Pappy didn’t cry. Crying wasn’t in his nature. He had lived through times when crying wasn’t done, when emotion was a stranger to the working man, and all that mattered was words and actions.
But with that said, for a moment he could have mistaken his own son staring back at him instead of the slumped, depressed figure of his grandson. The youngster had inherited plenty from the man he never knew, from the shaggy hair to his fiery temperament, traits that were making this conversation exceedingly more difficult than intended. Franco had grown from a difficult tearaway to a sterling individual, forthright and strong. Pappy was proud and despite never saying it, secretly hoped that his actions communicated his feelings appropriately. No, Pappy was not one to cry.
But if he did, it would have been then.
‘Have you actually seen the mines, boy?’ His voice struggled. ‘Not heard of them, or been told stories, but actually seen them with your two own? It’s like walking into the abyss. First you take to a tin can that winches you deeper and deeper down to a place we were never supposed to go. The air down there is wrong. Daylight ain’t nothing more than a memory and you’re strolling through the guts of the land, graciously chipping away its innards. No wonder there’s so many accidents. No wonder they pay so much. Cave-ins, suffocation, all that mess. Only someone broken by desperation would willingly endure such danger.’
Franco’s teeth were bared, his shoulders rocking as he tried to control every shudder of sadness that set upon him.
Pappy nodded cordially, imparting what he knew in the hope that maybe it would bring him some closure.
‘Some people don’t remember bad news. When it hits, everything seems to blur. You could tell them a million things and by the end of it they couldn’t recall a one. I’m not one of those lucky people as fortune inflicted me with something of a sharper mind, but I wish that wasn’t the case. I was looking after your mother as she carried you. You were large in her belly. She used to sing to you as you were in there and tell you handsome stories of your father. The letters he sent back were read over and over to you, normally in this poky kitchen we had.
‘As soon as the letters stopped, we assumed there was a problem with the post. Things were getting difficult out that way, train hijackings and all. The papers even warned of such things. Your mother, bless her, she was saying that it wasn’t normal, that something had to be wrong. Worked herself into a right state she did.’
Pappy drank deeply, attempting to banish the fog that years of negligence had accumulated. He cleared his throat, or did so as well he could, with noisy splutters.
‘I got the paper first thing in the morning – the first thing I do in my routine. Didn’t even look at it. Never do. Disputes between gangs were making food drops late, so getting anything substantial for your mother was proving difficult. What I did manage to get my hands on, with no small amount of negotiating, was some cockatrice eggs. Some trapper was raising young ’uns but had plenty to spare. These things are three times bigger than what a normal chicken lays – mighty tasty too. So I make my way home and your mother is there sitting at that kitchen table, singing settlers’ songs. I go to make us breakfast and she decides to read you the newspaper seeing as your daddy’s letters are still stuck.’
Franco closed his eyes, envisioning the scenario. From the gentle morning light that bathed the woman with luminescence to the smells of the eggs gently frying in a cast-iron pan. It was a tranquillity that Franco had yearned for but never attained.
‘She takes the paper, and says to you, that we’ll read the news and find out what’s happening outside these walls. She spoke the large headline without a single care: “Seventeen die in mine catastrophe.”
‘She then goes all quiet, talking to herself before suddenly wailing. Bless her, did she cry. I was all confused of course, so I read the paper to see what’s put her in such a state. It turns out that the mine your father was at suffered an accident. That tin-can lift I told you about, that they winch you down in, broke free from its cabling and fell straight down with seventeen pour souls trapped inside. The names confirmed Ederik Monaire, your father, as one of the dead.’
Pappy kicked the stones at his feet weakly, squinting at the ebbing sun that moseyed across the sky on its own accord.
‘Never seen a woman so distraught. You hear tales of such things but it breaks a heart to witness. Your mother loved him dearly. When the time came for you to make an appearance, she was already drinking more than I was comfortable with – something that became a frequent point of argument. That never changed. Suffering a burden like that can break people. Even the strongest among us can have it creep on up. Make people commit to terrible decisions on the pretence that it’s for the best.’
Franco licked his lips. The alcohol was having trouble settling in his stomach, keen to escape the way from which it came. A few deep breaths subdued this – for the time being at least. ‘Why did she leave?’
‘Don’t know. She just left. There was a note that barely made sense, rambling about things, mad things, from what I recall. There was some crazed declaration about chasing the sun to find Ederik but who knows where her mind was at. The Sand Sea is a big place. If someone doesn’t want to be found, then they won’t be. You were just a babe in arms then and someone had to look after you, being that you were abandoned. That responsibility became mine and I looked after you as my own for evermore.’
Bitterness seeped in once more. Whilst it was easy to have compassion for the situation that his parents struggled with, the chain reaction of bad decisions that followed were far less acceptable.
‘You raised me.’ Franco swigged again, his mood as sour as his liquor. ‘Not them. You. I don’t see them here right now, reminiscing over how things transpired with big smiles.’
Something obstructed his throat. A long gestating rant that had been the backbone of bad behaviour and pity-seeking eruptions. The urge to launch his bottle into the sky was overwhelming.
‘It wasn’t what they intended, I’m sure.’
He cut Pappy off immediately.
‘Intended or not, this is the way it all went. Like you said, life is like a train on the rails, a destiny of sorts. I’m guessing that there are some who just jump from the cars without thinking of the landing. I don’t owe the folks a damn thing. Just you.’
With a sharp wheeze, Pappy took a spell to collect himself, giving Franco ample time to compose himself and lose the shakes.
‘Well I guess you know best on that front, lad.’
A flock of crows soared overhead, calling as if spooked by something unseen. Their obnoxious squawks abated as they took flight to the closest peak. Pappy kicked his boots in the dirt, displacing it before changing the subject to something more placid.
‘This idea of yours. This venture. Tell me about it again. What was the plan?’
‘It’s nothing really.’
‘You’re a man now. Speak like one.’
‘We provide entertainment,’ Franco stated. It was embarrassing confessing to the designs he had for when the old man had finally passed, crude given the circumstances. Originally it was something for the pair of them to participate in – until tragedy dictated otherwise.
‘Entertainment of what sort?’
‘It would be a delight on wheels. We would stuff the cars with tables, games, and all the booze folks could handle. The girls would entertain and we would make money on the tables like you wouldn’t believe. We would put on a show wherever we travelled.’
‘Are the games honest?’ he enquired.
‘Nothing but. The patrons get to win. There’s none of that fixing. Who would want to play at a table where the dealer has sticky fingers?’
‘These girls –’ he swallowed in interruption ‘– are they pretty?’
‘Oh, the prettiest. They would have kind faces to bring about respite for the poor bastards stuck down the mines or suck in the mills.’ Franco finally laughed; envisioning the entir
e thing like had done many times before.
‘Ah, now I like the sound of that.’
‘The bar would be filled with the finest rums and bourbons this far south of the trade line. It would be an oasis to the parched.’
‘Like this here stuff?’ Pappy tilted the frosted dark glass to his parched lips.
‘Better,’ Franco promised.
‘Got a name for all this yet?’
‘I’ve been kicking something around I guess …’
‘Being?’
Franco took a swig to build up nerve before setting the cup in the dirt at his boots. ‘The Gambler’s Den.’
To his surprise, the suggestion wasn’t immediately rubbished – unlike most others he had pitched in the past. No, Pappy weighed it with a considerable amount of thought as he sucked on a roll-up. The smoke got the better of his throat, starting a coughing fit. When it finally relented he spat the fire out beside him and quenched it with the bottle’s own. His eyes reddened, Pappy continued as if nothing had happened.
‘It’s not completely terrible.’ He relented. ‘It’s good, honest work. You should pursue it. We’ve got plenty saved to overhaul the cars and it’s not like you have to pay for a pine box for me. It’s your train now anyway. Stick with it and it’ll take you far. You’ve got a good head on you. It’ll grant you the one thing that most others lack.’
‘What would that be?’
‘Freedom, lad. Freedom. It’s the only thing that’s worth a damn – the only thing worth seeking out from the day you’re born until the day you’re buried. Money drips through the fingers when you try to hold it tightly. There’s bad sons of bitches out there who do just that. They may fool themselves and others that it can be done but it’ll trickle out slowly or drain in a rush. Money is fleeting. Freedom, however … If you can be free, you can be poor in wealth but rich in spirit.’ A bevy of deep, vicious coughs interrupted, eventually suppressed with more whisky. ‘And I wish that for you more than anything else.’
There were a million things that Franco wished to confess. This wasn’t how he wanted things to end but as Pappy once told him, you can’t deviate from your life when you’re set along the path. There was no use in complaining and certainly no use in getting upset. Things were just how things were, whether by chance or construct of the divine. With head held high, Franco said the only thing that came to mind that could encapsulate his feelings.
‘Thank you. I mean … thank you, Grandad. For everything.’
A lingering, compassionate smile painted the pair, ruined completely with Pappy’s wave of a hand.
‘Now go. Get out of here, you hear? Get on board that train and don’t you dare look back else you’ll feel my foot meet your backside.’
Instinctively Franco’s fingers reached for the bottle to take with him. Briefly hesitating he retrieved it from the dirt and placed it at Pappy’s feet leaving both it and his cup beside it. A singular pat fell on Pappy’s shoulder heavily on passing. Nothing else was spoken. Nothing needed to be. They were each aware of what this moment was and both decided not to change it with further sentiment.
The Eiferian 433 sat waiting for him in the stillness, an iron and steel sentry anticipating its new owner’s command. The moment he stepped foot into what had been the sleeping carriage, Franco realized that he was quite alone. It was a feeling he had not been accustomed to since Pappy became a quick surrogate for his absentee father. That may have been forced upon him in adolescence but it made him no less thankful.
Tears stained his cheeks as he cursed once, twice, and finally a third time until his throat gave. Sitting on Pappy’s bed, he allowed himself this moment before wiping his face and bringing about composure. The car was closed up as he moved out to the engine cab, greeted by the sight of Rosso who folded up a newspaper.
‘Where to now, boss?’
‘Anywhere, Mister Rosso. Absolutely anywhere but here.’
‘Forgive me but does anywhere have a location in particular?’
A thunderbolt of inspiration struck. ‘Yes, actually. Enlighten me: where would have a good yard for outfitting this here train with some flair?’
‘You’ll be wanting Packers out this way. I’ve seen them overhaul plenty and never an ill word against them. It’ll be about a day’s travel. Are you looking to give this old girl a new lick of paint?’
‘That and a new name.’
Rosso released the brakes and set the throttle open. The train complied and heaved forward.
The air was already turning cool. The night would be closing in soon.
The next few hours would be spent trying to outrun it.
* * *
Slurping from a bottle as the sun slowly sank on the horizon, Pappy watched the train depart. The sight comforted him. A lasting smile indented itself, curling his jowls and emanating warmth. He had done well, he told himself, and the boy would do him proud. The cigarette breathed its last wisp of smoke into the crisp evening air. It met its final fate, crushed beneath the sole of a work boot.
‘Ah. So beautiful,’ Pappy declared.
And the train made its way off and over the horizon.
* * *
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Ketan confessed, not knowing too well where to put his attention.
‘Yeah, well, me too.’ Franco gave consideration once again to the rapping on the stone outside. ‘It wasn’t the nicest of times. It’s also a good reminder that you should appreciate your father being around while he still is, despite being a pain in your backside. He’s trying to do you good. You know that, don’t you?’’
‘You would have to be a fool not to, obviously.’
‘Then stop this. All you’re doing is rushing your way to the bone pile. Move somewhere away from the trouble and be better.’
Ketan sighed, seemingly giving this consideration.
Someone rapped on the jail door, catching their attention. The jailer heaved himself up with old bones, grumbling at the inconvenience and the lateness of the hour. While out of sight, Franco picked up fragments of the conversation, a female voice, wet with promises of a good time. Payment from his colleagues. All things that caused the front door to slam shut. Silence descended as he indulged in male sensibilities and shirked responsibilities.
Ketan snorted. ‘Do you hear that? It’s all right for some, isn’t it.’
Franco picked himself up and patted himself down, brushing away deposits of dust from his jacket. ‘Anyway, let’s say, hypothetically, you had an out. Would you take it?’
‘You’re dealing with the impossible now.’
‘Answer the question. If you had a chance to go legitimate. Honest work. Would you make a go of it?’
Ketan groaned wearily. It was, admittedly, something that had passed his mind but the more he contemplated, the more hopeless the situation seemed. ‘Guys like me don’t have those kinds of breaks, Franco. We use all our chances quickly; it’s why we die so quick.’
‘That’s just crazy talk.’
‘Is it? If you don’t get out then you get put down. Six feet down if you get my meaning. We are born in the gutter and die in it just the same. We both know it’s true.’
They did. It was.
‘When it happens,’ Ketan continued. ‘Who will cry for me, anyways? Who gets to mourn? We ain’t got nothing of worth in this life but family, Franco, and back then I considered you mine.’
‘You still have your father.’
‘Just don’t, all right …’
Franco nodded in understanding, moving the conversation on to a new subject. ‘How’s the leg?’
‘Like it’s been shot,’ he delivered with a glaze of fading patronization. ‘But better. Thanks.’
Franco leant back in his cell. He heard the murmurs and chatter outside, then the continuation of a code relayed by the tapping of iron guttering. ‘Think it can stand walking a fair distance?’
‘It has been so far for what good it’s done
us.’
‘What about some running?’
Ketan tilted his head in question.
The outer wall erupted in debris, exploding inward and peppering the pair with rubble. Dust plumes dragged across the floor, causing Ketan to splutter and his eyes to weep. From the hole, waving the dust aside, Kitty rested a leg on shattered brickwork, proud of her handiwork. Behind, Corinne and two other showgirls in tow pulled the rubble aside for the getaway.
Kitty saluted her boss, nodding quite happily to herself. ‘Hey, clear something for me,’ she called. ‘We sprung the old man from this here cell, dangers and all, with no regard for our very own lives. What would that be making us?’
‘The hands of providence I’m guessing,’ Corinne stated, shooing the last dust haze with a hand.
‘Mmm,’ Kitty purred. ‘Ain’t that just the truth.’
Franco strode out to his freedom, kicking debris away as he found it. Alarms were yet to sound. They all had time yet to organize their getaway.
‘Where are the others?’
‘Jacques and Wyld are tying up loose ends. Gone to fetch Misu while they’re at it.’ Corinne handed Franco a revolver, of which he checked the spin of the cylinder and the accuracy of the sight before slipping it on his hip in endorsement.
‘Does that meet your approval?’ Kitty queried, watching her boss’s unmoved reaction.
Franco finally smiled, and cracked his fingers. ‘Absolutely. I’m starting to find Windberg a mite unsettling for fine, honest folks such as ourselves.’
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