Eric Brown: Rites of Passage

“Is that…?” he began.

“No other,” Burns responded.

“Lord strike me sightless!” Tommy gasped.

He shook his head. Just this morning he had slept the sleep of the innocent in his barrel home, and now here he was in Queen Victoria’s bed-chamber.

Burns gripped his arm again, warning him to caution. A sound came from across the room, the quiet lifting of a latch. The door creaked open and a tall figure appeared briefly in the doorway. It crossed the room, illuminated by the covered lamp beside the bed. Tommy was aware of his increased heartbeat — wait till he told Ratty and Miller about this… not that they’d believe a word, of course.

Prince Albert paused by the bed. He seemed stooped, not his usual upright, imperious self. His hand went to his brow and he wept quietly. It was as if he were a broken man, and Tommy wondered what tragedy might have occurred to bring about this transformation.

He glanced up at Burns, at the weapon in his hand, and he wondered if he should leap out now and warn the Prince, for all Burns’s assurances that good was on his side.

He was wracked by indecision as he crouched behind the screen and watched as Prince Albert slowly disrobed. Soon the worthy was down to his unmentionables and his garters, and then even these had been removed — and Tommy felt grateful that the light from the bedside lamp was dim.

All that the Prince now wore was a chain about his neck, at the end of which hung a shining silver oval.

Beside Tommy, Burns murmured under his breath, “Take it off, take it off, damn you.”

After a second, as if the Prince had been contemplating whether or not to do so, he finally reached up and slipped the chain from his neck and laid it atop the pile of discarded clothing on the chair.

Tommy was aware of Burns, tensing beside him, and he knew that if he were to act, then he should do so now — or forever regret his inaction. In the event he was caught in a funk of indecision — for which, later, he was eternally grateful.

With a sickening feeling in his gut he watched as Burns leapt up, levelled the pistol at the startled Prince, and fired.

Tommy heard a hiss, whereupon the Prince, after a frozen second in which he regarded Burns with horror, toppled forwards across the bed.

In a trice Queen Victoria sat up and exclaimed, “Burns, it is done?”

Burns strode from behind the screen and examined the prostrate Albert. He gestured to his weapon. “The deed is done, your Majesty. Disaster is averted.”

The queen was sitting up in bed, clothed in night-gown and sleeping cap, and clutching a counterpane to her throat. She gave Tommy an imperious glance, which had the effect of freezing him to the marrow. “And who, might I enquire, is this?”

Burns clapped Tommy on the shoulder. “Meet Tommy Newton, your Highness, without whom the country — nay, the very world — would be in a parlous state.”

Not understanding a tenth of what was going on, Tommy nevertheless felt a glow of pride as the Queen’s gaze softened and she favoured him with a smile.

Burns was bending over a groaning Albert, who was slowly coming to his senses. He eased the Prince further onto the bed and draped the counterpane over his long form. “I think his Highness will require a spell of rest and recuperation, your Majesty. I will call anon and regale you with all the details.”

He was brought up short by her Majesty’s words, “Burns, I don’t know who you are — or more precisely what you are — but I feel that the gratitude of the nation is owed to you, yet again.”

Burns bowed. “I am forever in your service, ma’am,” and so saying slipped quickly from the royal bed-chamber.

Soon they were outside in the freezing night.

“And now,” Burns said, “all that remains is to return the disequaliser to the Sentinel, and all will be well with the world.”

“The Sentinel?” Tommy said. “You mean that skinny little chap in the underwater ship — and just what is he, and the disequaliser? And as for all that malarkey in the palace…”

“I will explain everything in time, Tommy.”

Tommy shuffled uncomfortably and said, “I’ll meet you again, Mr Burns?”

Burns smiled. “Meet me? Why, what makes you think you might not?” He considered for a space, and then said, “I have a proposition to make, m’boy. There is a spare room to be occupied at 25 Garnett Place, and you seem to be a handy soul to have on hand. How does a shilling a week, three square meals a day, and a bed for the night sound to you?”

Tommy stared at Burns, open-mouthed. For once in his short life, he was speechless.

Burns sat before the blazing fire in his garret with Tommy stretched out on the chesterfield at sleep’s door.

The boy had finished a huge mug of cocoa, and Burns was sipping at his china cup of Earl Grey.

Now the mudlark — or should that be, the ex-mudlark? — said, “Who are you, Mr Burns, and what in the Lord’s name was that craft doing under the Thames?”

Burns smiled and took a breath. Where to begin, he wondered? Why not at the beginning?

“Who am I, Tommy? Well, I am a Guardian,” he said. “You see, the universe out there is a very big place, m’boy, and many strange and various alien races inhabit the stars beyond this one, and not all those races have the best interests of the so called ‘lesser’ races at heart. Now planet Earth and the human race are relative youngsters on the scene, unaware of the teeming cosmos beyond, and therefore must be protected from the dangers that beset it.” He paused there, then said, “Tommy?”

He looked across at the silent figure of the boy, but Tommy was fast asleep.

Smiling, Burns rose and moved to his armchair beside the window, and stared out at the night sky.

For a while he contemplated planet Earth, and the stars beyond. Then, when he was sure that Newton was sleeping soundly, he crept from the room and left the house.

One hour later he was seated in the cushioned seat opposite the braced form of the Sentinel. He passed the disequaliser, and the manikin stowed it carefully upon the rack at his side.

“You have once again shown endeavour and initiative, Mr Burns.”

“I was not alone,” Burns reminded the shrivelled being.

“True — Tommy Newton, despite his size, his somewhat haphazard education, is… shall we say… an asset we might utilise.”

Burns smiled. “The same thought occurred to me, Sentinel. I have accordingly acquired his services.”

The Sentinel regarded Burns with a piercing gaze. “You’ve guessed, of course?”

Burns nodded. “Turqan, if I am not mistaken, is but the first?”

The Sentinel gestured wearily. “I have information to the effect that Turqan is the advance guard, that others of his kind, transporting memory crystals, are at this very second making their way across the void towards this planet. The intelligence is that they might very well be aided by other nefarious races. We need, my friend, to be vigilant in the days and weeks ahead.”

“You have my reassurance on that score,” Burns murmured.

The Sentinel nodded its over-sized head. “I will remain here and in contact for as long as this confounded gravity allows, Burns. There are others in this city who will aid you over the coming weeks. They will be in contact.”

“And they are?”

The Sentinel waved. “You will find out in time, my friend. For now, go home and rest, for the fight ahead will be long and hard.”

Presently Burns said farewell to the manikin and took his leave. He climbed from the muddy gully of the Thames and strode through the cobbled lanes towards Kensington, suddenly tired. Once he paused long enough to turn his gaze towards the massed stars, brilliant and icy overhead, and thought of home.