The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(84)

Tom nodded, trying to suppress a shudder.

“Yes, Bradley,” Jeff reiterated, given his companion’s terse response. “We’re obliged to wear these uncomfortable helmets so the passengers won’t recognize us if they bump into us somewhere in London. It’s another one of Murray’s safety measures.

Have you forgotten what he said to us on our first day?” “Not likely!” Bradley declared, then, mimicking his boss’s melodious, educated voice, he added: “Your helmet is your safe-conduct, gentlemen. Anyone who takes it off during the show will live to regret it, believe me.” “Yes, and I’m not going to be the one to run the risk. Remember what happened to poor Perkins.” Bradley whistled with fear at the thought, and Tom shuddered again. The group came to a halt in front of a fragmented skyline of burning rooftops. Jeff stepped forward, found the handle hidden in the mural, and opened a door in among the clouds. As though plunging into the fluffy interior of one of them, the procession left the set, and walked down a passageway to a cramped dressing room. Upon entering, they were surprised by the sound of furious clapping. Gilliam Murray was sprawled on a chair applauding with theatrical enthusiasm.

“Magnifique! ” he exclaimed. “Bravo!” The group looked at him, speechless. Gilliam stood up and walked towards them with open arms.

“Congratulations on a wonderful job, gentlemen. Our customers were so thrilled by your performance some of them even want to come back.” After acknowledging his clap on the back, Tom moved discreetly away from the others. In the munitions store he left the piece of painted wood covered in bolts and knobs, which with the aid of the blank charges under the automatons” armor Murray was able to pass off as a lethal weapon of the future, and started to get changed. He needed to leave there as soon as possible, he told himself, thinking of Claire Haggerty and the problem caused by his blasted bladder. He took off Captain Shackleton’s armor, hung it on its hanger, and took his own clothes out of a box marked “Tom.” He rolled the parasol up in his jacket and glanced round to make sure no one had seen him. Murray was giving orders to a couple of waitresses who had entered wheeling trolleys laden with steak and kidney pie, grilled sausages and tankards of beer, while the rest of his fellow workers had also begun changing.

He gazed warmly at the men with whom chance had obliged him to work: Jeff, lean but strong, cheerful and talkative; young Bradley, still an adolescent, whose youthful face gave the Sshaped scar on his cheek an even more disturbing air; burly Mike with his look of perpetual bewilderment; and Martin, the joker, a strapping redhead of uncertain age, whose leathery skin reflected the ravages of a life spent working out in all weathers. It felt strange to Tom that whereas in Murray’s fictional world they would all have laid down their lives for him, in the real world he was not so sure they would not slit his throat for a promise of food or money. After all, what did he know about them except that, like him, they were penniless? They had gone out drinking together several times; first to celebrate their more than satisfactory debut performance, then to mark the success of the one given in honor of Her Majesty the Queen, for which they had received double wages, and lastly, having developed a liking for these binges, they had gone out carousing to celebrate their third triumphant performance in advance. That riotous spree had ended like the others in Mrs. Dawson’s bawdy house. But if anything, these revelries had only made Tom realize he should avoid keeping company with these fellows, or they would end up landing him in trouble.

With the exception of Martin Tucker—who, despite his fondness for pranks, seemed the most decent—he saw them as a bunch of untrustworthy delinquents. Like him, they lived from hand to mouth, doing odd jobs—although from hearing them speak, it was clear they were not above breaking the law if there was money to be earned. Only a few days before, Jeff Wayne and Bradley Holloway had asked him to play a part in one of their shady dealings—a house in Kensington Gore that looked easy to break into. He had refused to go along, not so much because for the past few weeks he had promised himself to make every effort to earn an honest living, but because when it came to breaking the law, he preferred to act alone: he knew from experience he had more chances of survival if he watched his own back. If you depended only on yourself, no one could betray you. He had slipped into his shirt and begun doing up the buttons when out of the corner of his eye he saw Gilliam coming over. He was so nervous he nearly pulled off one of the buttons.

“I wanted to thank you personally, Tom,” said Gilliam, beaming contentedly and stretching out his hand. Tom shook it, forcing a smile. “You realize none of this would be possible without you. Nobody could play Captain Shackleton better than you.” Tom tried to look pleased. Was Murray making a veiled reference to Perkins? From what he had heard, Perkins had been the man hired to play Shackleton before him, who when he discovered what Murray was up to, realized his silence was worth more than the salary Murray intended paying him, and he went to his office to tell him as much. His attempt at blackmail had not ruffled Gilliam Murray, who simply told him if he did not agree with the pay he was free to go, adding in a tone of wounded pride that his Captain Shackleton would never have stooped so low. Perkins smiled ominously and left his office, announcing his intention to go directly to Scotland Yard. He was never seen again. Following his crude effort at extortion, Perkins had simply vanished into thin air, but Tom and the others suspected Murray’s thugs had taken care of him before he got anywhere near Scotland Yard. They could not prove it, but they had no desire to put Murray to the test. This was why at all costs Tom had to keep his meeting with Claire Haggerty a secret. If anyone found out that a passenger had seen his face, it was the end for him. He knew Murray would not be content to simply dismiss him. He would take drastic measures, as he had done with poor Perkins. The fact that he was not to blame was irrelevant: his mere existence would be a constant threat to Murray’s scheme, a threat he would have to deal with urgently.