With these words, he gave Tom one last smile and gestured to his companions. ‘All right, gentlemen. Let’s get this over with and go to bed.’
Following Murray’s command, Jeff and Bradley scooped Tom off the ground, while Mike brought over a huge block of stone with a piece of rope tied round it, which they fastened to Tom’s feet. Then they bound his hands behind his back. Murray watched the proceedings with a satisfied smile.
‘Ready, boys,’ said Jeff, after making sure the knots were secure. ‘Let’s do it.’
Once more, Jeff and Bradley carried Tom shoulder high to the edge of the quay, while Mike held on to the stone that would anchor him to the riverbed. Tom gazed blankly at the murky water. He was filled with the strange calm of someone who knows his life is no longer in his own hands. Murray walked over to him and squeezed his shoulder hard. ‘Goodbye, Tom. You were the best Shackleton I could hope to find, but such is life,’ he said. ‘Give my regards to Perkins.’
Tom’s companions swung his body, and at the count of three tossed him and the stone into the Thames. Tom had time to fill his lungs with air before he hit the surface of the water. The cold came as a shock, dispelling the lethargy pervading his body. He was struck by fate’s final irony: what good was it to feel so awake now that he was about to drown? He sank in a horizontal position to begin with, but the weight of the stone soon pulled him upright, and he plummeted with astonishing speed to the bottom of the Thames. He blinked several times, trying to glimpse something through the greeny-brown water, but there was not much to see, besides the bottoms of the boats floating above, and a flickering halo of light cast by the quay’s only streetlamp.
The stone quickly hit the riverbed and Tom remained floating above it, suspended by ten inches of rope, like a child’s kite, buffeted by the current. How long could he go without breathing? he wondered. What did it matter? Was it not absurd to struggle against the inevitable? Even though he knew it would only postpone death, he pressed his lips tightly together. Again that painful instinct to survive, but now he had understood his sudden will to live: he had discovered that the worst thing about dying was not being able to change what he had been, that when he died others would see only the repulsive tableau into which his life would solidify. He remained hanging upright for what felt like an excruciating eternity lungs burning, temples throbbing deafeningly, until the urgent need to breathe compelled him against his will to open his mouth.
Water began to fill his throat, streaming merrily into his lungs, and everything around him became even fuzzier. Then Tom realised this was it: in a few seconds he would lose consciousness.
In spite of this, he had time to see the figure appear. He watched him emerge from the swirling fog in his brain and walk towards him along the riverbed with his heavy metal footsteps, oblivious to the water all around him. He assumed that the lack of oxygen to his brain had allowed the automaton to escape from his dreams and move around in the real world. He was too late, though. Tom had no need of him: he was quite capable of drowning without his help. Or perhaps he had come for the pleasure of watching him die, face to face in the river’s murky depths.
But, to his surprise, when the automaton reached his side, he gripped Tom’s waist with one of his metal arms, as if to lead him in a dance, while with the other he tugged at the rope around his feet until he loosened it. Then he heaved Tom towards the surface. Tom, still semi-conscious, saw the bottoms of the boats and the shimmering streetlamp gradually looming larger. Before he knew it, his head emerged above the water.
The night air coursed into his lungs, and Tom knew this was the true taste of life. He breathed in greedily, spluttering like a hungry infant choking on its food. He allowed his enemy to hoist his near-lifeless body on to the quayside, where he lay on his back, dizzy and numb with cold. He felt the automaton’s hands pressing repeatedly down on his chest. The pumping helped him spew out the water he had swallowed. When there seemed to be no more, he coughed a few times, bringing up some congealed blood, and could feel life seeping back into his limp form. He was overjoyed to discover he was alive again, to feel life’s soft pulse flowing through him, filling him voluptuously, like the river water had done only moments before. For a split second, he even felt the illusion of immortality, as though such a close brush with death, having felt the Grim Reaper’s chill fingers closing around him, had in some way acquainted him with it so that its rules no longer applied to him.
Somewhat recovered, Tom forced himself to smile at his saviour, whose metallic head was floating above him, a dark spherical object lit by the single streetlamp on the quay. ‘Thank you, Solomon,’ he managed to splutter.
The automaton unscrewed his head. ‘Solomon?’ he laughed. ‘It’s a diving suit, Tom.’
Although his face remained in the shadow, Tom recognised Martin Tucker’s voice, and was overwhelmed with happiness.
‘Have you never seen one before? It lets you walk underwater, just like strolling in a park, while someone pumps air through a tube from the surface. We have Bob to thank for that and for winching us both up on to the quay,’ explained his companion, pointing towards a figure out of Tom’s field of vision. Then, after putting the helmet to one side, Martin lifted Tom’s head and examined it with the carefulness of a nurse. ‘’Struth, the boys did a good job. You’re in a right state. Don’t be angry with them, though. They had to make it look realistic to dupe Murray. I think it worked. As far as he’s concerned, they’ve done the job and are no doubt receiving their dues right this minute.’
Despite his swollen lips, Tom grimaced. So, it had been a charade? Apparently so. As Murray had explained to him before he had been thrown into the Thames, he had hired Tom’s companions to kill him. But they were not as heartless as Tom had thought, even though they couldn’t afford to refuse Murray’s money. Martin must have suggested that, if they were clever, they could put on another performance – the burly fellow was now brushing back Tom’s hair from his bloodied brow and gazing at him with fatherly affection.
‘Well, Tom, the performance is over,’ he said. ‘Now that you’re officially dead, you’re free. Your new life begins tonight, my friend. Make the most of it, as I am sure you will.’
He patted Tom’s shoulder in a gesture of farewell, smiled at him one last time and vanished from the quay, leaving an echo of metallic footsteps lingering behind him.
After he had gone, Tom lay still, in no hurry to get up, trying to assimilate everything that had happened. He took a deep breath, testing his sore lungs, and gazed at the heavens arching above him. A beautiful pale yellow full moon lit the night sky, grinning down at him, like a death’s head that had threatened to swallow him only to breathe new life into him. Incredible though it might seem, everything had been resolved without him having to die. His body was racked with pain and he felt weak as a kitten, but he was alive – alive! Wild delight overwhelmed him, compelling him to get up off the cold ground – if he lay there much longer in his wet clothes he would catch pneumonia.
He struggled to his feet and limped away from the docks. His bones were bruised but not broken, and his companions must have taken care not to injure his internal organs. The place was deserted. At the entrance to the cul-de-sac where the fight had started, lying next to Wells’s novel, he saw the flower Claire had given him. He picked it up and held it in the palm of his hand. The sweet, fragrant scent of narcissus, faintly reminiscent of jasmine, guided him slowly through the labyrinth of the night, pulling him, like the sea’s undertow, drawing him
