The Revolutions (21 page)

It all sounded rather like drug-induced dreams, or religious ecstasies, but the Company quite clearly believed that they were not merely experiencing visions, but travelling
somewhere
—if not in the ordinary spatial dimensions of
up
and
down
, then in corresponding dimensions of spirit, or energy, or soul-stuff, or Astral Light, or the aether. It made Arthur’s head hurt.

All they’d achieved so far, Atwood said, were just clumsy experiments. He likened them to the ventures of the very first explorers of ancient times, who set out across unknown oceans in primitive rafts and coracles. But with the aid of Gracewell’s calculations, they would build a road to the Cosmos. The thing in the next room was proof that they were on the right track.

Atwood said all of this in the matter-of-fact way that a newspaper might tell you about the building of the Panama Canal.

“You have to understand,” Atwood said, “that there have always been magicians in London. Old stick-in-the-muds, a lot of them. Old-fashioned. Many of them—most of them, to be frank—oppose our efforts. Over-cautious. Jealous of the power and learning that might be ours. There’s a sort of, well, something of a fraternity of our enemies, you might say.”

Atwood and Sun and Jupiter all agreed that the kidnappers—pale and black-eyed—sounded like Podmore’s men.

“Podmore?” Arthur said. “You don’t mean
the
Podmore—
Lord
Podmore?”

They all looked at him curiously.

“Yes,” Atwood said. “Do you know him?”

“No. That is, you could say I used to work for him. I wrote for
The Monthly Mammoth
, and I believe he owned it—but of course he owns the
Evening Standard
and the
Law Times
and half a dozen other magazines and newspapers and … Do you really mean Podmore, the newspaper magnate?”

“None other,” Atwood said. “In addition to his business enterprises, Lord Podmore is a magician of great skill, and a dangerous man. One of my father’s acquaintances, in the old days.”

“We knew that his men were sniffing around,” Jupiter said. “Threatening, in that unpleasant way that they do. But kidnap Gracewell! He has gone too far. I warned him there would be consequences.”

Atwood said, “He’ll be well protected.”

“Yes,” Sun agreed. “An assault by the direct method will fail.”

The maid had brought coffee along with the pillows, and Sun sipped at it.

“Gracewell was well protected, too,” Atwood said. “So is this house, for that matter—or so I thought. I should fire Lewis for letting you in.”

Arthur pulled the watch out of his pocket and put it on the table. “Lewis is the horse-faced fellow at the door? He did his best to stop me. But Gracewell gave me this. I thought he was talking nonsense, but—”

“For the love of God,” Atwood said, “why would he give you that?”

Sun picked it up. “I made that toy for Mr Gracewell,” he said. “For his protection. The time in it is mine, not yours. I think I shall take it back.”

Sun closed his hand, and when he opened it the watch was gone. Arthur experienced a quick succession of mental associations involving watches and the urgency of vanishing time and he looked again at Josephine, lying asleep on the floor, lost to him—perhaps for ever. If what these madmen said was even half-true, then half of her was here, and half of her so far away that it would take a thousand years, a million years, to reach her by any sane or rational means.…

Then his wounds caught up with him and he collapsed with his head on the table.

Chapter Sixteen

Either his wound had been shallower than it had looked, or Sun was a master surgeon, because Arthur was soon on his feet again. His thoughts turned to Borel, who, if he’d taken Arthur’s advice, was probably half-way to the seaside by now.

Atwood permitted Arthur to use his telephone—which occupied a room of its own, like a sacred object, a little black-and-gold Ark—to consult with the clerks at the Hôtel Métropole in Brighton. Around midnight, clerks of the Metrôpole at last brought Borel to the telephone. By that time the rest of Atwood’s Company had gone to their various homes.

Borel’s voice sounded very distant as it emerged from the glistening black speaker—as if he were calling not from the seaside but from the bottom of the sea. He was lost, and anxious, and confused. He kept shouting, as if he didn’t entirely understand what a telephone was.

“You said that there was danger. My daughter, Mr Shaw. What are you involved in, Mr Shaw? My shop. Is it—
political
?”

“Political? Oh—no! No, not in that way, Mr Borel. Josephine—Josephine is very ill, Mr Borel.”

“Miss Bradman?”

“It’s a—it’s a sort of sleeping sickness, Mr Borel.”

Borel was slow to answer. “Is there danger or is there not, Mr Shaw?”

Arthur covered the speaker and asked Atwood if the house on Rugby Street was safe.

Atwood shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. If I knew what Podmore and his fellows would do next, we wouldn’t have lost Gracewell, would we?”

Arthur could feel Borel’s silent anger over the line.

Shortly after that the connection was lost, and Arthur couldn’t reach the Metrôpole again. He resisted the urge to smash Atwood’s telephone to kindling.

“I’ll have a bed made for Josephine,” Atwood said. He glanced at Arthur with obvious irritation. “You may stay, of course.”

The maid and her candle led the way as Arthur and Atwood carried Josephine upstairs to bed, past what seemed to Arthur like an endless series of rooms: one full of half-finished paintings, presumably Atwood’s; another that contained nothing but a very fine Turkish carpet on a dusty floor; rooms cluttered with furniture under white funereal shrouds; empty rooms; smartly appointed rooms that looked as though no one had set foot in them in years; rooms full of vaguely Egyptian bric-a-brac; and a room with crossed foils over the mantelpiece, and above them crossed oars … though, to Arthur’s eye, Atwood looked a head too short to be a rowing man.

They found a bedroom, and Atwood’s maid found clothes suitable for Josephine to sleep in. Throughout the whole process Josephine breathed steadily, but never opened her eyes. The maid was nervous and tongue-tied, as well she might be, and said few words. Arthur talked and talked to fill the silence, about how Josephine was only a little unwell, and how she would be right as rain again in no time. After a while he had almost convinced himself of the truth of this.

“A lot of hocus-pocus,” he said. “Mars, indeed! It’s hypnotism—that’s all it is. I dare say she
thinks
she’s on Mars, but in the morning it will be a strange dream—wait and see.”

The maid wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“Yes indeed!”

When she left, he locked the door behind her.

He’d told Borel. He supposed next he should write to Josephine’s family. But how could he possibly explain what had happened? To them, or to anyone. God, he could just picture it—Waugh would want to offer medical advice, he just knew it. The lies he’d have to tell!

On the other hand, she might be herself again in the morning. Wake with a smile. Just a bit of fun. Find her own way back. Was that possible? He didn’t know. He was quite as out of his depth as anyone had ever been. He wanted to shake her awake, and ask her what to do.

Her eyes fluttered open. An empty gaze. She didn’t see him. She didn’t see the ceiling, with its fussy white plaster mouldings. What
did
she see?

Of course, it was unthinkable that he should sleep in the same bed as her. Too awful and uncanny to even imagine it. It was agony even to touch her. He made himself a bivouac of bedclothes and lay on the floor. He lay on his side for an eternity, his wound aching and itching, thinking of all the terrible things Josephine might be suffering. He thought of all the things that the astronomers had to say about the horrors of space, of the cold and the vacuum and the dreadful solar winds. But if you could travel to the stars in spirit, and lock up a Martian in your library, then everything astronomy had to say might be wrong. He spent another hour thinking of all the other things that modern science had to say that might be wrong, until he felt as if the floor beneath him might vanish in a puff of uncertainty, and the Earth with it.

Two hundred pounds. That was real, and certain. She’d put herself in danger for two hundred pounds; which was to say that she’d put herself in danger because of his impecunity, his fecklessness, his idleness, all the things that his foster-father had always accused him of.

When he finally slept, he dreamed of Mars. Oddly, despite all his waking terrors, the dream was lovely. He dreamed of red plains, cloud-capped mountains, forests of violet flowers, cyclopean aqueducts of white marble carrying sparkling blue water across vast unknown continents. And blue men, tens of thousands of them, aloft on Martian winds.

*   *   *

He woke in a panic. Someone was banging on the door. He leapt to his feet thinking of fire or Podmore’s thugs or worse, and snatched up a poker. He opened the door to see Atwood standing there.

“Well? Shaw?”

“Well what?”

“Put that down, unless you intend to strike me with it. Has her condition changed?”

“See for yourself,” he said.

She couldn’t be woken, not by shaking or shouting or sal volatile or pleading, not by tears or by whispering sweet nothings, not by lighting matches or ringing bells or singing or cymbals or familiar songs on the piano, not by Arthur’s kiss, or by the various spells Atwood uttered, or by anything else that occurred to them in the course of the morning. Sometimes she smiled. Sometimes she furrowed her brow. She could be coaxed to swallow water. Atwood had a servant make soup, and Arthur managed to make her eat a little. Sometimes she sighed, or made other small motions—matters of habit. Her mind and her soul were elsewhere.

Atwood’s guilt seemed quite genuine. For most of the morning he looked like he might be sick at any moment. Then, around half past ten, he decided that it was somehow all Lord Podmore’s fault, and he went off to plan his revenge.

Of course his affections for Josephine were quite plain. He hardly troubled to hide them, which was insulting in itself. Arthur didn’t for a moment suppose that Josephine had succumbed to Atwood’s dubious charms, but that didn’t mean he had to like the bastard.

*   *   *

Atwood returned for dinner. The cook produced a late meal—pork cutlets in tomato sauce. Arthur ate at the table in Atwood’s parlour. On the wall facing him was a hideous painting. It depicted the Titan Saturn devouring his children, or at least Atwood said it did. All Arthur knew for sure was that it depicted a twisted old man in the dark eating a child, and that it did nothing for his digestion, and that he did not consider it art. Otherwise, the room was decorated with photographs of Atwood on bicycles, or in fencing garb, or hiking. Atwood sat primly, legs crossed, watching Arthur across the table. He claimed that he wasn’t hungry.

“Listen, Atwood.” Arthur pointed his fork at him. “I can’t call these people
Jupiter
and
Mars
and
Halley’s bloody Comet.
Twinkle twinkle little bloody star. What are their names?”

“Our Company has always had nine in its inner circle, and we have always been identified, in our ritual roles, by the names of the planets.”

“Immemorial tradition, and all that.”

“On the contrary—we’re scarcely five years old; and tradition means nothing to me, except when it’s of use. We go by ritual names to facilitate the correct mental state for our experiments. And because some of us are secretive. I don’t know who Jupiter is—not in the way you mean. She goes by
Moina
, but I believe it to be an alias.”

“Hmm.”

“And why should I care? She is a woman of extraordinary perception—one of the few in London I would consider my equal. She is—perhaps you will understand this, Shaw—she is the other half of my soul. Between us there is a profound communion, as of the Moon and the Earth. Why should I want to know more? Why should I want to know that she is married to a solicitor, let’s suppose, or lives in Chelsea, or if she has children, or
God
, what their names are?”

“If you say so, Atwood.”

Arthur chased sauce around his plate, and tried not to let his gaze wander to the horrible painting. “And you must be some sort of grand something-or-other. Lord of something, I expect.”

“Yes.”

“Thought as much. And Sun is a prince of some sort? Hmm? The bloody lot of you!”

Atwood raised an eyebrow. Arthur continued eating. He was far past the point of ordinary deference.

One of Atwood’s flunkeys had left a pot of tea on the side-table. Arthur attacked it with gusto.

“What are our plans, then, Atwood? For getting Mr Gracewell back, that is, if that’s the only way to get Josephine back.”

Atwood picked up a knife and toyed with it.

“Well?”

“I don’t know, Shaw. We will confer. I don’t know where Gracewell is. Lord Podmore will be well defended. Sun will counsel patience—he always does.”

“I always say the way to attack a problem is by thinking clearly.” Arthur ignored Atwood’s expression of unmitigated contempt and went on. “Let’s hear about these enemies of yours, Atwood. These rivals. Who are they? What are their numbers? Their motives? Their—”

“I don’t know precisely who is or isn’t opposed to us. I suspect Mathers is one of their fraternity. But Mathers is mostly show—a posturer. Dr Sandys at King’s College has made his opposition to our experiments plain. But … some of our enemies may be men I meet at my club every morning, and talk to about the newspapers, and exchange cards with, and consider friends, while behind my back they are bent on my destruction. Podmore was a friend of my father’s. Until quite recently, I would have said we were on cordial terms. I once offered to bring him into the Company, as a matter of fact.”