Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  Lucian took her other arm and rested both hands on her shoulders. His grip was firm as he pushed her closer to the painting. ‘Now Agatha we’re going to play a game.’

  His breath’s heat rolled down her blouse like a sun ray giving bloom to the flowers of her being.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he whispered.

  She did, and he let her go of her.

  ‘Now, keep them closed,’ he moved to the other ear, ‘open your eyes,’

  The black void of the painting filled her retinas.

  ‘Connect with it, Agatha, look through it, open yourself and tell me what you see.’

  She swallowed collected saliva which welled behind her bottom teeth. ‘I see a black painting.’

  Lucian was silent.

  She felt a touch, it was light, lighter than a dance of air over a blade of grass. The finger motioned slowly down the back of her knee. Every other inch of her body numbed, it shrunk around the surface of the touch.

  ‘Now, what do you see?’

  A bead of sweat escaped from her hairline, raced down her temple. It rolled over her cheek to her jawline and collected at the chain of her golden necklace.

  ‘I see nothing.’

  Lucian stopped his finger. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘I can see the paint, the lines, brush strokes.’

  The finger remained still.

  ‘What do you see?’

  Her eyes hurried over its surface as her heartbeat thumped her chest forward, nearly knocked her off balance. ‘I see darkness.’

  The finger moved slowly in its ascent, reached her lower thigh.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘I see the void.’

  It continued an inch below the skirt of her dress.

  ‘What do you see?’

  A hot flush engulfed her. ‘I see pain.’

  The fingertip edged up under her skirt to the soft fleshy part of her thigh.

  ‘What do you see?’ he said in a calm whisper.

  ‘I see torment.’

  In small, slow circles, Lucian’s finger pressed in the fabric of her lace underwear, the area she could feel had dampened. He left it there and pressed firmer. Agatha let out a sigh. He clipped the side of the undergarment, tucked in his finger; wet flesh greeted it. He eased the tip in the source.

  Her legs almost buckled, she knocked into him, felt his thick clothing; it was coarse, tightly woven, an expensive fabric – such finery. She tried to let in his scent, no smell, no musk of his gender, nothing. His finger navigated inside her is if it had been there several times before. He moved in close to her ear, she responded by pressing her buttocks against him.

  ‘What do you see Agatha?’

  ‘I see oblivion.’ The response moaned slowly from her lips as wild eyes struggled to keep their focus, gave in, they rolled back in her skull.

  He twisted her around.

  She kissed his face.

  With his other hand, he placed it on her chest. Her bosom heaved under the pressure he applied. He pushed her away, and then collected her, pressed down on her shoulders. At first, she resisted; her husband had tried a similar trick, but this one was short-lived and replaced with obedience.

  Agatha knelt with her back to the painting, she unbuttoned his fly.

  Lucian stared at the canvas. The feeling of this proud woman, where she was now, what she put in her mouth reminded him of Ella. The Has-been offered a speck of her divine nature in such matters of the flesh. He concentrated on the memory. Ella dwelled in each room of his memory palace, waltzed in wearing one ball gown and out again in another. She never stopped dancing, until the day their child poisoned her and took both their lives.

  Finally, he released himself into the vulgar mouth. He pulled the Has-been to her feet.

  She went to wipe her mouth.

  Lucian grabbed her wrist. ‘Now go back downstairs,’ he ordered, ‘and kiss your husband.’

  As the Has-been waddled away and collected whatever dignity she had left, Lucian removed the note Sidney handed prior.

  Walking toward the largest of the stain glass windows, he unfolded it. One of the last evening airships shone a skyways search light through and lit the room in a twinkling array of colour.

  The interview was prepared for seven o’clock tomorrow morning in the Captain Cook Drawing room.

  Lucian folded the note, left it on the cold stone window alcove and returned downstairs to his guests.

  III

  Pete O’Halloran struggled with the new typewriter machine’s layout of letters. Around him, the other journalists synchronised as their reams of freshly typed paper spat out from their machines faster than the cards dealt by a Seagrave casino croupier.

  He looked down at his shorthand notes from the interview with the ex-docking station Chief and tried to decipher the words. He remembered most of the meeting, attractive women promoted as captains in the Seagrave fleet. He knew the story was hogwash, the Chief would certainly know, and it would end up next to the obituaries, cut down to a handful of verbs. What he needed was a photographer to take a picture of a few of these captains, dressed all tight in their navy-blue uniforms; might make the front page?

  Pete pressed a few of the keys, which reacted instantly to his command. The wood encasing the magic reflected under his desks gaslight, its quality made him slump. Had the Chief planned to use the new typewriters as an excuse to this year’s absence of a Saints Day bonus? He thought it possible.

  ‘How you getting on with it?’ The young chief’s assistant, Matthew, bound in close to Pete’s desk, knocked it and the top layer of papers slid off. Both men knelt to pick them up.

  ‘Careful please, Matthew.’

  ‘Sorry Pete, Chief’s looking for you.’

  They piled the dishevelled papers back on the desk, and Pete straightened his tie. ‘I had an early assignment – she in her office?’

  The young lad stood upright, peered over at the frosted glass box at the far end of the bullpen. ‘Yeah, she’s there.’

  Pete paused and waited for Matthew’s gauge. It was the sign he gave all the writers. The Chief wasn’t one for the display of emotions, too proud of her highest tally in the industry for fired tearful juniors. Tears were unprofessional.

  ‘Remember when we got the news the Langford was closing down?’ Matthew said.

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  ‘Remember how she was, distant and all–’

  ‘So, she’s annoyed?’

  ‘I’d say more pensive than annoyed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know when you try and talk to her and she’s...not there?’

  ‘Oh, you mean when you ask her something and she takes about two days to answer?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Great. All I need this morning.’ He tapped Matthew’s arm in thanks. ‘Any idea what’s put her in such a mood?’

  ‘Tony the new photographer, the one from the Herald?’

  ‘Oh yeah, what’s he done?’

  ‘Supposed to get a photograph of Seagrave’s new train.’

  ‘I’m guessing he didn’t,’ said Pete.

  ‘We don’t know.’ Matthew looked around the office for any eves dropping and leant closer to Pete’s ear. ‘He didn’t show up for a job this morning.’

  Pete pulled back from the young lad, stood on his tiptoes and tried to get a better look to see how she behaved. Her door was open but he didn’t need to see her, even over the typewriter keys smashing ink onto paper like thousands of striking vipers, the chiefs heavy boot heels slammed into her office floorboards, pacing back and forth.

  ‘You might want to dust off your old gas mask,’ Matthew said, ‘she’s not stopped smoking since she got in.’

  ‘Okay, thanks for the heads-up.’

  Pete collected his papers and gave his desk a quick tidy. Through the busy office he passed Penny, slowed down as she chaotically hit her keys: a juxtaposition with her conservative posture.

  ‘Morning Pe
n, big story you’re working on?’

  She stopped and tilted her head in his direction, her posture remained straight. ‘Can I help you, Peter?’

  Nobody ever called him Peter. ‘No, I was just–’

  ‘Do any “justing” anywhere else but here, please.’

  ‘So, it is a big story?’ Pete smiled.

  Penny ignored him and carried on typing.

  ‘Pete, come on,’ the Chief shouted from her office. ‘Get in here, close the door behind you.’

  He tapped Penny’s desk, left her with his smile and wondered if she knew how worthless she made him feel.

  The Chief, clouded by smoke, stood by her closed window. Hung over the edge of a blue ceramic vase were several wilted tulips, pink, red and yellow. They looked as though they’d also given up on the day.

  ‘Come in, come on I need to be quick.’ She held up her cigarette, ‘Want one?’

  ‘Sure.’ The chief only smoked McQueen – how she managed to get her hands on an Uppers brand was a calamity Pete didn’t want to think about. He leant over the chair, uprooted one from the pink Chinese stylised case, it had flowers sculpted on the underside of the top. With the dying tulips together, they widened the gap of his boss’s character. Her rosewood desk matched the nearby bookcase filled with colourful bound books. They appeared fresh, more ornament than tombs of knowledge: purely for display purposes.

  ‘How are you, darling?’ she puffed.

  ‘I’ve had better mornings.’ He searched the many empty chambers of his waistcoat for a light.

  ‘Here.’ She handed him a box of matches. A portrait of the King was on the box. ‘See the letter? Have a read.’

  The envelope was cream with a red wax seal. The Chief had opened under the seal and tried not to break it. The paper was heavy, a shade lighter than the envelope.

  Dear Boss,

  After much consideration, at this moment, I give you my notice, I shall not be working for the Gazette. I was grateful for the opportunity. But have had some bad news and need to leave the district. As I am under probation, it’s my understanding this notice will suffice.

  Sincerely,

  Tony Armstrong.

  Pete took a drag from his McQueen. ‘Dear Boss? Who does the guy think he is, Jack the Ripper?’

  ‘It gets a whole lot stranger, Pete. I took a call last night from the Seagrave Compound, asking you go and interview him.’

  Pete coughed the smoke out of his lungs. ‘What?’

  ‘Apparently, it has something to do with your page five column last Tuesday.’ She stubbed out the cigarette on the window ledge, added the butt to the collection with the others.

  The I told you so stare revealed her thoughts, reflected her wisdom back at him.

  Pete avoided her eyes. ‘He’s going to want my sources.’

  ‘So, make them up if you have to.’ She waved her cigarette around like a conductor with one of their sticks.

  ‘Is there a way I can get out of this?’ He slouched in the chair. ‘Any way at all?’

  ‘No, you’re fresh out of luck. The only thing I can suggest,’ she cracked open a drawer, pulled out a writing pad and rolled her reservoir pen across her desk, ‘is write a note. Explain how you love being a journalist, and if anything odd were to happen, if you disappeared, then this letter will hold him accountable.’

  He rolled the pen back. ‘Thanks, I got my own.’

  He removed his pen, but it was empty. He snatched the inkwell from her side of the desk, dipped the nib in, pulled the plunger and soaked up the darkness. He recalled the stories from other journos after all their papers closed, and his nib shook. ‘You seriously think this is needed?’

  ‘It’s the best chance we have at blackmailing him if you disappear.’ Her glare made Pete think she’d slam her fist on the desk, but she didn’t.

  ‘I’m not going.’

  Two rings on his left hand rattled in the awkward silence she forced him to share.

  ‘Come look at this.’ The chief pointed down at the street level. A parked horse cab trotted off; the rider shouted orders at the ponies and flogged the one limping. ‘Are you one of my staggering ponies, Pete? You’ve not had a front-page story in a year.’

  ‘It isn’t my fault, you’ve brought in too many of the other reporters.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? They all have families, Pete. You don’t.’

  He wanted to be mad about the comment but she was right. ‘And you think this will get me on the front page?’

  ‘Yes.’ She took a long draw on her cigarette. ‘Or he wants rid of you.’

  Pete’s eyes narrowed. ‘He has slaves, Chief. I’ve got three witnesses happy to testify.’

  ‘You have the money to make a case, do you, Pete?’

  ‘No, but I thought a front-page story.’

  ‘Oh, Pete, wake up, of course it wasn’t going to make the front page. You know what it’s like now. The Kings sick, he runs the front page, until his spell passes the only article getting you on the front page is a story about Seagrave.’

  ‘Providing it’s a positive one,’ he said.

  She stubbed out her cigarette and gave Pete a look, daring him to keep pushing, to test her patience. ‘I’ve booked you on the Middle District Express at five o’clock first thing tomorrow morning, here’s the details. He’s expecting you there for seven, so make sure you get the train.’

  The compounds directive included an etiquette instruction titled, When in the Presence of a Lord.

  ‘Pete, this will be a front-page story if you wing it, don’t press his buttons. He’ll try push yours, don’t let him, understand? This will make your career.’ She took another of the cigarettes from the box.

  He folded over the directions, scribed the note. ‘Do you have an envelope?’

  She opened another drawer, handed one over. ‘Here, how’s Rachel?’

  Pete took the paper, noting the change in her tone. ‘She’s good, I’ve not had a chance to see her this week.’

  ‘You know Pete, if you need more time off, after this story, you can take it.’

  He looked down at the note he’d written and felt a sickness in his throat. ‘Can I use your seal? I’m out of wax.’

  She tossed the wax over. Pete sealed the envelope then handed it over.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pete,’ she said to his back as he left her office.

  IV

  Pete O’Halloran’s train entered the station of the Seagrave compound. They must have missed a few stops along the way, he thought to himself, suddenly aware of how wet his armpits had made his clean white shirt. He gave the jotted questions in his notebook a final check. They looked illegible, his already awful handwriting subjected to sudden jolts of the train made worse from the nerve endings firing off around his body, but at least the words would be tough to read over his shoulder.

  He stood in the carriage, queued behind other Middles dressed as though they also faced life or death in their Sunday bests. Greek columns cast from a black marble separated the many platforms like tombstones. The ceiling displayed an impressive girder network of steel beams bent together as though trapped inside the chest of a gigantic beast.

  Pete shuffled behind the other passengers. A mixture of hats, bowlers, wide bells, John Bulls, high tops and flat caps turned together on a near perfect axis as they stared up at boards striped with the word Delayed. Some men had blackened faces, while others hid behind forests of facial hair. The woman among them appeared the most relaxed.

  Between a group of miners discussing their shift in a strong drawl of a Lowers accent was a well-dressed older fellow in a black suit, and red tie. He wore no hat, which in a crowd of mostly gentlemen was odd. In his hands shook a blackboard with the name Peter O’Halloran written in chalk; Pete swallowed hard with the little salvia he had in his mouth and weighed up his options.

  He looked up at the delayed departures and sighed. It was customary not to post the exact time of a delayed train, especially if it meant waiting lon
ger than one was prepared to wait. He could wait, he knew the old man didn’t know his face, his attire or even exactly what train he’d come in on. There was no way Lucian would know he lived in Bankhurst District, not a chance. But if he left, he realised, he would have to kiss any chance of a Pulitzer goodbye. Head back home to articles large enough to cut out and slip inside your wallet to show your old dear.

  Four miners waddled past Pete, their faces jet black, having finished a shift. None of the gents shared any chit chat. A smile would feel foreign on their glum faces.

  As they boarded themselves into packed-out monorails, bound to the various levels of the compounds living quarters, a sadness bubbled up inside of Pete like a thick tasteless soup. The people deserved to know what had been going on in these mines and even if the Gazette did print his rumours on page five, after this interview, it would to be a front-page story, he decided while biting his finger nail.

  The monorail pulled away sharply as though frustrated by its task and irritated by its crammed-in cargo. Pete glanced back at the departure screen, closed his eyes and waved at the old man holding the chalkboard.

  They continued along a sleek corridor, poorly lit, surprising Pete thought, considering the many paintings lining the walls, some of which held great detail, all lost in the shroud of darkness. A large black gloss double door ahead with a thick gap between each side let in a chilling draft, Pete buttoned the remainder of his overcoat. A smell of burning wood caught his attention in the chilling draft.

  The old man stopped a few feet from the large door, turned and slide across a smaller side doorway, tucked between two thin marble pillars, the man produced a key and unlocked another door which the slide one had been concealing. Only an Upper would have a door for a door, Pete decided.

  Inside was a square space no larger than Pete’s office store cupboard. Light came from opaque pearl ceiling panels. Gold and silver murals decorated the rooms walls with a scene from a tale only taught to the Uppers. He’d seen it before though, in some black and white photograph. The room smelt mechanical.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said the older gentleman, whom earlier introduced himself as Sidney. ‘This is an elevator, have you been inside one at all?’