by Alex Scarrow
Liam craned his neck to get a better look through the open doors to the interior beyond. He could see archways and alcoves, all seemingly stuffed with barrels, crates and boxes of all different sizes.
‘Let’s go over and get a better look,’ he said. They crossed Farringdon Street, dodging and ducking between horse-drawn vehicles that showed no intention of stopping or slowing for them.
Closer, Liam watched the three men working quickly, furtively even, as they loaded the cart up. ‘Stay here,’ he said then made a show of looking casual, whistling tunelessly as he strolled past the wide-open oak doors. He paused. Ducked down on to one knee and made as if he had a bootlace that needed tying up, all the while craning his neck to see through the open doors, getting a glimpse of the receding maze of archways and alcoves inside.
‘Hoy!’
He turned to find one of the men standing over him.
‘Hoy there! You get enough of a look inside, did ya?’
‘I … was, I’m just …’ Liam stood up.
‘Pokin’ ya nose in where it’s likely to get broken!’ A thought suddenly occurred to the man and he grabbed Liam’s arm roughly. ‘You a snitch for them bluebottles? Is that it? For the bleedin’ coppers?’
The man was short and tubby, with owlish bug eyes that bulged beneath wiry brows. Liam found himself looking down at him. He suspected the little chap was actually tougher than he looked – that or he was all bluster.
‘What? No! I’m … just … I’m …’
‘Cos I’ll get me lad, Bertie, to shank you good if you –’
‘Actually,’ replied Liam, ‘I’m looking for business premises.’
‘Business premises? Likely story!’
The stocky man turned to look at Rashim approaching to help Liam out. He did an almost comical double-take at Rashim’s dark skin. ‘Good God!’ he blurted. ‘You with this lad?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I am.’
Rashim’s carefully enunciated, alien-sounding English seemed to impress, or perhaps intimidate, the stocky man. He cocked his head as if flexing a stiff neck. ‘Well, all right, then.’
The man released his grip on Liam’s arm. ‘He your boy?’
Rashim’s eyes met Liam’s and he struggled to stifle an amused smile. ‘No, not really.’
‘I’m not anyone’s boy,’ sniffed Liam indignantly. ‘We’re uh … we’re business partners, so we are.’
The stocky man pulled a face. ‘Business partners, is it?’
‘Uh … yes, he’s quite right,’ said Rashim.
‘We want to rent one of these … archway places.’ Liam glanced at the open doorway. The other two men had finished loading the last cask on to the cart and one of them climbed up on to the running board and coaxed the horses to life. Their hooves clattered on stone and the wagon pulled away.
‘You seem to have a lot of space inside there,’ said Liam. ‘Could we rent a bit?’
‘Well, what I got inside ain’t none of your beeswax, lad!’
Bob emerged out of the gloom. ‘Are you OK, Liam?’ he asked, striding towards the stocky man. His voice reverberated beneath the iron and stone viaduct. A deep boom that made heads on the other side of Farringdon Street turn their way. A lamb shank of a hand reached out and grabbed one of the man’s upper arms in a vice-like grip. The stocky man’s bulging eyes widened still further. He looked like a tree frog in a waistcoat.
‘Oh, I’m all right, Bob.’ Liam grinned at the man. ‘There’s no harm done.’
‘Bertie!’ the man gulped, alarmed at the giant looming over him. ‘Bertie! Get over here and help me!’
His colleague, ‘Bertie’, took one look at Bob and then backed up several steps into the gloom.
‘Can we not just have a little talk?’ asked Liam. ‘If you’ve got a spare room somewhere in there? Or perhaps you know of anybody else who does? That’s all.’
‘We have money,’ added Rashim. ‘We could pay a very generous rent.’
The man gulped, looking more like a toad than a frog now. ‘Generous rent, eh?’
‘Aye,’ said Liam. ‘Bob? Why don’t you let this nice gentleman’s arm go before you crush it to a pulp?’
‘As you wish.’ Bob loosened his grip and the man snatched his arm free, flexed his neck again and straightened his ruffled waistcoat indignantly.
‘Well.’ His bug eyes remained warily on Bob. ‘I suppose a little talk won’t hurt no one.’
Chapter 45
1 December 1888, Holborn Viaduct, London
They stepped inside, through the double oak doors, and the tall young man called Bertie pulled them closed. He was wiry-thin with short dark hair parted on the side, long sideburns and a pitifully wispy attempt at a walrus moustache.
There was a glare on the face of his short, frog-like boss: a stern look at his young assistant very much along the lines of we’re going to have a little talk later on, you and I.
Liam looked around. In one way it was very much like the home they’d left behind in Brooklyn: an arched ceiling of dark red bricks. But this archway was stuffed with stacks of wooden packing crates and casks of whisky and liquors, barrels of beer, bottles of wine, sacks of mysterious goods, even a rack of army-surplus rifles and small foil-sealed boxes of ammunition.
Off this main archway, through walkways between mountains of boxes, he could see other archways and alcoves receding into the gloom. It looked almost labyrinthine. An Aladdin’s cave.
The rotund little man sat down at a small round table in the middle of his ‘warehouse’. A gas lamp glowed in the middle of it. He cut a small wedge of cheese from a block the size of a shoebox.
‘So you mentioned a generous rent, eh?’
Liam sat down opposite him. ‘If you’ve got an archway spare somewhere among all this,’ he said, gesturing at the receding gloom. ‘Then, yes, we can pay.’
‘Oh, there’s plenty more of this maze beneath the viaduct available for tenants.’ He chewed energetically on his cheese, looking casually up at the low ceiling. ‘If you know the right bloke to talk to.’
‘And you’re that right bloke, I suppose.’
He shrugged. ‘That’s what they say around this manor.’
Liam offered his hand across the table. ‘The name’s Liam O’Connor.’
The man eyed it warily for the moment, finishing his mouthful of cheese, then wiped his hand on his sleeve and shook with Liam. ‘Delbert Hook. Imports and exports is m’business.’
Liam looked around him and wondered how much of the stuff in here was strictly legitimate business. And how much of it had ‘fallen off the back of a wagon’. There’d been a somewhat suspicious haste in the way Mr Hook and his assistant had been loading up the wagon.
‘The lanky drip standing over there by the door is my assistant, Bertie.’
The young man stepped forward. Offered his hand tentatively to Liam. ‘It’s Herbert actually. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Bertie’s what I calls him,’ said Delbert. ‘He’s brighter than he looks.’
‘Actually, I have a part-time job teaching mathematics,’ replied Herbert. ‘I do Del’s accounts for him on weekdays and –’
‘Mr Hook to you, lad!’ He glared. Although his expression quickly softened. ‘Or Hooky. Or, if I’m very, very drunk … then, and only then, you can call me Del.’
Liam suspected there was something of a bond between the two men, despite the mutual glaring.
‘And these other two?’ Delbert’s gaze rested on Bob. ‘Who’s this giant?’
‘That’s Bob, and this fella’s my good friend Dr Rashim Anwar.’
Delbert pursed his lips appreciatively at Rashim. ‘Doctor? A physician is it, eh?’
‘Not that kind of a doctor, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh?’ Delbert sounded disappointed. ‘Anyway.’ He cut another hunk of cheese. Liam noticed he wasn’t offering any around. ‘For the right price and so long as you can convince me you ain’t snipes working for the police … I might be able to fi
nd you your very own archway.’
‘We need privacy,’ said Rashim.
Delbert looked at him. ‘Well, of course. What decent businessman don’t?’
‘There’s a power generator located somewhere under this viaduct,’ said Rashim. ‘Isn’t there?’
Delbert nodded at Rashim. ‘Oh, you mean the Bell Electrical Voltaic Generation Machine! Yes, indeed. The first of its size in the world, so they says. There was a big parade and marching bands an’ the like here five or six years ago when they switched the ruddy thing on. Damn noisy it is too! Sounds like a bloomin’ locomotive comin’ through the walls. You might want one of the archways well away from the ruddy thing if you don’t want to listen to it boomin’ away all day an’ all night!’
‘No,’ cut in Liam. ‘Close to that’s fine for us, so it is.’
‘Close to it?’ One of Delbert’s bushy eyebrows rose suspiciously. ‘You actually want the noise, do you?’
Liam shrugged. ‘It won’t be a problem for us.’
‘Hmm …’ Delbert stroked his bottom lip, both bushy brows lowered, almost a scowl. ‘You gonna tell me what yer business is?’
‘It’s private,’ said Liam.
‘Private covers a multitude of sins, lad. I may not be entirely above the board here, but there’s some things I won’t be a party to. You understand what I’m sayin’?’
Liam figured he might have to feed the man a titbit of information. Just enough to satisfy his beady-eyed curiosity.
‘Science experiments.’ He nodded at Rashim. ‘Dr Anwar here is something of a … a scientist.’
‘Science, is it?’ That seemed to appeal to Delbert. ‘What are yer … some sort of inventor?’
‘I … err …’ He looked at Liam. Liam nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose. Yes, an inventor.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Herbert. ‘Might I ask what kind of things you invent?’ He looked eager. ‘See, I also have quite an interest in the sciences, sir.’
‘Not now, Bertie!’ Delbert sat back in his chair and wiped his hands and finished his mouthful of cheese as he gave his visitors some silent consideration.
‘All right, then. I’ll show you what I got. Then you and me, lad … we’re gonna need to talk about the money.’
Delbert got up, reached for the lamp’s brass handle, lifted it off the table and waved for them to follow him. He led them down through a tight squeeze between packing crates, along a narrow tunnel, low enough that Bob had to stoop down to enter it.
They turned a corner to see by the dim glow of Delbert’s lamp an archway almost as large as Delbert’s main one. Along the left-hand wall were a few stacks of goods. Along the wall opposite were three evenly spaced alcoves.
‘The one on the left leads directly out on to Farringdon Street. I don’t use it myself, but I got keys to it. You can use that access, just so long as you’re mindful to lock it secure at night. That way you don’t need to be disturbing my business all the time. The middle one’s a small storage room. I don’t use it. The right one is the one you can have.’
He walked over towards that alcove. It receded further along than it first appeared to. Ten feet, a low, narrow tunnel. At the end a small arched oak door with a thick padlock on it. Delbert fumbled in his trouser pocket and pulled out a jangling keyring.
‘I’ll give you this key, of course,’ he said as he picked out the keyhole and inserted the key.
‘That is the only copy of the key?’ asked Rashim.
Delbert made a face. ‘Of course! Of course!’
The lock clanked loudly and the thick door creaked inwards. Liam heard it almost immediately – the muted sound of something not so far away throbbing deeply. He glanced at Rashim who smiled back approvingly.
The generator’s close by. Perfect.
‘Here we are,’ said Delbert, stepping inside. He raised the lamp in his hand and shadows danced around the empty space as they filed in behind him. Above the throb – more of a vibration sensed through the brick walls and the floor than it was a sound – they heard the faint squeak of rats scuttling for the safety of a dark corner.
The girls will just love the idea of that.
‘I don’t believe yer goin’ to get any more private a place than this, gents!’ Delbert’s voice rang off the bricks, an almost endless echo that seemed to take an eternity to finally fade to nothing. He picked up a thick candle sitting on the floor amid its own solid nest of melted wax and lit it.
With the extra flickering light, Liam took in more details of their surroundings. It was about a third smaller than their archway under the Williamsburg Bridge. And no other rooms off this space. This was it. A rectangle of stone-slab floor, about twelve yards by six, encased by a low curving ceiling of bricks. Almost a dungeon … if you let yourself think about it that way. Or like a large cabin aboard some vessel. Liam suspected that the ever-present pulsing throb would eventually be no more a distraction after a while than the engine of an ocean liner.
‘This would be an appropriate location,’ rumbled Bob finally.
And we can make it like home, can’t we?
The other place had been just as spartan and grim as this. But they’d managed to make it comfortable. Make it theirs.
‘All right, Mr Hook,’ said Liam. ‘I think you have yourself some tenants.’
Delbert slapped him amicably on the back. ‘Oh, come now, to hell with this Mister Hook nonsense! Call me Hooky, or Del if you want, young man.’
He turned to face Liam with a mock-serious glint in his eye. ‘But not Delboy. Right? I draw the line at that!’ He flexed his neck and tugged down on his waistcoat, a subconscious tic of his, so it seemed. ‘The last cheeky plonker called me that ended up with a big fat lip. Didn’t he, Bertie?’
‘Uh … it’s Herbert actually.’
Delbert sighed. ‘Now, boy, let’s not show off in front of the clients. Right, then! Let’s go and discuss the rent, gentlemen!’
He led Liam and Bob out of the room. Rashim remained behind, taking in the space a moment longer.
‘You’re really an inventor, sir?’ asked Bertie.
Rashim shrugged. ‘More a quantum technician really.’
The young man didn’t understand the term, but seemed impressed with it all the same. ‘Well, that sounds jolly exciting, sir.’ He offered his hand to Rashim. ‘I do hope we shall have a chance to talk some time. I’ve got some ideas I’d love to share with you, if you’d care to …?’
‘Uh? Oh … sure, Bertie.’ Rashim shook his hand. ‘Yes, we’ll talk some time.’
‘Pft! You know, Dr Anwar, I hate it when Delbert introduces me with that damnable nickname. It’s only him that calls me Bertie. No one else!’
Rashim snuffed the candle out and stepped back out of the room to follow the others before the receding light of the gas lamp dwindled to nothing and they were left in the pitch-black darkness.
‘Herbert,’ the young man called out after Rashim. ‘My name’s actually Herbert.’ But Rashim wasn’t listening; he was trying to catch up with the dwindling lamp light.
The young man was alone in the gloom, the skittering of emboldened rats emerging now it was almost wholly dark again. ‘I was jolly well christened Herbert George Wells! Not bloomin’ Bertie.’
But Rashim had turned a corner and was gone.
Chapter 46
7 October 2001, Harcourt, Ohio
Sheriff Marge McDormand cradled the mug of green tea in both hands as she stared at the computer screen in front of her.
‘Hell of a crazy world,’ she muttered to herself.
‘What’s that, Marge?’
‘Nothing, Jerry,’ she replied. She looked past the computer at her husband, sitting in the desk opposite hers. ‘And it’s “Sheriff” during office hours, my dear.’
Jerry pulled a biro out of his mouth and sighed. ‘It’s not enough I’m your office boy?’
‘The term is “Deputy”, hon … and that’s only until we can find someone else to stand in.’ She smiled at h
im. ‘I’m sure we’ll find someone soon. Then you can go back to being a kept man.’
She looked back at the screen. Quiet day in Harcourt. She’d done her rounds this morning. Nothing much to write up. A stolen car dumped outside Gary’s Bar. No harm done to it other than the driver’s-side window forced and the steering column’s plastic hood broken to jack the ignition. That and giving Henry Learry – the town drunk – a lift in the squad car back home to his anxious wife. Marge had found him fast asleep behind the wheel of his truck after a night binge-drinking, still way too soaked to be trusted to drive the thing home safely.
Those were the sort of things that Marge dealt with day to day. The occasional problem with kids breaking into and messing around in the abandoned factories, the occasional domestic dispute, the occasional kitty stuck up a tree. That was it. Police work in Harcourt.
Suited her. She was far too old to be dealing with real crime. She carried a firearm on her hip, but in five years as sheriff here she’d yet to unpop the leather flap of her holster in the course of doing her job.
Which was just fine.
The morning’s breakfast round had ended up as it always did at the diner where she’d got into the habit of picking up a take-out coffee and doughnut for Jerry and a green tea for herself. The Williams girl, Kaydee-Lee, usually served her and kept her there talking about everything and nothing for five minutes longer than it took to serve up the order.
That poor young girl’s so lonely.
Marge wondered why on earth she stayed in Harcourt. This place was a town with a past, not a future: a glorified departure lounge for an ageing population that seemed to shrink by a couple of dozen every harsh winter.
This morning, though, Kaydee-Lee had had some company. A disarmingly pleasant young man with an interesting accent and charmingly old-fashioned manners. For some reason Marge thought he was Canadian until she got back in the car and placed his accent. Irish. The pair of them seemed to be getting on like old buddies. Thick as thieves.