Horizons of Deceit, Book 1 Read online

  “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 the
mselves 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 n
ever 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….