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Chapter Twelve

Rude Awakenings

What was that noise?

Marching feet, raised voices. Both things indicative of trouble – trouble that Jacques didn’t need to accompany his hangover. The sunlight was bad enough: a barrage of a thousand tiny needles that burrowed into his forehead via his fragile eyes, but this addition was overkill.

How much did they drink last night? Could he even remember? The collection of empty beer bottles was evidence enough. Every slam and bang and crash and call served to do nothing to his already suffering demeanour. He peeled himself from a carriage seat and attempted to wince as the ring of the church bells had taken residence within his skull. Every step to the windows set them ringing, reducing the speed of his steps until the pain became bearable, and then Jacques caught sight of the cause.

Alex Juniper positioned himself in full view with a handful of men, each keen-eyed and geared for trouble. Then, he called out to the occupants. ‘Mister Monaire, please do grant me a kindness and the pleasure of your company.’

Jacques squinted bleary-eyed past a curtain, fingering the material back. The train remained quiet, far too quiet for this hour as breakfast would normally be made and the showgirls would be serving coffee.

Right, he recalled the night before. The showgirls. At some point the arguments became heated and they’d insisted on looking for Misu, no matter how long it took. It must have taken a while as they had yet to come back.

* * *

Corinne’s disapproving glare still burnt in Franco’s mind as he was roused awake, heavy-eyed and thick-headed.

‘What is the commotion?’ he whimpered, checking his body to ensure decency, though standing was a difficulty at this stage. ‘The sheriff is here? What in all the world could he be wanting?’

‘Guessing, nothing pleasant. Bad timing as well. Want me to try and get rid of him?’

Again Alex Juniper called, looking over the windows for any sign of life in the vehicle. ‘I’m giving you a courtesy to step out, but you should know I could walk on and drag you out by them pretty shoes of yours. You going to come say hello?’

‘That’s just brilliant.’ Franco eased his footwear on to comply.

‘He’s not after a friendly conversation I’d wager,’ Jacques grunted. ‘Are we going to be looking for trouble?’

‘Not this time; just behave yourself.’

‘Isn’t that an irony coming from you?’

The pair stepped out, hurriedly dressed and still red-eyed. Franco was fairly presentable, unlike his cohort who stood with shirt untucked and hair wild. An edge of concern unknowingly entered Franco’s voice, but he coughed it and the residue of fine rum away. ‘Sheriff. Awful loud ruckus you’re making just to say hello. Something I can do for you?’

‘Since you asked so nicely. Hold out your wrists.’

Franco failed to muster an iota of respect in his response. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I don’t think you need excusing; you heard me perfectly well. Hold out your wrists. Now.’

Franco conceded. His hands were bonded with weighted irons. All the while, Alex grinned contently.

‘Franco Del Monaire,’ the sheriff announced with so much delight he could burst, ‘I am arresting you for assisting the criminal underclass in their misdeeds and numerous murders, for associating with said people and the involvement of the robbery of contraband from this fair city. And on top of that, anything else I damn well see fit.’

‘This is unfair. We had nothing to do with these things!’ Franco protested. Already he was being escorted away and Jacques was warned against intervention with the showing of billy clubs.

‘No, son. Being unable to lynch you where you stand in this great city of mine is a lack of fairness. This right here, this is just bad luck on your part. Or justice on mine. Take your pick.’

* * *

By the time the girls had returned, they expected to find Franco scowling, reading a riot of words about the docking of pay or the show of respect for his authority. They were, of course, all ready for this, with Corinne insisting that she would be doing most of the talking as there was no barb she couldn’t refute.

Yet as they walked into Central Station, Platform 4 was ominously quiet. Others who were passing through, or waiting at other platforms watched, as word had spilt that Franco Del Monaire had been arrested. What the girls found was their solemn-looking head of security, slouched on a carriage coupling. He was attempting to ease his pain with a bad Bloody Mary, with too little Blood and too much of the Mary.

When able to, he answered every question put to him. He cited the details of Franco’s arrest, step by torturous step, until his drink was empty. Every protest by the girls was met with a deadpan response. The situation was, to use his exact words, utterly hopeless and he suggested they take some time to sleep. It had been a busy night, he stated with intense sarcasm, though it was true.

The girls were led to every back-end hole that passed for a bar, or lodging, to find Misu. They asked revellers in the streets, patrons inside taverns, but always the answers were, depressingly, the same. Daybreak came and so they carried defeat back with them on the long walk back. They all took Jacques’s offer and spent a good few hours of rest.

Wyld strolled back to the Den, her conscience and backpack a good deal lighter. It had taken all morning to negotiate a semi-decent deal with those Muddick had arranged for her to meet, and while she was burdened with less, the profit cut still stung.

Twenty-four per cent.

Twenty-four damn per cent lost. Other places had been happy with ten to fifteen but no, not here, not in Windberg. People had to be kept happy, she was told. Dues had to be paid and so the percentage was jacked up; otherwise it wasn’t worth their while to get their hands dirty. Still, money was money and when an opportunity rose to relieve herself of ill-gotten goods, Wyld was not so foolish as to ignore it.

Rather than navigate the streets, she snuck through the station’s scrapyard, slinking past corpses of carriages and pallet-stacked parts before reaching Platform 4. On approach she observed the sullen faces and even eye rolling of the showgirls. They stood and sat in line, clearly disinterested in working. It was just past midday. Why was everyone lingering outside and making things look untidy?

‘Nothing to do?’ she enquired, prompting a handful of scowls from the showgirls.

‘Plenty to do,’ one responded flatly. ‘Unlike yourself.’ She leant over and whispered into the ear of another. Wyld didn’t need to hear the words. She could already tell that whatever was said wasn’t kind.

Jacques snorted as he informed Wyld of the details. Each revelation caused her to furrow her forehead in question, though she refrained from asking anything until he had finished. Each query, mostly, revolved around the why more than the how – something that the showgirls believed Wyld could clarify. She was, after all, a spectre on this ride. Her presence was unacknowledged, her cargo blatantly illegal, and if anyone managed to catch her involved in such business, things would come crashing down for everyone.

So it was assumed, almost unanimously, that Wyld had slipped up. Somewhere, maybe during the thievery, or maybe during an escape, she was seen and followed, incriminating them all. It was possible that one of her secretive contacts had ratted her out to save himself from jail time. Either way, the finger was pointed quite firmly at the Den’s resident stowaway, despite the evidence to the contrary.

‘It’s lies. I don’t believe a word of it,’ Kitty boldly dismissed. ‘We’re supposed to believe that Misu brought all this on us?’

‘That’s what the boss said,’ Jacques grunted.

‘Well the boss is allowed to be all kinds of wrong, isn’t he? We all know who the real culprit is here.’

She fired an accusing glance to a sombre-looking Wyld who sat in a carriage doorway. They all turned in unspoken indictment.

Wyld in turn looked up and around her.

‘It’s your fault,’ Kitty continued. ‘All this stupid running around, getting the boss to go this way and that. Robbing whatever you please. Misu is innocent and you, you little rat, you’ve brought this on us. Damn stowaway.’

The words were spat, venomously punctuating their boldness. Katerina placed a hand on her cohort’s shoulder to ease her back into line, a gesture quickly shaken off.

‘That’s not true!’ Wyld protested.

Jacques, as much as he hated to admit one of their own was the cause of this trouble, felt no option but to quell this accusation, for as much good it would do.

‘Kitty, the boss said –’

‘The boss said, the boss said,’ she mocked, waving her hands in gesture. ‘Well I ain’t believing the boss! My own sensibilities tell me the cause of this one. At least admit when you’ve caused a mess. Take ownership. You should march in that there police station and turn yourself in. That would be the right thing to do. Where did you hide all this stuff anyway?’

Wyld narrowed her eyes in response, though none of this was any of their business in the slightest. Katerina parted her lips to contribute but clearly thought it best to avoid antagonizing anyone further.

Wyld kept her mouth shut. She didn’t owe anybody an answer.

Kitty scraped her teeth back and forth in irritation. ‘Stupid trinkets. You have no shame, chasing the sun for junk. Getting others involved. Getting us involved specifically.’

Wyld took to her feet and walked before her accuser, keen to ensure that this would no longer be tolerated. ‘You should watch your tongue,’ she warned. Her patience had eroded to the point where she felt compelled to verbally defend herself, or put the youngster flat on her backside. Right now, the latter was an attractive prospect.

‘Should I now?’

‘So what is your suggestion?’ Wyld held her arms out, wide and in invitation. ‘You’ve not given a single helpful idea. You’re just a talker. A stupid, yappy little dog who does nothing but make noise. Would you like to find the time to make a plan to get this sorted? Or are you planning to just scream at me until the time comes to apply another coat to them there dainty nails?’

Jacques slumped down on the platform, obviously finding their voices far too grating.

Kitty flexed her fingers at her sides, clearly noticeable. ‘Would you like to see how sharp they are?’

Wyld took another step, closer now, ready for them both to make good on their threats.

‘Please do show me. I will smack your pretty face silly.’

‘Enough!’ Jacques exploded, stamping his foot down. ‘Enough of this already! Kitty, hold your temper. Wyld is right, like it or not, she didn’t cause this. Grow up and accept that, or sit down and hush yourself. The last thing we need is you causing a ruckus and adding to this headache of mine. We need to work out what to do next.’

‘Well, have you come up with anything? Has anyone?’ Kitty scowled in defeat. She complied, sheepishly, and sat down among the girls, with Corinne placing a confirmatory hand on the youngster’s shoulder. When Kitty sat, she skipped stones off the platform and onto the bare tracks opposite.

‘Not yet,’ Jacques admitted.

Corinne walked over to Jacques, heels clicking on approach. He smiled wearily, the events clearly taking their toll on his demeanour.

As always Corinne attempted to play mediator, for the sake of them all. ‘You can’t blame them for being frustrated.’

‘I don’t. I just don’t want them screaming at one another like wolves. They should be better than that.’ Jacques eyeballed each of them in turn. Kitty stared at the concrete.

‘And neither do I.’ Corinne sighed. ‘But we do need to fashion a plan. We do need to work it all out. We can’t just wait for the inevitable. Has Franco even been charged yet?’

‘I don’t think so. I’ve heard nothing more than what you know. It would be swift for them to do so on the same day.’

‘So we do have a chance to defend him.’

‘Against Juniper? That’s never going to happen.’

‘Whatever we do,’ Corinne addressed them all, the frustrated and the melancholy. ‘We have to do things by the letter. We have to show the sheriff that we’re not what we’re believed to be. The Gambler’s Den is not home to degraded standards or troublemakers. We do it right. No fights, no scenes, nothing messy. We can get Franco back by having right on our side and being sensible. It is the only way.’

Wyld thought for a moment, wrapped in crossed arms, and spoke without thinking. Her voice was thick with resolve and her eyes burned with resentment. The law wasn’t clear-cut. There were no heroes or villains in this world, not in the troubles that she witnessed. Her poverty-stricken upbringing defined no right or wrong, just the ambiguity in between. People like Alex Juniper were not in the right in any sense. They just used the title as a shield.

‘Or we can just stage a jailbreak and run like the wind.’

The showgirls each looked at one another in turn and then to Jacques who let a thin smile pass over his parched lips.

‘Or –’ Corinne shrugged in defeat ‘– I suppose we could do that.’