‘I think I begin to see where this is leading.’
‘Doubtless the spy has useful intelligence.’
‘Doubtless.’
‘And as I’m sure you can understand, the Machine is a monstrosity. ’
‘I’m still divided as to that.’
‘You would have us all die?’
‘I’m not convinced of your nicer nature, Mr White, sir.’
‘Then it is because you are convinced of the more wicked nature of Augustus Havelock that you will help us.’ Statement: no room for saying no, nor any question that this would even cross Lyle’s mind.
‘If anyone can help you find Berwick, this man will - he who had knowledge of the Machine’s most intricate workings and who has made the greatest efforts to stop it.’
‘Let me get this clear. Berwick was building the Machine.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, for reasons unknown, he fled.’
‘Yes.’
‘And now everyone’s looking for him - your lot, presumably, to kill him, to stop the Machine being built . . .’
‘That is not everyone’s wish -’
‘And looking for Havelock, so that Berwick can finish the Machine.’
‘Yes.’
‘And no one knows where he’s gone or why.’
‘Correct.’
‘But you had a spy involved in the Machine, who knows a lot about it, who may be able to help find Berwick and - assuming that’s a good thing - stop the Machine?’
‘Yes.’
‘But who is at this moment under hefty guard somewhere beneath Pentonville Prison.’
‘All of this is correct.’
‘Where you can’t get at him.’
‘Yes.’
Lyle’s rictus grin could have been put in place by a sadistic sculptor. ‘And I just bet you want me to try.’
‘Yes. I think that sums it up.’
‘I’ll consider it.’
‘You’ll consider it?’ Even Old Man White couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.
‘Yes. That’s the best I can offer, I’m afraid.’
‘Mister Lyle, the Machine will kill us all!’
‘May kill you all, let’s not be reckless with those plural pronouns, shall we?’
‘Berwick was your friend!’
‘Yes, but remember, I still don’t have the smallest proof of anything you’ve said. And now I want to go home.’
‘Mister Lyle, there is not much time!’
‘What will you do? Play games with my mind? Compel me to help you? Change my thoughts, manipulate my brain, wipe all memories from me? How does that make you worth saving? I’m going home, Mr White, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll help you. But if I do, it’s my choice, my decision, my free will, the outcome of my own untarnished thought. Give me that, and I’ll help.’
For a moment, just a moment, he thought Mr White would say no; saw his face contract as he contemplated his options. Then the Tseiqin’s features relaxed, and he smiled, not so much at Lyle, but at a realization just dawning. He nodded, more at the carpet than anything else, as if appreciating it for the first time. ‘Very well, Mister Lyle,’ he said. ‘And may I say, it is a pleasure to have come to know you at last.’
CHAPTER 7
Choices
There were Tseiqin, and then there were Tseiqin. Some liked humans, some thought they were the scourge of the earth; some didn’t particularly mind iron so long as it kept a safe distance away from them and wasn’t particularly magnetic, and even then it would probably bring them out in a rash; some found the merest thought of going within five miles of the city painful, a crawl across their skin. Some liked Beethoven, some liked the populist delights of a Punch and Judy show, some despised both as impure cultural art forms and longed for the plangent twang of the nose flute - no way round it, there were Tseiqin and there were Tseiqin. And then there was Lin Zi.
And Lin Zi was . . . different. The fact that she walked unashamed through the streets of London in a top hat and black trousers a little too short for her, sporting a long black coat that flapped around her knees - this would be forgivable. After all, actresses and other creatures of the night were also rumoured to commit such travesties. Her obvious foreignness, her dark almond skin and laughing green eyes, would also have been pardonable, maybe even an object of curiosity as the masses turned to stare. Likewise even the fact that she enjoyed reading the newspapers and talked angrily about the generals in the Crimea and their ‘stupid incompetent mindless excuse for tactics’, emphasizing every word with sweeping, ungraceful gestures - that too could have been excused, as an eccentricity allowable in the very rich; say, a female of the land-owning class.
There was, however, one problem which brought all others to light, and turned Lin Zi’s eccentricities into embarrassments, and it was this: she revelled in them. She would say appalling things about Queen Victoria (‘that short woman’) in the presence of peers of the realm just to see the monocle drop; she walked through the dirtiest streets of the city, hopping over the corpses of rats and beaming at everyone she passed, her oriental face offering a friendly grin that inspired xenophobic anxiety in all those who beheld it. It was rumoured, indeed, that she had contacts among the Chartists and wrote angry letters to parliament about pocket boroughs, signed, ‘a concerned gentlewoman’. Even among the more radical Tseiqin who knew her it was whispered that, somehow in Lin’s young life, she had taken the cause of human-protectionism too far, and gone just a little native. However, since ‘native’ society didn’t know where to put Lin or her mighty laugh, this conclusion was probably misplaced: Lin Zi drifted between worlds, enjoying every second of confusion she sowed in her wake.
This evening - now headed more towards morning - was no exception.
‘You all right, Mister Lyle?’
Lyle shifted uneasily in the carriage taking him back to Hammersmith. ‘Fine,’ he mumbled.
‘You look uncomfortable.’
‘Just a little stiff.’
‘Have you considered exercises?’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘Can you put your elbows on the floor?’
‘What, now?’
‘Can you?’
‘Here?’
‘Yes!’
‘Possibly, why?’
‘With your legs straight, I mean.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘It’s an exercise.’
Lyle’s face was a picture of bemusement. ‘Why?’
‘Gets stiffness out of joints.’
‘Putting my elbows on the floor gets stiffness out of joints? What if I get stuck?’
‘You wouldn’t. Go on, can you?’
‘Right now?’
‘I’d be impressed. Keeping your balance would be a start.’
‘I’m sorry, who are you?’
‘Lin Zi. Don’t try and get the intonation right, you’ll end up embarrassing yourself.’
‘The intonation?’
‘It’s not just Lin Zi,’ explained Lin patiently. ‘It’s Lin Zds-ur!’
‘Zds-ur?’
‘That’s how it’s meant to be pronounced. You need to feel the end of your tongue buzzing . . .’ Lin stuck her tongue out to prove the point, ‘as if you’sh got thish bee on your tongue, yesh?’
‘Aren’t you the woman who threatened to cut my little finger off if I didn’t tell you where Berwick was?’ Lyle hazarded.
‘You remembered!’ exclaimed Lin. ‘It’s so nice to be recognized for my work.’
‘Oh my,’ muttered Lyle.
‘Oh my, what?’
‘This must be how Tess feels all the time.’
‘Which one’s Tess?’
‘What do you mean, “Which one’s Tess”?’
‘Which one of your little friends?’
‘I would have thought it was . . .’ Lyle’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You’re not from around here, are you?’
Lin beamed. ‘I knew Old Man was rig
ht when he said you were sharper than a bag of raisins!’
‘Razors.’
‘What?’
‘Razors,’ said Lyle in a strained little voice. ‘Not raisins. I’m sharper than a bag of razors.’
‘I know what I meant. Which one is it?’
‘What?’ Lyle could feel himself sweating with the effort of keeping up with Lin’s conversation.
‘Which one of your friends is Tess?’
‘Tess is the girl.’
‘Tess. And the other is . . .’
‘Thomas.’
‘And the boy?’
‘Thomas is the boy.’
‘Oh. And the dog?’
‘Tate.’
‘That’s a lot of “T”s.’
‘That’s hardly my fault!’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘You’re not like other Tseiqin, are you?’
‘See, there with the “T”s again - although arguably only because of your ignorant and incompetent transliteration system.’
‘That’s definitely not my fault.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m not like other Tseiqin.’
‘This is a very demanding conversation for three o’clock in the morning,’ whimpered Lyle, putting his head in his hands.
‘Really? What’s hard?’
‘You’re . . . very awake,’ he sighed.
‘So?’
‘Well, I’m not!’
‘If you like, I know a way to send you to . . .’
‘No, no! No mind games, no sending to sleep!’
‘I was just offering . . .’
‘Stay well clear of my head, thank you kindly!’
‘No need to get huffy about it.’
Something about her voice caught Lyle’s attention. He looked up, trying to put his finger on it, and said finally, ‘“Huffy”?’
‘I was just offering . . .’
‘I haven’t heard anyone use “huffy” for years.’
Lin fidgeted uneasily. ‘Well,’ she muttered, ‘I like these words, yes? I find such human things quaintly pleasing.’
‘My pa used to use it.’
‘It’s a good word,’ she admitted. ‘I doubt it’s in Dr Johnson’s dictionary, though.’
‘Probably not.’ He thought for about a moment, then added distantly, ‘“Blockhead” is, though.’
‘What are you implying?’ demanded Lin indignantly.
‘Nothing at all, honestly! It’s just such a good word, it should be used more often.’
‘Members of parliament,’ agreed Lin in a tone of disgust. ‘Blockheads. And may I say, I think it’s shocking that women aren’t allowed to vote.’
‘Neither are most men,’ pointed out Lyle.
‘That’s beside the point! When you hear these people campaigning for another Reform Act, do they ever mention women? Do they ever stand up and say, “Incidentally, the fairer sex has a good head on its shoulders and a strong grasp of the necessities of life, I wonder if we should extend the franchise to them?” Can you explain to me why this idea is not even contemplated except occasionally by the wives of vicars during their ministrations in Manchester?’
‘Erm . . .’
‘The “weaker” sex, they say, unable to understand politics, not to be burdened, a woman’s place is in the home, a man’s is in the world at large, gathering the goods. Even those among the Whigs who claim to be radicals blanch at the prospect of introducing even the slightest amendment that extends beyond the realm of local, church-hall governance! Well, I tell you . . .’
‘How are you so awake?’ wailed Lyle.
‘I’m the product of several thousand years of what Mr Darwin would dub “special evolution”, I think,’ explained Lin. ‘You’re just a monkey in a pair of shoes.’
‘I think you’ve missed the essential point of Darwin’s work . . .’ he began feebly.
‘Where do you stand on the issue of the female franchise?’
‘The female franchise?’
‘Yes!’
‘Erm . . .’
‘You didn’t think about it, did you?’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘That is half the problem of the attitude of men these days! If only they bothered to notice their womenfolk, to consider the contribution that they make to society, then perhaps they would realize that . . .’
‘If I said I was in favour of the female vote, would you be satisfied? ’
‘I would suspect you of saying it to silence me,’ she muttered, ‘but I suppose from the likes of you, it is enough.’
‘The likes of me?’
‘Can you vote?’
‘Well, yes, but only just . . .’
‘Will you let my people die, Mister Lyle?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t think about it, just go straight for an answer!’
‘I . . . I suppose . . .’
‘Will you? Let Havelock just stamp us all out in the blink of an eye, because he can? I’ve never met this man, so why is he trying to kill me?’
‘I imagine that if I was put to the test . . .’
‘Would you stand by, turn a blind eye, Mister Lyle?’
‘No.’ Lyle was surprised to hear himself speak, and surprised too at how calm he sounded.
Lin smiled and sat back. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t think you would.’ She thought about it, then smiled brightly, a dazzle of white in the darkness of the carriage. ‘Good! Yes, that’s excellent! I think it will make this whole relationship a lot easier.’
‘Right.’ Lyle half-turned his head away to watch the long line of deeper darkness outside that was the edge of Hyde Park, but the part of him that was still awake drew his eyes back to meet the full force of Lin’s smile. ‘“Relationship”?’ he heard himself say in a voice like a coffin hitting the floor.
‘Yes. Me and you.’
‘What “relationship”?’
‘You’re not going to get to see my ankles, Mister Lyle, if that’s what concerns you.’
‘It isn’t. What “relationship”?’
‘I’m to make sure that . . . that no one can hurt you, Mister Lyle,’ said Lin, deliberately emphasizing every patronizing word.
‘You?’
‘I’m very good at plucking chickens,’ she added hastily.
‘What?’ Lyle wasn’t sure whether to shout or moan, and ended up making a sound somewhere in between.
‘I just thought I should make my qualifications clear. And I’m absurdly good at getting information - won’t that be useful?’
‘I don’t need protection!’
‘Well then, I’m going to protect your pets!’
‘My pets?’
‘The two children and the dog.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m making myself clear . . .’
‘No, you are; fear not,’ said Lin cheerfully. ‘What you fail to understand is that no matter what you say on this matter, I don’t care. This, I find, is the marvellous liberty of being a potentially lethal Tseiqin with the power to move the minds of men at will!’
‘You are a comfort.’
‘And you have lovely eyes. Now be grateful for what you’ve got.’
Lyle scowled, and shrank back into the darkness of the carriage.
Breakfast in the Elwick family was a prosaic affair. The food provided was not prosaic, however - the chef and his staff were up from six a.m. preparing the gammon cuts and freshly baked breads and honey sweets to be delivered still warm to the Elwick family’s table. But the actual business of eating, with its homemade blackberry and strawberry and raspberry jams, its marmalades and its morning papers and its fresh butters and clotted creams and coffees and sausages and bacons and hams and potted meats and mushrooms and eggs and breads - this ceremony was one usually conducted in the most rigorous, the most complete of silences.
This morning was different. As usual, Lord Elwick had his newspaper and, as usual, Lady Elwick ate as fast as
glacial drift up a hillside, lifting slivers of gammon from her plate that were so thin, from a sideways aspect it appeared as if her fork had nothing on it. By eating at just the right pace, the moment her plate was cleared her husband finished reading the newspapers, and they could have the morning Conversation. On most days the Conversation went like this:
‘The weather should be fine today, dear.’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘I hear Withers broke a plate last night. Shall I dock his pay?’
‘Withers is an awful man. One last chance.’
‘Lady Brunswick is having another one of her dinners tonight.’
‘Those dinners are awful.’
‘I thought I’d wear the green.’
‘Very well, dear. Thomas?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I want to hear the names of all the Roman Emperors from Augustus down to Vespasian before we go out tonight, and their genealogy and contribution to culture.’
‘Yes, sir.’
And that would be it. Always the meal ended with Thomas being given an instruction on how to spend the day, after which Lady Elwick would excuse herself. In her absence, Lord Elwick would secretly turn to the society pages of his newpaper, and smile a tight smile to read about who married whom last week.
Today, what marked things out as different was the arrival of Tess.
Thomas had observed Tess in many situations: he’d seen her climbing across rooftops, he’d seen her chasing/being chased by various monsters, he’d seen her trying to smooth-talk her way into posh clubs and trying to get out again by the nearest suitable window, he had seen her building explosives on the back of a falling aircraft. But he had never seen her looking like this. Someone, probably his former nurse, had tied her hair up with ribbons and scrubbed under her nails and washed every one of her clothes, and probably sat up all night drying them by the fire. For the first time in her life, Tess had submitted to a radical change in how she looked. And indeed, she took every chance to stare at herself in astonishment whenever she passed a large piece of reflective silverware or a mirror. The transformed Tess, the face that had emerged from somewhere inside all that hair, made her gape.
However, if she was open-mouthed with surprise before entering the breakfast room, she could have swallowed an orange whole, thereafter. ‘What’s that!’ she squeaked, bouncing into the room, her eyes goggling at the table piled with food.
The Doomsday Machine (Horatio Lyle) Page 10