The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(115)
Laughing loudly, the four men sat down at the table and gorged themselves, while making fun of Mike’s assignment.
“It was a difficult job, Tom,” the big man groaned. “I had to wear a metal plate over my chest to stop the bullet. It’s not easy pretending to be dead trussed up like that!” His companions burst out laughing again. They ate and drank until most of the food was gone and the wine had begun to take effect. Then Bradley stood up, turned his chair around, and, placing his hands on the back as though leaning on a pulpit, gazed at his companions with exaggerated solemnity. There always came a time during their drunken sprees when Bradley would display his talent for mimicry. Tom leaned back in his chair, resigned to watching the performance, thinking that at least he had satisfied his hunger.
“Ladies and gentlemen, all I wish to say is that you are about to participate in the most astonishing event of the century: today you are going to travel through time!” the lad declared in pompous tones. “Don’t look so astonished. Murray’s Time Travel is not satisfied simply to take you to the future. No, thanks to our efforts you will also have the opportunity to witness possibly the most important moment in the History of Mankind, an unmissable event: the battle between the brave Derek Shackleton and the evil automaton Solomon, whose dreams of conquest you will see perish beneath the captain’s sword.” His companions all clapped and roared with laughter. Encouraged by their response to his performance, Bradley leant his head back and put on a grotesquely wistful face.
“Do you know what Solomon’s great mistake was? I shall tell you, ladies and gentlemen: his mistake was that he picked the wrong lad in order to perpetuate the species. Yes, the automaton made a bad choice, a very bad choice. And his mistake changed the course of History,” he said with a smirk. “Can you imagine a more terrible fate than having to fornicate all day long? Of course, you can’t. Well, that was the poor lad’s fate,” he spread his arms and nodded in a mock gesture of regret. “But not only did he carry it off, he also managed to grow stronger, to study the enemy, who watched him copulating every night with great interest, before going to the city to approve the newly fabricated automaton whores. But the day the woman gave birth, the lad knew he would never see his son grow up—his son who had been brought into the world to fornicate with his own mother, thus initiating a vicious circle that would perpetuate itself through the seed of his seed. However, the lad survived his execution, brought us together, and gave us hope …” He paused for effect for a moment, then added: “Only he still hasn’t taught us how to f*ck properly!” The laughter grew louder. When it had subsided, Jeff raised his tankard.
“To Tom, the best captain we could ever have!” They all raised their tankards to toast him. Surprised by his companions” gesture, Tom could scarcely conceal his emotion.
“Well, Tom, I suppose you know what happens now, don’t you?” Jeff said, clapping his shoulder once the cheers had died down. “We heard a rumor about some new merchandise at our favorite whorehouse. And they’ve got almond-shaped eyes, do you hear me, almond-shaped eyes!” “Have you ever slept with an Asian woman, Tom?” asked Bradley.
Tom shook his head.
“Well, no man should die without trying one, my friend!” Jeff guffawed, as he rose from the table. “Those Chinese girls can give pleasure in a hundred ways our women know nothing about.” They made an almighty din as they left the tavern. Bradley led the procession, vaunting the Chinese prostitutes” numerous virtues, much to the delight of Mike, who smacked his lips in anticipation. According to Bradley, Asian women were not only obliging and affectionate but had supple bodies they could contort into all sorts of positions without injuring themselves. Despite the list of attractions, Tom had to suppress a groan. If he wanted any woman to make love to him just then, it was Claire, even if she did not have almond-shaped eyes or an unnaturally flexible body. He remembered the intensity of her response when he had taken her, and wondered what his companions, those coarse ruffians, would think if he told them there was another way of feeling that was more sublime and exquisite than the primitive pleasure they knew.
They hailed a cab and clambered aboard, still laughing. Mike squeezed his large frame in next to Tom, almost pinning him against the door, while the other two men sat facing them. Jeff, who was behaving in an overexcited, rowdy manner, gave the order for the cab to set off. Reluctant to join in the general gaiety, Tom gazed out of the window at the succession of streets, alarmingly deserted at that time of night. Then he realized the driver had taken a wrong turn: they were going towards the docks, not the brothel.
“Hey, Jeff, we’re going the wrong way!” he cried out, trying to make himself heard above the racket.
Jeff Wayne turned and looked at him sternly, letting his laughter die menacingly in his throat. Bradley and Mike also stopped laughing. A strange, intense silence enveloped them, as though someone had dredged it up from the ocean floor and poured it into their carriage.
“No, Tom, we’re not going the wrong way,” Jeff finally said, contemplating him with an ominous smile.
“But we are, Jeff!” insisted Tom. “This isn’t the way to—” Then he understood. How had he not seen it before: their exaggerated high spirits, the toast that felt more like a farewell, their tense demeanor in the carriage … Yes, what more proof did he need? In the funereal silence that had descended inside the carriage, the three men looked at him with an air of false calm, waiting for him to digest the situation. And, to his surprise, Tom discovered that now the time had finally arrived for him to die, he no longer wanted to. Not like this. Not at the hands of these casual assassins, who were simply demonstrating Gilliam Murray’s unlimited power, the fact that he could turn anyone into a murderer with a handful of banknotes. He was glad at least that Martin Tucker, whom he had always considered the most decent among them, was not there, that he had been incapable of turning his back on his friend and perpetrating this cheerful collective crime.