Under Gornstock

by Clive Mullis

  ‘We’ve now built three carts, I mean carriages, and they seemed to be better than that first one. Those cushions seem a bit soft to us, but if you really think you need them, I suppose we’d better do them all.’

  Cornwallis nodded. ‘We’re going to need to build lots of carriages and lots of trollies to pull them. These trains of carriages are going to have to run regularly, frequently and on time.’

  ‘We’re working on that. All the mining has stopped and we’re putting all our energy into this. The Pipe will be in operation as soon as we can; just a few weeks at most, as many stations as we can.’

  ‘In that case, I’d better start looking at how to advertise it.’

  Goodhalgan grinned. ‘I’m glad that’s your department; whoever heard of a dwarf doing advertisements?’ He pulled out his axe and stroked the blade. ‘This is all the advertising we normally need.’

  ‘And I thought that subtlety was your middle name. I’ve got an idea or two; there are a few agencies who sort of specialise in this type of thing. They’re a pain in the arse to deal with and they speak a language that only they can understand, but they love money, especially when someone else is giving it to them to spend. The good thing is that sometimes they actually get results, though not necessarily the result the client wants. Should be fun.’

  ‘Well, just remind them that I can always bring my little friend here to see them and this little beauty always gets a result. You can also tell them that we have some very deep holes down here.’

  Cornwallis smiled. ‘No need to worry, that’ll be the first thing I’ll tell them. In actual fact, I might pop around to the one I’m thinking of now. May as well see what’s going to be involved.’

  The office of the Garchi brothers was in The Lane, one of the most upmarket streets in Gornstock. The wide, clean, tree-lined avenue dripped with money. Gated entrances were the norm and the private residences all had staff; the pavements weren’t exactly made of gold, but the inside of the mansions certainly had enough of the stuff. Cornwallis hated its pretensions, which he could, being better off than most of them put together — his father once owned the whole lot until selling at a massive profit some years ago.

  An unobtrusive, small brass plaque screwed to the wall by the door indicated the location of the office, the simplicity lending it the class it thought it exuded. These were the agents who had acted for the Warden when he decided that he needed to create a better profile for himself. The agency’s campaign subsequently elevated his approval ten-fold and for the first time ever he was actually popular with the city’s citizens. Those lining up to depose him underestimated the power the advertising men wielded and the success threw a devilish curve-ball into the delicate game of politics.

  This was the agency Cornwallis intended to recruit to advertise The Pipe, the very best that Gornstock had to offer.

  ‘I would like to see Mr Garchi please,’ said Cornwallis to the fashionably young receptionist.

  ‘Which one?’ she asked in a clipped confident tone. ‘They’re busy men and if you haven’t got an appointment…’ She let the sentence drift off with a knowing twitch of her head, indicating that she didn’t need to add anything more and that the door was behind him.

  ‘I’m sure they, him, them are very busy, however, my name is Jocelyn Cornwallis. They, him, them may have heard of me.’

  ‘Oh? And why is that?’

  ‘Because, young lady… just because.’

  ‘Right, one of those, are you? No matter, I’ll just go and see if anyone is available to see you.’

  She disappeared through a door behind to the back rooms wearing a look of contempt as Cornwallis took stock of his surroundings: a drinks dispenser, dispensing only water, much to his disappointment; there were magazines and papers on the little table in front of him; comfy sofas littered the little reception area. He figured they had to be comfy because of the length of time some people would have to wait; however, the garish decoration with the posters, presumably of past campaigns, would encourage people to leave as quickly as possible; there seemed to be a contradiction there, or could it be his age?

  ‘If you would care to come through, Mr Cornwallis, Mr Garchi will see you now,’ said the girl as she returned.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cornwallis, hiding the triumph in his voice. He got up and followed the girl through into a door-lined corridor, plushly carpeted, with more posters stuck on the walls.

  She took him to the last door on the left and opened it, showing him in with a smile. Cornwallis inclined his head in thanks and entered, stopping dead in his tracks as he saw what he took to be a schoolboy sitting behind the desk.

  ‘Erm?’ said Cornwallis, hesitatingly.

  ‘Ah,’ said the schoolboy. ‘You must be Mr Cornwallis. From what my brother said, I thought you would be older.’

  ‘Strange that,’ replied Cornwallis. ‘I thought much the same.’

  The schoolboy smiled. ‘I am the youngest brother, Mr Cornwallis, but this is a young industry and we can’t let youth get in the way of ability, now can we?’

  Cornwallis shook his head. ‘Indeed not, Mr… er, Garchi?’

  The schoolboy nodded. ‘Trevor Garchi, at your disposal.’ He stood up and offered a hand.

  Cornwallis saw the small soft appendage reach across the desk towards him so he took it in his own hand; it felt like shaking hands with a limp rag. ‘Jocelyn Cornwallis,’ said Cornwallis, introducing himself.

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Mr Garchi. ‘Though I’m a bit confused as my brother mentioned that he had recently conducted some business with a Jocelyn Cornwallis, who is the Earl of Bantwich; an older gentleman, I believe.’

  ‘That would be my father,’ explained Cornwallis. ‘We’re not very inventive when it comes to names in our family. I’m the third Jocelyn.’

  Trevor smiled. ‘I can identify with that problem, though it may be even worse for us. I’m Trevor, my brother is Trefor, and my father is Trepor. Our sister’s name is Tepil and my mother’s name is Trepail. It can prove very interesting in our house when someone calls out.’

  Cornwallis had to concede the point on that one. ‘It happens to have been my father who recommended you to me after you’d done that very successful campaign for the government; the one where you had all those people standing in a queue, with the tagline “Poverty doesn’t work, the Morris does.” Fair kicked the dissenters into touch, did that one.’

  ‘Very proud of that, we are; had billboards all over the city with flyers and posters everywhere. We even put it into the newspapers, and there wasn’t even an election. Actually, when I come to think on it, I can’t ever remember an election.’

  ‘That comes with having a democratically elected dictatorship, Mr Garchi,’ said Cornwallis. ‘The Morris has always been very fair about that.’

  The penny suddenly dropped for Trevor that he was in actual fact talking to a member of the Assembly, family tradition and all that. ‘Oh, I don’t mean to sound contentious, just stating the fact of the matter. No, no, I would never say anything negative about our government.’

  ‘You wouldn’t? I bloody would,’ replied Cornwallis. ‘Our democracy is about as undemocratic as you can get.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that,’ said Trevor, defensively.

  ‘No? Let’s be honest, Mr Garchi, Trevor. It’s a benign dictatorship. I freely admit that, and I’m a member of the bloody thing. I’m allowed to say that, though I know you’re not; well, not in public anyway. But I’m not here for politics; I’m here for what you can give me, which is the power of advertising. You, Trevor, will be advertising The Pipe.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Pipe, Trevor, the brand new mode of transport, designed, manufactured and run under the city’s streets. It’s going to be big, Trevor, and I’m offering you the chance to be at the forefront of this brand new enterprise. It will revolutionise the city. It will be wonderful. Think on it, I’m giving you the chance to be the first and only agency involved i
n this spanking new opportunity in transport development. Between us, we will make this city move. How about that then?’

  Trevor’s eyes widened and a big grin appeared on his face. ‘You’re talking my language, Mr Cornwallis. Ever been an ad man?’

  Chapter 6

  Constables Pooney and Trumpington-Smyth patrolled the river beat with a diligence previously unknown to Pooney, his beat partner determining just how watchful they were — that is, very.

  Trumpington-Smyth took the job seriously and the constable’s insistence on being vigilant went contrary to his normal mode of patrolling, proving irksome, insomuch as he had never worked so hard in his life. They had already made three arrests; caught one burglar in the act, one for picking pockets and one for drug dealing, and it was still only halfway through their shift. Pooney thought that he might have to look for another job if they kept this up.

  A steady stream of conversation, most of it one-sided, came from Trumpington-Smyth. Pooney considered most of it banal and trite but nodded regularly as they proceeded.

  Feelers rarely walked when they were on duty, they proceeded and Trumpington-Smyth had got proceeding down to a fine art: dignified, deliberate and very definite. If the city’s university gave out degrees for proceeding, then Trumpington-Smyth would get a first… with honours… with a knob on the end. Proceeding was walking with meaning.

  ‘I don’t think I could ever do anything else,’ said Trumpington-Smyth. ‘I mean policing. The fact that we are protecting the public, allowing them to get on with their lives, whilst we, unknowing to them, protect them from all sorts of undesirables and occurrences, is something that gives you a great big warm feeling inside. It gives a sense of purpose, of being. Don’t you find the same?’

  ‘Wha… What?’ replied Pooney, not quite believing his ears.

  ‘We are keeping the city safe. All of this is ours,’ and the constable swept out an all-encompassing arm towards the visage before them.

  ‘Ours? It’s the docks. Why would I want the docks? It’s shite.’

  ‘No, I mean we belong to it, and so, in a way, it belongs to us, as Police Officers.’

  Pooney cast a guarded look at his beat-mate and sighed. He had difficulty enough to keep his mind on avoiding working so hard, let alone in the company of someone who actually wanted to do the job. Although rare, that did sometimes happen, but his real trouble centred on working with Trumpington-Smyth. Tall, willowy with long dark hair, she had full wide lips and a cute button nose, which had a very disconcerting effect on bits of his anatomy.

  ‘Tiffany, Tiff. Look, we haven’t all got your enthusiasm; you’re still pretty new to all this. When you’ve been here a couple of years, you might find that Gornstock is a total shite-hole, and us feelers are really just the bit of paper that wipes the shite.’

  ‘We are not arse-wipes, Peter, we are custodians of the law,’ replied Trumpington-Smyth, a touch of exasperation distorting her normally perfect vowels. ‘We have a purpose in life.’

  ‘Yes, to keep our bloody heads down and our lives intact.’

  ‘That’s bollocks, that is.’

  Pooney’s mouth opened but the shock of the vehemence of her reply prevented him from talking.

  Lady Tiffany Trumpington-Smyth had joined the force in the very first intake of female constables; a select group of feelers championed by the commander. The fact that she had sprung from the loins of a minor noble and had a title to go with it, gave her a natural-born confidence and an air of authority over and above that of a normal constable. Pooney found her intimidating, which only made his secret fantasy-fuelled desires even worse.

  ‘We have a duty to protect the citizens of this city, Peter, and if by doing so we get hurt, injured or worse, then we will have fulfilled our oath. Nobody joins the force expecting an easy life.’

  Pooney thought about replying, because that was precisely why he had joined the force, but he caught the look in her eye, the one that boded no argument, so he decided to leave his thoughts unsaid.

  They proceeded in silence along the wharf, adjacent to ships berthed alongside which showed their night-lamps, casting an ethereal glow, illuminating their progress. The warehouses to the back of the wharf were dark and menacing, showing that inanimate buildings could take looming to a higher level. There were ropes pulled taught, empty crates, machines used to lift cargo, little metal things that only a select few knew what to do with them; all kinds of detritus littered the wharf as the constables walked their beat. Empty bags blew in the wind, rats scurried, wheels whirled, the occasional clank as something moved; and then something else moved, a little figure came staggering along the wharf just up ahead.

  Tiffany stopped and grabbed hold of Pooney’s arm. ‘Look at that. What do you think is going on?’

  ‘Firstly, I don’t want to, and secondly, I don’t care.’

  ‘Peter, you’re a policeman, you’ve got to care.’

  Pooney shook his head. ‘Not on the docks. It’s like being in the slum; don’t see anything you don’t need to see.’

  ‘Well, I see it clear enough and I’m going to find out what it’s about. I won’t be long, are you coming?’

  Pooney sighed. ‘I’ll come; the alternative is to stay here.’

  The constables moved towards the figure. It had come from between two warehouses and now moved erratically, making its way across the wharf towards the river. Its movement indicated that a large quantity of alcohol could have been involved, as he zig-zagged about, stumbling frequently. The odd thing about the figure was the absence of arms.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Tiffany.

  ‘Er, tripping, I think,’ replied Pooney as they watched the figure fall over a pile of rope.

  ‘Well, he’s just head-butted the ground; that’s going to be painful,’ observed Tiffany with a grimace.

  ‘As long as it’s not me, I don’t really care,’ answered Pooney, indifferently.

  ‘Peter, this is a side of you that I never expected to see.’

  ‘You mean the side that says look after number one because no other bugger will? I’ve been in this job too long to look at it in any other way.’

  ‘I’m sorry for you, but I think it’s a sad indictment of our society if you think that. I care.’

  ‘Do you?’ asked Pooney, his hopes rising a little.

  ‘Yes, I do. I don’t want any of my colleagues to think that I’m not looking out for them.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pooney, his hopes dipping again. ‘I thought for a moment…’

  ‘Sorry? Oh, what’s he doing now?’

  Pooney looked at the figure scrabbling and squirming about on the ground. ‘He looks like a seal, but there’s no water and he’s got no style.’

  The two constables closed in on the figure just as it reached the edge, another couple of moments and it would have plunged out of sight into the river below, probably never to be seen again.

  ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ said Pooney. ‘What’s going on ‘ere, then?’

  ‘Mmmph, mmh, hhhmph,’ said the seal-like creature.

  Tiffany peered closer. ‘It’s got a sack over its head and body,’ she observed. ‘And look, there’s a rope tied around its middle.’

  ‘That would explain the lack of arms, then, but what about the lack of legs? Definitely a short-arse; looks like a parcel,’ said Pooney.

  ‘No, Peter, it’s a dwarf. Come on, help me get him free.’

  ‘Nnn, hmmph, uurgg,’ said the parcel.

  Tiffany knelt down and fiddled with the tricky knot, but she couldn’t see how it had been tied; the parcel wriggled and slithered as she worked, compounding the issue.

  ‘Stop bloody moving,’ she ordered, getting exasperated. ‘We’re not going to hurt you, we’re the police.’

  ‘Uh?’ said the parcel.

  ‘Yes, now stop it.’

  The parcel did as ordered.

  ‘Good, now let’s get this off you.’

  The cessation of movement rendered the j
ob much easier and she managed to get the knot loosened.

  ‘You’re not helping much, Peter.’

  ‘I’m keeping watch,’ replied Pooney. ‘You never know when a hoard of marauding psychopaths might erupt from the stygian gloom.’

  Tiffany suddenly stopped what she was doing and looked up. ‘Do what?’

  ‘You know, mad bastards; some might want to attack us in the dark.’

  ‘I understood the sentence, Peter; I’m just surprised to hear it coming from you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I’m not totally stupid, you know,’ he defended.

  ‘I’m sure you’re not, Peter,’ she said, but she kept the, ‘just mostly stupid,’ to herself.

  She returned her attention back to the parcel and finally, the knot became undone.

  Pooney stood with his hands in his pocket as she turned the parcel over and watched as it managed to sit up. Tiffany helped remove the sack by pulling it up and over the head.

  The dwarf stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the constables and then his hands went to his mouth as he grunted and groaned. His fingers reached into his open orifice and he wretched, removing a wad of soggy paper.’

  ‘Bastards, bloody bastards,’ exclaimed the dwarf. ‘You wait ‘til I gets hold of them bastards. I’ll rip their gonads off, I will.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Tiffany. ‘What happened?’

  Even in the dark, the dwarf’s eyes blazed with angry fire. ‘Got me when me back were turned, they did. Smacked me on the conker, jammed that thing into me gob and then trussed me up. Bastards kept hitting me when I couldn’t hit back.’

  ‘And stole your clothes?’ asked Tiffany.

  ‘What? Oh shit, give me back that sack.’

  ‘Who did this?’ asked Pooney, finally showing an interest.

  The dwarf fiddled with the sack, giving him a bit of cover and a degree of modesty. ‘How do I know? If I knew that, I’d be doing fer ‘em, right now.’

  The dwarf sat on the wharf and tested his jaw, moving it this way and that, making sure his drinking muscles were still working. Satisfied that he had suffered no serious damage, he climbed the short way to his feet, holding the sack so that it wouldn’t fall off.