The Immorality Engine

CHAPTER
20

Bainbridge woke slowly, consciousness returning in stuttering explosions of light and sound: a fragment of a woman’s voice, a bright light, the scent of burning wood, the kiss of raindrops upon his cheeks. It hurt to breathe. In fact, simply existing seemed to be enough to cause him pain. Every fibre of his body ached. He was cold and wet, and he couldn’t feel his left arm.

His eyelids fluttered open. He was lying on his back. Above him there was only the vastness of the slate grey sky, obscured by a shimmering cascade of raindrops that glimmered in the light of a nearby streetlamp. To his left, a curling trail of black, oily smoke rose in a stark column. The cobbles were hard and cold beneath his head.

Slowly, he dragged himself up into a sitting position. He reached for his cane. It wasn’t there. He looked around in confusion. Then the memories snapped back into place. The hansom. The explosions. The two men who’d attacked him. He’d left his cane buried in the guts of one of them.

What had the man said to him as he’d sprawled on the ground spitting blood? “With the compliments of Enoch Graves.” The Bastion Society. Of course. First they had made an attempt on Miss Hobbes’s life, and now they’d come after him.

He had to hurry. He had to get to Newbury, to stop his friend from walking into a lion’s den… if it wasn’t already too late. He had no idea of the time, no sense of how long he’d been out cold. All he knew was that he was soaked through to the bone, and that every inch of him throbbed with pain.

Well, almost every inch. He still couldn’t feel his left arm.

Bainbridge looked down. A ragged fragment of metal casing, about the size of his hand, was lodged in his upper arm, just below the shoulder. His jacket was soaked in blood around the wound, but thankfully, it no longer seemed to be bleeding. The fabric was scorched and smouldering as a result of the fiery blast. Absently he wondered how long he must have lain there in the rain.

Then his sensation returned, and Bainbridge howled as his shoulder ignited in pain. He thought he was going to swoon again, but he steadied himself with his other hand and managed to retain consciousness. He heard footsteps and voices, almost drowned out by the patter of the rain. Did the other attacker survive the explosion? Was he coming to finish him off? Bainbridge didn’t have any more fight left in him.

Groggily he raised his head and looked up. A man and a woman were rushing towards him, concerned expressions on their faces. Behind them he could see the shattered remains of the hansom, still blazing, even in the pounding rain. The force of the explosion must have thrown him back at least fifteen feet, if not more. Other people were milling about, too, their faces twisted in appalled shock as they caught sight of the ruined carcasses of the horses and the exploded remnants of the three men. Bainbridge realised with a grim satisfaction that the surviving attacker must have been killed by the blast of his own weapon.

To his left he heard someone shouting and cursing. He glanced over. The shopkeeper.

Bainbridge tried to stand, but his legs were like jelly, and he collapsed back to the ground just as the two civilians arrived at his side. The man-dressed in an overcoat and wide-brimmed hat, his face mostly hidden in shadow-wrapped his arms around Bainbridge and propped him up, helping him to stand. Bainbridge leaned heavily on the man, panting for breath.

“… the explosion and came running.” Bainbridge realised the woman had been talking to him in urgent tones. He turned to look at her. She was the spitting image of Isobel. He staggered back and the man caught him, taking his weight. He looked again. It was more than just a passing similarity; she resembled his late wife so closely that Bainbridge felt his heart leap. He blinked, wondering if his mind was still addled from the explosion. No, it was true. This young, pretty woman looked just like the girl he remembered from all those years ago. Her face was framed in a bob of flaming red hair, the bridge of her nose dusted with freckles. Her eyes were the sharpest blue. Bainbridge smiled and tried to focus on what she had to say. “… dead. How did you get away?”

Bainbridge tried to speak but his mouth was gummed shut with blood. He swallowed and it stuck in his throat. For a minute he thought he was going to retch, but then he found his voice. “Scotland Yard,” he said. His words sounded slurred and unfamiliar, even to him.

“Scotland Yard?” the man echoed. “Yes, they’re on their way. We sent for them.”

Bainbridge shook his head. He tried to reach into his jacket pocket for his papers, but the lancing pain in his shoulder was too much to bear, and he fumbled ineffectually. “No,” he said, finally. “ I’m from Scotland Yard. Charles… Bainbridge.” The last word was hissed out between clenched teeth.

The woman looked shocked and fearful, as if she wanted to help but didn’t know what to do. “We need to get you to the hospital,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the burning wreckage.

“No! Not the hospital,” Bainbridge exclaimed. He needed to get to Newbury, to warn him about Enoch Graves. And then to the Queen, and the palace. He must get to the palace. He swooned, and the world began to spin. Everything went black.

Bainbridge staggered and came to, his eyes blinking open again. He realised he’d been unconscious for only a second or two. The man in the overcoat held him upright as he sucked the cold, damp air into his lungs and finally righted himself.

“Sir, you need to get to a hospital. You’re badly hurt. Can you remember what happened?” said the woman, who was holding her trembling hands before her as if trying to keep him at bay. He realised he must have been a fearsome sight, bruised and battered from the fistfight, covered in blood and soot from the explosion.

“Of course I can remember what happened, Isobel!” he growled, swaying from side to side as his head swam. “Those damn vagabonds set upon me in my cab.”

“Isobel?” The woman looked utterly perplexed. She turned to the man. “I think he must have taken a blow to the head. Let’s see if we can get him out of this rain while we wait for the police. Under that awning over there.” She indicated a butcher’s shop across the street, the doorway of which was sheltered by a large tarpaulin.

“What? Now hang on a minute!” Bainbridge took a step forward and immediately regretted it. His shoulder exploded in pain, and lights swam before his eyes. He grimaced and relaxed into the man’s supporting grip, giving himself over to the strangers.

The man heaved Bainbridge’s good arm over his shoulders and supported him as they shakily walked across the street. Every step caused bursts of pain in his arm as the jagged lump of metal shifted with the motion. The rain felt cool against his face.

People had been spilling out into the street ever since the fight began, and now a significant crowd had gathered, civilians who had been dragged from their homes by the sound of the explosions, out in the pouring rain to stare in wonder at the scene of devastation in their usually quiet street. A few of them caught sight of Bainbridge, lumbering helplessly towards the shelter of the tarpaulin, and pointed him out to their neighbours, chattering and speculating about what might have occurred. Bainbridge paid them no heed.

A moment later he was slumped on the ground once again, his back to the shop door, trying to catch his breath. He willed the police carriages to hurry. His head kept nodding forward as he dipped in and out of consciousness, and the pain in his arm was a constant, sharp reminder of his predicament.

Minutes passed like hours. The man and the woman drifted away and others came. Bainbridge ignored them, hearing their tinny voices as if they were off somewhere in another room. It was all he could do to stay awake, to stay alive. He focused on Newbury, on Veronica, on the Queen. He needed to stay alive for them.

He didn’t know how long it was before the men from the Yard arrived. Their carriages rolled noisily out of the night, accompanied by a hissing, steam-powered ambulance, belching black fumes into the rain-lashed night. Bainbridge watched as men swarmed from the carriages to engulf the scene. Civilians were shepherded away from the flaming wreckage; others were taken aside for questioning. Someone standing over him-a man, he thought-called for assistance, and a group of three or four uniformed men came running over.

“Blimey! It’s the guv’nor!” one of them exclaimed. “Get the ambulance over here, now.”

The man dropped to his knees, gazing intently at Bainbridge. “He’s in a bad way.” He turned, looking over his shoulder. “Come along, hurry up!”

Bainbridge lifted his head and fixed the young constable with a defiant glare. “Newbury,” he croaked.

“Quite right, sir. Let’s get you out of here. They’ll put you right at the infirmary.”

It took all the strength he had left in his body, but Bainbridge thrust out his good arm and caught the constable by the sleeve. He bunched up the fabric in his fist and pulled the man closer. His voice was a dry rasp. “Listen to me. Find Maurice Newbury. Find him, and tell him I need to speak with him.”

The young bobby gave a terrified nod. “Yes, sir,” he said. But it was already too late. The chief inspector had once again slipped into unconsciousness.