Den of Shadows

by Christopher Byford

  ‘An Alamos D locomotive?’ the yard manager queried, reclining back in a swivel chair with balding fabric. ‘That’s a little in the past isn’t it? I think you might be better off looking in a scrapyard for pieces of one of those. If you’re just looking to patch up a few holes in the body, that’s simple enough but anywhere else will be a mighty chore.’

  Franco sat opposite, the gulf between them filled by a simple pine desk that had since become a place to stack disorganized paperwork. The office was functional – open plan, windows out to the factory floor – though the decoration was shabby. Something resembling an engine squatted in the corner of the room, accompanying pistons scattered beside it. It wasn’t exactly the kind of environment he was used to.

  The two men couldn’t have been any different. Franco was clad in an emerald tweed suit with an open-collared white shirt. He was exuberant and fetching. The yard manager wore grease-stained blue overalls, or Franco believed them to have been blue at one point. They smeared patches of oil on the already abused furniture. Whereas Franco was well groomed by impeccable routine, the individual opposite looked like he had dunked his head into an ash pan. Clumped, straggly black hair jutted out without composition, a perfect accompaniment to a slightly lopsided moustache.

  ‘Luckily the boiler wasn’t hit, though the engine cab took a couple of slugs. The damage is mainly on the rear carriages. They look mighty unsightly. Can you produce the panels here if I get the plans?’

  The yard manager folded his hands into a triangle. The chair squeaked with the new distribution of weight.

  ‘Well sure, that can be done. If we do them you’ll not notice the difference in the finish neither. Though one thing does surprise me. Why would one come into this here shop and ask about a train that’s borderline antique? Especially when there’s plenty of better alternatives out there.’

  ‘Forgive me, I’ve not introduced myself properly.’

  Franco began to wind up a well-versed introduction, though was interrupted with a raise of the hand.

  ‘You needn’t do so. Owner of the Gambler’s Den, right? Please, Mister Monaire, don’t insult us both. Your fame greatly precedes you. I saw that magnificent train of yours some years back way out west when you ventured thataways. I never imagined I would see you here, but who am I to second-guess your motives.’

  He reached over, warmly shaking Franco’s hand – perhaps a little too energetically.

  ‘Who indeed.’ Franco played it predictably humble, secretly wiping his hand into a handkerchief. ‘I’m glad my name coaxes such praise. And, one would hope, a discount as well?’

  The suggestion coaxed a laugh before being brushed aside. ‘Oh that’s optimistic. Kudos for trying though. Times are tough for everyone out here, Mister Monaire. If it was up to me I would have it fixed up for you at cost. A courtesy for what you do for folks out here. God knows we appreciate it.’

  ‘How quickly can you do the job? As you’re well aware, we run on a particular schedule.’

  ‘The boys and I can start in a fortnight.’

  ‘Two weeks?’ Franco repeated with a gasp. ‘A little excessive for a couple of carriage panels, don’t you think?’

  ‘Previous work I’m sorry to say, not helped by being a couple of hands down.’

  Franco mused long and hard about this. Or at least he gave the impression that he did so, coming to an equally false realization for the onlooker’s benefit. He had already planned for such a situation before venturing inside and should needs dictate had a proposal prepared to expedite the repairs.

  ‘I am an impatient sort. How about I make you an offer,’ Franco bargained, withdrawing a small golden card from a pocket. ‘You tell whoever’s job is up next that there will be a small delay. I’ll get the materials and the labour for ten per cent less than you quote. You have your boys turn up bright and early within the week …’

  The manager looked considerably perplexed until the card was passed over. He scanned it, quite taken aback with its contents. Embossed across the front in well-constructed print were the following words:

  YOU HAVE BEEN CORDIALLY INVITED

  For one night of extravagance at the Gambler’s Den

  By personal invitation of Mister Franco Del Monaire himself

  ‘And I’ll show you, and your workers, the time of your lives. All on me.’

  With hand outstretched, Franco leant forward on the lip of his chair seat, watching the manager come to a decision.

  ‘Mister Monaire.’ He tightly gripped Franco’s hand with delight, unable to restrain himself. ‘I think you have yourself a deal.’

  Strolling out onto the shop floor, Franco took stock of the sight of the work line, seeing exactly how much was indeed outstanding. Three locomotives sat in various states of disrepair, occasionally stripped back to their bare components, mostly covered in a combination of supporting pulleys from the overhanging steel beams.

  The labourers at hand seemed an able bunch, who busied themselves in routine. A contingent moved across some iron monstrosity that he couldn’t quite identify, hammering heated metal that shook in flurries of sparks. The noise danced from one end of the yard to another in crescendo.

  He ransacked his jacket pockets, feeling around for a scrap of tobacco, a roll-up, anything to take away the shakes, but only found disappointment.

  * * *

  Unexpectedly the men lowered their tools and began talking among themselves. They turned their attention to the shadow that strolled through the yard entrance with a click-click-click of her heels. Boisterous displays of bravado as well as offers of entanglement were flatly ignored, noticed instead by the foreman who objected noisily. Instead of sweet words, he launched a fiery tirade from the gantry he stood on. He ended with the demand to get back to work under threat of docked pay.

  The woman tutted, raised her head up, and folded her arms across the chest.

  ‘This is where you’ve been hiding out?’ Misu called as the hammer strikes from the workers began anew.

  ‘Hiding – not at all. I’m doing business. Though I must ask why of all places you decided to come here to get your skirt train covered in oil.’

  ‘I followed you,’ she stated, climbing the steps, which were numerous and quite an annoyance, onto the raised platform.

  ‘Figures.’ He made himself comfortable leaning on the guardrail, acknowledging her standing alongside him.

  Misu attempted, at length, to determine what Franco was so keenly observing but found nothing in his eye line except roosting pigeons.

  ‘Penny for them?’ Misu offered, tapping her nails against the rail itself.

  ‘Oh no, I pay your wages, so I know you couldn’t afford what I’m thinking.’

  ‘Poor in pocket but rich in spirit.’ The woman pursed her lips.

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Just something I picked up once. Why? Does it confuse you?’

  ‘No my grandfather used to say something similar …’ He trailed off.

  Despite her patience, Franco needed prompting to continue.

  ‘You know, it’s weird. Whenever we get to talking, somehow you always bring him up. That’s not strange in itself, but whenever you do so, you do this whole absent thing and it all gets a little peculiar.’

  Franco nodded deeply, trying to process what the woman was saying, but he found his process of thought muddled. The pigeons that had taken residence in the roof spaces distracted him with a burst of fluttering. Downy feathers fell though dust-thickened air.

  ‘That.’ Misu jabbed him with a finger. ‘That there is exactly what I’m talking about. Where do you go when you do that? You’re right in front of me and then suddenly you’re someplace I can’t see.’

  ‘Thinking.’

  ‘Obviously. I’m going to need a little more than that.’

  Franco took stock of the workers’ yard. For an environment that required plenty of light, the interior collected a sizable
amount of shadow. The skylights that ran the length of the roof did their best to diminish this but could only fare so well. This yard wasn’t too dissimilar to the old maintenance shed that he and the old-timer had claimed as a second home. All it needed was a folded-in roof and an infestation of mice.

  ‘Do you believe in chance?’ Franco enquired, curiously solemn.

  ‘You’re asking if someone who helps you run card games believes in chance?’

  ‘Not like that. I mean on a grander scale. Things that were, I don’t know, supposed to be?’

  ‘I’ve never thought about it.’ Misu nodded delicately. ‘It’s never been something to dwell upon. My life hasn’t exactly gone to plan, but there are far worse places to be and situations to end up in. Do you?’

  ‘No. I can’t stand the idea of not being in control, that something is pulling my strings to reach a destiny I can’t influence. I’m a lot like you in many ways. People like you and I are supposed to live in fancy houses, wear fine clothes, and drink finer wine. A place like this is still alien to me: the noise, the smells. When I’m dealing with the mechanics of the Den, all of this, I can’t help but feel out of my depth. My grandfather pushed me into this life. It wasn’t originally mine; I just inherited it all. I owe him somewhat and I’m occasionally reminded of the fact. Yet I cannot for the life of me think of anything else I would rather be doing. Curious, no?’

  ‘Can’t we visit him? Pay it off for good?’

  ‘It’s too late for any of that. Some debts can’t be paid. It’s not in their nature. That’s the problem.’

  Misu slinked backward, bathing in the midday sun that the skylights radiated. ‘I have some idea of what you mean.’

  Franco stared out to the workers, who struggled with a series of chain pulleys, easing a boiler back onto one of the smaller trains. Each of the grubby workers coordinated their movements with yells, peppered with the occasional physical threat to one another.

  ‘Pappy and I slaved in something resembling this shed whilst fixing the train up. Did so for a handful of years getting the Den running again. It was just as filthy, maybe more so than this place. Can you imagine that?’

  ‘I honestly, honestly, can’t.’ Misu pouted. ‘And that suits me just fine.’

  ‘She was a beat-up wreck in dire need of fixing. I didn’t know what I was doing. He had to teach me every facet of the job. The first time we got the Den running again, it was like nothing I had ever experienced. I was in my mid-twenties, had slept with a handful of girls, and nothing even came close to that feeling.’

  ‘Delightful analogy, dear,’ Misu flatly retorted, watching the birds above call to one another.

  ‘All of a sudden I had adopted this new life. Without my grandfather beside me to push me, I needed others to do so. I needed people I trusted to see this thing through. I needed people to keep me steady.’ Something broke in Franco’s voice, which Misu had never witnessed before. It was a vulnerability – small but considerably telling. Abandoning any notion of what was appropriate she allowed her hand to drift upon his. It landed in reassurance, flexing tightly.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want to know what the fuss is about. If you put it like that, you owe a woman’s pride to indulge in every sordid detail.’

  And so, Franco obliged, baring all.

  * * *

  ‘How’s it going, slacker? That coupling rod braced back up?’ Pappy was growing impatient at how long such a simple task was taking.

  Franco had both hands tightly wrapped around the length of a wrench handle. He jerked downward, giving his hands respite for a second between heaves. Begrudgingly the bolt gave slightly each time, tightening over and over. Though there was still more give left in it, forcing Franco to redouble his efforts. Without warning the wrench slipped from the bolt head and swung through the air.

  ‘Bastard!’ Franco cried out, waving away the burning that plagued his hands in turn. ‘It would be braced back up if you stopped asking me every five minutes! Do you have any idea how awkward these bolts are? They were sent to test me, I swear.’

  The old man rested an arm on the engine cab in disbelief. He had spent the last few hours sweeping and polishing, driving away the accumulated build-up that haunted every pipe, handle, and gauge. Whilst not clean in the conventional sense it was easily suitable for the first attempt at coaxing the locomotive to move.

  ‘Really? You’re asking me that? Of everything you’ve done, including rebuilding that pain-in-the-ass left cylinder, you expect me to believe you’re bested by a bolt of all things?’ Pappy quipped. Didn’t the boy remember how long he’d spent living on the rails? Repairs were commonplace. There was no complaining about broken this or impatient that. Either you learnt how to fix the vehicle, quickly, or you stayed to watch the crows circle in impatience.

  ‘Bested nothing! It’s just being difficult is all; doesn’t want to get set in place.’ Franco took stock of his tool and tried once more. It was unthinkable that a single bolt was going to get the better of him. There was a series of increasingly strained heaves that climaxed with a torrent of abuse at the offending fastener.

  ‘Quit being soft then! What did I say? Brandish the stick when it misbehaves. Do I have to come down there and show you how to correctly do up a bolt? Shall we start at the beginning while we’re at it? Lesson one. This here that you’re looking at is what’s called a train …’

  Franco hunched over himself, tossing the instrument into a nearby toolbox. It’s introduction knocked it onto one side, spilling the rest sideways.

  ‘Yeah, all right, drop the sarcasm, old-timer. It’s on. That’s the last of them. Let me get my breath back and we’ll get it lowered back down.’ Franco gasped, tossing his leather gloves aside. His palms burnt, indented with the recess of the tool despite adequate protection.

  ‘After I check it,’ Pappy insisted.

  ‘Yes, after you check it. It’s like you don’t trust my handiwork …’ Franco peeled his vest from his torso, tossing it to the dirt. The afternoon sun had been scorching, making him a fool for slaving away for so long. Curse this heat and curse those damn troublesome bolts. He swiped at a water tap head, dragging out the connecting hose for relief, dousing his scalp in water.

  ‘Trust, nothing. It’s sensible to double-check another’s work. Prevents accidents.’

  Water sprayed from Franco’s lips, bringing relief. Using the tap, he filled up a pair of tin cups and drank his, hungrily, speedily reaching to refill it once more. The second was passed to Pappy, who sat himself down on the side of the engine steps.

  ‘What do you think about tomorrow?’ Franco sipped from his cup. If he was honest this whole affair was making him feel quite queasy. It wasn’t the hardships of learning every aspect from scratch, though they were taxing. It wasn’t the sheer urgency that his grandfather demanded they worked with, though it was significantly draining. No, the unease came about whenever Franco envisioned attempting to start the train up. For six years it had been simply a shell, an abandoned husk seemingly rooted to the scrapyard by its own fate. To envision it in movement was preposterous. All this dedication would amount to naught. Doubt was beginning to gnaw away at him despite the accomplishments made.

  So what if it didn’t start? They had done everything possible to coax a second chance of life from the locomotive. It was almost depressing to think that after such toil things were in the hands of fate or some other unscrupulous force. At least they had given it a shot. At least they had tried.

  Pappy nursed his cup, keeping his own concerns silent. Unlike Franco, he didn’t fret over the chance of the train being nothing. His mind was set on logical solutions to possible eventualities.

  ‘I think we’ve done all we can do, but if the old girl doesn’t want to start, we gotta encourage her. What’s with your face?’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘The hell you don’t. You look about a
s sour as a bottle of milk left in the noon sun. Out with it. Not getting second thoughts, are you?’

  ‘Never. Just anxious, is all.’

  ‘We’ve come too far to back down now. We both have. See, our lives have been set on a course like these here rails. No deviation from any of that – even if you wanted to. You’re fixed on your destination, Franco. Ain’t nothing you can do but to just shut up and accept where you’re heading.’

  Pappy burst into a series of rasping coughs. Franco watched him finally suppress them with large gulps of water.

  ‘Curse this infernal dust,’ he griped, spitting whatever had collected in his throat out into the sand.

  Franco smiled, taking another mouthful in turn, though he felt his expression descend to a frown behind the tin.

  The walk of the yard tracks was done by gaslight, uneventful bar crossing some of the more excitable rats. Sleepers and rails were swept when they saw fit, for a drift of sand could cause problems for the virgin voyage – if it happened of course. These concerns were spoken about seriously and with equally serious length. Franco questioned almost every part of the locomotive, contemplating most imaginary difficulties with concern.

  Pappy reassured him with strict mechanical logic when the assumptions of failure were a possibility – no matter how remote. He explained in as much depth as needed why this wouldn’t break, that wouldn’t burst, or why something or other wouldn’t come spinning off in motion. For most of these reservations, it was enough allowing Franco to move on to the next. For the ones where imagination had gotten the better of him, Pappy simply returned various insults, their tameness appropriate to the thought’s complexity.

  By the time the track was walked it was already past ten so the pair agreed that the night would be best spent sleeping in the yard. There was already a good provision of blankets, and docile wild fowl that strolled the plot were easily caught for food.

  Fire spat and crackled, launching spiralling embers into the night. Metal skewers were adorned with meat, dripping fat onto the coals with erratic sizzles. A wolf called for a mate far out in the desert, its call carrying far into the night. Insects chirped to one another, some taking to their wings and buzzing past the open flame.