by Oisin McGann
Frozen in place by his voice, the Wildensterns looked at him, then at each other, and slowly, carefully lowered their weapons. Having done that, they then took their seats, awkwardly pulling their chairs in under them as the servants who normally helped them, and who had been serving the food, had run for their lives when the guns came out. Gerald put a hand to his head, struggling to control the seething rage he felt. Daisy regarded him with cold eyes, checked the small pocket-watch she kept tucked away in her dress, and decided that the time had come.
“You tell us you’re trying to change the world, but you never tell us how, Gerald,” she said. “Perhaps we’ll find out … now that the police and the army are on their way to clear out the criminals who’ve occupied the Glendalough mines.”
Gerald’s face settled into an icy calm, his gaze fixed on her face.
“You’re lying,” he said hoarsely. “The army wouldn’t make a move on our property without informing me first.”
“You never paid enough attention to the business,” Daisy told him. “And I confess I’ve been a bit slow at bringing Brutus up to date on everything. Didn’t you know? We sold that property last week.”
Gerald ground his teeth, staring at her with a murderous intensity, examining her face and body language for any sign that she was bluffing. Daisy, with studied indifference, looked at her pocket-watch. Brutus pushed back his chair and drew himself up to his full height. Nate resisted the urge to look up, as did Daisy. Tatty could not help but stare. Brutus was breathing slowly and deeply, gazing down at Daisy with a frown.
“I believe she’s telling the truth,” he rumbled.
Gerald swore through his teeth, leaped from his chair and sprinted for the door. Everyone else stood up too. Some followed him half-heartedly out of the dining room, others joined Nate and Daisy at the windows overlooking the back of the house. A couple of minutes later, they saw Gerald on the back of his velocycle, racing away towards the mountains as fast as his mount could carry him.
“I daresay, what’s down that mine that’s so important?” someone asked. “You don’t suppose they’ve found gold down there, do you?”
“Do you think he might have discovered gold and not told us?” another voice piped up. “God knows, the swine’s capable of anything!”
Nate and Daisy left them to their back-biting conjecture and hurried out of the dining room. Tatty was not with them, and they didn’t have time to wonder where she had gone.
“How long do you think we have before he makes it back here?” Daisy asked as they walked towards the elevators.
“That depends on how unhinged he has become,” Nate replied. “If he thinks he can save his operation by taking on the army, and is mad enough to try, then we could have the rest of the night. But if he can afford to cut loose from whatever is down that mine, then he could decide to turn round and come back at any moment.”
There was a boy in smart livery who operated the lift. As the doors opened, Nate and Daisy stepped inside and Daisy asked for the ground floor. When the elevator came to a halt and the doors opened, Nate took a few shillings from his pocket and pressed them into the boy’s hand.
“We’ll take it from here, lad,” he told the boy. “Get yourself home. And tell any of the staff that you see on the way out to do the same. Spread the word; all hell is about to break loose, and there’s no need for any of you to be a part of it. Now, go … Go!”
The boy started walking down the hallway towards the staff stairwell, clutching the coins in his fist with a bewildered expression on his face. Nate closed the doors over and shifted the lever, taking the lift down to the basement. This corridor was tiled, not carpeted, and the walls were not adorned by paintings. They made their way to the end of the long hallway, where a heavy, locked door led to the outside. Daisy had given Nate a large bunch of keys to carry in his pocket, and he handed it to her.
“I knew you’d betray the family someday, boy,” a deep voice snarled from behind them. “You have too much of your mother in you.”
Nate felt a shock run through him as he heard those words. He spun round and Brutus’s engimal claw rammed into his stomach, doubling him over. Daisy fumbled with the keys, trying to fit the right one into the lock. Brutus took her head in his left hand and thumped it against the door. She collapsed to the ground, her senses reeling.
Nate tried to straighten up against his cramped stomach, pulling the gun from his waistband. But a foot caught him across the side of the head and threw him against the wall of the corridor. The gun spun away along the floor. His reflexes took over and he lunged to one side to dodge the next kick. He tried to ignore the way it hit the wall with enough force to smash the plaster, and staggered to his feet, hands raised in a guard stance. Ducking under a swinging hook, he slammed his own fist into Brutus’s ribs, then delivered two more blows to the giant’s body and a jab to Brutus’s jaw. The strikes made no impression at all. Nate kicked the inside of Brutus’s knee, knocking the bigger man off-balance. He went to sweep the ogre’s other leg, but Brutus sidestepped the sweep and stamped Nate’s ankle to the ground, then seized his neck with the claw.
He lifted Nate clear off the ground and shoved him against the wall. Nate kicked at Brutus’s groin and thighs, but he might as well have been striking the trunk of an oak tree for all the effect it had.
“It is my fault—I accept responsibility,” Brutus said as he began to crush Nate’s throat. “I should have made a better man of you.”
“You’re not him!” Nate choked, his teeth gritted, one hand clutching the claw to try and take the weight of his own body off his neck, the other flailing at the pocket of his jacket. “You’ve just read his words, his thoughts. You’ve stolen what he is, but you’re not him!”
“You’re fooling yourself, boy. But you were always good at that. It was one of your mother’s naïve traits …”
“Don’t say it …”
“No … I am your father!”
“Gaaaaaaagh!” Nate roared and, lifting his knee, drove his foot hard into Brutus’s chest.
Daisy was on her knees behind the huge man, shaking her head as she tried to clear it. The power of the kick took the giant by surprise, hurling him back. He toppled over Daisy and his skull hit the wall behind him, striking the plaster hard enough to leave a dent and folding his head down against his chest. Brutus groaned and tried to straighten up, his hand at the back of his neck. Nate had fallen with him, but now pulled free, leaving scrapes in the sides of his neck from Brutus’s claw. He rose up onto his knees, frantically trying to get something out of his pocket. Brutus had begun to recover almost as soon as he hit the ground, and the giant was getting to his feet when Nate held up a sheet of paper in front of his face.
“Here! Here! If you’re really Edgar Wildenstern, then this was meant for you!”
Brutus, Edgar, was about to push the sheet of paper aside when he recognized the handwriting on it. With the tentative fingers of his left hand, he took it with surprising delicacy. The giant slumped back against the wall, sitting down to read the last words his wife had ever written.
“She wrote it the day she intended to leave you,” Nate said with a cough as he stood up and rubbed his neck. “I’ve been reading those words a lot. I have spent my entire married life struggling to come to terms with the conflicting sides of your character—the implacable leader of men that is your public face, and the tender, loyal and loving husband that so few people see. She loved you right up to the day you condemned her to an asylum. I have to say, I never saw the conflict in you. As far I ever knew, you were a complete bastard your whole damned life. And now you’ve come back to continue making our lives a misery, just as you did hers. You think I’ve betrayed the family? You’ve betrayed everyone who ever came close to you. Go back to Hell where you belong … Father.”
Daisy was standing now, leaning against the wall and looking anxiously at Edgar in this
new, ancient form. It was just one more revelation in what was turning into a truly bizarre day. She picked out the right key and unlocked the door. Eamon Duffy was waiting at the bottom of the steps outside, with ten armed men who wore scarves around their faces to hide their identities.
“Mister Duffy … Eamon,” she greeted him.
“Your Graces,” he said, doffing his cap to her and Nate. “I believe Mister Gordon has left the building?”
“That is correct,” Daisy replied. “There’s just the rest of the family to deal with. But I am certain that we might clear the building in good time and with a minimum loss of life if we can instill in them a lively terror. Is your main force on its way?”
“They’ll be at the gates in twenty minutes,” he informed her. “Which should give us enough time to get started.”
He looked past her at Edgar, sitting slumped against the wall, the letter held in limp fingers. The giant man was rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes riveted to the words on the page. Duffy threw a questioning look at Daisy.
“Pay him no mind,” Nate grunted, studying his father’s face. “He’s done.”
“These will open all of the hall doors in the house,” Daisy told Duffy, handing him the keys. “You’ll find cans of paraffin waiting for you in the housekeeping cupboards by the servants’ elevators on the top three floors. That should be more than enough to get a hearty blaze going. In a building of this size, there will be no way to fight a major fire once it has set in on the upper floors. Take care you and your men do not get caught in the blaze yourself, Eamon. And remember that this building is booby-trapped throughout—you must make your way with extreme caution. The house is also full of combustibles, piped throughout with gas, and there are weapons stores containing gunpowder and live ammunition on a number of floors. Please try and make sure all the floors are cleared of people, but once you light your fires, you must flee the building.”
“You make a marvelous saboteur, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “I’d hate to have you as an enemy;
“Then it’s just as well we can count each other as firm friends.”
“I’m sorry it had to be your home that got invaded, Daisy.”
“This horrible place is no longer my home, Eamon. I shall find another—one that does not turn my stomach. Burn this place with my blessing. Burn it to the ground.”
He tipped the peak of his cap.
“Yes, ma’am.”
XXXII
“POP GOES THE WEASEL”
CATHAL WOKE TO THE SOUND OF GUNFIRE and, rolling to look at the door, immediately winced at the pain in his stump. Trying to keep his maimed arm as still as possible, he sat up and pushed off the blankets. The mines were cold and his body started shivering as he tossed the covers aside. The effects of the laudanum he had taken were wearing off and he glanced at the small green bottle on the bedside table, briefly pondering taking another dose, but decided against it.
There was no doubt about the sound—those were gunshots. His first thought was that the children were attempting another escape, or even stupidly trying to get to him. He should never have let them go on thinking that he was the Highwayboy, but it had offered them hope, even inspiration when there was none. Cathal had thought it a kind and pragmatic lie. He slowly shook his head from side to side, trying to judge how foggy his head still was after the drug. He had lied to give them hope and one of them had been shot dead, another almost killed and all of them were now sure to be punished for their transgression. And he had lost his hand.
He stood up. He was in his socks and underwear, but his clothes were draped over a wooden chair at the foot of the bed. Pulling on his trousers with some difficulty, hampered by having to do it with one hand, he tentatively pushed his bandaged stump through the right sleeve of his shirt. Moving it in any way changed the dull ache to a sharp spike of pain, and even the light fabric of the shirt seemed to drag across the bandage like sandpaper. Getting the left hand into its sleeve was surprisingly tricky. Doing up the buttons on the shirt was manageable, but when he sat down on the chair and started to push his feet into his shoes, his hands reached down for the laces on reflex. Except there was only one hand to work with. He lifted the laces of one shoe with his left hand, gazing bitterly at them, his stump poised to help. The trembling was making his teeth chatter, and he clenched them tightly shut. He finished pulling the shoes on, then pulled the laces tight and tucked them in the sides. Pulling on his jacket, he stood up, his head feeling clear enough to let him walk normally, though he was surprised to find the lack of a hand seemed to affect his balance a little bit.
When he opened the door to Gerald’s cave-like study, the gunfire was only slightly more audible. Seeing Siren in its wire birdcage on Gerald’s desk, Cathal walked across to it and opened the door of the cage. The engimal bird erupted from the cage in a mad flutter of wings, spiraling around the chamber, singing in a voice that sounded like someone playing a clarinet and a flute simultaneously while having a fit of the giggles. The music had a strange effect on Cathal, as if his emotions were strings and this creature was strumming them, as one would a guitar or a violin.
The sensation was like Gerald’s manipulative music, but there was no sense the thing was trying to control him, merely reaching out to him instead. Siren had never had this effect on him before, and Cathal remembered what he had felt as his shape had begun to change when fighting Moby. How he had somehow unlocked some primal, natural urge. In that moment, he sensed the unmistakable shape of Siren’s engimal mind in the air above him, and Siren chirped with pleasure as it felt the connection. But then it was gone, as if it were a momentary scent picked up on the wind.
Cathal hurriedly put his finger to his lips, shushing the creature, and it swooped down to him, coming to a rest on his shoulder. Cathal had spent enough time with Tatty for Siren to feel completely comfortable with him. She had even shown him some of the creature’s simpler tricks. Cathal stroked its head gently, and it trilled nervously in his ear as he made his way out to the Engimal Works.
The children had come away from their workbenches and were crowded round the entrance to the tunnel leading to the surface. Two guards stood in front of the tunnel with pistols drawn. One of them was Cowen, the man Cathal had pushed head-first into the cesspit. Sirens claws tightened their grip on Cathal’s shoulder, digging into the fabric of his jacket. Cowen glowered at Cathal, but kept his attention on the children in front of him.
“I’ll say it one more time for the dense ones,” he rasped. “Get back to yer work! I’m warnin’ yiz!”
“What’s goin’ on up there, Cowen?” Cathal asked, cradling his stump carefully.
“None o’ of yer business!” the guard snapped back, but he was visibly nervous.
“It’s not the police, is it?” Cathal persisted. “It’s not the army?”
“It’s nothin’!” Cowen barked. “Nobody’s gettin’ in here and none of yiz are gettin’ out! Mister Gordon’ll be here soon and he’ll sort this, and it’ll all be back to normal. This place is stronger than any fortress, and we’ve got the power of the Wildensterns behind us! Now get back to work!”
He pointed his gun at one child, and then another. Pip was near the front, and they were all edging slowly forwards.
“All right,” Cathal said to them. “Let’s be careful. Do as he says.”
“But dere’s only two of ’em, Mister Dempsey,” Pip muttered through gritted teeth. “Dey killed Queg, and now someone’s come to get us out o’ here. Dis is our chance!”
“We can take ’em!” one of the girls shouted.
“No,” Cathal said firmly. “I have a better idea. Just come away from them. They’re scared and they’re likely to shoot someone in a panic. Come away there, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Curious to see what would happen, the children began to back off. This alarmed the guards even further.
“Don’
t go cookin’ up any plans, you!” Cowen exclaimed, aiming his weapon at Cathal. “If anything happens, you’ll be the first one I shoot!”
“That suits me fine,” Cathal retorted. “Both of you keep those guns on me. Let’s just keep this calm now. Nobody here’s goin’ to lay a hand on you.” He raised his stump. “You have my word on that.”
When the children had backed away a few yards, Cathal murmured just loud enough for Siren to hear:
“Pop goes the weasel.”
Siren flew up from his shoulder, emitting a deep, haunting tune. The creature flew a couple of low circles over the children’s heads as they watched in fascination. Then it swooped out and came in across them towards the guards. In a belated attempt to stop it, the two guards raised their guns and fired, but missed the tiny, moving target. Siren flew between them and, right at the instant when it was little more than two feet from either man’s head, it let out a sound like the blast from a cannon. Both men screamed and fell away from the deafening sound, each one clutching a hand to his single burst eardrum.
The children descended on them before they could recover, and enthusiastically kicked the two men into unconsciousness.
Having securely tied up their captors, the children followed Cathal up the tunnel. Cathal had one pistol and Pip took the other. Siren returned to its perch on Cathal’s shoulder. Some of the others carried lanterns, the light as low as possible, but put them out as they came into sight of the leviathan’s mouth. It was open just a crack, and Red and five other men were firing rifles through the narrow gap at someone outside. Each shot was a loud, echoing detonation in the hard confined space of the mine. The rare bullet that made it through the leviathan’s mouth from outside ricocheted dangerously along the tunnel.
“It’d take a cannon or explosives to get past that mouth,” Cathal said to Pip. “And with those bloody tentacles, nobody’s going to be getting too close to the end of the tunnel. If that’s the peelers out there, we need to help ’em get past Red and them before Gerald gets back. God only knows what he could do if he showed up.”