Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

‘Well, it’s up to you.’ The man moved back a portion of the curtain to let some light in. ‘You know it’s better to let the light come in gradually so your eyes adjust.’

  Tabitha wrapped both of her arms around her chest.

  The man passed her a blanket. ‘There, I certainly hope the Royal fools treated you with respect. I heard what had happened to you.’

  ‘I was attacked.’

  ‘I know.’

  Finally, she thought, an understanding tone. ‘I did what I had to.’ She began crying.

  The man leant slightly forward. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Tabitha asked cautiously, pushing further back in her seat, compressing the cushion she readied her flinching muscles to register the comfort.

  ‘How rude of me, I’ve not made an introduction. I seem to be doing a lot of those recently, most people in the City know who I am–’

  ‘I’m not from here.’

  ‘Yes, I know. My name’s Lord Lucian Augustus Seagrave, at your service.’ He waited for a reaction, but nothing came as Tabitha held the silence.

  She eventually leant forward and said, ‘Where’s my friend, Baxter? Do you have him?’

  ‘Yes, we do. Well, we don’t have him. He’s working for me. Lots has changed since your incarceration.’

  Tabitha gasped. ‘Can I see him? Are we going there now?’ The excitement sent her into a coughing fit.

  Lucian sat back and crossed one leg over the other. ‘He and I have become good friends. You see, Miss Parkin, he told me about why you both came here from the Moor, about what happened on the train and the stress you’ve been under. It sounds overwhelming.’

  Tabitha went to speak, but her voice choked with tears. ‘It’s not been good.’

  Lucian placed his hand on her knee. ‘I know. Do you want to go home?’

  ‘I do.’ She nodded with depth, ‘I miss my family.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Lucian reached in his top pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and handed it over.

  ‘Thank you.’ She wiped her eyes and nose on the non-absorbent silk.

  Lucian offered a watery smile and kept his distance. ‘Baxter told me to inform you he’ll be okay now, without your help. He asked me to give you this.’ He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘You’ll see there’s enough money, together with an air ticket, for you to get back to your family. I think the next scheduled flight out to the Moor leaves in two days’ time.’

  ‘I see,’ Tabitha said, counting the pound notes in the envelope.

  ‘I’m sure your mother and siblings miss you, so go back. In time, Baxter will be in touch.’ He sat back, clasped his hands together and pulled back the curtains. ‘Oh look, we’re here.’

  He hit the roof twice and the carriage came to a stop. Lucian opened the door about to leave. He paused and looked back at her. ‘My driver here, Sidney, he’ll take you to the hotel.’

  She looked down at the money in the envelope.

  ‘Oh no, don’t worry, it’s all paid for.’

  She tucked the money in the inside of her tunic. ‘As I have two days, will I have enough time to see Baxter?’

  Lucian’s eyebrows met, scrunching up his forehead’s furrows. ‘I will tell him where you are. The hotel has a tele-message system for sending corro letters, and so does Baxter. I’ll get him to get in touch.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Lucian.’ She bowed the top half of her body, awkwardly unaware of the protocol.

  Lucian laughed and slammed the carriage door shut.

  III

  Captain Madeline Barknuckle stomped her way back to her quarters through the upper platform. Along the way, she heard the whispers of the other officers as she passed groups of them congregated together in a pattern, forming their own little covens. She scowled at each cluster, knowing exactly what they’d been saying about her. The barrack room was decorated as minimally as an air Captain’s chambers permitted. Maps were rolled up, supporting one another against walls, tables and chairs. They had a home, next to the wardrobe housed her airworthy outfits. Next to it was her armoury with its glass panels, then the jewel of all she owned.

  The model of the Gypsy Moth, made by Shanks as a gift for her captaincy, was the centre point in the large open-plan flat. She stormed past it, knocking it with her elbow, it fell and cracked into two pieces. She stopped and didn’t turn around. A thickness appeared in her throat. She eventually spun back to the broken model. Placing it on the side, she hurried around searching for some wood glue. She found it in the cupboard, the lid had sealed shut to the tube. She got out a kitchen knife and held the glue tube to a cutting board. The knife slid off the top and sliced the tip of her finger. Blood pearled out of the cut. She grabbed a towel, wrapped it around and collapsed in her chair. Closing her eyes, she felt the heat behind them intensify, bursting tears down her face. Her body shook. How did Paul know?

  There was a knock at the door. Paul? She hurried about trying to hide the bits of the broken model ship. ‘Just a minute.’

  She straightened her attire and opened the door. Lucian stood with both hands clasped together. Madeline jumped at the sight of him. ‘What are you, my Lord, what are you, doing…’ She looked past him to see if anyone else was in tow. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Yes, good question, Captain. May I come in? This hallway has a frightful draft.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice obtaining a pitch two octaves higher than normal. ‘Please come right in.’

  He walked past her, his scent never once smelling any less than assured and manly. ‘Would you like… tea, my Lord?’

  ‘No, thank you, Madeline.’

  First name terms? Perhaps he’d heard Paul and was here to fire her, or worse?

  ‘Beg my intrusion to your highly earned leave.’

  ‘It’s not a problem, my Lord.’

  ‘It’s just I have a bit of an issue with the boy you brought me.’

  ‘Baxter Nightingale? What kind of problem?’

  Lucian looked down at Madeline’s finger. ‘What happened there?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing. I was trying to open the glue tube to fix my model of the Moth.’

  ‘You have a model of the ship?’ Lucian asked, whirling his head around trying to find it.

  ‘It’s here.’ She handed him both pieces she’d hidden behind the armchair.

  ‘Well I never.’ Lucian studied both pieces. ‘Who made it?’

  ‘First Officer Shanks, sir.’

  ‘Well, what a talent. You realise you shouldn’t have told me, I’ll have him come and work for me.’

  ‘You have much need for model builders?’

  Lucian didn’t laugh and maintained his study of the model. ‘It’s only a question of scale, Captain.’

  Madeline changed the subject. ‘Baxter Nightingale, my Lord?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said coming away from the model. ‘His companion, Tabitha Parkin. I want her followed and all activity reported back to me.’

  Madeline stuttered. ‘You, want the Moth to follow a girl?’

  Lucian placed the model back on the display cabinet. ‘No, Captain, just you. I want you to keep a close eye on her.’

  Madeleine broke eye contact from him and looked around the room. ‘But I have already made plans for my leave, sir–’

  ‘You’ll be reimbursed. It’s just two days. I want to make sure she leaves the city.’

  There was a silence held between them. Lucian stepped forward and placed both his hands on her shoulders. They were warm and had a care behind them she knew many would never get to feel.

  ‘Please, Captain, this isn’t an order as it breaks protocol, and will have to be our secret. Sidney is with her now and keeping an eye until the morrow, which means you will still be able to come to the ball this evening.’

  Outside her window, a zeppelin buzzed past blocking the remaining daylight. Even in the darkness, the glow of Lucian’s eyes remained.

  ‘I see. Wher
e is she staying?’

  ‘I shall tell you after.’ His tone changed.

  ‘After what, my Lord?’ She knew what was coming; it was the duty she had hoped he’d order for her. How she longed for it, and for him.

  IV

  After Lucian had left with his so-called non-orders, Madeline changed into her weekend leave attire. Heading out back to the Deli district, too many of the so-called gentlemen tipped their hats to her. She knew what they wanted. She had looked back enough after passing each of them to see what they were more focused on. Her only solace was to catch the dance at Lucian’s request later that night. The orange hue of the city’s gaslights cloaked the darkness under the clouds. How she longed to be high above them all, enough to enjoy the twilight – rather than waltzed around some ballroom with the type of so-called gentlemen bored her tremendously. At least she’d get to see Lucian again. Perhaps this time they would have a conversation together among her peers, rather than an exchange of nods. What’s the point in being the best, if you couldn’t revel in it?

  The bridge to the gallows was always busy on a Saturday night. She pulled out her gold pocket watch, half an hour until the plunge. How she did enjoy a good hanging. Below the railing of the bridge was the wooden cart holding the prisoner. On the sides, drunken guards held on to it, singing the usual songs as the horse carted the criminal up the street heading to their fate. There were cries of the women as they threw their rotten food down. ‘Murderer!’ she heard them say. ‘Frigid wife!’ She didn’t know who the person was. She never read the papers, partly as she knew who fabricated most of the content. The only truth she’d ever known was the sky and how she wished to be its mistress once more.

  Having spent the last few days with her father was an interesting experience to contemplate. Difficult memories, nothing ever changed there, she thought, as she rubbed the only present he’d ever given her as a child. The scar was unnoticeable to people, even the occasional lover who showed her more than a substantial interest had never noticed it. Time had ceased its existence. Pity it couldn’t take away the memory of what he did to her. She knew, as much as she hated to admit it, she’d have never got as far as she did if he’d never done those things. They made her stronger than the other girls. Her will for adventure and the freedom they gave, the thought of him being sent away again eased her anxiety. She wondered if she’d ever tell Lucian of her past, of what her father did. She shook her head before her thoughts ran away with themselves; they tended to do so when she wasn’t airborne. The answers to those questions belonged in the realms of fantasy.

  As she continued up the gangway, more people gathered together for the evening’s spectacle. Beside her, men hedged bets on how the criminal would go, seconds or minutes? She remembered when a man’s head ripped clean off. It certainly gave the crowd something to shout about.

  The corridor grew dark with echoes from tapping boots. The room finally opened in front of her. Domed walls to the central plinth. There, stood tall and wide was the hooded hangman, surrounded by a sea of black hats. The gallows looked worn, not replaced in the hundred or so years since the ancient Queen of Britannia had ordered all hangings made public. She knew, as did most, such orders of life and death didn’t come from the Royals, they came from the people, the most bloodthirsty horde of them all. Beyond, in the distance, behind several rows of people. The cart’s wheels squeaked; some of the folk sang songs, their tunes entwined sounded like a duet between a dog and cat. The cart was lustred in tomato juice and stale cabbage. Directed by Royal guards, out of the barred cart and led up the platform was the hooded figure. Goggles were applied to faces around Madeline for a zoomed-in feast to satisfy the mob’s bloodthirsty irises. She didn’t have hers, the Captain’s bronze telescope sat wedged under her bra strap. A man next to her copped an enhanced zoom down her top, and was met swiftly with the backside of a leather glove and hard stamp of eastern steel heel on his toe. The man’s howls in pain were wasted on a mob annoyed by whines, many looked back, rolled their eyes and tutted while Madeline adjusted her telescope to get a better look at the criminal. The hangman held up his arms and shouted, ‘Caps off!’

  Top hats dominoed toward the gallows, and the crowd silenced.

  The executioner called out the crimes. ‘Here stands the criminal Becky Fallon, killer of her own husband after denying him his rights as her master. She had attempted to take her own life. Failing miserably, was caught and tried, and now here she stands before God to be taken back to him and his judgement, may he have mercy on her soul.’

  A light glow reflected off the hangman’s iron mask in a sheen of slivery light. Madeline spotted it; unusual. She tracked the glow up to the rafters. Then she saw it, a prowling figure scaling the outer section of the dome. Slowly, it gained ground with elusive movements suggested it did not wish detection.

  Back at the gallons, the hangman tightened the noose hard enough around the woman’s neck for the crack to echo through the dome’s interior, and the mob gasped.

  Above them the figure continued its stalk to the peak, motioning in a movement neither rushed nor nervous, but calm, calculated and steady. It stopped at the centre, the glass of the dome was too soiled for Madeline to get a confirmation. Was it a Middle conducting a late night clean? Or perhaps a stranded plonk having cut loose from their crew over some airworthy dispute? Whatever it was, thought Madeline, it awaited a cue, a signal of some kind. She dared not risk waiting, and cocked both of her pistols ready for a gun battle.

  The hangman removed the prisoner’s hood. Underneath the face of the woman trembled, bright red, damp, eyes bulging from their sockets, her body shaking violently aware of her impending fate.

  V

  Gunfire erupted around the outer edge of the dome. At first the crowd stood still; then there were screams coming from the back, the air turned stale and the mob ran for the exits. Confused, they screamed; two women fell over each other, which tripped a large group over, some hit the deck and covered their heads. The compressed bodies of the distressed gave a clear view to the stage. Was it a Brotherhood attack? Madeline looked up. The glass had smashed a hole, and the shards twinkled as they rained down around the hangman. She took cover behind a large trembling gentleman who had curled up into a ball and watched as the hangman held up a pistol to the shattered dome, emptying its chamber at the opening to the city’s darkness. Amidst the gunfire a rope relayed down to the deck of the gallows. Gunfire again, this time from the crack; the figure shot the hangman, sending him into the crowds. Two guards scrambled to the platform, and both opened fire. The figure flashed backward and forwards from different sections; each gunshot a strike. One bullet clattered down and hit a guard in his head, knocking him clean from the platform like a precision shot on a skittle. Madeline clambered over the large gentlemen’s back and pressed forward. The woman at the gallows had her eyes clenched as the confusion around her took over, she fell prone, her body stiff with fear. The last guard stood fast beside her, issuing some degree of what might be hope. ‘Cut yourself free, miss.’ The guard handed the woman a knife. ‘Quickly, miss.’

  ‘Get down from there!’ Madeline shouted, but her bellow was in vain, three bullets hit his shoulder, chest and head, knocking the guard off the deck and back into the panicked crowd. Madeline switched her eyes to the crack, whomever this person was, they’d rival her at the range.

  Then the figure appeared. He’d clipped himself to the rope and slid down as rapid as deadly nightshade. Cloaked in black, it flared outward like a bat descending on a mouse. Madeline took aim and fired; she missed as the rescuer hit the deck, sliced the noose and grabbed the woman. A bullet from another location cut his hood, missing his head by inches and setting free a mane of blonde hair. Madeleine hurried at her bullets, fumbling to load them. The woman ripped at the rescuer’s shirt in her erratic state, revealing a faded tattoo of eastern heritage. Madeline sneaked closer. ‘Freeze,’ she shouted. ‘Brotherhood scum!’

  The man smiled, unfazed by the cha
llenge. ‘Nice pistols.’ His voice was deep and purposeful, and with a half smile his rope suddenly ascended. She heard him say something which sounded like, ‘Hang on,’ and the pair retracted back to the crack.

  As she watched their getaway, Madeline panted. Adrenaline swarmed her heart as it raced with jealously.

  CHAPTER 19

  Baxter lay on his newly allotted bed. He gripped the sheets wishing to forget Lucians words, cast them as lies, but in his heart, Baxter knew the words were true and that they explained everything.

  Baxter ripped away from the starched sheets and at pace flung out on to the terrace. The stench of soot hit him hard in the face. Factory flames scorched polluted air, creating black tombstones of smoke, their formation like dark worshipers gathered around the new waxing moon. Baxter clung to masonry separating him from the inferno, stretched skin burning from the factories’ heat while bitter memories raided his mind, projecting their mirages, he remembered feeling hopeful when reaching out to his father.

  Slouching his way back to the room, Baxter closed the balcony doors, locking them gently as the newfound knowledge of his father’s blunder took form in his heart.

  Baxter’s reflection interrupted the journey back to the bed. He had the man’s nose; his eyes and black hair hung down lifeless. The blurred memory of his mother, her face smeared; yet in his veins, he felt her. The feeling was warm and forgiving, wanting to act kindly upon his father. He walked closer to the mirror, to see if his mother might look back.

  Knocks at the door attempted to hammer their way in. Baxter ignored them. They repeated. He motioned to open it, but hesitated, wiping away tears. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Lucian. May I come in?’

  ‘I’m not decent.’ Baxter palmed the damp from his cheeks.

  ‘None of us ever are,’ Lucian replied.

  ‘Can you come back in–’

  ‘–I know you’re upset about everything,’ Lucian interrupted. ‘It’s understandable to feel as you do.’