Eric Brown: Rites of Passage

He took a turn around the chamber; other than the pedestal chair, and what he suspected was the control panel, the room was empty. He made out what might have been some kind of rack against the far curved wall, but, if it had ever contained anything, it was empty now.

He read Travers’ transcript again, and then handed back the sheet of paper.

“What now, Bartholomew?” Travers enquired.

“Lock the vault. Allow no one entry, is that understood?”

Travers nodded. “Yes, sir. And about what the creature claimed, the invasion?”

Burns stroked his chin. “It cannot be dismissed, Travers. I will contemplate a requisite response; and I will be in contact with your department if necessary.”

“Very good.”

They left the chamber, Burns with a sense of foreboding, and Travers led the way up through the noisome gaol. Burns took his leave of the government man with a firm handshake and rode a Hansom back to Kensington.

Once settled in the reassuring comfort of his garret, he brewed a pot of Earl Grey and seated himself in his armchair before the window. All London was spread before him, a sprawl of streets delineated by the glow of gas-lamps appearing one by one as darkness descended. It was, without doubt, a jewel and at the same time a foul cess-pit of a city, depending of course upon one’s perspective.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the problem at hand. He knew little of either the Kyrix or the Qui, and he was troubled by his ignorance.

The fact was that the Kyrixian’s story could not be dismissed: but how, he asked himself, how in all this great and crowded city, might he locate the invading Qui ship and nullify its threat?

And why, for the love of all that was sacred in the universe, had a Sentinel not alerted him to the danger?

Tommy Newton peered around the corner of the square and watched the Hansom draw up outside number Twenty-Five. A very tall gentleman alighted, paid the driver and proceeded up the steps of the imposing townhouse and let himself in through the front door.

Tommy thanked his stars: a minute longer in the biting cold and he would have frozen to death. One hour ago he had rapped on the door of number Twenty-Five, only to be told by a disdainful housekeeper that Mr Burns was not at home.

Now he ran across the cobbles, climbed the steps and knocked again. A minute later the haughty matron favoured him with another pained grimace.

“Please, ma’am, it’s urgent I see Mr Burns quick sharp.”

“Your business?”

Tommy wracked his brains to come up with a suitable reply. At last he said, “A manikin wishes to talk to Mr Burns, ma’am.”

“Well, I’ve had stranger callers than the likes of you,” the matron sniffed. “Come in while I consult Mr Burns.”

Tommy stepped into a large vestibule adorned with paintings and stood as instructed on a doormat as the housekeeper bustled off. Only now, in the warmth, did he realise how cold he’d been outside; he hugged himself and began to shiver.

Presently the housekeeper returned. “You’re in luck, young sir. Mr Burns will see you. But first–” she went on, pointing to the blobs of mud that disguised his feet, “take those disgusting things off or you’ll ruin the carpets!”

Tommy knelt and unfastened the rags that bound his feet, then stood and beamed at the matron. She seemed unimpressed. “Lordy, young sir, your feet are almost as black.” She looked about and found a pair of Persian slippers. “These were for the rag and bone man, but they’ll do for now.”

Tommy slipped his feet into the silken slippers, thinking he’d never felt anything as luxurious in all his life, and followed the housekeeper along the hall and up three flights of stairs to the very top of the house.

She opened a door and announced, “The guttersnipe, sir,” waving Tommy into the room and closing the door as she left.

Tommy stopped dead and stared about him in wonder. The room was large, but seemed smaller on account of all the ornaments and knick-knacks and paraphernalia that cluttered it: Tommy could not name much of what he saw, but he did recognise a set of African spears and a shield, a suit of armour, a stuffed animal of some kind, a hundred pictures from all around the world.

Only then did he become aware of the figure seated in an armchair before the window. As he stared, the figure rose to its full height and regarded him.

Bartholomew Burns’ face was thin and sallow, his hair jet black, his eyes as dark as Indian ink, and piercing. He emanated an air of other-worldliness, and Tommy found himself stammering.

“Mer-Mr Burns, I’m Ter-Tommy, Ter-Tommy Newton.” He glanced down at his feet, then, and blushed when he beheld his skinny shanks disappearing into the ridiculous pink slippers.

Despite his severe aspect, Mr Burns smiled and gestured towards the roaring fire. “Take a seat, Tommy, and recount your business. You told Mrs Hopkins some story about a manikin?”

“That I did, sir. See, I were mudlarkin’, or about to, when I come upon this… this thing in the mud. It were hard, like, where the mud shouldn’t have been hard, and the next I knew I were fallin’.”

Burns held up a hand, took Tommy’s elbow and eased him into an armchair. He sat in the chair opposite and smiled reassuringly. “Now, calmly, from the beginning — but first, a mug of Earl Grey, perhaps?”

Soon Tommy was warming his hands on a cup of the finest tea he’d ever tasted. Between sips he recounted his story.

“So I fell, sir, only I didn’t hit anything. I were floating in mid-air. I were inside some kind of ship under the mud, and this creature, this manikin, he were staring at me with eyes like saucers, no word of a lie!”

Burns’s jet eyes seemed to ignite as he leaned forward and said, “This manikin, describe him to me, if you will.”

Tommy nodded. “He were small and skinny, smaller than me, and bone white, but with a big bonce. And when he spoke I didn’t hear the words normally — they kind of sounded in my head.”

“And the carapace of his ship was golden, did you say?”

Tommy deciphered Burns’s meaning and nodded. “That’s right, sir.”

Burns then said something under his breath that Tommy did not understand, “By Heavens, it is a Sentinel if I’m not mistaken.” He said to Tommy, “And what did this manikin say to you?”

“He told me not to be afraid. He wouldn’t harm me, he said. Then he said I had to find you, Bartholomew Burns, and he gave me your address and said I had to come and fetch you and take you back to the craft.” Tommy shrugged. “And here I am.”

“And here you certainly are, m’boy — the answer to my problems and no mistake!”

Tommy blinked. “Your problems?”

“A long story — but one I’ll apprise you of in due course.”

Tommy gulped his tea, afraid that Burns would dismiss him before he’d drained the cup. “And the manikin? He a friend of yours?”

Burns laughed. “Not a friend, as such, but shall I say a colleague? Very well, there’s no time to lose, Tommy. Can you take me to the river and point out the exact whereabouts of the ship, d’you think?”

Tommy puffed his chest. “Never forget the position of a treasure,” he said. “It’ll be high tide now, but in another hour we’ll be able to find it and no mistake.”

“Then let’s take a cab to the riverbank and prepare for an audience with the Sentinel,” Burns said with a cryptic wink to a bemused Tommy.

One hour later Burns knelt beside the capstan and watched as the moon-silvered waters of the Thames slowly receded to reveal a shining expanse of jet black mud. And to think, he mused, that Tommy and hundreds like him scraped a meagre living from wading through this filth in search of scant pickings.