November 17th, 1963.
Nicholas has a chance at the title. I’m pretty sure Seagrave’s had something to do with it. My brother is a great boxer, but to be able to get to such a level so quickly? Something isn’t right. I’d tell Nick, but I know it’ll break him, he’s a proud man. Seagraves offer for 67% of the business for the full amount. Is it my ego keeping me from saying yes? Beatrice said today the gifts are as good as intimidation. And he’ll cut me out of the question once he has my engine. Lord knows I could do with the money. Having Nicholas over for dinner tonight again with the one he’s courting. I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with him. All she does is stand by the window and smoke. Do they even have conversations? Beatrice mentioned they exchanged words together through their eyes. I have no idea what she’s talking about.
She flipped over a load more of the pages to the final entry.
February 2nd, 1965.
Today is the day. The Queen, prince James and one of her young twin princes have confirmed that they’ll be riding with us. Little Baxter will be with Beatrice and I will be riding up at the front.
I know the train will be perfect, but better I ride up front and keep an eye on things, the most this Upper lot have come to seeing electricity in action is after pulling a jumper off their thick heads!
I invited Seagrave. Haven’t heard from him since my last decline. I didn’t sleep a wink last night, no doubt the photographer is going to capture my dark circles perfectly. I’m quite nervous.
Abigail’s tears dripped onto Alfred Nightingale’s last journal entry, smudging the ink. She closed the pages and carefully placed it back on the desk. She wiped her face clear and left the house, heading back to the anchored airship.
The rest of the team had packed up. Hans went about with the kid riding along, while he ordered some of the others. They hadn’t seen Abigail yet, she thankfully thought.
Boarding the airship, she got out her notebook and made some extra summaries and a full list of questions for her forthcoming interview with Seagrave.
The airship crew readied the ship. Abigail watched Hans like the hawk, and when he sneaked off, making his way back to the square, she followed him. The clock in the church tower struck the hour. Hans and the little girl Pixie had no trouble slipping in, leaving the door ajar. Abigail followed them, careful not to let her wet boots squeak on the polished wood. Inside, the candlesticks coated in wax gave little wick for light. Hans lit enough to cast back the darkness.
‘Wait here please, Pixie.’ He placed her in one of the aisle seats. ‘I just need to...’ He cut his own voice short. Embarrassed, he tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Just, wait here please, darling.’
He walked to the front of the church slowly, his pace proving his respect to the faith, and got down to his knees, lowered his head and said a prayer.
Behind him, Pixie placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Know what is in front of you,’ she said, ‘and what remains hidden from you will be disclosed to you.’
Hans smiled. His jaw cracked under the strain of the disused gesture as a tear escaped his eye. She caught it with a finger. ‘For there is nothing hidden which won’t be revealed.’
Abigail struggled to hear Pixies words but watched Hans reaction. Suddenly, Hans had become terribly interesting.
CHAPTER 23
Francis Barknuckle was especially proud of his new conforming top hat. Thankfully, Wellington Row also had the best tailors on Terra, but you needed to know where to look. The touring Middles always peered in the shop windows but never set foot inside; little did they realise the gems they’d discover, and as the Upper Middles always said; Welly Row’s was the place to go.
Well-dressed gentry had recommended Francis some tailors. Among their decorative shop windows, Francis caught a fright. One brawny wooden mannequin posed an arrogant posture all too familiar in its green velvet. Francis spat at the floor, turned his body sideways and compared himself to the smug looking model, spat again and entered the shop.
Francis held his arms out wide as instructed by the tailor who stretched out a line of measuring tape.
‘38 inches long on the jacket. Will you require a matching pair of trousers as well, Mr Barknuckle?’
‘No thank you, tailor,’ Francis gargled through the citric vivacity of free champagne.
‘I see,’ the tailor said, making his way around his back to the other arm.
Francis fingered the material. It felt soft and gentle, which he knew meant expensive. ‘Do you have anything in this size I can take now, perhaps less...’
The tailor raised an eyebrow. ‘Less?’
‘Fragile?’ The question’s high-toned, long drawn-out upward inflection made him sound Australasian.
Folding the tape, the tailor sighed. ‘I’ll take a look, sir.’
The doorbell hanging above the shop door rang. The clatter of a horse and cart went by as the wood of the door brushed against the thick carpet.
‘One moment please, sir.’ The tailor left him, sliding the large red curtain across and splitting the room in two.
II
Francis heard men greet one another, their chatter disappearing to the background. He looked over at the tailor’s dresser, a large set of cravats, a few of which were brightly coloured. He snatched one and forced it in his trouser pocket. Mirrors surrounded him; he caught his reflection and exposed his gum, inspecting the holes with his narrowed tongue where teeth used to be.
‘Perhaps I’ll add a gold tooth to the list?’ he said, as the talking from the other portion of the room decreased to whispers. He peeled the red curtain back to take a peek.
The tailor stood, measuring and fussing around another gent. Francis couldn’t hear the exact words. He leant a little further round the curtain. The gent, a tall man, had his head lowered listening to the tailor with his ear close to his mouth. He lifted his head up. A thunderous heat exploded from Francis’ lungs.
‘Nightingale!’ Throwing the curtain out of the way, Francis leapt forward and grabbed the tailor, tearing the expensive fabric he was wearing on the curtain hook as he hurried for the nearby pair of scissors and jabbed them close to the tailor’s throat.
‘You’re going to pay for that fabric, Mr Barknuckle,’ the tailor said in a calm tone, despite having a pair of his own fabric scissors scratching at his jugular.
‘Now, now.’ Nicholas held up his hands and bent his knees. ‘Not the neck you want to be cutting, is it? Let my friend go, come on, come and take me out, you have a blade, of sorts, and I have, nothing.’
Francis pushed the tailor to the ground and charged at Nicholas with the scissors thrusting forward, packed by all the force of his hate.
Nicholas parried left, drew back his right fist. Somewhere deep within the muscles gathering his reactions, calculations were made, perfect in its precision, faster than the thought sent on its journey.
Francis watched the fist break two of his fingers, releasing his grip on the scissors, they flew out, hitting the shop window and cracking the glass.
As the right fist cleared the blades, Nicholas shunted his left fist forwards for a body blow. It connected, shoving Francis off his legs. His arms thrust forwards and clutched the startled boxer by his tunic. The force knocked both men off their feet, sending them hurtling at the shop window, smashing it out of its frame, and falling on to the hard-cobbled road in a flash of glass.
Shards of sharp purpose rained around them, Francis struggled against Nicholas’ strength and gritted his remaining teeth, exposing the empty gums.
‘How’d you lose those?’ asked the besieged Nicholas, letting go of his wrist and smacking Francis once again on the tip of his chin. The punch was forceless, a tap at best. Francis pulled his head back and rammed his skull into Nicholas’, breaking apart their grip. Both men shot to their feet, fists up ready for the brawl. A crowd of onlookers joined the tailor.
‘I’m impressed,’ Nicholas said, wiping his jaw. ‘I didn’t have a goon down for appreciating the sub
tle skills of a tailor such as Jerry.’
The tailor heard Nicholas’ compliment, smirked at the crowd of potential customers and straightened his bow tie.
Francis continued to circle like a demented shark. ‘I guess it means you and I, in another life, could have been fashion twins?’
Nicholas looked down at the goon’s Italian slip-on loafers and cocked his head. ‘doubtful.’
Francis charged forward in a fury of fists.
Nicholas evaded the first punch, deflected the second with a snapped twist of his wrist. From the top corner of his left side, he rocketed his remaining free hand downward, clenching it, forcing the fist through the air on a collision course with the goon’s chin.
Francis’ head was lowered. He snapped it up to the right as his uppercut gained momentum – but it was no use.
The ex-boxer, quick to calculate his opponent’s countermeasure after such a terrible display of unskilled windmilling, connected his middle knuckle to the goon’s diminishing jaw. The ferocity of the ex-championship boxer’s fist sent a violent quake around the structure of the bone, breaking it and causing his brain to smack against the side of his skull wall with such force it rendered Francis unconscious in seconds.
Blood and a few more teeth to add to Nicholas’ ongoing tally spurted out all over the street. He steadied himself among the cheers. ‘No airship to save you this time, hey old cock?’
III
The tailor ran over from the pavement and gave Nicholas a hand, dragging limp body of Francis back into his shop.
‘I was going to say it was good to see you, Nicholas,’ Jerry said, looking down at his old friend’s blooded knuckles. ‘Let me guess, rodgering this poor sod’s fishwife, was it?’
‘Hilarious, Jerry.’ Nicholas removed a hanky from his pocket and wrapped it around one of his fists, aware of the tailor’s beautiful cream carpets. ‘This man attacked our village. Who is he?’
‘One of Seagrave’s goons, I suspect. Who else would be stupid enough to pick a fight with you.’
‘You’d be surprised.’ Nicholas carried Francis’ lifeless body to the back room.
Jerry drew the middle curtain. ‘The window’s going to cost me at least...’ He looked Nicholas up and down, ‘...three of your go-to suits.’
‘Quite the mark-up you make from me, Jerry. Add it to my bill.’ Nicholas sat on a chair next to the sprawled-out body of Francis Barknucle and wiped clean some blood from his enemy’s lip.
‘He came in here waving his money around,’ Jerry said, ‘like “The Big I am” and but opted for buying off the rack.’ Jerry threw his measuring tape around his neck and offered Nicholas a cigarette. ‘If you didn’t knock him out, I would’ve.’
‘It’s good to see you again, Jerry,’ Nicholas said, looking around the room. ‘Do you have anything stronger than measuring tape so we can tie this fucker up?’
Jerry objected, waving his hands at his old friend. ‘Nicholas, take your torturous industry elsewhere.’ Thinking he heard a sound from behind the curtain, Jerry snapped it back, peeked and returned to face him. ‘I have a business to run here. You can’t be torturing henchmen for information in my fitting rooms!’
Nicolas removed a money clip, and quickly counting the amount, he handed it to Jerry.
‘I don’t want your money, look,’ Jerry rubbed his temples, ‘I’ve got some old sturdy fabric out back, let’s tie him in that, at least until the shop’s shut, agreed?’
‘Perfect,’ said Nicholas, leaving the clip on the dresser.
‘No, Nicholas, keep ya damn lolly or give it to what’s-her-chops over in Gateshead. Unless, that is, you plan on buying something.’
‘Of course.’ Nicholas took it back and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. ‘I need a change of clothes. And the others?’
Jerry disappeared and came back quickly with a towel and handed it to him. ‘Others? What others?’
Nicholas rubbed the sweat from his face. ‘The Brotherhood. Are they not still–’
‘They’re in Paris, my old chum.’
‘Paris?’
‘Yeah, taking care of bigger fish than that Seagrave fella.’
‘Damn. I needed their help.’
‘Last thing I knew, Hans hadn’t left for there yet. I can check…’
‘What about Nigel?’
‘Didn’t you hear?’
‘Oh no, don’t tell me he’s gone and snuffed it.’
‘Penceworth? Snuffed it? I’d have thought you’d recognise his handy work.’ Jerry threw a copy of the Gazette at Nicholas.
‘Murdering Mother rescued at Gallows by the Hooded Crimson?’
Jerry’s eyes widened. ‘One guess, that’s all you’re getting.’
‘Such a showboat, it says he dangled down from the dome? Any idea where I’d find him?’
‘Not a clue, last I heard before that press coverage was he’d shackled up with an Upper’s wife and was happy riding the gravy train.’
‘I’m not surprised, I doubt it’ll last any longer than his last one.’
Jerry tied off the fabric around Francis’ body. ‘So, what did this one want with ya then?’
‘Seagrave sent him to kill Alfred.’
Jerry grabbed a glass, filled it with water and handed it to Nicholas. ‘We all knew it, hey? We did, didn’t we? Knew it would happen eventually.’
‘Did we?’ Nicholas took the glass and downed it. Handing it back to Jerry, he bashed him hard on the shoulder. ‘I think he’s going to do something foolish.’ Nicholas bent down and used the same towel to wipe clean Francis’ face of congealed blood. The swelling on the jawline had already appeared. Nicholas lifted his lips to have a look at the damage, two fresh ones today and another four where the gums had slightly healed.
‘You’re gonna have a tough job getting any coherency out of his messed-up mouth,’ Jerry said, disappearing off to get some more fabric.
Later, he returned, and together they tied Francis to a chair and gagged his mouth.
Nicholas checked the goon’s pockets and found an envelope. Inside was a ticket to tomorrow’s unveiling at Seagrave Corp. ‘Jerry’ he shouted, ‘what’s happening tomorrow at the compound?’
The tailor reappeared from the fitting rooms carrying a silver tray with a pot of tea, two cups and a plate of biscuits. ‘It’s his new train, the gas one he promised would replace your brother’s. Going to join all the districts apparently.’
‘Will Seagrave be there?’
‘Of course,’ Jerry said, placing the tray down, ‘it’s his, innit? Making a speech and all the rest of it. You know what he’s like, bloody egotistical twat!’
That’s it, Nicholas thought, my brother is going to try and get close to him there, the perfect payback. ‘Jerry, I need a gun, some ammo and a new green suit.’ Nicholas looked over at the choices on the rack, and worry appeared on his face. ‘You do still have my fabric, don’t you?’
Jerry took the biscuit and dunked it deep in his hot tea. ‘Nicholas, love,’ shaking his head while taking a bite out of it. ‘Of course I fucking do, no other fucker can afford it.’
IV
The water shocked Francis out of the abyss. Hunched over him was a fuzzy green figure. Francis’ arms were bound. The pain returned.
‘What? What is this, who are you? Untie me at once!’
‘I suspect you won’t be easy to crack, mister, but what I am prepared to do is… you see these scissors?’
The figure held up a pair of long blurred scissors, they made a slicing sound, showing they were rather sharp.
‘If you tell me the exact details of your task, why you sent those things to my village, you’ll get to keep your little finger.’
Francis spat at the blur. ‘Haven’t you noticed, fool? Look down at my hands.’
Each hand was wrapped in a black band and covered the areas where little fingers had once grazed. ‘I’m perfectly acquainted with dealing with a pair of sharp scissors, especially when welded by a blunt-minded
clown like you, Nicholas Nightingale.’
Nicholas grabbed the hammer from the workbench and rested its cold iron weight on Francis’ right knuckle. ‘Name?’
‘Francis Barknuckle,’ he said, turning his focus on Nicholas’ eyes.
‘Where is my nephew?’
Francis spat in Nicholas’ face, blood hit his eye and trickled slowly down Nicholas’ cheek. Nicholas smiled, raised the hammer and slammed it hard on the goon’s hand. The bones crushed and made a satisfying crack.
Francis screamed. ‘I don’t know your nephew, I was sent to kill you and your fucking brother.’
‘Where is my nephew Baxter Nightingale?’
‘I don’t know.’
Nicholas slammed the hammer down harder on the opposite hand, sending Francis into a fit of pain.
‘Your skull is going to be next, Francis. Where is my nephew?’
‘He’s with Lucian,’ he shouted finally. ‘At the compound.’
Lucian? Slicking back his wet locks, Nicholas gave the goon a glare. ‘What does he want with him? Has he hurt my nephew?’
‘I have no idea what he wants. When we brought him before him, it upset Seagrave that the boy was tied up.’
Nicholas re-gaged Francis and applied a blindfold, then paced through the shop out the door, steaming past Jerry, who was counting the day’s takings. ‘Nicholas? Where you going?’
He stopped and waved the gas locomotive launch ticket in the tailor’s face. ‘To this shit Jerry, Seagrave has Baxter.’
‘What about the others, and our friend out the back?’
‘Keep him here, I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ve gagged and blindfolded him. Oh, and take this.’ Nicholas pulled his hand forward and opened it, filling the palm with the money clip. ‘For the new jacket. I’ll be back next Tuesday to collect it.’
Dark Age (The Reckoning Turbines Book 1) Page 38
