by Mark Hayes
“Sorry, just to check I’m understanding you correctly, you’re saying Miss Wells confirmed my story?” I asked, confused. The vague memory of something the Not-in-any-way-a-maid, come skull cracker, had said came to mind. Something she asked me, in fact, almost the first thing she asked me. ‘Wells… Why are they interested in Wells?’’
I acquired a sinking feeling, as you can possibly imagine. This particular sinking feeling was regarding that same American, who-was-certainly-not-a-maid, who had somehow come to my rescue. The words getting out of the frying pan only to be dropped into the heart of a roaring fire sprang to mind. I was still fighting to get up to speed here, but I wasn’t sure I liked that possible destination.
“Yes, yes, Miss Wells. She and her… associate… showed me their credentials. She is waiting for you in my office,” he said still flustered. Thankfully, too flustered to realise I had no idea who he was talking about. Though there was something in the way he struggled with the words ‘associate’, a dread in his voice that sent a shiver down my spine. Whoever the ‘associate’ was, was what really scared the Captain, and if it scared him, it was putting the willies up me, that was for sure.
Though if he thought I looked worried and confused at all, he probably put it down to my confinement. If anything he was probably relieved I was not shouting the odds right then and threatening his command. To be fair, he would have been right about the confusion, my eye still stung from the light, and my back was killing me from being cramped up in the coal bunker.
“Your office?” I inquired, out of the vague hope that some answers to the growing list of questions would ease my state of mind.
A hope as vain as it was vague of course, but all the same listening to apologies was getting me nowhere, and unless the apologies came with a single malt, a cigar and a three-course meal, I tired of hearing them.
“Yes, yes, I shall take you there now,” the Captain told me, then shouted something in Hindi at the steward still rolling on the floor clutching his unmentionables. I’ve no idea what he said, but I got the general gist as he kicked the steward in a none too gentle way as he walked past. Flustered the Captain might be, but he wasn’t above issuing out abuse to a subordinate to vent his frustrations.
He led me down through the bowels of the ship from the air-sack engine room, the steward limping along behind us. These older creates, built before terrorists and rocket launchers became such a fad, were built upside down. At least, if you compared them to the older still ocean-going vessels on which they were based. The engines were built up into the air sack, the ballrooms and lounges on the bottom deck furthest from the engine, staterooms above them, and second class then the cargo holds and third class cattle pens in the air-sack holds themselves.
As we moved down through the ship, we passed from coal dust and axle grease to plush carpeting and polished brass once more. The Captain, apart from the occasional swear words in Hindi, kept his own council. No doubt not wanting to muddy the waters further. I played along with the silence as my head was still clearing, and I was trying to make sense of everything.
Not least of which was the message I had received earlier. ‘W WILL CONTACT.’
‘W’ for Wells perhaps, it seemed as likely as anything else. If this ‘Miss Wells’ was my ministry contact, then it seemed unlikely she was the American girl. On the other hand, if it was Not-a-maid-no-really-she-wasn’t, she was playing some game of her own. It didn’t need much in the way of paranoia to consider that if it was her, she might be using my detainment as leverage. After all, if the Captain handed me over to her what was I going to do, ask to be locked up once more?
I was sorely in need of time to think and get a handle on all this.
I didn’t get long.
Captain Singh led me to his private cabin, at the back end of second class. Surprisingly not far from my own tiny cabin. I guess the owners of this gasbag line didn’t see any point in wasting too much paying passenger space on their Captain’s comforts. No matter how highly regarded he may be, he was Indian after all, and privileges of rank were a lesser concern than if he had been an Englishman. It was probably why they employed a native in the first place.
By the time we arrived, I felt boxed in by circumstance. So as he opened the door and ushered me through, my paranoia was running rampant. I’d pretty much convinced myself I was about to come face to face with Not-a-maid-but-a-gun-wielding-harpy and her roughshod American drawl, once more. A reunion I was not entirely sure I wanted. Instead, however, I was greeted by a delicate Home Counties tea party tones…
“Hannibal, at last, dearest, Oh but you have been in the wars, haven’t you? Now tell me have you ever visited the pyramids?”
The voice was that of the young Indian woman I had so admired in the lounge. She was sitting behind the Captain’s desk, and had been reading what appeared to be a cheap romance novel of some description to pass the time. She seemed perfectly comfortable taking her leisure there, despite the obvious breach in etiquette. Or perhaps because of it. By sitting there, she was leaving no doubt where authority lay in that room.
It was no surprise the Captain seemed uncomfortable with the turn of events, though that may have been something to do with the other occupant of his office. The one, the Captain, had referred to nervously as ‘her associate’. On seeing him, I can’t say I blamed Captain Singh for that.
Miss Wells’s companion was one in the same as had been stood with her in the main lounge. Dressed as they always seemed to be in a heavy military style coat and wearing one of those ever-present breathing masks. He, or ‘it’ as I preferred to think of them, stood stock still. The sound of its rasping respirator somehow filling any silence, an odd plume of smoke whispering forth from its mask each breath. A damned Sleep Man, looming behind the relaxed woman at the desk. Intimidating all present but her by its presence alone.
“I’m sorry, what?” I managed.
In my defence, I was probably still a little out of it. But her question, which seemed a little absurd in the circumstances, had caught me off guard.
In truth, I was also a little enamoured of the woman. There was something in the way she held herself, a pride and assurance that I could not help but feel attracted to. I have always had a fondness for a woman with a certain strength of character. Though I must admit, it didn’t harm at all that she was also even lovelier close up than she had been in the lounge.
Her long dark hair framed a face that spoke of eastern mystery. Her skin was fair for an Indian, a light tan that suggested she was unaccustomed to being out in the sun all day. I suspected also she had mixed blood, but who didn’t in Indian society these days. She was undeniably a beauty, but there was a strength to her as well. This was no fragile blossom waiting to be picked, if you’ll pardon the phrase.
I think it was her eyes that did it for me. They were unusual in a woman of her heritage in that they were green. Like the brightest jade. They were impossible to ignore. That and the warm smile she was presenting me with. Things, it seemed, were finally looking up.
Yes, okay, I know I seem to be laying it on thick. Let’s just say I found her both striking and alluring in equal measure, and I’m not a man easily befuddled by a good looking woman.
There was something about her voice as well. It had an odd tint to it, an accent that was neither Indian nor British, for all it held a little of the Home Counties. Regardless, I felt my heart beat a little faster and became a little flushed. Perhaps it was because I found her so attractive, or just the relief that she wasn’t my ‘friend’ the Not-Actually-A-Maid-At-All American. But even with the company she was keeping, I was quite genuinely pleased to make her acquaintance.
If you were to ask me, there and then, and I had been an honest man, I would probably have told you I fell a little in love with her right at that moment.
In hindsight, I blame the repeated blows to the head.
“The pyramids, Hannibal,” Miss Wells said, “I thought we should have a cream tea beneath t
he Sphinx…”
CHAPTER THE NINTH
Cream Tea Beneath the Sphinx
The Empress of India made dock in Cairo a couple of hours later. The sun was setting behind the pyramids as we docked, which is still one of the most stunning sunsets in the world. Even in these latter days when the industrial quarters of the city have long since enveloped the ancient tombs, there was still something about the sight that would stir the hearts of even the most jaded romantic.
With red sky over the sands of the Sahara, the great red orb that the pyramid builders thought was the god Ra sinking behind those sandstone monuments, well, it is enough to put your life, nay the whole gloriously torrid British Empire, into a degree of perspective. A sight to take away your breath and make you think in terms of aeons. How fleeting is all that we have built compared to this the last of the seven wonders of the ancient world…
It probably says something about me that I missed this stirring sight completely because I was in the shower at the time.
Possibly, you may think it says I am a shallow, vain man, with little regard for the world beyond himself. I can’t really argue against you on that score. Though in my defence, if you spend hours locked in a hot dirty coal bunker, with the constant thud of an airship’s engines your only companion in the darkness, I suspect you would also choose the long hot shower over spectacle any day of the week.
Despite the hot shower that washed away the coal dust and eased some of the aches in my limbs, I remained in the dark in all other respects. The delightful, charming Miss Wells hadn’t been overly forthcoming with any actual enlightenment. Which is to say she didn’t tell me anything. Other than making Captain Singh apologise for the misunderstanding repeatedly, which had as much to do with her looming associate as anything else. She left the Captain’s cabin after ‘suggesting’ to me that we meet by the Sphinx at eleven the next morning.
She hinted, in somewhat conspiratorial tones, that it would be safer to pursue our intrigues then, as many passengers would be taking their leisure in the city.
The ‘Empress’, it seemed, would be laid up for the day at the masts at the edge of the city. Cairo was always the scheduled stopover on the long haul to India. There or New Alexandria.
I suspect she added the tidbit about intrigues for the benefit of the Captain, whom she seemed to take a measure of delight in terrifying. I have seldom met a man in his position who wanted to know less. Though I can’t blame him overly much in the circumstances. He clearly wanted nothing to do with The Ministry. I suspect he would be pleased just to have us off his ship for a while. Indeed if we got delayed in the old city and missed our flight, he would have been delighted. The last thing he wanted was to know more. The looming presence of Miss Wells’s Sleep Man was enough to convince him of that. All he really seemed to care about was that there would be no official report of any kind.
I was not entirely looking forward to the morning, for all Cairo itself was as ever the Empire’s Middle-Eastern jewel. Seas may be the lesser highway in these latter days of air-power, but the canal at Suez remained vital to many an ambition. The mystique of the old city still drew tourists and historians aplenty. I’d never been there myself but had been informed in equal measure that it was a wonder all of its own and stank to high heaven of camel dung.
If I am honest, the pleasures of visiting ancient ruins have always escaped me. The sights I prefer to see in exotic cities were the three b’s, bars, brothels and bordellos. So the prospect of drinking tea beneath crumbling sandstone blocks, even in such lovely company as Miss Wells was minimal. It didn’t help that I suspected I would be doing so with the Sleep Man in attendance. The Captain was not the only one it put the willies up.
Only Miss Wells herself seemed immune to the threat of its presence. Indeed she managed to seem utterly indifferent to the hulk. Which gave me the impression it was her bodyguard. Its sinister presence was to her merely a part of the furniture of her life. Oddly it made her seem all the more attractive somehow. I’m not sure what that says about me…
In short order, Singh, still hand-wringing no doubt at the threat of The Ministry hanging over him, had a steward escort me to my room, as much to get the gathered company out of his cabin, I suspected, as any desire to placate yours-truly. Though he did have the ship’s cooks send a freshly cooked meal up to my cabin. When it arrived, my stomach growled with anticipation, even though I half expected that the food had been spat on. The steward who brought it to my cabin, you see, was the one my frustrations had left walking awkwardly.
Hunger won out over paranoia, so I tucked in regardless. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten by this point. It must have been a while because even the usually inedible airship food actually tasted good.
After that, I’d hit the shower, then hit the bed. Glorious sunset, the exotic delights of the souk, even the tantalising possibilities of belly dancing beauties in the shady bar in the old quarter, could all go hang compared with the joy of a good twelve hours or so in the sack. Not least, because it was a rare opportunity to drift into unconsciousness by choice.
I’d, however, double locked the door and wedged the handle with a bar from the wardrobe before taking to my bed. Given how the last few days had gone for me, I was taking as few chances as possible. Besides which, in the back of my mind was the thought that Maythorpe might do something stupid. After all, it was Maythorpe, and him doing something stupid was almost to be expected. The thought of waking to him leading a troop of guardsmen knocking down my door to take me into custody and ‘damn the Captain’s eyes’ held little appeal. But I can’t say I would have been overly shocked had it happened.
All things being equal, it came as a pleasant surprise to sleep through the night unmolested, and equally pleasant to discover on waking that no one was banging on my door shouting the odds.
I kept the door firmly locked, however, as I took the opportunity to shave, trim my moustache and make myself as presentable as possible. The little scabbed over cut on my throat was all the reminder I needed of the last time I tried to shave in that room.
‘Best foot forward, Harry old lad,’ I thought to myself, feeling something akin to cheerful for the first time in months. No matter what else this day held in store for me, I’d a rendezvous with a beautiful woman to attend. That, if nothing else, was a pleasant thought with which to start the day. Even if the woman in question had a Sleep Man in her shadow every time I laid eyes upon her.
When I unhooked the door handle and sprung the lock, I paused for a moment before opening it. Call it anticipation or if we are more honest about it, fear, but I was suddenly wary of what lay beyond the door.
‘One must pad up when you’re going out to bat, Harry lad, one must pad up,’ I thought to myself, remembering the only really valuable lesson they taught me at Rudgley.
I was all too aware that the last time I’d walked through that door, I’d landed myself in a cell by being less than wary. Mental ‘padding’ is as important as anything else. I consciously checked I’d put the cutthroat back in my pocket after shaving. Being mentally armed is a fine thing, actually being armed is better still, even if it’s only with a razor.
‘Pad up and face them down,’ I thought once more. That Rudgleyism had served me well on more than one occasion. It was the unofficial school motto of Rudgley School for The Children of Empire. The school that made me the man I am today, which was the kind of proud boast you’re supposed to make about the old school…
As the man I am today was a murdering smuggler, arsonist and petty thief, drummed out of the service for his crimes and supposedly hung by the neck, I suspected the school might not consider me there finest alumni.
Okay, scratch that, not a petty thief, one has some pride after all. Let’s call me a criminal mastermind, at least I was before my unfortunate arrest. I’ll admit getting myself arrested takes a little of the gloss off my self-image.
Rudgley, or ‘Rudgers’ as other old boys I am acquainted with have been k
nown to call it with the misplaced affection of those who have forgotten the ice-cold showers. They also always seem to have forgotten the inedible food, dorm room beatings, fagging, bullying and flying chalkboard erasers aimed by former grenadier’s sergeant majors who approach classroom discipline as they would boot camp. I’d been told ‘Your school days are the best days of your life.’ My abiding thought when I left was ‘If those were the best days of my life then life sucks and not in the way a girl in a reasonably price Soho brothel does…’
I had some very straightforward ways of thinking when I was still a fresh-faced cadet.
The masters of my old school held firm to the belief that the Empire had been forged on the playing fields of England. As such almost everything the school taught was around the sports field, or edged with sporting wisdom like ‘Pad up and face them down’. I may have hated the place, but some of my old school lessons stuck with me. As things do when they are beaten into you hard enough.
Despite my fears, the corridor proved to be empty of Scots guards, or Welsh, come to that. The same was true as I made my way through the ship, which was all but empty. Most of the passengers were off enjoying the layover in the Egyptian capital, I surmised. I did pass a couple of crewmen, who at least directed me to the boarding ramps, so I found my way, with a certain ease, onto the gantry.
The main Cairo gantry tower is a triumph of Imperial symbolism over good taste. Now don’t get me wrong, I can appreciate the need for grandiose statements. From the lions in Trafalgar Square, to the glorious statue of Britannia astride the channel bridge, welcoming travellers from across the continent into Britain between her ample bronze thighs. The Empire erects these monuments to itself and its rule everywhere. A visual reminder of who was in charge, to keep the locals in check. ‘Here’s John Bull, look how mighty is he.’ As the old song goes. Complete with the none too subtle undertones that Mr J Bull could stamp on you from a great height if he so desired. After all, what is the point of being the greatest Empire in the history of mankind, if you don’t make sure everyone is reminded of it as often as possible.