The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  The cold night air washed over my face in a euphoric wave, giving strength to my leaden legs, and helping me focus on my escape. The House of Zhengming was behind me in a trice. The shouts of men and baying of hounds faded, until all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears, and my heart pounding in my chest like an echo of my heavy footfalls on the pavement. I slowed only momentarily to catch my breath, and when I did I realised that the danger had not passed, for already there was another clamour rising up from somewhere behind me, and I could hear the barked cries of a party of thugs taking to the streets after me. How many men the Artist could rouse to action at such short notice I did not know, and did not wish to find out.

  I ran. I don’t know for how long, or how my legs managed to carry me, but I ran. Using the moon and stars as a guide as I had learned aboard ship, I headed as directly west as I could, hoping to reach a dockyard that might still perhaps be open for business. My only chance was to find some civilised people to aid me, or at least hide me—there was no chance of finding a policeman in this part of London, and if I did, the Artist’s men would have little regard for their authority, or their lives. So I drove myself ever onwards, keeping to the shadows, using narrow alleyways where I could, darting behind shacks and outhouses when I thought my pursuers were close. But they gained on me with every step; I was tiring fast.

  I turned down a dark alley, no more than three feet wide, and raced along it only to find my way blocked by a wiry hoodlum in a flat cap. They must have had men searching for me in every direction, for they could not have got ahead of me except by chance. I perhaps surprised him as much as he had me, because it was all he could do to grapple with me as I barrelled into him from the pitch-dark tunnel. He was strong—or else I was weak—and he wrenched my head back and swore at me, and pressed me up against the wall. Then I realised that I was still clutching the little fish-shaped penknife, and I thrust it up into the wretch’s armpit, burying an inch-and-a-half of steel into his flesh. He screamed as if the devil himself had seized hold of him, and I rolled across his prone figure and out into fresh air once more, still holding the knife in a blood-slicked hand.

  I was disorientated for a moment, but I knew the villain’s cries would alert the Artist’s men, and so I powered onwards. I scrambled over a high wooden fence, dropping unceremoniously into a dirty yard on the other side, and scrabbled backwards quickly as a mastiff’s jaws snapped at my face. Its muscular neck bulged as its collar cut into its rolled flesh, and the rope that secured it to the wall of the house strained and creaked. I edged around the perimeter fence, keeping an eye on the foaming jaws that threatened me, and let myself out of a gate on the other side. Could I enter one of those houses? Would anyone there offer me sanctuary? I could not have risked it, for the Artist ruled the Isle of Dogs with an iron fist, and I was too close to the centre of his little empire.

  I continued my flight over garden walls where possible, through an old brickyard, and eventually to a pump-house near the edge of the river. The sounds of howling dogs and the bloodthirsty calls of the mob subsided momentarily, and were replaced by the lapping of water, the gentle tolling of buoy-bells and the far-off thrumming of foghorns. My heart lurched as I realised that a party of men was drawing near—there would be no respite, it seemed. I flung myself into a foul-smelling forest of huge cast-iron and lead pipes, crouching in the mud to avoid detection as the men hurried past, carrying lanterns and makeshift weapons. One of them stayed behind, waving the others on—he had obviously had enough hunting for the time being. I cursed my misfortune as he set his lantern down on the ground just six feet from my hiding place. He rested against a bollard, and lit a cigarette.

  I’d had enough. Something inside me changed in that instant, and I knew that I was tired of running, tired of hiding—tired of everything. Even before I was fully aware of what I was doing, I was standing up and stepping out of the shadows, walking up to the man, who had his back to me. I heard my own voice say aloud, ‘Hey there! You. Are you looking for me?’ My tone was steady, confident, and threatening. The man turned slowly, his eyes widening and his cigarette hanging limp from his bottom lip. We regarded each other for a moment, and then he came at me with a lump of timber that I had not noticed resting by his side.

  I avoided the first swing, and somehow parried a second with the palms of my hands. The circumstances favoured my adversary, but something primal urged me on, and I gave in to the rage that had festered since Burma, but had not been given leave to surface.

  I drew the man in close, and spun past another swing of his club, lashing out with the tiny knife as I did so and catching him across the side of the face. He stumbled forwards and cursed, and I kicked hard at his arm, making him drop the lump of wood, before booting him backwards away from his weapon. He composed himself quickly, and came at me again, swinging his arms in great arcing strikes. I was tired and clumsy, and in my efforts to guard against his attack I dropped the knife, and it was my turn to curse as a big left hand connected with my temple. I staggered, seeing stars, and then the brute grabbed me by the collar and thrust me against the pump-house wall, his face like thunder. I went limp in the thug’s arms, acting as though I were knocked senseless. He afforded himself a wry smile, believing himself victorious. In an instant the smile was gone, for my ruse had worked as well for me as it had for Larry. I drove my forehead into the man’s face with all the force I could muster, and I felt his nose crunch beneath the impact. He stepped backwards, waving his arms before him like a blind man who had lost his stick. Now I advanced. I jabbed with my left hand at his Adam’s apple to silence him, drove the heel of my right hand into his broken nose, then delivered a sharp punch to his kidneys, before skipping back and delivering a swift toe-kick to his groin. As he staggered forwards, I spun around and punched him in the back of his head, with the last of my strength, dropping to my knees with the exertion, but sending him face-first into the mud, insensible.

  Doubtless that last blow had not been required, but my blood was up, and I wanted revenge. In that moment, I felt powerful; as though I could walk back into the House of Zhengming and take on the Artist myself. But then I baulked at the thought of confronting… him. That sickening, grotesque image flashed through my mind—Tsun Pen, with his hideous, bulging eyes and flailing, vestigial arms—and I instinctively touched the filthy rag that covered my empty eye socket. No, I could not face him yet. But his time would come.

  With no time to lose, I took my assailant’s lantern and scrabbled around for the knife, then headed for the docks. Following a perimeter fence of one of the dockyards to the edge of the water, I traversed a set of stone steps to a jetty, where I stopped for a moment to get my bearings. It seemed that the West India Docks were much further along the riverbank, and I was unsure if I would make it. However, the compound outside which I now found myself seemed to have some business going on within, judging by the lights coming from several small huts on the water’s edge just five hundred yards away. I looked across the river at the flickering gaslights of Rotherhithe, that glittered like stars.

  I stayed low, moving across the jetties wherever I could, skirting around the edge of the docks. Finally, I reached the steps up to the small dockyard. There were two river ferries moored beneath me, and a few huts ahead of me. I was in a far-flung corner of a larger dock, with rusting steam-ferries and upturned rowing boats collected in a maritime graveyard. In one of the huts, however, a light burned at the window, and smoke poured from a stovepipe in the tin roof, and so I made for it, keeping close to the ruined boats in case anyone should look across the dockyard in their search for me.

  I glanced in at the window of the hut to see an old, bearded man stretched out in a battered armchair by a little stove fire. A small terrier lay by his side, and it looked up as soon as I peered in, and let out a high bark. I had no choice then but to announce myself, and so I rapped on the door.

  The waterman—for that is what he was—was most alarmed when he saw the state that I was
in, and most suspicious when I refused to let him fetch help. I related to him such parts of the story as I deemed pertinent, without giving away who it was that pursued me—for all I knew, this man could be in the pay of the Artist too. I warmed myself by his fire, and accepted a cup of strong tea and a chunk of rather dry bread from him gratefully, before impressing upon him the importance of my reaching the City unmolested.

  ‘I know it is hard to believe right now,’ I said, ‘but I am an officer in Her Majesty’s Army, and I implore you to take me on your ferry, as close to Whitehall as possible. I will see that you are reimbursed for your efforts.’

  The waterman, who said his name was Grimes, checked his watch. ‘It’s damnable early, sir, and I’m only minding the place, like. I’m not really supposed to leave me post.’ He stroked his scruffy, greying beard thoughtfully before continuing. ‘Look, sir, it’s clear you’re in a bad way, and I’ll help you. I can’t be away for long, in case anyone checks up, like, or some o’ them riff-raff come in and make free with me stores. I’ll take you as far as the Embankment, and see that you find a cabbie or a policeman, whichever comes along first. Will that suit?’

  That ‘suited’ just fine; I could have hugged the man. We made our way to his little ferry-boat, his terrier following close at our heels. He begrudgingly agreed to stay low with me so as not to be seen, and in this manner we reached the boat without being detected, as far as I could tell. Within minutes we were away, the small launch rocking to and fro on the dark waters of the river. It was cloudy overhead, and there was little by way of starlight above us, but the crusty old waterman needed no navigation but the man-made lights along the north bank. A light breeze came across the Thames, and I closed my eyes and breathed in the air of freedom. I felt cold and weak, but it did not matter a jot, because before the night was through I would be at Whitehall amongst officers and gentlemen.

  We stopped at the Embankment by one of the old watermen’s causeways. Grimes explained that ‘Tide’s lowest in the early mornin’, so we’ll have to get off ’ere rather than the stair’. I looked about and saw the stairs that he was talking about, too high up to be of use in the small hours of the morning. So I clambered out of the boat onto the causeway, getting my feet wet in the process, and walking slowly, shivering as I went to the embankment jetty. Grimes moored the ferry and went ahead of me to find a constable. True to his word, he came back to meet me with help in tow. I reached the top of the slope with a relieved smile on my lips, already explaining who I was and where I needed to go, when the man spoke, and I realised it was not a policeman at all, but a more familiar figure entirely.

  ‘John… bloody hell, what’s happened to you?’

  I couldn’t believe it. For a moment I was giddy, and I grabbed hold of my rescuer, laughing like an idiot.

  ‘Ambrose! Dear Ambrose! How did you find me? When did you come back?’

  Ambrose did not reply. Instead he tugged at my wrists until, he had extricated himself from me, and stepped away, causing me to gawp at him in confusion.

  ‘I’m sorry, John. I never expected this. I had no idea that they’d… I’m sorry.’

  ‘Ambrose? What are you talking about?’ My smile faded, to be replaced by the doubts that had crept into my thoughts during the interrogation; doubts about the loyalty of those closest to me.

  ‘Ambrose,’ I said again, more out of hope than good sense, ‘stop playing silly beggars. We have to get out of here.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, ‘but you’re supposed to be dead.’

  He was one of them. I looked at Grimes, who backed away, disengaging himself from the whole business, his dog whimpering. I fumbled for the knife in my pocket and eyed my former friend warily. I was not sure I could manage another fight, but I had come too far to give up. He took a step towards me, and I backed down the causeway. I pulled out the blade.

  ‘Get back, or I swear I’ll kill you,’ I warned.

  There was a scuff of boots on stone somewhere behind Ambrose. Then a voice rang out of the darkness—a gruff, authoritarian voice that I knew at once, and yet didn’t want to acknowledge as real.

  ‘Getting quite used to killing, aren’t you, John? But this time, I’m afraid the “show is over”, as they say in the theatre.’

  An older man was walking down the causeway, dressed all in black. He was accompanied by the woman who I could still not bear to think of as Lillian Hardwick.

  ‘You’ve been most troublesome, John. Perhaps I misjudged you,’ she said. ‘Be sure that I won’t make that mistake again.’

  I backed away further along the declivity, until I felt the cold water lapping around my ankles. The brick walls of the Embankment hemmed me in on either side. I glanced back at the river to see Grimes already a hundred yards away, and making his getaway as quickly as he could. I looked at the two new arrivals with despair—I could not believe the twist of circumstance. Lazarus, the man himself, drew a pistol and aimed it at me.

  ‘Captain John Hardwick,’ said the Othersider through a triumphant sneer. ‘It seems as though you have been blessed with the nine lives of a cat.’ The man’s silver-grey hair was all I could make out of him, shrouded in darkness as he was. And yet that voice—it cut me with every uttered syllable.

  ‘This… this isn’t possible,’ I heard myself say the words, rather stupidly.

  ‘Think of it this way: you have been on a journey which is given to so few men to make. But I am afraid your particular voyage of discovery ends here.’

  I looked first at Lazarus, and then at Lillian. ‘Why?’ I asked, though it was not the question I wanted to ask. My mouth became dry, and my voice seemed to my own ears little more than a hoarse whisper.

  ‘You are the fly in the ointment, and I should have dealt with you sooner,’ said Lazarus. ‘My judgement was perhaps… clouded. It was a mistake to let you live this long, and I never make the same mistake twice.’ He took one further step forward, bringing his face from the shadows into the light, and there was no longer any denying it. I saw the man, and knew him; the Artist had whispered to me the truth.

  ‘A pity,’ added Lillian. ‘In another life, this could have been a sweet reunion. Goodbye, John.’

  I was struck dumb. My mouth worked soundlessly, the words stuck in my throat. Ambrose looked sick, shamefaced even, and turned away from me, and Lazarus raised the pistol. Lillian smiled. There was a flash of light, and time itself seemed to slow down. The last thing I saw before I was sucked into the inky water of the Thames was Lazarus’ face—my father’s face—devoid of compassion, and my long-dead sister beside him, slipping away into the night.

  The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son. There is no escape from the house of the dead.

  PART 2

  He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

  Close to the sun in lonely lands,

  Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

  The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

  He watches from his mountain walls,

  And like a thunderbolt he falls.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  TEN

  Lily stood at the door to the garden, amidst the ivy, listening intently, though to what I know not. She was eight years old, and the happiest child I had ever known, and for her to be so still was peculiar.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Listen, John. Don’t you hear it?’

  I inclined my head and listened, but all I could hear was the song of a lark, and a faint breeze whistling through the bushes.

  ‘This is when it always comes,’ she said. ‘The same time, every day.’

  Lily had always been a fanciful girl, but clever beyond her years. I thought this must be one of her games. After all, the old walled garden was her favourite place to play—she believed that there was something magical behind that blue-painted door, as if it led to another world, full of her imaginary friends, of fairy folk and mythical creatures. Lily was nearly two years my junior, but had an infe
ctious enthusiasm and boundless imagination.

  ‘There’s nothing, Lily,’ I said. ‘Come back inside; Mother is calling.’

  And then it came—a peal of thunder, so close that I almost jumped out of my skin.

  ‘I told you!’ Lillian squealed, delighted. ‘You must have heard it that time. He’s here, he’s here!’

  She jumped for joy and then reached for the door handle. I became very afraid, as if there was something terrible on the other side of the wall, and I seemed to know what it was but could not quite place it. I reached out for my sister, but I might as well have clutched at air, for my limbs were leaden and I could not move close enough to stop her—it was as though she was a sprite of yore, skipping out of my reach. In an instant she was beyond my sight, and I stared at an inexplicable pitch darkness that lay beyond the door.

  The sun was at my back. My mother’s voice faded on a balmy summer breeze. The bees buzzed quietly in the honeysuckle. And yet, beyond the door was a scene of cold night, with rumbling thunder and intermittent cracks of lightning that pierced the gloom. I was afraid, and had my sister not already entered the fearful twilight realm ahead of me, I would have returned to the bosom of my family in the pretty white house behind me. Lily had always been bolder than me. Not to be outdone, I urged my legs onwards, and stepped over the threshold.

  * * *

  I stood on the wooden deck of an immense, four-masted ship. Water lashed over the deck as the vessel was tossed about on gigantic waves, causing sailors in sou’westers to scurry about like worker ants, desperately battening down hatches and tying off wayward rigging. Lightning flickered all around and rain hammered the beleaguered crew, whose shouts were lost on the wind.

  I tried to steady myself, but I was only a boy of ten, and found the footing on the sea-slicked deck treacherous. I fell down more than once, grazing my knees, and shivered as I realised that my clothes were wet through. I looked around desperately for Lillian, but she was nowhere to be seen. I was dreadfully confused – I knew not how I had come to be on this ship, nor why. Perhaps I had stowed away, in a bid to escape my overbearing father. Or perhaps I was sailing abroad to find him. Yes, that was it! We were heading to India to find Brigadier Hardwick, only the going was heavy. But this ship, the Helen B. Jackson, out of the United States, was as doughty as the crew who served upon her. I forgot about my sister, as if she had never even existed.