Scarlet Traces: An Anthology Based on H. G. Wells' War of the Worlds

by Edited by Ian Edginton

  “Why not just apply anyway? You don’t have to go if you can’t face it?” suggested Harshdeep, finishing the last of his pudding. He collected his dinner things together and went to stand up. “Come on, let’s go, it’s too noisy in here.”

  Wilf too piled his plate and cutlery and stood. They walked to the ‘pig bin’ where any excess food was scraped from their plates and then pushed their way through the crowds of hungry students queueing for their own lunches.

  Just as they arrived at the exit from the dilapidated prefab that served as the dining room, they were confronted by a be-robed member of staff—Mr Kemp, the master in charge of the progression from the upper-sixth to university. “Ah, Dhillon, I wondered if you might pop along and see me at some point—application to study Medicine, yes?” the avuncular teacher asked.

  “Yes, sir, that is correct sir,” responded Harshdeep deferentially.

  “Excellent, excellent,” Mr Kemp commented and then turned to Wilf. “And what about you, Hardy? I trust you intend to make an application? History, I should imagine, according to Mr Wood.”

  Wilf wasn’t certain how to respond. It was true he excelled at History and it was a subject he loved. But to study it at university went so against the future mapped out for him by obligation. “No sir, not yet sir,” he responded. “I’m not sure my parents want me to continue my studies.”

  Mr Kemp seemed only slightly baffled by this. “Seems a shame, Hardy, for such a bright lad. Still, I suppose somebody such as yourself...” His words dried up as he took in Wilf’s Venusian appearance. “Probably, erm, has little interest in human history, eh?”

  “Indeed, sir,” replied Wilf with little enthusiasm. He would dearly have loved to reach the lofty heights of academia, but it wasn’t going to be.

  “Well, carry on then, boys,” Mr Kemp said indicating the conversation was at an end. His attention returned to the queue and the prospect of lunch.

  THE REST OF the afternoon was uneventful, and finally the bell for the end of the day rang and the daily scrum to catch the bus or tram began. Wilf waited on the Soho Road with a gaggle of younger boys for the overhead tram to arrive and carry him back to the city centre where he could catch a bus home.

  The raised platform vibrated with the approach of the tramcar hanging on its arm from the elevated rail above it. The doors hissed open and the schoolboys pushed and shoved their way on with Wilf in their midst. Seats and spaces were quickly filled on the lower deck and as the tram pulled away from the station Wilf made his way up to the upper deck. The swaying of the tram on its journey made it difficult but he finally ascended the stairs. He turned to make his way to the back of the upper deck and stopped.

  Already occupying the rear area were Turner and a collection of his acolytes. They were surrounding a couple of older Venusian men, who were hunched in their seats wrapped in brightly coloured coats. They clutched shopping bags on their laps, and they had expressions of quiet panic on their wrinkled faces.

  The menacing group of schoolboys around them hooted and brayed, muttered abuses barely concealed behind hands. And leading it all was Turner, his tall figure leaning over the two Venusians menacingly, his face in a leering grin.

  “So do you blue bastards only do it with your missus, or do you do it to each other too?” His audience guffawed at his words. “I bet you do, that queer space-wog stuff. Bet you’re all deformed and strange down there!” Again gales of laughter from his fellows.

  The two Venusians refused to respond, although one of them had visibly started to weep. Tears trickled down his cheeks but he made no attempt to wipe them away.

  “Look, the blue poof is crying!” one of the other boys pointed, eliciting further amused catcalls from his comrades.

  “Well if it’s too scary here, he should sod off back to Venus then! Go on, you’re not wanted here mate!” Turner reached out and grabbed the shoulder of the nearest Venusian, making the poor man jump with fright.

  It was enough for Wilf. Seeing these poor old men pushed around by somebody who thought they were less worthy of respect, just because of where they were from, stirred him into action. In the two of them he saw himself in the future, cowed and fearful, robbed of potential. All his feelings of helplessness in the face of others making choices for him, pierced something in him. He wouldn’t be a victim of circumstance, beholden to dead traditions from a lost world. Alfie was right—this was a new world and they had to build a new life here, not be bound to a way of life which, thanks to the Martians, no longer existed. Nor did he want to grow up frightened to be himself in his adopted nation. He was British too, regardless of the colour of his skin.

  Wilf’s feelings crystallised into resolve and he walked down the aisle. “That’s enough, Conrad,” he said levelly.

  The laughing ceased and all eyes swivelled toward Wilf. Last to face him was Turner, who drew himself up to his full height, slowly twisting around away from the Venusians to face Wilf. “If it isn’t our resident space wog? Piss off out of it, Hardy,” Turner delivered the order with a growl, the contempt for Wilf’s adopted Earth-name obvious.

  “No, Conrad, you are going to stop and let these poor people alone,” Wilf replied and turned to the Venusians, telling them calmly in their native language. “These boys are sorry for their rudeness. You can go and sit where you feel more comfortable, Popas.”

  The older men gathered their shopping bags and stood, bracing themselves as the carriage swayed on its track. As they shuffled past Wilf the taller man said, “Gods be with you, youngster. Please be careful,” in Venusian.

  The eyes of the pack of schoolboys followed the pair as they made their way forward to the stairs. All except Turner, who continued to fix Wilf with a penetrating stare. There was no sound except the buzz and clank of the tram car. Wilf stood facing them, anger and fear competing for dominance.

  “You shouldn’t’ve stuck your blue nose in, Hardy,” Turner said as he swung into the aisle, menacingly moving toward Wilf. “But at least we still have one of you blue space wogs to teach a lesson in British manners.”

  Wilf was now toe-to-toe with Turner. He looked up into the face of the Head Boy and could see pure hatred of anyone who was different, other. That difference could be used against him and all the others of his people by racists like Turner. Or it could be an opportunity, a chance to change the people of both worlds.

  He was not of the Venus of his parents, a powerless migrant desperately trying to fit in on an alien world. No, he was of this new world and the chance it offered to build a new fate. And by intervening he was doing something himself, defining himself by his actions. He could spend his life in obligation and obedience to other people’s expectations of him, or he could shape his own future. Today it might result in a beating, or cause ongoing repercussions at school, but it was his choice.

  “I don’t think what you were doing was very polite, for somebody who thinks they can teach others ‘good manners’,” was Wilf’s retort. He continued to look Turner in the eyes, his body rigid, swayed only by the motion of travel.

  The silence extended. “One day we’ll deal with all of you alien filth,” Turner threatened. “But today I will just start with you.” He moved to grab Wilf’s tie but was knocked off balance by the quickly decelerating tram. He had to reach out to grab one of the hanging straps to steady himself as the tram stopped, the pneumatic sound of the doors drowned suddenly by the chatter of voices belonging to the pupils of the girl’s grammar. Quickly a tide of bubbling teenage girls boiled up onto the top deck and started to fill the empty spaces. They jostled the pair of boys as they pushed past, and the moment was broken.

  The tram began to move again and Turner continued to eye Wilf over the heads of the new passengers that surrounded them. The message was clear—to be continued.

  Wilf would be ready.

  WILF TOOK OUT his key and stood poised before the threshold of his future. He would tell his parents tonight that he wanted to go to university. He would tell them
about what he had witnessed and why if he stayed at home and followed tradition he would never be able to help to change the status of Venusians in British society. They would always be the blue immigrants from another world, forever second-class citizens. His people needed a voice.

  Time for him to speak up.

  Spitting Blood

  a chilling story, by

  MARK MORRIS

  “DON’T WORRY,” WILL said. “I won’t let him eat you.”

  Victoria twitched her nose. Albert chewed a mouthful of grass. Neither seemed perturbed by Will’s father’s threat that one of them would be in the supper pot by Friday. Pa’s comment had been a joke at first, but the more he repeated it the more Will thought he was actually coming round to the idea. He’d never have suggested such a thing when Will’s mam was alive, but when the fever had taken her three months back, it had taken all Pa’s joy, good humour and compassion too.

  Unlocking the hutch, he reached in and stroked Albert, his hand sweeping across the bony head, flattened ears and silky hump of the animal’s back.

  “Pssst.”

  The hiss from behind him made Will jump. He spun round, half-expecting to see a snake zigzagging towards him through the meagre vegetable patch. But there was nothing. Then a shadow shifted in the gloom by the gate.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Has he gone?”

  “Who?”

  “Your pa?”

  Will glanced behind him. The curtains at the windows of their soot-blackened house had once been white, but were now drooping grey rags.

  “Yes. He’s just back from the factory. He’ll be having his tea by the fire now.”

  The shadows shifted again, then a tangled clump of them rose up over the gate. They hesitated until Will said, “You can come in. He won’t see you.”

  The gate creaked, and a dark shape entered the back yard. It was shorter than Will—who himself was not tall for fifteen. He squinted to make it out, but the muddy twilight sky had drained the world of detail, and it wasn’t until the shape was within touching distance that he recognized it.

  “Meg. What brings you here?”

  Meg Bracknell, a year younger than Will, was one of a group of youngsters who sometimes met up to play in the woodland that lay between the town and the cluster of farms that provided much of the local produce. Meg lived on one of the farms with her parents, Jack and Blanche. They kept cows and chickens, though since the invasion a decade ago the volume of milk, butter and eggs they produced had dwindled year upon year. Some said the Martians had poisoned the air and the land, and that the effects were still being felt all the way up here in the north. Will’s father, though, said it was simply that increased automation in the mills and factories had resulted in unemployment, which meant there was less money to go round—which in turn had had a knock-on effect on the local economy.

  Will listened to Pa’s frequent rantings, but didn’t really understand it all. All he knew was that Pa still had a job at Roebuck’s when many others didn’t, and for that he was grateful.

  “Yes,” Meg said, moonlight pushing the shadows back from her face, “it’s me.”

  Normally red-cheeked and laughing, she currently looked washed-out, watery-eyed, her russet curls a damp, tangled mess.

  “What’s wrong, Meg?” Will asked. “Are you ill? Or lost?”

  “I fear I may be lost,” Meg said, her voice weak, “though not in the way you mean.”

  Abruptly, shockingly, she burst into tears, and stumbled forward as if the strength had gone out of her legs. Will caught her before she fell. It was the first time he had held a girl in his arms, and despite his alarm there was a part of him that relished the contact.

  “There, there,” he said awkwardly, gently patting Meg’s back as she sobbed into his shirt. “Everything will be well.”

  “Oh, I wish I could believe you,” she wailed.

  “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  She detached herself from him and stood sniffing, trying to control herself. Finally she said, “Oh, Will, I need your help. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “You have it,” he promised her.

  “Something has happened at home. There are men searching for me.”

  Will’s mind reeled. “What men? Why? What’s happened?”

  She buried her face in her hands, her voice dropping to an exhausted murmur. “I can’t speak of it. It’s too terrible.”

  Will glanced at the house, afraid his father might have heard Meg’s anguished voice. “Don’t speak of it if you don’t want to,” he said soothingly. “Just tell me what I can do.”

  “Hide me,” she replied. “That’s all I ask.”

  Will thought of the tiny house he shared with his father. How could he hide Meg in there? Then his eye moved to a small building against the left-hand fence beside the vegetable patch.

  “There’s only the shed where my father keeps his gardening tools. But it’s cold and dirty, full of woodlice and spiders.”

  “Insects can’t harm me,” she said, and reached out with a tentative hand to touch his face. “Thank you, Will.”

  Her fingers were cold, but his face felt hot. To cover his embarrassment, he slid past her, towards the outhouse. Opening the door, releasing the smell of mould and damp wood, he said, “Make yourself as comfortable as you can. When I’m able I’ll bring you a blanket and something to eat.”

  WILL WAS CLEARING up after breakfast the next morning when three sharp raps sounded on the front door. Wiping his hands, he walked down the narrow hallway, whose walls seemed forever impregnated with the smell of wood smoke, cabbage and mouse droppings. He opened the door to two gentlemen wearing dark suits and overcoats, top hats on their heads. One of the gentlemen was tall and slim, spectacles perched above a pointed nose and bristling moustache. The other was short, wide, and as jowly as a bulldog. He gripped a cane topped with a snarling silver wolf’s head.

  Will was about to inform them that his father was not home when the bespectacled man said, “William Crouch?”

  Startled to hear his name spoken, Will could only gape.

  “Cat got your tongue, boy?” barked the bulldog.

  “No, sir, I...” Will stammered, and then nodded vigorously. “I mean... yes, sir. I’m William Crouch.”

  “May we come in, William?” the bespectacled man asked. In contrast to his partner he was all politeness and warmth.

  “As I said, sir, my father is not at home—”

  “It’s not your father we want,” the bulldog said. “I thought we’d made that clear.”

  The bespectacled man raised a hand. “Let us not alarm the poor fellow, Theodore.” To Will he said, “Allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Mr Soames and my colleague here is Mr Drayton. We are looking for a young lady who we believe to be a friend of yours. Meg Bracknell?”

  Will stared at the bespectacled man, and gave a sharp nod. “I know Meg.” There was no point in denying it.

  “Do you know where she is?” Drayton asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “No.”

  “Can you recall when you last saw her?” Soames asked, smiling.

  Will tried to remember when he’d last seen Meg prior to yesterday. “Sunday, I think. A group of us met in the woods. We raced paper boats down the stream.”

  Soames’ eyes twinkled, as if this was the answer he’d been expecting. “And you haven’t seen her since?”

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t be lying to us?” Drayton said.

  “No, sir.”

  “So if we was to search your house...?”

  His eyes flickered past Will, to the dingy hallway behind him.

  “I doubt I would be able to stop you, sir,” Will said evenly, “though I assure you that Meg is not within.”

  Drayton’s eyes bored into him, and although he stood his ground, Will half-expected the man to suddenly barrel forward and shove him aside. But it was Soames who moved first, stepping in front of his colleague a
nd placing a hand on Will’s shoulder.

  “We wouldn’t dream of imposing on your privacy without your permission. Would we, Theodore?”

  “Of course not,” Drayton growled, keeping his eyes fixed on Will.

  Releasing Will, Soames stepped back. “Thank you for your help, William. Good morning.”

  He touched the brim of his hat, then abruptly turned away. Drayton shot Will a final glare, then waddled after his colleague.

  “Why are you searching for Meg?” Will couldn’t resist calling after them.

  Soames looked back over his shoulder. Softly he said, “It is for her own safety. We fear poor Meg may be a danger to herself and others. If you do see her, William...” his moustache twitched “...have a care. She is not as harmless as she appears.”

  Will watched the men walk away up the street and disappear around the corner before closing the door. He stood a moment in the hallway, his heart fluttering like a bird.

  What had Soames meant about Meg being a danger? Was it a ruse intended to alarm him—perhaps to give her up? Meg was a scrap of a thing. There was no conceivable way she could ever harm anybody. He waited ten minutes, until he was certain the two men really had gone, and then he opened the back door and hurried outside.

  It was a grim day, dark clouds massing like a manifestation of Pa’s mood since Mam had died. Will was sad too—there were times he still secretly wept into his pillow at night—but his daily chores, while his father toiled in Roebuck’s textile factory, generally kept him busy enough to hold his darkest thoughts at bay.

  He hurried to the outhouse and knocked on the door. “Meg? It’s me, Will.”

  No response. He tried the door, hoping she hadn’t locked it from the inside, and was grateful when it opened, causing dust to swirl. “Meg? Are you here?”