A Spider In The Eye

by Mark Hayes

  “What do you want of me… Miss?” I asked, leaving the question hanging in the air. Though I was less than hopeful she would be forthcoming with either her name or the name of whomever she was working for. But having no idea who she represented wasn’t helping my paranoia at all. I didn’t like the idea of having enemies I was unaware of, though I was starting to think that might be a longer list than I suspected.

  “Of you, nothing. What I want to know the details of your mission, Mr Smyth. What is The Ministry sending you to India for? Why are they so interested in Wells?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. Indeed, she seemed to know more than I did about what The Ministry was up to, although, given I knew nothing, that wasn’t much of a challenge. Unfortunately, I suspected she would be unhappy if I told her so. Given that she held the gun, I wasn’t sure I wished to disillusion her. As such, I was caught between a rock and a hard ‘gun barrel’ placed in my back. I chose to stall, not that I could think of many other options.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss…”

  Judging by the way she pressed the barrel harder into my back I’m all but positive she didn’t believe me.

  “I suggest you would do well not to disappoint me, Mr Smyth. I know who you are and who you are working for, and I have my own orders. So let’s not play foolish games. Where is Wells and what do the British want with him?” she asked, an urgency to her tone which suggested she didn’t want to hang around. She made no bones about prodding me hard in the back with the gun to punctuate her question, just to reaffirm the seriousness with which she was taking all this. Not that I’d any doubt about that.

  I collected my wits, as best I could, and determined my best bet was to keep stalling. She was unlikely to shoot me, if only because she needed the information I didn’t have. I’ll admit this was somewhat woolly logic on my part. It was just as possible that getting me out of the way permanently was an option for her. If, that was, her masters wanted to put a spur into the British boot. But I preferred to focus on the former option.

  “You seem to have the advantage of me, Madam,” I said stressing the ‘Madam’, which was probably slightly spiteful of me, not to mention a tad foolish with a gun at my back. In my experience, few young ladies like to be called ‘Madam’. As such it has a tendency to rile them, which was less than wise in this case, but small victories and all that.

  In truth, I was more than a little afraid she might just put an end to me. Bravado is often the first resort of the coward. So I determined to at least appear confident and so I continued to shave carefully, trying my best to keep my voice even and finding an odd comfort in the truth, bitter though it was.

  “You seem to know more about my business than I do. They’ve told me nothing of it. Last I remember I was in a London cell, not bound for India and I’ve never heard of any Wells. Though I suspect you’re not talking about Tunbridge. I can’t see them going to all this trouble for that sinkhole.”

  She laughed, not I should inform you, a delightful laugh. As laughs go, it was about as delightful as the laughter of a bunch of schoolboys when you’re the one they’re victimising in the showers after rugger. A laugh I would far rather be on the other side of and, while we are being honest, I generally would’ve been in the past. I vastly prefer to run with the pack than to be the prey.

  The punch in the back was hard and caused me to drop the razor in the sink, which was at least preferable to taking a slice out of my throat, where my razor had been poised.

  I’m not sure why but I suspected my lame joke about Kent’s own little spar town hadn’t gone down well with her. But then everyone’s a critic at times like these.

  If you have never felt a pistol barrel slammed into your lower spine with some venom, then trust me on this, you’re better for not knowing how it feels. It left me clutching the porcelain for support.

  “You expect me to believe The Ministry sent you away without a briefing?” she snarled at me.

  “Frankly no,” I replied in utter honesty. “But unfortunately for me, it’s the truth. Perhaps if you come back in a day or so, they’ll have made contact, and I can tell you whatever you wish to know. Over a nice cup of tea and a scone perhaps.”

  She laughed again, a somewhat gentler laugh all told, but I can’t lay claim to my finding it overly reassuring in the circumstances.

  “Really, do you think I’m a fool, Mr Smyth? Am I supposed to believe you would just betray your country in so casual a manner?”

  It was my turn to laugh. ‘If she only knew,’ I thought to myself as I did so, then told her with utter candour, “Right at this moment I’d betray it for a bag of Shillings, and a head start.”

  I carefully picked the razor back up, partly to resume my shave, but mainly because it felt better to have a weapon in my hand, although I had little hope of turning the tables on this American woman in our current positions. All the same, the feel of the ivory handle was still some small reassurance. While doing so I collected myself a little more, feeling, at last, I was gaining a modicum of ground on the world in general. Then I asked her a question of my own.

  “Madam, are you aware of the term pressganged?”

  “Of course,” she replied, a modicum of curiosity suddenly in her voice.

  “Well, I have been most assuredly pressganged into my current service. It’s not a situation which inspires one greatly to loyalty. Indeed, if the price were right I would happily sell you all the information you need.”

  You may be thinking the best of me here. That this was nothing more than an obvious ploy designed to buy me time. That, however, would imply you have been paying less than full attention to me up to this point. I’d have happily sold the American anything I could if it bought me passage out of this mess. For all I cared, frankly the sun could set on the good old British Empire if in doing so it saved my life. It had had a good run after all.

  My American friend, I suspect, considered this no more than bravado, although I’m not entirely sure what she thought, beyond being less than enamoured of me. Which she certainly was to judge by her response.

  It was a rather sharp response that consisted of me being struck across the back of the head with the butt of her pistol. Oh but Americans do love to do things with their guns.

  It all, as it were, went black at that point.

  CHAPTER THE SIXTH

  Old ‘Friends’ In Unexpected Places

  I was, I’m sure you will find it all too easy to believe, rather sick of the lights going out. Over the past few days, as I chose to call the short periods of consciousness I could recall, I’d not had the opportunity to just lay down on a bed and drop off to sleep. Instead, people seemed insistent on putting me to sleep in violent ways. I’d been gassed, drugged and now bludgeoned unconscious with a pistol butt.

  It was all becoming rather irritating. As such, I wasn’t in the best of moods when I finally regained consciousness.

  Matters weren’t helped by the fact that I returned to consciousness on cold steel deck plates, with half my face still covered in shaving foam. Foam which had a definite red tinge to it, and had crusted over, like the top of a lemon meringue with raspberry sauce dribbled over it.

  I struggled to my feet, looked in the mirror and noticed a shallow cut on my throat where I had caught myself with the razor when I’d been struck. It had scabbed over at least. But while it mightn’t have been the most serious in the world, it had certainly bled enough. If it had been deeper, it would have bled a whole lot more and while nothing ruins a clean-shaven chin like a fresh scab, bleeding out ruins it a damn sight more. Yet, somehow despite this near miss, I wasn’t in the mood to count my blessings right at that moment.

  My cabin, predictably, had been ransacked. My feminine friend obviously hadn’t had much faith in my word. The upturned mattress, the clothes flung about the place and the ripped open drawers strewn upon the floor, spoke of the place being tossed in a hurry. Perhaps she’d feared that my sudden lack of consciousness
wouldn’t last, or perhaps that it wouldn’t go unnoticed. She had, you’ll recall, made sure I was looking in the mirror throughout our conversation. She had also taken pains to keep her face out of view while I faced it. It occurred to me then that it suggested she knew more of the device in my eye than I did. Which was as near damn all as made no difference, I’ll admit. Perhaps she thought eyes other than mine might be watching; it was a chilling thought.

  What irritated me the most, other than the banging headache I woke to, was that I’d no idea if she’d found anything. I hadn’t searched the place myself before her intrusion. For all I knew she’d actually have found all the information she needed. If that was so, I’d little doubt she would have taken it with her, leaving me devoid of instructions. Which, I was sure, wouldn’t go down well with my new masters.

  I’ll admit I didn’t give a flying fruitcake what went down well with my new masters, but I did care about keeping them from blowing my head off my shoulders.

  In the circumstances, I was feeling a little put out, which is an understatement as you would know if you had ever taken a pistol butt to the back of the head. As there was however little I could do about it, I ran some hot water and recommenced my ablutions while trying to recall exactly what the American woman had looked like, because chances were I’d bump into her again and I decided I’d rather not be surprised next time.

  Oh what bitter vanity that proved to be, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves…

  Unfortunately, as I’d been taken in by her clumsy maid disguise, I’d not paid her a great deal of attention when she had entered the cabin. At least until she demanded my attention at the end of a gun. So the most I could recall was her mousy hair, which could’ve been a wig for all I knew and her general stature. It was less than nothing to go on. I realised then she could walk right by me, and I’d never know. Which was a worrying thought.

  Once I’d shaved, I dressed and felt at least a tad more presentable. As I tidied around the sink, I had a thought and slipped the cutthroat into my trouser pockets. Considering all that had happened to me of late, I didn’t want to be without a weapon of some kind. My uniform had a pistol holster, but it had proven to be sadly but unsurprising empty. I was, I suspected, aboard that old tub as a passenger. Any weapons that came with my uniform would no doubt be locked in the hold. Given I had already been assaulted by a woman with a pistol, did not inspire my sense of safety.

  I did, however, find a wallet on the bed among the other detritus little Miss not-a-maid had thrown about. To my surprise, it even had some money in it. Not, it has to be said, a great deal of money. I suspected my good friend M had no desire to supply me with enough funds to make a break for it, little arachnids insurance implanted in my eye or not. But it was something none the less.

  Among the notes in the wallet I found a couple of ticket stubs for the master at arms, which at least meant I could recover my weapons when the ship got wherever it was going. Which was something more. Not that it helped me much right at that moment.

  I did at least have the cutthroat in my trouser pocket. The reassuring weight of it assuring me I had at least one weapon at my disposal should I need one. Which I had the uncomfortable feeling I might before too long.

  As I sorted myself out and dressed once more, I pondered the questions little Miss not-a-a maid had asked me. India and Wells, Harry, what do The Ministry want with Wells? Who or what was Wells? A person seemed the more likely of the two, though she could have been talking about holes in the ground for all I knew. Though it has to be said, I suspected The Ministry wasn’t much given to caring about irrigation projects in the Punjab.

  I wasn’t, as I may have mentioned, full of joy at the prospect of India. Jewel in her nibs’ crown the sub-continent may be, but it was also a boiling pot of insurrection. Peaceful protests against British rule had been a thing of the past since they’d sent that beatnik Gandhi packing to South Africa. News from India was always a story of troubles and the Company’s attempts to keep a lid on that pot. Bomb one village of insurrectionists and three others sprang up. Violence begetting violence and the locals not learning their lessons. The press always seemed outraged that stamping down hard on insurgents created more insurgents. Clearly this was the fault of troublemakers and religious zealots stirring things up. The only answer was of course was to call for more bombings…

  I have long suspected the British press, much like the British government and whoever was the incumbent Viceroy at the time, didn’t care a fig about villages in the Indian interior. Not as long as the East India Company kept the profits rolling in. Turning a blind eye to the Company’s excesses had for time immemorial been government policy, and the press followed the government’s lead as it ever did. Besides which, bombing insurgents was always a popular move with the masses, according to the press at any rate…

  Privately I always suspected not bombing a few villages for a while might go a long way towards resolving the problems, but don’t quote me on that. Such opinions have never proved popular.

  Thinking of the Company reminded me that I was now, it appeared, an officer within its ranks. I found this a depressing thought. As I said before, Company officers didn’t sit in the highest of esteem. Merchant adventurers to a man, and a short step up from the pirates and robber barons of another age. I may be a rogue, a liar and a thief, but I like to think I’ve some standards.

  Heaving a heavy sigh, I straightened up my cabin as best as I could be bothered before deciding the misbegotten gas bag I was aboard probably had some real maids on its crew. Ones who wouldn’t stick guns in my back, but who’d tidy up the rest of the mess while I was elsewhere with luck. So I decided to go in search of the ship’s bar. Frankly, I needed a drink. Answers, I reasoned, could wait a while if a good bottle of gin could be found.

  There was a key by the wallet, which fitted neatly in the door so I locked the room behind me. Not that there was anything left in it worth worrying about. So after a final check of my reflection in the mirror, I set off wandering down the corridor on a dimly lit passenger deck looking for the stairs.

  I’d not gone far when I found a sign that informed me I was on level B2 of The Empress of India, with a small cutaway plan of the craft which allowed me to get some bearings. Judging by the plans, The Empress was an old boat. A long-liner with a single air sack, unlike the modern two or three bag liners which flew most of the major routes. The main decks were on the lower floor, designed that way so you could look down through observation windows at the world below. It was a popular design among older craft, built back before terrorists started to take such a delight in rocket launchers, and armoured plates became the fashionable thing to have on your keel.

  I’ve always had an appreciation for older ships. One’s crafted in a time before sheer speed was the overwhelming imperative. The Empress was an elegant craft. Its carpets and drapes were maybe a little on the faded and threadbare side, but the brass work was polished to within an inch of its life. You could see your face in it. And that brass was everywhere. Brass piping, brass fittings, brass signs. That and leaded glass coloured in somewhat garish fashion. Ornate light fittings, speaking tubes and god only knew what else. It all had the haunting sense of faded beauty. The kind of beauty that was lost in the heavyset functionality of more modern craft.

  I found the stairs and headed down to the main lounge, in the hope of finding a bar still open, as I wasn’t overly sure of the time of day. The sun had still been at the porthole in my cabin, but I was woefully short of a watch and my sense of time, as I’m sure you can appreciate, had taken a bit of a battering over the last few days. In truth, I’d still no idea how much time had passed, or what day of the week it was.

  The way to the lounge turned out to be down a spiral staircase wide enough for three to walk abreast, with a handrail of oak on brass spindles, inlaid with mother of pearl. The lounge itself occupied the full width of the gondola and was more like walking into a palace than an airship deck.

&nbs
p; An art deco clock hung above the centre of the room, showing four o’clock. This, at least, gave me a point of reference, even if it meant I’d missed lunch. My stomach obligingly growled a little as I realised how hungry I was. The last meal I could remember was my ‘last’ breakfast at the Bailey. My throat felt the bite of thirst too, and in truth, I’d more desire for a drink than food, no matter what my stomach told me.

  Normally, you should understand, I’m not one to drown myself in drink. Oh, I enjoy a single malt as much as the next man. But growing up in the east end of old London town I’d seen more than my share of those who took to mother’s ruin. I’d seen where that road lay, the wasted lives of London’s poor, kept compliant with cheap spirits. Until the cheap spirits took their livers, their minds, or both. I told myself long ago never to slip down that particular path. But, all things considered, I felt I’d earned a drink in light of recent events.

  I paused at the head of the stairs and took in the room. In part, if I am honest, out of a sense of trepidation. At least one person I knew of aboard this boat intended me harm. Judging by the way my luck was going, the chances ‘Not-a-real-maid’ being the only one seemed slim.

  Those passengers taking their ease in the lounge were a mixed lot. Indians and British mingling as they ever have. Whatever tensions there were between the heart of the Empire and its jewel were ever hidden behind good manners and considered smiles. I was sure old grudges would lay behind those smiles, but there was ever little dissension between the chattering classes. The Mountbatten concessions had kept a lid on the more rebellious malcontents among those wealthy enough to afford air travel, since the last mutiny back in the forties. Besides which, if you could afford air travel even on a stately old liner like this, you were probably doing alright for yourself out of the status quo.