The chimneys of Leeds were cold for
the first time in decades. The air were cleaner to breathe than I'd
ever known though it were thick with the threat of violence.
We'd rejoiced when Vickery's had won
the contract to build an Empress class dirigible for Montezuma,
god-king of the Incas. Germany had fallen behind on airship
manufacture, they had the skill all right but what use that when you
need exotic woods from the India, cotton from Jamaica and metal from
the African mines? Not much when good Queen Vic controls them all. So
now if you wanted an airship you came to England, and if you wanted
the best airship you came to Leeds.
Me, I couldn't even say the name of
the airship we built without choking, we called her 'the Popcat'.
They'd named her for some dark Inca god and it seemed he'd brought
all his ill will to our city. Montezuma wanted her in white, see, and
the government – self important, ill informed lugs that they are –
promised him just that. Two weeks before the skinning of the Popcat
started all industry in the city was shut down. Not so bad for those
who run it and can sit back and have themselves a holiday in
Scarborough or Brighton but a disaster for the families depending on
the wages that wouldn't be paid.
I think it was about the time of the
first riots that the kiddies started vanishing.
One of the Lords, some high
fancypants adventurer named Lachlan Quellor, brought up a regiment
of steam tanks to guard the houses of the rich. Denied a target the
hungry masses had started giving dark looks to Dridgers like myself
-- even though I was already a known agitator and if I was not such a
skilled man Vickery's would have ditched me long ago.
We couldn't stand and watch our
brothers starve. When the men decided to strike it was natural they
would ask me to lead them.
So I broke me fast on black bread
smeared with a thin skin of lard. I would have had nothing but Mary
insisted, said I needed my strength to go find Barnaby, our son. He
had joined the ranks of the missing four days ago. That was one a
week for the last five months. Even before he were gone I were
consumed by the need to find our missing childer. When Barnaby went
my fervour became a madness that ate me up and sucked the life from
me. I had not eaten, slept nor paused to comfort my wife in her
worry. Fear makes a man selfish.
We did not speak during breakfast,
Mary and I. I had a half remembered vision of being carried back to
our damp little terrace the night before by friends who had found me
collapsed in the gutter. Mary crying as I were laid out insensible on
the bed.
As I ate a voice surfaced, as if it
were a ghost. A memory of a soft hand and a whisper into the ear of
an exhausted man.
'Mary,' I said, 'one moment.' she
stared at me with eyes raw from weeping.
'Do what you must, Husband,' she
said. There was no love in her words. There had not been for many
years.
My Dridgers coat was a heavy thing,
waxed against the weather and with many pockets for the tools of my
trade. As a skilled skinner it was mostly filled with the long, sharp
bodkins and heavy caulking tools that I carried – Leeds had
become an even more violent place recently and they made good weapons. In the lower left pocket,
the one in which I usually kept my canvas thread, was a piece of
paper folded once with a sharp crease. I took it out and rubbed it
between my fingers. Good quality, not the rag parchment most of us
used. The words within stole my breath away and forced me back to
sitting on the rickety chair I ate my breakfast from.
Dear Sir,
I believe your son, Barnaby Finlay,
has joined the ranks of those missing. I am in no place to act on the
information I have but believe it may be of some use to you. I write
to say only this, it is possible that your child, and the others who
are missing from your community, are within the Vickery factory.
Indeed, I believe them to be in the disused undercroft. You
will find the key with this letter.
Yours Sincerely,
a Friend.
I turned the paper, as if somehow a
key could be hidden there without me knowing before feeling foolish.
'Woman,' I coughed out, 'get me my
coat.'
'Your coat,' she gave me a look
would have withered fruit on the bough, 'I'll not...'
'Do it,' I barked. Harsher than I
meant to be and held up the letter, 'it is about the boy.' My voice
softened as the tears returned to her eyes, 'may lead me to him,
Mary. Him and the others.'
She nodded, kneading her pinafore
with hands twisted by arthritis, damp and cold then quickly passed me
my coat. Within the same pocket I had found the letter in was a key,
an old rusted and ugly thing.
'I must go, Mary. Hope I bring
Barnaby back with me.'
'God go with you, Barnabas.'
I nodded but could not reply. I had
long given up on a God who seemed to only care for the rich.
Hurrying through the streets to the
Vickery factory were heart breaking. A morning mist had slunk up out
of the river and the smell of baking, usually so strong in the city,
was absent. No one had money for bread. A Steam Dragon coughed in the
mist ahead of me and I pressed myself into the walls of the terraces
as a column of the beasts steamed past – guns high in the air,
engines coughing and hissing. Soldiers little better than bandits
rode their iron shells, staring at me with eyes as cold as the
wife's. I could smell the liquor coming off the soldiers even above
the bitter and cloying stink of machine oil. They could well do with
some of my Mary's temperance.
Outside Vickery's factory the picket
was already in place. I'd missed the morning jeering at the workers
brought in from London who lived in a fenced and guarded campsite up
on Roundhay park but heavy stones littered the ground. Hector, one of
the union stewards ran up to me. He sported a black eye and held his
left arm close, cradled against him to protect it.
'How do, 'Ector,' I said, 'rough
night?'
'Aye, some Soldiers decided to 'ave
a drink in the Cross Keys,' he smiled, showing a missing tooth. 'We
gave as good as we got, Barnabas.'
'Glad to hear it,' I tried to smile
but I could tell he weren't convinced.
'Barnabas,' he said, 'I know you
feel a debt to us but there's no need for you to picket. Go find your
lad.'
'That's why I'm here, 'Ector, he's
in there,' I pointed at the massive red-brick building with the only
chimney in the city still belching out dark smoke. 'I need to get in
there.'
He nodded, chewed his lip.
'Right,' he said, 'there's a back
way, pickets thinned a little as people get hungrier. We couldn't
guard them all. No one'll see.'
'No,' I said, 'and thank ee, but if
I sneak in they'll arrest me as a luddite the moment they see me. I
need them to think I'm real. I need them to think I've broken.'
He leaned in close, wincing with
pain as he moved.
'Barnabas,' he said, 'if our men
think you're a scab they'll rip you apart.'
He was worried for me but I saw no
other way. I had to get into the factory and I had to make it look
real or before I walked through the factory doors I'd be dragged away
to prison.
'Please Hector,' I said. 'He's my
son,' and I had to swallow the tears back. Hector nodded.
'Walk with me to the gate,' he said.
'You can be over the gate before they realise. I'll make it look like
you let me down.'
'Thank you,' I shook his hand.
It was hard, walking amongst men I
had worked with, befriended, talked around to my way of seeing
things. Some I had bullied into solidarity with their comrades in the
mills and the foundries. They clapped me on the back, asked after
Barnaby. Made offers of help, told me they had food secreted away and
I was welcome to it. The black iron gates of the Vickery factory grew with
every step I took. As cold and unwelcome as the moment coming where I
would betray these men and the principles I had held dear for years.
Beyond the gates stood a row of
soldiers. Bright red smears in the fog, Martini-Henry rifles on their
shoulders, bayonets on. I hoped they wouldn't fire when I leapt the
gates. If the men behind me mis-understood and followed me thinking I
was storming the place the Martini-Henry's would make short shrift of
us all. One bullet from them could pass through three men. A steam
Dragon roared behind as it brought round its turret mounted maxim
gun.
One deep breath. One jump.
I was up.
There was a moment when nothing
happened. The crowd behind me, so lively a moment ago, became silent.
The soldiers stared and I brought my foot up onto a crossrail and
with a great push forced myself upwards so I was out of reach of the
crowd.
'Scab!' I heard Hector's shout and
his call was swiftly taken up by the crowd. My heart cracked along
the lines scored by the loss of my son. But it was too late now to
stop. The soldiers brought their rifles up to aim forward as I went
over the top of the gate. A stone bounced off my shoulder and the
pain barely registered through the shame. I let myself drop to the
floor and raised my arms. The crowd behind me went silent once more.
As if waiting for me to speak. To say something that would justify
the faith they had had in me.
'I..' the words would not come. I
had to concentrate, force them out. 'I need to work.'
I tried to close my ears to the
noise, the hate. As the sergeant came forward to march me into the
factory I silently thanked him for ignoring the tears streaming from
my eyes.
I could not clock in. I'd torn up my
clocking card on the first day of the strike. Instead Mr Vickery
himself, thin, sonorous, welcomed me back to 'the family' with a
clammy handshake and told me how he believed now I had caved the rest
would soon follow. He was almost chummy with me. I could not speak
but he seemed to think I was being suitably deferential and sent me
on my way.
To get to the undercraft I had to
pass through the hanger in which housed the Popcat. She'd been a
skeleton when I had seen her last and now she was fully clothed –
a pure white skin stretched across her ribs, the gondola below carved
with the vicious gods of the Aztecs. Her cannon weren't mounted yet
but there was already something fearsome about her, something I had
not seen in a dirigible before. It was as if all the fear and hate in
the city was held within the beast before me. The professional within
me wanted to inspect the skinning of the airship as I walked past the
gantries and scaffolds to get to the undercroft. But my skin crawled
at the thought of touching her and I stayed well away.
The key slid into the undercroft
door, it was a place I had only been in once before and it were
mostly filled with dirt where the back had collapsed. Then the door
had been difficult to open, screeching in complaint as it were forced
backwards. But now the door swung open easily and the light intruding
showed the debris inside had been cleared away. I made my way further
into the place, whispering a silent prayer to a God I no longer
believed in as I moved slowly towards a flickering, dismal light.
I found a hell.
Had I believed in God I would have
thought Satan had arisen and made this place his home. It hollowed
me. Stole the ability to cry out or move. Here were our children, or
what was left of them. One look showed the cruel gods of the Aztecs
had made a home here. Snarling wooden statues held rotting meat in
their jaws. A small hand. A small foot.
Oh my Barnaby.
My lad!
A sobbing shuddered up from deep
within me, bending me over, forcing me down onto a floor dirty with
old blood and gobbets of jellified meat. I reached into my coat for a
bodkin, I do not know what I meant to do with it, to take my own life
or run amok in the factory. I had not thought that far ahead. Before
I could do owt a firm hand twisted my wrist and made me drop the
heavy needle. Then I was gripped around the neck and the barrel of a
gun pushed into my temple immobilised me.
'Get a grip on yourself, Man,' said
a voice, well spoken, educated. 'Your boy is safe,' he sounded
irritated. 'Boy, speak.'
'Father?' he sounded unsure of
himself, but what child would not if he were seeing his father cry.
Relief,rushed through me, like water to the thirsty, like faith to
the faithless.
'Barny? Barny you are well?'
'Yes Father.'
'Enough,' said the voice, 'Gilroy,
take the boy away, the less time he spends in this charnal house the
better. Get him a bun or something.'
'What do you want?' I asked and the
man chuckled.
'I want for every man to do his duty
for England,' the gun dug into my temple, 'not that you are a man
given to duty.'
'My duty is to my fellow man, not
the rich,' I told him.
'What about your son?'
'You wouldn't hurt a child.'
He laughed.
'Oh I would, though I would rather
not. Now listen well. Montezuma himself intends to fly in the
Tezcatlipōca back to Texpoco, after a brief stop off to quell the
Catalan rebels in Spain.'
'Brave men, we should be standing
with them not building machines to stamp them down.'
'Well,' hissed the voice in my ear,
'on that one thing at least we are in concordance my friend. Kill
Montezuma and there will be instant civil war in Azteca. This will
give the Catalans and Spanish a chance to make their rebellion
against Aztec rule work. That is where you come in.'
'Me?' What did he mean? 'I'm no
soldier nor a pawn of the ruling classes.'
I tried to struggle to free myself
from the grasp of the man who held me, He felt like, like nothing, a
skinny thing and yet he did something that caused me such pain I
could barely breath.
'Look around you, fool,' he spat
into my ear. 'What you see is the everyday life of the Spaniard,
their children are food for Aztec Gods and their men and women chewed
up in the armouries to supply the jaguar soldiers.'
'I don't understand what you want?'
'It's simple,' he said, 'you're
going to blow up the airship when it's over the channel.'
'Me? You kidnapped my son to get me
hear? But why me?'
I could hear the smile in his voice.
'Becasue you;re perfect. What a story, a known agitator sneaks aboard
the ship and blows it up?' The Aztecs will suspect we had a hand in
it but be unable to prove anything. The Empire cannot afford a war
with the powers of Mezo-America yet.'
'They will destroy the trade union
movement if I do this,' I whispered, more to myself than the man
holding me.
'A useful side effect, I admit,' he
did not sound concerned, 'and one that will please my paymasters but
it is not my intention. I'd rather use a timer but we need a
scapegoat. Now, what say you? Your life for that of your child and a
generous stipend for your widow?'
'How do I know you tell the truth.'
'You don't,' he was laughing. It was
a cynical sound, 'but I've not blown your brains out and I am not
completely inhuman. Now, England expects every man to do his duty,
what say you, Mr Finlay?'
'Very well,' I said, and then added.
'Which lackey are you? Lachlan Quellor.'
He sniffed, as though he smelt
something worse than the rotting flesh around us..
'Oh no,' he said, 'I'm one of the
men who actually gets things done. I'm not the sort of man you would
read about in the papers.' he leaned in close and whispered in my
ear. 'For what it's worth, I'm not unsympathetic to your cause.'
I think I hated him a little more
for those words. Rather a man who fights for what he believes than a
man who betrays what he knows is right.
They sat me in a packing case, the
bomb is below me and the gentle vibrations of the airship run through
me. The ticking of the expensive fob watch in my hands seems terribly
loud, louder than the voices of the Aztecs I hear occasionally
walking past. The watch is engraved with the initials S.W.
In ten minutes I will be dead.
I hope it will not hurt.
There has been too much pain.
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