When the gunshot came, it was so close and so loud and so immediate, that Lin nearly fell off the roof again, which would never have done, as much for dignity as anything else. And to her surprise, she found that the sound made her angry, which hadn’t been part of the plan at all.
A gunshot in the gloom.
Lyle was surprised at how big the sound was in the small space. Certainly, the tight walls should amplify noise, make it shatter through the eardrums and churn the stomach, make it as much of a physical punch as a sense or signal to the brain. But he found it hard to believe that the thin walls, which after all were incapable of keeping out water, cold or wind, were capable of keeping in such a sound. Against something so sudden, violent, unnecessary, all the plans in Lyle’s head suddenly seemed futile and childish.
He felt physical pain, but was surprised not to find himself shot, or indeed hurt in any particular, and cursed his own imagination for running away with itself, so certain of death that it had already provided all the sensation without bothering to check for the proof itself. He knew he had missed the gun, he knew that Moncorvo had caught it and pushed him back in a single sweep, that the push had been weak but enough, because he was off balance and moving too fast, knew that he’d looked into the muzzle and seen the flash, knew that there had been no sound of bullet striking wall, no reassuring flat thud, but something entirely softer breaking in its passage.
So Horatio Lyle, not so dead after all, having seen Moncorvo fire, watched Berwick die. And Berwick looked at the blood seeping into the fabric of his shirt, and said, very quietly, ‘Oh. But . . . I thought . . . aren’t we . ..?’
Lyle caught him almost before he hit the floor, with every limb flailing. He screamed at Moncorvo, ‘He’s on your side! Murderer, he’s on your side!’
He looked back at Berwick, but the man’s eyes were already wide and lifeless, staring at an invisible point on the ceiling, too much of the white showing around the pupils. His mouth was hanging open as if it was about to drool. Moncorvo put the gun down carefully on the table next to him - where the iron had touched his skin, it burnt, and his arm shook, but Lyle had no doubt he could fire again if he needed to. Moncorvo said, ‘The regulator, please,’ and his voice was hoarse.
Lyle looked at the regulator in Berwick’s fingers, looked at Berwick and carefully laid him down on the floor. ‘Murderer,’ he hissed. ‘He trusted me, you didn’t have to ... he was on your side.’
‘A weak man who would have run and been caught,’ replied Moncorvo coldly. ‘Havelock would have found him, and Havelock would have destroyed us. This way, the Machine will never be complete. A man who did not comprehend necessity.’
Lyle tried to speak, and found that nothing in particular came to his lips. He felt he should be screaming some sort of abuse or prayer, either in anger or sorrow, he wasn’t sure which; but that too didn’t seem a good enough response, just somehow too easy and obvious to be real. He knelt next to Berwick and felt the blood pool around his knees and slip around his fingers and didn’t bother to think.
Lyle said again, ‘He trusted me.’
‘And you never trusted me,’ replied Moncorvo. ‘And there you were wise.’
‘He wanted to help! Why the hell didn’t you see that?’
‘He didn’t want to help, Lyle; he simply didn’t want the responsibility of doing what had to be done.’
‘Murderer.’ It seemed the only thing Lyle could say. ‘Murderer.’
‘You are wrong, if you think this is not war, Lyle. You hypocrite - you hide behind your high morals and lofty judgements, and say that everything is within the law. Is life within the gift of the law? Is the future of a whole people? Can you legislate, Lyle, for two sides who must seek to destroy each other, if either is to survive? You coward! You run from what must be done, and cower in the blissful ignorance and righteous veil of what should be done. I have saved my people! Give me the regulator!’
Lyle plucked the regulator from Berwick’s fingers, and held it out. Moncorvo snatched it away and, in the same sharp movement, threw it hard against the wall. His throw wasn’t strong, but neither was the device; it smashed into dozens of bronze shards and fragments of wire. Lyle watched it bounce down the wall, and felt nothing. Moncorvo said, ‘The papers, please.’
Lyle rolled up the papers, and handed them over. Moncorvo touched their ends to the candle flame. Both watched for a long minute, while the fire caught and burnt its way down to the end of the roll. When it reached Moncorvo’s fingertips, he dropped the last ashes on the floor, and stamped on them to put out their worm-like glimmering edges.
In a distant monotone, Lyle said, ‘If I should happen, for whatever reason, to survive the next few minutes, I will find you and see you utterly destroyed.’
‘Mister Lyle,’ replied Moncorvo, ‘your death is as much a pleasure to achieve as a needful thing to be done.’ He reached out for the gun, fingers curling round the butt.
Lin said brightly, ‘My lord, I want you to consider carefully the effect a bolt of bronze will have on the back of your neck and spinal chord, should my finger happen to slip accidentally while holding this trigger.’
Lyle saw Lin standing in the doorway with a small crossbow. He found to his surprise that at that moment he didn’t care what happened. Lin’s eyes were fixed on Moncorvo’s hand as blood started to seep between the cracking skin where his fingers touched the iron. She said, ‘I should point out that such an impact would cause extensive damage, perhaps severing the spine, almost certainly puncturing your windpipe, and maybe even catching the jugular on its way out - I think at this range it would go all the way through, and probably dent the wall. This would be unfortunate: the cleaning up will be a horrendous task. But I suspect it will be the women who are required to perform it, typical of the patriarchal society within which we live, alas. But however you regard the messiness or even social ramifications of your demise, you may take comfort in the fact that it will be very, very fast.’
‘Miss Lin,’ muttered Moncorvo, ‘you and I are of the same blood. You know that Berwick had to die, for us to be safe; Old Man White knew. If you had not known this, you would not have let me alone long enough to do the deed that you were unable to complete.’
Lin’s smile stayed perfect. Wearily, Lyle heard her say, ‘My lord, the Machine is monstrous, and so are you. These things are not so far apart, in my estimation.’
There was distant shouting in the street, and a clattering too, the artificial clicker-clacker of the bobby’s rattle. Lyle wondered who else had heard the gunshot, and whether they also had forgotten to feel in the few seconds after its sound, the mind overwhelmed instead by all those little chemical signals saying, Survive and run or stay and die. A small part of his mind clicked into place, which said simply, This is a bad place to die. He looked up and saw Moncorvo’s eyes fixed on his own, saw Moncorvo’s blood running down the end of the gun, white and slippery, and knew he was right.
Perhaps Moncorvo saw this in Lyle’s eyes, because his fingers, impossibly, tightened around the gun. He said through clenched teeth, ‘Miss Lin, I have spent an eternity these last few months sleeping on iron floors and surrounded by iron walls, and it has burnt the magic out of me. I am no longer beautiful to the eyes of humans, I am no longer powerful, I am no longer what I was. Lyle did this, and for his death I am happy to die.’
He brought the gun swinging upwards in one simple movement, and Lin pulled the trigger.
This is what Old Man White had said to Lin, while Lyle lay sleeping on his couch.
‘This time is a time for humans. For humanity. Our time is long past. We must accept this, and embrace their future, their skills, their souls, their abilities, revel in what they find beautiful, since that which we loved is long since destroyed. The faerie and the Tseiqin will not survive in this world, regardless of what we do - and one day perhaps humanity will be in the same position as us, but today is their day.
‘However, this Machine - this creation of mindles
s destruction, merciless judgement - is wrong. And if its construction is to be the herald of the new age of humanity, I would rather that it burnt, and those burnt who made it, and those who conceived of it burnt, so that this new world may not be shaped in its terrible image.’
Lin had thought about this, and asked the fatal question. ‘And Lyle?’
Old Man White had shrugged. ‘He may have the knowledge to build the Machine - maybe he lacks the will, but that is a thing which others can provide. I would have humanity survive and grow and prosper, but not so this knowledge. Do we understand each other?’
She had nodded slowly, her eyes elsewhere. ‘Indeed, sir. I believe we do.’
The body, that a moment before had been Lord Moncorvo, lay on the floor by Lyle’s feet, his white blood mingling with Berwick’s red, together staining a girlish pink. Lyle shuddered and looked away. For the first time he was starting to feel sick, something that in years of detective work had never really happened, after the first corpse.
There was shouting in the street below. Lin reloaded her little crossbow with a neat snicker-snack and said in a businesslike way, ‘If you wish to remain at liberty, Mister Lyle, I suggest you run.’
Lyle looked up with the eyes of a dead man. ‘What exactly were your orders, Miss Lin?’
‘Mister Lyle, we do not have time for this.’
‘Tell me.’
She hesitated, then stared him in the eye. ‘To protect everyone: the whole, the mass; utilitarianism and all that - the ideals of Bentham - the good of the many - and so on and so forth. To stop the Machine.’
‘To let Berwick die?’
‘And to let you die if you knew how to make it work.’ There was no apology in her voice. ‘The knowledge of the thing must die. Now may I advocate your leaving here?’
‘Lin, I can make it work,’ he replied with a sad smile. ‘Now that I know what “it” is.’
She nodded. ‘I know. And I choose to let you live, Horatio Lyle.’
He sighed. ‘Not that I’m ungrateful, but one day you may regret that, miss. Promise me you’ll look after the children? And tell Tess . . .’ He hesitated, then smiled a little wider. ‘Tell her to have a proper bath after.’
She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I give you my word, Mister Lyle. For whatever that means.’
‘Thank you.’
He staggered upright, like a drunken man, so tired, pulled the door open a crack and peered out, closed it again and leant on it. ‘Miss,’ he said wearily, ‘I think you might consider leaving by the window.’
Footsteps on the stairs; shouting. Lin hesitated. ‘But . . .’
‘No killing of policemen, please. Whatever the consequences, no more killing.’
She nodded and moved swiftly towards the window. Behind Lyle, there came a hammering on the door. ‘Open up! Police!’
‘Lyle, you have knowledge, I can’t just let them come in here and . . .’
‘Miss Lin, I’m a copper, and this is a crime. I’m not running away this time!’
Lin hesitated, then tried again, pleading. ‘Havelock will come and he will . . .’
‘What would you have me do, miss? Be a fugitive for the rest of my life? Berwick was right. These things are not so easy; I do not have your talents.’
By the window she paused. The hammering became louder, and the door shuddered as if something heavy had smashed into it. She smiled, and bowed her head. ‘I wish you well, Mister Lyle.’
‘You too, Miss Lin.’
And she was gone.
Lyle rubbed his eyes and wondered if they’d let him sleep, just a little. He stepped back and opened the door, no matter what the consequences.
CHAPTER 14
Beneath
At midnight there was a quiet knock on Thomas’s door.
He said, ‘Mmmnnn!’
From outside, Tess’s voice hissed in a dramatic whisper, ‘Get your lazy bottom ’ere, bigwig! There’s detecterin’ an’ all that sorta happenin’ tonight.’
It was perhaps a little past midnight when Lyle, seated in the Smithfield Police Station, folded his hands on the table, leant forward, and looked the youthful and somewhat confused detective straight in the eye. He said, ‘Lad, take it from a copper, trade secret, one to another. You’ve heard my story now three times, and the more you shout at me and the more you insist that I’ve pulled any damn trigger the more I’m going to clam up and the less the beak is going to be impressed when he demands evidence. So, if I were you, I’d switch tactics. You’ve been the tough copper very well, your guv would be proud - but right now I’d go for winning sympathy, and give your very tired suspect a clean blanket, a cup of tea brewed from leaves only used three or four times, no more, and a pot of boiled peas, and send him to bed with a reassurance that you’ll consider all the evidence before you rush to conclusions, right?’ Before the detective had a chance to reply, he added, ‘Oh, and while I’m on the subject, I’d be very careful who you tell that one of the corpses currently in your basement is bleeding white blood.’
The detective hesitated. ‘Isn’t there . . . a scientific explanation for that?’ he hazarded.
Lyle sat back and gave the young man a look that needed no translation.
The detective shifted in his chair and, for the fourth and last time, mumbled the desperate fall-back words, ‘Let’s go over it one more time, shall we?’
Lyle sighed, and began again. ‘My name is Special Constable Horatio Lyle, and for the last few days I have been investigating the disappearance of a man called Berwick . . .’
It wasn’t the whole truth he told that night. But, he reasoned, the whole truth could get a man killed.
Thomas found Tess and Lin Zi sitting by the fire in the second drawing room. Tate was curled up at Tess’s feet; Tess wore a nightgown ten years too big for her. Lin was looking, even to Thomas’s eye, a little flustered.
Still sleepy, Thomas mumbled, ‘What’s the matter?’
Tess said, ‘All hell breakin’ loose on the manure cart again, bigwig. Where do we get summat to eat right now?’
‘You’re hungry?’ he hazarded.
‘Just thinkin’ of how we might need food for our adventure an’ all what we’re goin’ to have to have ’cos of how no one else seems up to it.’
‘It’s a little more complicated . . .’ began Lin.
Tess turned to glare at her. ‘Miss, ain’t I never gone an’ told you what a Good brush with death and adventure involves?’
Lin raised one enquiring eyebrow. Tess opened her mouth to speak. But to her surprise, and his too, Thomas got there first. ‘It involves preparation, it involves consideration, it involves never rushing into things on an empty stomach, never permitting the gentlemen assigned to follow you to achieve their aims; it involves packing provisions and preparing food for the journey; it involves large quantities of ammonium nitrate and surprising amounts of magnesium and phosphorus; it involves a practical grasp of the nature of oxidization and an awareness that at all times, regardless of any strain being put upon the venture, all actions must be carried out with decency and decorum, correct?’
Tess gaped at Thomas, who responded uncertainly, ‘Is that right, Miss Teresa?’
‘Well . . . it’s good as how you’re learnin’, I suppose.’
Thomas beamed. ‘So what’s the adventure this time?’ He was beginning to feel more awake.
Lyle slept. Or rather, Lyle dozed; it was hard to tell which images in his mind were dreams, and which were a relentless reliving of events over the last few hours, a retreat through the mud of memory in search of the moment when things might have gone differently: here or perhaps here - a word, a warning, a thought, a different turning, a step taken in a different place. Sleep was too grand a word for the dark daze in which Horatio Lyle drifted, curled up on a hard bench in a cold cell beneath the police station. It is hard to say how long he lay in this state. The darkness gave no indication of time, and after such a long while moving and searching, a moment of sleep - a s
econd in which the mind and body could begin to unclench from all the running and the arguing and the fighting and the fearing and the guilt - would have been worth an hour under normal circumstances.
He trusted me.
Murderer.
I choose to let you live, Horatio Lyle.
Dreams and memories mixed together, not caring which one carried the title from this particular race. But even asleep, a part of Lyle didn’t close its eyes, and a thought loitered at the back of his mind, listening, despite the absence of consciousness, for the footsteps in the corridor, for the key in the lock, for the shadow in the door, for the voice to speak, for the enemy to work it out, as he always did, as he inevitably would.
Lyle slept, and Lyle waited.
Thomas was straining to sound like his father.
‘So ... to clarify. Lord Moncorvo is ... and Berwick is ... and Mister Lyle has been arrested on suspicion of all ... that ... by the police and is being held until more evidence becomes available, or until no evidence comes at all. But the police serve the government and Havelock has infiltrated the government and he might go looking for Lyle and even if he doesn’t, the Machine is still down there and your kind can’t go close to it because it’s magnetic. So you’re here to protect,’ the word was a snowball rolling across a sheet of ice, ‘me and Miss Teresa until such time as Mister Lyle is released. At which point you’re expecting us to help you destroy the Machine.’
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