Straybeck Rising: Calloway Blood: Book one (Calloway Blood 1)

by Michael James Lynch

  Which was how he found himself crossing the checkpoints with a bag of school uniform. He had found an old tie and two jumpers and bundled them up with a couple of blank jotters and some pens. It wasn’t much, but they were in pretty good shape and better than nothing. His mum had been saving the clothes for John, but another year in his old things wouldn’t do any harm. Ryan hoped they made Alia smile. If only for a little bit.

  He had nothing to hide today, so he took the more direct route through the Trade Quarter. It was only as he reached the first checkpoint that he realised it was the anniversary of Talis’s inauguration today. He gave an irritable sigh. A few years ago, they had made a really big deal when it was the thirtieth anniversary and forced the schools and factories to sit through hours of footage from the original ceremony.

  At least he was spared all that today. Instead, the Government were blasting the Premier’s speech from the speakers above each checkpoint. Ryan had heard it dozens of times and it almost made him feel sorry for the gunnermen who were working the checkpoints.

  As he passed through each one, he saw people gathering in awkward groups around the speakers. So ingrained was their fear of the Premier that they felt obliged to stand and listen, unsure how long they should stay to show the appropriate level of respect.

  Ryan did not wait with them. Instead he pushed through the small gatherings, carrying his bag of clothes like a plunder ball. And at each checkpoint he watched with a tight jaw as the gunnermen upended the bag and sifted through its contents.

  In this way, he reached Alia’s street and as he walked up the path, ran one hand over his hair, flattening any tufts. He gave a confident knock and waited. No one came, so he tried again. There was a thud like something had been knocked over and then the sound of floorboards creaking as footsteps approached. A shadow fell over the small panel of frosted glass but instead of Alia, it was her mum who pulled open the door. She squeezed her face into the narrowest of openings and stared at him.

  “Are you from the doctors?”

  “Err, no. I’m a friend of Alia’s. Is she in?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” she grumbled. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” The door was slammed in his face.

  Ryan waited a few seconds and then knocked again. When it opened this time, he stepped forwards and wedged his foot into the door. “Mrs Turner?” he said.

  “Yes? Who are you?”

  “My name’s Ryan. I’m a friend…” but before he could finish she tried to slam the door again.

  “I don’t know anyone called Ryan at the doctors.”

  “I’m not from the doctors, Mrs Turner. I just want to speak to Alia.”

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about? Kindly remove your foot from my doorway or I’ll call for Mr Turner and have you thrown out.”

  Ryan wriggled his foot free and watched the door close for a second time. With a sigh, he reached inside the bag and retrieved one of the notebooks and a pencil. On the front sheet he wrote From Ryan and beneath that wrote down his address. Then he placed it at the top of the bag and left it on the doorstep.

  An hour later he was in the cellar beneath Brynne’s chapel learning how to use a covert camera. The old man had fixed it to the inside of his jacket and was explaining how it worked. A muddle of wires connected the camera to a chunky monitor and as Ryan turned his body this way and that, the image on screen panned around the room.

  When it settled on Brynne he shielded his face and scowled. “Turn the other way.”

  He was sending Ryan out to get footage of the gunnermen mistreating workers. They had made a small hole in the collar of his coat and then poked the camera lens through that.

  “Hold still,” the old man grumbled as he fiddled with the controls on the battery pack. The image suddenly sharpened on screen. “How’s that?”

  “Spot on.”

  “Okay, it’s very simple to operate,” Brynne said. “To record…push this switch left.” He mimed the action because it was already recording. “And to switch off…”

  “Move it to the right?” Ryan said with a smile.

  “Quite the wit, aren’t we?” He turned it off and removed the TV line making the screen snap to black.

  “Brynne?”

  “Hmm?”

  “When do I get to meet the others?”

  The old man stared back with the same expression he had worn moments before he shot Caylin. “Why do you ask that?”

  Suddenly nervous, Ryan studied the inside of his jacket and toyed with the fastening of the camera. “I was just wondering. That’s all.”

  “People don’t just wonder, Ryan. There’s always a reason they ask things in my experience.” It was a heavy silence that followed.

  “It’s just,” he began, “I’ve put up posters and spray-painted slogans, but the next day they’re always torn down or washed away. It feels like there are real people getting hurt, or worse, and I’m not doing anything about it.”

  “So what exactly is it you’d like to do?” Brynne said, making no attempt to hide the disappointment and anger in his voice. “Shoot a few gunnermen? Plant a bomb in the factories? Maybe you’re after storming the Premier’s palace?”

  “No of course not. It’s just that I look at all your old pictures and the clippings. I hear about the things you used to do. You had marches and demonstrations and strikes.”

  “We did,” Brynne said. “And look where it got us. Tortured or killed or squatting down in some rat’s nest of a cellar. I told you Ryan, we need to be smarter than that. If those years taught me anything at all, it’s that you can’t beat the Government in a direct conflict. Not yet. We need the support of the people and the only way to get that is to change the way they think.”

  It was unusually cold in the cellar and Brynne knelt beside the fireplace to load it with knots of paper and a small stack of kindling. He gave three small squirts with the lighter fluid and struck a match. It flared bright and then settled, but instead of throwing it onto the fire, Brynne paused.

  “Turn out the lamp and come over here. I want you to look at this.”

  “Turn it out?”

  “All the way.”

  Frowning, Ryan twisted the collar of the gas lamp until its flame sputtered and died. Then, in the meagre light offered by Brynne’s match, he shuffled across the cellar and knelt beside the old man. Together they stared at the tiny flame that was creeping closer to his fingertips.

  “What do you see?” the old man asked.

  “The match?”

  “No,” he shook his head. “This is you. Right now.”

  The flame inched further down the match and then flickered around Brynne’s thumb and finger. He never flinched and a moment later it burnt out leaving the cellar in total darkness.

  “You’re burning bright Ryan, but you’ve no idea what to do with it.”

  There was a sudden scratch of sparks as the old man lit another match. This time he held it at arm’s length, illuminating the large fireplace. “What do you see now?”

  Ryan shrugged, unsure what he wanted to hear. “I don’t know.”

  “This is Straybeck.”

  He dropped the match and Ryan watched the small lick of flame burn through the lighter fluid and quickly consume the bundles of paper. From there it took hold of the kindling and soon the flames were strong enough to load on a thicker block of wood.

  “You are the spark, Ryan. I have no doubt about it. But I’m the one building a fire. So when I set you a job, it’s not to side-line you or keep you from the action. It’s because when those workers leave the factories, I need them to see one of us with a pamphlet in our hand. When they leave the bars and buyalls, they need to see your slogans ten feet high before them. It’s only when they’re ready to hear us that we can light the fire. Do you understand?”

  Ryan nodded solemnly. “Show me how to use the camera again. Tomorrow I’ll get your footage.”

  Chapter 23

  The radio had been
playing the Premier’s inauguration speech all day. Commentators recounted the momentous occasion that took place thirty-five years ago. They described each moment in its finest detail. They told of the thousands of gunnermen who marched through the streets and how ten thousand workers lined the route to the palace. Cheers echoed between the buildings as the Premier drove past in a golden carriage.

  As Robb listened to the speech, it seemed like the Premier was blessed with almost mystical powers of prediction. Somehow, in that inauguration speech, he managed to foretell the major changes that would befall the City States for years to come. He hinted at troubles with the Aftlanders, sea-raiders off the coast of Cape Heritage and even a temporary truce with the Gabblers.

  The footsteps of the past he said would be wiped away and together they would stride towards the future. When he tried to leave the stage, the crowd clamoured for more, refusing to let him leave. Robb had once seen a film reel that accompanied the commentary. It showed Talis unveiling a huge bronze likeness of himself gazing majestically skyward. A monstrous thing that was still standing in Liberation Square outside the Party Headquarters.

  The footage was so entrenched in the general consciousness of the City States that very few people would now say it happened any differently. Robb had been at the palace that day though and he hadn’t forgotten. The speech had been re-written many times over the past thirty years and they’d re-filmed the entire day to erase what happened the first time around.

  The inauguration took place a year after Talis defeated the old King. It had taken that long for tensions in the capital to ebb away. The Premier had shelled the King’s army into submission and Karasard was still a ruin in places. By the time of the inauguration, only the palace had been rebuilt – a monstrous building freshly released from the scaffolding. Robb and Farren had taken their place amongst a crowd of thousands that were penned into the main courtyard.

  “It’s a pretty big turnout,” Robb said appreciatively.

  “I wonder why that is,” Farren said, chewing on a mouthful of freedom loaf that had been given to all those who attended.

  It was the first time either of them had been inside the palace grounds since the Party Headquarters had been unveiled. Robb studied the crowd and saw lots of tired and hungry people. A band was trumpeting out the victory march and a few moments before, hundreds of birds had been released from behind the podium. Farren laughed as they shit on the heads of those around him.

  A regiment of gunnermen marched into view, signalling the arrival of Talis. As they stopped and turned and finally stamped their feet, the crowd fell silent and then the Premier appeared at the steps of the podium. The people were slow to react, but a gentle applause soon gathered momentum. Farren joined in with some slow, sarcastic claps and then made a gun with his fingers, aiming it at the Premier’s head. Robb quickly dragged his hands down.

  “Are you trying to get us arrested?”

  He just smiled back with that cocky grin of his. Up on stage, Talis began his speech and although the crowd cheered in all the right places it was fairly uninspiring. Robb shook his head. These were the same people that roped their trousers over empty bellies and cursed the Government to their family each night. Yet here they were, cap in hand, waiting for a glimpse of the Premier.

  As Talis reached the climax of his speech, he turned to the edge of the stage where something was covered beneath an enormous blue drape. The hidden object stood at least twenty feet high and jutted out at irregular angles. Robb presumed it was a statue, although of exactly what, he had no idea.

  “I’ll come clean. It’s a statue of me shagging your mum,” Farren said helpfully.

  Back on stage, the Premier held up his hands expectantly, but nothing happened. The crowd fell silent, waiting for the grand unveiling. On the far side of the stage, two aides were dragging frantically on a length of rope, trying to free the statue. Talis fixed them with an icy stare and they dropped the rope and set about pulling the drape itself.

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd while the Premier’s cold stare bored into the two men. By now some of the gunnermen had joined the struggle and took hold of the material, but it had caught fast on the point of the statue and both sides were dragging with equal enthusiasm so that it simply stretched and jerked the fabric.

  Talis strode towards them and ordered them to stand aside. He grasped the drape in both hands and wrenched backwards with all his might. The material ripped down the middle where it had caught on the statues outstretched hand. Talis fell backwards and the heavy drape pinned him to the floor. The gunnermen rushed back onto stage to free him, but the damage had already been done.

  Despite all the lies that had been told about that day, Robb knew he would never forget the sound of ten thousand workers laughing while their Premier stormed from the stage.

  John had been sitting at the kitchen table sharing a comfortable silence with his dad. The radio was droning in the background and the familiar cadence of the Premier’s coronation speech broke through his thoughts. It was the really famous part where he talked about wiping away the footsteps of the past and striding for the future.

  “They’ve already played this today.”

  “I know,” his dad said quietly.

  “How long has the Premier been in charge?”

  “Thirty-six years, give or take.”

  “Were you there when he came to power?”

  For a moment he thought he caught half a smile on his dad’s face but the sound of Ryan’s footsteps clomping downstairs soon saw it vanish. From the kitchen. John watched his brother lace up his boots on the bottom step. He had a large paper bag with him that looked like it was stuffed with clothing.

  “Dad?” John said quickly. “Shall I buy you a paper?”

  His dad eyed him suspiciously and then glanced at Ryan in the hallway. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I’m just bored.”

  With a weary sigh, Robb leaned to one side and dug a hand into his pocket. He brought out two coppers and flicked them towards John. He caught the first and dropped the second.

  “Stick to the main roads.”

  “I will.”

  As Ryan left the house with his bag under one arm, John rushed into the hallway to gather his own shoes and jacket. He gave a slow count to ten before quietly slipping outside and onto the street.

  Tailing Ryan to the first checkpoint was easy, but instead of taking the usual winding route towards the old chapel, they ended up walking across the centre of Straybeck. Ryan didn’t seem to be avoiding any of the checkpoints and it was as if he no longer cared whether the gunnermen stopped him.

  After half an hour like this, John found himself in the Slum District. His brother walked down a narrow street lined with terraced houses, stopping at the very end house which had a metal skip dumped outside it. By crouching in a nearby yard, he was able to watch his brother and still remain hidden.

  Ryan banged sharply on the door and John tried to remember the pattern, wondering if it was a code. The door eventually opened, but he couldn’t see the person inside. Moments later it slammed shut and there was more knocking. When it opened this time, his brother stepped into the doorway and continued to talk.

  He glimpsed a woman, dressed in a loose-fitting clothes. She seemed angry and soon slammed the door for a second time. Ryan had no idea what his brother was trying to get rid of, but the woman clearly didn’t want it. In the end, he dropped the bag on the doorstep and walked away.

  John tucked himself behind the wall until his brother had passed by. He considered sneaking up to the house to check in the bag, but knew it was too risky. Besides, he had already been gone too long and if he didn’t get back soon, his dad would be suspicious. Reluctantly John turned back the way he had come.

  Although John had never been to the Slum District before, he found his way back to the Trade District without too much trouble. He scanned both sides of the street for a newsstand or a buyall and was stunned to see a familiar
figure on the opposite pavement. She wasn’t wearing her uniform, but John immediately recognised the new girl from school. He closed the distance between them and crossed the road. It had to be fate that he had found her here, especially when she stopped outside a buyall.

  John hung back and saw her take a small handkerchief from her pocket, spreading the corners to count something inside. Whatever it was, the contents seemed to disappoint her, and the girl already looked defeated when she walked into the shop. John followed her in, justifying it to himself that he would always have chosen this buyall to get the newspaper. He walked past the barrows of fruit and tucked himself behind the news rack. She went straight to the counter where a clutch of jewellery and watches were displayed behind glass cabinets.

  “Just a minute.” That was the shopkeeper. He wore a surly expression on his face as though warning against timewasters. When he saw the girl at the counter though, his frown suddenly melted into a sly grin. He scanned the shop, not seeing John who was tucked behind the tall stand of papers. He leaned forwards, resting on his elbows.

  “Hello again young lady. I wondered when you’d be back.”

  John immediately disliked the man, although he wasn’t sure exactly why. He strained his ears to hear what they were saying as the girl placed her handkerchief onto the counter. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “I thought I could swap some more jewellery.”

  The man shook his head, the smile never leaving his face. “And I thought we had an arrangement.”

  She picked out some of the jewellery and held it closer to him. “These earrings are pearl. On their own, they’re worth twice what I took last time.”

  The man behind the counter shrugged his shoulders. “If you can sell them somewhere else then you’re welcome to try. But we both know you wouldn’t be here if you could.”

  “It’s not stolen, if that’s what you’re thinking. No one’s going to come looking. Not the seveners or the gunnermen.”