The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year - Volume Eight (35 page)

"Bone grubbing. Piss-poor way to make a living."

"Enough." Makin tuts.

"So sorry." Jessop's oily and insincere. "If you do find her, be a good lad and run up here and tell Mr Makin."

I want to say,
Shove your apology,
but keep my gob shut.

T
he bastards follow me about all day. Jessop and his pals, got up like dockers. I pretend I've not seen them but they stand out. They're too clean to look real.

I look for Kate and Sally in the hiring lines, strolling past with my barrow as if on my way elsewhere. I wouldn't give her away. I just want to see her face. I ask the washerwomen at the water pumps and the old men standing around the fires at night.

Kate, Sally, Lolly. There's not a whiff of them.

I go up to the destitute courts of the Dingle, each court comprised of six houses set up around a central yard. The noxious stench from the shared privy is of liquid filth. I look through open doors: blooming damp patches on the plaster, crumbled in places to bare brick. I see faces made hard by deprivation. Infants squalling from drawers because they're hungry. It was a miracle that Makin clawed his way out of here.

"You."

A priest accosts me. He's on his rounds, demanding pennies from the poor to give to the even poorer.

"Come here."

Closer and he's unshaven and smells. He's ale addled. I feel for him, driven to despair and drink by the gargantuan task of saving so many lost souls. He follows me out of the court, onto the street.

"I've heard about you, Thomas Coster."

I tie Gabriel to the cart in case he goes for the man and wait for the rage of the righteous. I don't feel so well-disposed towards him now.

"You're in league with evil." He shoves his face into mine. Gabriel goes crazy. We're drawing quite an audience. "The Peels keep people in tanks like fish, cutting off the bits they want."

I'm panting from pushing the cart uphill and trying to outpace him. Jessop's up ahead, leaning against a wall.

"A man should be buried whole in consecrated ground."

The priest's enraged when the crowd laughs. Burial's expensive. The poor are cremated on pyres.

"You'll be damned. You'll suffer all hell's torments. You'll be flayed. The devil will sup on your gizzards and crack the marrow from your bones."

Jessop laughs under his breath as I pass.

I
t's a rare day that a Peel comes to town.

The Peel factories have closed an hour early to mark the day. Men loiter on Hope Street, outside the Philharmonic pub. Rowdy clerks from the insurance offices and banks are out, seeking white-collar mayhem. One turns quickly and shoulder barges me as I pass. He's keen to prove he can push more than a pen. His friends laugh.

His mates all line up across the pavement to block my path. I step into the gutter. One of them steps down to join me. He's wearing ridiculous checked trousers and his hands are in his pockets. I wonder what's in there.

"You walked into my friend. You should apologise."

I open my mouth but someone's standing at my shoulder. It's Jessop.

"I think you're mistaken," Jessop says as he opens his jacket. Whatever's glinting within is enough to put this bunch off.

I glance around. Jessop's travelling in numbers, all of them in black suits.

"I'm sorry, sir."

Oh, to wield so much power that you don't have to exert it.

Jessop picks up his pace, looking back to give me a final grin. I follow in their wake, pushing through to the barrier. There's a big crowd. Lord Peel's here to give a special address to his foremen. They must be in need of bucking up if he's got to come down here to talk to them himself.

The doors of the assembly rooms open and a pair of specials come out, eyes scanning the crowd. The foremen follow, dressed in their Sunday best. They look uncertain as they emerge, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. Makin and his secretary follow. Makin looks stiff and starched. I'm used to seeing him with his shirtsleeves rolled up, fingers inky from his calculations.

Then Lord Peel steps out, the brim of his hat angled to shade his face. I realise there's silence. Not even the sound of shuffling feet.

Some lackey shoves a child forward and she holds up a bunch of pink roses. Peel turns his face as he takes them. He's a shocker close up. His nose and eyes are leonine. Thin lipped. Skin stretched to a sickening smoothness that rivals the silk of his cravat. His blue eyes are faded by age.

Then it begins. A low baritone from deep within the crowd.

The sea takes me from my love . . .

Another voice joins in, then another, then more so there's a choir.

The sea takes me from my love

It drops me on the ocean floor

The sea tempts me from my true love's arms

And I'll go home no more.

Peel smiles, thinking this impromptu serenade's for him. He doesn't know that each ship has its own shanties and ballads and this one's famed as
The Triumph
's.

Makin leans over and whispers in Peel's ear and his smile fades. There's another chorus and it sounds like the whole of Liverpool is singing.

The sea takes me from my love

It drops me on the ocean floor

The sea tempts me from my mother's knee

And I'll go home no more.

There are no jeers or shouts. Just the people's indignity dignified in song. The police don't know how to respond. They form a ring around Peel and his retinue. The foremen are outside this protective circle. Someone motions for Peel's carriage.

The air's filled with fluttering white sheets. They're being thrown down onto the street from the roof of the infirmary. Hands reach for them. Makin plucks at a sheet, reads it and crumples it in his fist. Peel's caught one too. He's angry. He turns to Makin and jabs at his chest with a gloved forefinger as if he's personally responsible.

I pick up one. It's
The Echo
, a dissident rag, printed on cheap, lowgrade paper, the ink already smudging. It advocates minimum wages, safety measures and free health care. This edition's different. It bears the words
Lord Peel's Triumph
, with a drawing of Richard Harper floating on his anchor. It's the anniversary of his death. A bad day for Peel to show his face.

Once Peel's departed the police will demonstrate their displeasure for this display. Jessop's already giving orders. It's time to leave.

Peel's in the carriage as the singing continues. Makin turns as he climbs in and his gaze fixes on me,
The Echo
still clutched in my hand.

I
t's an official match day, when the factories close for the machines to be serviced.

Football's a violent and anarchic game where passions are vented, on and off the pitch. The crowd wears the colours, red or blue. They're no longer just a dark mass of serge and twill that pour into the black factories.

Jessop and his sidekick are behind me. I try and lose them in the crush. The hoards of Everton, Toxteth, Kensington, and Dingle come together for this sliver of pleasure.

The constabulary are mounted, their horses stamping and pawing the cobbles. They'll tolerate fisticuffs amid the crowd to vent rising tensions. A good-natured kicking or black eye, as long as everyone's fit for work the following day no harm's done.

The coppers know if they weigh in the crowd will turn on them, but I can see in their eyes how they'd love to beat about with batons and hand out indiscriminate thrashings in the guise of peacekeeping.

I see my chance. A chanting group comes up the street towards Anfield's football pitch, waving Evertonian flags. Red banners are at my back. The two groups meet, posturing and jostling. I dart down an alley, ducking to avoid the lines of washing. Jessop's lost.

There's one place I've not looked for them. The dirty terraces where parlours of women wait for the game to end. It makes me shudder.

I peer into windows and am shocked by what's on show. It's just another factory, churning up girls, making fodder of their flesh. I go around the back. Women line the wall, waiting to be hired. My heart stops when I see her. I push past the other girls who try to lure me in with promises that make me blush.

"Where's Kate?"

"You." Sally looks tired and bored. "Are you paying?"

Hard and heartless. I rifle in my pocket, glancing up and down the street. "Here."

"It's double that." She scowls.

I give her more. We have to get indoors.

She leads me to a house. A room's free at the top of the stairs. It's painted an oppressive red that would look fashionable somewhere grand. The window's dirty. There's a bed with a sheet and pillow on it. A pitcher and bowl on the dresser. A headboard rattles on the other side of the wall.

"What are you doing, Sally?"

"Earning a living."

"Here?"

"I can't get work."

"And Kate?"

"Dead."

The mattress sinks even farther as I sit beside her. She moves away.

"When?" Then, "How?"

"A week ago. We moved in with a family in Croxteth. The woman was sick that day so Kate went to work in her place. She got her sleeve caught in a roller. It took her arm. They were too slow tying the stump off. She bled to death."

Sally's matter-of-fact. Her lip doesn't quiver. Her eyes are dry.

"I'm sorry." Words clog my throat. "Where's Lolly?"

"At home, where else?" She's glad of an excuse to be angry. "What sort do you think I am, to bring a child here?"

"The best sort." I try and soothe her.

Kate's dead. I wish I'd gone back to their terrace sooner but posthumous offers of help mean nothing to the dead.

"I'm the best sort, am I? Is that why you think you can buy me with a few coins? You men are all loathsome."

I'm angry too. I want to shut her up. I grip her head and cover her mouth with mine. She pulls away.

"Don't kiss me with your eyes shut and pretend I'm Kate. Fuck me for my own sake."

I don't relent. I'm too busy kissing Sally to correct her. The tension in her is like a wire.

We lie down. She's thin, a skeleton wrapped in skin. I'm not much better, but I take the weight of my large frame on my knees and elbows.

"This doesn't mean anything. Understand?"

She's wrong. It means everything.

"You're crying," she says.

"So are you."

She undoes my trousers and puts her hand between my legs. No one's ever touched me there before.

"Oh," she says. Then louder, "Oh."

I feel the wire snap, and her whole body relaxes. She kisses me, finally yielding. My whole life's been leading to this moment of sex and solace.

I want to say,
Thank you, thank you, thank you
, but I'm too breathless to speak.

S
ally's head is on my chest. Sleep slows her breathing. My trousers are around my thighs, my shirt's undone. Her petticoat's rucked up around her waist. I don't move for fear of disturbing this lovely girl. The sudden roar from Anfield carries over the rooftops and into the room. It masks the quiet click of the door opening and closing.

Jessop stands at the end of the bed, chuckling. I leap up, struggling with my trousers.

"So Tom," he says, sarcastic. "Who's your pretty friend?"

I do up my fly. Sally retrieves her blouse from the floor and pulls it over her head. Jessop's sly look scares me. He takes off his jacket.

"We've all afternoon. Why don't you both lie down again?"

I go at him like a cornered dog. Dad used to say,
Fight if you're cornered
. I stick him in the throat with my pocket knife. Bubbles of blood mark the wound. I put my hand over his mouth to stop him crying out. He grips my wrist and twists. Sally's fishing about under the bed and I wonder what the hell she's doing, then I see the docker's hook. It's the weapon of choice in Liverpool. The handle sits snug in the palm, the hook protruding between the first and second fingers. She comes around behind him and plants it in his skull.

Jessop pitches into my arms. I lower him to the floor.

"Hold his legs."

I grab them to stop his boot heels from hammering on the floor. Sally helps. How he clings to life. It seems like forever before he's still.

"Are you okay, Sal?" A woman's voice.

"Fine."

"Sure?"

Sally gets up. I wipe the blood spray from her face. She goes to the door and opens it a crack. She whispers something and the woman laughs. Then Sally locks the door.

"Who was he?"

"A special."

"Jesus. We'll both swing."

She's right. We'll go straight from the law courts to the noose in Victoria Square. But before that there'll be long days and nights in a cell with Jessop's friends queued outside.

I'd rather die.

"What did he want with you?"

"He was looking for Kate. They think she can lead them to trade unionists."

"That's crazy."

"Sally, we've not got much time. I'll deal with this. You need to go."

"No. We stay together."

"Get Lolly. Wait at the Baltic Fleet. Don't speak to anyone but Mrs Tsang. Tell her I sent you. You can trust her." It kills me to say this. I want to be a coward and say,
Yes, stay. Never leave my side.

She kisses me. Why did I ever think her hard?

"I'm sorry that I got you involved with this." I usher her out. "Go on now, quickly." Once she's gone, I splash cold water on my face and button up my jacket to hide my bloodied shirt.

All the while I'm thinking of Sally. Of how my parting words were
I'm sorry that I got you involved with this,
when what I meant was
I'm sorry that you think I love Kate more.

I
roll Jessop under the bed and pull the rug over the stained floorboards. I'm thankful for the room's violent colour as it hides the blood sprayed across the walls.

The specials must be going house to house. I'm on the stairs when I hear outraged shouts from the room below. A pair of them come up the narrow stairs. I grapple with the first one and he knocks me down. The other tries to hold my thrashing legs. Like Jessop, I struggle against the inevitable.