Children of Fire

by Paul CW Beatty

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by

  The Book Guild Ltd

  9 Priory Business Park

  Wistow Road, Kibworth

  Leicestershire, LE8 0RX

  Freephone: 0800 999 2982

  www.bookguild.co.uk

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  Copyright © 2017 Paul CW Beatty

  The right of Paul CW Beatty to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with theCopyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead.

  ISBN xxx

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  To Sue for her patience, advice and tolerance, and all my friends from Writers, Inc. for listening to me read sections of Children of Fire which were far from finished.

  Contents

  1.Beginnings

  2.Mr Prestbury

  3.The Road to Long Clough

  4.The Community

  5.Theological Discourse

  6.A Sunday Sermon

  7.The Devil’s Work

  8.Confession

  9.Steven Hailsworth

  10.Inquest

  11.A Walk in the Woods

  12.Fire at Sunset

  13.Hunted

  14.Hailsworth Hall

  15.Duets

  16.Surveying the Possibilities

  17.Falling Down

  18.The Mysteries of the Art

  19.Deflagration

  20.Firelight and Memories

  21.Reserve Cru

  22.Merriman

  23.McBrinnie

  24.Ham and Pickles

  25.A Ride in the Country

  26.A Secret Garden

  27.A Boxing Match

  28.Waiting and Watching

  29.Parting

  30.A Dreadful Consequence

  31.A Common Past

  32.Fearful Devices

  33.Cat and Mouse

  34.To Arms

  35.Desperate Measures

  36.Taking the High Road

  37.Taking the Low Road

  38.Checkmate

  39.The Cost of Duty

  40.Bread and Jam for Breakfast

  41.The Condemned Cell

  42.A New Beginning

  Historical Notes

  Acknowledgements

  Notes for Book Groups

  1

  Beginnings

  February 1841

  You must remain calm. Panic betrays you. Breathe deeply. Walk deliberately. Count your steps. One at a time. Think of nothing except your steps. Only your steps. Have the metal wheels begun to turn? How many revolutions before the rollers catch and spark? How far away do you have to walk to be safe? Safe at this range? More to go?

  The explosion rips the corning-mill apart. You feel it through your feet as the ground shakes. The shockwave makes you gasp. Compelled to look, you turn to see your handiwork.

  The detonation has formed into a terrifying pillar of smoke, flame and debris. The bodies of the men who were charging the mill are flying through the air within this fountain of destruction. You have killed before in combat but this seems so much more cold-blooded. You are comforted by the thought that they would have known nothing.

  But the macabre play is only in its first act. The sheet of flame that follows is uncontrolled. It forms into a single ball and, caught by an indolent wind, drifts downhill close to the ground.

  Three men, brave men, appear from other buildings and run towards the explosion hoping to rescue their comrades but they cannot see what you see. The ball of flame reaches the press-house, which in turn disintegrates. The explosion transforms these would-be rescuers into blazing Roman Candles. Two fall to the ground and, wreathed in private palls of oily black smoke, writhe in pain. One of them makes it to the river and plunges in. You taste the vomit in your throat. You have done a dishonourable thing. They were not your enemies.

  But the last act is yet to play. A time almost too short to be perceived, then, simultaneously, the glazing and charge houses explode. Their combined blast throws you to the ground and sets your ears ringing.

  When you come to your senses, men, appearing from all parts of the site, run past you towards the bodies. One man stops and drags you to your feet.

  ‘Get up! Get up! Come and help!’ he screams, his cheeks purple with rage. Then a frown passes over his face.

  Blood pounds in your ears. Has he recognised you as a stranger? Your stomach tightens. You touch the pistol in your coat.

  ‘Coward!’ he yells and runs on.

  Move your feet. Do not think. Do it. Your lips are dry but you cannot moisten them. Only a few more steps. It is done. You are free, safe.

  June 1841

  ‘Left, right! Left, right!’ Constable Josiah Ainscough marched on, the high leather stock digging into his neck, his reinforced top hat, heavy and hot. More scare-crow than scare-criminal.

  ‘Look Mama, soldiers!’ shouted a small girl.

  ‘Not soldiers dear, policemen,’ corrected her mother.

  ‘Ooo! Po-lice-men,’ she said, hearing the word for the first time. Then she waved enthusiastically.

  For the hundredth time, Josiah wondered what had ever possessed him to join the police. He didn’t feel like a police officer. Even his squeaking boots were giving him blisters.

  ‘Well now, that’s progress and no mistake,’ said Constable Howcroft next to him. ‘In the Army they used to jeer at us rather than cheer.’

  Howcroft waved at the child without so much as losing step, a feat quite impossible for Josiah. If he had attempted it he would have fallen flat on his face.

  The truth was that his fellow officers would have been a more presentable body of men without him. The police force would be much more capable of impressing the sceptical Stockport populace, who had never wanted it in the first place. Without him, it would have been easier to show that the promises from the Mayor and Corporation, that the police would make the town safer, were not just the meaningless prating of civic worthies.

  ‘Left, right! Left, right!’ shouted Constable Giles as the company swung out of Hillgate and into the yard behind the Lamb and Flag.

  ‘Company, hal-t.’ They came to attention with a unified stamp of boots, unified except for Josiah.

  ‘Right-turn.’ Another stamp with, for once, Josiah in unison.

  ‘Company ten-shun.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable,’ said Sergeant Smith. ‘I’ll take over from here.’

  ‘Yes Sergeant!’ There followed a whole series of stamps by Giles as he returned to his place in the line. All those stamps meant nothing to Josiah.

  ‘Gentlemen you all have your tasks for today. Move to them promptly and in a business-like fashion. Be courteous at all times as you go about your duties. Constable Ainscough, see me after dismissal. Company dis-miss.’

  As Josiah walked over to the sergeant he wondered what was about to happen.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Sergeant?’

>   ‘Yes, Josiah. You are to report to Mr Prestbury urgently. You’ll find him at the Magistrates’ Court. It sounds to me that he has a bee in his bonnet, so I’d get down there sharpish if I were you.’

  Josiah saluted and set off towards the centre of the town; it was definitely not the best start to a day. If he was a fish out of water marching, then in the next few minutes, he was likely to find himself a fish in a frying pan. The last thing he wanted to do was to have an interview with Mr Prestbury.

  Ruefully he considered again how unsuitable he was for his occupation. Smith, Giles and Howcroft, like the majority of his fellow officers, were old soldiers. Smith had been wounded in the Opium Wars and Giles had been at Waterloo as a drummer boy. In their company, Josiah, even in his early twenties, seemed to himself no more than a child. True, at five-foot eleven he was the tallest officer in the group, but the rest were thickset, mature men while he was spindly.

  But there was no way of escape for him from the force. A lot of his reason for joining the police had been to reduce discussion about his future, especially to prevent having to confess his lapse in morality in Spain. In other circumstances he could have asked his father to help him out of this mess. Every inch a generous parent and Christian gentleman, The Rev. Thomas Cooksley would be shocked but would forgive his adopted son. But Josiah realised he would never be able to withstand seeing the pain of disappointment on his father’s face. There was nothing to be done but to play the cards he had and hope. At least, to cheer him up, he had three hundred yards to walk to the Magistrates’ Court through the core of his hometown, its beating heart and his favourite place, the Market Square.

  Most of the buildings in the centre of Stockport made up a confusion of cheap houses, brick-built shops and factories. Serendipity was the only discernible principle of design. Cotton mills crowded at the River Mersey’s edge where they could get power from the water. Brinksway to the west was now dominated by one of the new wonders of the age, the brick-built, twenty-seven arch viaduct that would take the Manchester railway on to Crewe, Birmingham and eventually to London.

  But despite the pace of change all around them, true natives of Stockport considered the market, in all its marvellous topsy-turvydom, their favourite place. On his way home from school Josiah had often diverted his steps to come this way rather than go straight home. He’d seen many things on those walks.

  Once, on the steps on the parish church of St Mary’s, he’d seen a well-dressed lady, accompanied by her maid, engaged in a slanging match with a pedlar from the country over the price of an Indian shawl. When the lady had not got the price she wanted she’d started to lay about the pedlar with her umbrella, to the great amusement of the traders and the embarrassment of her maid. The fact was that at some point all the people of Stockport, rich or poor, came to the market and bartered, argued or plain fought for what they needed.

  ‘Well look at that,’ a voice said in a strong brogue. ‘How smart and proper the lad looks. What a stalwart upholder of the law. To think when I first met him he was nothing but a scrawny grammar boy.’ Michael O’Carroll came over.

  ‘I am guessing that you still might have reservations about becoming a Bobby?’ He took out his short clay pipe from his pocket and started to clean out its bowl with a small, wooden handled knife. He scraped at a particularly stubborn bit of ash, spraying it across the patched sleeves and frayed lapels of his tweed jacket.

  ‘Reservations is a very big understatement, Michael.’ In fact, Josiah’s world was firmly obscured by a black cloud of self-doubt.

  ‘I’ll be bound it’ll have been a disappointment for Mr Cooksley,’ said Michael. ‘I remember how disappointed my Ma was when I said I’d not be offering for the priesthood.’ Josiah smiled, finding the idea of Michael as a Catholic priest slightly amusing, though not totally implausible.

  Michael returned the knife to his jacket and took out a pinch of tobacco from a waistcoat pocket. He packed the leaves into the pipe, then he found a match and struck it with his thumbnail and lit up. After a few puffs he gave Josiah his full attention.

  ‘Your family will understand. They love you and they’ll realise that you’ll not have made your decision lightly. You were wise to take the time to travel, there’s a tradition in Ireland that youngsters should see a bit of the world before settling.’

  Josiah wondered how Michael would react if he understood all the reasons behind the decision. What would he say then? His friendship with Michael had been a surprising one, established years before Michael and his wife Mary were the respected members of the town’s Catholic community they were now.

  They had first met when Josiah had been on one of his excursions through the market on his way home. He came around a corner to be confronted by Billy Green, a boy two years older than him, who already helped on his father’s stall. Billy had snatched the books Josiah was carrying and held them high in the air.

  ‘Now what are you going to do, mammy’s boy?’

  Desperate to get the precious books back, Josiah had jumped at Billy, trying to reach his hand. But no matter how he tried he couldn’t make himself tall enough or strong enough.

  ‘What a whelp,’ shouted Billy. ‘No wonder your mam up and died. It must ’ave been for shame of ’aving you.’

  Any mention of his natural mother or father was Josiah’s Achilles’ heel. Whether Billy knew it or not he was playing with fire. Josiah flew at him intending to knock him over, sit on his chest and bang his head on the cobblestones but he never got the chance. A powerful arm caught him in mid-dash and swung him into the air.

  ‘That’s enough, Billy. Playing games with books is one thing, insulting the memory of a woman as good and kind as Mrs Ainscough is another. Josiah found himself on his feet. ‘Give those books back to Josiah and make peace with him.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing. Who are you to give me orders, ye bog trotting Irish tinker,’ said Billy.

  ‘Well if you don’t, I’ll tell your da what you said and he’ll give you a leatherin’ big as you are. Mrs Ainscough was a friend to many around here, him included.’

  Reluctantly Billy came over, gave Josiah back the books and they shook hands. When he had gone, Josiah considered his saviour. He was shabby, his hands gnarled and his face dirty. He looked very disreputable but Josiah knew one vital fact about him.

  ‘Did you really know my mother?’ Josiah whispered.

  The man looked down and smiled. ‘I certainly did though not for as long as I would have liked. She was a fine woman.’

  ‘Can you tell me about her?’ Josiah started to cry. ‘I can’t remember her, I was too young.’

  The man smiled. ‘Of course I will lad.’

  ‘Good luck, boy, and remember you can always count on Mary and me.’ Michael’s voice brought Josiah back to the present.

  ‘Thank you, Michael. You’ve always been a good friend.’

  2

  Mr Prestbury

  Josiah walked briskly down the steep, narrow alley of Vernon Street under the shadow of the high walls of the Castle Mill.

  The impressive two-storey façade of the Magistrates’ Court faced onto the busy thoroughfare of Underbank, but the Court could only be entered from Vernon Street by a small side door. This rather compromised its gravitas, especially when visitors realised that the Court only used the upper floor and shared the rest of the building with the town’s cheese market.

  But Josiah was not interested in the main entrance. There was a second menial doorway with certain advantages. Just inside it was the two small cells used to hold prisoners going into court. The cells had a permanent bouquet of urine and stale humanity, which combined to pungent effect with the ripe smell of cheese. But it was the quickest way in since it led to the stairs that came up in the dock. Unfortunately, that morning as Josiah came up the steps, he found himself face to face with Mr Prestbury who was sitting at the Clerk’s table, fu
riously drumming his fingers.

  ‘Constable Ainscough, at last. I was beginning to think that the distance from here to the other end of the Market had been miraculously elongated or that you had been robbed of the ability to walk quickly.’

  At the best of times, Mr Prestbury was a daunting prospect, but at eye level from a courtroom dock he looked particularly fierce. He had a hawk-like look as he peered over pince-nez firmly clamped to a Roman nose. All Josiah could do was tuck his hat under his arm and stand to attention feeling he was, in all but name, the accused.

  ‘I am sorry that I have kept you waiting, Mr Prestbury.’

  ‘Well I suppose I should be grateful for the small mercy that you’re here now. I have no time to waste so let us get down to the matter for which I summoned you. You are one of those confounded Methody, aren’t you?’

  Josiah was surprised by the question and at once was on his guard. As the town’s longest-serving magistrate and now chairman of the new Police Watch Committee, Mr Prestbury was a leading Anglican, some would say the leading Anglican in the town. As such it was well-known that he had a deep-seated intolerance of members of any other Christian denomination. It was the term Methody that had put Josiah on his guard. Methody could be used as a derogatory common name for members of the Methodists. Mr Prestbury was well aware that Josiah was an active Methodist.

  Josiah had always suspected that Mr Prestbury didn’t like having Mr Cooksley’s son as one of his officers. But Mr Cooksley’s reputation, as well as Methodists making up an important proportion of the town’s population, meant Prestbury could not be seen to discriminate against them in recruitment.

  Josiah had considered several possible reasons for Mr Prestbury to have summoned him but anything about his religious leanings had not been on the list. Puzzled, he hesitated ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘So, you are prone to such things as camp meetings and worship in the outdoors?’

  ‘It is true I have attended such meetings, Sir.’

  ‘Normally I would consider that an unforgiveable lapse into non-conformist radicalism but in this case, it might be helpful. What do you know about the Children of Fire?’