The Warm Machine

by Seth Rain

  Scott followed the others below. Isaiah stepped into a crate and readied himself to be boxed in. Noah was pacing the boat, his face flushed.

  Scott fastened the lid, hammering in several small nails.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ Noah said in a panicked whisper. ‘What if, when we’re all inside, he just tells them where we are?’ He pointed to the ceiling, where Gregory was with Stretch, hiding the last of the bottles.

  ‘He won’t,’ Freya said, climbing into the next crate.

  ‘How do you know he won’t?’ Noah asked.

  Scott waited. Freya was scrunched up inside the box, peering up at him. They exchanged a quick smile and a nod and then Scott fastened the lid.

  ‘Jesus, help me,’ Noah said, wincing at each nail Scott hit with the hammer.

  ‘You’re next,’ Scott said, lining up the crate for Noah.

  ‘I can’t,’ Noah said. ‘Can’t do it.’

  ‘We’ll be inside them for thirty minutes, if that. Then when we’re through the tunnel we can have a drink, have something to eat, then find Mathew.’

  Noah flexed his hands then rolled them into fists. He bounced up and down on his toes. ‘I can’t do it.’

  Gregory came down the steps. ‘We need to get moving.’

  Scott faced Noah and tilted his head.

  ‘Can’t believe I’m doing this,’ Noah said before he climbed into the crate. He folded his legs and arms and bowed his head. ‘I knew you were going to be a pain in the arse the moment I saw you. Hurry up before I change my mind.’

  Scott fastened the lid, listening to Noah breathing heavily.

  After stacking the next crate, Scott handed Gregory the hammer. Scott considered what Noah had said, and tried to see something in Gregory’s expression that was reassuring. Neither of them spoke, but Gregory’s nod was enough to convince Scott this was their only option. He folded himself up and looked away as the lid was placed on top of his crate. Within seconds everything was dark. This had been his idea, and Scott hoped it would work.

  Gregory must have draped a blanket over the crates because the small cracks of light above disappeared.

  Eighteen

  ‘It’s not a hoax,’ Scott said.

  Rebecca scowled. ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Three deaths in two days, on the dates predicted.’

  ‘They’re the crazy ones who couldn’t deal with it,’ she said. ‘They killed themselves.’

  Scott winced. ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘Well, if they take any notice of that email, they’re clearly nut-jobs. They killed themselves thinking their dates were set in stone.’

  ‘You have reached your destination,’ the self-driver said.

  Scott got out of the car.

  ‘Soon there’ll be men who die on the wrong date, and all this will be forgotten,’ Rebecca said. She reached for his hand and they walked into the shop together. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘They say there are 144,000 dates.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re one of them,’ she said. ‘But it’s nothing. You’ll see.’

  Scott waited for the doors to open. ‘Have you heard what they’re saying? About the number?’

  Rebecca took a basket then picked up a box of cereal and placed it inside. ‘You need to stop listening to all that.’

  ‘144,000. It’s in Revelations.’

  She laughed. ‘What? The Bible?’

  ‘The New Testament. The last book – Revelations.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said, choosing a bag of wholemeal pasta. ‘This should be good.’

  ‘In Revelations, that number is mentioned three times. They are the number of people anointed by God and given a place in Heaven.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ she said. ‘What about the rest of us?’

  ‘The 144,000 are supposed to lead the way for those who are deserving.’

  ‘You sound like a priest.’ She smiled. ‘I like it.’

  Scott took two jars of pasta sauce from the shelf.

  ‘Not those,’ she said. ‘I’ve been using this one.’ She chose another jar and showed him. ‘You said you liked it better. Remember?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you did. You told me to make sure I bought this one next time.’

  She moved slowly, taking another jar from the shelf and placing it in the basket.

  ‘Why would it be that amount?’ he asked her.

  ‘You don’t know it is. Someone has probably made it up. It’ll be part of the hoax. Clever, I’ll give them that.’

  Scott waited at the end of the aisle and stared at the razors.

  ‘There are so many,’ he said. ‘Why so many?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Rebecca said, ‘I think the amount of choice they offer is a ploy to confuse you. You end up panicking and buying the one your eye falls on first, or the one you’ve seen advertised.’

  ‘Or the choice paralyses you – and you leave without buying anything.’

  ‘And grow a beard? No chance.’ She reached forward, grabbed a razor. ‘This one will do.’

  Nineteen

  The narrowboat’s engine vibrated through the timber of the crate. Scott was curled up, his arms crossed in front of his chest. What had at first felt relatively comfortable was now far too constricting. He could only move his feet a little, his legs and back wedged against the sides of the crate. He made the effort to breathe slowly and thought of the others beneath him, especially Noah. The darkness inside the crate was now more blue than black, and when he moved his knees and hands, he could see silhouettes of movement. The thought that he could count time passing and work out when they were close to being in the clear came to him. But soon he lost track. The boat’s engine slowed. He imagined it drifting along the canal towards the tunnel Gregory had described.

  Loud voices outside. Shouting. Dogs barking.

  There was a banging against the side of the narrowboat, followed by more loud voices. Gregory’s voice was low and steady, only the timbre of his voice, not the words, audible.

  Holding his breath was easy, but Scott was convinced the sound of his heart beating would be heard or felt through the crate.

  Whispers from the crates beside him.

  Footsteps above, on the roof of the boat.

  Movement inside the boat.

  ‘These ’em?’ a man’s voice asked, in a Black Country accent.

  Scott held his breath.

  ‘That’s them,’ Gregory said.

  Scott turned towards the voices on the other side of the crate.

  ‘What have I told you, Gregory?’ The man’s voice was low and husky.

  ‘We came to an agreement,’ Gregory said. ‘I’d take Birmingham and you have the Black Country.’

  ‘And yet here you are. On my canals. With your whisky.’

  ‘I’m not selling,’ Gregory said.

  The other man laughed. ‘Not selling? Our Greg not selling? So what brings you to the Black Country?’

  ‘Other business.’

  Someone knocked against Scott’s crate.

  ‘Other business? For a bootlegger, Greg, you’re not much of a liar.’

  Gregory’s voice softened. ‘We’ve known each other a long time, Jack. Take my word for it, I’m not selling. I wouldn’t do that to you. We have an agreement.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘Don’t do this,’ Gregory said.

  ‘You know what happens now. We have no choice.’

  Suddenly, Scott’s crate was lifted. He braced himself against the sides of the crate as he was tipped back, then the crate levelled off.

  ‘Don’t,’ Gregory said. ‘We can come to some agreement. I’ll give you money.’

  The men carrying the crate grunted. Then Scott was tipped forward.

  His head banged against the crate and he tumbled over. Then there was a splash and the crate began to fill with water. Another splash, followed by two more. His crate was sinking. He gasped, taking in air. There was no room to kick or punch. He h
ead-butted the panel behind but it was solid. The water was cold and murky. He stretched his body as far as he could, filling the crate as much as possible, hoping that the seams of the crate would buckle and break. He stretched and stretched, but still the water filled the crate, reaching to beneath his chin. He gasped for air. The water was freezing. Again he used his head to bash against the crate. He lifted his elbows so they were level with his chest and pushed outwards, but the crate didn’t give. There could only be half a dozen nails holding down the lid. When he looked up, water spilled into his mouth. He choked and spat. Manoeuvring, he thrust his feet into one corner and pushed his body as high as he could, pushing the roof of the crate with the top of his head. He grimaced and pushed harder. Something dug into his skull. Water covered his mouth and he breathed deeply through his nose. He pushed again. Something snapped. And the lid of the crate lifted enough for him to break free. He surfaced. Because of the smog and the drizzle, he had some cover.

  Scott spun around, searching for the other crates. One of them floated nearby. It was open, like his, and was empty.

  ‘Freya,’ he whispered loudly, still spinning in the water. ‘Freya!’

  Another crate near the bank was still intact, almost fully submerged. He swam over to it. Digging his fingertips into the opening at the top of the crate, he tugged hard. The two nails on that side creaked as he pulled off the lid. A body burst out of the water. Noah spluttered, reaching for the bank, his chest heaving.

  Scott swam across to the other side of the canal and watched as the narrowboat disappeared beneath the bridge.

  ‘Freya!’ he said again.

  He swam towards the bridge, stopping now and then to tread water, searching for the light brown of a crate beneath the surface. He imagined Freya inside a crate, submerged, her fists banging the lid, her mouth and lungs filling with dirty water.

  ‘Freya!’

  He imagined Freya’s dark eyes and the way she saw through him. He swam one way then the other.

  There was movement on the bank.

  ‘Scott?’ a voice said. It was Isaiah.

  ‘Isaiah? Where’s Freya? I can’t find her!’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said, breathless, holding on to a branch that drooped into the water further along the canal.

  ‘You okay?’ Scott asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s Noah?’ Isaiah asked. ‘I think I heard him.’

  Scott swam towards them. ‘He’s here. How did you get out?’

  Isaiah pointed to Freya.

  ‘I’m smaller than you,’ she said. ‘I had room to kick.’

  ‘Has Gregory gone with them?’ Scott asked.

  ‘I don’t think he had any choice,’ Isaiah said. ‘It was the only way to not give us away.’

  Noah appeared beside Scott and climbed out of the canal to lie on the towpath. ‘Now what?’ he asked.

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ Freya said. ‘We need to get through to the other side of the tunnel.’

  ‘Through?’ Noah asked. ‘Swim? Through?’

  ‘We could go over the top,’ Isaiah said, pointing to the trees above the low bridge. ‘But there’ll be clans up there. It’s easier to follow the narrowboat.’

  Scott shivered. The rain was falling even harder.

  Making as little noise as possible, they each dropped into the canal and began to swim.

  Twenty

  It was dark inside the tunnel, the only illumination coming from the arch at the far end. The echo of the narrowboat remained, but that was distant, hidden behind the slap of water against the sides of the canal. There was no towpath beneath the bridge, so their only option was to swim.

  Scott’s chest burned. He was already tired after getting out of the crate. The swimming itself wasn’t difficult but, because of the cold water, his energy was being sapped fast. Isaiah took the lead, moving further away every minute. The tunnel, Gregory had told them, went on for two miles. It wasn’t continuous; there were basins and places in the open air where narrowboats could load or pass one another. The further in they got, the more Scott longed for the open air, even if it was cold and raining. As he adjusted to the dark, he saw that the walls and curved roof were covered in undulations of algae, giving the inside of the tunnel the feel of an alien world. Water seeped through the brick and fell in large, slow drips.

  Behind, Noah complained constantly, his voice echoing. Freya told him to be quiet several times, but there was no way they could keep their presence secret anyway, not with the sound of their splashing and laboured breaths. If there was anyone close by, they would know they were there.

  After twenty minutes, they reached the first break in the tunnel. They emerged into a basin where the ground naturally dipped towards the canal. The air was cleaner but much colder. The rain had increased and the water’s surface was peppered with tiny disc-shaped ripples. Treading water, shivering, Scott checked on Freya, took three deep breaths then turned and swam into the next tunnel. He found a steady rhythm and the effort warmed his body. His chest still burned, but he considered it manageable, or at least tolerable. Isaiah’s stroke had slowed and Scott was beginning to catch up with him. Noah still complained, but Freya had given up telling him to be quiet.

  This section of the tunnel appeared more like part of the landscape and less manmade. There were no bricks covering the walls and roof; the smooth surfaces gave the tunnel an organic quality, as though they were swimming through the veins of the Earth itself. The longer Scott spent in the water, the more his body seemed to morph into a different species, his eyes, limbs and skin adjusting to the new environment.

  Scott emerged into another opening and gasped. The air was by no means clean, but compared with the air inside the tunnel, it was sharp. Treading water, he waited for Freya. She emerged from the tunnel, her stroke slow and ponderous. Scott swam to the bank and held on. Freya couldn’t speak at first, and Scott waited for her to gather herself.

  Smog filled the sky, thickening as they moved closer to the heart of the Black Country.

  ‘Cold,’ she said. She was shivering and Scott felt the urge to hold her. Her jaw chattered and now and again her shoulders shook with a violent spasm. It was no use staying where they were; they needed to keep going. It was cruel, but he led the way, nodding for Freya to follow.

  It took an age to swim the next length of tunnel. Even Isaiah up ahead had to stop and tread water several times. The memory of the sandwiches and mugs of tea they’d enjoyed on the narrowboat came to Scott; the thought was wildly decadent, even ridiculous. To think you could travel on a boat through these tunnels, all the time eating and drinking instead of having to swim the canal, seemed absurd. The echo of the boat’s engine had faded a long time ago, but Scott imagined that the swell of the water moving towards him must be the result of the boat’s movement through the tunnel.

  Scott entered a trance, his strokes pulling him through the water without his mind being present. His rhythm fell in time with Isaiah and the other two behind, until he could begin to think about other things without having to think about where he was or what he was doing. His thoughts turned to Paul and his expression moments before he was shot. He had looked peaceful, free of anger or hatred at what was about to happen. Paul’s body had been thrown backwards with none of the grace or slowness he had usually shown. Scott remembered the crack of the revolver, the spasmodic jerks of Paul’s limbs, the stillness and irregular shape of his body on the floor. It was a sacrilegious act, one that jarred with everything that was in tune with the world.

  A break in the tunnel up ahead glowed blue. Something Scott couldn’t make out hung, swinging from the bridge. He swam faster to catch up with Isaiah. The shape hanging from the top of the bridge grew larger. A pair of legs, arms by its side…

  ‘No!’ he heard Isaiah shout, his voice echoing through the tunnel. ‘No!’

  Scott knew who it was before he reached the end of the tunnel. He swam as quickly as he could, panting, his arms and
legs working furiously.

  Isaiah got to the end of the tunnel first and reached up to the figure’s feet. His touch made the body swing.

  Scott swam up behind Isaiah and also tried to grasp the body’s feet, but it was no good. He swam to the bank and lifted himself out of the water. It was Gregory: naked, hanging from the bridge, a bottle of whisky looped around his neck.

  Scott searched for a way onto the bridge above but couldn’t see one.

  Isaiah had followed him to the bank. Scott helped him out of the water and they stood staring up at Gregory’s huge body, on show for the world to see.

  ‘Why would they do that?’ Scott asked.

  ‘The clans,’ Isaiah said. ‘They’re a law unto themselves.’

  ‘We have to get him down,’ Scott said.

  Freya emerged from the tunnel, gasping for air, all the time staring at Gregory’s body, a hand covering her mouth.

  Scott helped her out of the water.

  ‘They killed him! Why?’

  Scott held her. Freya’s body shook in his arms. ‘It was our fault,’ she said. ‘We shouldn’t have asked him to help us.’

  ‘He knew what he was doing,’ Isaiah said.

  She stepped away from him. ‘It’s our fault.’ Something in her tone was accusatory.

  Noah was still inside the tunnel, his strokes slow but noisy.

  ‘I’ll climb up and untie him,’ Isaiah said. ‘You’ll need to pull his body from the water,’ he said to Scott.

  Isaiah climbed the bank beside the tunnel wall and Scott dropped back into the water.

  ‘I knew it,’ Noah said, shaking his head, pointing at Gregory’s body. ‘The fucking canals!’

  Gregory’s body slipped once, then twice, before falling from the tunnel bridge and into the water. Scott and Noah pulled the body to the side and, with Freya’s help, lifted him out of the water.

  Scott, exhausted, lay on the bank.

  ‘There’s something on his chest,’ Noah said. ‘Look.’

  Scott tried to make out the deep cuts in Gregory’s chest. They made shapes. Numbers. A date. Scott saw the first number and looked away.