The Apocalypse Club

by McLay, Craig

  I tried to mollify Villiers as best I could, although I must admit I found the fervency of his declaration unsettling. “Come man,” I said. “Anyone could be forgiven for feeling their senses overcome when meeting one of their professional heroes.” (Villiers’ interest in paleontology was piqued after reading one of Hudson’s accounts of a trip to Olduvai with Reck’s group before the Great War.) “The man is also something of a minor celebrity. All celebrities radiate a glamour that takes a year or two off the skin.”

  Villiers, however, was unmoved. “I tell you, Tris,” he said, dropping his voice and employing a nickname he had not used since my recent troubles, “the man looked younger than you or I. If you were to see him on the street, you would assume him a man of only 25.”

  I tried to laugh this off with a smallish amount of humour. Villiers was, after all, doing me a great favour by secreting the paper to me, and I didn’t want to give him the impression that I didn’t believe him or thought him a fool. But there was simply no way that he could be anything other than mildly deluded. No man of 60 could pass for one barely two decades old, especially one who had just returned from five years’ worth of freezing privation and hard labour. Not wanting to seem patronizing or ungrateful (and uneasy with the thought that Villiers could simply decide to change his mind at any moment, slide the paper back into his valise and vacate the premises, in a thrice free from the commission of misconduct if not the appearance of it), I kept all further comment to myself. Besides, my curiosity extended only as far as determining why the paper had caused such a stir. Not for a moment did I believe it would have any impact on my own work.

  But then that, as old professor Lanark used to say, was when things got extremely interesting.

  As you know, the focus of my planned expedition up until now has long been Iceland. I believed that it was the best possible match based on the descriptions provided in the scrolls. Or at least, that’s what I believed until we saw Hudson’s drawing of the centre island buried below the ice cap. Iceland had always been an approximation of my target. I had been forced to ignore a great many geographical and topographical discrepancies because it was the only location that came remotely close to the one I was seeking.

  The centre island, however, is an exact match.

  I cannot tell you how long I sat there, staring at that drawing. All of this time, the thing I was searching for was hidden in plain sight! My first instinct was to steal the paper and flee the city. In fact, I was well into making preparations for an imminent departure before common sense took hold. Had I run off, word of the theft would have spread through the scientific community like lightning, making it all but impossible to obtain any of the supplies or logistical assistance I would need to make my expedition possible (the world is a large one, but the expeditionary component of that world is not). Not to mention the hash it would make for poor Villiers, who had surreptitiously entrusted it to me in the first place.

  Instead, I settled for making the best possible copy of the drawing that I could. I employed, of all people, an out-of-work ship’s architect for the purpose, and he knocked together a serviceable reproduction using a light table on a thin piece of onion skin paper. Needless to say, this piece of paper has now become as precious an artefact as the scrolls themselves, and I keep both locked securely in the vault in my room. As for the replication of Hudson’s paper itself, I did not trust my secretary with the task and copied it out myself using my old Daugherty Visible. I managed the entire thing in less than an afternoon, which I thought no small feat considering I have not used the blessed thing since father gave it to me when I left for Caius.

  Needless to say, this new discovery has knocked much of my preparatory work into a cocked Homburg. Not only will I need to totally re-envision my plan, but the explosive nature of Hudson’s report has added an additional and ungainly element of secrecy as well. It is no small thing to organize a major expedition to one of the most remote places on earth without being able to tell anyone where you are going or why. In truth, I think some of the cloak and dagger elements Villiers insists on dabble with paranoia, but it would benefit me little to voice such concerns.

  I believe my next step will be to try to meet with Hudson myself. In secret, if possible. There’s a rumour floating around that the man may be trying to mount another expedition and I am still known as a man of means (if not necessarily a man of science, thanks to Conrad’s slanderous tongue) even though I am no longer sitting on the expeditionary committee. I’m sure Villiers would oppose the idea, but I believe this is what Carstairs likes to call a calculated risk. The man may have seen much more than he has documented in his paper, and may be willing to part with some of that information if I am willing to do likewise with my own private stock of secret knowledge. Failing that, I hope that simple currency will do the trick. The man is rumoured to be living in a Whitechapel flophouse and even a patina of health does little to hide an infestation of lice or moth holes in one’s shirts.

  Please forgive my rabbiting on, Pip. Here we are with less than a fortnight to go and all I can talk about is the same old thing that has preoccupied me since we were children. Speaking of children, I trust you will locate a suitable item for Elly to receive from Father Christmas this year. I know she claims that she is too old to believe in such childish nonsense any longer, but I believe she still has some of her father’s foolish naiveté in her veins nonetheless. I do wish I could be there with you all. The house does look marvellous at this time of year in particular. Do remind Addy to trim the ivy around the north wall. The damnable stuff is insidious and will rip the windows from their hinges and take up residence in the drawing room if not beaten back.

  Love,

  T

  ∅

  10th January 1923

  King Edward Hotel, London

  Pip,

  A difficult day, as always. I was awoken quite suddenly this morning by a horrible wailing in the street. I fell out of bed and stumbled to the window to see a ragman’s horse that had been knocked to the street by a large mechanical lorry. I believe, based on their relative positions, that the cart driver had taken a shortcut through the narrow lane and emerged most unexpectedly in the middle of the road, where it was most violently intercepted. The poor animal made the most anguished screams for what seemed an eternity before a bobby emerged from the massing crowd and recruited a few other strong men to put the beast out of its misery. The driver of the cart was little more than a boy, perhaps fourteen, and his wails were almost as loud and painful as his charge. I do not believe he was injured, but he screamed the most unrepeatable insults at the two men who restrained him. Even from my vantage point, I could see they were holding him back for his own safety – the horse’s back legs were broken, but its front hoofs were flailing wildly, giving one incautious fellow quite a thump as he tried to assist – but the boy was having none of it. He screamed and kicked almost as hard as his animal. When the deed was finally done and the animal at peace, he collapsed in racking sobs, pushing away even the women who tried to offer him comfort. He was so violent, in fact, that I think there was a moment when the bobby considered taking him to the Old Bill, if only temporarily. The lorry driver received the worst of it, which seemed to me not entirely fair as the fault probably lies more with the boy than with him.

  When another lorry arrived to cart the remains of the horse away, the boy disappeared. The animal was undoubtedly his livelihood. Who knows what will become of him now. It was only when I noticed that he had gone (he was wearing a red hat that at first made me think he was injured and that made him instantly identifiable) that I realized he was about the same age as Eddy would be today.

  The realization hit me with such force that I started sobbing as violently as the boy. Horrible events stalk us like jungle cats, moving silently and invisibly through the undergrowth, only to spring on us when we are alone and vulnerable and had almost forgotten they were there. It took me so long to recover myself that I was forced to tell room
service to leave my tea and scones on the floor in the hall.

  Eddy did so dislike having his birthday so close to Christmas. Not because he received fewer presents, of course (if anything, the opposite was probably the case) but because he was usually contained within the house by the dreary winter weather. I trust Grantham is vigilant that the fence he constructed around that accursed pond is as high and impenetrable as a vault. This frigid bout of weather no doubt means the water has frozen over again, offering dangerous temptations to the village children. When I return, I will have the damned thing filled in and a hill built on top of it though it costs me my last farthing.

  Elspeth is too young to remember these things, mercifully, although she has asked some difficult questions about her mother. In the past, I have always told her that Mummy got sick after Eddy’s accident, but I believe as she gets older, she has become suspicious of that account. Lord knows what horrible things she may have heard from the local children. You mentioned that she was starting to keep much more to herself in her room and spending less and less time with her Aunty Pip, but that is probably normal for a girl of her age (I remember a certain younger sister of mine doing just that!).

  Once I had recovered myself, I immediately threw all my efforts into completing the translation of the Yedra Scrolls. I must have them finished, or as close as possible, before I meet with Hudson. I have been able, through various intermediaries, to establish contact with the great man and am confident that something can be arranged within the week. I am sleeping little and eating only when I am too exhausted to do anything else, but progress is swift.

  I am sure there are many who would think me a madman. From a clinical perspective, the cause and effect would be only too easy to diagnose. Death of wife and son, a much exaggerated but brief over-reliance on medicinal opiates, and a single-minded pursuit of a theory that many consider legend at best and trumped-up hoax at worst (no need to attach additional names to that group) leading to a somewhat tarnished professional reputation. Add in the miscommunication with the Exchequer about the tax status of the family estate and I’ll wager many of them are surprised I haven’t turned my lavatory into an improvised gallows.

  They have no idea. Every line I translate further cements my belief that I am on the right path. If the advancement of science is about the slow and steady conquest of death, then this discovery will represent a titanic leap forward.

  Yours,

  T

  ∅

  21st January 1923

  Wellsley Road House, London

  Pip,

  I beg your pardon if your last letter did not find me, but much has happened of late that has forced me to take greater precautions, both for myself and the expedition.

  As you can see, I have changed hotels. I was forced to do this with little notice and did not believe it wise to leave a forwarding address. My new establishment is a distinct step down from the Eddie in terms of comfort and service, but neither of these factors played any role in its selection. This is little better than an old sailor’s flophouse near the docks. The mattresses are like bags full of rotting potatoes (and from its taste, the tea they serve has apparently been strained through them). The proprietor is an emphysemic old criminal with a nose half-eaten by either syphilis or rats (judging by the kitchen and the women who loiter in the alley, it could be either). Most of the other guests, if I can call them that, come and go mostly at night, shuffling past in the hall with hats pulled low over their heads and downcast eyes. The front desk has a sign advertising select rooms that are available for time periods as short as 30 minutes.

  As you would expect, only the direst necessity has brought me to such a place, the only advantage of which is that no one who knows me would ever think to look for me here.

  By way of explanation, two points:

  My room at the King Edward was broken into and searched; and

  Villiers has disappeared.

  On the first point, I discovered this after returning from my first meeting with Hudson, of which more later. On first glance, nothing of any importance appeared to have been stolen. I brought both the scrolls and their translations with me to the meeting and left my copy of Hudson’s report in my private safe. Since I was going to be meeting the great man, I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot by displaying a copy of a document of which I was supposed to have no firsthand knowledge. I didn’t know how he might react to seeing his life’s work in the hands of a complete stranger and thought it best to play it cautious on the first go-round. Besides, I didn’t know what kind of a fellow he might turn out to be. My strategy was simply to present some of my findings and try to get a sense of whether or not he may have seen anything during his time that might relate to my work.

  I knew something was out of sorts as some of the bureau drawers had been left open and their contents spilled out onto the floor. Nothing of importance – some old pieces that I had written for the Journal, for the most part – but I knew instantly that my room had been searched.

  My first thought was that whoever it was might still be in the vicinity. I grabbed my silver walking stick in one shaking hand and proceeded nervously to the bed chamber, swinging it like some sort of electrified orchestra conductor and demanding loudly that whoever was in there had best show himself now if he wished to emerge with his occipital lobe unmolested. A quick reconnaissance demonstrated that I was alone in the room and the party or parties responsible had scarpered. I ran to the hall, but it was deserted. A glance through the window revealed only the usual afternoon traffic on the street below.

  It didn’t take an excess of deductive reasoning to determine that they hadn’t been after money. My pocket watch, cufflinks, snuff box and mother of pearl shaving kit were still in the top drawer where I had left them. The thief or thieves had not bothered much with the lavatory or the closet or anywhere they might normally have expected to find items of value. They had quite clearly concentrated their efforts on the area around my work desk.

  I thanked my lucky stars that I had brought my important papers with me. Had they been waiting until I departed before engaging in their little raid? What might have happened had I been here at the time? Would they have knocked me on the head and done me in? Fear took hold of me. I ran to the door and locked it. But then, I had locked it when I went out, I was sure of that, and it had done nothing to keep them out. How had they gotten in? Did they know someone who worked at the hotel? I could see no evidence that the door had been forced. My room was on the third floor and faced a busy street, so I doubted very much that they would have tried to climb in through the window.

  Realizing that the scrolls were still in my unsecured briefcase, I quickly fished them out and rushed to deposit them in the safe.

  The safe, however, was gone.

  My personal safe was not a large one. In fact, it was the smallest model available at the time from the Steugelhauser company. I doubt it is more than a foot wide in any dimension. It is, however, made of solid iron and weighs more than any one man can comfortably carry unless that man’s name is Heracles. It has special fittings that allow it to be anchored to the floor or the wall, but I certainly don’t believe that the Eddie would have consented to drill four large holes through their polished Carrara tiles.

  I must admit that I laughed so hard at that moment that the stevedore in the next room began hammering on the wall in protest (somewhat impolitic, I thought, considering the noises emanating from his domicile at the most ungodly hours of the night, noises that I will go to no lengths whatsoever to describe). The thought of it made me absolutely demented with its irony. Out there were two – for it would take at least that many – nefarious and as yet unidentified individuals running around and no doubt expending great energy attempting to break into a safe that was heavy in the least important way imaginable, as it was completely empty of the contents for which they had nicked it. I could almost see these men, who, in my mind’s eye, wore heavy overcoats with the collars pulled up to obs
cure their faces and dull, flat caps pulled down over their brows, staggering down the narrow alleys of Whitechapel carrying 20 stone or so of hollow cast iron. What would they do when they discovered there was no treasure secured within?

  Well, that was the thought that broke me out of my reverie. What they would do, no doubt, was become extremely incensed at having foolishly carried such a weight for so long for no reason and immediately try to restore their dignity by locating the items they thought they had secured. It was not unreasonable to assume that such an operation might also involve physical harm to the individual in possession of those items.

  I grabbed my valise and began flying around the room packing up what essentials I could. My mind was in a cyclone of confusion. Who were these men? How long would it take them to realize the safe was empty? Could they already be on their way back at that very moment? I pictured clubs and knives and chains and weapons of the most horrible description being deployed at my expense. Who were they working for? Haliburton? Had Villiers said something to somebody of my meeting with Hudson? Hudson is sure that he is being shadowed everywhere he goes by government agents. At first, I had thought he was perhaps indulging in the paranoia that often goes in hand with those making great discoveries, but in light of recent events, I am compelled to reconsider that hypothesis. There is someone or some organization out there that wants to know what I am working on and is not prepared to wait until I choose to share that discovery with the world. Although I do not doubt the integrity of His Majesty’s letter service, I have taken the liberty of having this delivered to you by personal messenger. He may seem like a rough, even menacing fellow, and I suppose he is. Forgive me for that, but I thought potential thieves might think twice before attempting to delay or impede him for that very reason. When one’s fate is in another’s hands, sometimes it makes sense to select the fiercest pair of mitts one can find. I am told he is as reliable a man as you can find, at least in this part of town. Not much, relatively speaking, but I have no choice but to settle for it.