Silhouette

by Justin Richards

  The suspension, Clara thought, could do with some work too as they clattered over cobbles and rattled down side streets. She thought she knew central London quite well, but with the restricted view and the absence of many of the landmarks she could have recognised on the admittedly rather logical grounds that they hadn’t been built yet, she was soon completely lost.

  The cab finally came to a halt with a drawn out ‘Whoa’ from the driver. Oswald had insisted on paying the man in advance. Clara did have some money the Doctor had given her, but she was glad to be spared having to worry about sorting through unfamiliar currency.

  ‘Alberneath Avenue,’ the driver said, touching his hat as Clara clambered down.

  They were at the end of a long street. There was no need to ask where Milton’s factory was. Even in the smog, Clara could see that while there were terraced houses down one side of the street, there was only one building on the other. It was a huge, monolithic, unforgiving brick façade. What windows there were seemed blank and opaque.

  ‘Where’s the best place to find another cab?’ she asked, just in case Oswald failed to join her.

  ‘Best to try down there.’ The cabbie pointed back the way they had come. ‘Turn left at the end and that’ll bring you to Motherton Street. You should get a cab there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Not that way, though,’ the cabbie warned, pointing down past the factory. ‘You won’t find nothing good down there, miss. Mind how you go now.’

  As if to emphasise the point, the driver turned his cab in the road and headed back the way they had come. Clara could hear the wheels rolling over the cobbles long after the cab was swallowed up by the smog.

  Clara had thought – as much as she had thought about it at all – that there would be somewhere to wait for Oswald. A bench perhaps. Maybe even a small tearoom or coffee shop. But there was nothing. Just the faceless factory, the houses opposite – which all seemed to be empty and about to fall down now she looked at them more closely – and nothing else. Nothing except the smog.

  She walked slowly down the street. There was no sign of anyone else. Also, surprisingly, there was no sound from the factory. Surely she should be able to hear equipment, machinery, people? Or was it so solidly built that no sound escaped. There were windows – high in the walls, and dark. No light inside, unless they were shuttered … Was she even in the right place, Clara wondered? The cab driver had seemed friendly and helpful enough, and he had to know his way round London.

  Clara made her way back to where the cab had dropped her at the end of the street. Sure enough there was a sign attached to the end of the factory: ‘Alberneath Avenue’ it said in faded lettering. This was the right place. But there was no sign of life, and no sign of any way in to the factory either. The entrance must be on another street. Maybe that was why it was so quiet – this part of the factory simply wasn’t in use.

  In which case, it made sense to walk round the building and see what she could find–people, activity, a way in … It made sense, another part of Clara’s mind told her as she set off down a narrow side alley, to wait for Oswald. But he could be ages yet. She didn’t know how long it would take him to excuse himself from his tutorial duties. Or if he couldn’t, then how long would he be? Better if she’d cased the joint already and at least found the way in.

  The alley was dark and claustrophobic, the smog making it seem even narrower and the walls either side closing in oppressively. Clara hurried along, her heels echoing on the cobbles. A darker patch of the wall resolved itself into an opening. Heavy wooden doors set back into the wall must lead inside. Clara tried them, but they barely moved – locked or bolted firmly. She gave them a frustrated kick and moved on.

  Maybe the whole place was shut down. She didn’t know how long ago Oswald had been here. Perhaps Milton had closed the place since then. Even so, she thought, there might be some clue inside. Something to tell her who he really was and what he was up to.

  Another alcove with more wooden doors – also locked. It was as easy to keep going as to turn back. The alley turned abruptly, still following the wall of the huge building. Soon Clara arrived at another set of doors. But these were different – larger, and flush with the brickwork. It was the closest she had so far found to a main entrance. There was a sign above the doors, but it was so faded that she couldn’t make out the words.

  The doors, predictably, refused to budge when Clara pushed and pulled at them. But there was a smaller door set into one of the large ones. Not expecting any more encouraging results, Clara tried the handle. And the door creaked open.

  She stepped inside. The building was a shell. A huge, empty space. Smog had crept inside, curling through cracks in the dusty windows where light struggled to follow. Looking up, Clara could see the rafters, high above. The far wall, all but lost in shadows and the misty air, must be on Alberneath Avenue. She had walked down the other side of it. No wonder she had heard nothing.

  Even as she contemplated the silence, there was a sudden fluttering, beating, high above her. A bird, probably, trapped inside. She walked slowly across the solid floor. There were the remains of fixings and holes where machinery had stood. Probably not that long ago, Clara thought. There was a smell of oil a well as dust and damp. The remains of the metal brackets gleamed in the dim light. If they’d been left for long surely they would have gone rusty – like the metal edges of the windows.

  Further in, and she could make out something else on the ground. It looked like snow, but she couldn’t see where it might have blown in. A scattering of white. As she approached it resolved itself into small shapes, like confetti. She crouched down as she reached the first, and picked it up. A piece of paper, folded into the shape of a small bird …

  Behind her, the door slammed shut. Clara turned abruptly at the sound. The wind? She hadn’t felt a breeze. With rising anxiety, she ran back to the door. It was locked. But there was no key. No keyhole. What there was, she saw, was a small plastic keypad fitted to the wall close by. The sort of security lock she might find in her own time with no surprise at all. But here, in the 1890s it was totally and frighteningly out of place.

  Her fingers trembled. Something tugged at them. She held up her hand, and saw that the paper bird’s wings were moving as it struggled to break free of her grasp. She let go in surprise, and the creature fluttered away, dancing up through the air like a large moth.

  Behind it, the whole floor was coming to life. Pale paper shapes lifted into the air. A mass of tiny folded stylised birds rising up. Swarming. Suddenly hurtling towards her across the factory.

  In moments, Clara was enveloped. A blizzard of paper beating at her. The sharp edge of a wing sliced across the back of her hand as she tried to defend herself. Tried to beat away the creatures that battered at her. She ran, but they kept pace, swirling round her head, blocking her vision. Smothering everything in a whirl of white, scratching and scraping at her.

  Her foot caught on a metal bracket set in the floor and Clara crashed to the ground. Her head cracked down and she closed her eyes, knowing it would smash hard into the floor. But the impact never came. She opened her eyes and saw that she was lying with her head over the edge of a pit – a wide opening in the ground. So deep she couldn’t see the bottom. Another few steps and she would have gone over the edge and fallen to her certain death.

  She struggled back to her feet. Plucked a paper bird out of the air. Ripped it to pieces even as it struggled to escape. The torn paper danced away like snowflakes.

  The whole world was white. Driving at Clara, forcing her back, towards the pit behind her. She was off balance, couldn’t see, her face and hands scratched to pieces. She dropped to her knees. Maybe she could crawl out of here.

  But the birds were everywhere, crawling over her, pecking at her face with their sharp paper beaks. Tangled in her hair. Scratching their wings against her cheeks. Clawing their way into her mouth. Scraping at her eyes.

  She did the only thing she could – Cl
ara screamed for help. Screamed and screamed.

  And knew that there was no one to hear her.

  Chapter

  9

  The Shadowplay tent was closed up. A signboard outside informed the Doctor that the next performance would be this afternoon. He could sneak inside and have a nose round, but there were probably people about. And he wasn’t sure what he’d find anyway – really he wanted to talk to Silhouette. Did she remember Hapworth? Had they spoken? What had intrigued him? And where did he go after the shadow puppet show?

  The Doctor walked all round the large tent. He called. He walked all round the large tent again, but in the opposite direction. Then he went for a brisk walk round the rest of the Carnival while he decided on the best course of action.

  At the other end of the Frost Fair, Jenny was still talking to Jim. She really should get back to asking about Milton, Jenny thought. But Jim was pleasant company and they seemed to have a lot in common as well as similar interests and sense of humour.

  As if realising what she was thinking, Jim said: ‘I should let you be on your way. I’m sorry if I’ve detained you.’

  ‘Detained me?’

  ‘Weren’t you just leaving when I arrived?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Jenny smiled. ‘Thought I saw a friend, that’s all. I’ve things to do here at the fair for a while yet.’

  ‘I’m surprised you could see anything in this,’ Jim joked, though in fact the smog was clearing a little. ‘But if you are here for the duration, perhaps I shall see you later.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jenny said. ‘Perhaps you will.’

  He touched the brim of his hat. ‘Then I shall look forward to that. Good day to you.’

  Jenny watched him disappear into the crowds. She should get to work, or Clara would be wondering where she’d got to.

  The morning’s investigations for Strax consisted of retracing the last known movements of the murder victims. He visited the areas where they had last been seen alive, and calculated the most direct route from this location to where their bodies had been found.

  He visited each of the locations and traversed each of the routes, questioning anyone he met along the way. Most people seemed happy to tell him they knew nothing and had seen no one, and he only had to resort to threats of torture and extreme pain in a very few cases.

  For the most part, the information he gathered was useless, and tempered with qualifications ranging from ‘But I could be wrong’ to ‘Or was that on the Thursday?’ But something that chimed with Strax’s own experience was that several of the people he spoke to mentioned a dark figure dressed rather in the manner of an undertaker in the vicinity of the actual death at about the same time as the victim must have expired.

  Was this man connected to the murders, Strax wondered. He himself had seen him – if it was indeed the same person. But that was a while after Bellamy had died and the body been removed. Perhaps he was merely an undertaker appearing where his work took him. His business, after all, was with the dead …

  But even so, and with little else to occupy his time, Strax decided to return to the location of Bellamy’s demise and his own encounter with the undertaker. He marched purposefully through the smog, his mood darkening as he reflected on his lack of progress. ‘Weakling fool!’ he spat as he shoved a passer-by off the pavement. A carriage veered off to one side to avoid the sprawling man, and narrowly missed a cab coming the other way. The horses whinnied in alarm. Strax walked on, oblivious.

  The area where Bellamy had been found was almost deserted. The perfect place for a murder, Strax reflected, though the fact it was so quiet meant there were few suitable candidates to hand. He located the narrow passageway and walked slowly along, examining the ground as he went for any clues. Mostly, there was snow turning slowly to a grey slush that looked like the smog made solid.

  He had almost reached the end of the alleyway when he heard the noise coming from within the large building on one side of the alley. Many human sounds, Strax found it hard to interpret. But the sound of fear – screaming – was one that he recognised immediately. It was not particularly in Strax’s nature to go to the help of those in distress. But if there was a battle or fight in progress, then he was more than happy to get involved. From the screams, it sounded like it was quite a good one. He licked his thin, bloodless lips and searched for a point of entry.

  The nearest doors were set in an alcove and locked. But they were only made of wood – a rather primitive construction. So Strax lowered his shoulder and ran at them. The doors burst open and he found himself inside a large area devoid of walls or upper floors. On the other side of the expansive space it looked as if a miniature snowstorm was attacking a small human.

  As he approached, two things became clear to Strax. One was that the snow was actually paper, folded into stylised shapes. The second was that the small human appeared to be the Doctor’s friend Clara.

  ‘Retreat at once, wood-pulp scum!’ Strax ordered, charging into battle. As he got closer, he saw that there was a large hole gaping in the floor. The paper-creatures had been trying to drive Clara into it, he surmised. So he put his head down and charged into the blizzard of paper, grabbing Clara and dragging her clear.

  The paper creatures followed. More than a distraction, Strax found they were actually quite violent and persistent. He could feel tiny, but painful blows on the probic vent at the back of his neck. If they flew into that and clogged it up …

  ‘Strax – is that you?’ Clara said.

  ‘You are injured,’ Strax told her, though to be fair she probably knew that. Her exposed flesh was scratched and bleeding in the most honourable manner – she had clearly put up a brave fight and Strax felt a sudden rush of pride on her behalf.

  ‘We have to get out of here,’ she said.

  ‘Retreat?’ Maybe she wasn’t so brave after all. ‘Never!’

  ‘You can’t kill paper!’ Clara insisted as she waved her hands, swatting desperately at the creatures that continued to fly at her.

  ‘Ah, a challenge?’

  ‘It’s not a challenge, it’s called common sense.’

  Strax grunted, crushing a paper bird in his fist. ‘Never heard of it.’

  He marched back towards the door, pulling Clara with him. But the swirling paper kept pace with them.

  ‘When I tell you, drop to the ground,’ Strax told Clara.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So that you don’t get obliterated. Unless you are ready to die with honour?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Clara admitted. ‘So when are you likely—’

  ‘Get down!’ Strax roared.

  Clara dropped like a stone, landing heavily and painfully on the solid floor. Nothing happened. She looked up, to see Strax staring down at her, his features obscured by the constant attack of the paper birds.

  ‘Good,’ he said, ‘That was a test. Next time we do it for real.’

  Clara got to her feet, snatching at the paper flying in her face and tangled in her hair. ‘Oh joy.’

  ‘Get down!’ Strax yelled again. Again, she dropped.

  This time, Strax dived aside. For a moment, the swirling mass of paper was above them, confused and disoriented at the loss of its prey. A moment in which Strax hurled something small, round and metallic into the swarming birds. It exploded, a brilliant white light bursting out. Paper burst into flames, and fell smoking to the ground. The air was suddenly alive with sparks and fire. Several of the birds fluttered away, fire eating through their wings and bodies until they collapsed to the ground, blackened and charred.

  ‘An incendiary pod,’ Strax explained, lifting Clara to her feet. ‘You all right, boy?’

  Clara sat on the remains of a wooden crate in the corner of the factory. Strax had produced a battlefield first-aid kit, which included some antiseptic wipes. They stung but Strax assured her they would hasten the healing process as well as sterilising her cuts and scratches.

  ‘You got anything else useful in there?’ Clara asked.

  ‘
Field dressings. Self-assembly inflatable replacement limbs. Spare ammunition, of course. Emergency rations. I even have some dehydrated water,’ he added proudly.

  ‘How does that work?’

  ‘You just add water, and …’ Strax frowned. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s not as useful as I thought.’

  ‘Thank you, Strax.’

  ‘For the water?’

  ‘For being here and for saving my life. What were those things? They looked like the origami birds we found.’

  ‘Drones,’ Strax decided. ‘Programmed to follow a simple instruction set and devoid of any built-in weaponry. Primitive, but effective.’

  Clara smiled. It hurt. ‘So why were you here, anyway? Were you looking for me? Following me?’

  ‘I was engaged on investigation and reconnaissance. An information-gathering mission. This is the area where Mr Bellamy died.’

  ‘Right,’ Clara said slowly. ‘Ah, was he the man who was murdered? Jenny said you were investigating the death of a friend.’

  ‘There have been several deaths,’ Strax told her. ‘Unexplained but similar. But what brings you here?’

  ‘Oh we were following someone from the Frost Fair. Guy called Milton – you know him?’

  Strax shook his head, most of his upper body turning with it. ‘A target for surveillance?’

  ‘Yes. And he owns this place, apparently. Not that he’s doing much with it.’

  ‘Apart from setting traps. This was an ambush.’

  ‘You think he knew I was coming?’

  Strax considered. ‘It may be a defence mechanism. Not targeted at an individual, but a simple blanket deterrent. This Frost Fair …’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Bellamy said he had visited such a place. The night he died. He also spoke of a Curious Carnivore.’

  ‘The Carnival of Curiosities?’

  ‘As I said.’

  ‘Another coincidence,’ Clara said. ‘Or not.’ She got to her feet. Her head was swimming but she was feeling a lot better now. Her face and hands were stinging less already. ‘We should find the Doctor and tell him what’s happened here. And about your friend Bellamy.’