by Y. S. Lee
A faint scraping noise recalled her to the task in hand and she began to move towards its source, somewhere near Harkness's office. Oddly, there was no sign of a light burning inside the small hut and the man hadn't been carrying a dark lantern. The door, however, was slightly ajar and so she edged closer to the door-jamb and peeked through the gap.
The only reason she saw him in the near darkness was because he moved quickly. He took three decisive steps to Harkness's desk, dipped into the top drawer and pocketed something without pausing to examine it. A slight shiver ran through her frame: this was no ordinary theft.
She had made no noise, but suddenly he was on the alert – as though he could sense her close scrutiny. His movements ceased. Slowly, she eased back slightly. He wouldn't be able to see her, but all the same…
He pivoted towards the entrance. On instinct, she glided away from the office door and around the corner – and instantly was glad she had. His head popped out a second later, scanning the dark silence. A moment's hesitation would have meant discovery. Still, his suspicions were not allayed. He moved cautiously but with impressive speed, conducting a thorough search of the area just outside the office. Mary was now on the retreat, keeping an eye on her quarry while in turn becoming his.
The strange, silent pursuit continued. He seemed increasingly certain that there was something or someone to find, while Mary moved faster towards her exit. She rounded a corner and came to a halt, blinking as she considered the solid wall before her. The wall couldn't have sprung up in a matter of minutes. Had she come the wrong way? Then her eyes adjusted and she realized the "wall" was a shadow cast by some scaffolding in the moonlight.
The moon. It had shown itself while she was outside the office, spying on the thief. While most nights she'd have welcomed it, tonight it hampered her escape. Not only did it make her easier to spot, but it changed the appearance of nearly everything on site. Still, she moved with noiseless speed.
A small, open strip of land now stretched between her and the fence. The man was no longer absolutely silent in his pursuit. Was he less certain of his way? Or was he merely allowing her to hear him, hoping that she'd panic and make an error? Either way, he was close behind now. Had she time to cross the unsheltered patch? She glanced about, looking for hiding-places: a heap of rubble, a lean-to containing lumber, the entrance to the tower. None held out any hope of concealment if he followed; all were dead ends.
She drew one last deep breath, not caring if it was audible. This was her last chance. She sprinted with all her strength across the open stretch, her boots ringing clearly against the paving stones. As she dived for the fence, wriggling and kicking through the narrow gap, the boards snagged her clothes and scraped her hips and shins. She tumbled out into the street, laughing silently now as she heard her pursuer struggling and swearing. The wooden plank slapped down into place, possibly clipping him on its way. An adult would never fit through the gap. Not an adult male, at any rate.
She scrambled up and kept running, knowing she was in the clear but impelled by a surge of energy to keep moving, to clear out, to distance herself from that terrifying, exhilarating escapade. She was nearly back at Miss Phlox's before she slowed to a walk. It was dark night, now; she had no idea what time. Her lungs tingled. The grazed skin of her hips and shins stung. When she let herself in the narrow gate, a sudden deep exhaustion gripped her. The front step, a wide slab of stone, looked wonderfully inviting; she could have curled up right there and gone straight to sleep. Instead, she stumbled up the two flights of stairs and fell into bed, fully clothed, unheeding of Rogers's lumpy form and deep snores. Within seconds, she was asleep. Nine Tuesday, 5 July
Mary didn't sleep for long. Dawn came early, and with it consciousness. Her eyes popped open and she lay, tense and still, wondering just where the hell she was and who lay beside her. Then, as memory returned, her tension eased a little. The dingy yellowed wall, the scratchy mattress with a valley in the middle, the clatter of carts in the street below – all these were part of her new life in Lambeth. Or, rather, Mark Quinn's life.
Beside her, Rogers snored at full bore, rolled snugly inside the greasy blanket they were meant to share. He was welcome to it. Mary lay still, watching the weak light – one could hardly say "sunlight", it was so grey – grow stronger. She felt a knife-like pain deep in her belly. Not hunger, but the desperate need to pass water. Yet she could hardly do so now, with Rogers in the room. Instead, she forced herself to think about yesterday's events.
Foremost in her mind was the fate of Jenkins. After that beating, he wouldn't walk properly for days, and there was a good chance his lacerations would become dangerously infected. Yet Harkness had packed him off with the day's wages and the bland assurance that once recovered, he would again have a place on the building site. But even assuming that Jenkins healed properly and came back to his job, there remained the question of how he was to live in the meantime. Without a wage, without medicines. It was an outrage. The least she could do was try to help him, if teetotalling, cliche-spouting, church-going Harkness would do nothing else. She would contact the Agency today and find out Jenkins's address.
Harkness's duty to Jenkins led to the question of his relations with the other labourers. Although Harkness's building site might officially be teetotal, in practice, he couldn't possibly prevent the men from drinking beer or spirits. At dinnertime, they had the chance to nip out to a pub or bring a flask onto the site. That meant he was either terribly naive or rather clever at cost-cutting: most building sites provided men with beer for refreshment and nutriment, and spirits to warm them in damp weather. But if Harkness provided only tea – and cheap tea, and not enough of it – that would leave a small surplus in the budget. It was brilliant: Harkness made a small profit on the drinks supply, and Jenkins made an even smaller profit provisioning the men. It was a perfect exercise in free-market economics, and the only people losing out were the workers themselves.
Was Harkness the sort of man to attempt such a thing? Character was so difficult to read. Apart from that unfortunate twitch, he looked like many a middle-aged gentleman in England, with his neatly trimmed beard and thinning hair. His face was neither benevolent nor stern, and his well-fed cheeks served as a counterweight to the anxious creases in his forehead, the twitch beneath his left eye. He might, he might not, in about equal measure. Besides, there was likely nothing strictly illegal about serving tea instead of beer. Probably the site budget allowed for such small variances.
Her thoughts circled back to the bricklayers – to Keenan's violence, which prompted a further question about Reid's bruises. Was he a habitual brawler? The sort who got drunk and became aggressive, and sought out fist-fights as a form of recreation? Or was there more to his bruised appearance? He'd seemed otherwise peaceable, in contrast with Keenan. Reid's greeny-yellow eye might signify nothing; but it merited consideration, none the less.
Church bells chimed seven o'clock while Rogers snored on. Would he never wake? Mary continued to lie still, listening to the household rustle to life. Creaking floorboards. Violent coughing. Clatter of shoes on the uncarpeted stairs. Outside, somebody pumped the handle of a well, filling bucket after bucket of water. Her bladder throbbed at the taunting sound. Should she risk it? She would be late for work, if he slept any longer. She might be late as it was. But what if Rogers awoke while she was on the chamber pot? She stared at the ceiling for an agonizing half-minute. No. She'd have to take the chance.
As she cautiously swung her legs over the side, he erupted in a fit of snorts and sneezes. Instantly, she lay down again. Closed her eyes. Feigned sleep. Rogers yawned, sneezed, yawned again. Then, finally, she felt his bulk shift as he sat up. Grunted. Sneezed again. Then, with a sigh, he dragged the heavy basin from beneath the bed. It was a long, splashy, hissing sort of piss, one that made her own bladder scream in protest. Mary gritted her teeth. Listened to him lace up his boots and clomp about for a few minutes before the door finally slammed behind him. She waite
d another ten seconds – it was all she could manage – then tumbled from the bed and scrabbled for the brimming chamber pot.
Lightning wash. Bowl of porridge. Smart pace to Palace Yard. And Mary arrived, breathless and sweaty, to discover that she was among the first on site. Strangely enough, though, she didn't overhear any discussion of last night's break-in. Had it gone unnoticed? Harkness's office generally looked as though it had been ransacked, so any minor disorder was likely to go unobserved. And the man had seemed to know what he was looking for. It had taken him only a few seconds to pocket the item he sought. Mary hoped this was the explanation. The other possibility, which made her much more nervous, was that the men were reluctant to talk while she was about.
As she passed the joiners, one of them summoned her with a crooked finger.
"Sir?"
"You hammered out nails before, sonny?"
"No, sir."
"Right. Well, the thing is to take your time and not rush it. Else you'll smash your finger and spoil the nail, and then I'd have to thrash you, as well." He chuckled at his little joke as he demonstrated the technique. "Like so. Now let's see you try it."
Mary hefted the hammer he'd given her and attempted to imitate his deft actions. The result wasn't terrible – she hadn't actually bent the nail further – but it was far from straight. She frowned. "I'll get better."
The joiner snorted. "Not holding the hammer like that, you won't. What d'you think it is – a frying pan?" He showed her how to hold it. "Try again, now."
She tried again. A little better.
"Can tell you ain't used to proper work," he said, pleasantly enough. "Got hands like a little princeling, you have. Try again."
Mary flushed. The dirt beneath her fingernails was authentic enough, but she couldn't hide her lack of calluses. She brought the hammer down firmly this time, and quite miraculously the nail unbent.
"That's it. Now, here's your lot," said the joiner, jingling a leather pouch. Something about it appeared to disturb him and he peered inside. "But this ain't the half of it. Cam! Where's the rest of them nails?"
"In the pouch!" shouted a heavyset man.
"I got the pouch!"
"Then that's all there is!"
The man frowned. "'S funny. I could have swore there was a fortnight's worth in here." He stared once again into the canvas pouch, his forehead wrinkled. Then, with a shrug, he handed the pouch to Mary. "Give us a shout when you've finished – maybe them other nails will have turned up by then."
"Yes, sir."
It was a fascinating insight into so-called "unskilled" labour. Her time was worth almost nothing – certainly less than the cost of the bent nails – but she still had much to learn, even in these most menial tasks. The joiners seemed content to ignore her and let her do her best. It was a pleasant change from yesterday and Mary was reminded, once again, of how dramatically the experience of work depended upon one's employers. It was a sensation of helplessness that she disliked intensely, and she was called upon only to play at it; to tolerate bad behaviour for the sake of a larger purpose. What must it be like to be so powerless all the time?
The joiners were only a short distance away. As Mary worked, she picked up scraps of their conversation – mainly querying one another about supplies and passing idle comment as they organized their day's work. At one point, she heard the man called Lemmon say, "Harky's in a right tizz this morning."
His friend smirked. "Ain't a mystery why."
"Sshh." A third carpenter jerked his chin significantly in Mary's direction.
Lemmon glanced over at Mary, who was frowning at a bent nail with great concentration. "You think…?"
He shrugged. "Maybe."
The three men squinted at her for a long moment, then Lemmon shook his head decisively. "Nah. Just a kid." But he was speaking in an undertone, now.
"Turned up two days ago? Harky's pet? Don't know his arse from his elbow?" The third man raised his eyebrows significantly, leaned in, and delivered the final, undeniable piece of evidence: "And don't forget – Harky rescued him from Keenan, though the Jenkins kid got it bad enough."
"Aw, no kid ought to be thrashed like that."
"Yeah – Jenkins neither, for all he's a nosy little whoreson."
Lemmon snorted. "All right, then. What's Harky want a pet for?"
The suspicious carpenter sighed in exasperation. "Don't you lot notice anything? Harky's lost control of this site. First that malarkey about the ghost. Then Wick. And yesterday, one of the glaziers said some bigwig's coming to check on Harky's work. It ain't regular."
Lemmon considered that for a moment. "But what's that got to do with anything? What could a kid like that do for Harky?"
"Listen. Carry tales. Get a man sacked…" His voice trailed off suggestively.
The three men stared at Mary once more. She tried not to look self-conscious; to appear utterly absorbed in her task. When the joiners had begun muttering, her first worry had been about her gender. Could they possibly imagine that "Mark Quinn" was anything other than a twelve-year-old boy? Yet when talk switched to her being Harkness's spy, she felt no relief. They were still too close to the truth.
The carpenters weren't alone in their suspicion of her. This became clear as the morning wore on and Mary made the rounds, collecting money for the rum ration. The men paid up, of course, but with much less of the good-natured teasing she'd heard yesterday. Some trades simply found their pennies and handed them over, preserving a circumspect silence while she was within earshot. During the tea break, the men accepted refreshment from her but then retreated into their separate groups to talk. And was it her imagination, or were their voices more hushed than they had been yesterday? It wasn't just Jenkins's absence that dried them up. Of that she was increasingly certain. Ten
James arrived at Palace Yard on foot. Barker didn't know this, of course; he'd deposited James at the site entrance half an hour earlier and driven off, secure in the delusion that his young employer was going straight inside. Instead, James had taken the opportunity to walk around the Houses of Parliament. He examined the buildings, assessed the pace of work, noted the general atmosphere on the job. This would be his last chance to poke about the place anonymously and he intended to take full advantage.
Even from the street, it was clear to James that the site was run in a typically sloppy fashion, with little in the way of safety precautions. The whole organization, or lack thereof, bespoke a casual attitude to the value of human life. Unless he was much mistaken, Harkness would have no limit on the number of men permitted in the belfry at one time; no particular rules for working on high scaffolds; no regular inspections of equipment. Yet this was still normal practice. James had a reputation on his own sites for being rather scrupulous, and he knew that many of his colleagues – especially older ones like Harkness – thought such scruples excessive.
Yet for some reason, Harkness had asked him to perform the evaluation. The question still troubled him. Was it his youth? Did Harkness hope that would translate to inexperience, malleability? There was also the family connection. Harkness might expect a certain deference from James because of it. If either assumption was true, he'd soon receive a sharp surprise. James was confident in his own abilities – to an extent that made some call it arrogance, he knew – and quite incapable of backing down from a point if he was right.
But perhaps he was being too cynical. He had, after all, been in India for nearly a year and was thus quite ignorant of industry gossip. Coming to such a long-running and rumour-laden job without expectations would be an advantage. Or perhaps Harkness simply, as he'd said, wanted to do him a good turn and help him to build connections. James repressed his misgivings and strode through the gate. He was becoming paranoid, that was all. Nothing could be more straightforward than a safety review.
As he entered the site, a flash of movement caught his eye: the same errand boy he'd seen yesterday. Again, James felt that odd pulse of recognition. Where had he seen this chil
d before? At second glance, it was obvious that the boy was nothing like Alfred Quigley: he was a good two or three years older and a completely different type. Perhaps this was the son of someone he knew – a labourer he'd employed. But would that account for the child's almost disturbing aura of familiarity?
He realized he was staring into space. With a shake of his head, he rapped on the office door, rather more loudly than he'd intended. "Harkness?"
"My dear boy! Or, I should say, my dear Easton. You're a colleague now."
The corner of James's mouth quirked up in appreciation of his sudden promotion. "You must have a good deal of pull with the Commissioner, sir; I received his letter of appointment first thing this morning."
"I shouldn't say that," said Harkness with a blush. "That is, it's a rather urgent task, as I believe I explained yesterday, and the Commissioner is very efficient…" He harrumphed and rushed on. "Now, I imagine you'll need assistance with your tasks…"
"I'm quite capable of doing the work on my own," said James promptly. "I wouldn't have accepted the job if I weren't completely recovered."
"No, no," laughed Harkness. "I wasn't referring to your health, my dear boy. I only meant an errand boy to assist you with measurements, and the like. I took the liberty of arranging – well, allow me simply to call him in." He stepped out of the office before James could respond, and a minute later reappeared with the dark-haired boy in tow. "This is Mr Easton, the gentleman I wanted you to meet," he was saying. "Easton, this is one of the brightest boys I've had the pleasure of employing; I think you'll find him quite useful.
"His name's Quinn. Mark Quinn."
James scarcely heard the introduction; his gaze was already riveted to the "boy". The ground rolled beneath his feet, a minor earthquake that made every nerve in his body quiver. He was unable to look anywhere but into those eyes. They were nut-brown today, though he knew very well that in some lights they glinted green. They were framed by thick black lashes, arched brows and a thatch of untidy dark hair. The face wore an expression of surprise and dismay that was instantly, unmistakably familiar.