Amid the chaos, Bainbridge had been thrown unceremoniously to the floor, badly gashing his head above the left temple. Blood was running freely down his face. His knee had also been jarred in the fall, and he knew he’d badly bruised his right arm. He lay in a crumpled heap inside the broken frame of the cab, barely aware of what was happening, still clutching his cane.
Thud. Thud.
More explosives.
Bainbridge, still groggy, but acting under the auspices of self-preservation, sprang into action. Wrenching himself up using the seats as leverage, he stood in the shattered confines of the overturned hansom. The horses were dragging the wreckage along behind them, making it almost impossible to maintain his balance. His left eye stung where blood from his head wound was seeping into it, blurring his vision. But he knew he had to act.
Bainbridge wedged his cane between the remnants of the seats and held on to it for all he was worth, bracing himself for another explosion. All the while, he was running through possible scenarios, trying desperately to conceive a means of escape.
Woomph. The explosion came with a deafening roar. The cab juddered and shook, sliding haphazardly across the street and slamming into something solid-a building?-before finally coming to rest. Bainbridge called out as he grappled with his cane, finally losing his grip and rebounding painfully off the seat beside him, thrown back by the force of the detonation and the resulting impact. He lay there for a second while he regained his breath. Then, battered and shaken, he dragged himself back up onto his feet. His twisted knee screamed in pain as he tentatively put his weight on it.
He had to get out, and fast. The only way out of the wreckage was up, through the right-hand door of the cab, which was now doubling as the ceiling. It would leave him wide open to attack, but he was trapped where he was, and to whoever was raining the explosives down on him, he was a sitting duck. It was only a matter of time.
Bainbridge retrieved his cane, held it vertically before him with both hands and thrust it upwards with all his might, bashing at the buckled panel of the door. It rattled in its frame but didn’t give. He tried again, and then again, and then finally with a third attempt the lock smashed free.
Climbing up onto the seats, Bainbridge scrambled towards the door, finding foot- and handholds wherever he could. With an almighty heave he managed to push it open, causing it to swing back on its broken hinges and clatter against the scorched side of the cab. He cautiously raised his head and peered out.
Nothing. Nothing but darkness and the patter of raindrops against the cobbles. There was no sign of his attacker. How far had the horses dragged the carriage after the first explosion? He had no idea. He was utterly disorientated. He glanced over his shoulder. The sliding cab had ploughed into a shop front, shattering the windows and scattering fruit and vegetables haphazardly over the ground. Thick black smoke was curling into the air from the front of the hansom, where the second explosion had ripped the dickie box loose from its housing. There was no sign of the driver.
Bainbridge pushed his cane out onto the side of the cab and then, using all the strength left in his upper body, he clasped the sides of the doorframe and wrenched himself out, dragging his legs behind him. He slid off the side of the vehicle to the slick cobbles below, stifling a cry of pain as he hit the ground. He wiped the blood from his eye with the edge of his sleeve, gasping for breath.
Bainbridge didn’t recognise the street he was in, but wherever it was, the area appeared deserted. Around him, everything was still and silent other than the lone creaking of the hansom’s wheel, still turning languorously on its axle nearby.
The peacefulness was shattered by a shrill, piercing whistle as something came hurtling out of the sky. This was followed by the dull thunk of metal striking the cobbles a few feet away from where he was standing. Another explosive round.
Bainbridge didn’t wait to ascertain precisely where the thing had landed. He dived for cover behind the wrecked shell of the hansom, flinging himself around the rear end of the vehicle and tumbling to the floor between the ruined cab and the shattered front end of the building. With horror, he realised that his face was only inches away from the gruesome remains of the cabbie, whose body had been nearly obliterated by the explosions. His torso had been blown open, spilling his internal organs across the stones in a red slurry, and his legs were entirely missing. His skull had fractured across his left eye orbit, and blood was still seeping out into the street, pooling beneath the cascade of spilled apples that surrounded him like a bizarre tribute. What remained of his face was filthy with blood and soot. The splayed-open carcasses of the horses were within sight as well. He could make out the rib cage of one and the haunch of another. The sight and smell of it nauseated him.
There was another almighty crack, as if the sky were splitting open. An incendiary device went up with a flash of light so bright Bainbridge wondered if he’d ever be able to see again.
He was thrown back by the impact of the cab roof slamming into him as it was shoved by the force of the explosion. He hit the floor awkwardly, jarring his elbow.
Rattled but still breathing, Bainbridge blinked desperately in an effort to regain his sight. He felt for his cane on the cobbles beside him. He found it, his fingers closing comfortingly around it. He might have use for it yet.
Stay down, he thought. Let them think you’re dead. He tried to get his breathing under control, steadying his nerves as he waited for his vision to return.
The silence resumed. There were no sounds other than the incessant patter of raindrops and the hissing crackle of wet wood and paintwork going up in flames, as the hansom went alight in the aftermath of the explosion. It took only moments for the whole thing to be engulfed, and Bainbridge felt the ferocity of the blaze from where he was lying on the ground only a few feet away.
Then: footsteps, voices, getting closer. There were two of them. Both men. Bainbridge gripped his cane. He wasn’t about to go out like this. He lay back, feigning death, his eyes open only enough to tell when his assailants were near. The footsteps grew closer, but he still couldn’t see the men they belonged to.
Not yet, Charles. Don’t show your hand.
He waited until he could sense the two men standing over him.
“I think he’s still breathing,” one of them said in a gruff voice.
“Best finish him off, then,” replied the other. “Let’s toss him in the wreck of the cab. The flames’ll soon eat him up. It’ll make it harder for the police to identify him later.”
One of the men poked Bainbridge in the side with his booted foot, and then stooped closer, looking for signs of life. Bainbridge could smell his sour breath. It was pungent with gin. This was not a man of distinction; more likely a hired ruffian.
Just a moment. Just a moment longer…
Bainbridge suddenly whipped his cane up and around, bringing it down heavily across the man’s skull, hard behind the ear.
Bainbridge rolled, using his momentum to shove the collapsing body of his attacker hard to the left. The man crumpled to the cobbles, immediately unconscious. But Bainbridge wasn’t quick enough to get away from the other man’s boot, which struck him in the gut. Bainbridge sputtered and tried to roll out of the way, but another blow caught him across the jaw, and his head snapped round, his mouth filling with blood.
Bainbridge kicked out, hard and low, his heel catching the other man in the knee and causing him to howl in agony and topple backwards. Bainbridge wasn’t sure if he’d managed to break his leg, but he’d done enough damage to give himself a few moments to scramble to his feet and appraise the situation. He spat blood. His jaw was throbbing and he thought a tooth might be loose. No matter. He could worry about that later, he hoped.