by George Mann
Rutherford was in a horrific state. He’d lost so much blood the color had drained out of his face, awarding him a pale, ghostly aspect. His eyes had rolled back in their sockets, displaying their disturbing milky-white sclera, and a thin line of stark red blood was trailing from the corner of his mouth. It dribbled slowly down his cheek as Donovan looked on. His breathing was coming in short shallow gasps, and Donovan could tell that he was exceedingly close to death. Blood burbled from multiple wounds in his arms, chest, and legs.
Donovan hoped Gabriel knew what he was doing. He supposed if there was anyone in the room who’d taken a beating before, it was Gabriel. Donovan had grown used to seeing his friend nonchalantly tending his own wounds—or else stoically ignoring them while he carried on with the fight at hand. Hopefully he could do enough to keep Rutherford alive until professional help arrived.
What Donovan couldn’t fathom, though, was the manner of creature that had inflicted such grievous wounds. It wasn’t as if there were wild beasts roaming the streets of London. Had it been rabid dogs?
“There,” said Gabriel, rocking back on his haunches. “That should staunch the bleeding, for a few minutes at least.” He looked up at Donovan. “Has anyone sent for a doctor?”
Donovan glanced around, searching for a response. A murmur rumbled through the crowd, before one of the waiters stepped forward. “We’ve called for an ambulance,” he said. He was a tall, thin man in his late twenties, and seemed to be the only one of the staff who hadn’t recoiled in panic. His hands were clasped so tightly before him they were starting to turn white, and he was trying desperately not to look down at the bloody mess of the man by his feet. He spoke in a clipped, formal accent as he stood behind Gabriel. “I presume you know this man?” he said to Donovan.
Donovan gave him a withering stare. “Of course we know him. He was supposed to be our dinner companion. He’s a friend.”
The waiter nodded. “The ambulance should be here shortly.” He took a deep breath, and then turned to address the crowd of diners. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll please accept my apology for any upset. I would recommend you all now return to your seats to make way for the ambulance crew. We’ll have this matter resolved in just a moment, and service will be resumed.”
Another murmur passed through the crowd, before it began to slowly disperse. People drifted toward their seats, still gawping openly at the scene unfolding on the floor in their midst. Donovan looked at the waiter in disbelief. What was it with these people and their inherent deference to authority figures? Was it the uniform? Or perhaps it was simply the fact the man had apologized to them, as if accepting responsibility for everything that was happening. That was another thing he’d noticed since arriving here in London—everyone seemed to have a habit of apologizing for things that weren’t their fault.
Gabriel was still hurriedly tightening makeshift bandages around Rutherford’s left shoulder, right thigh and both forearms. He nodded sharply in acknowledgement without taking his eyes from his work. Rutherford was barely breathing. Donovan was beginning to think it was already too late. It was going to take a miracle to keep him alive, and even if they did, he’d never be the same again. “Gabriel—can I do anything to help?”
“Just keep a look out for the ambulance. All we can do now is hope.”
Donovan willed them to arrive quickly.
“What’s all this about, Felix?”
He turned to see Flora at his elbow. The initial surge of adrenaline had clearly begun to wear off, and he could see she was trembling now, finally comprehending the horror of what she was seeing. She put her hand to her mouth. “That poor man.”
Donovan put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “I don’t know. Remember I told you he worked for the British government?” He lowered his voice, wary of being overheard. “He’s an agent with the Secret Service.”
“A spy?” said Flora.
“Of a sort,” said Donovan. “I think whatever’s happened to him, it must be connected to that.”
“But why come here? He should have gone straight for an ambulance. Surely someone in the street could have helped him? Why come and find you like this?”
Donovan watched Gabriel applying pressure to a seeping wound in Rutherford’s side. “I think that’s the pertinent question,” he said. Why had Rutherford forced himself to make it to the Savoy?
The murmuring of the diners suddenly rose in pitch, and Donovan turned to see two medics hurrying in through the main entrance. They were carrying a stretcher, and were dressed in matching black and white uniforms. They were bedraggled from the rain, hair plastered to their foreheads. They bustled over to Gabriel’s side, shooing him out of the way.
“I bound his wounds as best I could,” said Gabriel. “He appears to have been mauled by an animal, although I’m damned if I know what could have caused this much damage.”
“Alright, sir. Thank you for your assistance. We can manage from here,” said one of the medics, without even turning to properly acknowledge Gabriel, who was still kneeling on the carpeted floor, blood dripping from his hands. He looked for a moment as if he was about to reproach the man, but then sighed, and reached for a torn fragment of tablecloth, upon which he set about wiping his hands.
As the two men lowered the stretcher to the floor and began gently lifting Rutherford onto it, Gabriel walked over to join them. Behind him, Ginny was watching and listening, her expression unreadable.
“I’m going with him to the hospital,” said Gabriel. “I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”
Ginny stepped forward, hoisting her handbag onto her shoulder. “I’ll come with you.”
“No,” said Gabriel. He glanced around to ensure no one was close enough to overhear. “We’re not sure what he might be mixed up in yet.”
Ginny narrowed her eyes. Donovan sensed an undercurrent of frustration, as if she thought Gabriel was mollycoddling her. “You know I can look after myself.”
Gabriel shook his head. “Of course I do. It’s not that. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for us both to get involved. If whoever came after him realizes they didn’t quite finish the job, then they might try again. I’m going to make sure he gets to the hospital safely, but if I’m not back by morning, I’ll need you to come find me.”
Ginny gave him a dubious look. “So this isn’t just about you trying to be the hero?”
Gabriel laughed, his face a picture of mock hurt. “Who, me?”
Ginny rolled her eyes.
“Just be careful, Gabriel,” said Donovan. “God knows what Rutherford’s got himself embroiled in. His… associates might not take too kindly to a foreigner sticking his nose into their business, let alone the people—or things—that did this to him.”
Gabriel nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m not going looking for trouble. We’re on vacation, after all.” He grinned, but his concern for his friend was evident in his voice. “I just need to make sure he gets to the hospital.”
Ginny nodded. “Alright. If he comes round, tell him we’re thinking of him.”
“I’ll do better than that,” said Gabriel. “I won’t leave until we’ve made alternative arrangements for dinner.”
* * *
St Bartholomew’s Hospital was an imposing Georgian edifice that, to Gabriel, resembled a stately home more than a famed medical institution. He felt utterly dwarfed by the towering, slab-like structure, the balconied roof, and the grand entrance arch. He could imagine lavish horse-drawn carriages trundling back and forth on the paved forecourt; long, gloomy galleries lined with austere portraits of long-dead nobles; musty libraries and gilded drawing rooms. It had the air of some royal estate that had been co-opted during the war and never handed back by the surgeons.
The ambulance had taken only a few minutes to speed through the slick, empty streets, and now, standing in the rain, watching the two ambulance men unload a still unconscious Rutherford from the rear of the vehicle, Gabriel couldn’t help but wonder if he’d
done the right thing. Donovan had been right—whatever government agency Rutherford worked for weren’t going to take kindly to his interference. And yet… what had compelled Rutherford to stagger through the streets to keep his appointment at the Savoy, half delirious and suffering from potentially fatal wounds? Why hadn’t he made for the nearest holophone box or flagged down a ride to the hospital?
He’d been trying to tell them something. His appearance in that distressed, wounded state had been a message of some kind, and Gabriel could only conclude that his old sparring companion had meant to ask him for help. To what end… well, he supposed he was going to have to stick around to find out.
Gabriel followed the medics inside, keeping his head bowed against the incessant rain.
His initial impressions of the place couldn’t have been further from the truth. Inside, the hospital reeked of carbolic, and was functional and clean, with tiled walls and polished wooden floors. There was nothing of the grandeur of the outer shell of the building evident, here, aside from the tall sash windows; it was clinical and functional, and bustling with activity.
Doctors, nurses and porters buzzed about the place like worker ants, criss-crossing each other’s paths, shouting commands to one another as they attempted to prioritize those patients with the most grievous injuries. Patients crowded in the small entrance lobby, some of them seated on low wooden chairs, others pacing, others still crowding on the floor, their backs pressed against the walls. One man was nursing a bloodied nose; another held his limp arm in a makeshift sling, while a woman was attempting to corral two small children, one of whom had a large, purple welt on the side of their head.
The ambulance men bearing Rutherford’s stretcher were waved straight through to what Gabriel took to be an operating theater, through a set of heavy wooden doors and along a narrow passageway. They hurried through while a porter held the doors open for them. He was a cherubic man in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, who peered myopically at Gabriel through a pair of thick spectacles, and then held up his hand up in warning as Gabriel attempted to follow behind the stretcher.
“I’m afraid I cannot allow members of the public into the operating theater,” he said. His accent was thick and regional, and unfamiliar to Gabriel.
“I’m not a member of the public,” said Gabriel. “I’m the one who brought him in. I bound his wounds at the restaurant before the ambulance arrived.” He held up his hands, showing the man the dark, ingrained blood. It had clotted beneath his fingernails. He was going to have to scrub them clean when he got back to the hotel.
“I see,” said the porter. “Are you a member of the patient’s family?”
“I’m a friend,” said Gabriel.
“Then I’m going to have to ask you to take a seat in the waiting area,” said the porter. “This way.” He released the door, which swung shut on well-oiled hinges, and beckoned for Gabriel to follow.
Gabriel glanced back at the door, unsure whether to push his luck. “Listen, it’s important that I stay with him. He’d want me to be there.”
“I dare say,” said the porter, “but the rules are there for a reason, sir, and we need to give the surgeons room to work.” He offered what Gabriel presumed was supposed to be a sympathetic smile. “They’ll do what they can for your friend. There’s nothing more you can do now. Please, this way.”
Gabriel bristled at the man’s patronizing manner, but he supposed it wasn’t worth making a scene. He’d managed to get Rutherford to the operating table—that had been his goal—and now he’d have to leave it to the doctors to do their work. He’d know more in a couple of hours, if Rutherford was able to pull through.
He followed the porter to a small side room, just off the main thoroughfare. There was no one else waiting inside. “In there, sir. Take a seat, and as soon as there’s any news about your friend, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you,” said Gabriel. “Look, before you go—is there anywhere I can clean up? A restroom?”
The man’s lips twitched in a smile at Gabriel’s colloquialism. “Yes, sir. Just across the hallway, you’ll find a gentleman’s lavatory.” He emphasized the last word, as if to make a point.
“Thanks,” said Gabriel, refusing to rise to the jibe. He watched as the man turned his back and strolled away, whistling tunelessly.
He glanced around the waiting room. It was a small, featureless box of a room, lined with uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs, and a small coffee table heaped with the previous day’s newspapers. On the wall, a painting of Queen Alberta loomed down at him, severe and unattractive in her gilded crown. A single window looked out onto the driveway, where he could see the ambulance still parked, its rear doors hanging open. The two ambulance men who’d helped Rutherford were standing off to one side, both smoking cigarettes beneath a glowing streetlamp. He heard the sound of wheels churning pebbles, and watched as a black van skidded abruptly to a halt beside the ambulance, its headlamps flickering in the gloom. A blonde woman and two men in suits alighted from the vehicle, and headed for the main hospital entrance.
With a sigh, Gabriel wandered out into the hallway. The restroom was just where the porter had indicated, and he ducked inside, heading straight for the sink. The soap was hard and perfumed, and reminded him of the stuff he’d been forced to use during the war—when he’d been lucky enough to get hold of any. It proved largely ineffective at removing the ingrained blood, but it would do until he could get back to the hotel and take a proper soak in the bath. He dried his hands on a paper towel, and ambled back into the hallway, wondering how long he was going to have to wait for news.
There was some commotion going on, further up the hallway. The porter was engaged in a fracas with one of the suited men Gabriel had seen getting out of the van just a moment earlier. He was a burly sort, tall and broad with dark hair, and was physically restraining the porter, holding him back against the wall as the smaller man bellowed and squirmed in his grip. It didn’t appear as if the man in the suit was about to strike him—more that he was preventing the porter from scurrying away from some disagreement.
Gabriel couldn’t help but smile—it was only what the porter deserved. He’d clearly turned his patronizing attitude on the wrong man.
Behind them, the wooden doors opened, and the blonde woman, along with the other suited man—this one slightly smaller, with close-cropped sandy hair—came hurrying out, pushing a trolley bearing the prone form of what appeared to be a patient.
As they hurried down the corridor, the man holding the porter released his grip, and the porter slid to the ground, rubbing his chest.
Something didn’t feel right. Acting on instinct, Gabriel stepped out into the path of the oncoming trolley.
Cursing loudly, the woman leaned left, swerving the trolley to avoid a direct collision. “Get out of the way!”
Gabriel looked at the man on the trolley. He could see the hastily made bandages he’d tied around Rutherford’s wounds were still in place. What the hell were these people trying to do? Were they the ones who’d tried to kill him? What other possible reason could they have for snatching him from the operating table?
“Where are you taking this man?” he demanded, moving further into their path.
“What’s it got to do with you?” snapped the sandy-haired man.
“I’m the one who brought him in. He needs urgent help. From a doctor.”
“You were at the Savoy? Then you have our thanks,” said the woman. “We’ll see to it he’s well looked after. Now get out of our way.”
“I can’t allow you to take him from this hospital,” said Gabriel.
“Like hell you can’t,” said a voice to the right of him. He turned, directly into the fist of the burly man who’d been causing the porter so much grief just a few seconds earlier. Gabriel staggered back, striking the wall, momentarily dazed by the sheer force of the blow. His jaw was smarting. It had been a blow intended to drop him, and he lurched unsteadily, his vision swimming. He raised his fists
, ready to defend himself against a second blow that never came—the three newcomers were already making off down the corridor, running at full pelt, the wheels of Rutherford’s trolley rattling across the porcelain tiles.
Groggily, Gabriel staggered after them. Behind him, he could hear the porter calling for help.
He burst out into the night, just in time to see the woman leaping up into the passenger seat of the van, just as the driver gunned the engine and it roared to life, churning up a slew of stones as it shot off at speed. Abandoned on the driveway was the overturned trolley that had, only a few moments earlier, borne the unconscious Peter Rutherford.
Cursing, Gabriel ran a hand over his face, and then gave chase.
THREE
Tonight, the sky was a wash of deep, inky blue—ominous and foreboding. Gray clouds gathered on the horizon like a pall of smoke, and rain lashed the windowpanes, drumming on the roof tiles as if calling him out, demanding his attention. In the distance the stuttering rooftops of Westminster formed a jagged, irregular horizon, like spurs of broken glass.
He could sense something gathering, out there in the darkness. Something bleak and strange; something unwelcome. The avatar knew it, too; that was why it had broken free of its shackles, striding out into the night in search of whatever festered out there amongst the dank alleyways and shadow-draped lanes. He only hoped it might survive the night.
Roland Horwood turned away from the window, allowing the drape to fall back into place. He felt unsettled, unable to fall into his usual evening routine. He’d eaten, but had abandoned the small meal of ham and boiled potatoes halfway through, distracted by the sounds from outside and the itch of uncertainty at the back of his mind. He’d tried numbing the anxiety with a generous glass of red wine, but still it gnawed away at his gut, and he felt jittery, as if his body wanted him to keep pacing. He’d even considered going out there to look for it, but he knew that was a fool’s errand; it could be anywhere within a ten mile radius by now, and he was hardly a proficient tracker.