The Doomsday Machine (Horatio Lyle)

by Catherine Webb

  A grate in the middle of the newly polished street next to the newly polished statue near the newly polished clubs where gentlemen with exceptionally polished manners and often equally shiny skulls sit and play bridge and drink port and discuss yet another Reform Act to please the masses. It lifts up on a pair of small, muck-coloured hands. It’s pushed to one side. A small, muck-coloured head appears, followed by a small body that is, indeed, covered in muck and a red velvet jacket. This is followed by two more children, one of whom is carrying a dog.

  The first child says, ‘Is this . . . London?’

  The second says, ‘This is bigwig land!’

  The third says, ‘I say - that’s my father’s club! Oh my . . .’

  And behind them are more hands, and more faces, clambering out into the street, nestling under the street lamps and peering in at the windows of the clubs until even the occupants, usually determined not to see anything unless it’s out of the eye which has the monocle, are forced to notice. Slowly but surely, the street starts to fill up with people, rising from the darkness out into a cold but clear London evening. Faces drift around each other, lost and dazed. One or two recognize where they are and know the way home, but somehow, it doesn’t seem quite right to walk away - everyone appears to be waiting for the police, or for the army, or for someone with some sense of authority, or maybe just for a miraculous sign to say, yes, it is all over, well done, go to bed.

  Tess and Thomas are forced away from the grate in the middle of the street by the press of dripping bodies scrambling to get up. Some people simply lie down on the cobbles, too exhausted to move, some sit on the pavement’s edge, kicking at old horse droppings left from the day’s cabs, some try to convince the men guarding the doors to the aristocrats’ clubs that they really, really need a whisky.

  Tess, Thomas and Tate sit and wait. More than fifty people, maybe more than a hundred, filthy and wet, fill the street.

  Tess says, ‘I smell horrid. I wonder if this means I’ll ’ave to ’ave a bath?’

  Thomas says, ‘I do hope Father didn’t go to the club today. I wonder how I’d explain this if he saw me?’

  Tate rolls over and over and over like a puppy in the mud, and looks contented.

  Tess thinks about what Thomas has said. ‘Bigwig, this is against my principles an’ all, but . . . maybe what you should do with your pa is try the whole truth thing for a while an’ see how it works out. An’ if it don’t work out, then just learn how to fib better, ’cos I gotta say it, you’re rubbish at the yarn.’ Then as an afterthought, in the middle of a yawn she adds, ‘An’ you smell too, bigwig. Horrid an’ all.’

  Eventually, some in the gaggle of faces start to break away, and the clocks strike one in the morning, and Tess finds herself yawning even more, eyes drifting shut and head flopping to one side as she makes Thomas her personal pillow. The faces don’t say anything much: no one seems inclined to talk about what happened. They just split off, some heading towards Haymarket, some towards St James’s Park, some back down towards the river, some west into the streets behind Piccadilly, some up towards the slums of Soho.

  Scuttle stands in front of Tess and says, ‘That’s my best jacket what you gone an’ ruined!’

  Tess says through a yawn, ‘Bigwig’ll buy you a new one.’

  ‘I suppose I could . . .’ begins Thomas.

  ‘See?’ says Tess. ‘It’s good ’avin’ friends what understand you.’

  Scuttle looks suspicious. ‘You’ll really go an’ get me a new jacket?’

  ‘If you like, yes.’

  ‘A really big proper one, what has all the pockets?’

  ‘What do you mean by all the pockets?’

  ‘For the gear, the swag, the goods, the boodle, the booty! All the pockets!’

  ‘Well, if you want, I’m sure my tailor could arrange something. ’

  Scuttle beams. ‘In that case, mister, it’s been a pleasure workin’ with you an’ you know where to find me for next time an’ for my payment what I have rightly earned.’

  ‘Uh, yes. Good man,’ says Thomas. ‘Well done. Carry on.’

  ‘You ain’t so rubbish,’ agrees Tess sleepily.

  Eventually, even Scuttle scuttles off.

  ‘Hello.’

  Thomas opened his eyes sleepily, and for a moment didn’t know where he was. There was a lamp post on one side, and Tess on the other, and Tate in his lap and he was on the street where he’d been, last time he’d checked.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘You fell asleep here?’

  ‘I think I must have.’

  ‘You must be tired.’

  ‘No, I mean . . . of course not, I’m ready for anything . . .’ Thomas yawned. On his shoulder, Tess snored.

  ‘Past your bedtime, I should think.’

  ‘I don’t have a bedtime!’ replied Thomas indignantly.

  ‘Careful, lad, you’ve still got a long way to go before you don’t have a bedtime.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Thomas, suddenly worried.

  ‘Me? Yes, fine.’

  ‘You sound . . . hurt.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Horatio Lyle bent down and bundled the sleeping Tess into his arms. The street was long since empty, no one else left. The church clock struck quarter to - but quarter to what, Thomas couldn’t tell. Tess stirred, opened one eye, saw Lyle and muttered, ‘You smell like poo.’

  ‘Past your bedtime too, lass,’ replied Lyle. ‘And tomorrow, baths all round.’

  ‘An’ a really big breakfast,’ added Tess from somewhere in Lyle’s shoulder. ‘An’ a discussion about pocket money.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Lyle. ‘Let’s go home.’

  CHAPTER 19

  Dances

  Night time in London.

  Many of the best things about the city happen in the night - for a start, there’s the lights, which when seen from a hill or tall tower, spread out in glimmering candlelight and gas lamps, turning the city orange-yellow and full of stars. There’s the theatre, the music hall, the best of the entertainers, and the costermongers who sell their special sweets and sticky caramels to the customers who indulge in these pleasures - somehow, at night, the city seems to heave a sigh of relief and conclude that whatever the day may bring, this time is for its personal consumption and joy.

  Night time by the riverside. A single stub of candle burns down in the bottom of a tin bowl. The mudlarks gather round the bathtub throne and listen in awe to their king in his huge green velvet coat, bulging with pockets.

  ‘So there I was . . . in this huge underground place full of machines, an’ everyone else was in trouble or captured so I had to save the day, just me, by myself! Well, I went to work, I wasn’t gonna let this happen to my friends, so, all on me lonesome I took down three of the guards - bam wham bam! - and raced over to this big banging type device in an iron case, which I exploded by use of these things that sparked what I used to carry round in my old jacket, though I went an’ lost my old jacket but now I got this new one, ’cos of how I was soooo brave . . .’

  And Scuttle, king of the sewers, spins his yarn, and spins it well, for the awestruck listeners, and tells tales of wonders and delights, long into the night.

  Night time on Primrose Hill, and a man wearing an iron ring on one finger sits on the wet grass, which feels like cold silk under his fingertips, and stares down at the city, and tries to remember this very, very important thing he had to do.

  Something about ...

  ... a thing that kept the rhythm ...

  . . . being regular ...

  ... regulated ...

  . . . something about ...

  ... green. Lots and lots of green.

  A footstep on the grass near to him, a tiny sound of disturbed water droplets and the hiss of drifting fog. ‘Good evening, sir,’ says a polite voice.

  The man looks over and sees a very plain gentleman, of almost no distinguishing feature at all, leaning lightly on a walking cane. ‘Good evening, my lor
d,’ he says.

  Lord Lincoln smiles nicely at the man and says, ‘Tell me, Mr Havelock, do you feel that something’s missing in your life?’

  Augustus Havelock thinks about it. ‘No,’ he says finally. ‘I feel . . . fine. Just fine.’

  ‘I see. Well, Mr Havelock, should you ever not feel fine, may I recommend a brief walk, a pleasant talk, a dip in the hot springs and perhaps some weight lifting of very heavy magnetically charged objects, to refresh your memory? I find nothing clears the brain quite so well. Good evening to you, Mr Havelock.’

  ‘Good evening, my lord.’

  Lord Lincoln drifts into the fog. Havelock hesitates, then calls out, ‘My lord?’

  Lord Lincoln turns. ‘Yes, Mr Havelock?’

  ‘I feel as though there’s something very important I need to be doing.’

  ‘There is, Mr Havelock, but not for a while. We have plenty of time yet for that sort of thing, and all the resources in the world. There’ll be time, and next time, fewer mistakes, I feel. We are, after all, only just beginning to learn. Goodnight, Mr Havelock.’

  ‘My lord.’

  Lord Lincoln fades away, into the fog, leaving Havelock alone, his mind full of the colour of laughing green eyes.

  Night time in Hammersmith, and all the lamps are burning in the house of Lord Thomas Henry Elwick. Lord Elwick sits in his study in the easy chair, and reads Voltaire.

  There is a knock at his door.

  ‘Enter!’

  Thomas enters. ‘Good evening, Father.’

  ‘Ah, Thomas, you are well?’

  ‘Yes, Father, very.’

  ‘I see you got cleaned up.’

  Thomas blushes head to toe. ‘Father, I . . .’

  ‘I just want to know you’re safe, Thomas. That’s all that I care about; that’s all that matters to me.’

  Thomas hesitates. Then nods. ‘I understand, Father.’

  ‘If you think that you can’t ... if you think I won’t be ... open . . . to what you have to say, I apologize. I apologize for ... many things.’

  And Thomas Edward Elwick does something he’s never done before. He walks into the room and sits at his father’s feet like a child about to be told a story and says, ‘There is a lot I need to tell you, Father.’

  And Lord Elwick smiles, and feels hot with relief, though he isn’t entirely sure why. ‘Well . . .’ he says. ‘We have time.’

  Teresa Hatch sits in a bath that she has run herself, from water she boiled in the kettle while Lyle wasn’t looking - the second of the day. She won’t tell Lyle, of course, even though it’s in Lyle’s house; that would be admitting defeat, that would be confessing to enjoying the bath thing, which somehow would seem wrong after all the battles they’ve waged on the subject.

  But for tonight, she has a bath, and it is wonderful.

  Night time in London. The dead hour between two and three of the morning, and a man walks from Blackfriars Bridge to Westminster, unafraid of anything that might get in his way. And because his walk is so unafraid, no one does get in his way, the muggers and the thieves concluding that this man probably has a reason to be confident, a reason not to be afraid of the dark, and that therefore they should probably be afraid of him. And tonight, they may not be far wrong.

  The lamps are burning on Westminster Bridge, but there is fog too, not too thick, but enough to cut one end of the bridge off from another, so that you may stand in the middle and see nothing but roadway on either side, never ending, no embankments and no water below.

  The man walked to the middle of the bridge, where one shadow waited under a lamp. He said, ‘Hello, Miss Lin.’

  She said, ‘Hello, Mister Lyle,’ and did a little curtsey.

  ‘I’m surprised you wanted to see me - here, now,’ said Lyle, looking into the fog.

  ‘I like it here,’ said Lin. ‘It seems very private, at this time, but in a public space. That pleases me.’

  ‘You are pleased by odd things, miss.’

  ‘You brought a magnet, though?’ she said sweetly. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  Lyle bit his lip. ‘No,’ he said finally, in a thoughtful voice. ‘I find it hard to trust anyone, right now.’

  ‘You’ve had a bad few days,’ she admitted.

  ‘You could say that.’ He smiled grimly. ‘On the plus side, I’ve still got my little finger.’

  ‘That was how we first met!’ She clapped her hands together happily. ‘That was a nice night.’

  ‘For you, maybe.’

  ‘Don’t be so negative.’

  ‘Negative?’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m talking to a Tseiqin on a bridge where . . .’ He hesitated.

  ‘Your friend died?’

  ‘One . . . of my friends died here, yes,’ replied Lyle. ‘Not too long ago, on this bridge, fighting . . . I want to say monsters, but you’d probably find that offensive.’

  ‘Not at all. It hardly matters what shape the monster is, what colour their blood is, if their actions are, by definition, monstrous.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Then he asked, ‘What do you want, miss?’

  She smiled, and held out one hand. ‘To dance.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘I like dancing, Mister Lyle. I think it’s the best thing humanity has had to offer so far. Dancing and maybe the toffee apple.’

  ‘You like toffee apples?’

  ‘Yes!’ Her tone implied that it was stupid and futile to ask anyone if they liked toffee apples. ‘Now, you may look at me and see an evil Tseiqin manipulating her scheming way to some foul intent, but that doesn’t matter. I look at you and see someone who has had a very bad succession of days, and needs something to take his mind off it. Will you dance, Horatio Lyle?’

  He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if it’s entirely appropriate for . . .’

  ‘A man to dance with a woman, alone in the night?’

  ‘See, when you put it like that, it sounds downright wrong, all things considered, with all due respect, ma’am.’

  ‘Think of me as ... less a lady and more . . . something unique.’ She raised her hand again, fingers beckoning him towards her.

  ‘I’m very bad . . .’ he began.

  ‘Of course you’re very bad, you’re a scientist with a vague concept of the legal system, this makes you by definition an uncharismatic, unattractive, socially inept baboon of a dancer!’

  ‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’

  ‘But you do have lovely eyes, Mister Lyle.’

  He hesitated. Then he said, ‘Tell me, Miss Lin, just one thing. I have seen the Machine, I know how it works. I could have built it, if I had had . . . the imagination, I suppose . . . to dream it up. I suppose what I’m asking is . . . am I ... I mean, would you . . .’ He stopped, then grinned. ‘Socially inept, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I think,’ said Lin carefully, ‘that the answer is “no”. Unless your question was about to take an unexpected and interesting twist, in which case the answer might have been “yes”, but I find it unlikely you were going to say anything surprising, so the answer remains “no”. You are not my enemy, Horatio Lyle. I don’t think that having enemies as such is really the best way to get by. Merely . . . misunderstood acquaintances, yes?’

  Lyle thought about this, staring into the fog. Then, without a change on his face, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out a very small, grey magnet. He put it carefully on the balustrade on the side of the bridge, and stepped away from it. He took Lin’s out-held hand, looked into her eyes, and said, ‘What do we do about music?’

  ‘Notes don’t really matter, just the rhythm, the dance.’

  ‘Well, yes, but . . .’

  ‘I can sing?’

  ‘Christ, it’s going to be a long night. Ow!’

  ‘Was that your foot, Mister Lyle?’

  ‘I’m really not a very good dancer . . .’

  ‘It’s quite simple, you just step two three, step two three . . .’

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘No.’


  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, swap round.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll be the man, you follow what I do, all right?’ said Lin impatiently.

  ‘I’m sure this is a sin,’ sighed Lyle.

  ‘Atheist,’ she replied sweetly.

  ‘Me too, doesn’t mean I’m going to covet my neighbour’s camel any time soon.’

  ‘You’re still not going to see my ankles, although many men would swoon at the suggestion.’

  ‘You aren’t like normal people - of any kind - are you, Miss Lin?’

  ‘This from a man who fears green eyes. Now . . . step two three, step two three, step two three . . .’

  ‘Am I going . . .’

  ‘Be quiet and pay attention!’

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbled Lyle, and was surprised to find he meant it.

  ‘And step two three, step two three . . .’

  They drifted through the fog. ‘You know . . .’ Lyle’s voice was muffled by the greyness rising from the river, ‘I feel I’m getting the knack of this . . .’

  ‘No, I’m merely not pointing out the error of your ways. There are snowmen with carrots for noses who have more elegance and grace than you when it comes to the waltz, Mister Lyle.’

  ‘I could just go home, you know, have a nice night in with the oxides ...’

  ‘It is more ungentlemanly not to dance for a lady’s pleasure, Mister Lyle, than it is to dance badly . . .’ Lin’s voice, like wind chimes, waltzed through the air. ‘And step two three, step two three . . . mind the toes ...’

  And though things might be bad, or have been bad, or may be bad again - as in all probability they will - just for now, in this moment they dance on, into the night.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Catherine Webb published her extraordinary debut, Mirror Dreams, at the age of 14, garnering comparisons with Terry Pratchett and Philip Pullman. Subsequent books have brought Carnegie Medal longlistings, a Guardian Children’s Book of the Week, a BBC television appearance and praise from the Sunday Times and the Sunday Telegraph, amongst many others. Catherine Webb is currently reading History at university but still found time to establish herself as one of the most talented and exciting young writers in the UK. She lives in London - without a cat but she plans to remedy that, soon.