The Devil's Mask by Christopher Wakling Page A

or my face will be the last thing you have the good fortune to see.’
    â€˜What do you want from me?’
    â€˜Just look, and listen.’
    The view before me swam into focus. The whole city seemed to tumble away from the foot of this half-built shell of a building. Braced against the bare casement, I glanced leftand right at the sweep of windowless, roofless terrace either side of where I stood. It looked like a wave of stone about to break upon the town. Though I’d never been inside it before, I understood now that I was standing inside the great unfinished crescent on the brink of Clifton Hill. The sky burned dull white for an instant as the sun tried to break through a seam in the canopy of cloud above me, then the wind swept shadows over the hill and the light turned grey again. Beneath the scudding cloudbank stood another, yellower layer of smoke which pulsed from the factories and tanneries and smelting houses and lay ragged and yellow in the basin of the city. From up here I could even make out a dirty slice of harbour stabbed full of masts, and, in the distance, monochrome hills gritted with sheep.
    I flinched as the man laid a hand upon my shoulder again.
    â€˜Well?’ he growled. ‘What strikes you in the scene? What do you … make of it all?’
    â€˜Strikes me? It’s, it’s, it …’
    â€˜Come on!’
    â€˜I don’t know what you want me to say!’
    â€˜Say what you see!’
    â€˜It’s … the city. It’s Bristol. And beyond, the hills.’
    â€˜The city and some hills. You can do better than that!’ There was something almost comical about the rumbling depth of the man’s voice. It seemed put on. ‘For a man of your sensibilities, a professional man,’ he continued. ‘I expect something more evocative! This is the top of the world!’
    â€˜Clifton Hill then. And an almighty drop! Rubble, piles of stone, timbers, unfinished buildings. And beneath us thefactories, and the smoke, the docks, and … For God’s sake! What do you want from me?’
    â€˜What are your thoughts concerning the rubble?’
    â€˜I … don’t … it’s just rubble!’
    â€˜ Just rubble! No, no, no. Think again! What does it signify? What’s it for?’
    â€˜I’ve no idea. Building works I suppose.’
    â€˜That’s it.’ The knife pushed me further into the opening. ‘You suppose right. And that’s why I have brought you here, to survey these half-cocked building works and to take in this scene.’
    The wind beat against my face. My feet were inches from the stone threshold. The man’s demeanour seemed less threatening than it had in the carriage. But my knees were still trembling beneath the hem of my coat.
    The man went on. ‘You see, this great half-cocked edifice is just part of the problem. Like so many other noble works, the spat with Bonaparte has condemned it to stand unfinished these how many years? War has sapped the city of funds. Without money everything grinds to a halt. I’ll tell you a secret. Thieves come here at night to strip the shells of these houses of everything valuable: stone, tools, even roofing lead! But the owners have had enough. They have sprung mantraps in the basements! Men of action won’t be stopped, you see. The war has slowed them down, but with the end in sight they are stirring again. The city needs money. Men of action make it. They will complete these buildings, and set those factories to work, and keep our ships floated above the sucking silt. They are the force behind this city, you understand, the heart which pumps its sustaining blood.’
    A gull hanging in the wind above the great crescent now dropped a wing and veered sideways and away. It screamed in my face as it went.
    â€˜But what has this to do with me?’
    â€˜What the men of action want is for the benefit of the city, not just for themselves. Yet