by Gareth Clegg
Bazalgette didn’t seem to mind. “I often feel I should show the same care to the building itself, but it would only draw attention to the place being different to the rest of the street.”
As the door closed behind them, motors and gears whirred until thick metal bolts returned to secure it with a slam. Simmons turned to see a similar device to what he had at his lodgings. “That’s a Starling lock, isn’t it?”
“It’s based on one. I made minor alterations to the design. It has a solid enough structure, but I’ve added a little extra finesse to the locking mechanism, and reinforced the locks and bolts.”
“Is there nothing you can’t turn your mind to?”
Bazalgette seemed to ponder for a moment. “Well, not as yet. It’s a simple matter of analysis and redesign. Some things take longer, like the clockwork, and the fact I had to override the security to access the internals. They don’t want people to reverse engineer their designs, you see.”
“So you are telling me you bypassed the most secure locking system available, just to find out how it worked?”
“Well, yes. When you put it that way, it sounds like a profound achievement, but it was reasonably straightforward.”
“Bazalgette, you are talking about the company that provides security for the Inner-City elite as if it were nothing. How many people do you think could have done what you did and then treat it as if it’s a simple matter any of us might have achieved?”
Bazalgette stopped, his own gears and cogs whirring. “Well, now you mention it, yes I suppose there aren’t many who could do it. Starling would go out of business rather sharply if the other security manufacturers produced improved versions of their designs.”
“Oh,” Simmons said, realisation dawning on his face, “you know what this means, don’t you?”
“No, I’m not sure I do.”
Simmons laughed. “You can bypass a Starling lock.”
“Well, yes. That’s what I said.”
“You don’t get it, do you? These are the systems used by the Nobility, the Black Guard and the Empress herself. Damn it, man. We have a way of getting into the Inner-City.”
“Oh,” was all the response Bazalgette managed. He looked back to Simmons, and down at his splinted leg. “Well, before we get too excited, perhaps we should get you cleaned up. I’d hate for you to die from infection or contract the taint.”
They spent a while cleaning their filthy clothing in an area of the workshop reserved for scraping the muck from Bazalgette’s many sewer visits. Hoses sprayed chemical formulations, then rinsed, and resprayed. Once set in motion, it continued to scour the garments while Simmons went to soak in a hot bath.
Bazalgette found a spare robe for him and advised him to keep his leg out of the water until he could clean and redress the wound. He also passed Simmons a bar of red carbolic soap and insisted he use it.
The soap left Simmons’ skin tingling and a little sore in places. The fragrance though was a glorious contrast to the stench he’d grown accustomed to while making their escape through the sewers.
Simmons lounged with a glass of fine malt whisky, and his pipe, which he’d refused to subject to the cleansing his clothing was undergoing. He’d just scrubbed it in the sink with warm water and soap.
He dozed in the relaxing heat of the bath, drifting in and out of consciousness. His mind drifted back to the hot Indian summer and the colonial mansion from where he oversaw the running of the interests of the Crown.
Simmons had quickly acclimatised to the constant noise and bustle of an army of servants, and a life of ease. He even came to enjoy it when required to intervene when some stupid English fop thought they could treat the locals any way they wanted. They were soon put right on that score, and the people loved him for it.
He’d been the colonial governor in Bombay and had grown to love the beautiful British outpost. Like almost all western travellers, the poverty, heat and smell of the place had appalled him when he first arrived. But after a short period of adjustment, he came to understand the natural flow of the people living their daily lives. He realised he’d discovered a tiny piece of heaven and loved every moment of his time there. So much so, he never imagined ever returning to his country of birth.
It was still difficult to believe it was only five years since his dramatic fall from grace. Simmons had fallen in love with an Indian girl, a servant in the colonial household. Against the advice and warnings from friends and family, he’d courted and then married her. Surita was beautiful, intelligent, and brooked no nonsense from anyone.
It was how they’d first met. He’d stood there under her withering tirade of how to maintain the residence in a state of cleanliness becoming an ambassador to the Empress. Little did she realise that he was that ambassador.
The government recalled him to London once they got wind of the scandal. They stripped him of both his title and commission. He’d expected nothing less from the jumped up bureaucrats in Whitehall. What hurt more was being ostracised by his former friends. They distanced themselves from him and his new wife. Even his club closed their doors on him stating they ‘could not entertain a fellow of such low moral turpitude’. That was the real London, and his fall, in the eyes of the ruling elite, was complete. Well, damn them. Damn them all.
At first, they struggled to find servants who didn’t look down their noses at the dusky skinned mistress of the house. But their worries settled and their small home in the country proved more than adequate for their needs. Ironic then, that the Martian invaders chose their timing to coincide with a period where he thought things were working themselves out.
The memory of those first weeks after the aliens invaded their peaceful life was still as vivid as if it were only yesterday.
Simmons had dragged Surita halfway across the globe to face his accusers in London, the ‘so-called’ heart of the great British Empire. He’d torn them away from the country they both loved, and for what?
He’d tried to ignore his wife’s final plea, that he should continue, that he needed to be strong. Surita told him he must help those unable to fend for themselves, the children, the poor, anyone who couldn’t survive alone against the alien menace.
She’d died in the first month of the Martian invasion. Simmons, the great white hunter, the great colonel of Her Majesty’s forces, the great coward, hid at the bottom of a whisky bottle. Instead of following his wife’s dying wish, he drank himself into oblivion.
A clock chimed outside the bathroom. His eyes opened to a greasy film covering the surface of the now tepid bathwater, a mixture of the soap-scum and grime that had washed from his skin.
Enough lounging in my own filth and self-pity. His right leg hung out of the tub, an attempt to keep the knee and the filthy wad of bandage dry. Time to get this cleaned up too.
As Simmons made his way downstairs in the fluffy white gown, he heard movement in the living room and went to investigate. A trolley sat to one side with an assortment of bandages, gauze pads and several brown bottles of liquid. It looked like a regular field surgery unit.
“Ah, there you are,” Bazalgette said. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Simmons replied, “and a lot less pungent.”
“Yes, I took the best part of an hour scrubbing with soap. The sanitiser completed its cycle, but I’ve run the clothing through again. I wanted to make sure, what with all the other fluids from those horrors.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“So how’s the leg? Any more bleeding?”
Simmons shook his head. “No, it’s fine. Still hurts like hell, and I struggle if I put too much weight on it. Had to hang onto the handrail on the way down, but I suppose it’s early days.”
“Let me have a look and see what we need to do with it.”
Bazalgette motioned Simmons to a chair beside the trolley. A set of surgical instruments sat in a drawer on the far side of the table.
“I thought you said you weren’t a doctor? You seem wel
l equipped.”
“I’m not qualified, but you never know when implements such as these might come in useful. I’ve done a spot of reading, and hopefully, all you require are a few sutures to secure the muscle and then we can close the wound.”
Simmons swallowed, hoping it hadn’t been too noticeable. “So we don’t need a surgeon then?”
“No, it seems a straightforward task.”
“And you learned this from a book you read while I was upstairs?”
“Yes, Anatomy: Descriptive and Surgical, by Henry Gray. It’s a fascinating read, extremely well observed. Oh, and there was a text on field surgery, that was helpful too.”
Simmons looked Bazalgette straight in the eye. “You’re sure you can do this? Are you confident?”
“I am. It’s a simple process of inspecting then stitching the torn muscle. Then I’ll deal with the exterior wound. Ensure there is no foreign material in there before closing it, and that’s all there is to it. The books were very precise.”
“What about anaesthetic?”
“If you want,” Bazalgette said with a shrug.
“What do you mean, if I want? I think a shot or three of good malt is in order, at the very least.”
“I have ether.”
“No. Whisky will be fine. I prefer to keep an eye on what’s happening.”
“If you’re sure?”
“Well, now I’m not.”
“Come on, Simmons. Trust me.”
“You damned well better not say ‘I’m a doctor’,” Simmons said, settling back into the leather of the armchair.
Bazalgette retrieved the whisky Simmons had sampled earlier and poured him a fresh glass. He offered it to Simmons, who took it with a nod. “You might as well leave me the bottle.”
Simmons wasn’t sure if it was the medicinal properties of the single malt or Bazalgette’s skill with needle and thread, but the whole process was complete in no time. There had been a little discomfort with the initial stitching of the muscle, but that soon passed after polishing off a few glasses.
“So,” Bazalgette said. “You need to keep your weight off it as much as you can over the next day or two. The tear was minor, so a good night’s rest should do you a world of good, and we can see how things are in the morning.”
Simmons vaguely recalled heading back up the broad stairway with Bazalgette supporting him. His leg felt stiff, and it was slow going up the steps. But with the remains of the bottle clasped firmly in his left hand, he finally reached the landing and stumbled off to bed.
23
Foghorns blaring in the distance woke Simmons. The room was unfamiliar, dark, and he took a few moments to recall where he was.
A steady ticking from above the fireplace drew his attention. As his eyes adjusted, the clock face brightened, roman numerals sharpening into focus—five-twenty am. Fleeting memories flooded his alcohol fuddled mind from the previous day and the escape through the sewers. His leg protested as he tried to stand, making him think twice. It was splinted again. Had Bazalgette done that after stitching him back up? He must have, when else would he have had the opportunity?
The long wail of the foghorns sounded again from the city walls, and with a decisive motion, Simmons pushed his legs out from under the covers and sat up. He was wide awake, all vestiges of sleep had fallen from him, and it left him with the familiar dry mouth that spoke of excess from the night before.
As he searched the darkened room, his eyes alighted on a washbowl on a bedside cabinet. There was no sign of a glass anywhere, so he hoisted the pitcher to his lips, feeling the cool refreshing water hit his parched throat. In his eagerness, a stream spilt down his face. The chill made him shiver, and he coughed returning the jug before wiping his neck and chops.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled himself to his feet, trying to balance most of his weight on his good leg. The cabinet helped as he pushed up and supported himself using it as a makeshift crutch.
Intending to head across to the curtained window, he let his right leg take some of the strain. It surprised him how much better it felt than he’d feared. The new splint seemed well constructed, and he only contended with the discomfort of his restricted movement, rather than any of the sickening pain he had encountered before. He inched around the edge of the room, making sure he could support himself if the leg gave way.
Pulling the plush velvet curtains to one side, he peered out into the darkness. Street-lamps dotted the East End, many of them vandalised for the raw materials, saleable if you knew the right people. The imposing slabs of the Inner-City wall jutted up silhouetted against the creeping pre-dawn light. Colours deepened the closer you got to the outer walls surrounded the Capital, increasing to a bright crimson glow where the fog reached out from the Thames.
Shadows shifted in the yellow haze around the gantries topping the walls—the Black Guard. Now they knew his name, the search would be on. Branded as a traitor and murderer, London was no longer a safe place for him.
What now? The logical thing was to get the schematics to Josiah as soon as possible, but Simmons’ heart pulled him back towards his lodgings. He had to know what had happened to Mrs Colton, that the old girl was unharmed.
Simmons headed for the house on Wentworth street as soon as the curfew ended at six. He left a note for Bazalgette on the kitchen table and went in search of a cab.
There was still damp in the air, the last remnants of the fog clung to the vegetation. The dew held a subdued red sheen that twisted in swirls and reminded him of playing marbles as a child.
Simmons told the cabbie to drive him past Wentworth Street so he could see if there was any unusual activity. Though, knowing Mrs Colton frequented the fish market first thing, he asked for Dock Street instead. He thought he might intercept her as she returned home.
Workers scurried along the busy track heading to the Western Docks. Wives and mothers passed them on their way to the New Billingsgate Market. They had moved the original when they built the Inner-City.
Simmons left the cab as they neared the Thames, where large warehouses replaced the street-housing. Turning right, he followed Upper East Smithfield to St Katherine’s Dock thankful for the help of the walking stick he’d found at the workshop. It was a sturdy thing, more functional than his sword cane, which was back in his lodgings.
The stink of tanneries, breweries and smithy’s waned, replaced by fresh fish and the scent of the river. The tangy iron smell of red-weed spores filled the air. Red rivers flowed as if hell had opened its gates, and the gutters ran with blood flooding back to sate the desires of its vile denizens.
He stopped near the main entrance to the covered warehouses. A constant stream of people rubbed shoulders as they went to pick up whatever they could afford to feed their families.
Simmons leaned against the slimy brickwork of a recessed alley beside a seedy public-house as he cleaned and repacked his pipe. All the while he kept an eye on the passers-by, seeking his quarry.
Fifteen minutes passed before he spotted her. The long brown coat pulled tightly about her small frame as she strolled between the two central warehouses skirting the market entrance. Clutching a woven basket, she made her way back towards Dock Street, and Simmons moved to intercept.
He adjusted his pace, allowing himself time to check if she was being followed before speeding up to meet her at the intersection.
He bumped into her, carefully taking her left arm to ensure she didn’t fall. “I’m so sorry, madam,” he said in an exaggerated East End accent. “I’m such a clumsy ox,” he continued, whispering “Shh,” when she caught his eye.
“You nearly knocked me off of my feet,” she replied, playing along. Then in a whisper, “Sir Pel, are you all right? The Black Guard are searching for you.”
“I wasn’t looking, here let me help you.” He bent as if retrieving goods fallen from her basket. “Are you well, Mrs C? I never intended for any trouble to come your way.”
“I’m fine. They roughed the place up and
kicked in your door. The one what done it got frazzled by that lock of yours, but they broke in, and have people watching the house. They gave me a hard time about knowing where you were, but I’m just a simple landlady. How should I know the comings and goings of my residents, especially at all times through the day and night?”
“As long as they haven’t hurt you?”
“No, I can look after myself. My Arthur taught me that.”
“Good. I’ll get money to you for repairs,” Simmons whispered grasping the frail looking old woman by the hand. Back into the charade. “I’m ever so sorry to have caused such a mess. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I must be on my way.”
“It’s no problem, Sir Pel,” she replied, “all the best.” She wiped a single tear on the back of her hand then turned and scurried away.
His breath caught for a second. Damned Blaggards. He’d have this out with them. He stifled a laugh, realising what a crazy idea that was. This wasn’t some frail elderly lady. Mrs Colton was tough as old boots, and no doubt had given the Black Guard officer as hard a time as he was ever likely to receive from a civilian. He smiled at the thought and left to catch a cab to an overdue meeting in Piccadilly.
Simmons watched the house with the red door from across the street. The thick trunk of the oak provided plenty of cover as he waited. It was approaching midday, but the streets were empty of pedestrians, just the faint sound of traffic from the main thoroughfare.
He crossed the road with a purpose in his steps and banged three solid knocks on the door with his walking cane. It opened. The maid he’d met before started. “Oh. I’m sorry, but the master is not at home.”
“Yes, he is,” Simmons replied. “Whatever, he’s told you about not seeing anyone doesn’t apply to me. I have news of his daughter. Urgent news.”
He strode along the hallway towards the library, leaving the girl lost for words in the doorway. He thrust the door open and entered the room.