Tears in the Fabric of Time E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Inspector 'Tiny' Tears is ready for retirement when the most unusual case lands on his desk.

A young girl, Ana, sits in the interview room, while the uniformed man who followed her lies dead. After the girl escapes, Tears pursues her and enters a world similar - yet shockingly different - to ours.

He soon learns of a mysterious group called the Silencers, and the Transference Engine, which has irreparably damaged the fabric of space and time.

As the space-time anomalies get stronger, Tiny and Ana form a grudging bond to undo the catastrophe. But are they too late?

Leseprobe

Tears in the Fabric of Time

Stuart G. Yates

Copyright (C) 2015 Stuart G. Yates

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Creative Paramita

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For my three lovelies: Emily, Rozz and Libby

First discovery

'When Spinster first fell ill we never thought a tracking device gone haywire was the cause, not until Dad opened her up with a scalpel and we saw the real problem. A tiny, pulsating sliver of black, a trail of white-crusted acid bleeding from its edge, seeping into her body. Dad removed it, cleaned her up.

Since then, we've been hunted.

We live mostly in the sewers, using them to move unnoticed beneath the city. Down here it's difficult for them to find us. Sometimes they come into the murky depths, but only when there is a real need, or a purge. A knee-jerk response to a problem to be sorted out quickly. With violence. An old man called Jason Lombardy, who shared the tunnels with us, said during the five years he'd spent surviving amongst the filth and the stench he hadn't experienced a single search unit. He lived almost exclusively down here. Well, everything changed when yesterday a whole load of militia appeared and we had to run deeper into the tunnels. Jason laughed at the way we grabbed our stuff and screamed at each other. He told us not to be silly; it was a routine sweep; no need to panic, as nothing was going to happen. When the first projectile hit him, blowing open his chest, he wasn't laughing anymore. He won't be laughing again.

We got away. We hid, and Dad says we have to stay hidden because if we're found, every scrap of information will be extracted from our brains before they kill us. He said their scientists are working on all sorts of new stuff designed to keep them one step ahead. Weird stuff, dealing with electronics. I'm not sure what electronics is, but Dad explained they had invented something so revolutionary it would end the steam age. He had no idea how anything worked, but things like the homing device were now possible. He couldn't explain much, and that's true for most of us. So, the problem is, if I'm caught, they'll realise I don't know anything. Then what will they do? All I know is Spinster is dead, and Jason Lombardy too. So why would they want me? It's a nightmare. At night, Dad cries, and I hold him and wish it were all over.

This is our life now. I can't see it getting any better. I wonder if I'll ever see the daylight again, feel the Sun on my face, take a walk in the park.

I hope I do.

Somehow, I don't think it's going to happen anytime soon.'

One

Detective Inspector 'Tiny' Tears leaned back in his seat, chewing his bottom lip as he re-read the torn, dirty letter for the umpteenth time.

On the other side of the desk his sergeant, Marilyn Jarvis, waited. “Any conclusions?”

“You're the intelligent one,” said Tears without looking up. “You tell me.”

“I've gone through it half a dozen times and I still don't know what it means.”

“What, you haven't put it under some sort of infra-red machine, scrutinised every dot and crossing of tees?” He smiled. She didn't.

“I may be a workaholic, but I'm not obsessive.”

“You're bloody ultra-efficient, that's what you are.” He waved the letter between forefinger and thumb. “I haven't got a clue what this is, not a one. It's either some sort of fantasy thing, the ramblings of an over-imaginative schoolboy, or…” He let the unfinished sentence hang in the air.

“The body certainly wasn't over-imaginative.”

“No, far from it.” Tears scanned the scrawl on the piece of paper again, but the words blurred before his eyes as he recalled where the letter had been found, screwed up in the fist of a dead soldier, or a foreign policeman, dressed in a strange uniform, body jammed half-in, half-out of a sewer entrance in the harbour part of town. The truck had hit him as he'd emerged into the daylight, almost cutting him in half. The truck driver, still in shock, could tell them little more than the babble he came out with when first questioned: 'He just appeared from the ground. I didn't see him. I didn't know!' Tears shook his head, recalling the image of the mangled mess of the soldier, the black hole of a mouth, the wide, unblinking eyes. A hideous mangled caricature of a human being. He shivered, a sudden chill running through him. “Do we know anything more about him, this soldier?”

“I'm waiting for the call from Samuels.” Police pathologist Samuel Samuels. Expert in his field, methodical and slow. Marilyn shrugged. “I might take some photographs of his uniform to the Army Museum. They'll be able to tell us what his unit is at least.”

“No identity cards, passport, anything at all?”

“Not a thing.”

Tears held his breath for a moment before releasing the air slowly. “There's nothing right about any of this, Marilyn. What would a soldier be doing down a sewer, clutching this?” He waved the letter.

“I'll get onto the museum.” She stood up, smoothing her skirt. “It might be some sort of role-playing game. You know, paintball or something.”

“Paintball?”

“Yeah, or the other thing…air-soft. Kids, adults too, get into groups, run around in protective clothing, shooting each other with little plastic balls. It's all the rage.”

Tears screwed up his face, not sure whether he believed her. “Never heard of it.”

“That's because you sit at home and do nothing but read books. Old books.”

“History, Marilyn. And you know the reason.”

“Open University degree, isn't it?”

He shook his head, a ghost of a smile flickering around his mouth, “MA, Marilyn. I got my degree three years ago.”

“Perhaps you should be the one who goes to the museum?”

“No. I'll leave that to you. It'll be good for you – expand your mind.”

“My mind doesn't need expanding, thanks very much.” She picked up her bag and rifled inside. “I had something for you, and I can't remember…Ah!” She grinned and brought out a brightly coloured leaflet. She passed it to him.

Tears read, 'Doctor Keith Melling, in conversation at Birkenhead Central Library. Come along and chat all about Crime and Punishment in Eighteenth Century England.'

He frowned at her. “You picked this up for me?”

“Thought you'd be interested.”

“I am.” He carefully folded the leaflet and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket. “Thanks, I'm touched.”

She flashed another smile before turning and walking away. Tears studied her, feeling only mildly guilty when he allowed his eyes to linger a little too long on her legs as she stood in the doorway. He looked up, caught the bemused expression on her face, and felt the heat rush to his cheeks. For something to do, he scribbled a few words in his notepad. When he glanced her way again she was gone.

Tears sighed, propped his chin on his hands and thought for a moment. He pulled out the flyer Marilyn had given him, unfolded it and stared at the wording. Keith Melling. Doctor Keith Melling. They'd gone to school together, a thousand years ago. Melling, top of every single class there was, Tears at the bottom. Except for history. In history he was second. Melling, as always, was first. Now here he was – a doctor, giving talks in the local library. Tears wondered if Melling would recognise him. There was every chance he would remember him, of course, seeing as Tears had saved his life.

Two

The tunnel stank, worse than ever. Jude sat in the water, if you could call it that. Closer to urine in its consistency and stink. Pure, perfect stench. Rat infested, faeces ridden, filth, nothing else. He studied the rivulets of slime dribbling down the brittle brickwork without reacting, well used to the grime, the disgusting aroma. The heat, however, was something else. Perspiration dripped from his eyebrows, plopped into the putrid yellow liquid around his feet. He lowered his eyes, fascinated by the way the droplets of sweat seemed to disperse the filth, like mini explosions. Must be the salt, he thought.

He turned as his father emerged from the gloom, sloshing through the sewage. He'd been gone only a few moments, scouting ahead to search for an exit. Now he came through the filth, driving himself on towards his son, his voice a mere croak. “Jude.”

Up close, his father's face appeared tense, streaked with black slug trails that ran from his forehead, down his cheeks and ended at his jawline. Congealed grease plastered hair to his head, forming a sort of obscene setting-gel, and Jude choked down a cry of despair. Father was no longer the man Jude remembered. He'd grown old with worry, but hard, resolute. A man on a mission to get home.

“I discovered a light,” his father said. “It's a long way off but definitely a light of some kind. A way out. If we can make it to open air, we can find our way home. They won't follow us there. We can disappear, try and get back to normal.”

Jude didn't want to allow himself to be drawn into false hopes. For too long life had been an endless struggle, scavenging for food and water, dodging from one unlit back-street to the next. He gave a slight snigger. “Normal? Since when has anything been normal?”

Father bent down, not reacting as his knees sank into the liquid filth. He gripped Jude's hand. “You mustn't give up hope. We will get out of this, I promise, but we've got to keep moving, son. It's our only chance because if they catch up with us, they'll smooth our brains, make us mindless automatons and have us working down the mines. Our memories, all our dreams and loves, all forgotten.”

“That might be better; better than all of this.” Jude pulled his hand free and kicked out, pushing his foot through the water. A great cloud of yellow sludge welled up from underneath, and with it came the overpowering smell of putrefaction. Father gagged, stood up and pressed a hand against the slime-covered wall for support. Jude turned his head away, voice small. “We shouldn't have come down here. It's a system we don't know, and that makes it dangerous. We should have tried to find another exit and get to the surface as soon as we could.”

“There was no time, not with the Militia after us,” said Father.

“From the moment we arrived in this hell-hole the whole world seems to have gone mad.” Jude put his face in his hands. “I don't want to do this anymore.”

“Anymore? What the hell are you talking about?”

Jude jerked, dropped his hands. Father's eyes blazed red. Even in the eerie half-light, Jude noticed the fury burning in his father's face, sensed the mounting threat of violence.

“You think you've had it hard because we got into one or two scrapes with the Militia? You have no idea what hard is! I've been living on the edge all my life. Your mother slaves away, greasing power generators whilst your brothers assemble and maintain machine parts, risking their limbs every second of every day. You know full well my epilepsy makes me unstable to work, but I do whatever I can.”

“And I do. You don't need to preach to me, Father. I know how everyone fights, living the lies, going through the motions, and I understand the consequences if any of us get caught. But all of us, in any way we can, struggle to overcome the oppression we're forced to live under.”

“Your brothers do more, Jude. More than the rest of us. They sabotage whatever they can, whenever they can.” He leaned forward, close enough for Jude to see the blackened stumps of his teeth, smell the sweat of his body, see the veins throbbing in his red, straining neck. “This morning, when you saw the girl running from the militiaman chasing her, you thought that was because of us, didn't you? You thought we'd tried to do something and it had all gone wrong, didn't you?” His hand struck out and grabbed Jude by the shoulder, shaking him. “Answer me, damn you!”

“Yes I did.” Jude tore himself free and stood, facing his father square on. “They are everywhere, getting closer and closer. They know who we are and I'm scared. Scared we'll get caught, every one of us will go to prison and I'll end up in some correction facility. I'm sick of hiding in dank cellars and stinking sewers, jumping at my own shadow. I want to do a decent job, a normal one. Get an apprenticeship, welding or something. I don't want to be running away for the rest of my life.”

His father looked at him for a long time, searching with unblinking, black eyes until he sighed, turned away and rubbed his grizzled chin. “I'm sorry, Jude, maybe we can discuss this another time, another place. Not here, not now, Jude, because we have to get back. The girl got away and the militiaman must have lost her, I hope, so we've got a chance to make it home unseen.”

“I dropped my diary.”

His father snapped his head around, disbelieving. “You did what?”

“I dropped it, in the entrance. I didn't realise until…until it was too late.”

His father's eyes clamped shut for a moment, and then he blew out a breath. “I told you not to keep that damn thing, Jude. Why the hell do you waste your time with it?”

“It's my way of remaining…sane. Like I said, it's a world gone mad, so I think and write to keep some sort of hold on what life used to be like.”

“You wrote everything in it, I know you did. Details, about us.”

“I never used real names. Well, not always.”

Leaning against the wall, his father stared towards the ceiling. “Dear God. If there are details in it about meeting places, times…Dear God, Jude.”

“I didn't write about anything like that. Thoughts and feelings, nothing more.”

“All right. So you dropped it, you said? In the water?” He shrugged. “Well, you can always start another one, I guess. You dropped it at the entrance, you say? What entrance?”

“Wait,” said Jude, feeling the pressure, licking his lips. He pressed his finger and thumb into his eyes, squeezed. “I can't…Wait, yes. When we dipped into that service room it must have fallen out of my pocket because I remember seeing the militiaman run past, stop and pick it up. It was sodden, some of the papers falling apart, but he took what was left. I'm sorry, Father.”

Jude's father's face appeared ashen, drained of blood. “You promise there's nothing important in it?”

Jude frowned.

“You know, like secrets?”

“Secrets? No, of course not, I told you, just my—”

“What's done is done, Jude. It can't be helped, so forget about it. You have to stay focused. Today, you don't give up, you understand? Today, we get back up to the surface, we blend in and then we make some plans. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Father held out a hand and Jude took it, feeling the strength. His father smiled. “It'll get better, you'll see.”

For lots of reasons Jude found that statement hard to believe.

Three

Ana Ridgeway stood with her back pressed flat against a wall, trying to make herself sink into the brickwork and become invisible to the people milling around the nearby open drain cover. She knew if she stared too hard they would sense her presence, so she looked beyond them and wondered what she should do. If she made a dash for it, they'd notice her, run her down, but if she stayed, the outcome might be the same. Indecision petrified her limbs and all she could hope for was to stay as quiet as possible and wait until the strangers melted away. For they were strangers, all of them, dressed nothing like anyone she knew. And the noises and shapes of the curious wagons they drove. If she didn't believe what she saw, she would swear she had drifted into a dream. She could not recall how long she had been away, and when she had attempted to return home nothing but confusion greeted her. She closed her eyes and tried to make it all go away.

Something like two or three days ago she'd been trying to sell matches on the Portobello when the militiaman had spotted her through the crowd and the recognition shone from his steely eyes. She threw down the matches and dashed off, and the militiaman took up the chase. Within a few strides her full white skirt, with the black printed design hand-stitched from heavy, gathered fabric, proved a hindrance. She gathered up the traces in one hand, put her head down and forced her way through the swarms of people. Her knee-high boots clattered on the cobbles and passersby stopped and stared. Some laughed, others pointed and gasped, most turned away. Nobody wanted to be a witness to the pursuit, nor did they care. Why should they? Life was already full enough with anxieties and fears, no sense in adding to them by answering questions from the militia. So Ana ran and nobody did anything. Except for the young boy. Their eyes locked for a moment as she pounded on, and in that fleeting pass she recognised him. He worked the crowds, relieving them of their pocket watches, wallets and kerchiefs. A pick-pocket, and a damned good one, but more than that. She'd seen him with men, men unlike most. Agitators, hardened by their resolve and dedication to the cause. It had been her hope to become acquainted with the boy, infiltrate, learn. However, today the damned militiaman brought a halt to that, so there was no time to talk to him, no time for anything except to run.

Ana looked around fifteen, her finely chiselled elfin face and light brown ringlets hanging down to her shoulders belying her true age. Her eyes, if anyone chose to look into them, told the real story of her nineteen years, but people tended to shy away from her hard expression. She'd experienced a lot. Six months ago her father, whilst working in his factory, got his sleeve caught in one of the machines. By the time they'd disentangled him from the cogwheels, he'd bled to death through the mangled remains of his arm. The mill owners put the body in a coarse sack and threw it into a communal pit. She had heard the news by pure chance; one of the machinists lived close by and came knocking, told her straight out, “Your dad's dead.” Ana shut the door and went back to the kitchen table, sat on a chair and picked at the uneven wooden surface with her thumbnail. The previous year, smallpox had taken her mother, leaving Ana to care for her twelve-year-old brother Leroy alone. Leroy helped a wheelwright in his workshop and Ana did what she could, including stealing almost anything and selling the ill-gotten gains on the street. With her father's death, she would have to do a lot more.

The police knew her well, arrested her many times. “You seem like a bright girl,” said Sergeant Maidley the fourth time he'd frog-marched her into the local station and thrown her down into the corner of the interview room. “Why can't you get yourself a proper job?”

She stared at him, trying to keep her patience. Maidley wasn't one of the horrible men, the tall silent ones. He had a vague understanding of what went on in the streets, but he knew nothing of the simmering hatred ordinary people felt for the authorities, or perhaps he chose to ignore it. Either way, the man appeared a simpleton. How could a man like him ask such a ridiculous question? “There are no jobs,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “What else am I supposed to do, starve?”

“I heard about your father. I'm sorry, Ana.”

“No you're not.” She stood up, dusting the dirt from her skirt. “You want to be kind to me in the hopes of getting something in return.” She smirked at him. “I might consider it, for a price.”

Maidley had her in the corner and it didn't take him long to grunt through his ejaculation, for which she was grateful. He hitched up his trousers and pressed a few grubby banknotes into her hand. “I'll let you off with a verbal warning this time,” he said, and Ana wondered why. Maybe he'd developed a soft spot for her, who knows. “Perhaps I could pull you in again, for something minor?”

“Make it a regular thing, you mean?”

“Something like that.”

“As long as you pay, I don't really care.” She reached over and flicked his tie. “Let's hope your wife doesn't find out, eh?” She saw his face turn green and she left, chuckling at the absurdity of it all.

She knew she needed to be careful. If she became involved in anything serious and the militia took her in, Maidley would be unable to protect her. There were other considerations, too. After her father's death, the silent ones had called to talk to her in private. Faceless men, eyes hidden behind blackened spectacles, cold and uncaring. Her brother Leroy would find accommodation with the wheelwright, but another ending lay in store for her. They gave her a choice, and she listened, unable to tear her eyes from their white, thin faces. Either a workhouse, to die alone, consumed by diphtheria, or work for them. Sent to a lonely and soulless place, far out of the city, they would teach her things, and, Ana being Ana, she learned fast. Sent back to the streets, her task was to find so-called agitators, infiltrate, betray. However, to become fully immersed, to be accepted, she would have to play her part well. So well that she could end up getting arrested and, patience at an end, Maidley would lose his temper, send her down for a couple of months. That would have been disastrous, for the whole creaking plan. Therefore, she had to appear lawless without actually being so.

She'd seen the boy and recognized his involvement. She'd been watching him for a long time, working the crowd, but then the militiaman had swooped in, forcing her to run.

It was the usual sort of day, the sun unable to penetrate the thick clouds, rain threatening to burst at any moment. For this reason, people shuffled by, huddled in coats and scarves, hats crammed down over their heads, eyes averted, and Ana was grateful. She pushed and squeezed, turned down an alley and splashed through the puddles to the far end.

A hansom cab clattered past as she emerged at the far end, and she pulled up within arm's reach of going under the wheels. Heart pounding, she glanced back and spotted him, as tall as tree, black uniform and peaked cap making him as obvious as if he had a beacon on his head.

She took her chance and darted into the main street, dodging the trolley-buses and the horses, the mid-afternoon filled with the noise and stench of the city, fit to bursting. She gained the far pavement, breathless, and gave herself a moment to suck in the thick, fetid air. Sweat rolled down her face, more from terror than exhaustion, for there he was, striding over the cobbles. Ana swung round, hitched up her dress and sprinted farther down the street, turning into a side street and stopping.

In the road, an iron cover, gaping open with workers, sat around a burning brazier, their tiny oasis of calm cut off from the rest of the seething metropolis by a coarse rope barrier. She ran to them and ducked underneath.

“Here, you can't be doing that! There's a leak down there.”

She ignored the outraged voices and sat down, dangled her legs into the black tunnel and searched for the scaling ladder. She found it, gave the workers a wink and slipped down into the dark, never believing the militiaman would follow.

He did.

As she hit the bottom and began to slosh through the stinking sludge of the main sewer system, she heard him. His voice echoed down the passageways. “Come on, Ana, there's no way out of here.”

But there had to be. Careless now, she strode through the liquid filth, pumping her arms, determined to get away. Thoughts of a prison cell, of Maidley shunting into her, teeth clenched, face screwed up as if in pain…it turned her stomach. So she drove herself forward, muscles and lungs screaming with the exertion.

From the corner of her eye she spotted the rats slipping down into the depths. Huge black things, fat with rich pickings, their eyes regarding her with malevolent interest. If the militia didn't overcome her, the rats would and the knowledge caused her to whimper.

Then she saw it as she turned the bend: a tiny sliver of light in the gloom. Another cover. She yelped with relief and dragged up a new dose of energy, surged forward, curled her hands around the crude, rusted ladders and clambered to the top. Pushing open the heavy lid, she eased herself out and squinted into the daylight.

At that moment, something happened, something she couldn't explain. Her head began to spin, confused spiralling lights of green and blue danced before her eyes and a curious, sharp, tangy smell invaded her nostrils. Her surroundings blurred, as if someone had over-extended the focus bellows on a camera lens, and she teetered forward, dizzy, disorientated. As if she had been spun in a hurdy-gurdy, she struggled to maintain her senses, tried to focus but failed. She hit the ground, groaning as her knees cracked against the unforgiving road. None of this was right. The road, the air, the lack of noise. She tried to centre in on the road surface, grey and smooth. Where were the cobbles, where was she?

She fought down the rising panic and pushed herself upright. The fresh air, so clean as if it were from the unsullied mountains, brought clarity to her thoughts. She took in her surroundings and realised she was in a totally strange, almost alien part of the city. To her right stood a harbour wall and beyond, the grey streak of a river with a city far across the other side. Impossible. She couldn't have come this far; the sewers were a labyrinth of stinking, twisting tunnels, but surely she could not have run such a distance?

Ana shook her head, forced herself to sprint across the road to the side of a grim, black-bricked building and stopped. She took a moment, gathered her strength, waited for the last vestiges of spinning to cease.

She peered towards the manhole cover and gasped.

The militiaman emerged from the depths of the sewer, eyes rolling, mouth open, disoriented, exactly as she had been. He stood, shoulders sagging, put his hands on his hips and blew out an enormous breath. When an approaching klaxon's blast broke the preternatural stillness, he spun to his right and froze. Ana looked on in disbelief and horror. A great beast of a vehicle erupted out of nowhere, a monster of old, roaring around the far bend, horns blaring. The driver must have seen the militiaman standing there so close to the drain, but there was no attempt to avoid a collision. The heavy vehicle, loaded up with a mountain of bales and boxes, was travelling too fast. Too late, the brakes screamed, but nothing could prevent what happened next. The militiaman, clearly still affected by whatever it was which had confused them both, tried to return to the sewer entrance and managed to get a leg into the abyss. But it made no difference. Ana's mouth dropped and she held her breath; the scene before her played out in slow motion. The militiaman raised his hand as if to ward off the advancing juggernaut. Pathetic, really. It hit him with tremendous force, cutting him almost in two. He didn't even scream.

The stench of burning rubber invaded Ana's nostrils as the brakes locked and the tyres squealed like stuck pigs across the road surface, sending up a swirling mass of black, stinking smoke. When at last the vehicle came to a halt, there were a few moments of total silence before the cab door swung open and the driver clambered out. He dropped down to the ground, staggered on his shaking legs and ran over to where the militiaman had been. Ana saw the driver turn white and bend double to throw up on the road surface. She thought she should talk to him, but something wasn't right. None of it was. The vehicle, the man's clothes, none of it. Nothing like anything she had ever known.

Four

From her partial hiding place, Ana stood and stared and watched the driver pull out a small, flat device. She could hear his voice, spitting out words, sounding terrified, his arms gesticulating wildly until at last, chest heaving, he stopped and put the device into his pocket, hand shaking. Slowly, he went back to the vehicle and slumped near the rear wheel. Ana wanted to take her chance, run to the sewer and get away, but knew she couldn't, sensing something very wrong was happening. To confirm her fears, she turned her head skywards and saw blue streaks slicing through the cloud. For all her life, Ana had never seen blue skies and, when she listened to the stories from old family friends, she dismissed them as fanciful. But now they were here, and despite their beauty her sense of dread increased. So, she waited.

They came, swooping across her vision like a horde of demons. Flashing lights, squawking sirens, men in uniform disgorging from low, sleek-looking and noisy vehicles, rushing to the driver to help him to his feet. Other uniformed men spilled out of a large, blue thing, rear doors screaming on hinges, men with guns. She knew they were guns because even though the vehicles were unlike the great hulking, stinking things she was used to, these guns were not – a fact which terrified her even more.

The men stretched a barrier around the entrance to the drain, drawn from a roll and made from an unusual bright yellow material that seemed to glow. Ana couldn't read the words, but they obviously spelt a warning. One man, together with a woman not in uniform, stooped over the remains of the militiaman's body and talked quickly. More voices, this time from others who were dressed in different-coloured uniforms, arriving from a large white vehicle with a blue flashing light spinning on the roof. Heated conversations followed and soon the militiaman was put into a sort of bag by these other people and placed in the back of a white vehicle, which sped off.

Flashes of light blazed briefly from a small black box the man in a jacket used to point towards the scene whilst the woman made notes in a small book. More conversation between them until, after an eternity, they clambered into their vehicles and moved away.

A few more men in uniforms mingled about before they gradually began to drift away in various directions, leaving the manhole cover open, the yellow tape still in place. And the blood.

Ana waited until quiet fell over the scene. All that remained of the incident was the huge monolith which had hit the militiaman. She crept forward and chanced a look from around the corner of the wall. No one moved, the area empty, silence deafening. From being a kaleidoscope of movement and shouting and colours flashing, nothing now stirred. She felt hours had passed since the accident, and yet since it happened, time seemed to have accelerated, so much happening in so short a space of time. One moment being pursued through the sewers, the next standing here, alone.

She took in several breaths whilst she struggled to decide what to do. She gauged the distance between herself and the manhole, took a deep breath and made her decision. With face pointing forward, she strode to the drain and peered down.

Should she go in? She hesitated, debating the pros and cons, wringing her hands, not at all sure what decision to make. What if other militiamen were lurking down there? It was certainly unusual for one to be out on patrol alone. The idea chilled her, so what to do? Wait, or return to the inky blackness?

Confused, she did not notice someone approaching until the hand gripped her jacket collar. In that instant, her training kicked in. Those weeks, or could it have been months, of going through the motions, being shown how to defend herself, attack with devastating force. She responded well, determined to become as best as she could, and when she had dumped the chief trainer on his behind, the dark silent ones applauded and grinned. Now, with the stranger's hand touching her, she reacted as if by second nature, turning low, the three-fingered strike hitting the stranger in the solar plexus and swung her knee up into his descending face. As he toppled over and she stepped back, she knew it was a mistake. She'd miscalculated. There was more than one of them, and as she gaped and attempted to assess the situation, a shadow fell behind her, followed by a tremendous crack on the back of her skull. Everything went black as she pitched into unconsciousness.

The assistant in the museum was polite enough, but no real help. He leafed through some oversized books, scanned the computer, but in the end the look on his face said it all. Marilyn sat back in her chair. “Do you think it could be just a private thing? You know, made up by a group, a local club perhaps?”

“Possibly. The insignia is the curious part.” He tapped the close-up photograph of the soldier's uniform jacket. “It seems too intricate, too well designed. Why would a club go to all this trouble?”

“Lots of them do. They like to identify themselves, make themselves stand out.”

“Hmm…” The assistant rubbed his chin. “Can you leave it with me? I'd like to run a few more searches, get in touch with the royal Armoury in Leeds. They might have something.”

“Sure. Just one thing I need to know to begin with – you can definitely confirm that it is not the uniform of a police force in this country?”

“From what I can tell so far,” he said, measuring her with a steely look, “this isn't the uniform of any police force in the world.”

Her radio was already crackling as she slid behind the wheel. It was Tears. His voice sounded tired. “We found someone down by the docks. I think you should come in so we can have a chat with her.”

“Her? Who is she?”

“A young girl who seems older than she looks.”

“What was she doing down there?”

“We don't know, but I think you should come in so we can get to the truth of it. You've always had a way with interrogating.”

“Thanks.” Marilyn couldn't pick up on any sarcasm in his voice, which was unusual, and she gave a little laugh. “Are you okay, Gerry?”

“I'm fine. Tired, that's all. She's…She seems feral.”

“Feral? What does that mean? Wild?”

“Yes. Street kid, tough, but…I don't know, there's something distinctly odd about her. Just come in and see what you think.”

What Marilyn saw through the interview room two-way mirror some twenty minutes later puzzled her. The girl was certainly wild looking, her huge, black eyes constantly darting around as if seeking an escape route, her body tense, coiled like a spring close to snapping as she prowled the room, backwards and forwards, time after time, never stopping. Somebody had bandaged her head where the truncheon hit her and Marilyn noticed the red smudge through the thick lint material, but this didn't seize her main attention. It was the way the girl was dressed. An eclectic mix of varying fashions from any number of periods. She wore a floral printed skirt which fell to her calves, with black leather studded boots sticking out underneath. A satin lace waist-coat, drawn together at the waist with leather thongs, covering a white blouse with cropped sleeves and frilled collar, soiled and edged with dirt. Over this, a threadbare tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. A mish-mash of styles, chosen from a dozen different second-hand clothes shops. Bizarrely, on her, the collection looked good. Not out of place at all. The girl had style, that was clear enough. Those eyes, however, were something else. As Tears had said – feral.

“What do you think?”

Marilyn glanced across at Tears, who continued to study the girl through the glass. “I don't know. She seems like a throwback.”

“A throwback? From where?”

“Don't know. Seventies; like a university drop-out, or a hippy. What was that thing in the Eighties? New-wave?”

“You said Seventies.”

“Eighties, Seventies, the same thing.”

“Not really. The Seventies were garish, loud and I hated those years. The Eighties had style. Like her. She's got style.”

So he'd picked up on that too. Marilyn smiled. “You were a child of the Eighties, that's why you cherish them.”

“Cherish? I wouldn't go that far, but yes, they were pretty good. In my opinion.”

“I guessed as much. You were probably a punk rocker.”

Tears let out a guffaw. “Please! A punk-rocker! Can you see me with spiky green hair?”

She shrugged. “You never know.” Marilyn peered through the glass. “This kid. Looking at her, the way she seems so tense, she's very, very frightened, I think.”

“Maybe she saw what happened. She was there, at the scene. Anyone who witnessed something like that would be traumatised, possibly for life. But then, what she did at the scene…”

His voice trailed away and Marilyn frowned. “What she did?”

“She put down an officer. It's in the report,” Tears jerked his head towards a table in the far corner. “Like some sort of karate, moved like a wild cat, the other guys said. That's why they knocked her out.”

“Let's go and talk to her,” said Marilyn, who went through the door before Tears could give a response.

The girl stopped, swung around and backed into the corner, palms coming up.

“It's all right,” said Marilyn, her voice low. “We're police officers and we need to talk to you, nothing more.”

“I want Maidley.”

Marilyn frowned, shot a look at Tears, who shrugged. “Who's he? Maidley? A friend?”

The girl expelled a short, sharp laugh. “Friend? I don't have friends…” She pulled herself up straight, narrowing her eyes. “Where am I?”

The two detectives sat opposite the girl, who remained rigid but alert, her eyes flicking this way and that.

“Where am I?” she said again, her voice growing shrill. “Who the hell are you?”

“I'm Detective Tears, this is Sergeant Marilyn Jarvis.” He studied her. What could she be? A runaway, but a runaway from where? And her age, that was difficult to determine. Originally, when he'd first watched them bringing her into the interview room, he thought she was perhaps fifteen. Now, this close, she seemed older. Her eyes revealed a depth of experience, a hardness, as if they knew and had seen too much.

“Sit down,” said Marilyn gently. “We're not going to hurt you. We want answers, nothing more.”

A long pause followed whilst the girl appeared to struggle within herself, deciding what to do. Eventually, as her shoulders sagged, she stepped forward and slumped into the chair, sullen.

“What were you doing down in the docks?”

He may as well have said nothing at all. She sat back in her chair, looking disinterested, scanning the room. Tears had met others like her before, of course. Toughened by a life on the street, dealing in drugs or something worse. The detritus of a broken society. No education, no hope.

“Perhaps you went down there to do business?”

A slight flicker in her eyes. Her forehead creased a little. A nerve touched. Tears pressed on. “Is that what it was? You were trying to find a punter, earn yourself a few extra quid for your next fix? Is that it? A user, are you?”

He'd seen her arms, the lack of scars, so it was only a chance remark. A shot across her bows. He had to get something from her. She had no ID, not a thing. Her clothes were from second-hand shops, a crude mix of Sixties hippy culture and Seventies psychedelic crap. Tears remembered it from his own youth, the stench of josh-sticks lingering on crumpled shirts and matted hair. The time of progressive rock and Glastonbury concerts where the likes of Genesis and Yes played to audiences of thousands, all of them wrapped in the comforting fug of marijuana and speed. Jesus, what a life. No wonder he preferred the Eighties.

“A runaway, maybe? Home got too much for you, did it? Dad putting the pressure on you to stay on at school, try and get yourself at least one diploma, even if it was only in Home Economics?”

Her eyes narrowed; something danced around inside her head, confusion or recognition of the truth.

Tears leaned forward, growing more confident, knowing he was getting through. “You're a runaway, aren't you? Maybe you tried London, decided to come up here and give it another go? It's tough on your own, though, isn't it? Maybe your pimp put too much pressure on, took too much of your money, is that it?”

A blaze ignited in her face and his stomach tightened. The sheer intensity of her stare sent a shot of steely hatred through him, forcing him to sit back in his chair. At least it was something, a reaction. The first sign she could be reached.

“Where did you learn to fight the way you did?” The frown again. “You put an officer down in the blink of an eye. That's an offence. Punishable by a spell in prison.” Not a flicker. Tears glanced across at his partner who, up until then, hadn't spoken a word.

Marilyn took up the lead in the old double-act of good-cop, bad-cop, leaned forward and gave her best gooey-eyed concerned-mummy look. “It's all right, I can see you're hurting.” She reached out her hand and laid it on the girl's bare arm. “You can trust me. I promise. Just tell us something, anything.” Another smile, warmer still. “What's your name, sweetheart?”

“Ana.”

Marilyn nodded. “We're here to help you, Ana, not accuse you of anything. You've done nothing wrong, but you must have witnessed what happened to the man, the one in uniform?”

Ana nodded.

“So, who was he?”

“Militia. Who else would he be?”

Marilyn stopped patting the girl's arm and looked across to Tears. “Militia? What does that mean, Ana? And Maidley. You mentioned this man, Maidley? Was he the man in the sewer?”

“Maidley's not militia. You know he's not, so stop trying to fool me, it's not going to work. You're Silencers, aren't you? Or at least you work for them, so stop with all of this and let me speak to them.”

“We're police,” said Tears, his voice sounding bored. “We told you before, we're detectives. So you stop trying to make a fool of us and tell us who the bloody hell you are and what you were doing down in that sewer!”

The spring snapped at that moment. Ana came over the table like a wild beast, fingers spread out like claws. She screamed, gripped Marilyn around the throat, pushing her over her chair, both of them hitting the ground hard. Tears kicked back his own chair, caught the girl by the hair and yanked her backwards. Marilyn was screeching, long vicious-looking welts across her throat, blood beading where the girl's nails had punctured flesh.

Ana turned in Tears' grip, held onto his hand and twisted it. He gushed wind and yelped as she slammed her knee into his groin. The nausea hit him like a wave, and he bent double, eyes springing water and everything out of focus. He staggered away, groping for the table edge. He thought he could sense Marilyn trying to get to her feet. He fell on his backside, sat there, winded, trying to catch his breath and stop himself from throwing up. Through the tears he saw the girl kick his colleague hard under the chin. This wasn't good. The girl was more than feral; she was out of control.

He put his palms on the ground and pushed himself up just as the girl put her hand on the door handle. He pulled out his gun. “I wouldn't do that.”

She looked at him, then at the gun. In that instant, the fight went out of her and her shoulders relaxed. Then she did a very curious thing.

She smiled.

Five

The cold bit deep. Jude shivered, holding himself, rubbing his bare arms vigorously, trying to get the blood to circulate and bring some semblance of life back to his limbs. Father appeared immune, striding ahead, cutting through the water like a great ship, a miniature tidal wave following in his wake.

“Slow down, for God's sake,” hissed Jude.

Father craned his neck around and glared. “We've been down here long enough, Jude. It's best if we get out of here before nightfall. We haven't got any torches and the thought of being down here with an army of rats…” He shuddered. “No thanks. Now, come on.”

Jude bit his tongue. What was the point in arguing when his father was like this, a man possessed? Being surrounded by disease-ridden vermin, however, was not a comforting thought and it spurred him on. Although he had already spotted one or two, when night fell the rats would pour from their hiding places, hungry, desperate to feast. If he could clear his mind, erase the images of stinking furry bodies roving all over him, the journey may not prove to be so bad after all. Time would pass, the discomfort in his soaking feet and frozen body would fade. All he had to do was keep moving.

He bumped into father standing rigid and gave a start. “What is it?” Jude, angry that his father had so quickly come to a halt, stepped up next to him and gasped.

Due to the gloom, it was difficult to be sure, but at least four of them stood, stripped to the waist, bodies hard, streaked with filth, barring their way. Their heads were shaven, curious tattoos etched across upper bodies, the design some form of creature with long limbs ending in claws. In each hand, they held makeshift weapons, heavy clubs with sharp shards of metal protruding from the top edge, and curved blades. Jude stared hard and managed to discern slight differences between them, but from a distance they looked the same. Exact copies of each other, and all of them terrifying.

“Who are you?”

The one who spoke was slightly ahead of the others. His eyes, like narrow slits, gave away none of his feelings. He flexed his arms, the muscles rippling, raised his blade and pointed it towards Father. “Speak now or die.”

Jude sensed his father tensing with fury and gripped his arm. “Please, Father. Do as they say.”

“That's good advice,” came another voice.

Relaxing, Father shook his head and spoke, voice small but controlled, “We're nobodies.”

“Why are you down here, Mister Nobody?”

Jude looked back down the tunnel they had come from, suppressing the urge to run. Within a few steps they'd be upon him with their clubs, and Father, what would happen to him? So he waited, struggling not to breathe too hard, but his heart thumped so powerfully that he felt sure everyone would hear. This wasn't good. The threat, everywhere, and Father not in the least bit concerned, almost relishing the opportunity to face them down. Without another thought, Jude threw out his hands. “We were running from the militia!”

Father swung around and glared at his son. “Jude.”

“It's true,” continued Jude, ignoring his father. “We were trying to get away. That's all. We had no idea this was your patch.”

“Patch?” The leader, assuming he was the leader, having spoken first, turned to his companions and laughed. “What's that, some sort of street speak?” He grinned at Jude. “This whole system is our patch, as if you didn't know.”

One of the others sloshed through the murky filth. “You sure it was militia?”

“Militia, I'm certain of it.” Jude caught the glare from his father and swallowed hard.

“No one escapes from the militia, not if they don't want you to.”

“Which leaves us with only one conclusion.” They all grinned now, and the leader stroked his blade with a well-bent thumb. “You must have been sent down here by the militia yourself.”

“Informers.”

“No!” Jude tugged at his father's arm again. “Tell them, please.”

“We're not informers.”

Jude didn't like the tone in his father's voice. He grew more tense, as if readying himself to strike. It didn't take a genius to realise, as Jude himself did, that there were too many of these strangers, and they were armed. There could be no chance of prevailing if father decided to attack, but the more Jude gazed at his father, willing him to turn his way, see the fear, the more he became more convinced that Father was in no mood for compromise. His entire body, rigid, fists clenched, telegraphed his intent. The atmosphere grew hot, a brewing electric charge of imminent violence. Jude knew there was nothing he could do. The strangers were moving forward, crouched, blades and clubs looking even more vicious than before.

It was too late.

Six

Two guards put her into a holding cell. She went freely, allowing them to frog-march down the narrow, brightly lit corridor, and when they slammed the door shut she sat on the bed, hands clasped, staring and not saying anything.

“She's clearly gone through this more than once,” said Marilyn, applying some antiseptic cream to the scratches on her face. Tears noted her hand was shaking.

“Are you sure you're all right?”

She smiled. “I've had worse. To be honest,” she stared at the piece of gauze with which she patted the wounds on her cheek, “I don't think I've ever come across such controlled aggression. It was almost as if she were trained to respond that way.”

Tears shrugged, the memory of her strike to his groin bringing water to his eyes and he gave an involuntary wince. “I know one thing, she's a firebrand. Dangerous. We're going to have to talk to her again at some point, but this time we'll have two more officers with us.”

“She won't say anything, Gerry. Her lid is screwed down tight. It might be better if we took her back to the scene and in the meantime I'll try and do some background checks. Missing persons, petty larceny, soliciting. Something might turn up.”

“I don't want us wasting all our time on this.” He pulled out his gun and weighted it in his hand. “When we were issued these in twenty-two, I never, ever thought I'd use it, but when I saw the look on her face, the way she smiled, I actually wanted to shoot her. Not kill her, you understand, a flesh wound.”

“Teach her a lesson?”

He caught the tone in her voice and slipped the automatic back into its holster. “Something like that.”

“Gerry, she'd hurt you, you were angry, confused.”

“Yeah, but even so…I'm thinking of handing it back in. They're not mandatory.”

“Give it a few days, Gerry. You're still…embarrassed?” She arched a single eyebrow, turned the corner of her mouth up in a slightly mocking smile. “Being put down by an eighteen-year-old girl, Gerry…” She shook her head.

Her words brought his own smile and he relaxed, “God, you're a bitch when you want to be.”

“Hey, don't forget you have your lecture this evening. You are going, right?”

“Well, seeing as you were kind enough to tell me about it, I thought I might go along…even though you are a bitch!”

Tears purchased his ticket at the booth. The girl behind the little glass screen appeared bored. He looked at his ticket.

“There's no seat number.”

“You can sit anywhere.”

The auditorium had that hushed atmosphere that only very closed, small and intimate theatres can create. Tears found a seat and sat down. He looked around. There were perhaps a dozen or so people dotted around the aisles. He looked at the programme he had picked up in the foyer. What did he want to know about Crime and Punishment in any other century? Didn't he have enough bloody work in this one? He sighed. What the hell was he doing here, just wasting time? Keith Melling was a character from another play, one that ended years ago; life had rolled by, too many experiences bringing too many changes. They were not the same people as they had been. Tears pushed himself backwards in his seat, staring up at the ceiling. Like purgatory, that's what this was. Something he had to do. Let's just get through it, try not to go to sleep…He closed his eyes despite his best efforts not to.

The lights dimmed and expectation rose. Tears opened his eyes and peered towards the stage. A single spotlight and then the padding of crepe-soled shoes. Some things never changed. He gasped when Keith Melling came under the spotlight.

He looked older. Of course he did. How many years had it been, twenty? Twenty-five? Tears eased himself forward. No, it had to be more. Melling looked ancient. Even from this distance, even with the help of all that theatrical make-up, he looked ghastly. An old man, wizened and bent, deep lines running down the edges of his mouth. As if he were in pain.

Tears listened as Melling began his lecture. The voice sounded the same as he remembered it, like liquid velvet. It floated over the auditorium, smothering him like a soft, warm blanket, and Tears allowed himself to be embraced. The words oozed out, honey-rich, and soon Tears felt his eyes grow heavy and he slipped away.

He awoke with a start. The lights were full on and people were tipping up seats and beginning to leave. He shook his head. The one thing he didn't want to happen had happened, and he cursed himself. He got to his feet and looked around, moving out into the aisle. Someone brushed past him and he whirled, caught sight of a scowl. A young man, tall, hunched shoulders and long, straggling hair. Their eyes locked, and then he was gone, pushing open the double doors that led back into the foyer. Tears gave it no mind and looked to the stage.

Keith Melling was shuffling papers, head bowed. He didn't look up as Tears approached.

“Hello Keith.”

They sat in the coffee bar, Melling's face staring down at the remnants of his drink. He'd hardly spoken a word since Tears had come onto the stage, grunting at the invite for a coffee. Perhaps he really was ill. This close, he certainly looked it, the skin on his face tinged yellow, flecked by dark brown smudges all over his cheeks and forehead. Tears studied him, legs stretched out, wondering where the years had gone.

“That was an interesting lecture,” he lied.

“Really?” Melling glanced up, but only briefly. His eyes fell back down to his coffee cup. “I'm wondering what you're doing here, Tears. Why, after all these years, you would come along to a lecture that holds no interest for you. What is it you want, to punch my lights out for old time's sake?”

“What makes you think I want anything?”

Melling measured him. Tears caught the menace in those eyes, the brewing hatred. “You always did.”

“I saved your life, you piece of shit.”

The words, savage, edged with anger, seemed to have no effect as Miller's voice continued to be flat, disinterested. “Yes. And I've paid you back.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. You took everything I had. My self-respect was the last thing on the list, and I've managed to drag it up from the mire you left me in.”

“Jesus, you're dramatic.”

Without warning, Melling's fist came down on the tabletop like a steam hammer. The coffee cups rattled, “And you are a sanctimonious bastard. Now tell me – what the fuck do you want?”

Melling's sudden change of mood had taken Tears by surprise and others might have noticed it too, so he quickly glanced around the small cafeteria and found it to be so. The few customers were all looking, an expectant hush descending. Tears held their gaze and they turned away, one by one. From behind the counter, the waitress came over to the two men, wiping her hands on a green patterned tea towel. “Everything all right, gents?”

Tears shrugged and said, “Two more coffees.” He watched her go back to the counter, leaned forward and smiled. “Keith, let me refresh your memory. Your car went into the dock and I dived down and brought you back. I pulled you out of that stinking water and sat on your chest to squeeze the filthy stuff from your lungs. Then I went back in again, even though I thought she had to be drowned. When I got to her, her eyes were open, flesh like a maggot's, blue veined, the life already gone. I brought her out just the same, went through the drill and did my damndest whilst you sat there, gaping like a moron, not doing a damn bloody thing.” He picked up a sachet of sugar and peeled away the corner. “And then, when I thought I could do no more, she came back, alive. Like a miracle, and you never said one bloody word.”

“She was my wife, and after you saved her you took her for your mistress. Worse. A part-time piece of skirt for you to take possession of whenever you felt like it. That was the price you extracted from me, to pay you back for saving my life.”

“It wasn't like that, and you know it.”

Melling plunged on, disregarding Tears' protest, “And when you knew she had had enough of your drunken gropes, that she was coming back to me, you came around and bleated like a lost lamb. Pathetic, you were. I never asked you to pull us out of that car, did I?”