Free The Doomsday Machine (Horatio Lyle) by Catherine Webb

hydrodynamics . . .’
    ‘Must you?’
    ‘There is an alternative . . . but you aren’t going to like it.’
    ‘More than I like bein’ trapped in a little bubble of running-out air made of, not to be too prissy about it, a big metal box on your head, sir? I dunno as how that may be the case, Mister Lyle.’
    ‘Now, Teresa,’ said Lyle, ‘we have to swim.’
     
    The difficult part, Tess discovered, was getting the bubble of air from the top of the ceiling, where it had drifted along with her and Lyle, to the mouth of the tunnel without letting it escape. If the box overturned while they struggled to drag the bubble downwards, as Lyle pointed out, then their conversation about whose fault the rush of gas from the box into the water above would be, of necessity, one of the shortest arguments they’d ever had.
    It was surprisingly heavy work, and Tess was made no happier by Lyle’s assurance that it wasn’t actually going to get lighter the more they worked at it, because even though they were breathing in, dammit, they were also breathing out too. Eventually Lyle had to take a gulp of air and turn upside-down in the water to drag the crate and its bubble downwards. Even that operation caused bubbles to ripple out from the base of their air pocket, pulling at the crate which Tess clung on to with dear life to preserve those precious breaths, while the water rose closer towards her mouth and nose.
    When they reached the tunnel, it was easier: the bubble simply bumped along the ceiling, with Lyle paddling along. They had no idea where they were, so every few yards Lyle would swim outside the bubble, feeling his way along the walls. The darkness inside the bubble destroyed all sense of direction, all awareness of time, so that after a while Tess began to wonder if they were in the tunnel at all, or simply swimming round and round inside the room, unable to find a way out, until they finally used up all the air and sank down, lost in the dark.
    After a while, it wasn’t just her imagination playing tricks: she could feel the difficulty in every breath, and the rising temperature inside the bubble, until finally Lyle said, ‘It ’ll be all right, Tess.’
    ‘Oh, that’s bad, that’s bad, that means you’re scared!’ cried Tess.
    ‘We ’re nearly there.’
    ‘How d’you know? There’s nothin’ but dark!’
    ‘I promise, we ’ll be safe. Just keep breathing, all right? I’ll be back in a moment.’
    Before she could swear as only an East End orphanage could teach a girl to unburden herself, there was a sound of splashing as Lyle ducked out from under the box. Tess kept paddling along; without sound or sight, time became measured only by small, fast breaths. She thought, It’d be stupid to cry it’d be so stupid to cry I ain’t goin’ to cry I ain’t I ain’t I ain’t so there!
    Something moved by her ankle and she exclaimed. Something else bumped against her middle, and a moment later, she heard another breath under the box, dragging down a gulp of tight, hot air. ‘Found something,’ wheezed Lyle. ‘It’s just a few yards away, but you’re going to have to come with me, do you understand?’
    ‘No! Mister Lyle, no, I don’t wanna, please . . .’
    ‘The ladder’s just there, we can swim up it, you simply need to take a deep breath. Do you understand? Tess?’
    She nodded mutely, and then realized how pointless a gesture that was in the dark. ‘All right.’
    ‘We just need to go under the box. Are you ready?’
    ‘Yes, Mister Lyle.’
    ‘Take my hand.’
    She felt his hand, cold from the water, slip into hers.
    ‘Take a deep breath.’
    She drew the deepest she could, her muscles aching from the strain of trying to find something, anything, breathable in the tiny bubble of their world, and ducked out from under the crate. Cold water crawled up her nose, and burnt in her eyes. She almost shouted at sensing it, nearly let out the breath she’d just taken. Then Lyle started swimming, and