A Spider In The Eye

by Mark Hayes

  Well, that is once the tenements of the outer city gave way to the white stone villas and marble houses of the Imperial quarter. The slums of the indigenous workforce are no better than the slums of the East End back in seedy old London. Probably worse as the sewers were of the more open kind, and no less rat infested.

  What was it that old hack Kipling said of Calcutta? ‘A garden of Imperial excess. A garden walled with squalor.’ Ever a man who sought to be ‘of the people’ was old Rudgard.

  I will admit, however, I could see what Kipling was getting at. Beautiful though the heart of the city was, it was easy to understand the resentment of the natives. For it was no doubt mostly the British who lived in the city’s marble heart while the locals lived in the less glamorous outskirts. Calcutta thrived on the backs of its native population as it ever has.

  Don’t misunderstand me; I still believed that the Empire was to the good of all its subjects. It struck me the world was a better place for Britannia’s rule, of that I had no doubt at all. Yet, as a lad from the East End, I understood what it was to live on the fringes, while others seemed to have it all. I’ll admit I find it hard to blame the starving millions for wanting a larger piece of the pie. Particularly as it is a pie that exists because they bake it in the first place. If that sounds like the rantings of that old loon Marx whose writings so inspired the suicidally stupid attempts at Tsaricide last century, well I would never go that far. But let me just say I believe then, as I do now, that everyone deserves a piece of crust once in a while.

  It had taken a week to get to Calcutta from Egypt. Much of which, to my pleasure, I had spent getting to know Miss Wells. Her opinions on British rule aside, she proved to be excellent company.

  Sadly, for me, there was no impropriety involved, not, I must say, for want of trying on my part. I’d laid it on with a trowel. She was after all quite the beauty, and I am a man of many weaknesses, as I am sure you’ve realised by now. An appreciation of a fine turn of the ankle is one of them, if I may use the most polite form. Were I in the RAN mess I would have said something more along the lines of ‘She’s a fine piece of ass.’ Or some other such vulgarity, but then my brother officers were ‘gentlemen’ all and such is the way such things are discussed after a porter or two. Miss Wells, however, was remarkably and quite regrettably, resistant to my charms in this regard.

  Yet, regardless of that frustration, Saffron, as I called her now we had got past surnames, proved to be a delight. Which is to say, her company delighted me, I can’t say if I delighted her. She would, however, hang on my arm each evening at dinner.

  Sadly, it soon became apparent this was a ploy to ward off unwanted suitors on her part. Nothing more. But one must take small victories where one can. The envious looks I received from other men in the ballroom were frankly quite gratifying. Even if I was only too aware after the first few vain attempts to advance my own cause that there were some other victories that would almost certainly be denied me.

  There was another reason for the occasional pained expressions on the face of those who looked in our direction. That of the hulking shadow that hovered behind us at all times. In case you had forgotten that Miss Wells always had a Sleep Man in attendance. I assure you I tried to forget the damn thing myself, but it was easier said than done. Memories of my own encounter with its brothers in the cells of the Bailey were still far too fresh in my mind.

  The more attractive of this pairing I came to suspect was taking the measure of me in these sojourns. Miss Wells would slip carefully placed questions into our conversations. Often they were whispered so that an observer would think them trifling flirtations, though they were generally of a serious nature as she rooted at my opinions on many things. Given the nature of our relationship, it was hardly a surprise. Two unwilling agents of the clockwork crown could well share common goals, but she was hardly likely to place much trust in mine.

  Wise of her, I’ll happily admit, as my only goals were ones of self-preservation, and if at all possible to get her out of her corset and into my bed. Ungallant though the latter may be, I would’ve forgone that pleasure in a heartbeat for the furtherance of the former in any event. Which I suspect she knew only too well.

  I would’ve liked to report that I remained guarded around her and careful of my confidences. In truth, however, I suspect that after a couple of drinks I would have told Saffron anything on the off chance of impressing her, futile though that undoubtedly was. Even dressed in a fresh uniform, neatly groomed and clean shaven save for my well waxed moustache, I was, I suspect, starting from a low base in her regards, being as I was a soldier of the Imperium she despised, with a murder conviction and a felonious reputation to boot. I suspect she placed all the trust in me I deserved. Which is to say sweet bugger all… If you will forgive my own coarse assessment.

  Aside from her skilful inquiries as to my opinions, we spent the evenings making clever witticisms about the other travellers. My own attempts to be droll would gain a polite laugh, an occasional smile or a disapproving look, all depending on her mood. Saffron, on the other hand, could cut a man down to size with the fewest of words, a talent I came to appreciate. Leastways when it wasn’t me on the receiving end of her barbed tongue.

  When asked to dance to the string quartet’s screeching notes, as she almost invariably was by one young man or another each evening, she would refuse with such politeness that most never realised they were being snubbed. But then a cutting remark made with a delicate smile has sent many a suitor away with their tail between their legs. Saffron was most adept at the social crushing of egos. Something which amused me no end.

  This was of course until I asked her myself and received the same treatment. Noticeably, it has to be said, without the smile. Instead, she cut me down to size and filleted my ego. It undoubtedly says something about me that this made her all the more alluring. I’ve no doubt a certain Mr Freud of Vienna would’ve had a field day with that. I was, however, somewhat smitten, which in the circumstances somewhat tragic, I am sure you’ll agree, in time.

  There was, however, one major fly in the ointment, a rather large fly at that. Heavy coated, top-hatted, and whose visage was hidden behind a gas mask. The one, as I mentioned, that I did my best to ignore and failed to do so most of the time. Whatever those things had gassed me with, it had left its mark. A residue of fear they had inspired still clung to me, and here one was Miss Wells’s constant companion, ever hovering on the edge of my vision.

  It hung back like a servile butler, with all the menace of a loaded pistol pointed in my direction. Never more than a few steps behind, it loomed greatly in our meetings. You would have thought, after a couple of days, it would become but a piece of the background, as servants are want to do.

  It didn’t; it remained as menacing as it had from the first moment I clapped eyes upon it.

  It was no servant to Saffron, however, as I discovered when I walked her back to her cabin on the final evening aboard ship. Which I did in hope, one must be honest, of accompanying her back through its threshold.

  “I must bid you good night, Mr Smyth,” she said as she retrieved the key to her room from her clutch bag.

  “No offer of a nightcap?” I asked, with no real expectation there would be, I will admit. But nothing ventured, no dreams crushed…

  Saffron looked at me coldly. “I think not,” she said and pushed open the door of her stateroom. “Presuming you mean another drink that is and not some strange English knitwear… to which the answer would also be no.”

  There was an entirely credulous tone to her voice. I was reminded suddenly that while the British and the subjects of the Empire may share a common parlance, they don’t always share a common vocabulary, but regardless I thought better of pushing my luck any further.

  “Then I guess this is good night, Miss Wells,” I said as formally as my semi-drunken state would allow and gave her a polite nod of the head, resolving even as I did so to wander back in the direction of the lounge and ano
ther drink. As I straightened up, I became aware that her looming shadow was standing very close behind me, and found myself jostled out of the way as it stepped through the hatchway behind her. Which was something of a tight squeeze for its massive frame. Where the damn thing went at night hadn’t occurred to me up until that point. Indeed, in my surprise, I muttered rather disbelievingly. “It sleeps in your room?”

  Miss Wells must have heard me as she turned back, her face taking on a serious cast at my inquiry. Somewhat soberly she replied, “Our masters don’t afford me the latitude they have given you, Hannibal. They trust me somewhat less, I suspect.”

  I almost laughed.

  The idea that I was trusted was an absurdity. My lack of belief must have shown on my face. She sighed heavily, with a slight shake of her head as she continued.

  “I am watched at all times, Mr Smyth, but then I suspect I’m but bait to catch a bigger fish. Whereas you… Well, I’m not at all sure what you are at all.”

  ‘You and me both,’ I thought, then considered her words for a moment. It was true the Sleep Man was always in her shadow. The only time he hadn’t been was when we returned to the airship in Cairo. Gates had sent him back before us with some equipment that was to be shipped out to India. We had shared a camel back a couple of hours later. It had been waiting at the embarkation point for her return, it’s true, but she had been unguarded when we travelled from the tomb to the ship.

  I pointed this out, god only knows why. I can only claim to being drunk and not thinking it through, and missing the more obvious implications. But even as they occurred to me, I was in the middle of saying, “You were not guarded on the way back.” I kept going. When you’re up to your neck in it, it’s time to stop digging, as my old mum would have told me. Besides, I wondered if she had thought of that imp-plication too.

  She had, of course.

  “In Cairo, I was being watched by you,” she said, with no hint in her voice of the pleasant tone we had conversed with all evening. Which spoke volumes I had no wish to read.

  “I…” I started, as eloquent as ever. Then found I had nothing to say. Nothing I could say really all things considered.

  She just stared me down and then started to close the door behind her, saying, “Goodnight, Hannibal Smyth, whoever you are. I hope we do not meet again.”

  And that was that. I heard a lock click into place, which had a certain finality to it.

  I stood there for a while, staring at the door in front of me, a little confused, a little drunk and still surprised at what she had said. Not the ‘hope we do not meet again’ bit, that made perfect sense. But the idea that I was trusted, even in the slightest, was absurd.

  For some reason, she thought of me as a trusted agent of The Ministry, a guard dog who had been set to keep her in check? If so, she had applied the same logic to me as I had done with her on our first meeting. It was the blind leading the blind, each believing that the other could see.

  Yet somehow that was what Saffron Wells thought of me. A trusted agent, a loyal pawn, when she was held in their thrall as much as I. In short then, she despised me as much as I despised M and his cronies.

  It was almost a compliment of sorts. That is that she believed I was a trusted agent of the crown. I almost smiled at the idea. Indeed my younger self would have loved it. To be thought the handsome, dashing hero, risking all for queen and country…

  Yet somehow, in the twisted logic of this new life I found myself in, to be a trusted agent of the crown was worse by far than to be a lying sneak thief and a murderer. Though I’m far from sure, she’d have had a higher opinion of me if she knew the truth of me, more’s the pity.

  Rejecting the delights of the bar, I made my way to my own cabin, trying to make sense of everything. For all it was tempting to just put it down to the mysteries of women, I suspect that even in my most misogynist moments I would have been hard-pressed to sell myself on that idea.

  It occurred to me she had missed the most obvious reason I was not guarded. Unlike her, I was disposable, a pawn in a larger game. Whereas, she was guarded at all times. Clearly, she was more important to them. From what little I had gleaned, my job was to flounce about India in the hope that I would be contacted by her great-grandfather, who they suspected, for reasons they chose not to divulge to me, would make a move to do so. God may know why but I sure as hell didn’t.

  Whereas Saffron Wells was his great-granddaughter, why this H.G. character would try to contact her was clear. She was, as she said, bait, just as I was. She was a better class of bait than I, however. Of course, they kept her close.

  Thinking back, it never occurred to me there could be a reason they needed to watch her constantly. A reason they felt the need to have a Sleep Man follow her around. One which went beyond her protection. Indeed, why they might always have one in her proximity for the exact opposite of protecting her, a poised blade at her throat.

  She was, after all, a woman.

  How could she be all that dangerous?

  Yes. I know… Damn you.

  But I am not the first man to underestimate the fairer sex. Believe me, I know only too well that it’s based on a fallacy. Start thinking of women as anything less than equally capable as any man, and you’re on a quick path to a rude awakening. Only utter fools think in such ways… But on occasion, when I was younger, I was foolish, and I underestimated Saffron Wells.

  Oh, the naivety of man.

  Lost in my thoughts, and wits mildly addled with drink as I worked my way back to my own cabin, I didn’t realise I was being followed. All things considered, that was probably a blessing. I have a vague memory of fumbling with my key and seeing someone duck back around the corner behind me as I did so.

  I remember peering down the corridor with a moment’s suspicion. Then shaking my head, as I entered my cabin, fell onto my bed and resolved to sleep off the booze before we reached Calcutta.

  Blissfully unaware I was no less closely watched than Miss Wells, and no less under threat, all be it from other sources.

  CHAPTER THE TWELFTH

  Assignments And Assignations

  I was to take an assignment as the first mate on an EICAN cutter. One which was due to head north in a couple of days. A tea and crumpets run, up to the spine of the world, flying the Company flag. Slow trawling along the lower reaches of the Himalayas. It sounded like a damn dull billet.

  It was a prospect which didn’t delight me overly not least because it was to be a three-month routine patrol, which would involve carrying a few supplies for remote stations, showing the Company’s presence, and keeping an eye on the hill tribe bandits that were as ever rumbling in the north.

  So, mainly dull with a small chance of life-threatening terror, but mostly just dull.

  Why in god’s name The Ministry thought this would be an ideal way for me to find and get myself within the confidence of H.G. Wells, I’d no idea. The only thing the hill tribes hated more than Englishmen and The East India Company, were each other. Somehow I couldn’t see a mild-mannered writer of unsuccessful books, with a few bankrupt political philosophies, hiding out among them. He hardly sounded like the type to become a great leader of rebels, especially not the kind that unites warring factions under a single banner.

  I was more than half convinced the whole thing was a wild goose chase. Perhaps a seed born from misinformation. After all The Ministry no doubt had those who worked against them. Other branches of Old Brass Brassiere’s government for a start, as my recent run-in with Maythorpe showed.

  Now clearly it would be a terrible waste of The Ministry’s resources if all this turned out to be a waste of time. Even if it got me off their hook for a while. A few long pointless months flying around northern India may sound boring, but I would take boredom over some other possibilities every time. So, all things considered, I didn’t find the idea too distasteful.

  One lives in hope. Generally, the hope is not to die in despair, but one lives in hope all the same.

&nb
sp; As I waited for my papers to be sorted out, I leafed through a copy of The Times of India. A somewhat more sober rag than its Fleet Street equivalent. Disappointingly it didn’t even have a girl showing a scandalous amount of ankle on page three. The editorial was a sombre reflection on some policy or other that the new Viceroy was about to enact, which I can’t remember for the life of me. All I recall is raising a surprised eyebrow that the words ‘Shocking’, ‘Disgraceful’ and ‘Vile’ weren’t being used at any point. The Times editorials I was used to used such words in every other sentence no matter what the subject matter. It made a change from ‘Hangings too good for them’. Or ‘Outrage at Liberal suggestion of votes for the poor’. Nothing it seemed was ‘Undermining the fabric of our society’. With ‘Weak capitulations to the left’ suggesting ‘Meritocracies and the end of the old school tie’, I found it oddly quaint that an editorial attempted to impart knowledge in a reasonable thought-provoking way.

  Though it has to be said it made for an exceedingly dull editorial.

  What I did worryingly, however, glean from the paper, before I skipped on to the sports section, was a little alarming. I stumbled across the report of a passenger liner which had been disappeared in north India, the second such occurrence in two months. The paper was blaming this on the new ‘Muldarin’. The same one, no doubt, M had spoken about. Of course, the Indian papers always blamed a new ‘Muldarin’. The mention of that name sold a lot of news-rags. That was the most important thing to editors. He was the great Indian bogie-man after all. A headline stating that some remote tribal chieftain in the hinterlands had burned a few farms or ambushed a Company patrol was page ten fodder at best. No one cared about such things (unless you were the one being shot of course). But if you started calling them ‘The New Muldarin’ and threw in a few unsubstantiated gruesome details, then you had yourself headlines for a week or more.