Dark Age (The Reckoning Turbines Book 1)

by Robert T. Bradley

  Nicholas calmed his nerves and collected his thoughts. He needed to act slow and calculated, make his way over to him, avoiding a scene; he shuddered at the thought.

  ‘All aboard!’ shouted the station guard. The large crowd shuffled together approaching the train. Nicholas watched the man. He went with the crowd a few steps. Then broke off, disappearing into the crowd of top hats behind him. ‘Blast, bastards seen me.’

  Wasting little time, Nicholas ran after him, skirting through the crowd. The man’s pace was different from before, he was slower, and he wore fitted clothing. Certainly not to Nicholas’ taste but nevertheless expensive.

  Outside of the station the man had disappeared. Twisting himself around like a tornado, Nicholas knocked a nearby woman to the floor with two pails, covering her in water. He bent down and helped her back to her feet, then, in the distance, over her masculine shoulder, the rat tail waggling from side to side. Nicholas adjusted the zoom on his goggles, zeroed in and shot after it, splashing the woman to protest in the process, he flew past the commotion.

  ‘Help,’ shouted the desperate man, pointing back at Nicholas, ‘he’s trying to kill me!’

  People heard the cry and stopped to show concern, but opted to move out of Nicholas’ way rather than reprimand. Nicholas winked in acknowledgement as he sped past.

  V

  Aboard the Gypsy Moth, hanging over the starboard bow, Helen Tawney, one of the deckhands, watched the Moorland draw closer. Patchworks of smallholdings held sheep and other animals, began to form details. The small scattered trees appeared like dark green dots, full of their last remaining brown leaves hanging from branches, refusing to give in to the coming winter season. Toward Gateshead’s town wall she caught the commotion between two figures. She grabbed her telescope from her trouser belt and had a long look at it. Two men appeared to be fighting outside the city’s gates.

  ‘Mr Shanks!’ she shouted in a cheer, ‘come look at this!’

  Shanks headed over to the deck hand and lifted his own telescope toward the scene.

  ‘Good one, Hells. Oh those poor souls.’

  ‘What do you think it’s about?’ she asked, squinting one eye.

  ‘Only three things men fight over outside such a dump. Whores, money or...’ Shanks coughed, ‘or more whores.’

  Captain Barknuckle sat in her chamber studying the map of the Moor, worried Gateshead might prove a loose end, she pondered over the locations of two other major ports, Eastwood and Staddiscombe.

  Shanks burst back in. ‘Captain, quick! Come and look at this.’

  ‘It best be good, Shanks.’ She got up and followed him to where her crew had gathered, each of them with a telescope in their hands. She pulled her own from her belt. Two men fighting, both dressed like gentlemen. One of them was giving the man who had his back to the ship a severe beating. She slowly collapsed her telescope together and tapped the edge on her lips. ‘Take us down lower, so I can get a better look, please, Mr Shanks.’

  ‘Aye aye, Captain. Sounds like you fancy making a wager?’

  The crew let out unified applause.

  ‘My money’s on the one with the green trousers!’ a deckhand shouted.

  Captain Barknuckle eyed up Folly’s telescope which had better magnification. Then, as the ship got closer, the dark-haired man in the green trousers gave the other a cracking left hook, sending the other fighter spinning toward his audiences’ direction.

  ‘Father!’ shouted the Captain.

  Grabbing one of the ropes she ran to the bow of the ship, knocking over two of the deckhands, and secured it to her harness. ‘Take us above them,’ she shouted, making the rope tight. ‘Slow her down, Shanks.’ She counted down in her head as the rest of the crew wore puzzled faces.

  ‘Five, four, three, two, one....’ she jumped.

  VI

  Nicholas planted a blow straight on the side of the man’s face, sending a cocktail of blood and teeth out onto the Moor. He grabbed him by the collar. ‘Who sent you to kill my family!’

  The man smiled a row of bloody teeth and spat in Nicholas’ face.

  ‘You vile pig.’ The wrath took over the controls of Nicholas’ calculated attacks. He caught Francis’s puny left wrist and twisted it. Francis fell to the ground, spitting more blood.

  The blood landed on Nicholas’ trouser. ‘You bastard.’ A right hook swooped down like a jackhammer, crashing into Francis’ cheek. Under Nicholas’ knuckles a few more teeth dislodged, giving the powered rage quantities of pleasure. He let go of Francis.

  The feeble man laughed, ‘I’m surprised at you, Nicholas,’ Francis spat. ‘The Nicholas Nightingale I saw fight at the Hunters Bowl would have knocked a vagabond like me out in seconds.’

  ‘Steal a ticket, did you?’ Nicholas picked up his hat and dusted off the dirt. The vagabond was right, Nicholas knew it, he wasn’t as delicious with his fists as he used to be.

  ‘To a boxing match? Dearie me Nicholas, shame you’re not as intelligent as your brother.’ He spat out a few more shards of dislodged teeth. ‘Or as forthcoming as your young Nightingale’s late night gestures.’

  ‘What?’ He grabbed Francis by the neck. ‘What do you know of my nephew?’

  ‘Oh, nephew, is he? The people who sent me will be most intrigued knowing another Nightingale’s larking about.’

  Nicholas threw him from his grasp. ‘I’m not going to ask you again, who sent you to hurt my family?’

  Shooting past him was a blur of speed. Nicholas lost his footing, blown backwards, landing on the fell. A woman collided with Francis, grabbed him and hoisted him to an airship bustling overhead.

  Nicholas watched, trying to catch his breath in amazement as the object blotted out the day’s light passing over him. It rocked and banked from one side to the next. Hurrying for his goggles, Nicholas placed them over his eyes and increased the magnification.

  He probed the hull, wood, black metal, gold trim and some advanced looking canons at the front, thin like a pair of insect stingers. The ship tilted upward to the cloud cover. Then, just as it disappeared back into the clouds, he saw it. A name framed in gold letters. The Gypsy Moth.

  CHAPTER 8

  A river of top hats flowed down Port Staddiscombe’s third platform and collected at the carriage doors of the train. A row of heated brass exhaust pipes cradled the front of the steam engine and ran together as a collective along the side of the carriages replaced with concertina connectors between each separation. The pipes bled sharp steams of hot steam outward every few seconds like a bull preparing to charge the inbound passengers who consistently tried to avoid them.

  ‘Baxter, look out.’ Tabitha pulled him from the path of a pipe.

  ‘I saw it, I was trying to get a better look at these pipes.’ He said, leaning closer.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, ‘it’ll burn your faced off.’

  Her eyes had a mothering look of concern yet again, same way they looked during the first hours of their venture.

  ‘Quick, a gap,’ she said, ‘there, instead of squishing me – get in there!’

  Baxter held Tabitha and slid in, greeted by a gentleman’s bottom stuck out on the ladder.

  ‘And there was me thinking Uncle Nicholas had a unique style,’ Baxter said, tapping Tabitha to see where he pointed.

  ‘I hope none of them lot get in our compartment,’ she said with a scowl. ‘Their cologne.’

  ‘What about it?’ he said.

  ‘Can’t you smell it?’ she pinched her nose.

  ‘I’m getting quite the whiff from this angle.’ said Baxter, looking back to the mans bottom.

  She didn’t notice his joke and instead said, ‘It smelt like standing water, I wouldn’t even give the stuff to pigs.’

  The carriage’s floral wallpaper peeled, exposing the wood underneath. The white background had faded, a film of grey soot covering aspects of its design.

  Baxter opened a stiff carriage door. ‘Here, it’s empty, let’s get in and sit opposite ea
ch other.’ He sat and tried to get comfortable in the fuzzy static-riddled seat.

  ‘Spread your legs.’ said Baxter.

  ‘Oh I see,’ said Tabthia, ‘those pipes outside get you excited did they?’

  ‘What?’ Baxter blushed suddenly aware of what Tabitha meant. ‘Cover the seat so nobody else takes a seat with us.’

  ‘I knew what you intended.’ She said, slowly opening her legs.

  ‘Must be an old train.’ said Baxter looking up at the ceilings peeling paint and the shabby walls.

  Tabitha laughed. ‘Yeah, that and they save all the good stuff for behind the walls.’

  The train left the station and sped past trees covering the view of the city walls. A gap in the trees made it visible. Baxter’s head tipped back his mouth opened wider in a unison of awe. Tabitha sat in silence, unfazed by the colossal structure outside.

  ‘What is it even made from? Can’t be stone?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘Concrete.’ Tabitha stared at the filth on the window, uninterested.

  ‘No way, the walls are hundreds of years old–’

  ‘You don’t think they knew how to mix concrete in olden times?’

  ‘If they did, how come so many of the old buildings are made from stone?’

  ‘Yes, in the village, here’s different.’ Her hands fell from her chest limply landing in her lap. ‘My father told me once, city boys, from the Lowers, the moment they could stand they started working on the walls. Some of them worked their entire lives and died of old age before seeing its final construction.’ She looked away from the window at him, her eyes sheened with a cold blue. ‘Things are different here, Baxter.’

  ‘What is it?’ He placed his hand on her knee. ‘You’ve not been yourself since the inn, is it your–’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ The drone reply escaped her lips on an exhausted wheeze.

  Baxter held his stare, studying her chin as it gradually lowered like the weight of her recent loss pulled it down. He thought about comforting words, he searched for the appropriate message, and instead decided to say, ‘Why don’t you get your head down for a bit. We won’t be pulling into the City until at least another hour.’

  ‘I’m not tired.’ There was a long pause. ‘I’m hungry.’ She didn’t look at him. ‘And I miss home.’

  ‘Right.’ He looked back to the view of the city.

  Tabitha’s eyes rolled from the window and met his. Her head hung as though the neck had given in to the pull on her chin. ‘How much money do we have?’

  He knew the answer to the question, yet proceeded to pretend he didn’t and yanked the coins out of his pocket. ‘Three shillings remain.’

  She stretched, only to flop back in a deeper slouch. ‘Food?’

  He looked at his hand. ‘It’ll be enough for some bread.’

  ‘Then what?’

  He closed his hand around the coins and clasped them in a fist.

  ‘Lodgings? Where are we gonna live?’ she moaned.

  ‘My family has money in the city. I’ll find a bank.’

  ‘Which bank?’

  He leaned forward and clenched his jaw. ‘The City bank.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Tabitha pointed at him. ‘Of course it matters!’

  Baxter gritted his teeth. ‘Well, I could always just pretend I’m my uncle?’

  ‘Nicholas Nightingale? You?’ The pointed finger morphed into a wave, and she shooed off the idea. ‘You think a bank will let you waltz in and make a withdrawal by prizing your uncle’s charm?’

  ‘My father has a lot of money here.’

  ‘Do you have his papers?’

  ‘What papers?’

  ‘The banking papers, to prove who you are. Even then without registration you won’t be able to make a withdrawal.’

  The sound of the seat’s springs slowly crushing their rust together under his weight did well at giving an accompaniment to his current mood. ‘It’ll be okay. I’m pretty confident I know where my father is.’

  ‘Do you, Baxter?’

  Heat came from the back of his throat and travelled fast, meeting the tips of his lips. ‘He’s an alcoholic, Tabitha! He’ll be propped up at the nearest bar, yarning on about how he was wronged by his brother, by me and whatever it is he did which cast him so far from this place.’

  He grabbed his bag, pushed aside the two pistols he’d hidden inside and studied each of the sheets of paper.

  ‘I gather your birth certificate is in there?’ she said.

  ‘It’s not,’ he reluctantly replied. ‘Do you have yours?’

  ‘My birth certificate? Why would I need to bring it with me? Besides, my family don’t have a City bank account.’ Her voice was full of bluster. ‘I’m just a simple farm girl, what the hell do I know?’

  The carriage door swung open. A moustache uniformed man filled the doorway, reeking of the cologne Tabitha hated. The reflection of the moorland in his spectacles hid his eyes as his body drifted from side to side. ‘Tickets if you please,’ he croaked, from his bare-toothed mouth.

  Tabitha broke the silence. ‘We haven’t bought any, here.’ She scooped the coins and offered them over to the conductor.

  He thumbed them between his thick fingers and looked at Baxter. ‘Are they yours, young master?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The inspector looked at the young lady. ‘Where’s your fare then?’

  ‘That’s for both of us.’

  The man let out a long sigh. ‘You’re missing three shillings, miss, if this is, as you say, for the both of ya.’

  ‘Oh goodness, I’m so sorry sir.’ They searched their clothing, Tabitha’s movements were far slower than Baxter’s. The ticket inspector’s eyes followed her hands, she stood up square to him.

  ‘Three shillings, miss.’ He pruned his moustache over his lip as she wiggled around in front of him, pretending to search.

  ‘We don’t have it,’ Baxter said, from behind her.

  ‘Are you meeting any benefactors at the station?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, slowly moving her head from side to side.

  ‘I shall have to contact the guard tower. Whose fare is this?’

  ‘It’s his,’ she snapped quickly before Baxter had a chance to answer.

  The man pushed his glasses up his nose and leant around Tabitha to give Baxter an inspection. ‘You better come with me,’ he said to Tabitha. ‘Young man, stay here please.’

  ‘No, I’m coming too.’

  ‘Sir, this isn’t your concern. Come along miss.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said in her saddest tone.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Baxter jumped to his feet and straightened his tunic.

  ‘Baxter, grow up,’ she said, ‘I’ll figure this out.’

  As they left, Baxter shouted. ‘He’s going to throw you off the train!’

  ‘Stay in your compartment please.’ said the conductor.

  He did and sat back in his seat and put his feet up on the chair in front. Dried mud on the tips of his boots flexed as he bent his toes from inside. Some of the mud cracked and broke off in smaller pieces landing on the carpeted floor. He thumped his boot down and crushed each of them.

  II

  The train conductor’s finger jabbed at the small of her back as he pushed her up the carriage toward the back of the train. The wooden beams housing each carriage had chipped along their seams, in need of repair. Ahead a frosted glass door read First Class. The inspector leant over her shoulder, and she caught a trace of whisky; the cheap stuff more chemical than barley.

  The first-class carriage held some seated gentlemen discussing business or politics; both, she believed. The women among them wore fine silks and they appeared to be agreeing with each other. The finger against her spine pushed her past the passengers, none of which made eye contact with her.

  The conductor opened another door leading to the last carriage. A few gaslights hung over compartment doorways, they
flickered and illuminated little past the old cobwebs collecting around their structure.

  ‘Keep moving miss,’ said the raspy voice behind her. ‘My office is at the end.’

  III

  The train entered tunnel and the compartment gaslight appeared to burn brighter above Baxter’s head. he poked his head out the compartment door and found the narrow gangway empty. She was stronger stuff than he’d gave her credit. She’ll be busy flicking her eyelids, charming him with her country tones. She was a smart girl, street wise, and the days of late proven that people were her speciality. Outside a crowd of well-dressed ladies walked past the carriage. One of them looked in, caught Baxter’s eye. He smiled thin, then wide, one of the ladies, the youngest laughed and hurried her friends along, laughing and whispering about some Moorlander boy who just smiled at her. He looked down at his white shirt, it was un-tucked, riddled in stains he tucked it in, wet his finger and attacked the largest of the three stains. Other people were coming, talking about a new train, claiming to be faster than Nightingales. They slid open the compartment.

  ‘Are these chairs available moorlander?’ said another man wearing moorland reflective spectacles and grin that covered his entire face.

  ‘No.’ said Baxter, sitting up straight. ‘My companions are…’

  The longer Baxter delayed in answering seemed to deflate the strange smiling man’s smile to a frown.

  ‘How long will they be?’ said the man.

  Baxter removed his watch and went to answer the man but the carriage door closed leaving him alone.