The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August(38)

I considered Virginia’s words. She was, physically, older than me, but after a few deaths such things rarely counted. It was more than likely that she had been through more lives than me, but again, after the first few centuries, most kalachakra reached a plateau where time hardly mattered and the soul barely changed. Yet Virginia had always been a figure of seniority to me, the woman who had saved me from Phearson, introduced me to the Club; for her these memories would fade, and with the passing of experience perhaps our relationship would change, but for me the recollection was as strong as ever.

I remembered Christa standing by my bedside in Berlin.

In 1924 I had travelled to Liverpool to perform a similar service. The man dying had gone by the name of Joseph Kirkbriar Shotbolt, born 1851, dies, on average, 1917–27. Statistically, Spanish flu was his most common killer, along with three members of his near family, twelve cousins and roughly a quarter of the waterside community where he sometimes retired. “Can’t shake the bugger!” I’d heard him exclaim on those few occasions he’d outlived it. “Damn plague just follows me anywhere!”

This time he’d missed Spanish flu by the rather sensible precaution of spending the last years of the war on an island in Micronesia which hadn’t yet been marked on the atlas, but whose name in the tongue of its native people translated as Teardrop Blessing. The rather less fortunate outcome of his escaping the flu was the acquisition of of a parasite which caused his feet to swell to quite appalling size, bursting out of his socks in their disfigured redness, and which, more crucially, created a series of cysts on his kidneys and liver which induced the septicaemia from which he was dying when I finally met him.

A kalachakra tends to recognise another when he sees him–not necessarily through any instinct, as my relationship with Vincent was to testify, but through the incongruity of circumstance and a certain bearing. A six-year-old boy visiting the bedside of a man dying in a whitewashed infirmary in Liverpool from a parasitical infection that the doctors were at a loss to cure tends to induce a certain circumstantial recognition that needs no greater introduction.

Once a giant of a man, the onset of death had wrinkled Shotbolt up like a burned chip. Every joint seemed bent a little beyond comfort, the tendons seizing up, and the heavy pain medication he was on had only accelerated the liver failure which was turning his skin a very noticeable and rather pungent yellow. His hair had fallen out, including eyebrows and eyelashes, and as he lay alone, dying his last, the swollen knuckles on his hand stood out bulbously above the bed sheets where he clutched them to him against a deep-seated ache that no doctor could cure.

I had met Shotbolt only a few times before, though he did not remember me, but recognition of what I was was there immediately.

“From the Club, are you?” he grumbled, his voice surprisingly heavy for a man so close to the end. “Tell ’em if it’s a cure, I don’t bloody want it. Laudanum, thanking you kindly, that’d be what I need.”

I flicked through the chart at the end of his bed. The drips fed into his body were mostly saline, a half-hearted attempt at liquid sustenance after his digestive system had packed up. The bottles were glass drums, heavy, a leak in one where the rubber had cracked around the nipple of the jar. “Oh God,” he groaned, seeing me read. “You’ve trained as a doctor, haven’t you? Can’t stand bloody doctors, especially when they’re five years old.”

“Six,” I corrected. “And don’t worry; you’ll be dead within a week.”

“A week! I can’t be sitting around here for a bloody week! You know those bastards won’t even give me something good to read? ‘Mustn’t get excited, Mr Shotbolt,’ they say. ‘Now, Mr Shotbolt, can you make it to the potty?’ The potty! Do you know that’s what they actually call it? I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life.”

The way he spoke implied that here was a man for whom once-in-a-lifetime outrages had been a fairly common occurrence in times past, and would probably be again. I chose not to debate the point and, satisfied that for all his medication Shotbolt still had some semblance of coherence, I sat down on the edge of his bed and said, “I’ve got a message.”

“It had better not be a question about Queen bloody Victoria,” he growled. “Can’t stand all these academics wanting to know about her stocking size.”

“It’s not a question,” I repeated patiently. “More of a warning. It’s been passed down from generation to generation, trickled down from the future.”

“What’ve we done this time?” he grunted. “Too much ice and not enough fire?”

“Something like that. Apparently–and I feel a little embarrassed telling you this–but apparently the world is ending. Which is, in and of itself, no great surprise. But the end of the world is getting faster. And that’s something of a stumper.”

Shotbolt considered this a while, fingers still tight around the edge of his sheets. Then, “At last,” he exclaimed. “Something new to talk about!”


Almost exactly thirty years later I boarded a flight from Heathrow Airport to Berlin Templehof, changing passports on my way through customs, heading east in search of something new.





Chapter 32


There are certain rules to a successful deception, of which my personal favourite is–stick with what you know. That is not to say that truth should ever be incorporated into your lies, but rather that good research is the key to a consistent lie. It was in 1956 by no means impossible for a citizen of the West to enter the East–far easier, in fact, than for a citizen of the East to head to the West–but to declare yourself as such was to invite immediate attention and scrutiny, and this was, I felt, something I could not necessarily afford.