Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA

  “So much fighting,” I said finally. “So much blood and death on these grounds, and so few picnics and pleasant walks. That’s the Drood life for you.”

  “You never cared much for picnics, or walks of any kind,” said Molly. “You were always more interested in a pie and a pint at the pub, or a good book in a comfy chair.”

  “I might have developed a taste for such things if I’d had the time,” I said. “We were always so busy, always in such a hurry . . .”

  “I could conjure us up a picnic hamper,” said Molly. “If you like. We never did get our Christmas meal. We could just sit down here, take a break . . .”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not hungry right now. Maybe later.”

  It occurred to me that I had to stop saying that. Stop putting things off. Because all too soon there wouldn’t be a later. A sudden horror took me, a despair at being caught in a trap with no escape, no way out. Trapped in a body that had turned against me. My heart lurched in my chest at the sheer unfairness of it all, and for a moment I couldn’t get my breath. Molly saw the panic rising in my face. She moved in close, placing her hands on my chest and murmuring comforting words until I had control again. I nodded slowly and smiled my thanks to her.

  “Live in the moment,” I said. My voice sounded harsh, even to me. “I can do this. I have to do this. I’ve been close to death before; it comes with the job . . . Why does it bother me so much now?” I looked at Molly and knew why. “Because now I’m not just losing me; I’m losing you.”

  We walked on, together.

  “We never did get married,” I said after a while.

  “I never asked you,” said Molly.

  “I could have said something,” I said. “There would have been problems with my family, but . . .”

  “Eddie, I never wanted it.” Her voice was firm. “I never felt the need. We had each other, and that was all that mattered.” She stopped suddenly, so I stopped with her. She looked at me. “I said had . . . Like it’s already over. I won’t accept that. I’ll never accept that.”

  “At the end,” I said, “if it gets bad . . . I don’t want you around me. If I do end up dying by inches in some hospital bed . . . I don’t want you to see me like that.”

  “I’ll never leave you,” said Molly. “You’ll always be my Eddie. Do you really think I’m that shallow?”

  “I don’t want you sitting at my bedside, watching me die,” I said. “You shouldn’t have to go through that. I wouldn’t do it for you. I couldn’t . . . A man should die on his own. It’s the last important thing he has to do; he should be left alone, to concentrate on getting it right.”

  “You do talk crap sometimes,” said Molly. “You know damned well you can’t do anything practical without me there to help.”

  “Of course,” I said. “What was I thinking? The two of us, together . . . Not forever, after all. But together till the end.”

  “I can live with that,” said Molly.

  We smiled and walked on, arm in arm.

  “How do you feel?” said Molly.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s all happened so quickly. I cheated death so many times, out in the field, that I stopped thinking about it. But I should have known . . . everyone’s luck runs out eventually.”

  “You were ready to die for me earlier today,” said Molly. “Standing on the edge of that airship . . .”

  “That was different,” I said. “There was a purpose to that. This feels so random . . . Like I just drew a bad ticket in some lottery. Mostly, I feel angry. That I won’t have the life, the future, I thought I was going to have. With you.”

  “I don’t know what I’ll do, once you’re gone,” said Molly.

  “You’ll think of something,” I said.

  “Are you scared?” said Molly. “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. “I’ve had a good . . . Well, I don’t know about good, but I’ve certainly had an interesting life. And I had you. Finding you was enough good luck for any one life.”

  “How can you be so accepting?” said Molly.

  “I’m not,” I said. “But I can fake it, long enough to find Dr DOA. And put a stop to him. Not just for me, but for all his victims. Be strong for me, Molly. For when I can’t.”

  “I’m here, Eddie. I’m here.”

  We came at last to the great grassy mound at the rear of the Hall, under which was buried a dragon’s head. Struck off by Baron Frankenstein centuries ago, but still somehow living. I found it, alive and lonely, under a hillside overlooking the ruins of Castle Frankenstein. So I brought it back to Drood Hall, because it didn’t seem right to just leave it there. The dragon’s head seemed quite happy in its new home, always ready to chat with any passing Drood. It seemed to me that the mound was somewhat bigger than I remembered from the last time I visited.

  “Sorry it’s been a while,” I said. “I’ve been busy.”

  “That’s all right,” said the dragon’s voice. Deep and resonant, rich as wine, old as the hills. “The Armourer and their lab assistants are always popping by. My condition fascinates them. They’re always bringing strange new machines to my mound to try out on me. And the Librarian often stops by, so we can discuss history. I’ve seen so much of it. I do miss the old Armourer, your uncle Jack. He kept saying he was going to grow me a new body, but . . . I have heard what’s happened, Eddie. I understand how you’re feeling. I wasn’t ready to die either, when the old Baron cut off my head.”

  “But you’re still alive!” said Molly. Almost accusingly.

  “You call this living?” said the dragon. “Sorry. That was an old joke, even in my time. The point is, I didn’t expect to survive my beheading. It had been such a long time since I’d seen any others of my kind, I had no idea we were so . . . durable. I really believed my time was up. And even though I’d lived for centuries, I still wasn’t ready. No matter how long you’ve had, it never seems enough. You’re never ready to let go. At least you have some time, Eddie, to put your affairs in order.”

  “And get revenge on my murderer,” I said.

  The dragon rumbled approvingly. “You would have made a good dragon.”

  I said my good-byes to him, just in case we didn’t meet again. It occurred to me, I was probably going to be doing a lot of that. And then I carried on through the grounds. Molly was quiet for a long time.

  “Promise me one thing,” she said finally.

  “If I can.”

  “Don’t ever say good-bye to me. I’ve never been any good at good-byes.”

  “I’ll probably have other things on my mind,” I said kindly.

  I was trying to look at everything, force every detail into my mind. Because once I left the Hall to go after Dr DOA, it was possible I might never get to come back. Never see any of this again. I could die, chasing the man with death for a name. It felt . . . like I was saying good-bye to my life. To my world.

  I walked up and down and back and forth, and Molly followed along wherever I wanted to go. She didn’t say anything about the time passing. Until I realised I was just putting off going back to the Hall, to begin my last mission. I stopped, took a deep breath, and headed back to the Hall by the shortest route. I always felt better, and stopped worrying about things, once I’d settled on a course of action. Molly saw where we were heading and understood our break was over. That we were going back to work.

  “What are we going to do?” she said.

  “Well, to start with, we don’t panic,” I said. “We work the possibilities. I don’t care who this Dr DOA really is; he can’t operate in a vacuum. He can’t do his work in our world without leaving traces. He has to arrange things, buy things, make travel plans . . . There’s got to be a trail somewhere. So we go out there and start leaning on people. Someone will talk. Someone always talks. Enough to point us in the right direction. What’s wrong, Molly? You l
ook disappointed.”

  “When you said possibilities, I thought you meant looking for a cure.”

  “Molly . . .”

  “We can’t just give up!”

  “I’m not,” I said. “But I’ll leave the last-minute-miracle stuff to the experts. They have the resources, and the time. We have to concentrate on what we can do.”

  “There’s still the Nightside!” said Molly. “There’s always someone in the long night who can do anything. If you’ve got the money.”

  “Somehow that thought doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence,” I said.

  “Money is a great motivator,” said Molly. “You know, if all else fails . . . I could always bring you back. Like Dead Boy.”

  “No thank you,” I said firmly. “I don’t want to be like that.”

  “You don’t know,” said Molly. “You’ve never met him.”

  “I’ve heard about him. I’ve heard lots about him.”

  “Or like Larry Oblivion, the dead detective!”

  “Even more no thank you. I’ve met Larry. We worked a case together some years back.”

  “You never said!”

  “I don’t tell you everything.”

  “There are other places, outside the Nightside!” Molly said desperately. “All kinds of extreme hospices, voodoo parlours, future-tech establishments . . . all the shadowy places on the borderlands, where they do things no one else can! I know places. I know people . . .”

  “My time is limited, Molly. I’d rather spend what’s left of it hunting down the man who killed me and making him pay. Rather than risk his getting away because I was too busy chasing false hopes.”

  “I still have friends in Heaven and Hell who owe me favours . . .”

  “Not any more,” I said. “All your old Pacts and Agreements were rendered null and void when your debts were taken care of by the Powers That Be. Remember?”

  “Damn,” said Molly. “Okay . . . Look, I’ll contact my sisters. See what Isabella and Louisa have to say. They know things and people I don’t.”

  “If you like,” I said.

  We headed for the Hall. It loomed up before us, heavy with fate and foreboding. As though just by walking back through its door, I would be committing myself to my last mission. No stepping aside, no turning back. I’d be starting down a road that had only one destination.

  I looked the old building over carefully, trying to see it clearly one last time. Drood Hall is old, really old. And it’s always been colourful as hell, just like the family it contains. The sprawling old manor house dated back to Tudor times, and the central section still had the black-and-white boarded frontage, along with heavy leaded-glass windows and a jutting gabled roof. Four extensive wings had been added, down the years. Massive and solid in the Regency style, they contained thousands of rooms. We’re a big family. The roof rose and fell like a great grey-tiled ocean, complete with any number of gargoyles, and grotesque ornamental guttering that probably seemed like a good idea at the time. Add to that an observatory, an eyrie, and a whole bunch of landing pads for the steam-powered autogyros, futuristic helicars, flying saucers, and winged unicorns. Because my family has always been ready to embrace anything that works. The Hall, solid and firm in stone and wood, people and causes. The Droods have always weighed heavily on the world.

  “Do you have a bucket list?” Molly said suddenly.

  “What, things I should do while I still can?” I said. “Never got around to thinking about it. Bit late now. I’ve got work to do. Do you have a list?”

  “I always planned to take you on a pub crawl of the hidden world,” said Molly. “To all the especially off-the-beaten-track places I go, when I really want to let my hair down. Show you all the special places that meant something to me. We never talked like this before.”

  “Never had cause to before.” I thought about it as the front door drew nearer. “I suppose I should update my will, before we leave. Make sure you’re properly provided for.”

  “Can you be sure your family will abide by your wishes?”

  I grinned. “My family doesn’t know half of what I’ve got tucked away.”

  We stopped before the front door. Molly grabbed hold of me, and hugged me fiercely.

  “I can’t let you go! I won’t let you go!”

  I held her tight and said nothing. Because I knew there would come a time when I’d have to let Molly go, and go on alone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Everyone Wants to Help

  There are days when you think things can’t get any worse, but somehow they always do. I walked back through the front door of Drood Hall, with Molly on my arm, and there waiting for me was the Sarjeant-at-Arms. Standing right in the middle of the entrance hall with his arms tightly folded, and with the air of someone who’d been waiting for some time. And really wasn’t happy about it. I couldn’t be bothered to give the impression that I gave a damn. I planted myself in front of him and raised a single eyebrow. He drew himself up to his full height, the better to look down his nose at me. I could feel Molly stirring dangerously at my side, and amused myself wondering which way the Sarjeant would fall after she hit him.

  “What?” I said.

  “I am here to escort both of you to a meeting with the Matriarch and her advisory Council,” the Sarjeant said flatly. “Your attendance is . . . requested.”

  That last word stopped me. If he was being polite, if the Matriarch was being polite, something was up. Something had changed. So of course I had to go. Especially if Molly was included in the invitation. Normally, my family does everything short of declaring open hostilities to keep Molly out of Council meetings. Partly because she’s not family, but mostly because she likes to sit at the back, eat popcorn, and heckle.

  “Lead the way, Sarjeant,” I said graciously. “Molly and I would be delighted to attend your little tea party.”

  “Oooh! A party!” said Molly. “Will there be tea and crumpets?”

  “We can but hope,” I said.

  The Sarjeant gathered his injured dignity around him, turned on his heel like the poker up his arse had just sprouted spikes, and led the way into the familiar embrace of the Hall. Without once looking back to check we were actually following. I ambled along behind, while Molly stuck close by me, glaring watchfully around for ambushes, unfortunate comments, or just the wrong look on someone’s face. I let her. I didn’t want her to notice how worried I was.

  I’d thought I had time to do all the things I needed to do. Was the Matriarch about to tell me that I didn’t, after all?

  It soon became clear we weren’t heading in any of the directions I’d expected. I closed the gap between the Sarjeant and me, and raised my voice.

  “We’re still not meeting at the Sanctity? Even though it’s a full-Council meeting?”

  “No,” said the Sarjeant.

  “At some point,” I said, “you’re going to have to explain to me just what the hell is going on.”

  “Not my place,” said the Sarjeant. Carefully not looking back at me.

  I couldn’t help but notice that wherever we went, everyone hurried to step back and avert their eyes from me. No more pointing or muttering, no more gathering in groups to enjoy the spectacle of a dead man walking. Possibly because I was with the Sarjeant-at-Arms now.

  We made our way into the East Wing, which meant we weren’t going back to the Matriarch’s new garden-centre office. So where else would the new Matriarch feel safe from Ethel? There wasn’t much in the East Wing; it’s mainly offices and meeting places, where general policy gets discussed and the details hammered out. Drood equivalent of the civil service. Not the most glamorous work, but necessary for the smooth running of family business. Personally, I’d rather hammer nails into my head.

  The Sarjeant finally took us out of the East Wing through a side door, and just like that, we were outs
ide the Hall, facing the old family Chapel. Where the ghost of Jacob used to hang out. I stopped where I was, ignoring the Sarjeant’s unhidden impatience, so I could take a good look at the Chapel. It had been some time since I’d last been there. It used to be one of the few places I could go to get away from my family. Where I could feel safe from what the family wanted of me. And now my family had even taken that away. But why were we meeting the Matriarch and her Council here? What was so important, so significant, about this battered old edifice?

  Once upon a time, it really was the family Chapel, back before we went multi-denominational. This was after a rather embarrassing period, when the then-Matriarch decided the family was in danger of becoming too in-bred. Too many marriages inside the family, too many cousins connected in too many ways. We were in urgent need of fresh blood. So an outreach programme was launched, and any number of Drood chicks were kicked out of the nest and told to fly off in search of partners. The result was a great many new marriages with outsiders, inevitably followed by an inrush of new ideas and new values. One of which was a more relaxed attitude to Drood religious observance. The Chapel was abandoned, and apparently for a while you couldn’t move in Drood Hall for new churches, red-hot religious debates, and even a few duels. I miss out on all the good stuff.

  I’m amazed our established church lasted as long as it did, anyway. There’s nothing like having regular contact with the agents of Heaven and Hell to make anyone a dedicated freethinker.

  The old Chapel was a squat stone structure with crucifix slit windows. It looked Saxon, but was really just an Eighteenth Century folly. Put up to replace an older and far more authentic building that was simply too old, and too boring. The Chapel looked as ugly as ever, its rough stone walls all but buried under thick mats of crawling ivy. Some of which was already stirring threateningly as it detected our presence. Until the Sarjeantat-Arms glared at it and the ivy settled sullenly back down again. No one argues with the Sarjeant. Which is, of course, why I always did.