‘For what?’ I said.
‘She helped the Vigiles stage their uprising.’
That meant that if she wasn’t already dead, she would be soon. ‘If I needed Roberta’s help,’ I said, ‘do you think she would be open to co-operating with me, even if it’s just by sharing information?’
Hari rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Really depends how you present yourself when you see her. She’s not keen on competition, but as long as you don’t show signs of wanting to take over as leader of the Scuttlers or anything, it’s a possibility.’ He eyed his watch before shovelling in a few more mouthfuls of food. ‘We’ll go to the Old Meadow now. Better to be early than late.’
I looked to Maria. ‘Where’s Eliza?’
She pulled a face. ‘I think something possessed her. I heard noises. No answer when I called her, and the door’s locked.’
Eliza wouldn’t want to miss this meeting, but she would be confined to bed for a good few hours after a trance. ‘Let me check on her,’ I said. ‘Do you have any cola, Hari? And the key to her door?’
‘Ah, yeah.’
He passed me a glass bottle from the fridge. I took it up to the first floor and unlocked the room. Eliza was lying unconscious where the rogue spirit had dropped her, her lips tinged with the blue of spiritual contact. Finding no ink or paints to hand, the muse had made her scratch the beginning of a face into the wall with her nails, leaving them ragged and her fingertips bloody. I lifted her chin and checked her airways, as Nick had taught me to do if she experienced an unsolicited possession, before I cleaned up her hand and covered her with blankets. She murmured incoherently.
The ?ther takes as often as it gives, people said in the syndicate. It was true. My nosebleeds and bouts of fatigue; Nick’s migraines; Eliza’s loss of control over her body. We all paid a price for our connection to the spirit world.
‘She all right?’ Hari said when I returned.
‘She’s fine. Your wall, not so much.’
He frowned slightly before handing me a full-face respirator.
I saw the world through glass eyeholes. The mask was uncomfortable, but it would keep me anonymous. I laced my feet into snow boots and zipped myself into a hooded puffer jacket with a thick fleece lining.
We followed Hari from the cookshop at a distance. Not one star could be seen through the smog. When we reached a main road, we squeezed into an elevator labelled MONORAIL OF SCION MANCHESTER, which winched us up to a station platform.
It took less than a minute for a train to arrive. It must have been sleek once, but now it was worn and soiled, and it rattled on the track. I stepped over the gap and took a seat in the deserted carriage. Maria sat beside me and picked up a copy of the Daily Descendant.
The others removed their respirators. Taking advantage of the invisibility afforded by mine, I took a good look at the people around us. Despite the late hour, none wore everyday clothing. One man was clad in the crisp red of those who worked in essential services, but he stood out – most were in slate-grey or black boiler suits. Black was for skilled personnel, but I didn’t know what grey signified. Only two of the passengers wore the white shirts and red ties that filled the Underground every morning in London. Hari nudged me and tapped the window.
‘There.’
It took me a moment to see it in the darkness. Its walls were as black as the sky.
A factory.
It dwarfed the monorail track. Even in the train, the clangour from inside made my teeth vibrate. SCIPLO was painted in towering vertical letters down one side of the building, with a white anchor beside it. Its employees, whose grey uniforms almost blended with the smog, filed in and out through titanic gates. Each pressed their finger to a scanner before entering or leaving. There were at least ten armed Vigiles at the gates, another six patrolling the street outside, and I had no doubt there would be more within those walls.
‘Terrible life they have in there.’ Hari shook his head. ‘The work kills you. They handle dangerous materials for long hours and not much money – plus, they get fined for the slightest thing. Most have to shave off their hair so it won’t get caught in the machinery.’
Tom’s brow was deeply furrowed. I remembered the factory in his dreamscape, the gloom and the dust.
‘They’ve started beatings since the quotas were introduced. If you don’t meet your target, you’ll know about it in the morning.’ Hari nodded to where a squadron of Vigiles was escorting several grey-clad workers. ‘Even the kids don’t escape it.’
I tensed. ‘They have children working in there?’
‘Kids are cheaper. And small enough to clean under the machines.’
Child labour. It wouldn’t be tolerated in London, though enough unwanted children washed up on the streets there and ended up working for kidsmen for no money.
‘Since you want to find out more about SciPLO, you could try and get one of the workhands to talk – if the Scuttling Queen gives you permission to do your investigating, that is – but it won’t be easy.’ Hari pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘Might be an idea to visit Ancoats. A lot of factory workhands live in that district. Mostly Irish settlers.’
I watched the factory until it was out of sight.
We crossed a bridge over the River Irwell. Below us, dead fish rolled like balloons on the water.
After a while, the factories and foundries gave way to warehouses. Soon enough, we were stepping off the train and down a stairway to the street below. As my boot hit a manhole, I thought again of the Mime Order, and the people who were relying on me. I needed to persuade Roberta Attard that we presented no threat to her; that she should let us conduct our investigations in peace; that she should help us, even. Didion Waite had once described me as an ‘ill-mannered, jumped-up little tongue-pad’ when I tried to sweet-talk him, which didn’t seem to bode well for our meeting, but Attard and I were both leaders of our respective communities. That had to count for something.
In the shadow of the track, letters on an archway declared this district to be the Old Meadow. The ‘meadow’ in question was little more than a scuff of grass, encircled by a wrought-iron fence. In the feeble glow of a streetlamp, a group of children kicked a ball to one another, watched by a greyhound. One of them whistled as we came closer.
‘You here to see the lady?’
Hari pocketed his hands. ‘Tell her I’m here, will you?’
She threw the ball and took off across the grass. ‘Give us a fiver, Hari,’ one of the boys wheedled. He was missing his front teeth and a chunk of fire-red hair. ‘Just for some grub.’
Hari opened his wallet with a long-suffering sigh. ‘You ought to be at the factory, you. You’ll starve.’