Chapter Eight

The Succubus of Black Town

1.

THE SHAMEFUL EXTENT of Fabrice Garrecreux’s depravity had been revealed. Vice-Chancellor Banerjee had recounted the scandalous tale in a slow monotone, with no inflection of emotion save a vague, weary sorrow. It was almost as if he were giving a lecture on a point of law in which he had no interest, or was discussing the dull minutiae of college finances.

The tale went as follows: Garrecreux had been a nuisance from the very start. His research was ostensibly into cannabis sativa, a subspecies of hemp that produced a bud infused with a psychoactive crystalline compound. This, Banerjee explained, was a blight on the lower castes who would inhale its vapours to induce an indolent, carefree haze that blunted the realities of their otherwise dismal existence. Garrecreux had procured two dozen hessian sacks of the stuff and had stunk out the geology department for six weeks afterwards. He became less and less dependable in his teaching duties, often missing his scheduled lectures for days on end in order to concentrate on his research into the plant. He attempted, utterly unsuccessfully, to synthesise the active compound and grow larger and larger crystals, analysing its properties and, so it was rumoured, becoming more and more addicted to the thrall of the weed’s euphoric effects.

Much as in Arnaud’s time, Garrecreux had become a figure of ridicule in the university, among the faculty as a whole and, in particular, the students—with the single exception of a young Bengali graduate by the name of Esme Moonsinge. She came from a wealthy family and, to all intents and purposes, seemed an introverted, brooding girl with a fierce intelligence and a terrible temper. On account of her privileged stock she insisted she be called Madame Moonsinge by peers and professors alike, and when a classmate humiliated her in the common room on account of her close association with Garrecreux, the unfortunate boy was found the following morning with his face slashed open by a knife. The boy lost an eye, and yet nothing could be proved—such things happened when the young wandered Black Town at night. Yet the whole thing reeked of suspicion.

If this wasn’t troubling enough, further distressing reports began to reach Vice-Chancellor Banerjee’s desk. Garrecreux and Moonsinge would lock themselves away in labs to which they (strictly speaking) were not allowed access. They were seen together outside the Campus, often frequenting the riskier corners of Black Town’s most notorious slums. When working in the Campus they would cause fires, small explosions and outbreaks of noxious, headache-inducing gasses. Disciplinary procedures were already well underway before talk came of a disturbing shift in the nature of their relationship—Madame Moonsinge had ceased to be the student and had become the mistress, in every sense of the word. Garrecreux, it was said, was now nothing more than a simpering lapdog, so besotted with the young, tempestuous beauty he would wear dark glasses all hours of the day to counter, it was said, the brightness of her radiant countenance.

There was nothing more the vice-chancellor could offer, he admitted with a sigh. He wanted nothing more than to wash his hands of the whole affair and concentrate on encouraging students and teachers who would bring acclaim and recognition to the fine institution he was tasked with running, as opposed to ruin and ridicule.

“Where do you think we can find them?” asked Arnaud, as Coyne—for the hundredth time—inspected the cleanliness of his nails.

“I can direct you to some of the areas of Black Town where they’ve been seen. It’s not a course of investigation I would recommend, however. Black Town is a dangerous place, Doctor Fontaine, and not one for tourists or outsiders. Even the Queen’s Regiments despise being posted there. Yet I can see your resolution is firm, and your mission of no little importance, so allow me to offer a guide, a trusted friend of mine, and a driver to take…”

“That won’t be necessary,” interjected Coyne, idly. “I’m all the protection he needs.”

When the vice-chancellor led them to the door of his office, he shook Arnaud’s hand firmly and, his eyes sharp, instructed the young Frenchman to watch his back at all times, and to always carry a loaded pistol.

2.

SOVEREIGN WAS HOVERING forty feet above the windswept tundra, a blinding and barren sheet assailed by ghostly wisps of snow made living by the wind. Hardy trees as cold as stone stood sentinel hundreds of feet apart, forlorn for lack of warmth or company. Crops of rock would occasionally peek above the ice, the colour of gunmetal and the only hint of the true nature of the terrain below. They were several miles west of the Russian base at Severnaya, and while the blizzard’s white-out offered them almost perfect concealment, the great airship did not dare venture any closer. Folkard, Enderby and four hand-picked men from the Secret Service Bureau would be continuing on foot.

A cutter was deemed too risky in these conditions, and so weighted rope ladders were thrown down from the sides of Sovereign. Instantly the wind hit them, buffeting them wildly and making the ends whiplash around like a viper in the throes of death.

Even with the weight of the men in full kit, the ladders were bucked and buffeted by the gale on their descent, and more than once Folkard had been forced to cease his climb and grip the ladder close to his body until the tempest had momentarily subsided. Yet eventually, with cheeks already chapped red-raw and facial hair peppered with frost, the party set foot on the enemy’s inhospitable turf.

They regrouped quickly and watched as Sovereign began its mournful ascent, soon lost in the maelstrom of sleet and grey cloud. Folkard watched it until the hull became indistinct, then to the point where he was sure he would not be seeing it again. He almost raised a hand to wish her farewell, but checked himself before he could perform this sentimental gesture. Nevertheless, he felt guilty for not having said goodbye to the ship he loved so dearly, and turned to find the rest of his men with a bitter feeling in his heart.

Enderby consulted a heavy-duty compass and a map wrapped in translucent wax paper, determined which direction was east, and the party set off in silence and single file.

The trudge across the wasteland was a long and arduous one. With the lack of vegetation, cover was impossible; they were truly trusting to luck that they should not be spotted. At least the weather was on their side in that respect. Enderby took the lead with Folkard second, and even though the men were only a few yards apart Folkard could not see the last in line when he looked behind him. As the snowstorm worsened the cold became almost unbearable, and as much as it aided them with concealment it sapped all the energy from Folkard’s already exhausted body. It was only the thought of the Heart, and his certain reunion with Charlotte, that warmed him and spurred him on.

After perhaps four hours of hiking, the storm lessened its assault and rough natural tracks began to appear in the terrain. More and more trees began to dot the landscape, lessening the depth of the snow on the ground, and this along with the uneven yet mercifully solid paths allowed them to pick up their pace. The paths soon became paved with large, flat, irregular stones, tessellated as much as was possible. This was the first sign of civilisation the men had seen in hours, and Folkard felt a brief surge of relief—if not amusement—at his joy upon seeing a badly-made road.

They followed the road for another quarter mile or so, before Enderby ducked to his haunches without warning. Instantly, the rest of the men followed suit and Folkard crawled up to see what had startled the spy.

Enderby pointed ahead of him. Just visible, standing around a dimly-glowing steel brazier, two Russian soldiers huddled against the cold. They slapped their hand against their arms for warmth, their incessant, guttural grumbling carried towards the British on the wind. Enderby and Folkard looked at each other nodded. Enderby reached down to his waist and pulled out a stiletto knife, its blade tempered black to prevent any reflection. Folkard did the same and Enderby quickly gestured: You take the one on the left, I’ll take the one on the right. Without prompting, the men behind them readied their rifles should the assassins be detected.

Swiftly and silently, Folkard and Enderby approached the two unsuspecting soldiers until they could feel the heat of the fire on their faces. Enderby counted down on his fingers, three, two, one…and the two men sprang into action, both plunging their stilettos into the base of the soldiers’ necks with deadly, instant accuracy. The Russians fell to the ground, dead weights, and before the blood had even started to colour the ground, the four service operatives who had taken up the rear were bundling the bodies into the undergrowth, where they would be covered by snowfall in mere minutes—if the wolves didn’t get to them first.

Knowing that the Russian presence was a very real danger from here on in, stealth became paramount. Still in single file, the agents and Folkard eased their way up the road at a crouch, scanning the horizons for any sign of trouble. A larger camp containing a small platoon of Russians was deemed to be too much of a risk, so the party once more took to the snowdrifts and skirted around the danger as if they were never there. The increase in troops surely meant they could not be far from their objective.

Before long they came across a large stone bridge. The eaves of its impressive arches were decked with foot long icicles, the bridge itself spanning a gorge at the base of which lay a frozen river, unmoving and impassive. The cover offered by the bridge seemed a perfect place to stop, rest and assess the situation, and it was clear the men were grateful for even the briefest of respites.

They eased their way down a shallow slope to where the buttress met the ground. There was a small stony area, neatly secluded, where the men could break out their tinned rations. Set into the large buttress was a heavy wooden door, locked when they tried it. This didn’t stop Enderby from keeping one beady eye on it as he sliced off strips of tinned ham with his knife.

He threw the empty tin into a bush and looked to Folkard, then the door.

“Shall we see where it goes?” he asked.

“Why not?” replied Folkard, wiping his hands on his trousers and standing.

Though the door was locked it was rotten with age and obviously disused, and it didn’t take much time or force to open. Inside, a dark stone staircase led up, musty, ancient and cracked.

“Like something out of a ghost story,” remarked Folkard.

“Then it’s lucky I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Folkard raised an eyebrow at Enderby.

“Trust me,” he said. “If you’d seen everything I have…”

Instructing the rest of the group to guard the entrance, the two men made their way up the steps. There were four flights, all at right angles, and for a while in the middle the two adventurers were in total darkness. When they reached the top, a thin rectangle of light indicated the presence of another door, and Enderby pressed his ear against it to listen for a moment.

“Nothing,” he noted. “A light step is hardly the Russian army’s forté, so I think we’re safe.”

Once more the door proved no great obstacle, and after a brief peek through to check the coast was clear, Enderby and Folkard stepped out onto the top of the bridge.

“Handy little short cut,” said Folkard.

“But somewhat exposed. Look.”

Enderby pointed across the bridge. A half a mile away, the Russian’s secret base at Severnaya sat like some great, squat beetle. The main building was a vast hangar, surely the resting place of the Russian’s terrifying new weapon of war, and around it several smaller square buildings were grouped, as if in praise or reverence. Several smaller airships were tethered to the hangar, bobbing contentedly in the sky, with cutters darting quickly between them, flies on the bellies of these great beasts of the air.

“We’ve found it,” said Enderby. “Welcome to Severnaya, Captain Folkard.”

3.

BOBBING UP AND down on a horse, Annabelle felt a curious sense of nostalgia that somehow managed to override the apprehension that, by all rights, she should be feeling.

They had left Billy and Ignatius to tend to the rest of the passengers and Annabelle, George and Bert had moved outside to greet the Indians.

“Will we be safe, miss?” Bert had asked.

“Trust me, Bert. These are Apaches. If they’d wanted us dead we wouldn’t have even known they were there.”

“I’ll defer to your judgement, miss.” There was no trace of irony or fear in his voice, and Annabelle realised this man trusted her completely. She just wished he’d stop calling her “miss”…

If Annabelle was convinced that the Indians posed no danger, her assumption was buoyed even more when she thought she recognized the face of one of the braves. She squinted at him, remembering the high cheekbones and soft brown eyes of a boy she had once known—a boy that had grown into a man.

“Wapi!” she exclaimed.

“Annabelle,” replied Wapi from his horse, nodding gently at her. “It has been a very long time.”

“I’ll say!” replied Annabelle. “Look at you!”

Wapi was dressed in a curious fusion of traditional Apache and Mexican dress. A woven poncho covered his shoulders and bare torso, moccasin-clad feet thrust firmly into his horses stirrups. A bandoleer full of bullets crossed his chest one way, the strap of a Winchester rifle the other. She looked at his face, a face she remembered always being blessed with a gap-toothed smile as they had teased scorpions together or chased each other around the tents and campfires of their ever-nomadic home. Though his youthful looks remained, the smile had gone, replaced by a sombre seriousness that indicated their re-acquaintance, however welcome, was not a matter for celebration just yet.

“The years have made you more beautiful as you have grown, Annabelle,” he said, and as she attempted to conceal the reddening of her cheeks she was simultaneously amused that George’s bristling behind her was almost palpable, “but now is not the time to discuss how those years have shaped you. We must ride, and quickly. There is danger in the desert. Evil men are awakening spirits that should be left to sleep.”

“Where are we going?” asked George.

“Wapi, this my husband George,” said Annabelle, stepping to one side to introduce George. “And Bert, our…travelling companion.”

George stepped forward.

“Happy to make you acquaintance, Wapi.” He held out his hand, but Wapi kept his firmly on the reins, looking down his nose at the Englishman whose arm was so comically outstretched.

“There will be time for talk on the journey. Annabelle, you must ride with me. This husband of yours and the man in black can go with Bly and Gopan.” He paused before adding; “Whichever they prefer.”

4.

THEY HAD RIDDEN due south at a fast pace for what, Bedford guessed, must have been around forty minutes. After that, when they had reached a seemingly vast expanse of desert, they had slowed to allow the horses some respite from the heat of the high Arizona sun. They were heading, it seemed, to a mesa in the distance, the only landmark visible in a horizon perpendicular to the unbroken blue of the sky. Wapi led, Annabelle swaying lazily as she sat behind him, and Bedford goaded Gopan into trotting up until they were side-by-side. When she noticed his approach, Annabelle looked back and smiled.

“Enjoying the ride?” she asked.

“The scenery’s magnificent,” said Bedford drily. “But seriously, Annabelle, what’s all this about? It can’t be coincidence.”

“Of course it isn’t, George my darling. And don’t be coy, you know as well as I that the only way to find out why is to follow the route we’ve been given. And find, so to speak, the root of the problem.”

“But the attack on the train. We’ve been targeted, Annabelle, and dash it all but you’re my wife now, and I won’t see you in danger.”

Annabelle turned to him sharply.

“And, as I believe I’ve said before, you’re my husband. Do you think I wish to see you in danger? I trust the Apaches, and Wapi in particular. Though he may represent a time in my life you were no part of, you are a part of my life now, and a significant one at that. I can’t erase my past, however much I’d like to, so trust me when I say that we’ll both be safe if we stick with Wapi.”

“I agree,” chipped in Bert, trotting some feet behind them. “It’s the best course of action. It seems we share an enemy. Or enemies, at least.”

Wapi, who had been gazing off into the distance, seemed to come to out of some mystic reverie and nodded. “Our chief, the wise and revered Goyahkla, has had many visions of the deaths that may have to be dealt. On these walks inside the mind he has seen you, Annabelle, travel the sky with the same ease as a horse steps through a shallow river. On some of those occasions he has been with you in spirit, hearing with your ears and seeing through your eyes. He has told us of those worlds in the sky; those that looks similar to this, our land, and the ones that look so strange he could barely describe them, or the beasts that dwell there.”

“Who’s Goyahkla when he’s at home?” asked Bert, with genuine interest.

“He is better known to you,” said Wapi, turning his head once more to the horizon, “as Geronimo.”

5.

“OH, CORKS,” SAID Tally.

“Corks indeed,” muttered Nathaniel.

“Mister Potsdam, the ladder, if you’d be so kind.”

Following the instructions of his weasely master, the brute thumped across to where the ladder lay against the rim of the pit and lifted it clear as if it were matchwood.

“Can’t have you climbing out and ruining all the fun now, can we, Professor Stone?” said the well-dressed man, licking the tips of his fingers and using them to extinguish his cigarette with a hiss. “Although I’m sure you’ll feel happier going to you death knowing that I’m truly honoured to finally kill someone who appreciates my art.”

“What can I say?” quipped Nathaniel. “I’m a fool for aesthetics.”

“Now now, Professor. Let’s not get catty. You wouldn’t want to meet your maker feeling all cross now, would you?”

“Bit late for that,” Nathaniel muttered to himself.

“I take it you’ve used your not inconsiderable powers of deduction to work out the purpose of that delicately-hued crystal?”

“I’m guessing it’s some sort of accelerant. There was a small amount, perhaps a few ounces, in the Horseguard’s bomb, and that seemed to imbue the device with a significant lethality…. The extent to which that power is magnified with a block this size is scarcely imaginable….”

“Who needs to imagine! You’ll be seeing for yourself in but a few minute’s time. I would ask you what you thought, but then, what’s the point in asking questions of a bloody, vaporised mess, as my dear old mother used to say.”

“Look,” said Nathaniel hotly, “this witty fluff and bluster is all very good but it’s starting to grate on my nerves a bit. Just who the hell are you, anyway? I caught the name of your pet brick wall—Potsdam, wasn’t it?—and yet here you are, content to remain the man of mystery.”

“It’s funny that the doomed have such a fondness for propriety, don’t you think, Mr Potsdam?” Potsdam remained silent and stony-faced. “Still, I suppose my manners have deserted me. My name is Klopstock. KP Klopstock. Inventor, renaissance man, artiste. Also hired killer.”

“He’s off his chops,” said Tally.

“I’ll let that slide, Mister Cahalleret. I’m gracious like that. Nevertheless, Professor Stone, as well as its glorious ability to make things go bang that little bit bigger, this marvellous mineral you see before you has many other curious qualities. It’s quite the wonder stuff, and my employers are as keen to keep it to themselves as your government is in keeping gravitar on the QT. Which is, clearly, not working out so well for them. And so naturally, any Tom, Dick or Harry who goes poking their nose into the wrong places is bound to suffer misfortune of a rather fiery and terminal sort, thanks to my delicate art. I do so hope you like my little masterpiece down there, Professor. I put some extra work into it just for you….”

“I’m flattered.”

“That’s marvellous to hear. Anyway, time does fly when you’re having fun with gloating, as the saying goes. Mister Potsdam and I really must be off. I believe we have an appointment with your dear friend Arnaud in Calcutta, and he’s hardly going to explode himself now, is he?”

Nathaniel’s face became set. His eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched, his hands unconsciously balling into fists. “I swear to you, Klopstock, I’ll be coming for you.”

“Oh right. And how do you intend to do that, may I inquire? As a ghost? Or do you plan to reconstruct your mangled corpse by sheer force of will and shamble after me like some ungodly revenant? Come, come, Professor Stone. Be reasonable.”

“No force on Earth will be able to stop me.”

“Handy, seeing as the forces you’re dealing with here have no Earthy provenance anyway. Toodle pip, Professor. Do die nicely.”

With that, Klopstock hopped up and brushed the grit from the palm of his hands. “Come along, Mister P. Places to kill, people to mangle.”

“Klopstock!” yelled Nathaniel. “Klopstock!”

But Klopstock ignored him, jauntily sidling to the cave entrance with Potsdam lumbering behind him like some mythical behemoth. As the vast man ducked into the tunnel entrance, he turned around briefly and, using his unnatural and metal-infused strength, yanked at a timber beam that supported the roof. He used the length of thick wood to strike at the top of the tunnel and, ignoring the rocks that fell onto his head and shoulders as if they were no more than snowflakes, had soon totally blocked the only available route of escape.

“Well that’s us well and truly fecked,” said Tally.

6.

GIVEN THE CHOICE, Arnaud may well have picked the dank and cold of that deadly underground cavern over the heat of the Calcutta sun—bomb or not. Vice-Chancellor Banerjee had sent information regarding the whereabouts of Garrecreux and the mysterious Madame Moonsinge to the hotel that Coyne had managed to procure for himself and Arnaud. It turned out, Arnaud thought bitterly to himself, that the fellow wasn’t totally useless after all.

After they had washed and dressed and had eaten a light meal (Arnaud had declined the more exotic Indian food on offer, which looked like some sort of pungent stew served with flatbreads—though Coyne had lapped it up like a native) they left the hotel and headed in the direction of Black Town. Arnaud was still impressed by the European elegance of Calcutta’s wealthier side. He almost felt at home strolling down paved roads and comparing the similarities (and differences) of the architecture in Paris. Everyone seemed well-dressed, affluent, busy—if only there were some respite from this damnable heat.

Arnaud saw a bench under the shade of an awning and beckoned for Coyne to stop. Coyne tutted dismissively.

“I’m sorry,” snapped Arnaud, “but I’m just not used to this…this relentless sunshine!”

“Which may have something to do with you sweating out three days’ worth of brandy.”

“Couldn’t we at least hail a hansom? The tram? Even one of those death-trap rickshaw contraptions would do….”

“Do you think you often see a fancy-pants hansom cab in Black Town, Fontaine? Don’t be soft. They’d see us coming a mile off.”

“Oh, and I suppose a sweaty Frenchman and man dressed entirely in black is utterly inconspicuous.”

“More than conspicuous wealth, yes. As it happens. Oh, you’ll see Europeans in Black Town, all right. None of ’em look you back in the eye and they’ll be moving pretty sharpish, as whatever you want in Calcutta that isn’t on the level can be found there, if you jangle your rupees in the right darkened corner. Weapons, hashish, girls…oh, this lot have picked up quick how to cater for tastes that you don’t talk about in the drawing room. You’ve got five minutes.”

Arnaud didn’t even think he’d been given three before Coyne was chivvying him to get up and get moving again. It was almost as if the agent was more keen to find Garrecreux than the man who had actually been charged with procuring his help.

“Do you even know where we’re meant to be going?” whinged Arnaud as he dragged himself to his feet. He was already soaked with sweat and feeling miserable. Coyne turned sharply on his feet and jabbed Arnaud in the chest with his index finger, taking Arnaud aback.

“Listen up,” said Coyne, his voice clipped. “I don’t like you and you don’t like me. I think we’ve established that. Right? Right. So get this into your Bastille-storming, grape-crushing French head, and get it there quick. I was trained for this. This is what I do, right? I don’t tell you how to look at bloody rocks. If I say we walk this way, we walk this way. If I say we go here, we go there. If I say stab this chump in the gut, we stab him. Is that understood?”

“Now look here!”

“No. I won’t. I won’t look anywhere because you haven’t got the first idea what you’re doing. But I do. And that’s enough to mean I don’t have to take any of your guff. Or at least no more than I’ve already taken. So wipe your face, shut your mouth and follow me.”

He’d turned smartly on his heels and strode off before Arnaud could even begin to reply. The Frenchman was stunned. It was not so much the rudeness of the man—it was true Arnaud didn’t like him, and so ultimately his opinion mattered little. But so often on his adventures he had been accompanied by his friends, those he trusted and loved, and now he found himself stuck with a petulant, ill-mannered hothead who clearly could not be relied on when the chips were down. He wondered what on Earth Folkard had been thinking when he chose this degenerate for the job. Arnaud was glad he had taken Banerjee’s advice to heart, and though the loaded pistol was a weight on his side, it did do something to lighten his worries.

7.

“WHERE’S YOUR FIGHTING Irish spirit, Tally?” Nathaniel chided. “Come on, give me a hand.”

Nathaniel began to race around the floor of the pit, inspecting the chunks of machinery and discarded mining detritus. The ropes that hung from the ceiling were out of reach, but Nathaniel reasoned that with both his and Tally’s height, and a little boost from a bit of abandoned equipment, they just might make it to the lip of the hole.

“How long have we got?” asked Tally, as he and Nathaniel hefted their shoulders against an old engine housing.

“I don’t think that madman is prone to leaving much to chance. But we’ll certainly know when our time runs out.”

“Comforting thought.”

“Quite. Come on, man, put your back into it!”

The ticking from the bomb strapped to the crystal seemed to increase in intensity. More worryingly, the device seemed to be giving off a low, reptilian hiss. Tally and Nathaniel had managed to manoeuvre the engine block to the wall, and Nathaniel motioned for Tally to climb onto it. Tally began to protest.

“No time for debates, Tally. You’re stronger and I’m lighter, and as soon as I’m up I’ll put the ladder down for you. Hurry, man!”

Tally did as he was told and scrambled up. Nathaniel followed—with the two of them standing there barely any room remained and the block rocked precariously whenever either of the men moved. Nathaniel squashed himself as close as he was able to the wall and Tally bent down to interlock his fingers and hook them under the sole of Nathaniel’s shoe.

“You ready, Professor?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Three, two… Hup!”

His back suddenly wrenched with pain at the awkward weight he was attempting to lift, Tally gritted his teeth and tried to lean his weight forwards, giving Nathaniel as much height as he could. Nathaniel scrambled up the side of the wall, dirtying and blooding his fingernails with every frantic, hard-fought inch of progress. As Nathaniel’s foot passed his shoulder the Irishman howled in pain and effort, Nathaniel yelling unheard encouragements. Mustering all his strength, and still holding Nathaniel’s shoe, Tally slowly, carefully started to stand, wincing with the terrible effort.

“Keep going, keep going!” hollered the Professor. “I’m nearly there!”

With a gasp that seemed to hollow out his lungs and a push from a source of strength unbeknownst in himself, Tally pushed Nathaniel’s leg up as far as it would go. The whole of Professor Stone’s weight was now on Tally’s outstretched arms, the hardness of the heel digging cruelly into his palms. The whole of Tally’s body began to shake.

“I can’t hold it!” he cried. “I can’t hold it!”

“A second more!”

But Tally could not even muster the energy for that one second more, the second that might have saved both of their lives. He let go and fell away, winding himself as he dropped heavily on his back. He had expected Nathaniel’s weight to slam onto him a mere millisecond later, perhaps break a couple of ribs or his wrist, and Tally thought with grim humour that whatever got broke, at least he’d have the pain to concentrate on until the bomb went off and killed him, Nathaniel and goodness knows how many innocent Dubliners.

Only Nathaniel didn’t drop onto him at all.

Tally opened his eyes quickly to see, with a relief that bordered on the spiritual, Nathaniel’s ankles disappearing over the rim of the pit.

“Oh, you little British beauty!” he yelled, wincing as he got up.

“I had a leg up from a very dependable Irishman,” came Nathaniel’s disembodied voice. Moments later, the ladder was manhandled inexpertly back into the pit and Tally scrambled up it with remarkable speed.

“Right,” he said. “What now?”

“Well, it looks like that way is a no-go,” said Nathaniel, indicating the exit Potsdam had blocked with rubble. He furrowed his brow before exclaiming, “Lucifers!”

“No need for that language,” said Tally, surprising himself that the gift of the gab hadn’t deserted him even in these trying times.

“Matches, Tally! Do you have any matches?”

“Aye, here y’are.” Tally pulled a box from his pocket and handed them across. “Time for one last smoke, is it?”

“Don’t be asinine, man! Light one and watch the flame!”

They both took a match from the box and struck it on the sandpapered side. Nathaniel lifted his just above his head and watched the flame intently. Nothing happened—the match just burnt down, agonisingly slowly, half way down, then more… The flame was about to nip Nathaniel’s finger when suddenly, almost imperceptibly, it was caught by a secret breeze.

Both Nathaniel and Tally’s eyes darted in the direction opposite the flame’s movement. A dark tunnel on the other side of a cave, clearly apart from the rest that dotted the walls of the cavern.

“There,” said Nathaniel, already beginning his sprint. “It has to be!”

“I ain’t arguing,” said Tally, hot on his heels.

Sending up a rooster-tail of grit and gravel behind them, they dashed towards the darkened cave mouth. Behind them, the bomb began to hiss louder, a kettle about to over-boil.

The entrance was wide enough to continue their run, the light from the cavern behind them providing a little illumination. It wasn’t long before they were forced to grasp the walls in the darkness, pulling themselves along as fast as they dared. The tunnel branched several times, and the duo had to move onwards solely by instinct, choosing the routes that sloped upwards and the larger openings. In the stygian depths behind him, Nathaniel heard Tally cry out as he slipped and fell. He whipped round, but the blackness was so absolute it disorientated him.

“Tally!” he cried.

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m all right! Just a little—”

But Tally’s sentence was cut short with a blinding flash that seemed to run against the walls of the tunnel like some ethereal beast. The tiniest fraction of time passed, and the sharp, deafening crack and the low, resounding rumble of the blast followed in its fearful wake. The walls of the tunnel began to shake, dislodging dust and pebbles from the ceiling; secondary blasts rocked the very air itself as the deadly chemical reaction made its way down into the roots of the alien crystal. The flash of light had given Nathaniel enough time to reach his arm out to Tally, who grabbed it and hauled himself up. There were the sounds of rocks falling toward them as the tunnel began to collapse. Dragging the dazed Irishman behind him, Nathaniel hurried on—yet it was not mere self-preservation that spurred him, but the thought of protecting Arnaud from the evil plots of Klopstock and his monstrous, mute companion. The ground would not stop shaking. It felt as if the very world was ending, and if it proved that Nathaniel could not escape, the explosion that rocked the city of Dublin that night would be but a fleabite compared to the end that awaited the Earth.

8.

THE REST OF the walk passed in an uncomfortable silence. It was not long before they reached the banks of the Hooghly River, and while the return of its unutterable stench was unwelcome, the soft breeze that rose up from its waters was not. They needed to cross, and head east into the dark heart of Black Town that spread like a stain into the distance. As one approached it, the gentle chatter and clatter of horses’ hooves was replaced by the loud shouts from markets, haggling, threats and wails. They crossed a bridge, Arnaud lagging deliberately behind, mulling silently, and before they’d even crossed its span the poverty and human degradation of Black Town had begun.

It seemed like every second person you encountered was begging. But Coyne had neglected to mention that even raggedy stallholders and the lower-caste Calcuttans were game for the pleas and grasping hands of the dispossessed. Arnaud saw one emaciated boy beaten viciously for snatching a fly-blown hunk of fish from a tabletop, and as the stall’s owner was occupied with his strop other chancers and vagabonds descended to help themselves. British troops watched idly from street corners, smoking, powerless or too desensitized to help. Was this, thought Arnaud, the inevitable price that must be paid for the progress and abundance across the river? Did encouraging culture, life and knowledge always mean suffering for those who lived beyond its reach? And was such a price worth paying?

The crowds, the noise…it was almost too much for Arnaud to take. Tents and shacks were cobbled roughly together at the sides of what passed for roads. Everything was bleached a dirty white by the sun. The further they got in, the more noise assaulted them, the more people jostled them, the more the tension rose. It seemed to Arnaud that every eye glanced in their direction at least once, with some holding their gaze suspiciously for as long as the duo remained in sight. Disregarding his previous unprofessional outburst, Arnaud was almost glad to find Coyne sidle up beside him in the bustle.

“Keep your wits about you, Fontaine. And keep your hand on that pistol you think I haven’t noticed in your pocket.”

Arnaud did so.

“What’s the plan?” he asked.

“We’re coming up to a little cluster of buildings. Here on the right. See ’em? They sell a sort of local rot-gut there, Calcutta moonshine. Don’t touch it, whatever you do. Not even a drop. I know what you’re like. It stings when you get it on your fingers, God alone knows what it does to your insides.”

“So essentially, this is another trip to a bar.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what is it, Fontaine. They sell roast beef and have the Sunday papers, and the barmaid will call you ‘squire’ and give you the wink. Just stick with me and don’t go aggravating the locals, eh?”

Arnaud was getting increasingly tired of Coyne’s attitude, but felt that for the moment is was best to put up with it. He’d certainly have the upper hand when it came to talking to Garrecreux, and bided his time, mentally preparing a complaint to issue to Folkard upon his return.

Shortly, they reached the building Coyne had indicated. Pretty much the whole of the front wall had crumbled, and a tattered, flapping awning held up by sticks stretched over a small courtyard that sat before the bar. Arnaud suddenly understood Coyne’s sarcasm when it came to the comparison with a pleasant little British inn. This looked more like somebody’s house, filled with clutter and second-hand junk. About two dozen Indian men sat on the ground or, if they were lucky, lounged around on pillows. They drank a milky, oily liquid from tin cups or puffed away on stained hookahs, dropping their conversations mid-sentence as Arnaud and Coyne snaked around their prostrate forms. An impromptu bar—more like a plank of wood held up by bricks and optimism—ran across the back wall. The bartender who stood behind it was conspicuous by his corpulence; he was the only denizen of Black Town Arnaud had seen so far with more than an ounce of fat of him.

He had a large, thick, black beard and restless eyes, and as the two men approached he adopted a stance of wilful defiance and ill-concealed displeasure. In a thick accent, he said;

“I think you gentleman have the wrong building.”

“We’re here to ask some questions,” said Arnaud, matching the man for obstinacy.

“Then you definitely have the wrong building.”

“Listen, chum,” said Coyne, crossing his arms and leaning in menacingly. “I happen to know we’ve got the right place, and you’re the right man. So unless you want a visit from some of the more unhinged members of Her Majesty’s Colonial Peacekeepers at ooh, let’s say, 3am tomorrow, I suggest you start acting a little more helpful.”

The bartender sneered. “British,” he spat. “You are all the same. You are not content with taking over our country, you have to keep the right to threaten us as well. It is a land of cowards, your England. Cowards and bullies.”

With lightning speed Coyne lurched over the bar and grasped the man by his collarless shirt. He bunched his fists tight and yanked the bartender forward, and the agent’s forehead met his nose with not inconsiderable force and a sickening crack. The big man’s legs fell from under him, his face streaming with blood, but Coyne kept him upright. There was a commotion behind them, the smashing of a hookah pipe and the sound of the crowd bolting upright, and Arnaud whipped around. The clients in the seedy bar were all on their feet, eyes sharp and dangerous, edging towards where the intruders stood. With a speed that surprised even himself, Arnaud’s pistol was in his hand and he jabbed it at the encroaching crowd, who backed off warily.

“I think we’ve got his attention,” said Coyne. “Ask your questions, Fontaine.”

“Whatever happened to not aggravating the locals?”

“Well if he’d have kept his manners I’d have kept my temper. Come on, Frenchie. We haven’t got all day.”

Still keeping his gun trained on the mob, Arnaud turned to the bruised and battered bartender, who was whimpering and cursing under his breath. He looked up, dazed, at Arnaud.

“We’re looking for a man,” said Arnaud in a firm voice. “A man and a girl. He’s called Garrecreux, a lecturer from the university. The girl is called Moonsinge, Madame Esme Moonsinge—one of his old students. We hear they’ve been seen around here.”

“Moonsinge,” moaned the bartender. “Yes, I know her. We all know her. When we thought Black Town could not get any more desperate and depraved, she appears like a typhoon and steals out friends and children.”

“Where can we find her?”

“Nobody knows. She is a phantom, an evil that lingers everywhere but can never be found….”

“Stop talking in riddles, man!” yelled Coyne, hoisting the bartender up roughly. “Tell us what you know!”

“That’s all I know, I swear!” he babbled, before slumping down momentarily and, bizarrely, starting to laugh. It started as a low chuckle, but had soon reached a crescendo of a booming guffaw that unsettled Arnaud far more than the baying drunkards that threatened them from the courtyard. “But now, now…you fools! You won’t find her, she will find you. And when she does, I pray that the cruelties she inflicts on your bodies and your minds are a thousand times worse than those she has inflicted on Black Town.”

Coyne released his grip and the man fell back against the rear wall, still chuckling in a low, threatening bass.

“I think we’d better get out of here,” said Arnaud.

9.

IT HAD BEEN a long and terrifying crawl through a tunnel barely the width of Nathaniel’s shoulders. The tremors had subsided and the main shaft had ceased its collapse perhaps twenty feet behind them—Nathaniel could barely stop himself shaking with the adrenalin, and Tally seemed to be in a state of considerable shock. They got their breath back and, having no alternative, continued up the passage with a prayer on their lips that it would lead to some form of escape. As the route began to narrow, Nathaniel noticed the air around them beginning to freshen, and a thin trickle of water on the floor—he even thought he could see the welcoming softness of moonlight ahead of them. The only question was whether the tunnel became too narrow to prevent their escape…. Soon they were on their haunches, then their knees, and finally face down, crawling with barely an inch between their heads and the ceiling of the claustrophobic passage.

“There’s light, Tally! There’s definitely light!”

“Saints be praised,” said Tally, without a hint of irony.

The possibility of finally escaping the dismal tunnel spurred Nathaniel on, despite his almost total exhaustion. There! He could taste it! Fresh air! Even the ice-cold stream of water that froze his fingertips and soaked his shirtfront seemed refreshingly pleasant. He crawled quicker, desperate, excited. Inch by slow inch an opening appeared in front of him, pale with the light of the moon, a small hole that maybe, just maybe, they could force themselves through….

As if acting as some final, cruel appendix to the terror and discomfort they had endured all night, the opening was not quite large enough. Nathaniel gashed his waist as he struggled out, gasping, desperate, fearful he might get stuck. With an almighty yank he pulled himself free and tumbled from the hole, filthy, bleeding and soaking wet. Every part of him ached, and all of his senses seem unnaturally keen and alert. He turned around and helped tug Tally out, the two men falling together as Tally popped from the hole like a cork from a bottle of champagne. For a moment the two of them lay on their backs, breathing heavily.

“Dublin air,” said Tally eventually. “Best in the feckin’ world.”