Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [186]
‘May I?’ The Count indicated the seat.
Foley hesitated but, sensing a potential sponsor, shrugged.
De Ville climbed up into the seat. The carriage settled under his weight. The axles were on suspension springs, like a hansom cab. The Count ran his hands around the great steering-wheel, which was as unwieldy and stiff as those that worked the locks on a canal. There were levers to the side of the seat, the purpose of which was unknown to Massingham, though he assumed one must be a braking-mechanism.
Beside the wheel was a rubber-bulbed horn. The Count squeezed it experimentally.
Poop-poop!
‘To alert pedestrians,’ explained Foley. ‘The engine runs so quietly that the horn will be necessary.’
The Count smiled, eyes rimmed with red delight. He poop-pooped again, evidently in love. His craze for trains was quite forgotten. Poop-poop had trumped toot-toot.
Foreigners were a lot like children.
‘How does it start?’
‘With a crank.’
‘Show me,’ de Ville ordered.
Foley nodded to Gerald, who darted to the front of the contraption with a lever and fitted it into the engine. He gave it a turn, and nothing happened. Massingham had seen this before. Usually, the dignitaries summoned to witness the great breakthrough had retreated by the time the engine caught. Then it would only sputter a few moments, allowing the carriage to lurch forward a yard or two before at best stalling and at worst exploding.
If Foley’s folly blew up and killed the Count, Massingham would have to answer for it. The man clearly had an impulse towards death.
Gerald cranked the engine again, and again, and...
... nipped out of the way sharpish. Small flames burst in the guts of the machine, and the pistons began to pump.
The carriage moved forward, and the Count poop-pooped the blasted horn again. He would have been as happy with the noise-maker alone as the whole vehicle.
Slowly, the carriage trundled towards the open doors of the workshop. Foley looked alarmed, but didn’t protest. Picking up more speed than usual, the carriage disappeared out of the doors. The Count’s straw hat blew off and was wafted up towards the roof by the black smoke that poured thickly from the pipes at the rear of the machine.
Massingham, Foley and Gerald followed the carriage to the doorway. Astonished, they saw the Count piloting the machine, with growing expertise, yanking hard on the steering-wheel and turning in ever tighter circles, circumnavigating the pile of rails, weaving in and out between sheds and buildings.
A cat shot out of the way, its tail flat. Workmen passing by stopped to stare. A small crowd gathered, of idle hands distracted from their appointed tasks. Some of the directors poked their heads out, silk hats held to their heads.
It was a ridiculous sight, but somehow stirring. The Count was very intent, very serious. But the machine just looked silly, not majestic like a steam engine. Still, Massingham had a glimpse of what Foley saw in the thing.
The Count poop-pooped the horn. Someone cheered.
Gerald, delighted, danced in the wake of the carriage.
The Count made a hard turn and suddenly the boy’s legs were under the front wheels. Bright blood spurted up into the oily engine, as if it were Moloch demanding sacrifice.
Foley shouted. Massingham felt a hammer-blow to his heart.
The Count seemed not to have realised what he had done, and drove on, grinding the boy under the carriage, merrily poop-pooping the damnable horn. The wheel-rims were reddened, and left twin tracks of blood for twenty feet in the rutted earth. Workmen rushed to help the boy, who was yelling in pain, legs quite crushed, face white under the dirt.
De Ville found the brake and brought the carriage to a halt.
Foley was too shocked to speak.
The Count stepped down, exhilarated.
‘What a marvellous transport,’ he declared. ‘It will indeed be the machine of the future. I share your vision, Mr Foley. You will make the world a swifter, purer place. These vehicles will be armoured,