The Affinity Bridge (30 page)

Newbury’s breath was shallow, his skin had lost its colour and his eyes had sunk back in their sockets. Black bruises had emerged all over his exposed body where he had taken a severe battering from the revenants. Bainbridge hoped the Fixer really was able to work miracles. Newbury would need one if he were going to live.

Taking his cane, Bainbridge clambered to his feet and swung the carriage door open, glancing from side to side to see if anyone was watching. There were a few early risers going about their business, but the street was mostly deserted. He turned back to Veronica. “Stay here. I’ll go and make arrangements.”

She nodded silently and he ducked out of the cab, nodding at the driver as he mounted the step down to the road and made his way towards the entrance of the large house. The building was tall, with three storeys above ground and a basement below, which Bainbridge knew would be their destination today. The house stood at the end of a long terrace, and as Bainbridge mounted the steps up to the front door, he heard the engine of the cab chugging behind him and watched as the driver reversed the cab around the corner, parking it near the iron staircase that led down to the basement level.

He rapped loudly on the door with the end of his cane. There was a momentary pause, and then the door clicked open and a middle-aged man in a black suit appeared in the opening. “Ah, good morning, Sir Charles. Won’t you come in?”

Bainbridge stepped over the threshold into the opulent foyer of the house. It was a grand building, worthy of royalty itself. The floor had been laid in a shimmering white marble and a huge staircase swept away towards the upper levels of the house. Panelled doors led off into other, private rooms. A chandelier hung from a perfect ceiling rosette, and a small table had everything arranged just so. The entire place smelled of freshly-cut flowers. The presentation was immaculate.

Bainbridge caught sight of himself in the large mirror hanging on the opposite wall, and shuddered. He looked terrible. Once he’d deposited Newbury with the Fixer, he’d see Miss Hobbes back to her lodgings and head home himself for a sleep and a long soak in the bath.

The manservant who had admitted him to the house—a stout man of around fifty, with a receding head of grey hair— looked Bainbridge up and down, as if trying to ascertain the reason for his visit. “Are you well, Sir Charles…?”

“Yes, yes, no time for all that, Rothford. I’ve got Sir Maurice Newbury in the cab back there, practically torn to pieces. He’s in urgent need of the Fixer.”

Rothford snapped to attention. “Quite right, sir. Better bring him around the side entrance, quick-sharp. I’ll notify the master immediately. I believe you know the way?”

“I do.”

“Then go, sir, and I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

Bainbridge nodded. “Thank you, Rothford.”

“I’ll hear no word of it, sir.” He clicked the door open again and ushered Bainbridge out.

Bainbridge hurried down the steps and round the corner to where the cab was still waiting, its engine burring noisily. Overhead, an airship swept low over the city, whipping his hair back from his face. He was glad he’d left his hat in the carriage earlier. He hopped up onto the step and spoke to the driver. “Keep an eye out, Barnes. Wouldn’t do to have anyone see what we’re up to.”

The driver nodded. “Aye, sir. I’ll give you the word when you’re clear to make a move.”

“Good man.” He ducked into the carriage. Newbury was still unconscious. Bainbridge put a hand on Veronica’s shoulder. “All will be well, Miss Hobbes. We’ve brought him to the right place. The Fixer will do his work, and Sir Maurice will be back on his feet in no time at all.” He glanced down at the prone man. “Here, can you help me with his head whilst I lift him down?”

“Of course.” Veronica moved to cradle Newbury’s head as Bainbridge placed his cane on the opposite seat and moved to scoop his unconscious friend up into his arms. He staggered under the weight, trying to get his footing, and then was able to rest Newbury’s head in the crook of his arm as he moved towards the open door. Gasping a little for breath, unused to the exertion, he called out to the driver.

“Barnes? Are we set?”

“Aye, sir. All clear.”

Bainbridge stepped cautiously down onto the step beneath the carriage door, and then onto the street below. Without looking back, he approached the side of the house, mounting the first rung on an iron staircase that descended from street level down to the basement of the large house. His feet clanged loudly on the steps as he struggled to manoeuvre Newbury down the tight enclosure. Then, reaching the bottom of the flight of stairs, he used the edge of his boot to bang on the wooden door that awaited him there. A fraction of a second later the door swung open, revealing a dark space beyond, and Bainbridge, shifting so as not to strike Newbury’s head against the doorframe, slipped quietly inside.

A few minutes later Bainbridge emerged from the same doorway, having deposited Newbury with Rothford to await the ministrations of the Fixer. He crested the top of the iron staircase, dusted himself down, and, red-faced from the exertion, hopped back into the cab with a nod to the driver. The engine spluttered to life as Bainbridge took a seat, careful to avoid the spilled blood that was congealing on the floor. Barnes would have his work cut out for him, cleaning that lot up.

Veronica was sitting with her hands folded in her lap. She looked nearly as white as Newbury had, shocked to the core and uncertain about Newbury’s condition. Bainbridge attempted to offer her his warmest smile. “My dear Miss Hobbes. I should think Sir Maurice will owe you a large debt of gratitude when he eventually comes round from all this. Your efforts in stemming his wounds are surely what kept him alive during the course of the journey over here. Now, the Fixer can do his work and make him whole again.”

Veronica pursed her lips. “Sir Charles, I think it is we who shall owe Sir Maurice a debt of gratitude. His actions at the murder scene are what saved us all from disaster. He willingly put himself in the way of those monsters to save us from harm. Saving his life in turn was the very least we could do, if indeed we have managed it.” She looked away, still dignified, even whilst caked in the dried blood of her employer. “I hope this ‘Fixer’ is everything you’ve made him out to be.”

Bainbridge nodded, carefully weighing her words. “You’re quite right, of course, Miss Hobbes. Forgive my insolence. I did not mean to demean the actions of our brave friend, only to embolden you with talk of your own. I was aiming to give reassurance, where perhaps none was needed. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to talk to ladies, ever since my wife died. I now spend all my time in the company of other men.”

Veronica returned his gaze. Her demeanour softened. “Sir Charles, I fear it’s not a case of knowing how to talk to a lady. I’m simply concerned for the well-being of Sir Maurice.” She tried, ineffectually, to brush some of the dried blood from her clothes. “So tell me, what does this ‘Fixer’ do?”

Bainbridge smiled. “He fixes things.”

Newbury woke with a start. He sucked at the air.

His head was throbbing, although he felt as if he’d somehow been infused with a warm, liquid glow; warmth that started in his belly and seemed to seep upwards towards his head, gloriously taking the edge off his pain and leaving his mind to wander in a drowsy state of semi-consciousness. He knew the sensation of old.

Opium.

Newbury peeled open his eyes, and then immediately shut them again. The light in the room was blinding, clinically sharp, and it seared the back of his retinas like a hot knife. He drew a ragged breath, pulling the air down into his lungs. His chest felt like it was on fire. Cautiously, he tried to open his eyes again, reaching up to shelter them from the glare with cupped hands. Stinging tears ran down his cheeks. He blinked them away. Finally, an image resolved.

He was lying on his back on a hard, metal table. A face was looming over him. He tried to sit up.

“No, Sir Maurice. Try to lay still. Everything is going to be alright.”

Newbury felt a hand on his chest, holding him still on the table. He blinked up at the strange face that was hovering over him. The man was in his late forties, balding, with a neatly trimmed black beard. A bizarre mechanical contraption sat on his head, like a wire frame that encompassed his temples and forehead, with various accoutrements and glass lenses attached to it on folding levers and arms. The man reached up and flipped one of these lenses down over one eye.

“Who are you? Where am I?” Newbury had a panicked edge to his voice.

“I’m the Fixer, and you’re in my workshop, underneath my home. You have nothing to worry about.”

Newbury breathed a sigh of relief, allowing himself to relax. He’d never had occasion to visit the Fixer before, but he was well aware that the man existed; a personal surgeon of Her Majesty’s who made himself available to her agents in times of dire need. He remembered Bainbridge speaking about him in the carriage, just after the attack. What was not good was the fact that, if he was here, his situation was potentially very grave indeed.

Newbury quickly discovered that his abdomen and shoulder lanced with pain every time he made even the slightest motion with his body. He tried to lie still, giving himself over to the warmth of the opium, but the Fixer had been wise and had only dosed him with enough to take the edge off the pain, and not enough to render him unconscious again. He felt gloved hands tearing at his clothes and the faint stirring of a breeze on his exposed flesh. Nevertheless, the room itself was warm, and listening to the sounds around him he had the sense of a workshop full of bizarre, mechanical devices. There was a faint electrical hum, accompanied by the occasional sound of a belching valve as it issued forth a cloud of hot steam, as well as the constant
tick-tock
of numerous clockwork engines powering objects that he could not see from his limited vantage point on the table. Newbury tried not to imagine what the man was about to do to him with the strange machines that were making such sounds.

The Fixer appeared in his field of vision once again, wavering slightly under the influence of the opium, and then disappeared. Newbury could hear him shuffling around the other side of the table. The Fixer cleared his throat, and then began to speak, offering a running commentary as he examined Newbury’s wounds. His voice, Newbury noticed, was gruff and gravelley, the voice of a man who’d smoked too much heavy shag in his time. “Hmmm. A vicious bite in the left clavicular area, there. Serious tears to the flesh and muscular tissue. Excessive blood loss.” He paused for a moment, poking sharply at the wounds on Newbury’s chest. “Deep gouges in the chest. Numerous flesh wounds. A severe laceration in the left side of the chest and abdomen. My, my. You have been busy.”

Newbury stirred uncomfortably. He waited until he heard the other man move away from the table, his footsteps ringing on the tiled floor, and then, with a significant effort, managed to prop himself up on one elbow. The Fixer stood at the foot of the table, fiddling with an array of surgical tools, which pinged noisily on a steel tray. Beside him on a wooden trolley was a rack of steel hypodermic syringes, which contained a range of strange, multi-coloured fluids. Newbury took the opportunity to take a better look at the man who called himself the Fixer. Aside from the contraption on his head, the man was wearing a tarnished leather smock and matching leather gloves. Newbury couldn’t help thinking that he had more of the appearance of a butcher about him than of a physician. He had a ruddy complexion and the manner of a public schoolboy. Newbury suspected he spent a great deal of time in his workshop, and very little time engaging with the world.