Noir (13 page)

Tw
enty-Two

C.L.

We meander through the woods toward the ’eart of Brethren, Masheck at the ’elm, makin’ a dapper new freakmaster, if I must say so meself. Then again, that lad would make a dapper anythin’.

I should be so blessed in the attractiveness department.

Unlike Eyelet, ’e fits well in the jacket and britches, and the top ’at sinks down almost over ’is ears. ’E agreed to allow Wanda to shave ’is ’ead so’s to be less recognizable. Shame to ditch all those tawny curls, but necessary, I’m afraid. Now if we’s ambushed, theys won’t recognize ’im. Least not at first.

’E carries off the moustache better, too. Seems ’aving some ’air there for the spirit gum to stick to is key.

With Masheck’s ’elp, we made it straight into the ’eart of the city. People are flockin’ out into the streets to greet us now, just as we planned.

A small boy points, jumps up and down, at the side of the road, clapping ’is ’ands. “Look at that elephant, Mommy! Look at it! Look inside there!”

Wanda shrinks deeper into the straw bed of ’er cage as the boy glares in through the bars at ’er. Poor Wanda. This mission’s quite the sacrifice for ’er.

The cloud cover thickens in the street just ahead of us. The crowd bemoans the presence of it, complaining they can’t see. I wait until the crowd is satisfyingly large. “Now!” I shout to Sadar, executing my ’alf of the plan.

Sadar reaches through the back bars of ’is cage and cranks the music box attached to the calliope car in front of ’im. ’E winds it tight as it’ll go without stripping its gears, then lets go of the large metal crank and it unwinds, slowly spinning the large brass drum peppered with raised golden nubs, ’idden inside the front quarter section of the calliope train. Sadar tilts the roll forward, so the picks fall against the golden nubs, then scratches a match to light the boiler below. Steam plies the pipes and starts the music flowin’, swellin’ up, shootin’ through the thirty-two gleamin’ golden whistles mounted along the gilded calliope car’s sides.

The whistles huff and cry shrill at first. Wanda covers ’er ears. Then the magic finally starts, as the steam flows more consistently and the carnival tunes tweet and twitter out of the whistle’s puffin’ pipe-mouths. Sweet, snappy sequences play on a chromatic scale, like church-organ music. The best part is the eighty-seven small, twinklin’, golden bulbs, strung along the exterior frame of the cart, that wildly flicker once the cart ’as built up enough steam.

People flock into the streets, their mouths flung open, toes tappin’, mesmerized by its presence, all eyes glued to the magical machine.

The perfect cover. That and the clouds. “Time for me to fade away,” I whisper.

Masheck looks back nervously and I nod me ’ead, givin’ ’im the sign.

“’Ear yeh! ’Ear yeh!” he shouts, creatin’ further distraction, strugglin’ to combat ’is very noticeable cockney accent. “Freaks abound!” ’E stands and waves an arm out over the train cars behind ’im, and the crowd sucks in sharp breaths sprinkled with
aaaaawwwwwhhhhs.

Masheck continues ’ollerin’ and readin’ from the freakmaster’s old script, calliope car beltin’ out its best, Masheck showcasin’ each of the anomalies aboard the train, townspeople flockin’ after it as they roll through the streets of Brethren toward the city-centre square, without me.

I’ve sneakily veered off down a cloud-covered side street to the left.

“Just a mere twenty-five jewelets gets you a peek!” Masheck cries. “Thirty-five more gets you into the show!”

Sadar and Martin rise to the occasion, standin’ and playin’ out their parts, keepin’ the crowd busy, entertainin’ ’em—Martin extendin’ his arms through the bars and moanin’ like a mummy, Sadar flickin’ ’is tongue in and out of ’is tethered mouth like a snake. I cringe, watchin’ Wanda duck ’er ’ead through a slip in the clouds. An old shiver runs through my body, a reminder of the pain and shame of me performin’ days. A knot tightens in me stomach for us both.

They ’ead into a particularly large swath of fog, and I tuck up tighter inside the chest of the elephant and plunder onward—makin’ me way across the open park, the centre square, known as Piglingham, then across town toward the stone jug to free Urlick. And from there to the Brink, to rescue Eyelet.

Afterward, Urlick and I are to meet the rest back at the square in time to ’elp perform the final act, then exit town the way we came in, real organized and gentle-like—no one’ll ever be the wiser.

That is the plan.

With the freak show in town, the authorities will ’ave no choice but to postpone all planned executions and dippings scheduled for the square, buying us just enough time to rescue Urlick before his—I freeze that thought, not allowin’ it power.

That is, if ’e’s not already ’angin’ in the gallows when I get there. I swallow ’ard, pull back on the lever inside the elephant chest, and bolt ahead deeper into the fog.

A little boy sees me, trundles out into the road, and shouts.

Me ’ead swings around, no breath left in me body.

Sadar quickly flips the switch on the calliope car again, providin’ me the cover I need to get away. I jog the elephant into the park and wipe me brow, sidlin’ up next to some foliage near the back gates. Brigsmen patrol the streets on the other side. They look flustered and frustrated, scratchin’ their ’eads.

“Did yuh know ’bout this?”

“Are we ever told anything?”

“I thought we was dippin’ someone today.”

“Well, we’s just gonna ’ave to run with it, now they’s ’ere, don’t yuh think? Better send word ahead to the Clergy the carnival’s in town.”

“The Ruler ain’t gonna be none too ’appy ’bout this.”

“Right yuh are. Best make sure we’s doin’ our duties, or we’ll be the next with a rope round our necks. You take the south entrance. I’ll take the north. Ain’t nobody comin’ in from the east or west, not with that great big rumblin’ distraction luring them along.”

“True. If anythin’ we should be thankful it showed up. It’ll be an easier day for all of us.”

They laugh and disperse, boots clapping along the cobblestone road.

I forge on ahead when it’s clear, taking a quick look across at the gallows as I pass, relieved to see nothin’ ’anging there but some bum’s laundry. Preparations are well under way, though. Clean ropes ’ave been ’ung from the posts in anticipation of the big event. A fresh vat of wax bubbles over the freshly stoked fire beneath. The Brigsmen weren’t there over crowd control at all. I gulp. Looks like we got ’ere just in time.

I squint, tracking the Brigsmen’s movements, making sure to avoid detection. Somehow I’ve got to cross the whole park without being found out. Quite the feat, tucked up inside this giant glimmerin’ beast.

I ’ole up under the trees at one side to think, waitin’ for one lazy bloke to move on. The foliage rustles behind me and I swing me ’ead round, ’alf expecting, completely ’oping it’s only a bird. Me ’eart bounces in me throat as I flick me eyes back and forth, scanning. Out the corner of one, I catch a glimpse of something shiny pressed back against a tree. The tip of a wing sticks out beyond the bushes, just a few metres from me.

They’s not made of feathers, they’s metal.

“Clementine?” I whisper quietly. “Clem, is that you?”

I’d sent ’er back to the Compound to Iris, back at the warehouse when Eyelet got taken away. Did she not go?

I lean out. “Clementine? Clementine!”

Somethin’ stomps, then whinnies.

A ’orse’s armoured muzzle dips out between two trees.

“Clementine, whatchu doin’ ’ere? I specifically told yuh to return to the Compound to Iris—
Iris
?” I gulp, blinking, as Iris’s round brown eyes gawk back at me through a part in the leaves. I shuffle over under cover of fog. “What’re yuh doin’ ’ere? I told yuh to stay ’ome. Oh, good Lord, and yuh’ve brought Cordelia.” I nearly faint.

Iris’s eyes are wide, ’er lips’re quiverin’.
I couldn’t stay away
, she signs.
Knowing they took Eyelet.

“Me neither,” Cordelia chirps.

“Well.” I move me eyes from them to the Brigsmen and back again. “Isn’t this a pickle?”

Iris grins.

“I suppose yer ’ere now, aren’tchu?” I wipe my brows. “Now all we’s got to do is find a way to smuggle both a beastly brass elephant and a winged ’orse across the park.”

Why would we need to do that?
Iris signs.

“’Cause the jug is on the other side.” I flick me ’ead.

What if I’m not planning to come with you
?

“What are yuh talkin’ about?” I crinkle me brows.

“Iris and I are going to fly up to Madhouse Brink,” Cordelia announces. “To keep an eye on Eyelet, until you’re finished saving Urlick. Then you can all come and help us spring her.”
She rubs her tiny hands together.

“Is this true?” I turn to Iris.

That was my plan.

I must admit it’s a good idea.
“Yer right. There’s nothin’ like a bird’s-eye view when it comes to disaster.”

Cordelia smiles.

“All right, then, I’ll go as planned and bust Urlick out. Yuhs two fly up to Madhouse Brink and see what yuh can find about Eyelet. We’ll meet yuh up there after we connect back with the freak train later.”

Iris nods and turns Clementine round.

“Iris”—my voice stops her—“don’t try to do anything on yer own.”

Iris nods, then jams Clementine’s sides with ’er ’eels. They gallop away and take flight inside the cover of trolling clouds.

The calliope train nears closer, its whistles slicing through the air. The Brigsmen’s ’eads sprint in that direction. I take advantage of the moment, boltin’ across the field under sparse cloud cover and out onto a back road, whilst the front carriage of the freak train swings off the main street, onto the pathway leadin’ to the entrance gates of Piglingham Square.

Tw
enty-Three

Eyelet

I spring to my feet when, at last, Livinea is returned to our cell, the toes of her boots scraping over the stone floor. Two guards drag her in, her head hanging limp below her arms. A third guard watches from the hallway, billy club in hand, tapping it to his palm.

They toss her onto her cot. Her head collides with the wall.

“Must you!” I shout, rushing to her side.

The whip, resting in the hand of one of the guards, finds its way under my chin. “Watch your mouth or you’ll be next.” he says. His eyes are slithery. His breath is worse than old cheese.

He drops the whip from my chin and pulls back from the cell, closing the iron-barred door behind him. It clanks up against the frame, drowning out the snickers of the guards as they trigger the lock and saunter away. The lock grinds and falls into place with a
clunk
.

“I’ll be watchin’ you,” the one guard whispers and tips his hat with a laugh as he turns, tossing a leering glance my way.

I shudder as he ogles my better bits, boots slowly clomping backward.

“Oh, sweet Lord.” I turn away from him and scramble to Livinea’s side. “Are you all right?” I pet her head.

Livinea moans and folds in half, turning away from me, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Oh, Livinea.” I stroke her back. “I’m so sorry.” Her corset is ripped, her chemise torn. She is battered and bruised. Both her breasts are exposed.

I grab for a blanket and cover her, trying to restore her dignity.

“I like me men,” she says softly through fat, purpled lips. “But not that man. That man’s a monster.”

She falls asleep, her head in my arms, me rocking. It’s the least I can do, after the sacrifice she’s made. “Oh, Livinea,” I whisper softly. “How will I ever repay you?”

“GET UP!”
A metal cup clangs the bars of our cell, drilling through my head and driving me forward. I launch up in bed, staring at the culprit holding the cup: a near-toothless, grimy old urchin of a woman with stand-up white hair. No more than four feet tall, she is dressed in a green hospital uniform and wears a hat made of a strainer with a set of old medical coils as antennae. Her eyes are manic.

“That’s Trudie,” Livinea says, rising slowly. She wipes the sleep from her eyes. “Don’t wor-ry, she’s ’armless,” she says to me, waving Trudie onward. “Mornin’, Trudie,” she says to her, then back to me, “she’s a li’il bit off.” The urchin drifts away, eyeing us stiffly.

In a flash, Livinea is out of bed, pulling her blanket up, racing round the cot, tucking in the edges, and smoothing her sheets as if this were home and everything were normal.

I blink at her, wondering if she’s in pain, but I daren’t ask. I’m not sure I really want to know the details.

“Ready?” She pats her pillow and turns to me with a smile.

I can’t believe the change in her mood.

“Ready for what?” I say, a little afraid of the answer.

“Well, first there’s brekkie—which we eats in the common—then a moment to stretch our legs, before we’s lined up to choose our torture of the day.” She grins. “But only some of us gets one. They select a new batch every day.”

“What do you mean, stretch our legs?” My mind skips right over the torture part, reasoning that if we get to go outside, perhaps I’ll get away, and the torture part won’t happen. “Do we get to go outside?”

“Don’t be
sil-ly
,” she laughs and cuffs my shoulder, waving her hands and snorting. “Yuh’s got a real sense o’ ’umour, don’tchu?” She threads her arm through mine and pulls me toward the door.

It’s amazing how much more tolerable her laugh is today. Even her voice sounds more lyrical, less shrill and squeaky. Perhaps I’m adjusting to this place.

Please, no.

Or perhaps the pins are wearing off. Though I’m still not feeling quite all connected. It’s hard to explain, but thoughts elude me, then swing back in again, some slowly . . . some not at all. I seem to remember bits and pieces of things, and nothing of others . . . slivers of this and that, but not everything. It’s like there’re holes in me memories now. Like someone’s used a punch and stamped away parts of my mind.

I move with Livinea’s help to the front of the bars.

“We gets to walk round the common ground, down there.” She points past the caged-in catwalk that travels the length of our cellblock, to the giant open room below.

I push my face between the bars and look down at the large, open, metal-walled space. Everything here is made of steel, with chipping paint in various shades of grey. Iron gates surround the exterior of the room. Wooden benches and tables make up the eating area off the rear of it, beyond another set of iron gates.

“I thought you said we eat in the common.”

“Some days. Others we have to make a run for it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yuh will.” She slides a trunk out from under her cot and goes about choosing a new ensemble. A wooden box of goodies, and now a trunk? I can’t help but wonder where it’s all come from.

My head swings back, giving her privacy as she changes, taking in more details of the main room below. A plethora of doors lead off the centre square in every direction, from every wall. None of them is marked. All of them seem to be made of liquid. Black in colour, like the mysterious door I was shoved through when I entered—the one I’ve just now remembered. The doors shift and ooze like a windblown slick of oil on top of a pond. How is that possible?

I half turn. “Why are the doors—”

“Black?”

“No. Liquid looking.” I push my face through the bars to get a better view, then turn to her.

Livinea is dressed in an incredibly fashionable frock made of navy-blue-and-cream pinstriped fabric—garment colours unheard of in Brethren. It looks to be spun of the finest silk, with lavish blue-velvet draperies trimmed in tiny navy pom-poms that line her hips. She wears her inner skirt short, like me, with sheer navy thigh-high stockings. A scattered bouquet of pink, blue, and yellow embroidered flowers edges the tops of her stockings, tumbling down her legs, spackling the fronts of her lily-white thighs. Her short inner skirt is striped blue and cream—like her jacket, which is cut in the daring bolero style. Its elbow-length, exaggeratedly puffed sleeves are lined in wide blue-and-white-striped ruffles to match the jacket. White lace inserts protrude dramatically from the edges of the sleeves like scalloped shells. On her hands she wears a pair of cream-coloured fingerless laced-up gloves that extend all the way past her elbows. Her corset is risqué—barely covering what ought to be covered—and made of blue silk satin, bearing a unique Eastern pattern woven into the cloth, depicting playful teacups among fallen leaves. Fake-jewel fasteners run up the centre of it. She does not wear a chemise nor lace-line the top of her corset to help hide her ample cleavage.

No wonder the guards all want to have their way with her.

I glance down at her ankles—covered by boots, at least, though the heels are daringly high. On her head she wears a blue pillbox hat with matching lace veil that falls in a half-moon just above her lips. The top left side of the hat is garnished with jewels to match the front of her corset. A large feather plume extends from the right, also dyed navy.

Where could she possibly have got such sophisticated clothing in a place like this, I can only imagine. Her mother, maybe? Or worse, a gift for services well rendered?

I gulp down the thought and turn back to the bars, poised to repeat my question. “About the doors,” I say.

Livinea darts forward, her hands on my arm. “Yuh mustn’t touch the doors.” She shakes me. “Not
ever
!
Yuh understand?
” Her eyes are wide. Her chest is heaving.

“Why not?” I say, falling back.

“Because”—she swallows—“them there doors will take yuh in and never spit yuh back out! Only the guards can pass through ’em safely. Promise me yuh’ll never touch one,
please
.” She looks deep into my eyes.

Her hands clutch mine. They are cold and peppered with sweat. Her quizzical brows bend. She passed through a set of doors last night, didn’t she? Then again, she was with a guard. Why do I think she knows more than she’s saying? “I won’t,” I whisper. “I promise.” I feel bad the second I utter it, because I know it’s a lie.

The tension releases from Livinea’s face. She takes a breath and dusts off her skirts. “Good.” She twirls, shifting her attention to her clothing. “Not bad for being in storage, eh?”

“I’d say not.” I smile and she smiles, and her eyes squint.

“They serves
sausages
on Sundays,” she tells me brightly. “Perhaps it’s Sunday. D’yuh think?”

“Perhaps,” I say, rather stunned by her eternal ability to extinguish dark moods in favour of lighter ones. The thought of Urlick passes through my head. How I used to marvel at his ever-changing mood barometer. What I wouldn’t give for one of his testy sessions right now.

A loud horn goes off, bursting my dream. I throw my hands to my ears and jump. Turbines clatter and tug at the teeth of gears. Locks release in simultaneous symphony. I gasp as the doors of our cellblock all slowly squeak open, rolling up into the ceiling like curtains at a theatre.

“Come on.” Livinea grabs me by the hand and tugs me forward, leaping over the threshold as soon as our bars are up. We race at top speed along the length of the caged-in catwalk that runs outside the cells, toward the spiral tin stairs at the end. Inmates pour from their cages all around us, running, pushing, shoving. “’Urry up!” Livinea calls over her back to me. “They’ll beat us!”

“To what?” I pick up speed. Forcing myself ahead of several others, I struggle to keep up to her, matching Livinea step for step. She giggles, tossing satisfied looks back at me over her shoulder, running and darting down the staircase, off toward the finish line, closing in on the kitchen.

“What is this all about?” I yell, breathlessly catching up at last.

“Yuh wanna eat, don’t yuh?” She sprints away from me. “Only the first fifty get fed.”

“The first fifty?”

“Yep, every day! Twice a day! Only the first fifty!”

“What happens to the rest?”

“They starve. Or worse!”

I break after her, pushing my limits. I’m not a runner. Never have been, but I need to be now. I pump my arms, digging into the chase, bursting past half the pack, in below the prongs of the iron gates, up to the serving rail adjacent to the kitchen at the back of the room. Livinea laughs as she comes to a skittering stop beside me. “Yuh’s just about as good as me.” She grabs her knees and breathes heavy. “Good do. We has to run a lot in ’ere.” Her hand snaps out, snatching me by the sleeve, dragging me closer. “Watch out!” She snatches a metal tray from the pile at the end of the railing and thumps an inmate over the head with it. The inmate coils to the ground, lifeless.

“What are you doing?” I shout at her.

“It’s either us or them. ’Ere!” She tosses me a tray. “Bat away a few.”

“You’re not serious?” I catch the tray.

“Well, I ain’t talkin’ no fimble-famble!” She swings her tray, thunks a man in the head. I turn, swinging mine, connecting regretfully
with another inmate’s face. The man groans and puddles in a heap on the floor. I feel sick to my stomach.

“Yuh’s a fast learner,” Livinea says. “That’s good! I knew yuh would be!”

She turns and socks another inmate in the face, grunting furiously when her tray connects.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing, people beating people. Inmates crumbling.

At last a buzzer sounds, and the gates to the kitchen fall. The fifty fighting inmates with trays pile into the room. Those who don’t get out of the way are speared straight through, literally impaled, by the gate’s sharp ends on the way down. Blood spurts up from pierced chests and backs. Punctured inmates scream. My heart stops in my chest.

I shriek at the horror, bringing trembling fingers to my mouth.

“Phew, that was close,” Livinea shouts over the commotion. She shrugs her shoulders like nothing’s just happened, turns her back, and marches on.

I stand frozen in the middle of the mayhem, my mind racing, splattered in another’s blood.

“Oh, let me get that,” Livinea says, licking her thumb and scrubbing the streaks from my face. “Bit of guts, tha’s all,” she laughs. “A little extra protein with brekkie. Shall we?” She loops arms and tugs me toward the food display.

“Shall we what?” I pull back, trembling.

“Why, eat, of course.” She slaps her tray down on the metal rails and heads toward the servers.

“Are you out of your mind!”

“No, are you?” She grins. “Now come on, let’s go. Before it’s all cold.” She launches me forward, but I can’t do it—my feet are stuck. I gasp and break into a cough. “My goodness.” Livinea rubs my back until at last I’ve caught my breath. “There’s that nasty cough of yours again. You really outta get that looked at.” She shifts her attention to the food again. “Oooooh, looks like they might ’ave sausage!” She trails away.

“Wait!” I gasp, my ribs throbbing from all the coughing. “What about them?” I stare back at the floor strewn with punctured people, some still alive and screaming, others dead, the guards already busy clearing bodies.