by Izzy Hunter
A TOWN CALLED NO HOPE
By
IZZY HUNTER
(c) Izzy Hunter. 2014.
UK Edition
Licence Notes
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to people, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved.
This book was written, produced and edited in the UK, where some spelling, grammar and word usage will vary from US English.
About The Book
Mona Miller would agree that her life is not too shabby. Sheriff of a prosperous mid-west settlement and with her mute lover Henry by her side, it's a far cry from her wild antics back in England.
But after an ill-advised bank robbery goes wrong, Mona pursues the thief, via airship, to the city of New Moray. There she catches the culprit and plans to bring him back to face the music. So far, so easy.
But what isn't so easy is dealing with a criminal mastermind who spends his time controlling his illegal activities in an underground labyrinth. Nor with a handsome stranger who just wont leave her side.
And when she finally returns to No Hope, what she finds there could destroy the very life she has carefully built for herself and those that she loves.
CHAPTER ONE
Miss Mona cocked her gun, staring down the thin streak of piss with the gall to be aiming a pistol at her with inexperienced hands. She could see the kid trembling from where she stood in the doorway of the bank. He looked no more than fifteen. Should have been at school or working somewhere respectable, not trying to steal other folk's money. The very idea of bank robbing was uninspiring, thought Mona. She'd have more respect for the boy if he'd attempted to rustle some of Old Pete's cattle. Now there was a challenge. Old Pete may have lived up to his nickname – he had to be creeping eighty – but no one came between him and his beasts. Not without coming away minus a limb or two.
'Kid, you're keeping me from my liquor,' she said sternly, consciously using the local lingo though retaining her native English accent. Despite a wave of tiredness washing over her, Mona tried not to yawn. The sandy-haired boy at least deserved a little bit of attention. Time to think he had even half a chance of getting out of there with the bag of money clutched in his white-knuckled fist. Maybe she'd play along with the fantasy for a bit before calling Henry, whose large bulk stood next to her out of sight of the young bank robber.
'Well, get back to it, ma'am,' squeaked the boy defiantly.
'That's sheriff to you,' Mona reminded him, tapping the badge she wore on her shirt lapel with a free hand.
'Papa says a woman's got no right being a sheriff,' the boy told her. 'Says they should be cleaning the home or spreading their legs.'
Mona raised an eyebrow. 'Sheriffs should?'
'Yeah,' replied the boy with a sneer and then realised what she was implying. 'No, I meant -' he began, flustered.
'Look, I'm really not interested in the backward thinking of your father,' Mona interrupted. 'What I am interested in is what you're planning to do with that money?'
The boy glanced at the bag in his hand, lowering his gun a little. 'I'm running away,' he said. 'I hate this place. I hate papa. I hate being dumb. I just want excitement.'
'Dumb? Kid, at least you've had the sense to get some money before going. Most runaways don't even plan that far ahead. Just leave with the clothes on their back and not enough food to last them even two days.'
The boy smiled. 'Yeah, I suppose I'm not that dumb. Now, Sheriff, if you'll stand aside, I'll be on my way.'
'I'll stand aside if you leave the money. I don't care if you leave town, one less person to protect, but you're not stealing anybody's money. Over my dead, but rather svelte, body.'
'That can be arranged.' The boy appeared to have grown some balls over the last few minutes. Damn.
'Look,' Mona pressed on, trying a different tactic. 'I grew up in England, in a tiny northern village much smaller than this place, so don't give me the Oh I'm so bored routine.'
'So what did you do?'
Mona pursed her lips for a moment. 'I... ran away, but I stole no one's money,' she added. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw a look of doubt flash over his face.
'You talk too much,' the boy said, before pulling the trigger.
Time slowed to a crawl. She saw the bullet leave the gun heading straight for her face. Mona moved to avoid being hit. Something rammed her side, throwing her to the floor. She whacked her head on the corner of the counter and saw stars. From where she lay, too woozy to get back up again, the boys words sounded muffled. To her right, Henry lay slumped against the wall. Shit, he'd been hit.
'You little...' she mumbled, trying to grab the boy's leg but he leapt over her outstretched arm and escaped from the bank.
'Goddamn it!' she said, willing not to faint. 'Get the hell up,' she ordered herself. 'Your deputy's been shot. Get up, woman!' Growling with exertion, she got to her knees and move across to Henry. A large patch of blood seeped through his pale shirt and his eyes remained shut. Moving closer, she pressed her ear against his chest, and then sighed with relief.
She took a moment for her eyes to focus and then stood. She wasn't looking forward to the next bit. She still wasn't 100% herself, and Henry was a heavy man, but she had no choice.
Slipping her arms under his armpits, she dragged the deputy along the floor and out into the evening sun. Help was only across the road but every second that passed, Mona felt weaker. If she ever saw that boy again, he'd be hanged within the hour.
She reached the building and with relief, let go of Henry and thumped her fist against the door. 'Open up, you sons of bitches,' she hissed.
'We're closed,' came a voice. 'Come back tomorrow.'
'Can't do, Wesley. Let me in before I kick down this door,' she called back. She could hear the hurried scraping back of a chair and approaching footsteps. The door opened to reveal a tall, bespectacled young man. He took in the sight of Mona's bleeding temple and then the unmoving form of Henry at his feet.
'I'll go and get Mr Sanders,' he said, then disappeared inside the building.
'Everything all right, Sheriff?' called a voice from behind her. She spun round, almost tripping with dizziness. Two men were walking past, no doubt making their way towards the tavern for an evening's entertainment.
Mona looked down at Henry who lay on his back with his broad arms mercifully covering the gun wound and blood. She smiled brightly at the two men. 'Perfectly fine, gentlemen. Henry here's had a bit too much to drink so I'm going to replace him with an automaton.'
The men, used to Mona's strange words – putting it down to her being from the Old World – laughed.
'You have a good night, now, gentlemen,' she added. 'Don't you be drinking too much, though.'
'Sure, Sheriff,' said one of the men, nudging his friend. 'Don't want to get swapped for an auto-mayton!' Continuing to laugh, the men walked on, disappearing through the doors of the saloon.
'Oh my dear girl, what has happened to you?' Sanders, a short, grey-haired London-born man appeared in the doorway, Wesley standing tall behind him. Then the older man noticed Henry and gave Mona an inquiring look.
'Shot in the chest,' she told him, holding onto the door frame. Her head ached worse than a trip to the town's dentist. 'Help him?'
'Of course.' Sanders nodded. 'Wesley, get his legs,' he ordered his apprentice, while he lifted the deputy by the arms. Mona wasn't sure that the old man would be able to lift him but was surprised when the two half-dragged Henry into their store. When they were all inside, Sanders locked the door behind them.
Behind the main shop was Sanders' workplace where he fixed a variety of broke
n mechanical items. He was a clockmaker by trade and, until Mona and Henry had arrived in town, that was his main line of business. Since meeting the English couple, Sanders had mended such strange contraptions belonging to the Old Worlders. Despite displaying an outward disdain for the oddities, Sanders found himself most intrigued by these gadgets. None more so than the machine before him.‘Who shot him?’ Sanders asked, rolling up his shirt sleeves as Mona and Wesley hauled the limp but heavy Henry onto the chair by the clockmaker’s desk
‘A stupid boy who’ll hang when I catch up with him,’ Mona said, bitterly.
‘Really? You would hang a young boy?’ Sanders glanced at her before putting on his spectacles.
‘Do you even need to ask?’ Mona replied.
‘I suppose not. You’re not one to murder a misguided child, my dear.’ Sniffing, he beckoned Wesley, who’d been standing at the door, forward. ‘Come, Wesley. You need to learn how to take care of our friend here. I won't be around forever, you know.'
Mona watched the tall youth nervously step forward. ‘He will be all right, won’t he, Sanders?’ She stood just to the side of Henry, stroking his short caramel-coloured hair with affection.
‘We’ll soon see,’ the old man replied. ‘Wesley, take off Henry’s shirt, please.’
‘Oh… um… What?’ Wesley said, his gaunt face turning a shade of strawberry.
‘Come, come, young Wesley. We all look the same underneath,’ Sanders began to say and then with a nod to Mona, continued. ‘I, of course, refer to the male of the species.’
‘Of course,’ Mona replied, a flicker of a smile crossing her concerned face.
Taking a deep breath, Wesley raised Henry’s shirt. The blood had seeped heavily into the linen. Mona helped him slide Henry’s thick arms out of the sleeves and stumbled as she pulled the shirt off her deputy.
‘The boy attacked you?’ Sanders said, nodding at her injury.
She shook her head then stopped. The pain was irritating. ‘No, Henry pushed me out of the way when the boy fired the gun. I fell and hit my head on the edge of a desk. I’m all right.’
Sanders gazed at her then stood up straight. ‘Well you’re no help, standing around here bleeding all over my floor. Wesley, take the Sheriff next door and patch her up, please.’
‘This way, ma’am… I mean, Sheriff,’ Wesley stuttered, placing the bloody shirt on the hat stand in the corner.
Sanders saw this and glared at his assistant. ‘I don’t believe the deputy wants to go around in a blood-stained shirt. Fill the bathtub and let the shirt soak while you tend to the Sheriff.’
‘Oh, yes. Sorry.’ Wesley grabbed the shirt again, making sure to hold the least bloodiest part - the collar - and led Mona through to Sanders' private residence.
The clockmaker’s home was a familiar sight to Mona, who often attended the Games Nights held in the fastidiously tidy abode. Sanders’ oak rocking chair, which he'd brought over from England, sat next to the wide hearth in the main room. A small green and red patterned rug lay between the two, atop the recently-swept wooden planks that made up the flooring.
Wesley gently took Mona by the arm and led her across to the chair. Once she was settled, the young apprentice went to fetch a damp cloth to wipe the trails of blood snailing down the side of the her face.
Mona laid back in the plush, velvet-backed chair. The smell of pipe smoke lingered in the air, invoking an image of the clockmaker sat with pipe in mouth, reading one of the many tomes from his bookcase. Wesley bustled back into the room, wiping glistening hands on his trousers.
‘Right,’ he exhaled, pausing in the middle of the room and gazing at her. ‘I’ll leave that soaking for a few hours. You’ll have to bring over a new shirt for Henry after Mr Sanders is finished with him.’
Mona nodded. ‘The cloth?’ she asked, seeing nothing in his hands.
Wesley stared at her and then slapped his forehead. ‘Oh goodness!’ he cried, and rushed out of the room again.
A smile formed on Mona’s lips. She liked the boy, and found his absent-minded professor persona endearing. Though if Sanders was serious about handing his business over when he retired, the boy would have to get a bit of sense knocked into him. Maybe Henry could help out with that, Mona thought, That’s if he’s still around by then.
She tried not to think about her lover. They had spent almost a decade together, starting in the slums of London before fleeing for their lives aboard a ship bound for the new world. Five years since that nightmare day when Henry's tongue had been torn off. A day re-lived in Mona's nightmares.
The clatter of rushed footsteps heralded the return of Wesley, dripping wet cloth in hand. Mona reached out as he came towards her, and took the cloth from him before he could splat her face with it. Looking quickly around for somewhere to dispense the excess water, she chose a steel bin that usually housed logs for the fire. As she twisted the cloth, and watched the water stream downward and hitting the bucket, she glanced up at Wesley.
‘I’ll take it from here, thanks,’ she told him, forcing a smile.
‘Oh. Right. Are you sure? You’re not going to faint, are you?’ asked Wesley.
She shook her head, regretting it almost instantly. ‘No. Go and help Sanders. Fetch me when he’s finished with Henry.’
‘All right.’ Wesley walked over to the front door and turned to look back at her. ‘He will be all right, Sheriff. Mr Sanders is a clever man. He’s fixed Henry before, he can do it again.’
‘Thank you, Wesley.’
Now alone, Mona held the cloth to her temple, flinching as it came into contact with the cut. She thought about her drink sitting in the saloon, no doubt now quaffed by some chancer. She should have finished it before letting Henry lead her off to the bank where he’d seen the boy break into. Had the kid managed to take any of the money with him, she wondered. She’d been too concerned with Henry to notice. The boy faced prison if caught. When caught. Enquiries would be made. His parents would be receiving a damn good talking to, as well.
The sky outside was turning an orange hue. It must have been heading into evening time. Sanders had been commissioned to make a clock to sit above the entrance to the jail for all the townsfolk to see. She'd have to ask how it was coming along. Since she had nothing to do but wait until Wesley returned, Mona snuggled down in the chair and fell asleep.
She dreamt about her time in London, though it was more a nightmare. All of her friends, the ones who had died in the English city, were reaching out to grab her as she stumbled through a slum; a ghoulish woman with a sickly babe at her bosom constantly watching her from a second floor window. So it was with great relief when Wesley gently shook her awake.
‘You were… mumbling in your sleep,’ he said.
‘What did I say?’
‘I didn’t understand,’ he said apologetically. ‘Um,’ he reached over and removed the cloth that sat across her forehead. ‘Sanders sent me to get you.’
Mona sat upright at the news. The room spun for a moment. She still felt a bit woozy. Taking a grip of the young man’s arm she rose to her feet, and he accompanied her back to the clockmaker’s workroom.
Sanders was returning a set of tools to his old leather bag when Mona and Wesley walked in. He looked up at the sound of the footsteps and smiled, his bushy moustache rising as he did so.
‘All done, my dear,’ he reassured her.
Mona looked across at Henry who sat exactly as she’d left him. A small section of skin on his chest was still open. Inside, complex display of mechanisation turned gently. Henry's eyes remained shut.
Mona left Wesley’s side and moved across to her deputy. ‘Henry?’ she whispered. He didn't move, or open his eyes at her voice. She looked at Sanders in confusion.
‘I fixed him. The bullet had shattered two of the cogs,’ Sanders explained, coming over to them. 'You cannot go on like this forever. He cannot go on like this forever.'
Mona didn't reply. She knew what was coming. Instead, she gazed at Henry
, willing him to wake.‘The whole notion of part-man, part-machine is preposterous. You can’t expect him to go on living forever,' Sanders told her.
‘Why not?’
‘Oh, come come, my dear. You’re an intelligent woman. Even the most robust machine doesn’t perform to the best of its abilities forever. Some day he'll only be good enough for scrap.'
Mona resisted the urge to slap the man. ‘If anybody tries to dismantle him, I’ll shoot them where they stand.’
Sanders exhaled. ‘Do you really think people will not start noticing Henry isn’t normal? What if he suddenly breaks down in full view of people? How are you going to explain that?’
‘I thought we were friends,’ she muttered. She knew he was right. She just didn’t want to admit it to herself, let alone anyone else.
The old man's voice softened. ‘We are friends, Mona. And that’s why I’m being honest with you,’ As if remembering Wesley was still in the room, he turned to address the boy. ‘How’s Henry’s shirt doing?’
‘Oh,’ exclaimed Wesley. He started heading out again before being called back by his master.
