The Severed Man

by George Mann

  They made their way over to one of the nearby doors. It was made of strong wood, with wrought iron hinges, and had been bolted shut from the outside. Honoré slid the bolt aside and cautiously opened the door.

  The room was empty.

  ‘Some sort of holding cell, I’d guess. Try the next one.’

  Emily skipped over to the next door, eased the bolt out of its cradle and allowed the door to swing open. Then she fell back with a sudden scream, smashing into one of the braziers and upturning it, spilling burning coals all over the floor.

  Honoré leapt towards her, knocking her clean out of the way and sending them both tumbling down the passageway, colliding with a second brazier and narrowly missing being engulfed by the flames.

  They came to rest a few feet further down the tunnel. Honoré looked back to see what had startled Emily, and was nearly blinded by a sheet of intense white light that was flashing out of the room, searing his eyes. Almost transfixed, he managed to blink his eyes closed and look away. Baubles of white danced in front of his vision. Emily was on her feet.

  ‘Come on! They’re coming for us. They heard me scream. Come on!’

  She pulled him to his feet and they span around, preparing to make a run for it.

  The creature from the carriage was standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring at them.

  Close up, the man looked even more horrific than Honoré had first thought. His skin was flayed and sore where it had been removed in great patches, and the leather that had been stitched in its place was tough and brittle. The mechanical talon where his right arm should have been twitched with nervous energy, and Lechasseur could tell that every movement inspired excruciating pain in its owner. The man opened his mouth as if he were trying to speak, but his terrible, scissor-like appendage shot out and gnashed at the air before him.

  Emily screamed again.

  Honoré could hear the cultists behind them, trying to fight their way through the flames that were now licking at the wooden doors and threatening to carry along the whole passageway. He eyed the creature in front of him. Even with the sound of the commotion behind him, Honoré could hear the laboured breath of the machine that had been implanted in the man’s chest, and it reminded him terribly of Abraxas, the bizarre human-machine that he had encountered back in London so many months ago, when he first met Emily. He returned the man’s gaze, looking into his eyes.

  He saw nothing but pain and anguish. This man was not a killer, but a victim. Images flashed before his mind. He could see a young soldier, fighting in the trenches of the First World War, his rifle clutched tightly to his chest, panic rising within him as his officer gave the order to go over the top. He could see that same young man lying in a puddle of his own blood, his arm blown clear away by enemy fire.

  He could see a field hospital, a doctor, a nurse, and a recruiting officer, looking for invalids who could continue to work for the causes of the war.

  He could see a cramped, dark cell, an operating theatre and a series of horrific nightmares, in which a man in a leather smock cut away every last vestige of the man this soldier had once been.

  Honoré hung his head.

  When he looked back, the creature had stepped to one side to let them pass. Emily pulled him up the makeshift stairwell in a daze, bewilderment creasing her brow. But Honoré had seen the man for who he really was, and knew with certainty that the flames now engulfing the passageway were like a divine deliverance, bringing the relief of death to a man who had suffered through time and space at the hands of some terrible, evil force.

  They scrambled into the hall at the top of the stairs and then out towards the main entrance of the building. As they rounded the corridor and flung themselves into the foyer, two hooded men came charging at them, blocking their way.

  Lechasseur immediately launched into one of them, bowling him over. But the other caught him with a blow between the shoulder blades and he went down heavily, landing hard on the floor beside his first assailant.

  Emily leapt into action. She spun on her heel, swinging her leg around in a high kick that caught the second man directly in the face and felled him like a dead weight. Just to be sure, she brought her foot down hard on his stomach to take the wind out of him.

  Honoré was clambering to his feet, but all he managed to catch was a blur of motion before the other man was down on the ground again too, Emily’s elbow smashing hard into his nose.

  The two friends raced out of the house, running toward the fog-enshrouded trees and away to safety. Behind them, the house glowed red from the flames of the rapidly spreading fire. As they cleared the park and scrambled over the railings, Honoré was sure he caught the sound of screaming as the long-tortured soldier finally found his place of rest amongst the many, many dead.

  The Machinations Of Insanity

  Honoré and Emily fled into the dark night, unsure where they were going in the fog, but keen to put some distance between themselves and the cultists, who they knew, without a doubt, would be searching for them throughout the city.

  After what seemed like an age, they stopped to rest and catch their breath.

  They sat panting on a low wall, trying to make some sense out of what had happened.

  ‘What the hell do you think that light was?’ Honoré wheezed out through gritted teeth. His back was hurting badly from where he had been knocked to the floor by the cultist.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Was it anything like the light you described in your dream?’

  Honoré had almost forgotten about that. ‘It was just like the light in the dream! Just before I see you coming towards me, that same light is there, blinding me!’

  ‘And what about that horrible creature? Why do you think it let us past?’

  Honoré smiled. ‘You’re right, it was horrible. But the man underneath was very human, and in very real pain. He was a soldier – just like Abraxas – who had been tortured and controlled, modified into that horrific thing. Not only that, he was from a different time zone entirely. There’s something going on here that I don’t yet understand.’

  ‘It’s as if this time period is some sort of convergence point, a nexus of some kind.’

  ‘That’s exactly it. All these disparate threads coming together. Which probably means that the other points in time in which the tramp is active are the same.’

  ‘It would make sense.’

  They sat there for a while, mustering strength. After a time, Emily jumped down from the wall and paced backwards and forwards in front of Honoré.

  ‘Look,’ she said, resolutely, ‘we can talk this over in the morning. Let’s go and find somewhere to get some proper rest.’

  ‘I don’t think the B&B will be safe anymore.’

  ‘We’ll find somewhere else then. If we don’t get some sleep soon, we’ll be no good tomorrow. Come on.’

  She started off down the road. Lechasseur jumped down and caught her up. ‘What did you make of those Devil statues?’

  ‘I told you – let’s talk about it in the morning.’

  ‘Emily...’

  She sighed. ‘There has to be some sort of connection to my past. Every time I see those images, I just freeze. They keep popping up in my dreams, too; I can’t sleep without seeing images of the Devil everywhere I look.’ She looked exasperated, tired and a little scared.

  Honoré slipped his arm around her shoulders. ‘Okay, let’s talk it over in the morning.’

  They made their way across the city, wandering aimlessly, looking for somewhere to get some rest. They were both exhausted, drained after the adrenaline rush of the night’s events, and desperately in need of sleep. Just as they were about to stop for another quick rest, Honoré realised he knew where they were.

  ‘Look! That’s the old church at the back of Spitalfields market.’ He pointed it out. The church tower stood fully intact, a round clock-face proud
on its frontage. It was a stark contrast to the bombed-out mess of a building that still stood in the marketplace in 1950.

  The moonlight was finally starting to wane as the sun was rising in the East and burning away great clumps of the clinging fog. Through the haze, Honoré could just make out the graveyard that ran around the grounds of the old church.

  ‘We’ve got to check this out.’ He led Emily across the street and toward the imposing building. As they drew nearer, the sound of voices could be heard from further into the graveyard, and every now and then, the sound of a spade shuffling soil around. Honoré and Emily peered over the wall, searching out the source of the noise.

  Two men were standing beneath the branches of a large tree, digging. It looked, from where Lechasseur was standing, as if they were opening up a recently interred grave.

  Emily looked at him quizzically. ‘What do you think they’re up to?’

  Honoré shrugged. ‘Let’s find out.’ He swung his leg up over the wall and strode towards the two diggers, fully expecting them to drop their spades and run. Grave robbers were a common curse of the Victorian church yards, he recalled, and the penalties were harsh.

  When one of the men saw him coming, he cried out: ‘Christ, Jeffries, look!’

  The other man turned and looked at Lechasseur. ‘In the name of God!’ He dropped his spade into the hole before him.

  Honoré looked them over. He could hear Emily clambering over the wall behind him. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Here, Jeffries, I can’t believe it.’

  Jeffries nodded.

  Honoré gave an exasperated snort. ‘Can’t believe what?’

  The first man piped up again. ‘Can’t believe that you actually showed up, is what! This nobleman, right, comes to us three weeks ago and gives us fifty pounds apiece to dig up this ’ere grave, on this day, at this exact time. Says a big black man and a woman will show up just before we lift the coffin out of the ground.’

  ‘And...’

  ‘And we’re just about to lift the coffin out o’ the ground.’

  The two men cleared their tools out of the way and reached into the grave, grasping at the ropes that had been used to lower the coffin into the ground when it was first prepared. Honoré leaned over and looked at the name on the tombstone. The legend read:

  Barnaby Tewkes.

  1892.

  He Lives On.

  He nearly laughed out loud.

  The two men managed to slide the coffin out onto the firm ground by the side of the hole. The coffin looked relatively new, and they brushed the soil away easily with their hands.

  ‘You want us to open it then, sir?’

  Emily, who was still trying to understand what was going on, looked at Lechasseur in dismay. ‘What the...?’

  He cut her off. ‘Yeah, go ahead and open it up.’

  Emily looked away in disgust.

  Jeffries produced a crowbar and set to work levering the coffin lid away from the base. A moment later, and with a hideous screeching sound, the retaining nails came free, and the two men together lifted the lid away with a pained look on their faces.

  There was a moment of silence as they all looked at each other, no-one wishing to be the first to peer into the coffin. Then the corpse sat up straight with a sudden jerk.

  Emily let out a shriek, and Honoré instinctively stepped towards her.

  One of the men started to say something reassuring. ‘I seen that before, sir, when you open a coffin up...’ His voice trailed off when he realised that the corpse was actually giggling to itself uncontrollably.

  Emily let out another shriek.

  But Honoré was already lost in the swirling, colliding time zones and the wretched stumps of severed time that circled this giggling corpse like a tempestuous aura. He clutched hold of Emily, and they disappeared in a brief, crackling blue electrical haze.

  Part Three: The Imposition Of Virtue

  Faded Revelations

  Daylight. The sun beating down on his face like a wash of golden water, a bronze dream. Lechasseur rolled onto his side and peered into the light.

  He was in a field.

  Beside him, Emily lay on the grass, her hair a tangle of loose strands, her dress a crumpled mess of faux Victorian finery. His mind was still reeling from the step through time. He rolled onto his back. The sky was a clear blue, with white, fluffy candy-floss clouds scudding across his view. He had no idea what year it was.

  He sat up. It felt like he’d left his head on the floor. His vision swam for a moment, before settling down to a steady spin. He tried to blink it away.

  There was no-one else around, as far as he could see. He guessed they were in a farmer’s field, or the countryside; in the distance, he could see some sheep grazing on the grass in the sunshine.

  He looked down at Emily.

  She was still unconscious.

  He climbed onto his knees and shuffled over towards her.

  He thought she looked angelic lying there, with her eyes closed and her hair spread around her head. He reached down and gently smoothed a stray strand from her face. The strange circumstances that had brought them together had changed his life. And had brought him Emily. They were not lovers, were not romantically linked, but he knew he would do anything, go anywhere for Emily.

  Emily didn’t appear to be hurt, and he assumed, for the moment, that the chain of events that had landed them here had simply been too much for her and she needed to rest. Given that there didn’t seem to be anyone around to bother them, he rolled over onto his back and allowed himself to close his own eyes for a few minutes too. He needed to get some energy back before he went looking for Barnaby Tewkes.

  A little while later, Honoré was woken by the sound of Emily saying his name. He opened his eyelids slowly. She was kneeling over him, her hand gently prodding his shoulder. He was still lying in the field, but he figured a couple of hours must have passed since he’d first woken, as he felt considerably more refreshed. He looked up at Emily, who continued to prod him nervously.

  ‘Honoré. Wake up. There’s someone coming.’

  He sat up, glancing around to either side. In the distance, he could make out the shape of a man climbing the ridge towards them, a shotgun cocked over one arm.

  He blinked his eyes blearily, trying to wake himself up.

  Emily was trying to get his attention again. ‘Are you okay, Honoré?’

  ‘Fine. Are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here, then.’ They both climbed to their feet and dusted themselves down. The farmer, who was getting nearer now, hadn’t paid them even the slightest bit of attention.

  They scanned the horizon, and, after deciding which direction to take, began to make their way towards what they thought looked like a small village in the distance, about a mile or so away. Smoke was winding its way out of a distant chimney, curling in the gentle breeze.

  Honoré had a dry, sticky mouth and needed something to drink.

  The farmer, by this time, was only about twenty feet away. He continued to ignore the two strangers, not even bothering to cast them a glance. Emily smiled at Honoré. ‘Perhaps he’s embarrassed?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s just seen a man and a woman get up out of his field and dust themselves down.’

  ‘Ah, I see what you mean. Let’s leave him to his embarrassment. We should be able to make it to that village in about half an hour or so. I could do with something to drink.’

  They set out, strolling in the mid-morning sunshine. The events of just a few hours earlier seemed like days ago to Lechasseur, and he decided to try and enjoy the time he had before he arrived at the village, where he presumed he would find the elusive Mr Barnaby Tewkes. He hoped that, in this time period – whenever that was – he would be able to get a few answers.


  They arrived at the outskirts of the village after about forty minutes of walking. Emily was hot and bothered in her long Victorian dress, and Honoré had shed his black leather coat and was carrying it folded over one arm.

  People were milling around, going about their daily business. Nearby, a woman was feeding some ducks with her little boy, and further down the road, a man was nailing a sign on the front of his house. It read: Beware of the Dog.

  Honoré laughed at the sheer sugariness of it all; it was like a fairytale English village, replete with all the stereotypical villagers and picture-postcard buildings.

  They strode into the village square, hoping not to draw too much attention in their out-of-place clothes.

  No-one looked.

  Not a single soul even turned a head to catch a glimpse of the newcomers. Honoré, oddly disturbed, stopped by the well in the centre of the village square. A woman was filling a bucket, drawing on the rope to bring her pail back up to the surface. He approached her slowly.

  ‘Excuse me, can you tell us the name of this village?’

  No response. Again, the woman didn’t even look up from her work, but just continued drawing the bucket up the well shaft as if nobody had spoken.

  Emily stepped towards her. ‘Excuse me, miss, we’re a little lost and looking for somewhere to rest?’

  Still the woman continued to ignore them. Lechasseur caught Emily’s eye with a wary glance. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Let’s try talking to someone else.’

  She approached one of a group of boys playing with a hoop against the side of a nearby house. ‘Hello there. We’re new around here and looking for somewhere to stay. Could you possibly give us some directions?’

  The boy continued to bang his hoop against the wall, oblivious to their presence. Emily looked back at Honoré.

  A bird crowed overhead.

  They drifted towards each other across the village square. The villagers continued to bustle around them, carrying on with their normal routines.