***
“What do you reckon?” John cupped a gloved hand over his mouth, whispered even lower to Edmond. “Should we go?”
The wooden platform wobbled as Saul shuffled between them, its scaffold squeaking ever-so-slightly beneath. “I reckon they’re sozzled,” Saul said. “We’re wasting our time up here. Looks like they’re in for the night. Bunch of freaks, Roundhouse Circus rejects, probably seen no more fighting than my Aunt Petunia.”
Edmond felt his upper lip curl with rage. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” And that applied pretty much whenever the fat pillock opened his gob.
“Oh yeah?” Saul landed a heavy, thudding fist on the small of Edmond’s back, winding him. “That’s for the stunt earlier, and for wasting my time with this old fogey’s parade.”
“Do that again and I’ll kill you!”
“You and whose fogey army? Theirs?” Saul snatched Edmond’s slingshot from his belt and fired a small piece of plaster out toward the veterans below. Then he dropped the catapult and ducked, giggling to himself.
Their carol singing continued without pause, but Edmond knew it was time to leave. His urge to leather Saul Lewisham had never been stronger, nor, he knew, as warranted. These were not freaks, they were fascinating and mysterious, one and all, and they had stories to tell. The black man in the blue tunic seemed to be in charge. His speech had sounded heartfelt, genuine. This was his family, and he didn’t want them to leave.
Like when you get packed off to boarding school.
“Oi, who’s up there?”
Edmond froze. A lamplight dazzled up through ladder slats to his left. Its bright core rose to the level of his platform. He knew the game was up. Though he couldn’t see who it was, they could see him. He squinted and uncrumpled to his feet, shielded his eyes with his sleeve—anything to hide behind, just for a moment, before his Christmas was over. Finit. Now another year away. Father would belt him black and blue for this.
He hung his head, imagined himself the size of Tom Thumb so he could slip unseen through the nick in the knot in the wood at his feet.
“Right, you young hoodlum. Caught you red-handed this time.” A squat, pudgy-faced man with a Satan’s goatee wrenched Edmond by the neck of his coat. “Think you can break in and half-inch anything you like? I’ll bloody show you.”
Edmond didn’t have chance to fetch his slingshot, so he had to leave it there. He made a mental note of where it was so he could collect it another time, if he’d ever be allowed out again. He went from soft and pliable to sharp and resolved in the time it took Satan to waddle his way down the second ladder. Outside himself, Edmond had accepted his fate, and the only thing that mattered now was for him to not go to pieces in front of the veterans, in front of Mr. Mulqueen.
The rest was out of his hands.
John and Saul had legged it without being spotted. They’d left him to face this alone. What was going through their minds right now? Would they be worried about him? Or would they be impressed that he’d stood his ground and taken the blame for them?
“Just so you all know—” Satan’s unblinking glare made him think of the car headlights and the driver’s round goggles hurtling at him, moments before he ought to have died. Ought to have died. “—this little bugger has been spying on you from aloft. Probably not the first time. So if you said anything in confidence, anything personal, it’s odds on he’s got the goods on you, the little terror.” He slapped Edmond upside his ear, making it smart.
“Unhand that boy, right now!” Mr. Mulqueen, cheeks port-red, fists squeezing the back of his chair, drew startled gazes from his colleagues. Edmond’s heartbeat drummed in his throbbing ear. “You’re about five seconds away from wearing that torch like a bloody Jack O’ Lantern.” The old soldier limped forward—clack, click-click, clack—and there was no other sound in the emporium. “If you’re partial to chewing your goose, Parnell, I’d let go of my great-nephew immediately.”
“Your—why, I-I didn’t—how was I to know?”
“Did you think to ask him?”
“Well, no, I—” Satan let go his grip. “I’m terribly sorry, Mulqueen. He came here with you?”
“Yes, and he’ll shortly be leaving with me. We’ve a family dinner to attend.” The old soldier’s one good eye sparkled. “So unless you have further business here, I suggest you toddle off to your counting house, or whatever it is you do on Christmas Eve.”
While Satan cleared his throat, Edmond stole away toward the semi-circle of watchful veterans. One of them—the slim redheaded woman with a tatty shawl and only one arm—beckoned him to her chair, held out a plate for him. The cloven, piping hot jacket potato and the wedge of butter melting inside looked and smelled divine.
“Actually, I do have an announcement.” Satan dipped his shoulders and marched defiantly to the front of the gathering, where he thumbed his lapels, rocked on his expensive heels. “If you recall—” The discomfort of standing so close to the kiln bit at his oversized backside and he shuffled to a safer distance, mumbling to himself and rubbing his rear.
The skin-and-bone man tittered. “Spit it out, guv’nor. Yule time’s wasted.”
“Very well.” Satan’s hands trembled as he retrieved a multi-leaf document from his jacket pocket. He licked his thumb to turn the page. “As you all know, my position as proprietor of the emporium grants me complete autonomy with regards whom I employ, temporary or otherwise.” Chin jutting, he scanned their faces. “It has been brought to my attention that one or more members of this group may not be who they claim to be, that the goodwill I have shown those individuals is not reciprocated.”
He dropped his gaze, pursed his small, narrow lips. “Scotland Yard and the Leviacrum’s intelligence arm have intercepted several messages in the past few days—several rather worrying communiqués. It appears three sentry officers were attacked and badly beaten around the Leviacrum tower’s perimeter today. The same pamphlet was found pasted to each of their backs.” He held up a copy for everyone to see.
Edmond leaned forward and read:
Ambition Soars.
The World Is Yours Theirs.
The Truth Is Caged And No One Cares.
Demand The Leviacrum Secrets Be Made Public.
Your Freedom Hangs In The Balance
In the middle of the page, a witty cartoon depicted the Leviacrum tower as the raised middle finger of a giant metallic hand. Its insult was aimed directly at the reader, as if to say, Up Yours, Britain! Below that, the caption Everything That Rises Must Fall, and a final flourish:
Don’t Suffer Their Insult Any Longer.
Let Freedom Be Denied No Man.
Reclaim Your Nation While You Can.
Down The Leviacrum!
“Yeah? So what?” Angharad hooked her arm over Edmond’s shoulder. Though she smelled strongly of cod liver oil, he felt safe enough under her shawl.
“You don’t see the treason in this?” Satan asked.
“Do I hell.” The air seemed to crackle around her as she spoke up. “Since when is criticizing a bunch of scientists the same as treason? Oh, I know they’re a lot more than that these days—those bleeders pull more strings in Parliament than a barkeep pulls pints—and every man Jack in the empire knows it, too. But that’s my point. They all know it, but they daren’t say it out loud. God, no. They’d be hawked in front of a magistrate and their necks’d get stretched quicker and quieter than an MP’s britches ripple when he farts. And you can squeal that to whoever you want, Parnell. I ain’t no thug who beats up sentries, but I don’t kowtow to anyone or anythin’ neither. Bust that bloody tower open, I say, and let’s be seeing what our taxes are really paying for.”
“You’ll get no arguments from me, darlin’.” The stick-thin man folded his arms, crossed his legs. The sleeves and collar of his turtleneck jumper gaped several inches, as though the fabric was barely in contact with him at any point.
“Nor from me.” A hunched man next to him, who appeared
to suffer from palsy, spoke up. “And what’s any of this got to do with us, Parnell?”
Satan shook his head, sighed. “I can see where this is going. You’ve formed your little clique of unfortunates, and that’s fine. Good for you. I for one think veterans are treated shabbily by the empire. And no doubt you’re going to stonewall whatever I propose. Again, good for you. Solidarity is a rare thing these days. But mark my words—” The command with which he roved his pointed forefinger over the hostile group made Edmond swallow—“you’re not bringing me down with you. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am, and I’ll not have any washed-up servicemen with delusions of insurrection putting the kibosh on my tenure here.”
He held up the same pamphlet. “This and one more like it were found inside an emporium cashbox used by several members of this group. And Scotland Yard has evidence that similar seditious letters were mailed from this vicinity. Whichever of you it is, I advise you to move on as soon as possible. The powers that be are mobilizing for a major clampdown in London—any whiff of terrorist sympathies and they’ll cart you off before the words are black on your lips.
“The rest of you I’ll give until tomorrow lunchtime, but that’s it. If you’re not packed and out of the emporium by then, you might be leaving by very different means. One or two Leviacrum agents have already snooped around the stalls today. No doubt you served them without knowing it. And no doubt they’re boning up on your military records as we speak. The ones they can find, that is.” He cast a sharp glance at Mr. Mulqueen, but the old soldier appeared quite unimpressed, even snorted at whatever inference Satan had made.
“So there it is. Pray return to your festivities, and I shan’t interrupt you again. For what it’s worth, thank you for all your hard work this past week, and I’d like to extend to each of you a merry Chris—”
“Oh, blow it out your craphole!” The one-armed woman tossed Edmond’s potato skin at the squat proprietor, scored a hit, prompting Satan to storm out, huffing and puffing.
Shortly after, the stick-thin man raised his hands like a choir conductor and piped up with a stubborn reprise of God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.
But this time, no one joined in.