The Doomsday Machine (Horatio Lyle)
“Frozen glimpses. A carriage window, green eyes opposite, a moment. Hyde Park - sleep, Mister Lyle, just sleep. Park Lane - a glimmer of street lamp and lamplighter with his ladder; sleep, Mister Lyle, you have nothing to fear. A nightmare; the mansions of Mayfair - wake cold and sweating, did they come and there they are, a waking nightmare, dream made real, green eyes, black silk hand reaching out and brushing eyelids shut again; you must trust us, Mister Lyle, sleep until we ask for you. Slee...p.
This time, he was ready for the awakening. Rather than open his eyes, he lay still and waited for every other sense to report in, to confirm by the ache in his shoulders that this was not a dream. Lyle didn’t dare to move or look, although every second wilfully blind was an agony, not knowing what could be out there.
Smell of wood burning in a fireplace, some coal too. A taste of lavender on the air, and soot as well, a chimney that hadn’t been swept for a while. The feel of padding and silk beneath him, the undergardener’s warm, dry clothes still itching at the back of his neck, and a new itch, rope around his wrists, thick, almost like a piece of ship’s rigging, wedging his fists together and making the ends of his fingers numb.MoreLess
This time, he was ready for the awakening. Rather than open his eyes, he lay still and waited for every other sense to report in, to confirm by the ache in his shoulders that this was not a dream. Lyle didn’t dare to move or look, although every second wilfully blind was an agony, not knowing what could be out there.
Smell of wood burning in a fireplace, some coal too. A taste of lavender on the air, and soot as well, a chimney that hadn’t been swept for a while. The feel of padding and silk beneath him, the undergardener’s warm, dry clothes still itching at the back of his neck, and a new itch, rope around his wrists, thick, almost like a piece of ship’s rigging, wedging his fists together and making the ends of his fingers numb.MoreLess
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