The Lazarus Gate (9 page)

‘
W
e are one.’

I said the words without thinking, as I had said them so many times before. Before me stood my father, outside the old thatched-roof farmhouse that we had lived in when I was a boy. He held his arms open as if to offer me an embrace, but I stood firm. I felt nothing in my heart for him then.

He mouthed some words, pleading with me, but no words came forth, only silence. I watched him dispassionately. I was cold, reptilian and calculating. As the old man stepped towards me, a great gout of flame seemed to envelop him, trapping him in a circle of fire. The sky darkened. Where once it had been calm and blue, roiling grey-purple clouds gathered to block out the sun, and my father’s pained expression was lit only by the yellow fire that danced around him, throwing its light off the limewashed walls of the house.

Why do you not save him?

The voice came from no discernible source, but seemed to form in my mind. A deep, booming voice. Then I remembered, and I turned to face the dragon.

It was a gargantuan beast, rising up before me like a fiery monument. The dragon’s scales flickered green, purple and orange in the light of the flames that danced around its body. Its vast, membranous wings spread out to envelop everything in my vision. Its red eyes glowed like dying embers, and as it lowered its magnificent scaled head to behold me, a plume of black smoke belched forth from its nose and maw, swirling upwards until they became one with the storm clouds.

‘I cannot save him,’ I shouted above the roar of the fires that blazed everywhere. ‘You are the dragon. You are the master of flame, and of the growing storm. His life is in your hands.’

No. We are one.

And as I turned back to look at my father, I realised it was true. My eyes now smouldered like embers. I tasted the sulphur fumes as acrid smoke poured from my mouth and nostrils. I spread my mighty wings that seemed to envelop the entire horizon, and with a great beat of those wings I was soaring into the air.

I encircled the farmhouse, and revelled in anarchy as I lit its thatched roof with a gout of orange fire from my jaws. My father recoiled at the sight, and ran back and forth in his flaming prison cell. I swooped down and beat my wings to drift before him, pricking up my scaly ears to make out what he was saying. It was hard to tell at first, with the fires roaring and the wind whistling around me, but then I heard him.

‘A storm is coming. You must come down from there. Do not provoke the tempest!’

I laughed with great mirth, and to my puny father it must have seemed like a ferocious roar, for he stopped in his tracks and looked at me afeared.

‘Do not fret for me,’ I growled. ‘I am the dragon. I fear no storm; I fear nothing!’

My father’s expression changed. He no longer looked afraid, or even angry. He looked disappointed. He shook his head slowly and I saw that he was not in awe of me, despite my power. He pitied me. I was a failure in his eyes just as I had always been. In that moment I knew that he did not deserve my mercy, and I breathed deep before spitting out a torrent of flame that smote him where he stood. My rage was so great that I flew around in ever-increasing circles, setting to flame the whole world until all was red ruin.

* * *

I woke violently, crying out. I was near certain that I was in my bedroom at Mrs. Whitinger’s boarding house, but the room refused to stop spinning long enough for me to tell for sure. Light streamed in at the small sash window, though I had no idea what time it was, nor even what day. The door flew open almost immediately, and Ambrose Hanlocke rushed in, looking concerned. He mouthed some words of comfort to me, but I could not hear him, for my body pained me and my mind was confused. I was in a dreadful fug, and gripped the bedsheets tightly as I tried to compose myself.

‘Can you hear me, old chap?’ asked Ambrose. ‘I said you’re home, and you’re going to be all right.’

Another man entered the room behind him. He was young but grave-looking, well-dressed and clean-shaven. He carried a Gladstone bag, which he set down on my bedside table and started rifling through.

‘This is McGrath, John; from the club,’ said Ambrose, although my head swam so much I could barely comprehend him. ‘He’s a medical man. He’s going to give you something for the pain.’

The young man prepared a hypodermic syringe, and something deep in my subconscious must have alerted me to a hidden danger. My fears were confirmed as the man rolled up my sleeve and tapped on my vein.

‘Don’t worry, Captain Hardwick,’ he said. ‘Just a bit of morphine.’

I snapped to immediately, and knocked the syringe violently from his hand. Ambrose made a poor job of restraining me as I lurched upright. The glare from the sunlight outside stung my eyes as surely as if pins had been thrust into them. I was vaguely aware of McGrath crying out in alarm.

‘Don’t put any more of that bloody stuff in me!’ I barked, in the tone of a drillmaster.

I slipped my legs out of the bed and tried to stand, and found that I was too dizzy. The morphine fug was still upon me—that they had dosed me while I was unconscious was now certain, and I felt a disconcerting mixture of sickness and delight at the thought of it. Both men helped me return to a seated position before I did myself further injury.

‘Captain Hardwick,’ the young man said, ‘I only wish to help you. If opiates are not to your liking for… ahem… whatever reason, then I can give you something else.’

Ambrose reacted before I did, sensing an embarrassment and seeking to assist, with uncharacteristic gallantry.

‘That would be excellent, McGrath. It is no reflection on your bedside manner, I am sure—it’s just that the captain had a torrid time in service in the East, a damned torrid time, and it is best to avoid anything that reminds him of that place.’

McGrath nodded. I believe he understood all too well why I railed against the morphine, but said nothing. If he had administered any drugs to me earlier, he must surely have seen the needle-marks from previous injections on my arms, legs or even my belly; although he may have dismissed them along with the myriad other scars that made my skin look like a map of the constellations. Why else he would have pressed ahead and administered the hated drug was beyond me. Inexperience, perhaps? McGrath instead mixed a few potions and powders, which he offered to me, assuring me that there were no opiates present. I drank the tincture gratefully. My head seemed to have stopped spinning, although the throb of a headache plagued me. I knew that if I moved too much I would give myself away with my shaking hands and sluggish perception. My addiction had been fed, and I prayed God I had the strength to resist its call the next time.

* * *

I was instructed to take a hot bath and thence returned to my room to breakfast with Ambrose and his companion, where a small but welcome fire crackled in the hearth. It was almost eleven o’clock in the morning, and Mrs. Whitinger had prepared us a large tray of toast, eggs and black pudding, evidently under duress—when she had knocked on my door, Ambrose had answered, and I had overheard a sharp exchange between them. He had remonstrated with her that I was in no fit state for visitors, but she had still made her point, and requested a word with me as soon as I was well enough. After reminding Ambrose that she was my landlady, not my housekeeper, she had retreated indignantly back to her own rooms, before Ambrose returned to us sheepishly.

‘Deuced formidable woman that landlady of yours. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when you’re well enough to wear them.’ He nudged McGrath and they both laughed. I think I managed to muster a smile, though I did not feel like it.

The young man, whom I had taken for a doctor, was Archibald McGrath, actually a surgeon recently inducted into the Apollonian. As is the tradition in his profession, he preferred ‘Mister’ to ‘Doctor’, and Ambrose jokingly reassured me that McGrath had taken all the relevant examinations, and was no charlatan. I gathered that I was not the first agent to be attended by the young surgeon. As well as working at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, his study of the developing field of forensic medicine gave him a unique perspective on club cases. As can be assumed of such a knowledgeable and hard-working young surgeon, Archibald—or Archie—was serious and fastidious. He had a trustworthy manner about him; I learned too that he was a loyal clubman and keen cricketer. Ambrose made one too many wise-cracks at Archie’s expense, I thought, as was his way.

Between them, Ambrose and Archie gave me a fairly complete account of what had happened the previous night. I had been assailed by a group of thugs not far from the boarding house, and had been injured as I fought them off. Ambrose had had a change of heart about letting me walk home, especially as I mightn’t have been aware of which streets were safe and which were not, and so he had instructed his driver to retrace his path, heading for Mrs. Whitinger’s house. When I could not be found along the main route, he became concerned and eventually happened upon my predicament. Once the thugs had been sent packing, I had been brought home and McGrath had been sent for. I had been delirious for some time. Archie had put a few stitches in my leg and had, regrettably, given me laudanum for the pain so that I could sleep. By all accounts I had caused quite a commotion, and Mrs. Whitinger was sore that such an upset had been brought to her door.

‘How did you manage to overcome the brutes?’ I asked Ambrose. ‘I seem to recall a sword being drawn, but I don’t remember you being armed last night.’

‘I am always armed, dear boy,’ Ambrose replied. He took up his walking cane from by the side of his chair and pulled the monogrammed silver knob away a few inches to reveal a tempered steel blade within. ‘A nasty surprise for any vagabond, eh? And I have a fair few fencing lessons under my belt, too.’

‘And that is not the only type of fencing you practise, by all accounts,’ said Archie, taking a sip of his tea to disguise his smug grin.

‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Ambrose in mock disbelief. ‘John, take a note: on this day Archibald McGrath attempted a witticism. I’m not sure anyone would believe it were I to tell them.’ I laughed along with them, but soon I was forced to sober the mood.

‘The man you stabbed, Ambrose—do you believe the wound was a mortal one?’

‘Gracious no,’ Ambrose protested. ‘I snagged the tip of my foil in his jacket, and I believe his imagination did the rest. A flesh wound at best. More’s the pity, for if he had been seriously wounded he would have been a damned sight easier to trace. Still, the jails are full to bursting with cutpurses and common louts as it is, so I doubt Scotland Yard would thank me overmuch for delivering another such ne’er-do-well to their door.’

‘Cutpurses? Louts? So you believe the attack to be a random one?’ I queried.

‘What else?’

‘The Chinaman with the ugly knife,’ I said. ‘He called me “Captain”, just as he was about to slit my throat. He meant for me to die, and he knew me.’

‘Are you certain?’ asked Archie. ‘Good heavens… could this mean the club is compromised? Or perhaps you have enemies from your time in the service?’

‘Oh, come now, stop being so melodramatic.’ Ambrose threw his hands up. ‘You were insensible last night, John. You were raving about the Chinaman being a torturer from Burma—Mung, or Ming or somesuch.’

‘Maung,’ I said, sullenly.

‘Maung, Ming, what’s the difference? The fact is, something sent your mind back to that terrible place, and you became confused. Are you sure it was the Chinaman who called you by your rank? Or are you simply confused from the fever?’

‘I… I think it was him.’ I paused and thought on it for a moment. ‘I can’t be sure.’

‘There you go,’ said Ambrose, with a tone of satisfaction. ‘Your imagination was running riot, and the celestial reminded you of painful times past. The only other explanation is that someone knew of your involvement with the Apollonian, and that is highly unlikely, especially at this early stage. Did you tell anyone of your membership before leaving there with me last night?’

‘No,’ I said. I was distracted, trying to go over the events of the previous night, trying to convince myself that I was rational and sane. But Ambrose had made a strong case to the contrary.

‘There we are, then. Don’t worry about it any longer. Those ruffians will doubtless wash up in the Thames sooner rather than later; their kind always do.’

* * *

It had not been easy to convince Ambrose and Archie to allow me back to work, but I was determined to continue the investigation, and in truth a bath and breakfast had been just the ticket. Ambrose proved himself a valuable ally once again when, realising that I would not be satisfied by further bed rest, he took my side and persuaded McGrath to relent. Archie gave me his card, and made me swear that I would send a messenger to him if I felt any pain or discomfort whatsoever. I could not tell him that my real discomfort was the gnawing hollow inside me, which he himself had caused with his medication; better, I thought, to plunge straight into my work and leave no time for solitary reflection.

Once Archie had taken his leave, I had faced a brief meeting with Mrs. Whitinger, whose formidable demeanour clashed with her obvious concern for my well-being. She stressed that the neighbourhood was a respectable one, and out of earshot of Ambrose told me that she’d never heard of such a thing happening within miles of her door previously. She seemed to bear the burden as though she herself were responsible for my misfortune. I apologised profusely for any upset I may have caused her, and she had accepted my apology graciously, becoming utterly considerate once she realised the extent of my physical injuries. I confess I was touched by her kindness, and determined that I would find some way to repay her as soon as I could.

I was annoyed by the loss of my new suit, which was mostly damaged beyond repair. I asked Mrs. Whitinger to send the jacket to the menders, threw the shirt and trousers away, and wrote an instruction to a messenger boy for my tailor to provide an identical formal suit by the end of the week—goodness knows what the old fellow would think. I produced a sixpence to speed the boy along, before summoning a hansom and heading for Marble Arch with Ambrose in tow once again. I had dressed in a suit of everyday clothes of dark brown linen with a pale grey waistcoat. The clothes were of good quality and well tailored, so I would pass muster were we to pay a visit to the club, but they were austere enough not to attract the attention of more rogues and cutpurses. To my shame, as it was another drizzly day, I was forced to wear my only overcoat again, which still carried moss-stains and pulls from my scrapes the previous night.