked. I edged around the perimeter fence, keeping an eye on the foaming jaws that threatened me, and let myself out of a gate on the other side. Could I enter one of those houses? Would anyone there offer me sanctuary? I could not have risked it, for the Artist ruled the Isle of Dogs with an iron fist, and I was too close to the centre of his little empire.