by Gareth Clegg
A smile crossed Simmons’ face. “Spoken like a true visionary, my friend.” He clapped Bazalgette on the shoulder. “Now shut up and put the tea on.”
Isaac steered them through the narrow streets as they approach Southwark. “The park is a few minutes away, gentlemen.”
Bazalgette looked over towards Simmons. “So how are we going to get past the birds and into the infirmary?”
“We’ll have to play it by ear, I suppose,” said Simmons.
Isaac perked up from the stern. “You should check the bandstand.”
“The bandstand?” Simmons asked.
“Yeah. They say while St Olaves still had residents, there was an escape. A load of them made it through a tunnel they’d been digging for months—came out under the bandstand. I’m sure the authorities blocked it all up, but I wouldn’t have thought they would collapse the whole thing. Just an idea.”
“Well, it’s as good a plan as we have,” Simmons said.
Bazalgette nodded in approval. “What about the birds though?”
“Well,” Isaac said. “I’ve heard them say as long as you do nothing to upset them, then you should be fine.”
“And what defines upsetting them?” Bazalgette asked.
“I suppose getting too close to their territory. Maybe you should try to look inconspicuous?” Isaac said with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Yes, thanks for that pearl of wisdom,” Simmons said. “Let’s see the approach to the bandstand and take it from there.”
“Right you are, Mr Simmons.”
Isaac cut the engine and drifted across the final open stretch of drowned street. He’d insisted the lack of noise would make them less of a focal point for any birds in the area. The boat bumped against the railed wall surrounding the park. “The main entrance is over there,” he said, pointing along to a gap visible between thick trees. “It’s not deep, only a few inches, but if you keep hold of the railings, you’ll avoid the worst of the weed. Then head due south, and can’t miss the bandstand.”
Simmons waited while Bazalgette climbed onto the wall. The boat shifted as he transferred his weight, and the makeshift bag for the arc-rifle swung from his shoulder like a pendulum. Simmons followed, and the pair traversed the nearly submerged wall. They alternated, shifting their grip on the railings with their foot movements, treading carefully to avoid the red weed as they made their way towards the old park entrance.
Isaac waved at them, trying to catch their attention, then gestured to a gap between the buildings. He pushed the vessel off the wall with a long pole, punting back across the street. Simmons gave him a quick salute as the boat drifted away in silence towards the submerged alley.
There were gaps in the railings where patches of rust had eaten into the metal. One section was tricky where they bent out away from the park. Bazalgette slipped as he placed his foot onto an area slick with moss. His body leaned back at a precarious angle, but the railings supported his weight, and both men made it to the entrance. Five feet of water stood between them and the muddy, waterlogged ground of the park itself.
“Should we try to jump across?” Bazalgette asked.
Simmons surveyed the area. There was no clear route to get to the parkland. The overgrown foliage of the trees fought a losing battle with the red weed which swarmed up from the water’s edge, strangling everything in its reach. Dead twigs caught in its deadly embrace led to larger decaying branches, the weed sucking the life from the natural flora.
“We could try to use the branches overhead,” Simmons said. “But the weed may have left them weak, and I don’t fancy falling into the damned stuff.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. Take my hand, and I’ll launch you across.”
Simmons looked at Bazalgette, trying to keep the scepticism from his face.
“Very well,” he said, taking Bazalgette’s hand and leaning back as much as he dared. “On three then?”
“Agreed,” Bazalgette said tight to the railings on the other side. He gripped the end railing while clasping Simmons’ gloved hand around the wrist.
“One, two… three.”
Simmons shifted his weight forward as he pulled hard against Bazalgette. The other man did the opposite, throwing his body back towards the park, launching Simmons.
With a loud splash, his trailing foot caught the water, and he slipped in the muddy shallows where the weed reached the new shoreline. His arms wheeled as he tried to maintain his balance but to no avail. He landed in an unceremonious pile on the bank and felt movement as the weed flailed its sinewy strands in his direction.
Simmons scrambled on his backside further onto drier land, away from the red foliage reaching for him like an odd assortment of disembodied veins.
“Are you all right?” Bazalgette called across to him.
Before Simmons had a chance to reply, a mass of flapping wings burst from the trees further into the park, filled with raucous arguments of crows as they took flight. Simmons froze in place, his eyes turning skyward.
The black shadows of twenty large birds circled above, rising into the air. Their alarm calls received curious replies from their brethren further around the park. Simmons lay there still and silent. The birds headed eastward, and as Simmons’ eyes followed their path, he saw several angled roofs poking up beyond the tree line at the park’s edge.
Birds covered the roofs all standing in silent vigil. The trees on that side shifted as the creatures sitting on the branches shuffled and cawed their warnings.
He got to his feet and headed back to the encroaching weed at the water’s edge. It had returned to its dormant state, not having found anything to latch onto during its few seconds of frantic thrashing.
Keeping his voice low, he called to Bazalgette. “I’m all right, but how are you going to get across now?”
“Don’t worry,” Bazalgette said rummaging in his pack and producing his arc-lamp. “I have an idea.”
Simmons shook his head, holding his hands out before him. “Wait a minute, let’s not do anything rash.”
Bazalgette seemed oblivious as the familiar low hum of power built, and a glow lit the right-hand side of his coat.
“Bazalgette,” Simmons hissed, “what the hell?”
Sparks exploded from the railings. Bright arcs of electricity dazzled him as they danced across the water and leapt through the tangle of weed into the leaves and branches of the trees in its stranglehold. Pops and hisses erupted from both the weed and the trees, and small flames burst from the dry twigs like kindling.
The lightning arced from the end of the lamp, enveloping Bazalgette. It looked like he’d thrust it into the water’s edge ahead of him.
“Bazalgette,” Simmons shouted, heedless of the consequences.
“I’m fine,” Bazalgette replied, “insulated.”
“What?”
Bazalgette pointed towards his gloves and boots. “I’m insulated,” he repeated.
Simmons stood there his mouth agape. The electrical arcs around Bazalgette subsided. A large section of the railings cracked and fell behind him. It hit the water with a violent hiss like iron quenched in a smithy. Bazalgette waited a few seconds, then leaned out and jumped forward, landing with a splash amidst the red weed a few feet from the bank.
“Bazalgette!”
Swathes of red weed surrounded him, tangled around his long boots, but he ploughed on towards the bank regardless. The weed remained limp and unresponsive in the muddy water.
“What the hell were you thinking, man?” Simmons said through gritted teeth. “That could have killed you. The red weed, why didn’t—”
His voice fell away as he struggled to reconcile what he’d witnessed with all the tales of what should have happened when someone fell into a patch of weed.
Bazalgette stared at him. “Science,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“But—”
“The weed doesn’t like high voltage or current. Water is an excellent conductor,
and I’m insulated. It was a logical extrapolation when I realised I wasn’t able to leap the distance unaided.”
“A logical extrapolation?” Simmons said, trying hard to keep his voice under control, and failing.
“Yes, a deduction or assumption?”
“I know what it bloody means. What if it hadn’t worked?”
“But it did.”
“But—”
“It worked, Simmons; I knew it would.”
“But—”
“Look,” Bazalgette said, pointing past Simmons, “that must be the bandstand.”
“What?” Simmons said, still incredulous.
“The bandstand that Isaac mentioned. It’s right there. Come on, old chap.”
Bazalgette strolled past as if he were out on a sightseeing trip. Simmons stood for a few seconds unable to either move or form any coherent reply. As he turned to follow his friend, he felt something twist in his gut. The birds fell silent.
17
“Bazalgette, stop,” Simmons whispered. He moved to catch up as his friend turned.
“What is it?”
Simmons nodded toward the nearest trees. “The birds.”
The branches were thick with them. All observed the trespassers, their eyes staring with unnerving intensity.
“Should we run?” Bazalgette asked.
“Let’s keep it slow. If we take it steady, maybe they won’t get upset.”
“They seem upset enough as it is.”
“All the more reason for keeping things calm then.”
Simmons took a hesitant step, and Bazalgette followed. Feathers rustled as several crows chose that moment to flex their wings, but remained perched.
The bandstand was around a hundred yards distant. Its large circular structure rose ten feet, topped with a conical copper roof. Verdigris discoloured the metal, but it seemed in excellent condition despite the blue-green streaks that ran between areas that glowed like red fire where they caught the sun. The wooden facade had once been white, but now it stood yellowed with age and neglect.
Simmons edged another few steps closer to their target, keeping an eye on the sea of dark shapes watching them. A loud croak burst from the nearest tree, and the floodgates opened.
“Run,” he yelled, pushing Bazalgette forward.
The scream of birds and thrashing wings erupted around them. Simmons glanced back and wished he hadn’t. Streams of black bodies boiled from the trees, the sky turning dark. The first wave crashed over them, beaks and claws raking, seeking exposed flesh to rip and rend. Then they were curving up and away to circle for their next assault.
Bazalgette flapped his arms around, trying to protect his head and face from the second flight as they dived past. Simmons grabbed him. “Keep moving, man.” He tried to ignore the constant battering from the bird strike and dragged Bazalgette along as they fought their way to their destination. They bounded up five steps to the raised floor of the bandstand. A square trapdoor sat in the centre secured with a rusted padlock. The screeching of the birds increased. Metallic pings rang from the copper like a hailstorm where some misjudged their dive, bouncing from the angled roof stunned or dead, such was the ferocity of their attack. Several of the damned things still managed the narrow gap above the railings to tear at them. Others crash-landed, the survivors dancing towards them pecking and shrieking their fury.
“Get it open,” Simmons yelled.
Bazalgette produced a small crowbar from his bag and went to work. Within a few seconds, there was a crunch as the lock burst free.
Simmons kicked at the mass of birds around them, and they scattered with angry caws. Bazalgette grunted with effort and strained with his full weight on the trapdoor. With a crack of splintering wood, it surrendered, revealing a void below. Bazalgette hit the ground and dropped in, and Simmons followed. He slammed the door shut, locking the birds outside, still pecking and screeching above them.
The smell of rot and decay surrounded them. Bazalgette fired up the arc-lamp and thrust it ahead, surveying the area. “It seems to be a storage space.”
With the adrenaline fading, the aches and sharp pain from the minor wounds and scratches caught up with Simmons. He took a moment to check himself over, only scrapes and a little bleeding—the worst was from his right ear.
“Let me look at that,” Bazalgette said.
“It’s nothing.”
Bazalgette ignored him, moving the arc-lamp to the side of his head to get a better view. “You’ve got a nasty tear near your earlobe. It could do with stitching.”
Simmons pulled away. “I’ll live. What about you?”
“A few pecks, but other than that, I think I avoided any long-term injury.”
“All right, let’s see if this tunnel of Isaac’s is fact or fantasy.”
Brown canvas-covered shapes filled the central area out to the circular walls. The ceiling height was under five feet, and they both had to duck their heads standing in an uncomfortable hunch.
Bazalgette lifted the corners of the material and found wooden boards, paint, brushes and an extending ladder. “Makes sense, I suppose.”
“Yes, beats having to transport spare materials for repair.” Simmons turned towards the rear of the space. His stomach dropped as if by reflex as his head grazed a low beam. “Damned beams.” He rubbed the spot. “You would have thought they could afford to build it a few inches higher.”
“I think they made them to a specific standard.” Bazalgette walked with a practised stoop while scanning around the damp space. “Over here,” he called, beckoning Simmons to several crates near the wall.
“What is it?”
Bazalgette pointed. “Do you see? These are the only ones packed this close to the edge. The rest are more central, and this is the area nearest the Infirmary.”
“Ah. Let’s get them moved.”
It took the pair a few minutes to move enough to find an iron grill in the floor that concealed a drop of around six feet. With the aid of the arc-lamp, they could make out a tunnel which led off eastwards at the bottom.
Unlike the trapdoor above, the bars were a permanent fixture, set in concrete. Bazalgette determined the easiest way to bypass it was to chip away at the edges where they recessed. Once weakened, the crowbar popped them out, leaving a hole large enough for them to squeeze through.
“There are footholds down here,” Bazalgette said with a grin. “They reinforced them with pieces of wooden planking.”
“Well, lucky for us that the authorities couldn’t find the time to fill it all in then.”
“Yes, though I should prefer to check to see our escapees showed such diligence in propping and reinforcing the rest of the tunnel before we go any further.”
“That sounds like a plan. I don’t relish getting trapped down there in any kind of collapse.”
One by earth, Simmons recalled the grim insights from Rosie about the fourth conspirator, Blakelocke. A shiver ran down his spine as he watched Bazalgette descending into the ground, a strange square shaft of light painted on the ceiling above the hole.
Bazalgette shuffled about below, the glow from the arc-lamp growing and fading as he shifted position. After a few minutes, the room lightened, and the makeshift ladder creaked with his return. “Whoever organised that escape knew how to support tunnels,” he said, popping his head over the ledge.
“Where did inmates in an Asylum get hold of wood to build pit props?”
“I’m not sure. They seem to be a mixture of bed slats and wall or ceiling panels.”
“Interesting, perhaps not so mad after all?”
“Well, it isn’t just the insane they put into places like St. Olaves. There have been many cases of people unable to cope with life for short periods then getting lost in the system. If they didn’t have friends or relatives to bail them out, they’d leave them to rot. You must have known men in the military traumatised after combat who couldn’t manage?”
“Not really, we shot cowards back in my day.”
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“Surely not?”
Simmons smiled. “Not me personally, but it happened. We live in different times now, I suppose. What with the Martians and the work camps, I saw my fair share. I sat on the precipice for a while myself after my wife died.” He sighed, realising he’d said too much.
The room fell into silence. It seemed Bazalgette didn’t know how to deal with the revelation. “I’m sorry,” he replied after a while, “for your loss.”
Simmons turned the sigh into a cough, raising his hand to cover his mouth. “Yes, well let’s be making a move, we haven’t got all day. Do you want me to go first?”
“No,” Bazalgette said, “it would be best for me to lead so I can check the supports. We’ll be on hands and knees down there so it won’t be easy.”
“Off you go then. Let’s not keep this Ravenmaster waiting.”
Simmons followed a few feet behind as Bazalgette led the way through the rough-hewn dirt tunnel. Improvised wooden props lined the walls at regular intervals supporting the tons of earth above them. As they progressed eastwards, the ground became wet.
Instead of the occasional muddy patches they’d encountered at the start of their journey, now they crawled through inches of standing water.
“Bazalgette,” Simmons called forward, “are you sure this is safe?”
“It’s only mud. I checked the props as we passed them. They are all sound.”
Simmons bit back a retort. He’s a structural engineer, if he doesn’t know if it’s safe, who would?
“Very well,” he replied at length, continuing their slow progress. At least we have good light. I wonder what the poor blighters who made this escape route had?
After half an hour, Bazalgette came to a halt. The tunnel was dry again, and the place hadn’t collapsed around their ears. “I think we’re through,” Bazalgette whispered.
Simmons stretched. His knees and back protested the effort he’d put them through with two loud cracks. Bazalgette disappeared, a dim glow of light lingering in the shaft ahead leading up out of the hellish crawlway. He returned after a few seconds. “There’s another grille at this end. I’ve given it a shove and a good prod with the crowbar, but it appears to be solid.”