The Wolves of London (46 page)

The heat coming off him was tremendous; I felt sweat rolling greasily down my face and chest. I jumped aside as he staggered towards me, and he crashed into the operating table and fell across it, still beating weakly at his clothes with hands that were already blackened and charred. As the fire continued to devour him the room started to fill with thick black smoke that stung my eyes and made me cough. The occupants of the cages were going frantic, screeching and flinging themselves against their bars in an effort to escape. I knew it was madness to try to save them, knew that most fire victims died of smoke inhalation and that I ought to get out of the room as fast as I could, but I couldn’t just leave them to burn – I had made a promise. Bending double and pulling the collar of my sweater up over my face, I stumbled towards the cages.

Through the haze I saw that although they were made mostly of wood, they were secured by iron padlocks. Spotting the copper pipe lying on the floor, I snatched it up and used it as a jemmy, applying it to the hasp of the lock on the cage containing the boy with the metal jaw and trying to prise it free. It took several straining seconds before the padlock tore away from the wood, by which time my head was spinning and I was coughing so hard I could taste blood at the back of my throat. As the door swung open, the boy scrambled out, took one look at me as if weighing up whether I was his enemy, and then scuttled like a hunch-backed monkey across to the open door and up the stone steps. As I watched him go, I was aware of the blackened shape of the man lying across the operating table, still burning (as was the table itself), while, beyond him, Tallarian, blood pouring down his face, was floundering about on the floor in a semi-daze as if he couldn’t work out what was happening.

I turned back to the cages, knowing that I could afford to have a go at releasing only one more captive before getting out of there. With no time to decide I simply moved to the next cage in line, that containing the girl with the metal arm, and rammed the ragged end of the copper pipe into the gap between the hasp and the wood.

Sweat poured into my eyes and my lungs laboured for oxygen. The airlessness caused my head to pound with the threat of unconsciousness, reducing the roar of the fire to a muffled throb. With my strength ebbing, I wrenched frantically on the end of the copper pipe, and after a moment of resistance felt rather than heard the gristly tearing of wood. The door to the cage swung open, but through the smoke-shrouded air I saw that the girl was unconscious, her tiny body heaving as it fought for breath. With what felt like the last of my strength I reached in, dragged her out and heaved her on to my shoulder.

Despite her grotesque metal appendage she seemed to weigh almost nothing. I turned, my chest convulsing with pain as coughs like barbed wire tore out of me, my lungs feeling as though they were on the verge of exploding. Through black smoke and raging heat I staggered towards the door. Just as I reached it a white hand lunged from the greyness and grabbed my foot.

It was Tallarian. I looked down to see him gaping up at me, his mouth wide in what appeared to be a silent scream of rage, but was probably nothing more than a desperate need for oxygen. The left side of his face was a mask of blood and his jacket was red with it. I snatched my foot back and his hand flopped to the floor like a dead fish. Leaving him to his own devices, I staggered out of the room.

Ascending the stone steps was like climbing a mountain. With the girl still unconscious over my shoulder, I literally crawled up them inch by inch, my fingers clutching for each jutting ridge, my body a dead weight that felt constantly on the verge of being torn apart by coughing. The heat and smoke felt
heavy
inside me, like wet sand which clogged my lungs and brain and weighed down my limbs.

At some point I passed out. I wasn’t even aware it had happened until I felt strong hands beneath my armpits, attempting to haul me to my feet. I tried to protest, but all that emerged was a fit of coughing so violent I thought I was being turned inside out. I heard a voice, soothing and cultured. ‘Try to relax, sir. We’ll have you out of this dreadful place and back home before you know it.’

Home?
I thought.
What do you mean
, ‘
home’?

But the airless, choking blackness swamped my thoughts once again and I knew no more.

M
y ribs and lungs felt as though they had been kicked and stamped on until they were pulped flesh and bruised bone. I woke up coughing, the ratcheting pain that ripped through me causing me to press a hand to my chest, for fear I might shake apart. Eyes watering, I struggled into a sitting position, trying to stifle the desire to keep coughing until all the smoke was out of me. I could still taste it at the back of my throat with each rasping breath; it was as if I’d been barbecued from the inside.

It was only when the initial bout of coughing subsided that I realised where I was. Through my swimming vision I recognised the room in the Kensington house where I’d recuperated after my encounter with Hulse and his men. To my right was the row of bay windows with its view of parkland and the pagoda-like structure on the hill. But the room had been redecorated since the last time I’d been here – the wallpaper was maroon and richly textured, the curtains and carpet thicker and darker. Plus it was more cluttered, knick-knacks and items of furniture taking up most of the floor space, and framed pictures cramming the walls.

Then I realised. Of course the house hadn’t been
re
decorated; I was evidently still in the past and this is how it must have been before I had known it.

Although I was grateful to be free of Tallarian’s clutches, my spirits were low, thoughts of Kate filling my head. The two of us were further apart than ever, and without the heart I could see no way of getting back to her. But how could I even
begin
to search for it here? I was stranded, with no identity, no influence, nothing. I may have been in the middle of a city, but I felt as if I’d been cast adrift on a desert island.

Having said that, I clearly had allies here. The fact that I was recuperating in a familiar bed was evidence of that. Perhaps, then, I wasn’t
completely
isolated. Perhaps there was
some
hope to cling to.

Moving slowly, I inched upright in the bed, fighting the urge to cough, and wondered if I could summon enough strength to call out. But then there was a creak on the landing and a tap on the door.

‘Come in,’ I wheezed, the effort bringing on a fresh bout of coughing so violent that it doubled me over.

When it subsided, and I was able to raise my head, I saw a tall, lean, immaculately dressed man standing at the foot of the bed. He was around sixty, the silver hair at his temples matching the silver waistcoat he wore beneath a dark, long-tailed jacket. His swan-like neck, rising from a wing-collared shirt, supported a head that was tilted in a way that, combined with his hooked nose, gave him the air of a Roman emperor. The austerity of his expression, however, was offset by the concern in his sky-blue eyes.

As I opened my mouth he raised a hand.

‘If you’ll pardon me, sir, I would advise you to rest your throat and conserve your breath. I shall endeavour to provide you with sufficient information to answer many of the questions you are doubtless clamouring to ask.’

I recognised his voice immediately. This was the man who had rescued me from the fire in Tallarian’s laboratory. What was it he had said? Something about bringing me home? I watched in bemused silence as he crossed to the bedside table, lifted a beaded lace doily from the top of a jug and poured me a glass of water. As he handed it to me, I noted with relief that the water was clear and seemed free of impurities. I sipped, grateful for the soothing coolness of it against my throat.

‘May I?’ he asked, indicating a wooden chair beside the bed. I nodded and he sat down, though he remained straight-backed, his hands resting on his knees, as if relaxing didn’t suit him. Without preamble he said, ‘My name is Hawkins. I have been butler in this house for a little over two years. That is when I first met you, sir. You employed me shortly after you purchased the property from the estate of its previous owner.’

Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he withdrew a small, ivory-coloured envelope, which he handed to me.

‘If you’ll permit me, sir, before I resume any further explanations I have been advised to give you this.’

Puzzled, I took the envelope from him. On the front ‘Alex’ had been written in block capitals. Opening the envelope, I took out the folded sheet of notepaper inside. The letter, covering both sides of the paper, was handwritten in black ink. With a jolt I recognised the handwriting as my own. I began to read:

Hi Alex,

First of all, I know how weird this is. But it’s even weirder for me in a way, because I’m trying to remember exactly what this letter said when I read it in my past (your present).

I know exactly how disorientated you’re feeling right now, because I’ve been there, but things are not quite as black as they seem. The house is yours, so you don’t have to worry about finding somewhere to live, which I’m hoping means you’ll be able to work out a few things.

But basically all I wanted to say was just listen to what Hawkins tells you and don’t interrupt – not till the end, anyway. I know your chest and lungs are hurting and you’re finding it hard to breathe, but you’ll recover, trust me. Just take your time, be patient and
think
. I can’t tell you too much, I’m afraid, not because I don’t want to, but just because this is what I remember the letter saying when I read it and I don’t want to risk messing things up by telling you more than I knew back then. I don’t know if it
will
mess things up, but I daren’t risk it. I don’t have anything like all the answers, in case you’re wondering (which I know you are), I don’t even know whether time is set in stone and that by reading this letter it means that you’re guaranteed to get to where I am now. Maybe things change all the time, maybe time is mutable, maybe the past me (i.e. you) will never even write this letter. Frankly, all this time-travel stuff does my head in. It’s best not to think about it too much if you can help it.

In short, I’m winging it just as much as you are. But, as I say, do yourself a favour and listen to Hawkins. I know
exactly
how you’re feeling just now – scared and confused and stranded – but although he’s a bit uptight (don’t tell him I said that – I
know
you won’t) he’s a man you can absolutely rely on. You’ll learn a lot from him and he’ll help you get by.

Okay, that’s it. I’m dying to say more, but writing this is like taking dictation from my own memory, so I’d better not.

Good luck and take care, and I hope you get at least to where I am now. If not, God knows what will happen to me. Maybe I’ll just blink out of existence or something.

All the best,

Alex (from the future)

I read the letter twice, and then again. By the time I put it aside I was as dizzy and sick as if I’d stepped off a roller coaster. I looked at Hawkins, and it comforted me to see the expression of polite sympathy on his thin, beak-nosed face.

‘You don’t have to say anything, sir,’ he said. ‘Although I haven’t read the letter, I have been apprised as to its general content, and you yourself have explained the current situation to me and have described in detail precisely how perplexed you were when you first read it. Let me assure you, therefore, that it is my duty, and indeed my intention, to provide you with whatever aid you may – and will – require during this period of convalescence and readjustment. Although I’m aware that you don’t know me at this stage, rest assured that I know
you
, and that I have your very best interests at heart.’

He paused, steepling his fingers.

‘The date is the third of September 1895. As I’m sure you are aware, our current monarch is Queen Victoria and our prime minister, following his victory in the recent general election, is Lord Salisbury. However, in order for you to gain a more detailed knowledge of current affairs I have taken the liberty of arranging for
The Times
of London to be delivered to the house each morning, for your perusal.

‘The address here is number 23 Ranskill Gardens, all the necessary documentation for which – together with your personal documentation – is held at the offices of your solicitor, the firm of Holman, Timperley and Bryce on Whitefriars Street in the Temple district. You are a gentleman of independent means, and have a bank account, containing a substantial sum of money, at Fulton and Co. on Lombard Street. Your current household staff numbers five – as well as myself, there is Mrs Peake the house-keeper and three maid-servants, Polly, Florence and Hattie. Mrs Peake and myself are fully aware of your circumstances, though as far as the girls are concerned you have just returned from a voyage to the West Indies with a malady which has resulted in a certain amount of temporary senility and memory loss.’

I felt I was taking in only a fraction of what Hawkins was telling me, but he paused for no more than a second or two before giving a regal-like waft of his hand. ‘In the wardrobe to your left,’ he said, ‘you will find a selection of attire more suited to the current age than your own more, ah… avant-garde accoutrements. Undergarments and such-like can be found in the drawers of the dresser to the right of the window.

‘It is currently a quarter to eleven and luncheon is served at noon. If you wish it, sir, I will gladly provide you with assistance in dressing should you prefer to take your midday meal in the dining room. That is not to say that your convalescence should be a rushed affair. On the contrary, aware though I am of how eager you are to begin your quest to re-acquire the obsidian heart, I must inform you that your, ah… future self did advise me to ensure that you don’t bring more harm upon yourself by leaping back into the fray too swiftly. Indeed his – or rather, your – exact words to me were’ – he paused, reddening slightly – ‘“Don’t take any shit from me, Hawkins.”’