The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(119)

“Then you needn’t be afraid, for I guarantee you will rise from the dead.” With these words, he gave Tom one last smile and gestured to his companions.

“All right, gentlemen. Let’s get this over with and go to bed.” Following Murray’s command, Jeff and Bradley scooped Tom up off the ground, while Mike Spurrell brought over a huge block of stone with a piece of rope tied round it which they fastened to Tom’s feet. Then they bound his hands behind his back. Gilliam watched the proceedings with a satisfied smile.

“Ready, boys,” said Jeff, after making sure the knots were secure. “Let’s do it.” Once more, Jeff and Bradley carried Tom shoulder high over to the edge of the quay, while Mike held onto the stone that would anchor him to the riverbed. Tom gazed blankly at the murky water. He was filled with the strange calm of someone who knows his life is no longer in his own hands. Gilliam walked over to him and squeezed his shoulder hard.

“Good-bye, Tom. You were the best Shackleton I could hope to find, but such is life,” he said. “Give my regards to Perkins.” Tom’s companions swung his body and at the count of three tossed both him and the stone into the Thames. Tom had time to fill his lungs with air before hitting the surface of the water. The ice-cold water came as a shock, dispelling the lethargy pervading his body. He was struck by fate’s final irony: what good was it to feel so awake now that he was about to drown? He sank in a horizontal position to begin with, but the weight of the stone soon pulled him upright, and he plummeted with astonishing speed to the bottom of the Thames. He blinked several times, trying to glimpse something through the greeny-brown water, but there was not much to see, besides the bottoms of the boats floating above and a flickering halo of light cast by the quay’s only streetlamp. The stone quickly hit the riverbed and Tom remained floating above it, suspended by ten inches of rope, like a child’s kite, buffeted by the current. “How long could he go without breathing?” he wondered. What did it matter? Was it not absurd to struggle against the inevitable? Even though he knew it would only postpone death, he pressed his lips tightly together. Again that painful instinct to survive, but now he had understood this sudden will to live: he had discovered that the worst thing about dying was not being able to change what he had been, that when he died, others would only see the repulsive tableau into which his life was going to solidify. He remained hanging upright for what felt like an excruciating eternity, lungs burning, temples throbbing deafeningly, until the urgent need to breathe compelled him against his will to open his mouth. Water began filling his throat, streaming merrily into his lungs, and everything around him became even fuzzier. Then Tom realized this was it: in a few seconds he would lose consciousness.

In spite of this, he had time to see the figure appear. He watched him emerge from the swirling fog in his brain mist and walk towards him along the riverbed with his heavy metal footsteps, oblivious to the water all around him. Tom assumed that the lack of oxygen to his brain had allowed the automaton to escape from his dreams and move around in the real world. He was too late, though; Tom had no need of him, he was quite capable of drowning without his help. Or perhaps he had simply come for the pleasure of watching him die, face to face in the river’s murky depths.

But to his surprise, when the automaton finally reached his side, he gripped Tom’s waist with one of his metal arms, as if to lead him in a dance, while with the other he tugged at the rope around his feet until he loosened it. Then he heaved Tom up towards the surface, where Tom, still semiconscious, could see the bottoms of the boats and the shimmering streetlamp gradually looming larger. Before he knew it, his head emerged above the water.

The night air coursed into his lungs, and Tom knew this was the true taste of life. He breathed in greedily, spluttering like a hungry infant choking on its food. He allowed his enemy to hoist his near-lifeless body onto the quayside, where he lay on his back, dizzy and numb with cold. He felt the automaton’s hands pressing repeatedly down on his chest. The pumping helped him spew out the water he had swallowed. When there seemed to be no more, he coughed a few times, bringing up some congealed blood, and could feel life slowly seeping back into his limp form. He was overjoyed to discover he was alive again, to feel life’s soft pulse flowing through him, filling him voluptuously, like the river water had done only moments before. For a split second, he even felt the illusion of immortality, as though such a close brush with death, having felt the Grim Reaper’s chill fingers closing around him, had in some way acquainted him with it, so that its rules no longer applied to him. Somewhat recovered, Tom forced himself to smile at his savior, whose metallic head was floating above him, a dark spherical object lit by the single streetlamp on the quay.

“Thank you, Solomon,” he managed to splutter.

The automaton unscrewed his head.

“Solomon?” he laughed. “It’s a diving suit, Tom.” Although his face remained in the shadow, Tom recognized Martin Tucker’s voice, and he was overwhelmed with happiness.

“Have you never seen one before? It lets you walk underwater, just like strolling in a park, while someone pumps air through a tube from the surface. We have Bob to thank for that and for winching us both up onto the quay,” explained his companion, pointing towards a figure out of Tom’s field of vision. Then, after putting the helmet to one side, Martin lifted Tom’s head and examined it with the carefulness of a nurse. “’Struth, the boys did a good job. You’re in a right state. Don’t be angry with them, though. They had to make it look realistic in order to dupe Murray. And I think it worked. As far as he’s concerned, they’ve done the job and are no doubt receiving their dues right this minute.” Despite his swollen lips, Tom grimaced in surprise. So it had all been a charade? Apparently so. As Murray had explained to him before having him thrown him in the Thames, he had hired Tom’s companions to kill him. But they were not as heartless as Tom had thought, even though they were not well enough off to refuse his money. If they were clever, they could put on another performance, Tucker must have suggested—this burly fellow who was now brushing back Tom’s hair from his bloodied brow, and gazing down at him with fatherly affection.