The Osiris Ritual

Chapter Sixteen

Hesitantly, Newbury approached the lip of the building. He couldn't see any sign of the other man. He called out.

"Purefoy? Purefoy! Are you there?" He was panicking now. He didn't know how he could live with the responsibility if the reporter had fallen to his death.

There was a grunt from down below, somewhere in the fog. Newbury knelt on the edge of the building and leaned over, searching, urgently, for the source of the sound. "Purefoy? Is that you?"

"Here.." The voice trailed off, and Newbury heard the sounds of something soft and heavy banging against metal. There! He leaned over as far as he dared. An iron staircase resolved in the fog. It was an emergency stairwell, attached to the side of the building. And, dangling from it, twisting and turning, clutching on by only one hand, was Purefoy. He seemed dazed, as if he may have caught a blow to the head in the fall. Blood was smeared in a long line across his cheek.

Newbury knew the situation was precarious. One slip and the reporter would be dead. He cal ed out to him.

"Purefoy! Focus. Use your other hand. Hold on!" Purefoy seemed to respond to this. He eased himself around so that he was facing the brickwork, and swung his left arm up, trying to catch hold of the ironwork. His hand, however, did not seem able to find purchase, and he slipped, dangerously, crying out as he lurched awkwardly from side to side. Newbury feared the motion would cause him to lose his grip altogether as he swung wildly over the alleyway below. "Stay there.

I'm coming for you."

Newbury stood, surveying the scene beneath him. The fog was thick here, and it obscured his view. He knew the iron stairwell would have a small platform, just to the right of where Purefoy was hanging, and knew also that it couldn't be far below the lip of the building itself. But it was difficult to see. Past Purefoy, he could make out the indistinct shape of a railing, but little else. He'd have to take it on faith. Edging along the lip of the factory, he drew a deep breath. If he missed, they would likely both wind up dead in the gutter below. He hadn't planned on this when he'd decided to visit Wilfred Blake that morning, and he wondered, absently, what Veronica would say if she could see him now.

Newbury judged he was standing above the metal platform. Purefoy had once again disappeared into the syrupy miasma. Below, all Newbury could see was a swirl of grey. He took a deep breath. He couldn't put it off any longer, and he couldn't let Purefoy fal to his death. He closed his eyes, flexed his shoulders, and jumped into nothing.

His feet clattered against the metal rungs, but the platform was higher than he'd imagined and it was this that nearly toppled him over the side of the railing as he fought to get his balance.

Frantically, he scrabbled to get a grip, grasping hold of the iron bars as he slipped and slid on the slick metal. Finding his feet, he heaved a brief sigh of relief, and then rushed immediately to the left-hand side of the platform and sank to his knees, searching for Purefoy between the metal bars.

The reporter was still there, clinging on for his life. Newbury thrust his arm through the grate, and reached down to grasp Purefoy by the wrist. The reporter's other arm was still dangling uselessly by his side, and he seemed unable to gain enough leverage to swing it up to try for a better hold.

"Here! Use my arm. Pull yourself up."

Purefoy stared back at him with panicked eyes. He was breathing quickly, and the strain was starting to show. Newbury tried to keep him focused on the task at hand. "Don't look down. No!

Purefoy! Keep your eyes on me." Newbury heaved, trying to give the boy a better chance of grabbing hold of the stairwell with his other hand. Purefoy struggled, his feet kicking frantically as they sought something solid upon which to gain purchase. Instead, the result was to pul alarmingly on Newbury's arm as Purefoy swung out wildly, and Newbury felt his shoulder burning as he took the other's weight, his arm fully extended, his face pressed uncomfortably against the hard metal bars.

"Oh God!" Purefoy exclaimed in terror as Newbury's grip slipped and loosened, and he slid a little further towards the alleyway below.

"I have you." Newbury fixed his gaze on the other man. "I have you. Now pay attention. You need to get your other arm up here, right now!" Newbury was gasping for breath and struggling to gain leverage. The instructions registered with the young man, however, and, with Newbury still hanging on to him by his left wrist, he managed to get a grip on the iron frame with his right hand.

"Good. Good! Now, I'm going to let go and reach over to grasp hold of your collar. We'll heave you over the top. Hold on!"

Newbury waited a moment to be sure that Purefoy was not going to fall, and then scrabbled to his feet, leaned over the rail and used both hands to grab fistfuls of the boy's jacket. "On my mark.

One, two, three.. " He grunted as he lifted the reporter up, bodily, by his clothes. Purefoy was quick to get his feet into position, jamming them through the bars of the rail to support himself. A moment later, he swung over the top of the railing and col apsed beside Newbury on the cold platform, both of them struggling for breath. He stared with wide eyes at the drop beneath him. His eyes passed wordless thanks to the Crown investigator.

Newbury patted him on the shoulder. "You need to thank your tailor, dear boy." He wheezed as he tried to regain his breath. "That's an excellent jacket you have there."

They both laughed out loud, relieved, as they rubbed their aching joints. After a few moments, still gasping, Purefoy turned to Newbury. "Ashford?"

Newbury shrugged. "I'm in no doubt that he got away. Once I've regained my strength I'll head up there to take a look, see if here are any other clues that may help us to pick up his trail."

Purefoy looked sheepish. "I.."

Newbury interjected. "Best left unsaid. It's not necessary. Not at all."

Purefoy nodded gratefully.

After a moment, Newbury, who had been slumped on the platform, his back to the railing, climbed to his feet and regarded the building before him. Here, the metal stairs became a short ladder that terminated just below the lip of the roof. He shook his head, cursing that he hadn't noticed the ladder from above. Taking hold of the rungs, he levered himself up, leaving Purefoy where he was, stil panting and nursing his sore arms on the platform below. It was a short climb to the roof, and he was soon able to pull himself over again. He made a mental note of where the ladder was, scuffing the gravel with the edge of his shoe in case he needed to find it again in the fog.

Newbury looked around for signs of Ashford. The fog was thickening, but even so, he was shocked to see, a little further along the rooftop, the familiar red eyes of the augmented man staring back at him. Newbury could barely believe it. Why had he waited? Perhaps he wanted to be sure that Newbury and Purefoy were gone? Perhaps Purefoy had been right, and he intended to head back to Blake's apartment before Newbury was able to alert the police? Regardless, he couldn't waste the opportunity.

"Ashford!" The other man's head turned, and Newbury could no longer see his face beneath the darkness of his cowl. "Ashford, we must talk." Newbury rushed forward, and as he drew closer, the situation became quickly apparent. Ashford was perched on the corner of the building, his heavy cloak draped over his shoulders, giving him an ethereal, formless appearance in the foggy darkness.

Across from him, the buildings to the side and rear were both taller – at least a storey higher than the factory on which they were standing – and the leap across to either was impossible, even for an augmented giant such as Ashford. Newbury smiled. He had him. He knew, this time, he had him.

Digging deep for every last reserve of his strength, he thundered forward towards his quarry.

Ashford seemed to respond to this with an air of calm acceptance. He turned away from the approaching Newbury, stepping up careful y onto the raised lip of the roof. He seemed to be judging the distance to the bottom of the al eyway, far below, but Newbury knew there would be nothing to see but a thick river of fog. Ashford inched closer to the edge.

Suddenly, Newbury got a measure of the man's intention. Ashford meant to jump. He bel owed across the roof. "No! Don't do it, man! You'll fall to your death!"

Ashford, however, seemed not to hear him. With one last glance over his shoulder, the rogue agent leapt suddenly into the air.

Newbury darted towards the edge of the building, in time to see Ashford's black, fluttering cloak billow out like some obscene wing, as the man soared out into the gap between the two buildings, plummeting down into the milky abyss. Surely the drop would kil him?

Newbury gave an involuntary wince at the sound of Ashford impacting against the cobbles below. There was a sickening crunch – as of metal striking stone – a cry of pain, and then silence.

Newbury sighed. It was over.

Newbury turned back towards Purefoy and the metal stairwell. He'd have to recover Ashford's body, first to verify his death, then to keep the matter out of the papers and the police reports. He kicked at the gravel, frustrated. He wanted to know why. What had driven this man – this former agent -to such murderous lengths? Had he real y believed the secrets of Khemosiri would have granted him a new life? Newbury doubted that very much. But desperate men are often driven to desperate measures. He hopped down from the lip at the corner of the factory roof. Then, to Newbury's amazement, he heard the sounds of someone shifting around in the al eyway below.

There was a groan, fol owed by the ringing of tentative footsteps as Ashford, unseen due to the thick shroud of vapour, evidently climbed to his feet and continued on his way.

"Oh no, you don't!" Newbury rushed along the edge of the building, looking for some means by which he could quickly descend to ground level and continue his pursuit. If he lost Ashford now, he knew he risked losing him forever.

Below, bolted to the side of the building, Newbury spotted the top of an iron ladder, similar to the one he had ascended a few minutes earlier, and smiled with grim satisfaction. Another stairwell.

The platform would be fixed to the wal, a storey below. He glanced behind him. Purefoy was watching him from across the rooftop, nursing his bloodied hands where they had been torn clinging to the iron railing. Newbury weighed up his options. Did he risk the jump? Or did he waste valuable time on the ladder? He knew, with steady resolve, that there was only one answer to that question.

He didn't look back to see if Purefoy would fol ow. Hopping up onto the stone lip, Newbury casual y stepped off the side of the building, his body tautening as he prepared for the drop to the platform below.

This time, Newbury was ready for the impact and did not lose his footing, instead using his shoulder to take the brunt of his fall. It smarted painfully where it smashed against the hard railing, but he used the momentum to fling himself forward, tumbling down the first flight of stairs. He knew he would be black and blue with bruises by the morning, but he barely registered the knocks and scrapes as he dived headlong down flight after flight of metal steps towards the ground. His hands rasped on the worn metal as he slid from one storey to the other, his chest burning with the exertion.

All the while, the prickly need for opium was like a constant pull. He could feel his body craving the stuff. Once this was over, he promised himself, once he'd brought Ashford to justice; then he would attend to his own needs. For now, the needs of the Empire were far greater than his own.

In a matter of moments Newbury hit the ground, breaking into a roll to cushion his fall. Climbing to his feet, he glanced up at the side of the building to see if Purefoy had fol owed, but everything above was veiled in dense mist. Here, at ground level, it was beginning to pool, pulling a thick, yellow curtain across the city, but it was still wispy enough to allow Newbury to get his bearings. He took in his surroundings. The alleyway stank of raw sewage and rotting food. It was filthy, strewn with detritus, and outlet pipes gushed steam and dirty water onto the cobbles, drawn from the innards of the surrounding buildings. A feral cat was mewling loudly, somewhere out of sight. Newbury attempted to dust himself down, to little avail. His suit was covered in a layer of grime from the chase across the rooftops and his rol across the greasy cobbles. Mrs. Bradshaw would be delighted.

Newbury glanced from side to side, searching for signs of Ashford. The rogue agent had reached the other end of the al ey now, his back to Newbury. He was clearly in no hurry to get away.

Newbury grinned. Ashford hadn't heard him on the stairwel, and had incorrectly assumed that Newbury would be unable to continue his pursuit, fol owing his leap from the top of the factory. It was an advantage that Newbury desperately needed. If the man could drop four storeys onto cobbles and survive to get up and walk away, then Newbury needed al the help he could get. In a fight, he didn't fancy his chances against such a monster.

Newbury set off after the hulking form of the former agent, keeping pace. He needed to ensure that he didn't inadvertently give Ashford a chance to lose himself in the warren of backstreets that criss-crossed this district of Regent's Park. The light was almost gone now, and without his topcoat, Newbury could feel the damp air penetrating his clothes, filling his lungs like a cold compress.

Nevertheless, he crept along the al ey, clinging to the shadows, keeping Ashford locked in his sights.

They came to the mouth of the al eyway. Here, the street opened up in both directions, and directly ahead, across the main thoroughfare, the alley appeared to continue in a straight line for miles, disappearing into the dense fog. The street lamps had been diminished to nothing but diffuse, radial orbs that hung in the sky like a bizarre constellation, giving the air around them a tactile, almost physical quality. Newbury shivered. The cold air was damp and his face felt slick with moisture. The thoroughfare was busy; Newbury could hear the brisk chatter of people, the clatter of horses' hooves, and the rude firing of numerous steam engines to his left. To his right, a street vendor was expounding the virtues of the latest edition of The Evening Standard.

Newbury lurked for a moment by the corner of a butcher's shop, watching Ashford as he stumbled along in the darkness. Perhaps the fall had caused more damage to Ashford's rebuilt frame than Newbury had at first imagined. If he could surprise the man from behind, he might have a chance of taking him down. He needed to act.

Newbury broke cover, dashing forward to make a leap for the other man. Too late, he realised there was a broken wooden pal et in the road, abandoned by a market trader and hidden by the low-lying vapour, and he lurched to one side to avoid colliding with it. His foot scuffed noisily on the paving slabs as he righted himself.

Ashford came to life. He spun round to catch sight of the Crown investigator charging him from the rear. Newbury could see no measure of emotion in Ashford's cold, red eyes; indeed, he had yet to properly catch sight of the man's face, concealed as it was beneath the dark cowl of his cloak. But he knew there was steel and darkness behind them. He considered the fact that he was potentially rushing headlong towards his own death.

He was surprised, therefore, when Ashford turned on his heel and fled, somehow managing to spring at least two foot into the air with each stride, his legs pumping furiously as he bounded along the thoroughfare at an incredible speed. He clearly wasn't spoiling for a fight.

For the slightest of moments, Newbury stood, rooted to the spot, mouth agape in amazement.

Whatever Dr. Fabian had done to Ashford, he was clearly now more machine than man. No human being could ever propel themselves along at such a pace.

Newbury, realising that he'd soon lose Ashford in the fog if he failed to act, took after the man, careening along the street behind him, dodging out of the way of other, confused pedestrians as he ran. He left a young man sprawling in his wake, but had no time to stop to help him to his feet.

Newbury's lungs burned, and his muscles ached. And, with mounting frustration, he watched as Ashford gained more and more distance with every stride.

Realistical y, Newbury knew that he could not keep up. He considered his options. If he continued to run, he would surely lose sight of Ashford. The man seemed tireless, and Newbury was already feeling the strain of the exertion. Ahead of him, a hansom cab clattered along the road, and for a moment Newbury almost decided to leap aboard. But he knew the horse and driver would still be no match for the reconstructed man. He glanced over his left shoulder.

There, by the side of the road, a young man was attending to one of the new steam-powered automobiles that had so taken London by storm during the prior months. It was a bizarre contraption. Balanced on three wheels, with a pear-shaped body and a fat rear end that housed a small furnace and water tank, the vehicle was in practice a miniaturised version of the steam-powered hansoms of which Newbury made frequent use. Inside the pear-shaped body was a deep pit, into which the driver would lower himself, and which also contained a series of panels and pul eys by which they would operate the steering mechanism. Early on, Newbury had considered obtaining one of the strange vehicles, but The Times had reported on a growing number of fatalities involving the contraptions, and over time, far from feeling a mounting temptation to adopt the new form of transportation, Newbury had grown to see them as a menace. Nevertheless, he needed a means by which to keep pace with Ashford, and as far as he could see, there were no better options available to him at that juncture.

The furnace of this particular vehicle was well stoked, for it was belching black smoke from its twin exhaust pipes. The man, who Newbury presumed to be the owner, was dressed in a smart black suit with matching leather gloves, and had a pair of flying goggles affixed to his brow, pushed up onto his forehead whilst he regarded his machine. Newbury skidded to a halt beside him. The man looked up, startled at the appearance of the detective.

"In the name of the Crown, hand over that vehicle!"

"What? I… er.." The man looked flabbergasted. "Certainly not!" He looked Newbury up and down, unsure how to react to this dishevel ed man in front of him, who, thick with the detritus of his rooftop chase, was claiming to represent Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Newbury stepped forward and gently pushed the man to one side. He swung his legs up and over, into the control pit of the vehicle, and began fiddling with the controls, searching around for the lever that would propel it forward. He could see Ashford gaining ground in the distance, and he wasn't about to let him get away. He was sweating profusely from his run. Wiping his brow on his sleeve, he fiddled with a pair of matching brass handles and felt the front wheel turning from side to side beneath him. The steering mechanism, then. Next, cranking a lever with a sharp jolt, he set the vehicle into motion. It lurched forward, nearly knocking its owner to the ground. The man was shaking his fist and bellowing for the police, but Newbury chose to ignore the outburst. He didn't have time to engage in an argument with the man, nor to attempt to prove his credentials. The man would be suitably reimbursed for his trouble. Probably.

The engine roared and smoke bil owed like a black stain from its rear end. The vehicle stuttered forward again, and then hopped fifty yards along the road in short, jolting bursts. Frustrated, Newbury glared after Ashford. He knew that time was running out.

By this time the owner had gathered a fair crowd of onlookers, and a brief glance over his shoulder warned Newbury that a uniformed bobby had joined the fray. More distractions he could do without. He concentrated on deciphering the controls. Tentatively, Newbury eased back on the accelerator lever – which he assumed opened some sort of pressurised steam valve – and the vehicle kicked into a forward roll. The wheels clattered bumpily against the cobbled road, and he was jarred awkwardly as he continued to slowly adjust the lever to introduce more speed. At the last minute, he grasped for the brass steering knobs and swung the contraption out of the path of a middle-aged woman who was crossing the road before him, apparently oblivious to the rush of the oncoming vehicle. He slewed wildly to the right, and then, jamming the controls sharply to the left, he was able to bring the contraption back under some semblance of control. Other pedestrians dived out of his way as he cal ed out to them, hurtling headlong after the rogue agent.

It was difficult to see anything in the soupy fog, but, even with his remarkable mechanical enhancements, Ashford was no match for the speed of the steam-powered tricycle. He'd managed to gain considerable ground, but if he were intent on losing Newbury's tail, he showed no signs of it.

He remained in plain sight, hurtling along the main thoroughfare. At any point he could have ducked down one of the other alleyways or side passages and lost himself in the confusing patchwork of back streets that Newbury had seen from the rooftops above. But he seemed to be heading somewhere with intent, and Newbury wondered whether his pursuit had even registered as anything above an annoyance. Regardless, he swung the vehicle in behind the man, undeterred. Al of these questions could be answered later, once Ashford was safely contained in a cell.

Newbury shot along the road in pursuit, wavering wildly from side to side as he attempted to maintain control of the steering mechanism. It was an awkward, unwieldy device: the two brass knobs on the dashboard appeared to be rigged to a complex pul ey system that changed the direction of the front wheel. The driver manipulated the knobs, twisting one to turn right and the other to turn left. If he let them go, the vehicle would right itself once more, travelling directly forward in whichever direction the contraption was pointed. It was hardly elegant, but it was relatively effective, and Newbury soon had a measure of how to keep the vehicle from turning over.

He continued to barrel along after Ashford, gaining on him with every passing moment. The back wheels of the tricycle were spinning at an incredible speed, bouncing on the uneven road and lifting the vehicle physically into the air, so that Newbury had to maintain a tight grip on the controls and jam his feet under the dashboard to prevent himself being thrown from the driver's pit with every movement.

Ashford had gathered a powerful momentum, and was now knocking people bodily out of the way as he charged through the crowds, trying his best to outpace Newbury's borrowed transportation. Newbury had to swerve to avoid hitting the innocent bystanders that Ashford sent sprawling to the ground, and it slowed him down, causing him to concentrate more on the road than his quarry. He supposed that was Ashford's intention.

He considered his next move. He could try to mow Ashford down, but after seeing the man leap from the roof of a four-storey building, only to climb to his feet and walk away unharmed, he had doubts that the tricycle would be strong enough to even knock Ashford from his feet, let alone incapacitate him whilst Newbury sent for help. Instead, as he drew closer, Newbury released both steering knobs on the vehicle, wedged the acceleration lever into its ful y open position, and scrambled up into a standing position inside the driver's pit. Then, taking the steering knobs again, he fought to manoeuvre the vehicle alongside the sprinting Ashford.

Surprised, Ashford turned to glare at Newbury as he ran, and Newbury caught his first real glimpse of the man's face. It was an appalling sight. Ashford's flesh was grey and necrotic, peeling away around the dark pits of his eye sockets, into which two bizarre, mechanical devices had been inserted to replace his eyes. These were not makeshift instruments akin to that of Aldous Renwick's, but appeared to be smaller, more precision-made devices. They bore the hallmark of Dr. Fabian.

Ashford's jawbone was exposed at the base of his right cheek, where a hunk of skin had been ripped away, either during a ferocious encounter, or simply due to the fact that it had rotted and sloughed away. The rest of his skin was pitted and raw, and pink fluid seeped from open sores around his nose. Newbury was aghast. The sight of Ashford's face reminded him of the revenant creatures that still prowled the dark corners of the city: victims of an Indian plague that had terrorised the slums since before Christmas. Ashford's rotting, cadaverous face was the mirror image of these horrifying monsters – half alive, half dead – yet his steely grimace betrayed a sense of purpose that was lacking in the revenants. Inside there, behind those cold, glowing eyes, a cool intel igence stil lurked, and the thought of it made Newbury shudder. Then there was the smel; even here, standing shakily in the driver's pit of a moving tricycle, the stench of the man was near unbearable.

Newbury was almost caught unawares when Ashford made a lunge for him, swinging out widely with a powerful right hook as he ran. Newbury attempted to duck the blow, causing the vehicle to swerve wildly. He fought to get it under control. Luckily, the other man's fist landed squarely on his shoulder, missing its intended target: his chin. The power behind the punch was phenomenal, intended to finish the matter, and Newbury wondered, as his shoulder alighted with pain, what devices buried within the once-human form of Wil iam Ashford had manufactured such a blow.

Releasing his grip on the steering knobs of the tricycle once again, Newbury brought his left arm up to protect his face and jabbed out with his right, raining a series of blows into the side of Ashford's head. Ashford barely seemed to notice. He was stil running, stil keeping pace with the unusual vehicle, and Newbury, bouncing along the uneven road, had to stoop to regain control of the steering mechanism before the tricycle swerved from its course and he lost control altogether.

His options were running out. He could pounce on the running man, trying to bring him down, but the risks were far too great. If he missed, not only would he lose Ashford, probably for good, but he risked ending his own life. The speed at which he was now travel ing was such that he would be dashed against the cobbles unless he pitched his move with the utmost precision. Given the circumstances, that seemed unlikely. Instead, he grabbed for the left-hand steering knob, twisting it sharply and causing the vehicle to slew dramatically to the left. He pitched forward as the tricycle slammed into Ashford's legs.

Remarkably, Ashford did not topple over as anticipated. The tricycle rebounded, tipping to one side and almost spil ing Newbury out into the street. He clutched desperately for the steering knobs and tried to right the contraption as it skittered off to one side. He fought frantical y with the mechanism, balancing the front wheel as best he could and causing a newspaper salesman to throw himself to the ground as his stand collapsed, the tricycle sending plumes of paper into the air as it glanced off the salesman's wooden table. It was al the opportunity that Ashford needed. He veered off sharply to the left, mounting the pavement and darting towards the entrance to Portland Road Underground Station. He hurtled down the steps towards the platforms below.

"Damn it!" Newbury gave a howl of frustration, swinging the tricycle round in pursuit. He jammed the acceleration lever down, opening the valve to its limit and building up a head of steam.

The vehicle shot forward, bouncing crazily over the kerb and up onto the footpath. He made a beeline towards the entrance to the Underground station. He couldn't let Ashford get away. He'd come too far.

Newbury closed his eyes and pointed the tricycle at the top of the stairwell. He shot forward.

The vehicle breezed over the top of the stairs, soaring into the air as its momentum carried it forward, in a long arc down towards the darkness of the station below. Newbury realised he was holding his breath, waiting for the impact that seemed to take forever to arrive. He was shaking, adrenaline coursing through his system.

The trajectory of the smal vehicle was such that Newbury was never going to make it clear of the bottom steps. The undercarriage of the tricycle col ided brutal y with the stone steps, cracking open with an enormous jolt. For a moment, Newbury honestly believed he was going to die. He opened his eyes to see one of the back wheels spinning away, and realised with horror that the furnace had cracked open, spilling burning coals in a hot trail behind him, as the vehicle continued to skid down the stairs. Water, too, was gushing out of the tank, slopping across the steps and causing the hot coals to fizz noisily as they were doused. He clutched uselessly at the controls, finally realising that, if he were to survive, he had to get out of the skidding vehicle quickly. The wreckage reached the bottom of the stairs, but continued to slide forward across the tiled floor of the station, leaving devastation in its wake.

The frame of the tricycle was buckled, now, and Newbury was practically hanging out of one side, his shoulder only a couple of feet from the ground, as the remnants of the machine continued its long slide across the floor. People were screaming. Wriggling his legs free, Newbury allowed gravity to take its course. He fell out of the ruined tricycle, his shoulder jarring painfully against the hard tiles. He slid to a stop, watching the wreckage of the machine slide away from him towards a nearby wal. His legs had come out of the machine twisted, but intact. He straightened himself out on the floor, surprised that he hadn't been seriously mangled in the crash. Around him, scattered coals still glowed with amber warmth.

A woman rushed forward to help him to his feet, murmuring platitudes. He accepted her arm, scrabbling to his feet and looking around for Ashford. She looked confused when he failed to acknowledge her words, but he had no choice: Ashford was getting away. The man moved fast, faster than Newbury could possibly conceive, but along one of the tunnels Newbury could see his black cloak fluttering as he barged his way through the crowd of passengers; hear also the clanging footsteps of his heavy boots, ringing out in the confined space.

Ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder, Newbury flexed his back, smiled at the young blonde woman who had helped him to his feet, and took off after Ashford. He hurtled along the white-tiled tunnel, pushing his way past rows of blank-faced civilians, who stared at him, dumbfounded, as he forced a path through their ranks, fol owing the hulking giant in the black cloak. Once more, Newbury had his prey in his sights. There was nowhere left for Ashford to run. He would end it here.

Newbury charged along behind the rogue agent, skipping down a series of tiled steps towards the platform. His face was set with grim determination, but nevertheless, he almost laughed out loud when he saw a faded, sepia-coloured bill pasted on the tunnel wall, advertising the miraculous stage show of "The Mysterious Alfonso". He swept past it, driving inwards.

Newbury burst out onto the platform a moment later, only to see, bewildered, the other man leap down onto the train tracks and dart towards the dark mouth of the Underground tunnel at the end of the platform. Newbury ran to the edge of the platform and threw himself forward, jumping high into the air and coming down hard on Ashford's shoulders. Ashford twisted, stumbling on the steel tracks and tottering over under the weight and momentum of the Crown detective. He banged his head, hard, against the curved tunnel wal, and it rang out with the sound of metal striking stone.

There were shouts of alarm from the passengers waiting on the platform edge. Newbury heard a whistle blow. The police were on their way. Far from being concerned, Newbury was relieved. If he could only detain Ashford for long enough, perhaps the bobbies would be able to help him restrain the man.

The metal runners of the track were hard against Newbury's back. He was growing weary now, but Ashford, seemingly indestructible, was already climbing to his feet. Newbury mustered his remaining strength. He jumped to his feet, punching out at the rogue agent. His fist connected with the other man's chin, slamming his head backwards, but the blow was almost enough to incapacitate Newbury, for his hand felt as if he had driven it into a lump of solid iron. He glanced at his knuckles.

They were shredded, bleeding and sore.

Unperturbed, Ashford lurched forward, using the flat of his hand to slap Newbury hard in the chest. The blow was enough to immediately knock him from his feet. He cal ed out as he scrabbled on the ground. "Ashford! What's the matter with you, man? Have you lost al sense? Give it up!"

Ashford's voice, when he spoke, was a grating, metallic whine. Every word was like a fragment of song, and Newbury had the sense that, somehow, it was being artificially induced. It sounded as if it were being squeezed from a clutch of miniature organ pipes in his throat, like a chorus of a hundred people al speaking the same words at once. But there was no emotion in it, no sense of the person Ashford had once been. The sound seemed to echo from a wheezing vent in his chest. It was cold and inhuman, just like the man himself. "Cease and desist, Sir Maurice. I don't want to hurt you." He stepped cautiously over the train tracks to loom over the prone Newbury. During the tussle, however, Ashford's long cloak had become tangled in the steel runners. In stepping forward, the cloak tore open, exposing, momentarily, the horrifying figure it harboured underneath.

Newbury gasped in shock. "My God! What did they do to you?" The words seemed to catch in his throat. Newbury knew, now, the origin of that detestable stench. Ashford was less than half the man he had once been; less than half the human being he had once been. His body had been ravaged, reassembled from a shocking assortment of flesh and brass, like a patchwork monster made real, a nightmare marriage of metal and blood. What flesh there still was, clinging to his brass exoskeleton, was rotten, decaying, sloughing away in great hunks. In places, large patches of leather had been stitched indelicately to this remaining flesh in an attempt to give some semblance of skin, but had succeeded only in exacerbating the monstrous appearance of the man. Newbury had no idea whether this was a part of Dr. Fabian's original design, or whether Ashford had attempted to repair himself during his five-year exile in St. Petersburg. It mattered not. The result was grotesque.

The man's torso was perhaps the most disturbing aspect of al. The exposed skin of his chest was puckered and pustulant around a large glass porthole that filled the space where his ribcage had once resided. In the murky depths it revealed, Newbury could see the grey muscle of the man's heart, beating in time with a flickering electrical charge that shocked it repeatedly at intervals, like the precise ticking of a clock. Fluid burbled and bubbled along four clear pipes that sprouted, like giant follicles, from his shoulders, curling around the back of his head and disappearing into the depths of his skul. The brown, murky liquid appeared to be pumped around his brain cavity by a further device buried deep inside his chest. His face was just as alarming. The tiny lenses of his eyes flicked back and forth over Newbury's prone body, the red lights glowing in the darkness. When he opened his mouth, Newbury saw that his teeth had decayed to black stumps. What hair was left was hung in long, straggling clumps, and the flesh of his scalp was torn, revealing the horrific juxtaposition of yel owed bone and metal plating underneath.

Newbury shuddered. So this was the disgusting genius of Dr. Fabian, taken to its extreme. He could hardly believe this had been sanctioned by the Crown. He pitied the man, despite himself.

Newbury had no idea how Ashford could go on living like this. It was a form of waking torture, that every minute his intel ect should be housed in this wreckage of a frame, this parody of a human body. No wonder the man had been driven insane. Newbury was amazed it had not happened sooner. Indeed, he felt a kind of sickening sympathy for the man, an understanding of the desperation that had led him to this point. Science had betrayed him, and so had the Crown.

His life had been extended beyond the point of death, certainly, but Newbury doubted it was a life worth living; the pain and hardship he must have suffered since his resurrection would have driven any man insane. And now Ashford had turned to the occult, hoping to find a means to restore himself, to reclaim the life that was once his. It was tragic, and Newbury was repulsed, not only by what the man had become, but the means by which he had become it. Nevertheless, regardless of circumstances, Ashford had committed two murders, and whatever happened there in the train tunnel he needed to be brought to justice.

Newbury inched backwards, shuffling along the tracks, trying to put some distance between himself and the strange, mechanical man. Ashford stooped low in response, as if reaching for Newbury's ankle. The detective rol ed, using his momentum to spring up onto his hands and knees and then twisting into a standing position. He fired out a blind kick in Ashford's general direction, in an attempt to keep the other man at bay whilst he found his bearings. To his surprise, his foot hit home, although it seemed to have little effect other than to give Newbury some extra leverage to right himself. Again, Ashford attempted to slap at Newbury with the palm of his hand, swatting at him as if he were a buzzing insect, but Newbury was able to skip away, watchful that his feet did not become entangled in the rails. He could not work out what Ashford was trying to achieve with such bizarre tactics. Surely a trained agent, a man who had lived rough in a foreign territory for over five years, would have developed more comprehensive combat manoeuvres? Especially a man with such power. If he were able to plant even one successful blow to Newbury's head or gut, Newbury knew it would be the end of him. He'd fought machines before, but this was an entirely different proposition. No, it was almost as if, with these flat-handed attacks, Ashford was genuinely attempting not to wound him, instead choosing to parry Newbury's ineffective blows and disable him with the least amount of effort. Perhaps he was telling the truth? Perhaps he really didn't want to hurt him?

Confused, Newbury backed away. By now, people were shrieking loudly on the platform, but the combatants paid them no heed. Newbury wiped his sleeve across his brow. "Ashford.. you have to come in with me. They'll hunt you down. I’ll hunt you down, unless you stop me. Put an end to this now."

The half-human, half-machine rounded on him. Newbury found it difficult to get a measure of the man's facial expression, all subtlety lost beneath the layers of peeling flesh. His voice chimed in its strange, metallic tones. "I cannot."

Newbury sighed. "Then I fear I must detain you myself."

Launching himself from the tunnel wal with a kick of his foot, Newbury pounced towards Ashford. To his horror, he registered, too late, the nature of the screams from the platform. People were shouting a warning. A train was coming. It was hurtling into the platform, heading directly for the mouth of the tunnel where Newbury and Ashford were now locked in combat.

Newbury landed on the other man, chopping down at his neck. Ashford, however, was ready for this, and instead of fending off Newbury's attack, he grappled with him, grabbing him firmly around the waist. Newbury fought frantically against his captor, but Ashford was too strong, and held him, pinned, as the train hurtled into the station. There was no way either of them could now escape the roar of the oncoming engine.

Ashford moved like lightning. He lurched to one side, bodily heaving Newbury up and into the air, spinning the Crown investigator up onto the platform, where he landed with a painful thump. It was just in time. The engine's brakes squealed loudly as the driver caught sight of the figure in its path, but it was too late for Ashford. The train slammed into him, lifting him off the ground with a sickening thud. His body was flung around the curved prow of the engine, trapping him between the side of the tank and the tunnel wal. Newbury watched in shock as Ashford's elbows scraped against the dirty tiles, setting a shower of sparks flying as his metal bones were dragged across the hard ceramic. The train screeched to a halt. Ashford, now partially obscured by the shadows of the tunnel, turned to regard Newbury, his red eyes flashing. Then, without saying another word, he eased himself out from between the engine and the tunnel wal, clambered around the front of the train, and dropped to the ground. Now out of sight, Newbury heard his footsteps padding away into the distance, further away into the depths of the Underground.

Newbury col apsed onto his back, breathing heavily.

Ashford had saved his life. There was no doubt. The man had purposeful y placed Newbury out of the path of the oncoming train, at great risk to himself. It was only due to Dr. Fabian's enhancements that Ashford had managed to survive the encounter at al. If survive was the right word.

Sighing, exhausted, Newbury took in his situation. The civilians on the platform had formed a large circle around him, their faces gleaming with expressions that ranged from horror to admiration and everything in between. Newbury couldn't help but laugh out loud when, a moment later, a startled-looking Purefoy pushed his way through the press of people, rushing to Newbury's side. The boy looked dishevel ed, tired and anxious. "What happened to him? Where is he?"

"He got away."

"What.. I.." Purefoy looked devastated. He glanced down at the ruination of his bloody hands, as if refusing to believe that everything he had been through that evening had been in vain, that al of their efforts had led to nothing but failure.

Newbury felt quite the opposite. "I should add at this point, Purefoy, that I'm beginning to think I may have been wrong al along." Newbury glanced in the direction of the tunnel mouth, where Ashford had disappeared into the murky darkness. "He saved my life." He looked up at the quizzical face of the young reporter. "Perhaps Ashford isn't our killer, after all."