Sometimes Veitch’s thoughts felt like a black hole sucking him in, never to escape. He could understand the Libertarian’s confusion, for nothing appeared to make sense, either outside in the world or within him. He was a good person aspiring to good things – it was the reason why Existence chose him to be one of that most select band, a Brother of Dragons – yet nevertheless, here he was, murdering, destroying, tipping the scales towards the darkness.
A column of flame rose up somewhere in the Kentish limits of the city. More indiscriminate deaths.
His own killings, however, were not indiscriminate. They were not innocents, but combatants in a war who knew, or would know, that they were legitimate targets. Veitch held on to that thought tightly, for to let it slip away would mean facing up to unpalatable truths.
He had been wronged, badly, and he should never forget that. Betrayed, when all he had offered was support for the cause, even at the risk of his own life. Treated badly by Ruth and Church, manipulating him even while they established their affair behind his back, secretly laughing at him. Ruth knew he loved her; Church knew he loved her. It didn’t mean anything in the long run, and if love was meaningless, the whole premise on which his membership of the Brotherhood of Dragons was based was a pack of lies. He couldn’t trust Existence at all; he could only trust himself, and what he wanted was revenge. That’s what he learned when he was growing up: if somebody hits you, you hit back harder. He wouldn’t be taken for a fool ever again.
The sky was filled with the thunder of war machines. The nagging thoughts that threatened to strip away the façade from his justifications slipped back and were lost in the noise. He turned from the window, secure in the knowledge that he was on the right path.
5
People were flooding into the Tube as quickly as they had entered the Holborn Empire, but the mood now was tense and fearful. The half-lit platform was packed. People made themselves as comfortable as they could. Men smoked in silence, or whispered to their wives and children. Young couples gripped each other’s hands desperately, while the old folk huddled under blankets to keep warm. Babies woken from their cots were crying in unison, their voices merging into one constant wail.
And then the bombs began to fall. It was the pounding of a great machine whose job was to reduce the city to dust. Thoom-thoom-thoom. Dust fell from the ceiling. The babies cried more, and whimpering young children joined them.
Church looked around the faces and saw the dread grow stronger, reaching through the taut expressions and into their bones. He couldn’t begin to guess how they coped with the horror night after night for months on end.
Suddenly a voice chimed up. ‘It’s Max Masque. Oi, Max! Tickle me ribs for a guinea!’
‘I’ll tickle yer ribs for a guinea!’ Jerzy responded. His eyes smiled at Church. ‘My public awaits.’
‘Go to it.’
‘How about a song?’ Jerzy called. A cheer went up. In a clear, strong voice, Jerzy began, ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine …’
The whole platform joined in. ‘You make me happy when skies are grey …’
Jerzy moved through the crowd, his very presence transformative. Church leaned against the wall, feeling the vibrations of the distant rhythm section shaking the city, marvelling in turn at how Jerzy had been transformed by his experience. One simple choice had made him something better.
As he listened to the singing, Church noticed something flare briefly in the black mouth of the tunnel. It was bright blue, like the hissing flame of an acetylene torch. He could have dismissed it as men at work on the line, but it looked to him very much like the flaming breath of Spring-heeled Jack.
While the sheltering crowd was distracted by Jerzy, Church slipped off the platform and, keeping close to the wall, edged his way into the tunnel. Rats scurried away from him into the depths. When he reached the point where he’d seen the flare, there was no sign of any workmen, but there was movement further along the tunnel.
The emergency lights of the platform already looked distant. Church knew he would be crazy to venture any further into the tunnel, but another blue flare much further ahead drew him on.
For the next fifteen minutes he progressed slowly through a deep, uncomfortable darkness, punctuated only at irregular points by emergency lights. The sounds of movement and the occasional flare kept him moving, but he never appeared to draw any closer.
Then, on the edge of the illumination of one of the emergency lights, he came across a branching tunnel wide enough for two men to walk side by side. A security door hung open and inside chipped white tiles gleamed from a distant light. He could hear sounds coming from down the corridor.