Guttersnipe
Chapter I – The Timepiece
In a way, Regan wasn’t lost at all.
Her feet were just three steps ahead of her mind, as usual. She didn't mind the disorientation, it happened often enough; worrying about it was pointless. Really, it was impossible to be lost if one had no destination.
And that was how Regan came to Bethel.
It was a sunny day for October, not too hot that the heat permeated every pore and cell so that movement was impossible; no, there was a slight breeze with just a whiff of winter that broke through the muggy haze. Cicadas and grasshoppers chirped loquaciously and Regan had to bat away a few curious bugs as they made to land on her exposed neck just above the upturned collar of her brown leather coat.
Regan meandered down the deserted carriageway pausing once to stop and read the battered mile marker— Bethel, the Capital of—
Just what Bethel was the capital of Regan had no idea. It had been virtually unknown to her before this.
Continuing on, she set her sights on the metropolis itself, a large walled city reminiscent of medieval castle towns. It rose colossal out of the arid plains, the only settlement of any kind for leagues around. The surrounding landscape was littered with rocks, and the dead limbs and trunks of trees. There were two roads out of Bethel, the one she was currently on, and another that twisted to the West, which ran parallel to the Great Southern Railway. The station not far from the West Gate was a derelict building, having been exposed to the elements. For far too long the sun glinted off the citadel of Bethel in a way that made it seem other-worldly, even with the protection of sunglasses Regan turned away.
That was when she saw the man.
He was concealed by a rock, his outstretched arm the only definite part of him visible from the road. Regan, curious, ambled over, and set down her rucksack to inspect. As she advanced closer, she realized to her slight disgust, that the man was dead. Laying face down in the oxidized earth, he reeked of death, and the air around was infused with the bitter tang of a rotting body. Flies hovered around him, gorged on blood, buzzing in the air.
Carefully, Regan rolled the heavy set, bloated man over, wary of coming in contact with his skin. His hair was streaked with white and silver and his knuckles were swollen, though his fingernails were trimmed expertly, clean of dirt or blood. He was dressed finely in a grey suit made of expensive material, as well as a linen shirt, silk vest and tie; his shoes were made of dark leather. His expression was contorted in terror.
She deftly untied the man’s silk indigo cravat and draped it over his face. Kneeling beside him, she meticulously began fingering through his clothes. She laid each item out on the dirt as she found them. A book of poems: Wordsworth, a palm sized notebook, (which on further investigation was blank), and an empty wallet; nothing of particular interest. Stuffing her hand down one of the front pockets her fingers scraped against something. Regan clasped the object and tugged it out.
What she had found was a golden pocket watch.
It glistened in the sun as she took a closer look at it. Popping the latch, she watched with satisfaction as the gears clicked and spun—tick tock, tick tock. Even the chain was still attached.
Flipping it over, she found that it was engraved. A stitch in time saves nine. Curious Regan searched the piece for any other engravings or names. Nothing. Just the words: A stitch in time saves nine.
The phrase seemed familiar but she shrugged off the nagging feeling.
Pleased with her find, Regan pocketed the watch, and stretched upright. Peering down at the dead body, and then back at the road, she prodded it with her boot tip until the man was out of sight behind the boulder. The purple cravat caught her eye as it shimmered in the sun, and she plucked it from the dead man’s face, before retracing her steps back to the road.
It was dark, and the thief paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness of the sewer. With quiescent movements he prowled down the passage, though twice he stayed to glance behind him. But he had no need to worry he was alone. He smirked, his eyes full of wild delight. No longer would he scour through filthy tunnels, and invade stranger’s houses just for meal. No, the Man had promised; promised that after this his services would no longer be needed. He would be free of this whole mess with enough money to buy his own country estate.
As he passed through a sharp bend in the tunnel, shafts of light penetrated the gloom from above. He continued, until the light was on him, standing under the grate. Reaching up, he grabbed it with both hands and started to move it. The metal rasped against the stone. He hesitated then, listening for any moment above, and when he heard none, he continued on. When the passage was clear, the thief heaved himself upwards.
Now in a brightened hallway, he picked up the grate, and feeling the cold metal in his hands placed it back.
Suddenly there were voices, and the thief froze, his eyes franticly searching for a place to hide. He was at the end of a corridor, and the only ways out were through the grate or in the direction of the men.
The voices were getting louder, and as a last resort reached for the knife on his belt.
As the chattering voices carried on, the thief vaguely thought he recognized one.
“I don’t see how it will pass. No matter how you dress the doll up, it’s still the same doll, broken limbs and all.”
“Just give it time.”
“Time, time is only an illusion my good man.”
“And lunch-time doubly so.”
“Must you always make everything into a joke?”
They were clearer now reverberating off the stone, and the thief braced himself ready for a fight.
“Well, I must be off, duty calls. Good day.”
“And to you, say hello to the missus for me.”
“Of course, she’ll be thrilled.”
The footsteps seemed to be heading farther away from him. Then the whistling started, and he heard the steady beat of the man’s heels clicking on the stones. They were getting closer.
The thief readied himself, but visibly relaxed when a familiar form strolled towards him. The man was thin, and tall, but gracefully so with a thatch of golden hair, part of which was concealed by a top hat. He wore a pressed, black and white pinstripe suit, and carried a mahogany cane with an expertly carved ivory handle. He smiled upon seeing the thief.
“No trouble I gather.” His voice was erudite and smooth.
“No Sah, no trouble.”
“Good. Now, you understand what I must ask of you now— we are almost at the end you and I. You do understand what you must do?”
“Yes.”
“Good. And you are sure, there will be no— complications.”
“I’m your man, sah, I’m your man.”
“Splendid.” The man smiled amiably, before drawing out a pouch of coins.
The thief now conscious of his undress tried to wipe the dirt from his hands.
“To progress,” the man declared empting the small draw-string bag into the thief’s hand. The coins glittered in the bright hallway. The clinking sound they made as they fell against each other echoed against the stone.
The thief grinned, admiring the play of shadows and light on them, “Right you are sah— to progress.”
Chapter II - Meetings
Archibald Gant frowned into his teacup, The Daily Ordinance, Bethel’s leading independent newspaper, was stretched out in front of him.
The Separatists were stirring up trouble again. This time The Honourable Reverend Beckett had published the first part of his treatise, On the Religion of Government, on the front page of the Ordinance. The Home Guard would not stand for this, and most likely would start the door to door searches again. Archibald frowned once more; due to his luck he would be one of those searched, like he was hiding the wanted radical in the first place. That always made Henry laugh: Archie, ol’ boy, that’s positvely ludicrous, you’re not at all interesting enough.
Like it was his fault for being on that damned list in the first place.
With the current state of the Empire…
He wadded the pages into a messy ball, and tossed it into the wastebasket.
Setting down his cup, he picked up the note Mr. Temple, his benefactor and employer, had left him.
Archibald,
He cringed at the use of his full name.
We are still awaiting the word from Tallerd’s editor, seems he can decide which he likes more, I still think it is an inane question of difference. I expect paperwork for Shay to be finished by noon. He wants it early; something about Portland trying to do him out of business. It might be beneficial to start the block set for that abridged version of Darwin’s Origin, as well. We can’t be seen as being too colonial, now can we?
Keep the wanted sign up. Who knows where we will be if we do not hire on soon, I am beginning to believe Bethel really is as prosaic and remote as they say.
Mr. Edward Temple Esq.
Archie placed the letter back down on his desk, and turned to stare out the small window of his back office. There were quite a few people out passing back and forth. Ladies still in their summer dresses carrying brightly painted parasols for protection against the sun. Men with their coats and canes, some with papers or satchels in hand, tipped their heads to the brilliantly coloured women in courtesy. The sun played with the shadows on the cobblestones creating a lazy show of light and shade.
Archie twisted from the scene, determined to start on the set of blocks, and hastened towards the back of the shop.
Help wanted, inquire within.
A bell jangled cheerily as Regan entered Temple Press. The front room was tidy with a desk, and a few chairs, and there was a hallway that continued back into the store. Neatly stacked books lined the shelves on the walls. The entirety of it bathed in a soft moss green due to the upholstery. Regan set down her rucksack, and gently pressed down on the desk bell.
A clangour, the pitch like some wailing banshee, erupted into the air. Regan fought the urge to cover her ears.
A young man hurried in, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows, ink stains on the tips of his fingers. He offered her a trite smile that did not reach his washed-out blue eyes.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” His voice was low and smooth, a nice change from the clanging bell.
“I saw the sign— are you still hiring?”
He looked her up and down, his face betraying a slight confusion.
“Yes…” He drifted off.
“Is there an application to fill out or…?”
“Yes…” He still looked confused, and tunnelled his fingers through his curly, ink black hair.
After a moment’s hesitation, still slightly puzzled, he searched for the papers.
Archie, confused, looked for the application forms. She was a thin young woman, waiflike, as if malnourishment had stunted her growth. Her hair, an intense shade of burnished copper, was cut to frame her face; her eyes were a deep coffee brown, the same shade as her coat. She wore trousers tucked into shin high boots which buckled on the side.
Archie gestured her to sit, as he passed her a form. “Mr. Temple will be in soon, I’d imagine he will interview you then.”
The bell on the door jingled, and Regan arched to sit straight lifting her gaze from the watch in her hand. A well dressed man had just entered, his coat swirling around him impressively as he spun. He was slight, with amiable, soft features; though his nose was slightly askew. He wore his fine, chocolate brown hair short in the current style, and glided into the room with an arresting presence that belayed his short stature.
Regan, so intent on him when he entered, did not notice the dog at his feet, one of the bulkiest dogs she had ever seen. The animal came up to the man’s thigh, and was of a soft fawn, almost off-white colour, and had a wide darkened muzzle and nose. Though Regan did not know his breed, he looked very similar the gamekeeper’s dogs she had seen on the Northern country estates.
The man unhooked the dog’s leash, and seeing her, canted his head towards her, “Miss.”
Regan nodded in reply, and watched as the dog placidly curled up near the desk, and layed his head on his large paws, globs of drools slipped from his jowls.
“Archie, ol’ boy, you here?” The man called out.
“I will be right with you,” a voice declared from the back of the shop.
The man whispered, “Capital,” before he plopped down into the armchair behind the desk. Regan watched as he leaned back, propping up his feet on it and crossed them. He fiddled with one of the drawers intently, in the end pulling out a carved oaken box with ivory inlay. Pulling out a cigar, he lit it with a flourish.
His eyes the color of rich honey alighted when Archie entered.
“Henry, what brings you here?”
The smile vanished from Henry’s face, “He’s not here is he?”
A crooked smile passed over Archie’s face, “No.”
Henry sighed, “Capital. I wish you wouldn’t scare me like that.”
Archie smirked and leaned up against a bookcase. “So, why are you here?”
“Oh,” the man took a drag from his cigar, “I was in the neighbourhood,” and as if he had forgotten Regan was there he turned towards her, “My lady, I believe Mr. Gant has been remiss—we have not been acquainted yet, Lord Roseden at your service.”
“Regan Ware.”
“Forgive Archie’s poor hospitality Miss Ware.”
A stiff voice cut off Regan’s reply, “It is my nephew’s poor manners that you must forgive,” and all three turned towards the origin.
A portly, elderly-looking man hobbled in, leaning on his cane heavily. His silver hair was drawn back into a queue, and his fur lined coat draped over his shoulders. Regan noticed how the others stiffened visibly on seeing him.
Archie –the man she had talked to about the job- went forward after his initial vacillation, and was the first to speak, “Can I get you anything Mister Temple?”
The man eyed him, with a crooked smile, “A new knee would be nice.”
The young man’s face was clouded with uncertainty. “Sir?”
“Oh, come now, Archibald, can’t you take a joke?” When the young man did not answer, he let out a breath, “Oh, never mind.”
Then he wheeled on Henry who was still seated, frozen.
“Henry, my tolerance for you smoking my cigars is wearing thin. Don’t test me further. Though I imagine you’re quite thrilled about this business.” He made a gesture towards his knee.
His castigation broke Henry out of his stupor, and within seconds he had put out the cigar, and evacuated his position. Regan bit her lip to keep from laughing as the change in his demeanour.
The elderly Mr. Temple made a show of sitting, although he batted away all attempts at help from Archie to help. Once he was firmly in the chair, he eyed Regan.
“How may I help you Miss?”
“I am here for the job.” Regan got to her feet, and placed the application and her two references in front of him.
After a few silent moments where Mr. Temple looked over the form, he gestured for Regan to sit again. Regan fiddled with the watch in her pocket as she waited. Both Henry and Archie stood rigid as if they were soldiers at attention.
Glancing up, Mr. Temple cleared his throat, “Do you mind if— Is that your animal, Henry?”
Mr. Temple was eyeing with great disdain the dog who was now drooling on the carpet.
“Yes, sir, he is.”
Mr. Temple waved his hand with a flourish. “Well get that mutt out of here before he ruins something -- permanently.”
Henry quickly clipped the leash on the dog’s collar, and made his hasty exit. Archie chose that instant to disappear as well.
“So, Miss Ware, you understand what this job entails?”
“Yes I do.”
Regan thought she heard the man scoff at that.
“Well, then… What is your housing situation?” Mr. Temple was now leaning back in his armchair, his dark eyes fixed of her.
Regan shivered slightly at the man’s scrutiny, and tried to keep still. “Nothing yet, I am currently looking for lodging.” She fought the impulse to itch.
“I can suggest Mulberry House, I know the Lady of the House; Mrs. Harris is good woman, and fair. I am sure she has something available.”
Regan wondered what this man considered good and fair, but chose not to voice that. “Thank you.”
Regan felt more uncomfortable in this man’s presence as ever. She shivered slightly, his eyes still fixed on her as he continued. “The shipments come in every Monday morning, which will be when you are needed most – to sort and catalogue- Archibald does most the work with the press and such things. I assume you can start tomorrow – yes?”
Regan nodded, and sighed in relief as his eyes left her and he looked through the papers. It was quiet then, and Regan tried to pinpoint why she was so chafed in his presence. Just the way his gaze on her made her prickle put her off. He was not a man she had met before, or had any acquaintance to. Though, she mused bitterly, he could well be a relative and she would never know. He could well be the answer to, or reason of her affliction.
Mr. Temple broke the silence, “It seems we are short of workers in this city, so I'll hire you. It seems these references are good, we will see you tomorrow at eight then. I will not be here, but I’ll leave instructions with Archibald.”
“Yes, sir, at eight– I’ll be here.”
Regan was never so happy for an out as she was then.
Endnotes
1. I refer to Henry's dog as The Gamekeepers Dog which is the older term for Bullmastiff.
Chapter Three: Mulberry House
Regan stared at the foreboding façade of Mulberry House; it was a large, rectangular brick building. Two wooden doors, the only noticeable entrance, were deep set so that there was a slight alcove at the top of the entrance steps. Knocking her boots on the first step, the dirt crumbling off the leather, she climbed. At the top of the stairs she grasped the brass door knocker, and knocked.
A manservant in a grey suit ushered her inside to the front parlour before retreating with a curt bow to find, the lady of the house, Mrs. Harris.
The room smelled of lavender. The scent of it permeated densely though Regan could not see any origin of it; no flowers, no candles, no oils from the East. It was a dark room, which was common, Regan had come to find, for boarding houses. The mahogany wood and maroon fabrics fashioned a cave-like atmosphere.
A severe looking woman appeared in the doorway. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun. On her hawk-like nose rested a pair of wire spectacles, grey eyes peered out, the color of fashioned steel. Her dress buttoned all the way up her neck, giving her a strict, grave appearance.
“Yes, my dear?” Her voice was surprisingly beautiful, and she rested her hands folded in front.
“Mr. Temple sent me here; he informed me you had rooms to let.”
The woman offered what Regan supposed was a smile, showing off her crooked teeth. “Oh, well then, I do have one room left, though the bath is at the end of the hall – you’ll share that with three other girls. I let by the month...”
Mrs. Harris kept chattering as she guided Regan to the stairwell, and then up the wide stairs.
“The room is on the fifth floor at the near end of the hall. The Missus Charlotte, Rachel and Anne are in the first three, and I let the flat at the end to the Sohn family. The sitting room adjacent to the front parlour is for everyone. The breakfast is held in the room adjacent from six until ten. This a-way—”
When they had reached the top Regan followed Mrs. Harris down a narrow, slanting, dark hall until she came to a door with a metal four on it. Taking out a large master key ring, she opened the door.
“Now, I don’t know where you’ll get a better deal than this. I do have one rule though, no visitors after ten, there are several girls here who come from prominent households, and we tolerate no-nonsense here.”
Regan took a cursory look. A clean, simple room with a bed, desk, wardrobe and chair, it was furnished in oak, and tan print paper.
“I’ll take it.”
“Well, then, dear, welcome to Mulberry House.”
Regan propped the door and the room’s singular window open to let in the breeze. Then she turned towards the brass bed where her rucksack sat, and started to unpack. Mrs. Harris had given her a set of keys and fresh linens. She had already lain those out.
Regan did not have much, a few sets of clothing, a notebook, and knickknacks she had picked up traveling from place to place— including the things from the dead man, she set those aside to pawn or sell later.
After putting her things away, Regan flopped down on the bed. In her hands she grasped a small, green notebook. Page upon page in her almost illegible script she had inscribed dates and times, cities and towns all across the Empire, even the Alliance. Every where she had been, every where she went she would write in her log book. Flipping through to the last date, she wrote: 01 July 1891, Bethel, Southern Basque, The Empire.
Regan fingered the pages until she came to her first entry.
03 April 1883 North Truro, New Massachusetts of Northern States of the Alliance
It brought back pleasant memories. That day they pulled her from the water, and had given her life. She often wondered whether what had happened in her past had been so horrible that her brain could not handle it, and that was why she had no recollection of it. On the other hand, she might have just hit her head too hard. But how she ended up off the Cape with no memory, and no identification— Regan was surprised she remembered how to feed herself.
Regan tossed the green skinned notebook on the desk, and picked up the nearest book, Metamorphosis; nothing like Kafka when she was a brooding mood.
It had away of making her feel better.
Regan gathered her keys and the book, and left her new room. Maybe she could find a dark corner in the sitting room to read.
The room was not to her liking. First, it was bright; decorated in light yellow and blue, with furniture to match. Then there was the fact that there were no dark corners, only a settee farthest from the narrow front windows which she procured. Regan leaned back and put her feet up on the far curled, wood arm. She opened the book.
It was very easy to throw aside the blanket. He needed only to push himself up a little, and it fell by itself…
The front door shut, and Regan put down her book at the interruption. Almost instantaneously she heard the shuffle of feet. Then, there was the unmistakable footfalls of someone running down the hall towards her; Regan picked up her book to resume reading.
…the new method was more of a game than an effort…
Regan put down her book. The bedlam had escalated as what Regan suspiciously thought were small children, and they were running up and down the hall. It was near impossible to focus with that in her ears.
The imminent shrieking got Regan to her feet. The caterwauling pierced the air, and her ears, but at least the running had stopped. Regan torqued her jaw, and went to find the culprits.
There was a small pale boy with dark hair and he was crying, sprawled on the floor: his spindly legs bent, and head half buried in his arms. An almost identical boy was crouched just far enough way, his wide, brown eyes focused on the other as if unsure of what to do.
Regan fought the urge to clasp her palms over her ears the child was so loud, that, or throttled the child. She wasn’t sure which was the better.
“Eh, you, shut the hell up!”
Silence. Well, that was better…
Sniffling, the hurt one peered up at her. He seemed unaffected by her outburst, though he was longer crying. “Who are you?”
Regan crooked an eyebrow. “Why?”
His round eyes narrowed, “Because.”
“Because? That’s not a valid reason. Now that you mention it -- Who are you?”
The boy bit his lip before responding, his focus darting to her hands. “What are you reading?”
Regan fought the urge to cross her arms. The other had joined his twin now. Regan wasn’t sure of their exact age, but they looked about five or six; double the trouble, double the fun.
“I’ll tell you if you answer my question.”
The boys shared a conspiratorial glance, while Regan tried to squash the feeling of being had.
“Deal.”
“So, disturbing, little urchins—who are you?–unless you fancy being disturbing, little urchins all your lives, which I might add, I will can gladly cater to.”
The talkative one puffed out his chest. “I am Ani Fayer. And this,” then he pointed with his stubby index finger, “is my brother Ephraim.” The quiet one, Ephraim, nodded-- his hair was longer, and it curled and fell into his tanned face.
“Well, before you so horribly ruined my quiet time, I was reading this,” she raised the book in her hand, “Metamorphosis.”
“What is it about?”
“A man turning into a giant bug.”
“Ooo, read it to us. Pleeease!”
“Hmm… If you shut up we might have something.”
Both nodded their round heads empathetically. Each had a grin plastered to their face, similar to a cat’s when it steals a dish full of cream.
“Deal.”
Regan strolled back into the sitting room not bothering to see whether the children followed. She flopped casually back into the settee, the same one she had recently vacated.
The twins scuttled after her, and both clambered up into one of the big chairs near her. Regan looked up to them, they were perched on the edge of the chair, their legs dangling suspended; all smiles.
Regan propped up her feet on the settee, and opened the book.
Clearing her throat, she began, “One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible cockroach. ”
“What’s a cockroach?”
“Shush Ephraim, she’s reading.”
“Oh sorry.”
“So, where were we, oh yes— a horrible cockroach. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his round, brown belly…”
Endnotes
1. All the excerpts taken from Metamorphosis are from Ian Johnston and/or David Wyllie's translations. The third excerpt is my paraphrasing of it.
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