Smoke

by Dan Vyleta

  The next moment they race off, down the quayside and through the metal gate, still unmanned. A quarter mile on, they slow to a less conspicuous speed. The clip-clop of hooves half drowns their conversation.

  ф

  “Talk! Explain yourself. Who are you? Who is the child?”

  The stranger is unfazed by Thomas’s anger. He is sitting across from him, holding the child in his lap, his umbrella hooked into his elbow and tangling up their feet.

  “Patience. Call me Sebastian. Here is my hand. How do you do? Mr. Argyle. Miss Naylor. You take after your mother, my dear, if you don’t mind my saying. Exquisite bones. Lady Naylor has told me all about you two, and about Mr. Cooper, too, of course. Now first things first, if you don’t mind. We have to make an adjustment to our plans.” He turns to Lady Naylor, his voice precise, even, confident. “Where are we going, Katie?”

  Lady Naylor hesitates over the answer. “Are your lodgings being watched, too?”

  “No, they don’t know about me yet. But it will be noticed if I bring guests. And there is no easy way of smuggling in the child. You do not have another apartment in town?”

  “I have two more. But Trout will be onto them already.”

  “Very well, we have no choice then. All the inns in the city will be searched, and we need shelter fast. We must leave the city and go to my country cottage. We shall leave via Moorgate.” He pauses long enough to close his eyes then open them again: a gesture more deliberate than a blink. “What about these two?”

  The man’s voice and eyes remain soft. And yet there is a threat to the statement.

  We know too much. Witnesses, that’s all we are to him. Peripheral. Disposable. The thought startles Thomas, recalls his earlier humiliation. All this time you thought that you were special. At the centre of events.

  So perhaps he is nobody after all. An angry youth: his father’s child. But Livia’s with him, and he must protect her. There could be a blade in the shaft of that umbrella, a gun hidden in those trouser pockets. Lady Naylor appears to sense Thomas’s thought. She speaks to him rather than her daughter.

  “It’s like this,” she says. “Either you betray us, and everything stays just as it is. The lies, the sweets and cigarettes, the whole hypocrisy of power. Or we end it all. Send it crumbling into dust.”

  “An end to Smoke.” Livia’s voice is thick with something. Hard to say whether it is suspicion or hope. “Is that what you have been working on? A new world of virtue?”

  Lady Naylor nods then gathers her daughter’s hands in hers, a scooping gesture, like pushing together the crumbs scattered on a table.

  “Yes! A new world of virtue. Of justice. I am doing this for your father.”

  Justice. The word is like a call to arms. It triggers a yearning in Thomas. He struggles to contain it.

  “What about the child?” he asks gruffly. “Will he come to harm?”

  His eyes seek out the shapeless lump of limbs and coat on the stranger’s lap; he thinks of the scratching in the wardrobe and the captain brandishing his twisted hook. It is hard not to see that the child has come to harm already.

  The man who calls himself Sebastian follows his gaze.

  “The child will come to further inconvenience. But not to harm.”

  “Then where are his parents? You stole him. And here he is alone and frightened.”

  “We had him stolen. But the place he comes from…Please understand that his life was not a good one.”

  “Would you have stolen him if it had been?”

  “Naturally, yes. All the same, we saved him from deprivation. Though you will say that we imposed starvation on him all over again.”

  There is something disarming about Sebastian. He appears to have no capacity for hiding behind self-deception. At the same time there is to him a calculation that reminds Thomas of Renfrew. He too has made a god of reason. Just now Sebastian’s mind is moving seamlessly from the ethics of child theft to the layout of London.

  “Ah, I see we have passed Spitalfields Market. Time to alert the coachman to our new destination. Alas there are grave risks in leaving the city. The gates may already be watched. It may prove difficult to return.”

  Sebastian is about to rap at the little window that separates them from the box, when Livia stops him. Her hands are still in her mother’s fists.

  “We know a place. You won’t be found there.”

  She hesitates, her eyes fierce with a kind of angry hope.

  Don’t, Thomas thinks. We have no right.

  But Livia does not seek his advice.

  “We are staying with some people. A man and his wife. We met them by chance. You can trust them.” A beat, a twitch of the mouth. “If we can trust you, Mother.”

  “But of course. I swore it, did I not?” Lady Naylor looks at Livia in pleasure. “These people you met—they are poor?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “Good. Then we can pay them. Tell us the way.”

  ф

  When they pull up at a corner not far from Grendel’s house, Thomas is still trying to figure it out. They set off that evening to spy on an enemy. Now they are leading her home: the only place in the world where, for the moment, they have reason to consider themselves safe. And so, in the course of a few hours they appear to have changed sides. There wasn’t even a great deal of talk to it. All Lady Naylor has told them is that she bears them no ill will. She is fighting the Smoke. And has kidnapped a child, with the help of a stranger with doe-like eyes.

  It is not much to build one’s faith on.

  And yet: here they are, abusing the trust of a man who suffers from kindness as though from the flu. They wait until the coach has disappeared out of sight, then rush through the dark streets, Sebastian carrying the child wrapped in his coat and slung over one shoulder. The child is unnaturally still. Drugged, Thomas surmises. Their new friends are not picky about their methods.

  For all that it is a relief to step into the little courtyard behind the house’s burned front and ascend the narrow staircase to the top floor. Livia looks tense when she knocks on the door. Perhaps she regrets her eagerness to volunteer a hideaway. Neither she nor Thomas have mentioned Grendel’s condition. If he is found out—well, what then? Thomas still has not decided whether he pities the man or admires him. Grendel is an ox in a world of irate bulls: a kind creature, given to melancholy, and fond of his food. If Lady Naylor’s future is to be a world of Grendels, Thomas can think of worse.

  It is their host himself who opens the door. He sees Livia first, gets excited, flaps his hands, almost extinguishing the stub of candle he is holding.

  “You are back! Come quick. You will never believe—”

  Then he spies Sebastian and Lady Naylor in the dim of the stairwell.

  “Friends of yours?” A step backward as he says it. Behind Grendel, someone else is rushing to the door.

  “My mother,” Livia replies. “I’m afraid we will have to impose.”

  Grendel nods, distracted, not moving. His eyes are on Sebastian and the bundle he is holding, wriggling now, waking up. At Grendel’s side a new face pushes itself into the sparse glow of the candle. It takes Thomas a heartbeat to recognise him. It’s not just that Charlie is thin. Something has happened to him, a loss weightier than pounds. Still he is smiling. Then the smile freezes on his lips. It might be the sight of Lady Naylor that saps his joy. But Charlie’s eyes are on Livia and Thomas, not on the threesome they have brought.

  We are not even touching, Thomas thinks. It must show then, like Smoke.

  A moment later Thomas has pushed past Grendel and wrapped Charlie in a hug. His friend hangs limp in his arms, a sack of bones.

  CAPTAIN

  They pick me up at four twenty-five, ship time. Perhaps it is chance that determines the hour, but if they want to scare a man, find him at his most vulnerable, his weakest, they could hardly have picked a better moment. The crew has not returned yet and there is no one to warn me before the hammering on the door. Th
ey refuse to let me dress. A man in his nightshirt marched down the gangplank to a coach; his bare legs flashing in the wind: what more ridiculous spectacle can there be?

  The stranger in the coach is kindly and stupendously fat. We sit on the same side, and he makes such a depression in the seat cushion that I am forever tumbling towards him. The last I see of my ship is a squadron of men, swarming over its decks. Not one of them wears a uniform. Whatever they are, they wish to appear other. Gentlemen. A gentleman would have allowed me to pull on my drawers. I shiver and fret and feel ashamed for the pools of Soot that glue my nightshirt to my belly and thighs.

  I rage at my captor, of course: tell him that I am a subject of Her Majesty, the Queen of the Netherlands; that this is an outrage, an outrage; that I demand to be released at once. But the fat man merely pats my shoulder and never answers, as though agreeing with me that these words need to be said, that they are part of the form of things, and that it is best to get them all out at once. The only time he interrupts me is when my protestations take on the pitch of a shout. Then he lays a finger across his lips. He is wearing gloves. It quiets me down, precisely this part, his wearing gloves. Of course it is cold, and no gentleman is fully dressed without. Still, it brings something home. The potential for violence. It is easy to picture these gloves bunched into fists. And all the time he is cheerfully silent.

  When we have travelled some half hour, the man reaches into the darkness at his feet, retrieves a hood, and pulls it over my head. He might be putting blinders on a horse. I could struggle, but his touch is so deft, so simple, neither rough nor gentle, that I don’t have the heart.

  At first I find I do not mind the hood. It absolves me in a way. I no longer need to shout and protest, or pay attention to the road we are taking; need not muster courage for resistance or escape. It is only when we alight and I am ushered into a building that the blindness begins to transform into fear, then abject panic. There are sounds around me, you see, sounds I cannot place. Typewriters, I think, and once a shrill little peal. Men talking at a distance in a serious manner, never laughing, nor raising their voices. A place of business. Large, it seems to me, subterranean. We keep descending stairs. A scream, not far from us, like a cat with its tail caught in a slamming door. But this is no place for cats. I am weak in the legs when they push me down upon a stool and pull off the hood.

  An office. A carpet, a bookshelf, a desk at the centre, the fat man behind. No windows. A smell to the place like boiled dish towels. A coiled beast of a radiator dispensing too much heat. There are no guards in the room. My captor offers me a glass of water that he decants from a large pewter jug.

  For the longest time he does not ask any question but simply sits there, reading various letters arranged on his desk. The stool I am sitting on turns out to be very uncomfortable. It is an inch or two shorter than a regular stool, and my knees jut up awkwardly when I plant my soles. I consider re-rehearsing my protestations, or at least requesting a different chair, but despite the glass of water my throat is very dry.

  At long last a younger man enters the office without knocking. He is impeccably dressed, rounds the desk without looking at me, bends down to the fat man, and whispers something in his ear. Then he passes over a folder full of papers, before retracing his steps and leaving the room. His boots were muddy and he has left prints on the floorboards (he avoided stepping on the carpet). I keep looking at these prints whilst my captor studies his papers. From my vantage point, lower than his, he appears cut in half: the top half leaning forward on his elbows, the lower, beneath the desk, impassive. He has crossed his legs. Oxford shoes. Unlike his clerk’s boots they are unsullied by dirt.

  When he has read and turned over the last of the papers, he closes the folder, takes a fountain pen out of his jacket pocket, makes a note in a booklet lying on his desk. For a moment he looks like a teacher. No, a headmaster. Disciplining a delinquent. I shift my weight on the stool.

  Then he finally speaks.

  “Here we are, Captain van Huysmans. Only, you must be wondering where ‘here’ is. What criminal enterprise is this, operating in the heart of London? What sort of robbers are these that have taken hold of you? What can you do to set yourself free?

  “And then, you heard the typewriters, as we passed them in the corridor. I saw your head tilt. Typewriters, in England! Even on the Continent, I understand, only a small number of bureaucracies have adopted them wholesale. Always, always, there is resistance to innovation—even without any embargo. I find this reassuring. Human nature at its best. Afraid of the new. And yet, I approve of our typewriters. Our reports, see, they become easier to read, and by putting special paper between the pages, we can create copies even as we type the original. It is miraculous, really.

  “So who are these men, who can abduct you with impunity, who have access to foreign technology, and who have use for records and reports? I will let you in on a secret, a terrible secret. England has a police force. Not officially, mind. Three times the issue has been debated in Parliament and three times it has been rejected. A police force is something for the French, the Germans! For godless countries in which the government spies on its citizens. For what is a police force if not an army of spies and meddlers? People invading the privacy of our homes! Our gentry are partial to their homes, you see. They like to be able to lock the door.

  “And yet, all the same, here it is. A secret police force, created by a subcommittee for public welfare. A very tiny committee it is. Five permanent members. Not aligned with either of the parties but neutral. A pure organ of the state, if you will. One of the first things they did was to have strands of wire drawn across the land. In secret of course, underground where possible, a thin, fragile network. Seven telephones: that is all we have, after a decade of work. I took my first call a few days ago, and how foolish I felt, shouting words into the ether.

  “So here we both are, at headquarters. I am not even a regular officer! Past my youth too: too old—too fat!—to go trundling after bad people. But there are so few of us with any experience, and the matter is so very sensitive and at the same time so very important. All hands on deck, and those with experience, well, one likes to do what one can, doesn’t one? For Queen and country; for the good of the state. I am sure you will understand. My remit, I am afraid, is near-absolute. I can quite literally do to you whatever I wish. Ghastly, when one thinks about it. I prefer not to.”

  All this the man recites quite fluently and without any menace, his chubby hands folded together high on his chest. For the first time I see that he is wearing sleeve protectors that run black from wrist to elbow. For some reason, this detail bothers me just as his gloves did before. How different is it, I wonder, from a butcher donning his apron before stepping into the abattoir?

  “We had your ship searched, Captain. The cargo, it appears, is entirely in order. None of the custom seals have been meddled with and all the contents match up to the inventory you filed with the authorities. There are a number of pieces of illegal technology on board, but all these are listed and licenced: as long as they remain on board, there can be no objection. The logbooks are in order and chart your ship’s recent voyages without any obvious anomaly. Your private ledger is similarly unremarkable, though it contains a receipt for a very sizable amount of money made out to you by the Behrens Bank of Rotterdam. Now this would be entirely your business, if it were not suspected that the money in question originates in England and was, in fact, paid to you by Lady Catherine Naylor acting as the legal signatory of her husband, Baron Archibald Naylor, and with the Behrens Bank acting only as middleman. One may well say, however, that a man may accept money no matter where it comes from. It is noted that it was paid into your private accounts rather than the company who has ownership of the ship. You are a rich man, Captain van Huysmans. I congratulate you.

  “On the ship itself, there is but one anomaly. It took my men a while to see it, it has been very well masked. Somewhere along your journey you had your cabin
altered. It was very cleverly done. The proportions and look of the cabin were left entirely unchanged, but a narrow, L-shaped compartment was created behind the wood-panelling at the bow and starboard sides. A foot and a half in width, if this hasty drawing my men made is to scale, and perhaps five feet long in all. Not one of the crewmen we have located on shore knows a thing about this secret compartment, Captain van Huysmans, not even your first mate whom you had performing guard duty between the hours of ten and ten to one tonight, and who was dismissed by you the moment a certain coach pulled up at the end of the quay. You will understand that we are curious about this compartment. What in God’s name were you smuggling onto our shore, Captain?”

  Of course it occurs to me to lie. An animal, I want to say, a tiger. Brought from farthest Sumatra, for a collector of exotic beasts.

  But I am afraid to lie.

  No, not just afraid. I recognise his authority. Not as a police officer but as a gentleman. His complexion is clear, his moral imperative beyond doubt.

  So I ask instead: “What will you do to me?”

  “For smuggling?” He weighs it, puffing out his cheeks, then letting out the air in a silent whistle. “Technically, it is a felony. A judge would have to hear the case. He might very well condemn you to the rope.

  “Then again, we don’t really want to involve a judge. Who knows what you might tell him about this, our amiable chat? Square with me, Captain. Tell me all. If you do, we won’t touch a hair on your head. You can keep your money. Of course you are done doing business in this country. All travel privileges will be revoked. You will never clap eyes on fair England again. But then, this may be inevitable. There is a bill up for vote that will mark the end of foreign trade. One of our nobility, an illustrious earl, has lost his son to Irish hoodlums. He wants the borders shut for good.”