Cuttlefish Read online

  They were squeezing through the gap when someone yelled behind them. It didn't sound like the King's English. “They're onto us,” said Mother, pushing her forward. Clara had been trying to avoid ripping her school skirt, up to that point. It was obvious that her mother, who normally would have had words with her about tears or stains, didn't care right now.

  There was a coal barge heading away from the Blackwater toward Factory Town, with its smokestack dribbling dirty smoke from the cheap brown coal.

  “Thank heavens,” said her mother. “Run Clara. Jump onto her. Tell Padraig to hide you. I'll try and head them off. I'll find you later.”

  “But—”

  “Just go!” Clara saw, to her horror, that her mother, a lifelong pacifist, was taking a gun out of her purse.

  Clara recognised it. It was her father's. She remembered the fight between her parents—because he'd dared to bring such a thing into the house—far too well to ever forget it. But surely he'd…he'd had it with him when he'd been arrested?

  Mother's hands were shaking. “Go, Clara. Please!”

  Biting her lip, Clara backed away. But she did not run. She wasn't sure why she didn't. Her mother had obviously gone mad, and was aiming the gun back through the scraggly privet. There was a bang. Her mother turned—even whiter in the face than before. “I thought I told you to run. Go. Now!”

  “Come with me. Please. Please!”

  Then there was the sound of several shots from back near the school, and a sudden crack of branches and a scattering of leaves.

  And then a shrill whistle sounded, and someone shouted, “Stand! In the name of the King. Hold your fire!”

  More shots were fired in answer to that, as her mother snatched her hand. “Hopefully they'll keep each other busy. Let's run. Next time please do what I tell you, Clara. This is not the time or place to argue.”

  They ran. The unfamiliar barge was already picking up speed, running barely a yard off the canal margin. A black-faced bargee beckoned furiously, and they jumped aboard. “Get down among the coal, like. Be quick about it,” he said hastily. “Mad girl. Shooting! There be trouble about this.”

  Following her mother's lead, Clara burrowed down into the small lumps of coal, trying to dig her way into it.

  It was black, dirty coal, and then the bargee took a shovel and poured it over them. And then more. And more. He was not that gentle about it. “Black your face,” said the mother who normally told her to wash it.

  The canal was a busy place, with barges pushing along both ways, as they slowly moved further from the school. “Squirm down as much as you can. And then keep still,” hissed her mother.

  The thumping of the engine's pistons slowed. “Face down. Keep dead still,” said the bargee quietly.

  Clara heard an angry English-accented voice, panting. “Why didn't you stop immediately?”

  “Well, I'd like to have stopped immediately for you, sorr,” said the bargee, in a slow drawl, his accent so thick as to make him hard to understand. “But t'irty-foive tons of coal keeps moving for a while, like. So, it's sorry that I am. But a barge isn't like your motor-bicycle, Lieutenant. Can't start fast, can't stop fast. Can't do anything fast.”

  “Pah. Mind your cheek, you Irish scum,” said the young officer, “or I'll have you locked up for disrespecting an officer. Now, I'm to search your vessel for a woman and a young girl.”

  “Be my guest, sorr,” said the bargee. “No one in my cabin, as you can see, eh? T'eyre not here, unless t'ey're lying on my coal. But look for yerself, sorr. Maybe t'ey're buried in it. Here's a shovel if you'd like to dig t'rough it all.”

  There was the meaty sound of a slap. “I warned you not to give me any more of your lip. I'll take you with me…”

  “And what'll you do with t' barge, sorr? Nowt to tie her to here. She'll drift. Likely to block the canal. Colonel'll have t'at shiny pip off of your shoulder for t'at, I'm t'inking,” said the bargee, calmly.

  There was a pause. An exasperated sigh. “Get on your way, then.”

  “Why t'ank you, sorr,” said the bargee with mocking politeness. “I'll be doing t'at if you'd get off of my barge, like.”

  A few moments later the big pistons began clanking again and the vessel shuddered and pushed on through the water.

  “Stay down,” said the bargee quietly. So they did. The journey seemed endless.

  “We're coming up to Mag's crib. Get yourselves off. And good luck,” said the bargee.

  They scrambled up out of the coal and leapt out onto the muddy bank, which was here overhung by willow trees. There was a half-tumbled-down thatched cottage just beyond the trees, and her mother, as coal-black now as the angry-looking man from Queensland in the book had been, led them through the tangle of mallows and bramble towards it.

  Someone must have been watching, because the door opened before they got to it. “Get inside wit' you,” said the old woman in the doorway, hastily, peering around for any watchers. They scrambled in and she closed the door and bolted it behind them. There was not much light inside, with what little there was coming from a fire and two very small deep-inset windows, and it was hard to see much. But the poverty was obvious.

  The old woman pointed at a wooden settle. “Sit you down. Padraig will be along soon.”

  “Mother, what's going on?” Clara asked, as soon as they'd sat down.

  Her mother was silent for a while, and Clara was about to ask again when she said, quietly, “I…I made a mistake. I've got into a situation where they're going to kidnap me, or if they can't do that, kill me. And they want to take you to use as a lever on me, darling. They told me I should cooperate or you'd be hurt.”

  “Who?” asked Clara.

  “The Mensheviks. And now it seems as if the agents of Imperial Intelligence are after us too. The Russians brought me to the school to fetch you. But of course, the school porters won't allow men inside the gates of an all-girls school. I told the Russians you were doing some extra lessons, and it would take me a few minutes to get you out. They told me I'd have to hurry because Imperial Intelligence had just raided our house.”

  “Oh.” Clara swallowed. She barely knew who the Mensheviks were, other than Russians. But she certainly knew who Imperial Intelligence were. They had arrested her father. “Who…who are these people? The bargee…this old woman? And what are we going to do?”

  “Friends of your father's,” said mother, in that grim, defensive tone she always used when she mentioned him. “Friends of my mother's—your grandmother—too.”

  “She was a fine lady,” said the old woman, nodding, smiling, showing missing teeth. “Had her heart in the right place. And don't you worry, dearie. Padraig will sort it all out.”

  Her mother said nothing. But Clara felt her mother's hand tense in hers.

  The old lady went back to peering out of the small window. “If the polis come you'll be away through the back.” She pointed to a small door. “There's a crawlway under the briars.”

  But all that came for them was the bargee, Padraig. He'd cleaned his hands and face, and changed his clothes. And by the way he spoke, he was no bargee after all. The thick Irish accent had all but vanished. He grinned at them. “You're a sight, the pair of you. Well, you'd better stay that way. I've organised transport to a safe house for you. But it's in a tink's cart, so you may as well look the part. Although you're even a bit dirty for it.”

  “And then, Padraig?” asked her mother. There was a real edge to her voice.

  “We're arranging things. You've caused quite a stir, Dr. Calland. Fortunately, it seems that there are still people keen to give you shelter. And not just, like me, because of Jack.”

  Mother said nothing. But her hand tensed again.

  Jack was Clara's father's name.

  Lying on her narrow bunk in the submarine Clara could hear the boom of explosions echoing through the steel walls. She wished that she knew what they were and what was happening. But, as with much of this journey, she didn't. And she d
idn't know who to ask, since that boy had plainly not been going to talk to her. It was hard with no one her own age to ask, she thought, suddenly irritated all over again by how adults tended to fob you off, telling you that you were too young. Not too young for the problems and consequences of things, just too young to be told exactly what was going on. She'd badly wanted to know more about Padraig the not-really-a-bargee, and about her father. She'd wanted to know about why Padraig being mentioned had upset her mother so much. And she really wanted to know just what her mother had done to get all of them following her like a pack of blood-crazy foxhounds.

  Clara looked around the little cabin with its dim battery-powered light in its simple Bakelite fitting, and its plain riveted steel walls. It was very different from the elegant colonnaded mansion they'd been hidden in outside Fermoy. Very different from the way they'd got from Ireland to London too. Not so very long ago she'd wondered what it must be like to travel underwater, or through the air, instead of clickety-clack by tram. On the whole, the air part had been scarier—because mother was so very afraid—but it was also a lot more exciting and comfortable.

  The Most Noble Malcolm Woldemar Adolf Windsor-Schaumburg-Lippe, Duke of Leinster, Margrave of Waldeck, Earl of Northhampton, and Baron of a dozen lesser estates, English, German, Canadian, African, and Australian, wore, as always, his full regimental dress. He had, after finishing his schooling at Harrow, gone to Sandhurst, and thence joined the Inniskillen Fusiliers. He'd moved on in the Imperial Hierarchy since then, but even as the chief of Imperial Intelligence he had not forgotten them. He'd shaped the Inniskillen Fusiliers from an ordinary regiment into the enforcement arm of the secret service he headed. He let the Inniskillens know that he was one of them, and they in turn were his. He was the Duke of Leinster, and they deluded themselves that he cared about them.

  Duke Malcolm didn't care what uniform he wore. He had little interest in clothing. His half-brother Ernest made a spectacle of himself in tasselled boots and mulberry half-pantaloons. One could do that…if one were the king. Duke Malcolm's only personal affectation was his long ivory cigarette holder. He liked it, for reasons that were his to know, and for others to fail to guess at.

  As usual, at this time of day, his staff were bringing him the morning summary of reports. “Your Grace,” said Colonel Wexford, of the Irish Interest section, “we've picked up on the movement of several senior Menshevik agents entering our operations area. The Russians are up to something.”

  “I assume you're tailing them,” said the duke, listening very carefully, to what was said, and to the tone of it. There was a wariness in Wexford's voice. If nothing was going wrong, the staff tended to tell him about it afterwards. Something plainly wasn't going to plan.

  The duke's guess was right. “Yes, of course, Your Grace,” said the colonel, nervously. “But I have to admit that we've lost track of two of them. We assumed they were there to interact with one of the rebel groups. But there has been no chatter from our informers about it.” He cleared his throat. “I spoke to Major George, over at Russian Interests, and obtained some background on the men we've identified. One of them is…unusual. Count Alexander Pulshikoi is the science advisor to the Duma. Major George said he was once a very senior commander in their secret police. But what exactly he does now, and for quite what organ of state he works, we are less than sure. I can't see why he would be travelling to Cork. To Fermoy. There is nothing much there apart from a big dyeing works—Imperial Chemicals and Dyes.”

  Duke Malcolm tapped the end of the slim ivory cigarette holder against his teeth. He looked out of the window for a while, onto the soot-stained building reflected in the Pall Mall Canal, while the tension in the room grew. Then, without saying a word, he took up a pen, dipped it in the ink, and scrawled a note on his pad, ripped it off, and—after folding it neatly with slow precise folds—he dropped it into the vacuum-canister, sealed it very deliberately, and put the canister into the tube mouth next to his desk. He pulled the brass lever activating the system.

  The canister whooshed away and rattled off down and along the tubes to the records and archives section. Duke Malcolm looked at his officers, tense and watchful. Little things could frighten them, and he played on that. “I will review the dossiers,” he said, coolly. “Is there anything else?”

  Just the sight of that note being sent had been enough to start the colonel sweating, little rivulets pouring down his florid face. “No, Your Grace. The usual low level of unrest among the Catholics. But we're monitoring it.”

  “You'd better be.” It probably wasn't important. But Duke Malcolm believed firmly in keeping his officers just a little frightened. That meant sometimes taking a personal interest. They were afraid to tell him of their slips…like losing the Russians. But they were even more afraid not to.

  The engine room of the Cuttlefish was steamy, and the air was thick with coal smoke and the smell of hot oil. Oh, and the smell of sweat from the engineers and the navvies. The air was not pleasant to breathe down here. They were using compressed air to run on, because it was too risky to put even the engine-snuiver up, and the batteries were strictly for short runs, and operating on them was slower too. So it was dim and smoky and busy.

  Tim was grateful for both the busy and the dim part. He didn't want to think too much about Stockwell Tube Station, the explosions, and what might have happened to his home, but he couldn't really help doing that anyway. Not with the sound of the drop-mines that were exploding in the Thames Channel, echoing through the boat. Still, it was the silence between the explosions that was more worrying. The Royal Navy drop-miners would be listening with underwater microphones for the sound of the Cuttlefish's engines, or—if those were silent—the sounds made by her crew. Tim kept a weather eye out for the “all quiet” light coming on. So far, so good.

  They were running at a quarter speed at the moment, which meant the greasers had time to look at something other than the moving pistons. The slower speed meant that the Cuttlefish was back to edging her way about in the drowned streets of London. That was nearly as dangerous as the drop-mines were. The debris down in the streets, and especially the fallen wires, could trap the submarine or damage her hull. She'd have her catfish-feelers—long thin rods with touch-sensitive little plungers on them—out, and the captain and his bridge would be as nervous as tunnel rats now.

  The thought of tunnel rats was enough to make him hungry. Above-people might regard them as vermin, but in the tunnels of drowned London, they were all the meat people could get, as often as not. One couldn't eat the fish out of the polluted water. In many stagnant areas the water was even corrosive, eating flesh and decaying even iron, and there was nothing alive near it.

  Thinking about it was enough to bring the memories flooding back. It was hard enough to leave home. Was his mam still all right? Did the little dank Victorian-era rotting red-brick tunnel he'd grown up in, hunted in, played in, lived in, still exist? Who were this woman and her daughter anyway? Why had Duke Malcolm's men chased them so hard?

  They were not good questions, and they gnawed at him as viciously as his hunger. Answers, like food, were not something that he'd get for a long while.

  Clara had always found that uncertainty was far worse than knowing the worst could ever be. They'd hidden in the mansion in Deer Park for days. It'd been terrifying…and boring. Nothing much to read. Her mother not talking. So Clara made up stories in her head, and slept. It meant that she woke up at odd hours. Sometimes even in the middle of the night.

  Clara hadn't even been sure what time of night it was in the mansion, when the quiet conversation in the next room had cut into her sleep. She lay dead still, listening, nervous. She heard a man's voice. “I'd like to wait longer, but…well, informers. We know we have a problem. That's how they caught Jack.”

  Her mother's voice was odd. A little shrill. “And you. Except that Jack took the fall for you. Made you out to be an innocent bystander, Padraig. And you let him.”

  “I've
told you before. Jack's told you too, as much as he can,” Padraig-the-not-really-a-bargee replied, his voice very even. “It was a case of him or me. And he chose that it should be him, Mary.”

  Her mother's silence spoke louder than words.

  The next afternoon they'd been smuggled onto the train to New Dublin. There had been guards and checkpoints at the station checking the passengers getting onto the train.

  They inspected documents carefully—especially those of women and girls. They even took some of the young men aside into specially set-up cubicles, where they were obviously making sure that they really were young men. Clara watched through a crack in the guard's van door. She and her mother had been smuggled into it while the guard's van and carriages were still sitting in the shunting yards, and missed the search altogether. Still, it was a relief when the whistle sounded and the Royal Irish Mail began to slowly gather steam, hissing and shuddering her way along the rails, away from Fermoy, along the great Southern and Western Railway's busiest track.

  They'd got off the train at a small halt just before New Dublin itself. It was odd that the gleaming express train should even stop there. But it did, briefly, and the frightened little conductor shooed them off like hens.

  They jumped down into the darkness, complete with their new valises and a little tin trunk. A mysterious someone had been shopping for them. The clothes were expensive, fashionable, and not at all what either of them would have chosen. But Mother had her own books in the tin trunk. Somehow they'd got those—but nothing for Clara to read. She'd had a go at Chemical Principles by Heydenbroek, but even peering out of the little window at the darkness had more to offer than that.

  Her mother wasn't talking, lost in a private world of her own sorrows and worries. Clara wished she'd at least say where they were going, or why. When you were just little, a baby or at junior school, it was all very well being carried along by your parents' lives, she thought. But surely she was old enough now to know, to do something? To make decisions?