Smith came to a standstill, about to turn and run the other way, to follow Machen, find his home, track him down and extract the final truth.
The light expanded some more, its edges straining as if contained within a filled balloon. He even heard the creaking, wrenching sound of something beginning to split… the air-raid siren fading… the darkness becoming strangely deeper, the further the light pushed out…
And then it broke.
The silvery light erupted from the alley like a slow-motion explosion. Before Smith could react it was upon him, warm and slick across his skin, penetrating his ears and eyes and mind, showing him… showing him the truth that even Machen been unable to truly comprehend…
As realization struck Smith down and picked him up in its impossible arms, the first bombs of the night fell on his beloved city.
“How is your wife?” Smith asked.
“She’s well,” Machen said. “Scared. Worried that I’ve been out so much of late. But well. And I’ve told her… I’ve told her that this is my last meeting with you.”
Smith nodded. “I knew you’d want to see me again. And I guessed this was the best place to find you.”
They stood at the entrance to Highgate Cemetery, a ten-minute walk from the house in which they had first met. A group of men worked deep in the cemetery, gathering body parts from a huge crater carved out by a land mine the previous night.
“At least the dead cannot be killed,” Machen said.
Smith laughed. It was the first time he had laughed in a long time.
The two men stood silently for a few minutes: Machen, an old man, forever questing for the truth of things, the reality behind the facade; and Delamare Smith, a veteran of the Great War trenches, a man confused by what he had seen, now confused no more.
Now he knew the truth. He had glimpsed beyond the veil. And he knew that the old writer was waiting as patiently as he could to be told.
“There was a bomber carrying pneumonic plague,” he said at last. Machen stared at him aghast, but Smith went on. “It was hidden away deep within the largest formation of the night. Those flying around it were not told of the cargo — this was a plot of the Nazis, not the common German soldiery — but they were instructed to keep it safe, sacrifice themselves should the need arise. Many did.
“They were going to drop to three thousand feet and release it into the atmosphere, minute droplets that would carry on the breeze, disperse all across London, settling down on our capital just as the all-clear sounded and our women and children came up from the shelters, the Tube stations, the other holes in the ground we’ve been forced to hide in.”
“Like rats,” Machen said.
“Like rats. And like rats, they were going to slaughter us.”
“It will be… catastrophic!” Machen stared into the graveyard, as if looking for room for a million more graves.
“It would have been, had I not destroyed that bomber.”
Machen could only stare.
Smith smiled at the old man. “You’ll hear stories,” he said. “They’ll be told in newspapers and perhaps books over the coming days and weeks. Stories of an explosion in the night sky, bright as the sun, but a cool silver, not the angry yellow of fire. Stories of a German squadron blasted out of the sky, though there were no fighters nearby at the time.” Smith leaned on the wall, staring up at the sun as if enjoying the heat on his face for the very first time. “And I’m sure — I’m positive — that in the fullness of time, fighter pilots will begin claiming that they saw it all happen as well. The countless German aircraft, far too many for them to shoot down, strafed by spears of silver light. Brought down by angels.”
“I don’t…” Machen was speechless.
“Divine intervention, Mr Machen,” Smith said. He held out his hand. “It was an honour to meet you, sir. I don’t think I ever did tell you just how much I enjoy your work. How inspirational you’ve been to me. Your tales of wonders beneath and beyond what we accept… they have helped me. Without your writing…” He shook his head. “Well, it’s time for me to leave.”
Machen’s dazed wonder had been replaced by a calm acceptance. His eyes, still confused, were smiling once again. “It has been an honour for me, too, lieutenant. And now, I suspect…?” He nodded along the street, towards where his friend’s house lay in ruins.
Smith smiled and nodded. “You suspect right, sir. In the ruins, you will find something that may help you to understand.”
Without another word, Smith stepped past the old writer and walked down the street. He stepped across rubble blown into the road, shattered crockery crunching underfoot, but the further he went the fainter grew the sound of his footsteps, the smell of burning faded slowly away, and London opened her arms to receive him for ever.
Arthur Machen stood looking at the ruins of the house. How he and Smith had ever crawled out of there alive…
Eventually, gathering his courage about him, tapping the ground before him with his cane, he advanced on the wreckage. He had to climb a little mound of rubble and splintered floor-boarding before he could pass under the overhanging roof. It was stupidly dangerous, he was aware of that, but he had to know.
He had to.
It seemed that he had spent his whole life working towards this moment of epiphany.
He saw something protruding from beneath one of the blown-out doors. It was a boot-clad foot, the boot being First World War army issue. Next to the boot, shattered on the floor, the remains of a whisky glass caught the rays of the early-morning sun.
Breathing hard, grabbing the door’s brass handle, Machen stood and pulled. And he opened the portal to the ecstasy of truth.
THE END