The Osiris Ritual

Chapter Twenty-Four

Groggily, Newbury stumbled across the lurching vessel towards Veronica. She was a mess.

There was blood everywhere, staining her clothes, spattered over her face, pooling on the deck beneath her. He stooped over her and she stirred, semi-conscious. He dropped to his knees, scooping her up and cradling her in his arms. "Oh, Veronica.. " He held her like that for a moment, his heart breaking. Then, suddenly realising that he needed to act, he stood, carrying her across to the daybed, where he propped her upright, trying to keep her wound higher than her heart.

Cautiously, he examined her injury. The bul et seemed to have torn directly through her shoulder, leaving a ragged, open exit wound from which blood was gushing freely. "Hold on. Hold on, Veronica. You're going to be all right." He grabbed the lapels of her mauve jacket and wrenched it open, popping the buttons. He took up a fistful of her blouse and used both hands to tear off a long strip, exposing the alabaster-coloured skin of her midriff. He wrapped the strip of fabric around her shoulder and bound it tight, trying to compress the wound. She cried out in pain as he applied pressure, and her eyes blinked open, searching for him frantically.

"I'm here. I'm here, Veronica."

The shock, the pain and the loss of blood were evident in her eyes. She was unable to focus.

"Newbury.." was al she could manage, her voice weak, tiny bubbles of blood forming on her lips as she mouthed the word.

Newbury tried to fight the rising sense of panic that was gripping him, making it harder to breathe. He had recovered a little from the blows he'd received to the head and adrenaline was coursing riotously through his veins, causing his hands to shake. He glanced over his shoulder, trying to get a measure of their situation. Knox had fled. Newbury had heard him scramble up the ladder and out onto the deck a few moments earlier, ditching the sinking vessel. The remnants of the Osiris Ritual were scattered across the floor, disturbed in the scuffle, but the vials of brown liquid were gone. The boat's engines were still roaring. He heard a splintering crack. In the control pit, the fractured glass of the viewing port was splitting open under the pressure of the water. Newbury realised with shock that the Methuselah was nearly completely submerged. The glass would give way soon, al owing the river water to flood in. Not only that, but he guessed that Knox would have left the hatch open as he fled. If the upper deck of the vessel were to dip beneath the surface, there would be no stopping the onslaught of water, and their only route of escape would be blocked.

Newbury put his hand on Veronica's cheek. She was icy cold. "Stay with me, Veronica. Hold on."

Jumping to his feet, Newbury dashed towards the control pit. The vessel's control system made no sense to him whatsoever. Dials, levers, knobs; he had no idea where to start. He grabbed the nearest thing at hand, a lever that had been cranked forward and which he hoped control ed the speed of the dive. He needed to reverse the direction of the ship. He pul ed it back, fully, and felt the Methuselah judder as the engines whined, shifting into reverse. Triumphantly, he stepped back from the controls, only to see his relief dashed almost immediately. The crack in the glass had now extended across the whole of the viewing port, a vast spider's web with a small impact crater at its epicentre, where the stray bul et had struck home. Tiny beads of water were beginning to form along the fracture lines. Beyond, he could see nothing but dirty, swirling river water.

He had to get out of there, had to get Veronica out of there. He dashed back into the main cabin. "Veronica? Miss Hobbes!" He knelt, turning her head from side to side, but it lolled pathetically. "Veronica!" It was no use. She was fading fast. He was going to have to carry her. He bent low and placed his hands under her arms, heaving her up onto his shoulder, careful not to exacerbate her wound. She gave a low moan. The makeshift bandage was holding, but blood was still seeping through, pattering to the floor. He realised his hands were covered in it. He had to get her to a surgeon, quickly. He couldn't lose her. Not Veronica.

There was a loud bang from somewhere up above, the sound of metal striking metal, as something heavy landed on the upper deck of the vessel. The whole ship shook, rocking from side to side with the impact. He heard Knox cry out in dismay, although the words themselves were lost, swallowed by the incessant roar of the engines. The reply was unmistakable, however: the dry, metallic croak of William Ashford, cal ing the name of his eternal opponent. "Knox!"

So, Knox hadn't yet been able to get away. Newbury had lost al sense of time.

He steadied himself with a deep breath. His burden safely secured on his shoulder, Newbury rushed to the ladder in the antechamber. The space was smal, and he had to be sure not to knock Veronica's head against the wall as he mounted the first rung of the ladder. He began to climb, using one hand to haul himself upwards, the other hand wrapped safely around the waist of his unconscious assistant. The going was tough, but he made steady progress, driven on by the sounds of the scuffle from above: a sword striking metal and the grunting of the two men, locked in deadly combat.

Below, the glass pane finally gave way with a splintering crack, and water began to gush into the main cabin. He didn't have long. Newbury knew that. Soon the weight of the water would overwhelm the power of the engines and the Methuselah would resume its slow, ponderous course towards the bottom of the river. He was resolute, however. He would get Veronica to safety. This ship would not become their tomb. He pressed on.

Newbury emerged from the open hatch to find himself grasping at water. It was lapping at the lip of the hatch, about to start streaming over the side, into the vessel itself. The Methuselah had almost completely submerged, its upper deck sloshing in water as it listed from side to side, its paddle engines straining against the sheer weight of the water that was flooding into the main cabin below. Gasping as the cold water slapped him in the face, Newbury struggled to pull himself and Veronica out of the hatch and onto the unstable deck above. He knew he was exposed, but a quick glance reassured him that Knox was already occupied. The doctor had drawn his sabre and was facing off against the hulking figure of Ashford, who had now abandoned his torn, tattered cloak and had his arms outstretched, taking sweeping blows at the other man. The remains of his discarded cloak drifted away lazily with the gentle current of the river, like a puddle of spilt ink.

Knox was grinning foolishly, his once-blind eye twinkling with glee. He was parrying deftly with his blade – and Newbury, stumbling onto the deck and fal ing to his knees, Veronica stil clutched tightly in his arms – winced at the sound of metal striking metal. Rotten flesh, flayed from Ashford's forearms by the constant thrashing of the sabre, spun away in great clods, exposing more of the bizarre, brass skeleton beneath. Ashford barely seemed to register the blows. If he felt any pain, it was lost in the snarl of rage that Newbury could see writ on his face. This was why Ashford had come back. It had all been for this moment. He would have his revenge on Knox, for separating him from his family, for being the catalyst that caused him to be turned into a monster. Newbury thought he caught a glimpse of something else in that expression, too. Sadness. Ashford had reached the end.

He didn't want to live any longer, not the abject half-life he'd been forced to endure for the last five years. He was set on a path of self destruction, and he ful y intended to take Knox down with him when he fel.

The huge, recreated man staggered forward, almost losing his footing near the prow as the Methuselah dipped into the water. He swung at Knox, his feet causing water to spray into the air as he stomped across the half-submerged deck. The fight between the two men was far less elegant than Newbury's earlier encounter with Knox, but in many ways more effective. It was clear that Ashford had the upper hand, if by nothing other than virtue of the fact that he seemed unconcerned by the shower of blows he was al owing Knox to rain down on him as he pushed forward, relentlessly, focused on his goal.

Newbury could hear the ship's engines choking now, and he knew it wouldn't be long until they were all pitched into the cold water. He looked down at Veronica. Her face was pale from loss of blood. Hastily, he tested the tourniquet he had placed around her shoulder. It was stil holding, but she needed surgery, and soon. He needed to get her to the Fixer. But there was no way -off the boat, other than the river. He dared not risk plunging into the cold river with Veronica already so weak. He feared she wouldn't survive the shock. He needed to get past Knox and Ashford. Perhaps then he'd be able to make a jump for the quayside.

As if reading his thoughts, Ashford took decisive action. Ploughing forward, he raised his arms and grabbed for Knox, ignoring the sharp downward swing of the other man's sword, which bit hard into the coil of tubing that stretched from Ashford's chest to the back of his skull. Blood and chemicals sprayed into the air, describing a wide arc, but Ashford paid them no heed. He chopped down hard at Knox's wrist, causing the doctor to lose his grip on the sabre. It spiralled away, clattering to the wooden boards, the weight of it causing it to slide across the uneven deck of the listing ship. Newbury watched it slip away into the water, disappearing into the murky depths of the Thames. Ashford was about to finish it.

Standing, Newbury held Veronica tightly to his chest as Ashford grasped hold of Knox, wrapping his huge, sinewy arms around the other man's chest and lifting him bodily into the air. Mechanical servos squealed as Ashford applied crushing pressure, his feet planted firmly on the deck, water lapping at his knees.

Knox wailed and spluttered, wheezing as the air was forced out of his lungs by his slowly collapsing ribcage. His legs kicked uselessly, his arms pinned to his sides, as his body was constricted by his former victim. His head turned, his eyes fixing on Newbury. Newbury could see the panic there, the desperation behind those eyes. His mouth opened and closed. He was mouthing something. Newbury stepped closer.

"Help.. me.." Knox gasped. But al Newbury could see were the faces of the dead girls in the cellar beneath the Archibald Theatre, Veronica's face as the bul et ripped through her shoulder, and Purefoy's disembowel ed corpse, spread out on the floor like an anatomical doll. He remained steadfast, unmoved by the doctor's plight. His jaw was set firm. There would be no redemption for this man. The hate burned within Newbury like a furnace. Knox was everything that Newbury was not. Charles was wrong. The similarities were superficial. Perhaps they were two extremes on the same scale, but they were poles apart. He needed to believe that.

Knox gave a spasm, his neck jerking back, blood spouting from his lips, his eyes rol ing back in his sockets, as, with one, last, sudden movement, Ashford squeezed the last of the life out of him The doctor's head lol ed to one side.

After a moment, Ashford released the corpse, which flopped like a child's toy to the deck of the boat and then slid, ungraciously, into the river. A moment later there was nothing but a few escaping air bubbles to mark the departure of Dr. Aubrey Knox.

The Methuselah shook violently as its engines began to fail. Ashford stood, watching the water for a moment, as if anxious to ensure that Knox would not suddenly resurface, and then turned and staggered towards Newbury. The pump in his chest was stil pushing fluid through the severed pipe, but it now become a pathetic trickle, dribbling down the side of Ashford's head. The man himself had begun to tremble. With great difficulty, he raised his feet above the sloshing water and jerked himself over to where Newbury was still cradling the unconscious Veronica to his chest. River water was now pouring into the open hatch by Newbury's feet, and he knew he had only minutes to get Veronica to safety.

Before he could reach Newbury, Ashford col apsed to his knees. The red lights of his eyes were flickering, unsteady and dim. Newbury realised that without the preserving chemicals his brain must have been drying out, starved of moisture and oxygen. He was near death. He looked up at Newbury, who met his gaze with a smile. "You did it, Ashford. You did it."

Ashford's ventilator was wheezing heavily, rasping as he dragged air into his artificial lungs. He seemed to be struggling to open his mouth. When he did, the tinny, metal ic sound of his voice lacked its usual bass timbre. "Thank Charles for me, Newbury." And then he convulsed, froze, and dropped to the sinking deck of the ship, the red lights of his eyes fading to a pinprick of light, and then disappearing to a steady black. His head dipped below the water line.

Newbury lurched into action. Veronica's breathing was shal ow. She'd lost a lot of blood, but the wound was clean, straight through. He only hoped he could get her to a surgeon in time.

Cautiously, he walked to the rear of the boat, his feet sloshing in the water. There was no way he could make the jump to the harbour, not with Veronica in his arms. He'd have to swim. He hoped Veronica could survive it. But there was no other option.

Cursing, he glanced up and down the quayside, looking for a means by which he could scale the harbour wall. His best option was to get to one of the other nearby boats, and from there, to safety.

Hesitantly, he lowered himself into a sitting position on the side of the ship and then pitched himself forward into the water, careful to buoy Veronica so that her head remained above the surface. It didn't seem that long since he was last in the Thames, since Veronica was dragging him from the bel y of a sinking airship, and he would have laughed aloud at the irony, had it not been for the gravity of his current situation.

Long, powerful strokes soon propelled him towards the nearest vessel: a large, white yacht, bobbing on the water about a hundred yards from the sinking submersible. The owners were nowhere to be seen. It wasn't difficult for Newbury to haul himself and his precious cargo up the small ladder to the safety of the deck.

Shivering with cold, his head pounding from the earlier blows, he didn't wait to catch his breath.

Instead, he took a running jump over the smal gap to the dock, from where he knew he could carry Veronica to a hansom, and from there on, swiftly, to safety.