A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) Read online

  Neill had been left alone to face the aged Pole. It was then his father made his mistake. He turned to the open doorway to face the fleeing Ernest while struggling to stifle a cough as he got up from his knees. The temptation to chase him would have been strong, but the sickness rapidly drained the surge of adrenaline that had brought his father to his feet. Neill seized his chance and leapt from the lounge elbowing Harold’s father hard in the chest with his good arm. His father fell, crashing to the floor once more and he could only watch as Neill escaped in pursuit of Ernest. It was not like the old days when a blow like that would have taken moments to recover from. Harold’s father did not know how long he lay there before he managed to get to his feet and close the door but it seemed like an age. The sickness left him fragile and the blow to his chest would have loosened the phlegm that clogged his lungs. After whatever wait his father needed to regain his composure he got up and closed the door, noticing that the lock was broken. It would remain so until Harold visited again. His father, weak as he was and coughing terribly, struggled up the stairs gasping for air as he went to free his wife. Together they sat on the bed in each other’s arms, his mother shaking and sobbing heavily, the trauma of the attack had broken the mask she had worn to hide the sorrow of his father’s sickness. She had been crying so hard that she had not even noticed when his father fell asleep. In his weakened state, it had taken everything he had to put up a fight against the intruders.

  Chapter 19: Jailbreak While his mother and father lay in bed recovering from the attack, Harold had sat in the dark confines of the storeroom for too long. The officer on the front desk must have been growing more and more suspicious of his delay in the station. After all, how long did it take to put a woman in a cell? The only reason they’d been left alone is that he suspected him to be bedding Muriel. However, the officer whose brother Harold was pretending to be, could come back at any time, so they needed to think of a way out, and quickly. The way they came in was out of the question. Harold could have easily walked out alone, but that would leave Muriel stuck inside and if they went out together then the guard would know something was up. Although Harold could probably overpower the guard if he needed to, it was not a guarantee. They had to think of another way. There was no back door for them to use, and the few windows on the floor all belonged to holding cells and had large bars across them. If Harold could get outside on his own somehow then he could get a cart from somewhere and pull the bars from a window, like he had read in the story books at school. But that was unlikely to work – the noise would alert every officer in the building and Harold was still trying to prove his innocence, not confirm his guilt. That left only one choice. The second floor windows did not have bars. Harold would have to walk outside leaving Muriel with the documents and catch her as she jumped out.

  “Muriel, I’ve thought of a way to get you out.” Harold whispered in the darkness of the storeroom door, hoping not to horrify her with his suggestion.

  “ How’s that then?” Muriel asked. Harold could sense an edge of doubt in her voice. Her resolve was weakening and he hoped she would not break when he told her his idea.

  “The windows on the next floor are not barred. You could jump out and I’ll catch you from outside.” He said, but could tell from the look on her face she did not like his idea. They were not given time to discuss it, as from the reception room they heard the voice of the guard.

  “ Hey Fred, you finally got over your hangover, then?” The old guard said and Harold did not wait for the other officer to reply. He grabbed hold of Muriel’s arm and made for the stairs. They heard the sound of the wooden rattle coming from the main entrance, as the officer called for reinforcements to subdue the would-be infiltrators. Its click clack sound was so loud it could be heard over the sound of the pair’s shoes clattering on the hard stone floor. The sound of their footsteps would give them away but they did not have time to creep.

  Harold cleared the steps two at a time dragging Muriel behind him. He thought afterwards that they seemed to have gone full circle. She had saved him when she had dragged him down the side alley and away from danger. Now Harold was returning the favour, the only difference was that he had brought her into danger in the first place. She should not be involved in any of this. At the top of the stairs Harold heard a door fly open below them and the sound of footsteps moving swiftly in pursuit. They had to hide and fast. Harold darted into the first room on the right, shutting the door as quietly as he could. The room they ran into was well-decorated with deep blue wallpaper and a thick carpet covering the floor. There was a well-crafted desk in its centre facing the door and a bookshelf built of solid oak close by. It looked aged and must have been a relic from before the war. Thankfully, the room was void of life. Harold did not waste the sudden luck they’d been granted and let go of Muriel and darted for the desk, leaping over it and scattering papers in his wake. It was heavy but Harold begun pushing it towards the door. Muriel caught on fast and came around to help him, her tiny arms shaking with the effort of sliding it across the deep carpet that began to bundle in waves. The bookcase came next. Harold could move that alone. He dropped it on top of the desk scattering guard records across the floor like leaves in autumn. The doorway was now completely blocked. Muriel had brought across the chair and was jamming it against the handle of the door, arching it across the top of the desk. It would buy them time, but not long with the gathering number of officers the rattle had called. Panting Harold made his way to the window, the glass would not open and Harold had to break it. He brought his foot up into the corner of the window and it shattered instantly, sending down an array of sharp fragments to the ground below. Harold turned, pulling the documents from his pocket. With his back to the window, Harold gave them to Muriel.

  “Here, hold these.” Harold said, passing them over his hands shaking with fright.

  “What are you doing?” She asked as she took the documents from him.

  “I’m going to have to climb down.” Harold said. “Once I’m out then you jump down to me.” Harold did not give her time to argue. It was another occasion where if she had said ‘no’ to him, Harold would have lost his nerve. He was scared enough, and as he started to climb out of the window, learnt quickly he wasn’t a fan of heights either. Harold did not need much talking out of it, but he knew they had no other choice. He stepped out on to the small seal around the window, slowly lowering himself down until he was hanging by his fingertips, his toes desperately seeking a crevice within the brickwork to balance him. It took only a few seconds for his fingers to feel tired and start to ache as he began to edge down the wall.

  As he slid lower, the upper ledge of the barred window below became his podium. Harold could not climb down any further and envied the spider in his father’s shop, not for the first time. It would have made the descent look easy. Harold kicked off from the wall and dropped towards the floor, hoping to catch the ledge below as he fell. A crowd had already gathered outside the station, watching the entertainment of one of the Rinwidian cultists many rants about the end of days. Harold was thankful that the spectacle drew enough attention that no one noticed him clambering down the building like a wounded fly.

  The Rinwidian cultists had sprung up not long after the shadow demons had first been seen in Briers Hill. They spent their time bellowing at the top of their lungs how the end was coming and to repent their lives back to the rightful ruler of Valadfar, the demon Rinwid. As their numbers seemed to have grown they had taken to organizing and were now almost famed for their blackened robes and the god-awful smell that followed them around. For some reason, which Harold did not have time to think on as his fingers were growing ever more tired; the cultists had taken to wearing the rotten heads of Smooth-hounds around their necks. The dead fish symbolized to them the power and rancidness of their demon god. The practice of the cultists was illegal and so the guards turned a blind eye when the peasant folk stoned them or beat them mercilessly in the streets, so whenever one started p
reaching it always gathered a crowd eager to either join in on the assault or watch it. The cultist drawing everyone’s attention stopped the calls that would have come otherwise and alerted the guards of Harold’s escape.

  His legs hit the ground and his knees buckled, casting him down on his rump. His backside bruised instantly but, other than that, Harold was not injured. He pulled himself to his feet ignoring the chorus of accusations from the crowd who still hadn’t noticed him, and readied himself to catch Muriel. She was already hanging over the ledge and dropped quickly. Harold held his breath as she sailed through the cold air and did not breathe again until he closed his arms tightly around her. It is a strange thing that can happen to you even in the turmoil of the worst of moments. With Muriel pressed tightly against him, time seemed to stand still. Harold could feel her heart beating rapidly. The warmth of her body returned blood to his chilled fingers, and Harold held her, savouring the moment. Their eyes met and Harold knew Muriel could read his thoughts. He knew that he had been falling for her, and now she had literally fallen into his arms. Harold did not want the moment to end but the world snapped back at the sound of the guard calling out from the window above them. Two tiny heads poked out glaring down, before disappearing back inside. The pair knew they would be coming down for them so they began running again, pushing past the crowd and disappearing off into the streets of Neeskmouth. As they ran, Muriel reached for Harold’s hand once more.

  Interlude 3: Of all the luck Dante couldn’t believe his misfortune. In the last few days he had escaped a fire with only a few scorched hairs. Dodged rat catchers, dogs, cats and the creator only knows what else as he made his way back and forth across the city. He’d scrambled across the cobbled streets, in and out of houses, explored the sewers and the rooftops as he tried to make his way to the harbour. He’d come close to getting there a few times, even hitching rides on the underside of horse and carts, but somehow something kept getting in his way. It was like fate didn’t want him to make it back to the ship he so desperately sought and now to top it all off; he sat in a damp cell trapped under a tin bedpan.

  He’d been happily sitting in the dark chewing the edges of a rather tasty paper folder when some big footed moron had stumbled in and kicked him. Dante really couldn’t understand why humans had so much paper neatly pressed into files when they could just as easily tear it up and make a nice comfy bed out of it. Regardless, Dante had taken off on his toes again and hidden under a bookcase until all hell had let loose and the noise of the wooden rattle had sent him scrambling through a hole in the wall, which had led him into the predicament he was now in. The bedpan had come down so fast Dante didn’t have time to avoid it, and to make it worse, it had trapped his tail outside of it.

  Dante didn’t know it, but the strong smell of ammonia that burnt his tiny nose hairs belonged to that of William Boatswain, who was the once famous pirate king and governor of Neeskmouth after the last war. William had lead the city during its gold age and should have retired gracefully back to the White Isle when his governorship failed, and that is what most people thought happened to him. The truth was much darker than that, and showed just how far Malcolm Benedict would go to ensure he remained in power. It had been years since William had seen the outside world and he had readied himself, not for the first time in his life, to die in prison. The reason he’d trapped the little rat was a simple one. William had torn off a corner of his sheet and written a letter using the charred edge of a fragment of wick from a candle in the hall, and the rat Dante would be his unwilling postman. William knew it was a one in a billion shot that anyone would see the letter tied to the rat’s tail, and even more desperately crazy was the idea that it might even end up getting to, the person it was meant to but he had to try. He’d never managed to tell her.

  The letter was to his daughter, Erin. The string tied tight, William pulled the bedpan up and, just like that Dante was gone scooting back out through the hole he’d entered the cell through, leaving William to his unjustified fate. Back inside the dark storage room, Dante sniffed at the letter attached to his tail. He’d chew the strings and get that off just as soon as he was somewhere safe, for now he had to get back out of that place and into the streets.

  Chapter 20: A Safe House Harold and Muriel ran most of the way from the guard station back to Muriel’s and by the time they got there they were both exhausted. They stopped only to have a hushed conversation on the corner of Trade Road amidst the potent smell of candle wax.

  “ Muriel.” He gasped. “You get back to yours. Wait for me until the sun sets. Give me the files and I’ll take them somewhere safe.”

  “Where is safer than mine? No one would connect the two of us, Harry. No one even knows we’ve spoken.” Muriel said, afraid to be alone on the way home.

  “The guards might have followed us. If they have they’ll be after me. I don’t want to lead them back to yours. Please trust me.” Harold said and reluctantly Muriel handed over the bundled file. Muriel would go home and Harold would return after dark. Muriel grabbed Harold and pulled him in close, closing her arms around him. The embrace only lasted a second, and then she was gone, heading off into the distance leaving Harold to watch her walk away.

  He had to store the documents somewhere safe and have time to read them. Harold didn’t want to take them to Muriel’s. Giving him only a minute or two to gather his breath Harold began running again towards the shop. It would be a perfect hideaway and Harold was confident that it would take some time before the guard even realised what was taken and connected it with him. The run there did not take that long, but the temperature had plummeted and snow had begun to fall, only a flutter for now but it threatened to get heavier before the day was through. By the time Harold made it to East Street, his lungs burned with an icy chill and his legs felt as if someone had coated them in molten bronze that was rapidly solidifying.

  To his surprise the shop was open, and it was only then Harold remembered that Janet’s boy was watching the store. Charles had dusted down the shop and evicted the spider. The distinctive smell of bleach filled the air and mixed with that of fresh cotton. Charles had made a start on the late order of uniforms and from the potent smells; Harold knew he was in the process of bleaching them. Harold went towards the back of the shop and through a small-bricked arch into the private working area and found Charles in the back workshop. It was not large being only big enough to house one loom, the bleaching bucket and the racks of different cloths and spools.

  “Good evening, Charles.” Harold said trying to sound as normal as he could. Charles jumped slightly, dropping the needle he was holding into his lap. He was obviously not aware Harold had walked in. That was one aspect of his trade Harold enjoyed. The time you had to spend working alone and uninterrupted in dull light always gave him plenty of time to daydream.

  “All right boss, I’m about mid way through this order for you. Won‘t be done on time, but it‘ll be done.” Charles said. Harold knew the young lad was hoping to earn a few extra coins and maybe even an apprenticeship with them. His work was of good quality and he was fast too. Had things been different Harold might well have offered him the work, but things were far too confused now to involve the poor boy.

  “Actually Charles I’ll be taking over now so you can go home. That is some great work though. If you ever fancy yourself some extra coin feel free to pop in, but not for a few weeks. I have a lot to sort out.” Harold hoped he could get him away from the shop without the need to explain what was going on. Charles was a poorly educated boy and Harold doubted he had read the paper any time this week. If he had, then he might have run off to the guard and told them where to find him.

  “Are you sure? I was told I would be working at least a week and to be honest Harry, I could use the money.” Charles replied putting down the garment he had been working on. Feeling sorry for him, Harold rummaged in his pocket and found two small pound coins. That should cover his week’s wages and maybe a little on top.

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p; “Here, take this. Do us a favour, though, on your way home. Go see if my mother needs any help around the house. My father’s not well as you know.” Harold said with a smile. Some people did not like Charles as he had the kind of eyes that never seemed to blink and his slurred and slow speech made him seem very simple, but he was a good lad really, it was just that his mother and father knew each other a little too well.

  “Yeah, right you are boss. Should I finish this lot I’ve started first?” He asked with genuine concern.

  “No need, go on now, get.” Harold flicked his thumb towards the door and Charles seemed to take note nodding his head.

  Harold followed him to the front door and slid the bolt, sealing himself from the outside world. With one final glance up the street Harold made sure he was alone. No one appeared to have followed him and with the snow now falling in a blizzard, the guard would, Harold hoped, be heading either to the warmth of the station or the local taverns. Harold had snuffed the candles in the front of the shop and in the quickly darkening day, it looked deserted, achieving his aim. Harold pulled the guard reports open on his lap and started to read:

  On the night of 16th Thresh, an arson attack upon the Queens tavern razed it to the ground, in which a currently untold number of people lost their lives. Officer Bradley was first on the scene and confirmed it to be an arson attack and possibly a counter attack to a gang war between the lower classes. Witnesses confirm that a male they now know to be Harold Spinks had been loading something into the cellar moments before the fire started