The Revolutions (30 page)

Abby lit a candle.

Arthur was lying on his back under a small heap of dusty old clothes. There was broken china all around him. There was no looming and arcane Cabinet of Osiris overhead, only the wardrobe that had always been in the corner of the room, which he’d never bothered to open before.

He stood. Abby was in her nightshirt, breathing heavily. The room was otherwise empty. No thugs, no bird, no Podmore. The table was not broken. No sign of Podmore’s half-eaten meal or the glasses he and his men had drunk from. Apart from the damage Arthur had done to the wardrobe, everything was as it had been before he picked up the card.

He ran into the bedroom. One thing had changed: Josephine’s bed was empty. He threw open all the doors and looked out the window. She was gone.

He went back and shook the wardrobe as if she might tumble out of a concealed chamber, like a magician’s assistant.

Abby was already half-dressed and packing up her things. He started to ask her if she’d seen what had happened, if she’d seen Podmore and the Cabinet and Sun’s bird too. She shook her head. She wouldn’t speak or look him in the eye. She finished packing and left.

His wound was closed. A pink bumpy scar. No stitches.

He poked around the flat for a little while longer. Then he began to imagine Podmore’s men returning. Or Atwood and Dimmick, wanting to know what had happened. Thérèse, paying one of her visits. He thought of all the things he’d told Lord Podmore, all the secrets of the Company he’d spilled. He packed up a handful of possessions and any money he could find, and fled.

Chapter Twenty-one

By dawn, Arthur had decided that he had no choice but to return to Atwood, to confess his betrayal, to seek sanctuary and forgiveness, but when he arrived at Hanover Square, he found Atwood’s house in ruins. Fire had shattered the windows and collapsed part of the roof. It was clear at a glance that the house was abandoned. The trees nearby were bare, and the square was littered disgustingly with dozens upon dozens of dead crows, and pigeons, and rats. Lord Podmore had obviously wasted no time.

Arthur turned and walked away, and walked for hours, until he hardly knew where he was any more. He found a cheap boarding-house room and a corner of a park to sit in until the evening; then he got drunk in a vile and noisy gin-palace. He told himself that he was drinking to get up courage—but for what? He didn’t know. He had no plan. He drank with the diligence and patience of a man working out mathematics in Gracewell’s Engine, and he staggered back to his room and fell asleep on the floor, where he suffered a terrible nightmare all night long.

In his nightmare, Josephine was lost on a vast blood-red plain, under a dark and shifting and shadowy sky. She stumbled in the gloom over sharp rocks. Something pursued her, something that was too huge and too dark to see clearly, something so huge that it seemed perhaps it was Mars itself. Arthur called to her to come and join him in his hiding place, but she could not hear him—or perhaps, he began to fear, she didn’t trust him. He had failed her once too often. It was his pride and greed that had left them in their current predicament. He said as much to Atwood—in his dream Atwood was with him in his hiding-place, stroking his elegant little beard and chattering away about Albertus Magnus and Dr John Dee, and about the uses of vervain and mandrake root, and the thousand hidden names of Krishna, and the monsters (black and thousand-legged and hungry and squirming) that lived on Saturn. Gracewell was there too, drawing geometric figures on the walls of the cave. Sun stood behind Arthur, writing something on his back. Even Podmore was there, watching and taking notes. Arthur stood in the mouth of the cave and called out for Josephine. He called out all the names he could think of for her, until he was calling out nonsense words into a shrill wind that smelled of sand and blood and ruin. Josephine ran, and stumbled. The shadow loomed over her like the rising of a hideous purple-green moon, a sour and rotting thing.

*   *   *

He went to ground. The Company couldn’t help him, wouldn’t help him. If Atwood had survived the destruction of his house, he’d know that he had been betrayed. He would not forgive. Arthur was almost as afraid of Dimmick finding him as he was of Podmore. He hid from mirrors and covered the windows of his rented room with newspapers. He performed the few magics of protection against evil that he remembered from
Pow-wows.

*   *   *

On Saturday afternoon he went out to Blackheath. He sat out on the grass by himself until it was dark, and all the holiday-makers and picnickers with hampers and nurses with perambulators and children with kites had gone home, and he was alone. Then he lay down on his back with his hands behind his head and waited for the stars to come out. It was a clear night and the sky was soon an unbroken spread of stars. Arthur thought he recognised Orion, and Cygnus. He could see the unwinking light of Mars in the southern part of the night sky, and he prayed. He willed himself to see Josephine. He strained to set his imagination free, like a hawk. He sought new modes of perception. He thought that perhaps, his need and desire being so great, he might somehow invent for himself methods that had so far exceeded the grasp of Atwood and Sun and Jupiter and all the combined minds of Gracewell’s Engine. He focused his mind on the steady light of Mars, and he thought of its red plains, its two moons. He tried to imagine how Earth might look to someone standing on Mars; struggled to cast his imagination there, to forget his body, the damp of the grass, dogs barking, the dirt clumped beneath his shoulder.
Josephine
, he thought,
Josephine, help me, show me the way, show me where you are, stretch out a hand to me.
It didn’t work. Nothing happened. He got very cold.

*   *   *

On Sunday he decided that it was high time he went to church again.

He didn’t dare go back to his usual place of Sunday worship, for fear that Podmore or Dimmick might be watching. Instead he went to St. James’s on the Marylebone Road. It was a large and handsome structure. He chose it almost on a whim, dithered outside, and ducked in at the last moment. The congregation was numerous and bustling, the pews packed even on a beautiful summer’s day.

The truth was that he was somewhat relieved to find that he
could
still enter a church. After all his dabblings in crime and sorcery, he’d been half-afraid that the congregation might sense his wickedness and cast him out. A bell might start ringing; lightning might strike him. Instead the sexton gave him a pitying glance and led him to a vacant seat at the very back of the church, beside two old ladies in black who stiffened as he sat down. A marble angel overhead spread its wings and looked down, stone-faced.

He supposed that he looked like a desperate man, a vagrant in need of shelter, a sinner in need of salvation. He was all of those things. He’d hardly changed his clothes in a week. He was jealously hoarding the money he’d snatched from Atwood’s flat; he was afraid to visit a bank. The old ladies glared at him, and sniffed. He stared fixedly ahead at the pulpit as the congregation filed in, coughing, murmuring, and gossiping about business and children and holidays and politics and illnesses.

The congregation rose to sing “Creator of the Stars of Night.” Arthur joined in, stumbling a little over the hymn’s familiar words. If there were a Creator of the Stars, Arthur had seen enough to know that He could not much resemble the God Arthur had always believed in. He found himself trying to imagine the God that the native of the spheres might have worshipped, the God in whose image it might have been made. He simply could not see how it could be the same God that was known to St. James’s Church on the Marylebone Road.

The minister stood at the pulpit. There was a hush in which every rustle of the minister’s robes and the turning of the pages of his book could be heard, and then he coughed, and began his sermon. He held both sides of the pulpit in his hands and spoke firmly and plainly. His theme was pride, and he took as his text the temptation of Christ in the wilderness by the Devil. Arthur put his head in his hands and imagined the wilderness as the blood-red plains of Mars. He imagined the Devil, standing on a mountaintop, showing off all the ruined glories of the civilizations of Mars. He imagined the Devil with Atwood’s face.

But it wasn’t Atwood’s fault; it was his own. Everything that had happened, to him and to Josephine. If he hadn’t blundered blindly into Atwood’s house! If he hadn’t let greed and ambition blind him to the dangers of Gracewell’s Engine! He thought of the men who’d gone mad in Gracewell’s Engine, and wondered again what had become of them.
Rising out of the room—
how callow his ambition seemed now. His errors had multiplied and now it was too late to mend any of them.

The minister came to the end of his sermon, and Arthur realised that he hadn’t followed most of the man’s argument. Well, it was too late now. He stood again to sing. A collection went round. He fled.

It was bright and hot outside and he instantly missed his hat, abandoned in Atwood’s flat. He didn’t know where to go next. He stood, blinking in the sun, waiting there in the vague hope that some sign might show him what to do.

“Arthur!”

Someone was calling his name. His first instinct was to run.

“I say—Arthur! Is that you? Good Lord, Arthur, it is you! Wait—wait there! Are you—by God, you look an awful bloody mess. Is this your church now? I haven’t seen you in weeks. God, my boy, if you’ve fallen on hard times you know you need only … What happened to you?”

By the time he had completed that speech, Arthur’s uncle George Weston had caught up with him, and extended his hand to shake.

George Weston wasn’t Arthur’s real uncle. He had a number of uncles and aunts on his father’s side, but they were all in the civil service in far-flung parts of the Empire—or possibly, these days, dead. George Weston was Arthur’s foster-father’s brother. The two Weston brothers could not, in Arthur’s opinion, be less alike. George was good-natured, quick-witted, artistic, and generous. He had an energetic way of talking and a habit of tilting his head to one side and nodding as he spoke, as if he wanted to be sure that you agreed with every word before he offered another. He made a good living in publishing, writing humorous stories about boats. It was George Weston who’d first found Arthur work at the
Mammoth.
He was married to a very lovely woman by the name of Agnes; they had no children.

Arthur was utterly astonished to see him. He’d begun to think he might never again see any of the figures of his former life. He shook George’s hand, not knowing what to say.

George studied Arthur carefully, nodding. “Hmm. Hmm. Is something wrong? Is—God, Arthur, is it Josephine?”

“Josephine,” Arthur said, “is—she’s very ill, George.”

George started asking all sorts of questions about Josephine’s illness, and insisting that he be permitted to visit her. He considered himself something of an amateur expert on medicine—he liked to write about doctors, and he owned a number of medical encyclopaedias. He meant his questions kindly, but they were not easy to answer.

“At the very least, Arthur, you must let me buy you lunch!”

It wasn’t an offer Arthur could refuse. George’s hand on his arm was firm. He steered Arthur through the busy street towards a nearby chop-house. Arthur settled heavily into a chair and George sat down opposite him. George had a newspaper and two or three parcels of shopping—mostly books—which he placed beside his chair.

George took another long look at Arthur. “Arthur, when did you last eat?”

“I don’t recall. It’s been rather difficult lately.”

“I prescribe coffee, and plenty of it. And steak. And green vegetables, as many as possible.”

He summoned a waiter, who brought coffee. It did Arthur a great deal of good, and it also gave him something to stare at while he lied to his uncle.

“A state of coma,” Arthur said. “That’s what they call it. The doctors say it’s caused by an infection—an inflammation of the tissues of the brain. She breathes, she eats and drinks, but she cannot speak. Her mind is … elsewhere.”

“What doctors? Where is she?”

“Oh—a multitude of doctors. I sought second opinions.”

“But who? I know one or two good doctors myself. I know a chap who studies the brain. I…”

“They say she’ll recover, George. They promise me. They’re doing all they can.”

“By God! I saw Josephine just a few weeks ago, didn’t I? She was in fine health. How terrible. How terrible. You must be … Arthur, if you ever need any help, Agnes and I would…”

“Of course. Of course.” Arthur sipped his coffee. It made his head spin.

By the time Arthur’s steak arrived he was ravenously hungry, and he attacked it like a starving man. Perhaps he
was
starving. He really couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Between mouthfuls of red meat and green vegetables he told George that he’d let the flat on Rugby Street, and moved into cheaper accommodations, because of the costs of Josephine’s care. He confessed that he’d resorted to spiritualists and faith-healers and prayer.

“Of course,” George said. “Of course. Well, Josephine has my prayers as well, and Agnes’s, when I tell her.”

“I should have come to see you weeks ago, of course.”

“You certainly should have. Does your father know?”

“I honestly don’t know. I don’t recall writing to him; but I seem to have spent most of the last month in a dream, so perhaps I did. Perhaps. George—let’s not argue. I want to hear nothing but good news, just for an hour or two. Ordinary life. Business. How’s business, George? I see you’ve been buying books. I always liked talking about books with you. I miss it. What did you buy? Let me see, let me see. What’s in the newspaper—good God, I haven’t read a newspaper in—I don’t know how long. Have you sold any stories?”