Page 138 of The King's Man
Beyond a darkness so profound that it had a force of its own, a distant light seemed to grow stronger and brighter. Kit took a step towards it, wanting to reach it with a desperate longing. He reached out his hand and took another step, but long fingers held him tight, dragging him back into the darkness. He tried to cry out but could not make a sound. The light faded and a red-and-black mist of pain enveloped him.
Distantly, he became aware of voices, and of searing pain as his lungs struggled to regain air and his head pounded. He had never experienced a headache like this before. It felt as if his temples would burst; his throat hurt unbearably and every breath seared in his lungs.
Heaven or hell? Surely hell. Heaven brought peace, not this torment of pain and bright colours that flashed before his eyes.
‘Praise the Lord, he’s coming around,’ a man said. ‘It seems he’ll live. Another couple of seconds and you would have been too late.’
Live?
‘Can you see?’
He forced his eyes open and a bright light waved in front of his face. He put up a hand to shield his eyes from its intensity and closed his eyes again.
Kit tried to speak, but nothing came out but a strangled croak. He put a hand to his throat and swallowed with difficulty, arching his back against the pain of the effort.
A hand rested on his chest. ‘Lie quiet. There will be pain. That’s to be expected. And don’t try to talk. It will be some time before you’ll talk again. There’s a great deal of bruising.’
How had he not died? The memory of the rope closing on his throat came back with cruel, stark clarity. He tried to swallow again but even that simple movement made him cough.
Kit ran his hands up his face and across his eyes, seeking the assurance he was still flesh and bone. Kit threw off the hand that held him down and tried to sit up but the effort was too much. He subsided, coughing. His back arched in the agony that the effort cost him and his limbs shook uncontrollably. Someone held a cup to his lips and he gagged as a sweet liquid dribbled down his tortured throat. Gradually the pain faded and he drifted into a place of nightmares.
When he opened his eyes again, the light in the room seemed to have changed. He blinked, trying very hard to focus as he looked around the small room, but everything remained blurred. Pinpricks of light indicated the location of a brace of candles. A shadow moved into his line of sight. He squinted and could make out the outline of a man wearing the robes and tight-fitting cap of a physician. The man leaned over him, scanning his face. He nodded and straightened
‘He’s awake,’ the physician said, and Kit recognised him as being the man with the soothing, authoritative voice who had brought him back from the dead.
Another shadow moved across his field of vision. A man in dark clothes stood back a little way, his arms crossed, one hand raised with his finger against his lips. Kit recognised the gesture, even if the face remained blurred.
‘Thurloe!’
Nothing but a croak emanated from Kit’s throat. The effort caused a wracking coughing fit that made him contract in pain.
‘Welcome back, Captain Lovell. You had me worried. I thought for a moment I was too late,’ Thurloe said.
‘Why?’ This time something that vaguely resembled a word forced its way out of Kit’s lips.
‘It was the only way, Lovell,’ Thurloe replied. ‘We cut you down before any serious damage could be done. Although, as the physician said, probably just in time. You will hurt for a while but Dr Munn here assures me that you should make a full recovery.’
Kit narrowed his eyes and stared at Thurloe, wishing his face would come into focus so he could look into his eyes and try to understand how this man could let him go to the gallows, just to snatch him back from the jaws of death.
‘I couldn’t save you from the gallows without it appearing suspicious.’ Thurloe read his mind again. ‘A last-minute reprieve was not possible without awkward questions. This way, Christopher Lovell is dead. You are free to start a new life. All debts repaid.’
Kit shook his head. A mistake; the world roared in his ears and he pressed his hands to his head to try and ease the pain.
The doctor raised his head and held a cup to his lips. Kit drank gratefully, the cool, unidentifiable liquid soothing the pain of his tortured throat.
‘Get him up,’ Thurloe said. ‘My coach is waiting.’
‘He needs rest,’ the doctor protested.
‘He can have plenty of rest, but I want him out of here. I want him off my hands.’
Kit groaned as the doctor hauled him upright. It took both the doctor and Thurloe’s bulky coachman, who had to be summoned to assist, to half-carry, half-drag him downstairs and out through a sally port to where a coach stood waiting in the shadows.
Kit subsided against the expensive leather seats and closed his eyes. Thurloe gave a sharp order and the coach moved off. He did not speak until it stopped again.
‘Ah, we’re here. Back to the warm and welcoming arms of your friends. All shuttered up, I see. There must have been a death in the family. Well, this is it, Lovell. This is farewell.’
Thurloe’s voice came from the pale, disembodied circle of his face. He continued, ‘You will come to thank me, Lovell. You have your life and a chance to start again. However, I think it prudent you avoid your previous haunts for some time. Your Lazarine resurrection from the dead may excite comment among your former comrades. In a few years, maybe they will have forgotten about you.’
