The Solemn Bell
Allyson Jeleyne
Hark! from the battlements of yonder tower
The solemn bell has tolled the midnight hour!
Roused from drear visions of distempered sleep,
Poor Broderick wakes—in solitude to weep!
Love and Madness by Thomas Campbell
CHAPTER ONE
England, 1926
No man in his right mind would dare drive in this weather, but, Brody supposed, that simply proved the rumors about him true. He had not been himself since the war. It had only grown worse as the years passed. Friends he’d known all his life, and even chaps he’d served with, now found him unrecognizable—though perhaps that was the morphine’s fault.
Usually, he never went anywhere without his syringe kit. Knowing the little glass bottles lay nestled in their velvet-lined box brought him a sense of peace he hadn’t otherwise felt since returning from France.
That night, however, the seat beside him sat empty. Brody hadn’t expected to be delayed. He’d used up all his supply—which was why he’d set out into the storm, despite the warnings from every village inn and pub along the way. He needed his precious morphine before the withdrawals set in.
The rain beat down on the canvas roof, pounding so loudly that it drowned out the crash of thunder he felt deep within his chest. Brody leaned forward to peer between the wiper blades. He didn’t know the road, but his three-litre Bentley handled the curving country lane like an old pro. Sometimes, he swore the motorcar had a mind of its own. God knows, his hands weren’t steady enough to man the wheel effectively. The tremors had already started.
Soon, he wouldn’t be able to drive at all. Brody pushed the motorcar faster, grinding the gears and taking each turn on screeching wheels. He prayed he did not meet anyone on the road—he wouldn’t be able to slow down in time to avoid collision.
The Bentley crested a hill at maximum speed. For an instant, Brody felt the chassis lift before slamming back down to Earth. Sparks flew as metal met the road. If he weren’t in such a hurry, it would be thrilling. He’d always wanted to fly an aeroplane—that night, he’d bet not even one of those new de Havilands could keep pace with him.
“That a girl!” he shouted, pounding on the instrument panel.
He was going to make it home before his luck ran out, that was for damned sure. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he didn’t get his injection. Nothing else mattered—not the rain, the road, or anyone he put in harm’s way. If he killed himself getting there, well, that was all right. Short of dying, nothing was going to stop him from getting that morphine.
The Bentley hugged a tight corner. Brody felt a hedgerow scrape against the passenger side. Damn. He’d only had the motorcar six months, and now he’d scratched it. Perhaps he could polish the damage out tomorrow. He didn’t have time to worry about it now.
Lightning overhead lit the otherwise darkened countryside. Other than his headlamps cutting through the rain, there wasn’t a light for miles. No houses, no farms. Certainly no cozy village. Nowhere to get precious morphine in a pinch.
Brody stomped the accelerator. Faster, faster, until the floorboards burned hot beneath his feet. He pushed the motorcar as hard as it would go. He gripped the wooden wheel with his leather driving gloves until his knuckles ached. The big Bentley engine hummed. The exhaust sang. This wasn’t just a rich man’s plaything. It was a driving machine tuned to perfection. If anything could get him home, it would be this beautiful beast.
Rain hit the windscreen so hard that each drop reminded him of bullets embedding themselves in corrugated metal. Just like that, Brody was back in the war, back in the trenches. His mind no longer saw English pastures and winding country lanes. Now, No Man’s Land stretched before him. Hedgerows were razor-wire fencing. Distant trees hid German soldiers ready to strike. Thunder became shelling.
Brody choked down bile. Morphine was the only thing that kept the memories at bay. Without it, he remembered the war. He…felt…the war. He’d learned very quickly that feeling and remembering were dangerous. The morphine injections began innocently enough—an effective way to treat his shell shock—but they soon became an almost hourly addiction. Without them, he began to itch in his veins, and ache in his soul.
The road grew harder to see. His wipers could no longer keep up with the torrent, and his headlamps were barely effective. As the Bentley raced down the winding lane, Brody did not see the sharp turn approaching. Even with a clear head, he could not have navigated it safely. He was going too fast. The rain made the road too slick.
He pulled the brake lever with all his strength, but he kept sliding. The front end of the Bentley ripped through a thorny hedgerow. The tangled branches slapped the bonnet, then the windscreen, and, finally, tore through the canvas top of the motorcar. Brody felt the roof give way, peeling back like an old tin of kippers, ripping the tweed cap off his head.
He held on for dear life as the Bentley careened through the hedgerow and out into a pasture. It rolled—once, twice—sending his battered body flying off the seat. Brody felt the slap of grass and mud. Suddenly, it was in his mouth, his eyes. Even his ears. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear. As his chest smashed against the wooden steering wheel again and again, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream.