‘Like where?’ Bounty asked with both suspicion and curiosity.
Jackdaw grinned like a child. Never had the horizon been so far from him and the land so alluring.
‘Oh, I’ve got me a plan and you’re gonna love it.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Young blood, old blood
Cole struggled to rise this morning.
His brain felt two sizes too small for his skull and try as he might, his feet felt like uncooperative stumps of wood. He swung them over the bedside and gave a moment to compose himself. It felt as if a plague had consumed him but after spending a good deal of time rearranging his thoughts into something coherent, Cole recalled it was just old-fashioned alcohol. That and his own stupidity.
Alvina, at the bed closest to the end, brushed her beaded modesty curtain open with a noisy clatter, pulling her holster a notch tighter on her hips as she did so. She breezed past Cole before taking in his sorry sight.
‘Get into a spot of bother last night did we?’
Cole wiped the sting from his eyes as best as he could, speaking with such difficulty it was as if someone had sandpapered his throat.
‘That dock master at Redset wanted to voice concerns but wouldn’t do so without drinking. According to him, the Jackrabbits’ recent surge of activity had brought some attention from Bluecoats. Telling us that their sniffing around was a veiled warning, that if things weren’t slowed down there would be no way he could hold off a raid.’
‘Gutsy.’ Alvina checked her hair in a mirror, refastening the black braid. ‘What was the outcome?’
‘His justification,’ Cole continued, ‘was that the business with the Messiah had put plenty of eyes on Esquelle and one wrong move would be disastrous for everybody. Anyway, we’re knocking back glass after glass and I get an idea. I said, should I drink more than my company, we keep goods vanishing at the same rate they are now. If not, we take his suggestion and ease things off for a couple of weeks. We can handle the loss, so it wouldn’t be that much of a disruption.’
‘But it’s the principle of the thing, right?’ Alvina tossed the braid over her shoulder and turned back to her companion.
‘Right. We let him slip and everybody will want to play things safe.’ Cole clasped his hands together and shook his head in bewilderment. ‘How was I supposed to know that the guy grew up in a family brewery?’
Alvina smirked to herself.
‘How, indeed? Come on, up off there – let’s get you sorted. The day is just beginning,’ Alvina insisted, helping him up by the hand, leading him out of the makeshift communal bedroom and into the kitchen space.
Blake was busy painting a wall with a tub of moss green, hanging from his ladder to reach an extremely tricky spot hidden by water pipes but despite this, the new hideout was shaping up nicely. One of the warehouses dockside had its lease up and the group had managed to negotiate a very favourable rent and contract length – if it could be called negotiation. It needed work of course, but it was nothing that the Jackrabbits couldn’t put effort in to and by the time they finished, it would be grand indeed – and worthy of Jackdaw himself, if he ever wanted to re-join the lifestyle.
‘Somebody’s hung over,’ Blake mocked, deciding now to be the perfect time to descend and admire his handiwork. With hands on hips he nodded in accomplishment. Cole had ignored the remark and instead looked around him, the common living space looking less like a pit and now much more habitable. It was surprising how much of a transformation a simple coat of paint could accomplish.
‘Doesn’t look half bad that,’ Blake boasted, ‘and just in time for breakfast too, something that I have noticed is not currently happening?’
‘He’s right, Cole.’ Alvina pursed her lips to the side, almost apologetically. ‘Come on, young blood, get with the breakfast already – we’re starving.’
Cole wearily wiped his hands over his face, groaning loudly. It was the same thing every morning and it couldn’t change soon enough.
Nestled down under the sink, a young man wrestled with the pipes, attempting to fix the leak from a rusted joint. Upon hearing himself referred to, he dropped his wench, got to his feet and began wiping his hands on a rag. The lad was only seventeen, snub-nosed with glinting sienna eyes, spry and youthful in his naivety with a thatch of toffee hair that congregated on his shoulders in a wave.
‘What did I miss?’ he asked the Jackrabbits.
‘Blake said breakfast is late.’ Cole watched as Blake seated himself at the dining table, set his feet upon it as he lounged and skimmed through the front page of the morning paper. ‘I happen to agree. Whatever you’re doing, it can wait until you’ve rustled something up. Quickly now, the morning won’t last for ever.’
The youngster quirked a brow. ‘You’re joking, right?’
Alvina noisily pulled a chair out and joined Blake. Her reaction said it all, but if Cole was to be looking after their new recruit, he would have to be tough to get him in line. Just as they had been with him.
‘Oh, we don’t joke about that around here. Ever,’ Cole stated.
* * *
While the food was being prepared, too slowly according to Blake’s grumblings, a buzzing of the doorbell rattled away, sparking Cole to venture down the stairwell, across the factory floor and to the loading bay door. The door was swung open, revealing a rather confused-looking postman grasping an oddly sized brown paper package. The scrawled address was correct after all.
Cole examined the package all the way back up to the kitchen, turning it over and revealing, in curiously familiar handwriting:
For the attention of Cole Roaner ONLY
‘Post?’ Blake queried, wondering exactly how long breakfast was going to take. The wonderfully smoky stench of bacon was making him salivate into his beard. ‘There’s a turn-up. I didn’t think anybody knew we were even here.’
‘That’s what he said,’ Cole added. ‘It’s got my name on it. Someone knows we’re settled.’
Cole strode into the bedroom and fell down upon his bed, wrestling with the taut string that the package was bound with. Whoever wrapped it clearly did a fine job of preventing anybody from opening it, even the intended recipient. Resorting to a pocketknife, the string finally gave away. Inside were bundles of money, neatly wrapped together in large denominations. Cole picked up a bundle, noticing a red and black card envelope, very ornate, with the front stating the following:
With compliments, from the Morning Star
His fingers scored its edges until the wax seal popped and, with some trepidation, he scanned the letter inside.
Cole,
When we first met, you put a gun to my head and demanded money. As I promised on that day, here’s what you were owed, plus a little extra on top as a way of saying thank you. You did good.
I respect a man who uses his money for something noble. I wouldn’t do it as there are too many pretty things out there to buy, but you can use this to pay a little of that recompense if you feel so inclined. Widows and orphans are a fine thing to waste cash on.
With this, I suppose if you felt like a change in lifestyle, you’re free from being a Jackrabbit too.
All the best for the future,
Jackdaw
In truth, Cole had forgotten the reasons why he was doing this in the first place. As he stared at the money, wondering firstly how much was actually now in his possession and secondly, where he was going to stash it, he questioned the months he had spent as a crook, a thief, a murderer, all those bad things that he swore rotted away the decency of the world. All he had ever set out to do was make things a little more balanced. To give back the hope he had been robbed of when he was just a child and whilst he wasn’t so foolish to believe he could help everyone, the money before him would be a welcome start.
And the only personal cost was damning him as a felon for the rest of his life.
Cole slowly placed the card atop the money, contemplating how far he had strayed from his path. But he could st
ill make it right, couldn’t he?
‘Hey, Cole,’ Blakestone called out from back in the kitchen, loud enough to reach him and anybody in a mile radius with competent hearing. ‘We’ve got some jumped-up idiot saying they’re not paying protection this month because of a change in management. Boyle & Sons. The sons part needs re-educating. Do you want to take that one?’
Cole stuffed the money beneath his duvet to sort out later. If this was a road he was set upon for the rest of his life, sure it may be dangerous, but the money involved could set a lot of broken families right. It could mend a lot of hurt. It could provide food, shelter and second chances to the most needy.
Cole retrieved his revolver from a chair beside him, buckling up the holster. The weapon was checked for ammunition and holstered. His tan jacket was retrieved from the chair’s back and tossed on. In doing so, Cole caught a glimpse of his reflection. It was more self-assured than when he agreed to join the Jackrabbits. His eyes were keener, his hands rougher from labour, the furthest thing from being rooted to a desk and handling nothing but a pen and paperwork.
He was different, if Cole had to describe himself. Considerably different.
But that’s what being a Jackrabbit did to you.
‘Absolutely,’ Cole yelled out in reply.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The end of the show
Nobody enjoyed doing business in the Sand Sea at midday.
The sun was too high, the heat far too severe and these, along with other well-made observations, ensured that whoever contemplated such things rendered them idiotic. Plenty of people retreated to bars during the high sun hours, choosing to hang bar side than rather stuck in offices. A glass of something was preferable to sweltering in front of a typewriter.
Right now, Jackdaw would have given anything to be at his favourite bar back in Esquelle. Anything. Everything about it seemed to be nectar at this moment in time. The way it was never too busy to be uncomfortable. The beer they served on tap that was perfectly cold. The coy smile the barmaid gave him upon ordering. Lisa was it? Leena? Whoever it was, it was a nice smile. Right now, that thought sustained him.
Riding out into the Dead Corridor, in a full suit at that, was not Jackdaw’s best decision, though appearances had to be upheld, even out here. Being exposed to the sun for so long turned Jackdaw’s face flush and beaded with sweat. He said his hellos to those who passed, foremen and workers alike, moving past a multitude of temporary wooden structures, advertising everything from leather repair and hot meals to the long rows of lodgings for those on site. As he reached the outer of the colossal metal mass that he had called home now, he found respite.
Finally, the elevators were working after a good few weeks of temperamental behaviour. Jack strode into the one with a large sign in its interior stating STRICTLY NO EQUIPMENT – STAFF ONLY, drew back the lattice and yanked on the lever. With a jolt, the box launched him to the third floor, and there he walked out on to a plateau. He welcomed the noise of the work crews, the drilling, the banging, the shouting. It was a beautiful organized chaos. He walked through the recess that had been converted into a temporary work office. Blueprints and plans were strewn across tables, pinned to walls, with correction after correction made to them in blues and reds. He clutched a knapsack at his side.
Jackdaw removed a bound collection of envelopes, the string constraining them almost at the point of bursting. He placed them on the table where his partners stood, in the throes of deciding on the latest batch of paint colours, with far too many samples and quotes.
‘Today’s post?’ Misu asked, straightening herself.
‘I picked up another load of messages from the station upon passing. Some are personal, but the bulk of them are requesting that the Morning Star come out of retirement. I figure you may want to respond to them. You broke hearts with that decision. Eight months on and you still have people begging. Fancy that.’
‘You would think that people understood the concept of a goodbye tour. We’ve taken our bows far too many times already,’ Franco exclaimed, rubbing at his eyes. Even with his lids closed, flashes of colour inhabited his vision like swarms of insects. ‘People will soon learn that a spectacle becomes less amazing as time goes on. Trends change. What was once incredible loses its lustre. The smartest thing we did was retire.’
‘Men like you don’t retire, Franco,’ Jackdaw stated, so quickly, that he paused remembering when he last said such a thing, and who to.
‘Some do. The show, my friend, is most definitely over,’ Misu added, a flicker of sadness momentarily inhabiting her face. The pair had spoken in reverence as if they occupied a place of worship. The mere mention of the Morning Star had such gravitas that even speaking the name aloud felt wrong.
Sensing the mood, Jack withdrew an envelope separate from the pile, looking quite official with a number of stamps across its surface.
‘This might bring about a smile to your faces.’
‘Is that what I think it is?’ Misu asked.
Jackdaw swelled with delight. ‘A city permit allowing the private creation of a new rail line, crossing from one end of the Dead Corridor to the main Northern Line, connecting to Esquelle. The council vote was unanimously in favour. I didn’t even need to put forward our case further, being that the potential trade convinced everyone in attendance. I sat there for a good two hours listening to them gush about the bloody train. It was all very cute. Tedious, but cute.’
As Jack approached the balcony to survey progress, looking out over what was once the Messiah, he took in the sight of the hive of labour. Everywhere he looked, work crews cladded, welded, beat and built, in the process of transforming the sand ship into something grander. Scaffolding stretched high and wide, here and there. A handful of bridges had been constructed crossing the interior recess that made up the ship’s colossal cargo space, bathed in sun from the sky above. While functional, they had yet to have the regal arches built beneath. Some of the pillars were being fitted together in segments, semi complete, though their height was already impressive.
Lines of lights utilizing new forms of generating electricity were strung into formation, creating signs where signs were needed and construction allowed. The lower decks were mostly clear, with only a handful of large metal crates needing to be cut up and disposed of. Spaces had already been built for the amenities in what would become the immense lobby – the bars, the casino and all other manner of things exotic that were yet to be implemented. It had been eight months and there were plenty more ahead until the job would be completed, but promise was already showing.
Yes, it was all going well.
And his partners agreed.
Misu and Franco took to the viewing themselves, with not a bad word to say about the timescale, nor the cost. Going into business together was the perfect undertaking for the trio. Misu and Franco could realize a creation in size and scope that even they had dared not comprehend on their lonesome. Jackdaw had invested the money from the score into a legitimate venture with plenty of promise of a good return. The focus was on the legality of this, leaving his previous criminal escapades in the past; however, the money was a sweetener that simply made sense. The draw of the Morning Star and the ill-fated show train before it, the Gambler’s Den, guaranteed feverish attention from the entire Sand Sea, maybe even beyond.
Together they looked out upon the construction of their joint future.
‘Ready for another reason to be cheery?’ Misu finally asked, prompting Franco to obtain a darkened mass from a nearby table that was weighing down a series of documents upon what he used for a desk. He offered it out to Jack, cracks of silver breaking through accumulated grime – dirty but still recognizable.
‘One of the crews were cutting apart an ore bucket on the ground floor and found this tucked away,’ Franco explained as Jackdaw reached out to the object. ‘I know you put the word out that you were looking for something fitting its description and weren’t having much luck. I’m guessing this is
it. It’s distinctive enough to match your account.’
Despite being tarnished with soot, the Pendulum still paraded exuberance. Jack placed his fingers around the handle and brought it back into the daylight. He examined the weapon like he would have the face of its original owner, before his inheritance of the weapon and everything that came with it. He began to buff it with an expensive suit cuff, Jack’s nature taking priority over his well-polished appearance. A beam of sunlight ran over the edging of the blade. Nothing could stop him from smiling.
‘Well ain’t that a turn-up for the books,’ Jackdaw mumbled.
Jack noticed Misu examine him brandishing the weapon with surprising comfort. He lacked a holster at this point in time, but that was a momentary inconvenience. All that mattered was that things were one step being closer to being how they should be.
‘Should a woman be concerned that you show so much affection to a weapon?’ Misu jested as he placed the firearm on a table beside her, pushing aside a new batch of signed contracts.
‘No more so than what you two do when it comes to those trains of yours,’ Jackdaw retorted.
‘Fair point.’ She beamed.
Jackdaw looked past the woman, spying the pair of small cigarillos Franco always kept protruding from his waistcoat breast pocket – just in case the situation called for them. ‘May I? I feel like celebrating.’
Franco withdrew one, passing it to Misu who handed it onward in turn. The same was done with a matchbook, its reverse adorned with the curved script of the Morning Star logo. This time, Misu took the liberty of striking the match to a flame and held it still. Jackdaw sucked on the cigar, letting its tip catch alight, nodding in thanks. Misu shook the match to its demise, a ribbon of smoke announcing its last gasp. The trio looked out over the balcony and down in to the construction site.
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