* * *
Eventually Misu ran along the outside of the tender, reaching the locomotive itself and crashing into the engine cabin. Ferry still had his hand clenched on the released throttle lever, looking decidedly unimpressed. He had been leaning out of the cabin window, looking at the figures at the port border. The white barricade pole was brought down to bar their path and the watchmen waved their arms broadly.
‘We’re being waved to stop.’ Ferry assessed the gasping woman in front of him.
‘Keep going.’
‘We’re being told to stop!’ Ferry emphasized, louder this time in the hope that Misu would see a measure of sense. She didn’t. Whatever had spooked her had also robbed any sense of rational thought. She placed her hand on his and heaved the throttle forward, sharply, and the train picked up steam.
‘And I told you to keep on going!’ Misu protested. She reached above her and yanked the whistle twice in succession. If they’re smart enough these fools will move.
Move they did. The barricade exploded into splinters as it took the full force of the Morning Star smashing into it on its escape. The unlikely men on watch jumped for cover as their demands were ignored, rolling into the dirt as timber littered all around them. The train burst out of Maou Port, making haste in no particular direction.
Ferry called to his manager, louder each time.
‘Hey!’ He was ignored by the woman watching the tracks in the darkness, illuminated by the front light. For the first time, he placed his hands on her, warranted by her erratic behaviour, and spun Misu where she stood to face him. ‘Hey! What the hell was that just now?’
‘My order! When I tell you to do something, you damn well follow it, understand?’ she retorted, red-eyed.
Ferry slowly lowered a bear paw of a hand down to his side, glaring. He grunted his question though kept his annoyances in check.
‘Do you mind telling me exactly where we’re going?’
‘We’ll decide that when we have more time. In the meantime, just keep moving north until we have space.’
‘Space from what?’
‘Just space,’ she insisted.
* * *
With a climb of speed, the Morning Star pulled out from the city and into the wasteland. Protruding her head from the engine cab window again, she looked behind this time, watching for any sign of pursuers. It took a long while until Misu allowed herself to exhale the anxiety away, slumping back inside and seating herself on a grimy wooden stool.
Ferry squatted opposite, making sure to be out of the heat of the burning firebox.
‘Have you calmed down now?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’
Misu wiped the sweat from her face, inadvertently trailing a streak of soot across her reddened skin. It was hot in the cab but every inch of her burned from sprinting, her words emerging as broken, dry croaks.
‘It was a close call. A very close call,’ she grunted, fingers trembling over the holster on her hip. The recently fired gun hung as a weightier burden than she expected. ‘I don’t want us mixed up in any business or ruckus. It’s bad for the image.’
‘Just the image, huh?’ Ferry grunted. He turned to the branching-out pipes, knotted with apple-red valves, spinning one that was clutched firmly. ‘And running from an entanglement with the law is really going to prevent any suspicion of our involvement of whatever that was. I think it’s a little late for that considering we just fled the scene.’
Immediately Misu regained her composure. She took to her feet, grasping her responsibilities and shaking off the tremors. Her fingers curled inward to fists, willing them to be steady. Misu needed a drink, a hard drink to sedate her for the evening, but most of all, most of all Misu needed all this to be over with.
‘Leave that to me to worry about. That’s something else that’s not your job,’ she snorted, and left, making her way to her carriage with false bravado.
Chapter 11
To a stop
Gaining considerable distance from Maou Port was of the highest importance. If anybody started to associate the Morning Star’s presence and subsequent escape with the firefight, this whole affair could become untangled. Discovery would be disastrous at this stage and what with being so close to what Misu considered the end, it would be a cruel outcome to fail now.
Misu lay atop Franco’s bed, for what it was worth. It wasn’t the noise or the motion that deprived her of sleep. As she stared at the canopy, the old familiar sounds and smells played with her psyche. Shapes formed from nothing, maybe willed, maybe not, something that she was unable to determine but her submission was quick. She dare not close her eyes in case the phantom faded away. Its presence gave scant comfort.
The ghost of Franco strolled around the carriage, a record of a conversation that would soon run its course. He babbled about an imaginary itinerary, scolded non-existent people for impossible reasons, all the while catching her gaze. Yearning eyes followed the figure around, rolling onto her side to get a better view until its existence promptly faded into nothing, but still Misu stared.
It would be easy to succumb to emotion, rage even, in her position, but instead Misu had steeled herself against such things – all things in fact. There was no room for any of that on this journey. She could cry when it was all done, whatever the outcome. She had promised herself that when this whole mess began, but had broken it in secret many a time.
* * *
Franco Del Monaire spluttered into a closed fist, a throaty hack that brought up some untold mucus from the depths of his being. In doing so his eyes reddened to the point where tears developed. He had intended to shake off this horrid cough a week ago but sadly it had developed into something nastier. The recovery, or what he defined as recovery, was not helped as scotch rarely quelled a sore throat and fretting about the next show did little to settle his head pains.
The stumble around his carriage, assisted by leaning on furniture, culminated in a brief misstep. An outreached hand intending to grasp the edge of his writing desk instead launched an empty tumbler onto the carpet with a dull thud. He landed, face first, onto the floor, his modesty covered with a dressing gown that was dangerously close to revealing his buttocks.
Misu was in the adjoining annex when she heard the commotion. She had brought him some soup and water on the pretence that it may help his condition, though his constant stubbornness was delaying any significant healing. She opened the door without an invitation, placed the food down, and helped him onto his feet.
‘Look at you! How can you be dragging yourself around like this without a care? You need rest. I don’t know how many times I need to tell you that until you start listening to me, but let’s go for one more. You. Need. To. Rest. You’re sick.’
Misu escorted him to the side of the bed, attempting to make him sit though he arrogantly gripped the mahogany footboard as if it were an anchor to reality itself.
‘No, I can’t be sick – we have a show to do.’ His croaking was as much of an annoyance as the erratic coughs that had plagued him.
‘You can’t be walking around sounding like that, probably because you can barely speak and you sure as hell can’t walk. What are you going to do, be propped up on ropes and moved around like some puppet?’
Misu retrieved the soup and drink, placing them on the dressing table nestled between the bed and dividing wall.
‘We’ll have to cancel,’ he rasped.
‘Why? Let me do it tonight, Franco.’
‘You?’ The surprise caught him quite off guard, causing an eruption of coughs.
‘Yes, me. I know all your cues, I know the speeches, I know how to run things. I’ve not shadowed you for how long now just to be oblivious. You brought me on to be your second, so … maybe it’s time we make good on that.’
‘That’s impossible – you have too much to arrange as it is.’
‘There’s nothing I can’t rearrange –’ She was suddenly cut off.
‘Then there’s the
book keeping afterwards, which is an undertaking and a half.’
‘Which I have done since I was aboard the Den if you –’
‘Not to mention the substantial mingling that is forced upon you being the centre of attention.’
‘You’re not listening to me.’ Misu frowned as he babbled on.
‘You run the train during the day –’
‘Then give me a shot at the night,’ Misu eagerly interrupted, her enthusiasm alarmingly sudden. ‘I can do this – you know full well I can. While you muddle yourself with impossibilities, put some faith in what I can do. Stop talking about the obstacles in the way; in fact just stop talking in general and open your ears. I promise you. I can do this. I won’t let you down.’
‘Okay.’ Franco sighed, seating himself on his bed, though stubbornly refusing to lie down. He was too tired and too damn sick to endure arguing with Misu, knowing full well that all it would result in was an angrier disposition and a larger headache.
‘You mean okay as in let’s do it? No fooling?’
‘Sure. But on the condition that I get dressed up just in case you balls it up. We’ve got our reputation to think of.’
‘You think I’ll screw up?’ Misu spoke the words but shunned all signs of insult.
‘No, I think it’s a solid plan but I always prepare for failure so I’m not surprised by it. Indulge me: it’s a character flaw.’
‘One of many.’
‘Don’t make me change my mind on this,’ Franco groaned, finally deciding to rest against a line of well-positioned pillows. ‘I was just about warming to the idea.’
He took the glass of water and drained it to a quarter full before the coughs emanated once more.
* * *
Misu must have looked unnervingly sympathetic as he tried vigorously to contest that his illness was just passing and to go and prepare what needed to be prepared. She bounded through the carriage, paying complements and smiles, which – though well intended – encouraged him to usher her out faster for some quiet.
But before she brought the door to a close, he smiled from his bed and gave a mischievous wink.
‘Go give them hell out there. Make me proud.’
She would, Misu decided. She bloody well would.
Excitedly, she called an audience with the showgirls in the dining car and announced the change of management for tonight. They each enthusiastically echoed this opportunity given to Misu and by extension, themselves. Without Franco’s overbearing guidance they could be free to experiment with the show’s subtle details, something that they had wished to indulge in for some time.
The first time the carriage roof lights blazed in white, Misu felt as if she strode upon the apex of a cloud. Instead of wearing one of her usual dress outfits, her suit, which she admittedly hadn’t had many opportunities to wear, was hurriedly customized with flair, making her noticeably more prominent. The people staring beneath were spellbound by her appearance, some applauding, others not wishing to pollute the air of mystique with such crass noise.
‘Ladies. Gentlemen. I welcome you here tonight, in the company of the wonderful women in my employ.’ She bowed deeply, relishing every second of bluster. ‘I am your host and granter of your fondest wishes. You may call me the Hare.’
Familiarity with the routines ensured that she kept, mostly, to Franco’s script but the longer the night drew on, the more she improvised, finding herself lapping up the attention. Her performance became more vivid and extravagant but whereas Franco herded the crowd with optimism of better things to come, the Hare curiously approached all conversations with a firmer tongue, as if she judged and scorned but never spoke of such a thing to those she walked among. Her presence was potent. For Misu, she struggled to define where the show persona ended and her own began.
When the show was finally packed away, corks popped in celebration. Glass flutes were filled to the brim as Misu took her bows and graciously accepted the praise that the others adorned her with. Their success was undeniable and the fresh take was well received. Before she could indulge in a drink, Misu raced through to Franco’s private car to impart the good news.
‘Franco? Franco are you awake?’ Misu rapped on the door impatiently. Instead of waiting for a reply, she excitedly bounded inside, twirling from desk to cabinet. The vanity curtain had been drawn around his bed, a useful addition for the sunshine-soaked evenings. ‘You’re going to be ecstatic – we’re so up on takings that you won’t believe it! I think you owe us a little thank you. Spend some of this new money. May I suggest a trip somewhere fancy or … a jewellery shop? That would be fitting,’ she teased. There was no response.
‘If you think that us girls deserve something shiny for our hardships, then just remain silent.’ She eyed the pulled curtain around his bed. There was no way he could be sleeping. Pretending to maybe, but not actually sleeping, as he would be too concerned as to how Misu fared at the reins.
Still nothing.
‘I’m glad we agree,’ she cheered, assessing what would be best upon her wrist. ‘I think I’ll go with a nice piece with sapphire. How kind of you to say cost is no concern, Franco; you really do spoil us.’
By now she was tired of talking to a curtain and took a fistful of pleats, calling out a fair warning.
‘I’m coming in! Naked or not it won’t make a difference to me!’
She yanked it back, expecting him bashfully apologetic for doubting her, or maybe, if she was really lucky, to see him actually asleep.
Instead, lying upon the crumpled sheets was his Stag mask and, alarmingly, a letter placed beside it. Its cream envelope was simple, undecorated apart from a single well-written address on its front:
To the Runaway
Immediately she tore it open and feverishly read the contents. Every word broke her heart that bit further until she slumped against the bed’s edge. She had owed a price to Wilheim Fort and now, even with her death, he would come collect. It would have been easier if they dragged her away instead or just put a bullet in her point-blank, but that wasn’t how he did things. A kill was a simple thing to bring about. The subjection of pain, on the other hand, was a delight for one so foul. That would take time to administer.
Within her grip the paper crumpled, caused by a place where distress and fury collided. It had been years now since she had escaped from his clutches. She was even a living ghost, but even death was apparently no veil to hide from the maniac. If Misu was honest with herself, when had she thought of the danger Wilheim had presented? Franco hadn’t spoken of him for longer than she could remember. They had been too concerned with the show, too lax about the threat that they had taken desperate measures to escape from.
They had brought this upon themselves, she concluded.
What would it take to be free of his bondage? How many would be towed into his cruel games? She had thought that she could live a normal life – or as normal as one could have aboard the show. Misu dragged her nose roughly across a sleeve and began to violently sob.
Everybody would be waiting for her to return. Some had already begun to celebrate for a show well done, proving that even without their owner at the helm, its occupants could hold their own. The showgirls would want answers. Where was he? Was he proud of their display? Why wasn’t he addressing them himself?
The Hare took hold of Franco’s show mask, placed a kiss upon its forehead, and whispered an apology. Finally, she stared back at her reflection and nodded slowly to herself, knowing full well what was to be done. This was no time for crying, no place for shaken resolve. The Morning Star needed a figurehead. It needed an owner.
So Misu lied. She informed the showgirls that Franco had taken personal leave, to travel northwards for unspecified reasons. The train would be under her stewardship and they were to give her the respect that he had commanded. It wouldn’t be permanent, she stated, only until things were back to normal; but when that would be? She simply dismissed with an ‘at his discretion’. The showgirls went along with i
t, never questioning the changes that Misu brought about. Eventually they treated Franco’s absence as the norm with some of the newer girls brought on not even familiar with him.
Any instructions from Wilheim were sent by proxy, by shady individuals who presented themselves as normal customers. It was ordered that Misu was to haul her terrible cargo to pre-set destinations, offloading to all manner of criminals, all under the nose of those who trusted her above all else.
Because that was what had to be done.
* * *
And then it happened.
It started with a sharp vibration that shot from engine to end carriage. Then, each carriage lurched slightly to the left as it overran unspecified debris. The interior of each bucked a moment before bellowing clouds of steam erupted outside the windows, fogging them up.
Misu’s eyes snapped open, disappointed that she had unwillingly fallen asleep. She swore, loudly, yanking down her carriage window to be greeted with gushing plumes of white. Along with the deafening clatter of the wheels thundering was an all too clear sound of something, somewhere, hissing.
Already the brakes began to violently lock the wheels up, metal screaming against metal in dispute. Misu lurched suddenly along with most anything that wasn’t held down. Paperwork blasted across the carriage, a glass tumbler and a – luckily empty – bottle of spirits exploded against a wall. All through the carriages this action was mirrored as the showgirls fell or were sent stumbling over tables or seats, completely unprepared for the stop.
* * *
The Morning Star groaned as it limped to a full halt in the Sand Sea. Jets of steam flooded over the second carriage from underneath and erupted into the sky. Already Ferry was outside, yelling at those in Carriage One.
‘Keep those damn windows closed,’ he barked to the observers who jostled for a view, and he made accompanying hand gestures. ‘It’ll cook those pretty faces of yours in an instant!’
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