Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  He fumbled about the gravel, found the frames and put them on. Pixie had vanished.

  Hans unsheathed his pistol and fired it in the air. ‘Halt! Kidnapper!’ The shot sent the crowd into a crazed panic; they knocked into each other, and shopping bags burst open causing a downpour of ladies’ knickers. Hans leapt through the shower of pinks, blues and yellows, crushing several humbugs under his boots.

  The kidnapper darted in and out of the mob with great dexterity. Hans kept his pistol high, ‘I’m a member of the King’s Royal Constabulary so stop, stop at once!’ The figure evaded him, crashing into pots, sending a group of women to the floor. Hans took aim, but struggled to lock on to the weaving target. ‘Dammit, too many people.’ He rammed his pistol back in his trouser and sped after them. He jumped over the flowerpots; to the left was a ledge and he scaled it to find easy access to the rooftops. He gained ground on the kidnapper and jumped, his legs spread over wide-mouthed Middles astonished at the hurdle. With a thump and a crack, Hans landed directly on top of him. Pixie rolled out of the criminal’s arms, and getting up she hid behind Hans. He grabbed the cloak and pulled it back.

  ‘A girl?’ no more a teenager, with twinkling bright white hair.

  She’d hit her head hard from the impact but was still conscious. Her eyes rolled around in their sockets. She looked at Hans, then at Pixie, fixing a bitter glare at her; lips thinned, her eyes tamed to a point of burning anger, then the bloodied mouth opened.

  ‘qui autem blasphemaverit in Spiritum Sanctum non habet remissionem in aeternum sed reus erit aeterni delicti.’

  The Mother’s tongue, Hans thought, he recognised some of the garbled words, words drilled deep into him, blasphemy and sin.

  The kidnapper’s head rolled backward, eyes open as she let out a string of gasps. The blood in her mouth foamed and bubbled on her lip.

  ‘No.’ Hans dug his fingers in her mouth, trying to open her locked jaw. ‘Poison?’

  Two tinned guards came clanging over.

  ‘Stand up!’ one of them shouted.

  ‘I’m an inspector with the Royal order. Help me, quick, both of you strengthen her legs.’

  The young girl began to shake. Pixie hid behind Hans as each guard took hold of the kidnapper’s legs and straightened them.

  ‘What is it?’ one of the guards quivered. ‘Why is she shaking?’

  ‘It’s poison,’ said Hans, ‘she’s trying to kill herself,’ He forced his fingers deep inside her mouth. Her body curved up, tensed like an enraged wolf and collapsed.

  ‘Dammit, it’s no use,’ Hans said, taking off his hat.

  Both guards looked at each other at a loss.

  ‘Get these people back,’ Hans said, cleaning his hand of foam. ‘and cordon off the area.’

  ‘What’s happened to her?’ the smaller of the two guards said. ‘Shall we take her to the district infirmary?’

  ‘There won’t be any need,’ Hans replied. ‘She’s dead.’

  The guard gulped. ‘Very well, sir, I’m sorry she...’

  ‘Thank you, now please, these people.’

  Hans could feel Pixie shaking behind him, her little hands clasped to his coat. ‘What did she say, Pixie?’ He knelt down and met her eyes, tried to calm her, taking some deep breaths to also try and calm himself. ‘What did she say?’

  Pixie’s eyes swelled, tears quick to stream. He pulled her in and held her tight.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ His own tears had escaped. He grabbed the dead kidnapper’s blue cloak and laid it over her body. Looking at all the people gathered around them, Hans shouted, ‘It’s ok, nothing to see, go about your business.’

  ‘You heard the man. Move along, citizens.’ Repeated a guard.

  Hans’ limbs felt as though they’d suddenly lost all their blood, his stomach gripped his spine.

  He lifted the cloak back from the kidnappers’ face and moved her head to one side. A thin golden chain with a pendulum hanging from it fell from a crease in her neck. He wiped away tears to give a clear enough focus for inspection, a pyramid shape with an oval eye in the centre. In the village, inside Pixie’s home, he’d seen the same symbol. He crushed the pendant in his gloved hand hard enough for the edges to cut the leather and scratch the surface of his scarred skin, there was pain, but he couldn’t feel it.

  CHAPTER 14

  The day’s clientele were plonks, who for the most part were always well-mannered and treated the girls with respect. Some of the ladies who arrived seeking the company of other ladies were far naughtier than the men. Fina never grew tired of listening to her girls break the seal of prostitute confidentiality. Delicate subtleties from caring hands beat the daily rope burns and deck scrubbing splinters no matter what side of the bed you folded your uniform.

  Fina swept the floor, her jewellery on both arms jangled, each finger had three rings; all the ones she owned. It had been one of those days, and seeing Nicholas Nightingale had brought it all back.

  She put the brush away and returned to her bedroom, earnestly proceeding with the ring removal ritual. Her left hand held all the gold bands and the right, all the silver; they were the first to come off. As she replaced each in her counter box, the candlelight reflecting off the surface of the stones twinkled with gypsy’s magic. She studied the details with touch, not a fumbling, she took her time; as much a pleasure to remove them as they were to wear. The final ring featured a frictionless stone cut to a hexagon; it was small but broad enough to live at the bottom of her pinkie. As she pressed hard upon it, the sharp corner pinched a reminder she was still alive. The ring was cast in rose gold, with an emerald in the centre. Straightforward and typical of a ring picked by a man. The first to be placed on and the last removed. She rubbed it, the metal was smooth and the emerald, his colour, set with a slight imperfect raise at the back. She took it off and held it level, creating a galaxy of colour. She put it back in the box, closed the lid and extinguished the candles. As each went out, the light in the room diminished to silhouettes and shadow.

  II

  Stood in the corner, unbeknown to Fina, was Nicholas Nightingale. He’d spent the last hour hidden behind her parlour curtain as Fina finished preparing for slumber, watching her glide about the room in Lower-class beauty, the kind you find in women having had a hard life but have transferred those experiences to building blocks of who they are, making their beauty radiate from within. Every step was one filled with pride as she cleaned her home. Treading out from the shadow, Nicholas whispered, ‘Fina.’

  ‘Oh, my! Nicholas! What on Terra! You devil, hiding in my home!’ She grabbed the nearest lantern and ignited it.

  ‘Apologies, dearest,’ he said, bowing his head, pretending to be a gentleman. ‘I need to get to the city, but I’m having a bit of trouble.’

  Fina became a blaze of uncharted movement. Nicholas followed her, gripped both shoulders.

  ‘No,’ said Fina, breaking away from him. ‘I’m not helping you, not after your last exploit.’

  Disdain at the recollected memory of his failure in France radiated from her. Nicholas felt it turn the mood of the room thicker than cake but there was a weakness in her voice, the doubt laced tightly around the regret: he knew she’d help him. ‘A long time ago, we were young and foolish.’

  She pivoted. ‘If I had a gun, I’d shoot you.’

  ‘Use mine if you like.’ He cocked it, stuffed its cold steel in her palm, and pressed his heart against the tip of the barrel.

  She licked her top lip.

  ‘It’s loaded,’ he said, waiting for her next move.

  She trembled behind the grip.

  ‘You lack the courage of your convictions, Madam.’

  ‘Hollow hearts shatter, you mock me now?’

  ‘I’ve never been more earnest.’ Her finger twitched on the trigger. Everything he’d done to her, leaving, not saying goodbye, the kiss, the bastards kiss – it all pushed behind it.

  ‘If the gun fails,’ he said, ‘you’ll have those lips, they’ve p
oisoned me in the past.’

  ‘They lacked potency.’ She gave him a crafty grin.

  ‘Pity.’ He touched her lip. ‘Next time?’

  ‘There won’t be a next time, Nightingale.’ She pulled the trigger, releasing the hammer to an empty chamber. ‘Courage, only men with hearts have such a thing.’

  He snatched the pistol from her and buttoned his shirt. ‘What if it were loaded? You’d have a dead Nightingale on your hands.’

  ‘You think my girls have never had to clean up after my handy work?’

  ‘Fina, listen,’ he commanded. ‘I’ve been followed here. The man who ordered the attack on our village he was at the train station, one of Seagraves thugs, but something strange happened.’

  ‘And you ask me for help. Always with you, Nicholas, it’s favour for this, favour for something else. I am just about done with you. Please leave.’

  He ignored her. ‘An airship coming to dock dropped incredibly low and a woman, some type of acrobat, performed this death defining leap from the ship, swung down and picked him up.’ Nicholas swung his hands around in an attempt to mimic what he’d witnessed. He staggered over to the dresser, his left leg damaged somewhere, he ignored it and fixed a drink. ‘Nightcap?’

  ‘Presumptuous as always.’

  His eyes glazed. ‘Drink, Fina?’

  ‘Yes, a vodka martini please, but light on the vodka. You’re not sharing one with your brother.’

  Nicholas gave her a sad smile, trying to hide the pain the comment carried. There was some level of remaining swagger in his anxious ensemble of masculinity, but he did well to hide his upset. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why would Seagrave protect the man?’

  ‘How old was he?’ she asked, taking the freshly poured drink from his hand.

  ‘Fifties, I would say. He had long dirty grey hair, thinning underneath.’

  ‘Perhaps he was Lucian’s top dog, I hear a lot of his agent provocateurs tend to be older.’ She took a swig of the drink, perfectly mixed as always. She tilted her head at him. ‘More trusting and less likely to be bribed off the job.’

  ‘Clever.’ Nicholas held up his glass. ‘Cheers.’

  Their glasses met and Fina walked a little further away from him, sitting on the edge of her bed. ‘Sounds to me she was rescuing her lover. You realise he won’t care, he’s trying to kill your brother. He knows if either of you ever enter the city again and get recognised, the King will have you hanging from the end of a tiny rope?’

  Nicholas, straight-faced, replied, ‘Our mutual friends wouldn’t allow for such a dull affair.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Nicholas? The smell of horse manure got to you at last?’ She lit a cigarette. ‘Funny, I’d thought you’d at least dress the part of a Moorlander, especially coming here.’

  He took a swig of his drink. ‘I’m a city gent at heart.’

  She let out a cloud of smoke. ‘You’re no gentleman, Nicholas. Gentlemen keep true to their word.’

  ‘What word?’

  She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘The word you gave me.’

  ‘I never gave such a thing, least of all to you, Fina.’

  ‘So, you have given your word! Who is she? Tell me so I might know her – steal this word for myself and perhaps you’ll come back for it.’

  There was a long silence as he walked across the floor and put down his glass. ‘I won’t be coming back, although I...’ He paused, the next words waiting behind his lips failing to form, their weight too much to utter.

  Fina stood from the chair, her hand reached out, a gesture she’d also been trying to resist. ‘What is it, Nicholas? Just say it.’

  ‘I can’t.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘I’ve failed her, Fina.’

  She’d reached the cotton texture of his shirt, but he was quick, lighting quick as she remembered, escaping her affections. ‘Who?’ she asked.

  ‘Beatrice.’

  ‘Beatrice?’

  ‘On the night of the accident, I’d stayed at their side. Baxter was with the nurses, and Alfred, he was in a sleep the doctors said held little chance of him waking, one of them said I should prepare for the worst. And the doctors were right. I lost my brother back then, he’s never returned from his train wreck.’

  Fina knew her ears might be the first to hear the words he spoke. She sat back down and calmed her voice. ‘And Beatrice? You said you failed her.’

  ‘Yes,’ he sobbed, ‘she awoke in the night, calling out to him.’

  Fina started to cry. ‘Oh, my, my dear Nicholas.’

  He moved away from her. ‘I’ll never forget it, Fina. Beatrice opening her burnt eyelids, seeing they’d taken Alfred’s arm. She looked at me and said the words which will haunt me to my grave.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She asked me about Baxter. Then she asked me about Alfred, she said...’

  There was another pause, this one longer. The air around them had changed and Fina felt as though her eyes hadn’t blinked. ‘It’s okay. You can tell me, Nicholas.’

  He smiled, he always smiled, but this one Fina doubted she’d ever see again. ‘She said "I’m so happy you’re here, Nicholas. Take care of them for me." Those were her final wishes, put simply, I be a brother and I be an uncle. The only word I’ve ever kept true, until now. Now I’ve failed her and I’m so sorry Fina, I’m so, so sorry.’ He broke down to his knees and she came to him like a hurricane.

  She remembered Beatrice, so tall and elegant. How public her and Alfred’s love, how she’d appear on the front of the newspapers, behaving brazen as ever in front of the cameras. But Nicholas was always alone; an empty space next to a pillar of machismo, as big as the universe, and how Fina longed to have filled it.

  ‘I need to get in the City,’ said Nicholas. ‘Alfred is going to do something terrible, it will jeopardise everything we’ve worked for, and I must stop him. Is there nobody you know who’s familiar with the tunnels? Anyone at all?’

  III

  The guide belched and a ghastly echo sounded through the tunnel, insulting both of Nicholas’ ears. He struggled to believe this heathen of a man knew his way around the back of his knees, let alone the tunnels to the City, but what choice did he have?

  Once they were in the tunnel the guide slowed the pace he’d maintained through Gateshead’s dank back alleys. Nicholas in careful study noticed a change in the man. He didn’t think it was because of the rotten water he now found himself wadding through shin deep, he suspected the man enjoyed the filth; the guide seemed to behave like he’d decided at the last minute to take another route, nor was this due to malice, Nicholas heard a care in his voice and was especially convinced when he addressed him of a change in direction, the man followed up with a please sir that was neither forced nor out of character: the guide truly meant his manners. He was careful and considerate in the location of deep holes and large stone masonry hidden under the rancid gloomy waters. To Nicholas’ surprise he appeared thick with the knowledge of the city wall tunnels.

  Nicholas continued to follow his guide as the light slowly vanished. He swiped a finger across a shiny wall and collected a blob of wet algae. Had the tunnels suffered a deep flood? Or were they beneath a city reservoir or water way? Above them, and between the splashing of their boots, Nicholas heard distant machinery which after a while was replaced by the echoes of their footsteps against solid stone slabs.

  The darkness was now complete and Nicholas felt wooden doors as he passed them, made from wood and iron buckles which judging by their coarse touch had long rusted. He could smell the putrid again, then he realised with disguised surety the tunnel he’d just walked was a sewer, disused, rat-less thanks to poisons he’d already identified but nonetheless as rotten as any city sewer.

  Having spent more money on tailors than hot meals, striding through the city’s sewers wasn’t the first choice, but then what other options were there? If he were to find his brother this would be the second-best place to start looking, after every one of the cit
y’s Absinthe bars...would Alfred be so foolish? The addiction made you behave in the strangest of ways, including running the risk of having yourself hanged for the sake of quenching it. He hoped his brother’s hunger for vengeance outweighed his thirst for a drink.

  ‘How much further, sir?’ Nicholas asked the bald, featureless head in front of him.

  ‘Almost there.’

  Had Nicholas come across this man in the Moor, he’d easily mistaken him for a Rabid. He worried what the man might do if they were to lose their way. If his appetite bowed cannibalistic, it would end up being the healthiest meat the thug had ever tasted...pity the same could not be said for the reverse. Still, always the odd rock to lick, mud to chew and dead rat floating about to feast upon. Nicholas wondered why his thoughts took him to such strange places.

  Ahead a light cleared from haze to a yellow point. The guide mumbled a few words to Nicholas; something about walking straight, a big hole and where to buy a mask. Nicholas paid enough attention to the last bit at a good enough distance to avoid the smell of raw shit teeming from one of the guide’s rotting tusk like teeth. He said something sounding like good luck and walked back into the tunnel.

  Nicholas’ left leg plunged thigh-deep in a hole of freezing water. As the splash echoed down the tunnel, the crooked man’s laugh echoed back. Nicholas smiled hard at it.

  IV

  Outside the tunnel, Nicholas emptied his pistol of sewage water onto a patch of weltered grass. Citizens covered equally head to toe in dirt, ignored him in a strange zombielike manner. For a spilt moment Nicholas thought he’d arrived at a Rabid camp, but shortly realised he was amongst the Machine City Lowers.

  Nearby, a pen of pigs oinked away to each other. A man sat on a stool, asleep, with his back to the wooden shack. Chickens ran about in their pen, smashed eggs on the floor with dead chicks, their bodies trampled into the ground.

  ‘Alfred would’ve loved it here,’ Nicholas said to himself.