Kellie ended his conversation with the other sevener and paced slowly to the counter where he gazed absently over the line of people. He leaned towards the officer who was at the desk, speaking quietly into his ear. The younger man nodded, gave the briefest of glances towards Robb and then walked away from the counter so that Kellie could take his place.
“Next,” his deep voice rumbled.
Robb stepped forwards offering his ID card, the note pressed firmly underneath. “I think you need to see this,” he said quietly.
Kellie took the card and turned it over. He stared at the picture and then scanned the barcode, watching the pre-cons roll down his screen. “You’re a little early this year,” he said then took a clipboard from beneath the counter and scanned down a list of names, marking a box alongside Robbert Calloway.
“Thankyou.” He limped out of the building and down the steep, stone steps. He hadn’t believed in God for many years but as he left, Robb offered up a silent prayer that Kellie was still one of the good guys.
Chapter 28
“Okay, we’ve got camera, adapter, battery pack,” Brynne tapped them off one at a time like he was checking a shopping list. “Go on then, let’s see how it looks.”
Ryan fastened his coat and tried to stand naturally, despite the very unnatural feel of a bulky battery pack wedged into his waist band. “Does it show?” he said, craning his head to look down.
“No. You’re good to go. I’ll ride with you as far as the factories, but then you’re on your own I’m afraid. My face is on too many watch-lists.”
“Okay.”
“Remember, we want footage of the gunnermen mistreating workers. But don’t go overboard. The last thing I want is you getting arrested.”
They backtracked to the Trade District of Straybeck and joined the overground there. For most of the journey they travelled in silence along with half a dozen other commuters. They were men and women of all ages, bundled up in mismatched clothing and staring from the windows with vacant eyes. Every time he rode the trains, Ryan saw people just like them. They were the migrant poor of Straybeck and Karasard, unsuitable for work - usually addicts - who travelled to the boroughs and back again each day simply staying warm. The train rolled into a station and two of them shuffled towards the platform.
“There goes your army,” Brynne whispered. “Folk who are disillusioned and cast aside, just waiting for a cause.”
Ryan nodded, but had to wonder at the courage of someone who lived like that. It seemed like putting one foot in front of the other was enough of a challenge for them. How could they be expected to face down the gunnermen?
“Remember Ryan, a man with nothing to lose is a man without fear.”
The train rolled on, collecting a steady trickle of commuters, all making their way to Karasard. They passed through the farm lands of Kirsk and Alderton, eventually leaving the last belt of greenery behind them as they entered the outer suburbs of the capital city. Ryan gazed from the window and saw in the distance a skyline of towering chimneys that would have dwarfed the factories in Straybeck and above it all swirled an oppressive bank of smog. As the train gathered momentum, the track banked sharply downwards and they entered the underground tunnels of Karasard.
They disembarked at the heart of the Worker District and were immediately swallowed into the bustle of city life. Commuters from the other boroughs fell in alongside them at the main concourse and Ryan found himself herded towards the checkpoints. Dozens of gunnermen were waiting with scanners, dragging people at random who they felt were suspicious enough to warrant searching. Brynne put a reassuring hand on Ryan’s elbow.
“Get your card ready lad. Look them in the eyes.”
The sevener at the gate wasn’t interested though and scanned him through with barely a glance. Ryan stepped into the vast arena of Central Station and sighed with relief. Around him were hundreds of people all rushing to the next destination, each focused on their own tasks. The sheer numbers alone would act like camouflage for him.
A queue had formed at the nearest food cart and the smell of grilled meat gave the air a sweet tang of flavour. Ryan scanned the faces of those around him and found that they were mostly local workers. Karasard men had a style all of their own, with thick padded shirts buttoned to the chin and faces always kept clear of stubble. Mixed in amongst them were the immigrant workers from the large Midland states of Trove and Willensbrough. They were easy to spot from their dark skin and loose clothes. The women never cut their hair and kept them in long plaits. These were covered up with bright headscarves, which cut a stark contrast to the drab clothes worn by Karasard women.
Two men in suits strode purposefully through the crowd, an air of arrogance radiating from them that instantly made Ryan bristle. Behind them trailed a porter who was sweating and struggling to control a trolley stacked high with wooden crates. Ryan and Brynne broke step so that he could cut in front without changing path. The porter smiled gratefully but had no time to stop.
In and amongst the workers were gunnermen too, each one carrying a rifle slung across his shoulder and portable radio strapped to their chest. Ryan wondered how long it would be before these personal radios were given to the gunnermen in Straybeck too. That could make it harder to get past a roaming patrol. As he watched the crowds of people moving around him though, another more unpleasant thought occurred to him. Absolutely any of them could be an informer.
Suddenly, the hidden camera seemed ludicrously bulky and he self-consciously pulled at his coat, checking that the battery was still hidden. The movement dragged at the wire running up his back and pulled it tight which then tugged at the camera lens. Ryan fumbled with the small hole they had made in his coat and pressed the lens back into place.
“Keep your hands by your side.” The warning in Brynne’s voice was completely at odds with the easy smile he wore. “Just remember our story and act natural.”
Easier said than done. They always had a cover story for travelling to the city so that if the gunnermen stopped them, they could at least withstand cursory questions without tripping each other up. The usual script was that he was looking for work in the factories and Brynne – a family friend – was introducing him to some foremen he knew. Simple and believable.
Ryan steadied his pace and felt his arms loosen up. Up ahead he could hear the sound of a kalelo drifting through the open archway of the station. The hunched musician was twisting the most complex melodies from the four-stringed instrument, never once looking up from the pavement. Brynne flipped a copper into his hat as they moved by but didn’t pause to listen. It was only when they had cleared the station by a few streets that the old man decided it was safe to stop. He rolled a cigarette and passed it to Ryan before rolling a second.
“This is where I leave you,” he said. “My face is too well known at the factories.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Well boss, I was thinking of getting a coffee if that’s alright?” Brynne smiled. “But after that, I’ve got people to see.”
Ever since their conversation in the chapel, Ryan knew better than to press Brynne about details. If he was to prove himself as loyal, then he needed to accept without question what the old man told him. So he said his goodbyes and set off towards the Worker District. It was past midday when he crested the main road to behold dozens of huge factories standing shoulder to shoulder. Swarming through the cobbled road were thousands of workers who buzzed and chatted while waiting in the cool air. Just like Foundry Lane in Straybeck, the workers were hemmed in by a gunnerman walkway that rose twenty feet above the cobbles and stretched the entire length of the seemingly endless street.
Ryan pulled nervously at the back of his jacket, making sure the battery pack was fully concealed. He switched the camera on and then cut a path through the workers, turning his chest to their faces as he went. They were grimy and exhausted, but most were chatting in lively bursts as they chewed on the last few crusts of bread they had brought.
Some were drinking hot tea from small tin flasks and others had roll-ups hanging out the corner of their mouths. Their clothes were often torn and dirty but even so, it was hardly the stark and damning footage that Ryan had hoped for.
He moved through the crowd, suddenly feeling out of place in his clothes that had never seen a factory floor. He glanced warily up to the watch huts on the walkway. The gunnermen were all the way up there and the workers were on the street. Neither side seemed to acknowledge the other. The only link between them were the stone steps that led from the watch huts to the cobbles Ryan plonked himself down at the foot of one of these and considered his options. In front of him a group of three workers were chatting and smoking. One of them, a leather-faced veteran of the factories, looked first at Ryan and then up at the walkway.
“You new here?” he said. He didn’t wait for an answer and Ryan guessed that the blank face and clean clothes gave all the confirmation he needed. “Well I wouldn’t sit there too long, lad.”
Ryan followed his gaze up to the watch hut where two gunnermen were chatting idly. Neither one seemed to have the slightest interest in what was happening below them. “I’m not doing any harm,” he said.
The worker shrugged. “Your choice. But you’re likely to get a kick up the backside.”
Before he could respond, a series of air-horns bellowed out from the factories sending a jolt of activity through the crowd. The old worker grumbled, then took a final fierce drag on his cigarette. Like a flock of birds, the other workers migrated back to their factories and within minutes Ryan was the only one left on the street. It seemed pointless waiting there, but before he had chance to move on, he felt a sharp kick on his shoulder.
“Move.” The shout was accompanied by a second kick to the base of his spine. It connected squarely with the battery pack and the corners dug into his body.
“Hey.”
“They’re for climbing, not sitting.” The gunnerman had descended to the bottom few steps.
“You only had to ask,” Ryan said testily.
With a flash of panic he realised that the fastenings had snapped on the battery pack. He put his hand to his hip like it was hurting, but in reality it was simply to stop the camera from falling out the bottom of his jacket.
“Talk back to me again, worker, and you’ll have more than a sore back.” He dropped down a step. “I suggest you go back inside with the other shit-heels.”
Ryan swallowed his pride and walked away. He’d have to get the footage another time. If he didn’t sort the battery pack soon, it was likely to scatter to the cobbles at any moment. Only when he was level with the last factory did he chance a look back. The gunnerman was back up on the walkway and there was no one else nearby. Ryan unzipped his coat and surveyed the damage to Brynne’s camera.
“Shit,” he whispered. The entire unit had cracked apart revealing a small green circuit board and some loose wires. Ryan clamped it back together and shoved the whole thing into the waist band of his trousers. Karasard would have to wait for another day; right now he needed to get the camera back to Straybeck.
He spent the next half hour finding a new route to the station that dodged the main checkpoints. He had a general idea of where he should be heading, but when he stepped off the main roads Ryan found Karasard’s Worker District to be a twisting labyrinth of passageways and back alleys. More than once he came up against a chain-link fence or solid wall that forced him to double back and find a new route. It was a relief when at last he reached the station and fell into step with the rest of the workers. Every instinct in his body was telling Ryan to dump the camera before he went inside, but the thought of disappointing Brynne again steeled his nerves. With a knot in his stomach he joined the platform for Straybeck and prayed that the gunnermen would wave him through.
Chapter 29
Inside the munitions factory the clock on the wall said it was almost twelve. Robb folded up his ledger, placed it in the top drawer and grabbed his jacket. His desk was hidden behind a grey filing cabinet that dominated Robb’s side of the office. He enjoyed the solitude it offered, especially as most days people forgot that he was even in the office. The clock ticked slowly round, but he didn’t dare go yet. Not until the air horn had blown.
When the single blast died away, Robb pushed out of his seat and limped through the office. His co-workers momentarily broke off from their ledgers to watch him pass. “I’m going out for lunch,” he said quietly. No one answered but it was likely that one of them would make a note he had left.
Robb clanged along the high metal balcony where all the admin offices were housed. He glanced down to the shop floor and saw hundreds of workers already streaming towards the main gates. His joints were aching today and that made his descent to the bottom of the spiral staircase even harder. Eventually, when both his legs were throbbing with pain, he reached the factory floor and made his way onto the cobbles outside.
It was exactly 12:15 when he reached Karasard’s city square. Robb scanned the town hall steps but couldn’t see Kellie Downs. He crossed the wide-open space purposefully avoiding the two metal slabs that were bolted to the floor. Robb remembered the deep pits that Premier Talis had built there over thirty years ago. Hundreds of people had suffered a slow public death there. Once of them he couldn’t bear to think on and closed his eyes to the memory.
Robb clambered up the high stone steps of the town hall and had to lean against the bulging stone pillars when he finally reached the top. He was suddenly glad that the sevener hadn’t appeared yet. It would take another few minutes to bring his breathing under control and he didn’t want Kellie to see him like that. Not after all these years. The city square itself was huge and uninspiring. Robb guessed it had once been used for the markets and fayres, but those days were gone. When he was a young man, there had been marches and processions that gathered there, but now the only gathering allowed was the annual show of strength. For the past five years, on the first day of summer, Talis had filled the space with thousands of gunnermen marching in unison, flanked by row after row of gleaming army trucks and armoured cars. Crowds lined the streets in all directions to see them march past and the message it sent was crystal clear.
Today though, it was all but deserted. Two women and a man, dressed like simple clerks were heading towards a law firm at the other end of the square. In each corner Robb could see the checkpoints and a single gunnerman who guarded each one. He wondered from which direction Kellie would appear and then checked his watch. It was twenty past twelve now. Maybe he wouldn’t even come. Just then, someone coughed and he turned to see the huge policeman standing behind him. Robb smiled.
“You’re light on your feet, for a big guy.”
“You’re just getting deaf in your old age.”
They hadn’t spoken for many years and Robb was momentarily stuck for words. He offered his hand and the giant shook it with an iron grip. “It’s good to see you again, Kellie.”
“You too. But I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.” As always, the sevener was straight to business.
“I don’t know where to start really…I just need your advice.”
“You must be desperate,” he said. “What’s happened?”
“What do you know about a derelict chapel in Straybeck?”
“There are a lot of derelict chapels in Straybeck. Any particular one?”
John hadn’t been able to tell him the name of the street, just a rough location. “It’s at the edge of the Worker District. A few blocks down from Carragon Road. I can’t be more specific I’m afraid.”
Kellie blew his cheeks, weighing up the information. “Are you caught up in something?”
“I’m a bit long in the tooth for all that now.” He paused, not sure how much he should tell him. “It’s not me. But it’s someone close to me.”
Kellie nodded, his face a mask. “What is it you’re looking for?” he said.
“Anything you’ve got on the man that lives there. His name’s Bry
nne.” For a moment Robb wondered if the name had struck a chord with the sevener, but he had always been hard to read.
“Brynne?” he said. “I’ll ask around. See what I can find out. But don’t come to the station again. I’ll come to you.” He walked down the steps and paused alongside the two slabs of metal covering the pits. Just like Robb, he seemed unwilling to look down. “I’m glad you could still come to me for help.”
Robb watched him go, then he hunched his shoulders against the cold and limped back towards the factory.
Ryan had never been so relieved to see the familiar outline of Brynne’s chapel. On the return train journey from Karasard, two gunnermen had been patrolling the carriages. They demanded to see his ID card and quizzed him about where he had been. Ryan was certain they were going to search him, but they seemed satisfied with his story.
With safety just half a street away, Ryan picked up the pace and jogged towards the chapel. As he drew closer though, the distant revving of a car engine caught his attention. He stopped. It didn’t sound like the deep grumble of an army truck, but it was so unusual to see any other cars on the road, especially in this part of the city.
The sound was drawing closer and Ryan quickly darted from the road and crouched behind a low wall. The car trundled past his hiding place and parked up opposite the Chapel returning the street to silence. Ryan flattened himself against the wall but raised his head a few inches so that he could peer above the top row of bricks.
He studied the car, a dark coupe with narrow running boards. It was the type of car you’d see in Old Straybeck or taxiing around the Trade District. There was nothing particularly unusual about it, except the fact that it was here and waiting outside Brynne’s house. The driver climbed out and Ryan saw that he was in his late twenties, wearing ragged trousers and the dark, round-collared shirt of a factory worker. His jacket was old and battered and from the front seat he retrieved a black cap identical to the ones worn by so many of the workers. Ryan noted however that not many of those workers stood with such straight backs or had ever sat in a motor car.
Straybeck Rising: Calloway Blood: Book one (Calloway Blood 1) Page 16