The Devil's Mask by Christopher Wakling Page B

their ends are frustrated. By the war and by parliament, forces they have been all but powerless to resist. Now they find further … petty … obstacles in their way. Your meddling in the affairs of the dock is not welcomed.’ The voice had risen half a notch: ‘Not welcomed at all.’ The knife-tip dug into the small of my back, forcing me forward and on to the edge of balance; the barest push would have sent me toppling through the gap. ‘The last thing anyone wants is for you to investigate the rubble beneath us at close quarters. But …’ fingertips bored through cloth and muscle, then jerked me back a step … ‘but I have been sent to warn you that this is your last chance.’
    I tensed from toe to jaw and rocked backwards on to my heels. My fists tightened to hammers. I was a half-beat from spinning round to assault this man, knife or no knife, and he knew it. His voice was hot against my ear again, very low again, insistent, and yes, sharp with spirits. ‘Don’t fight, Inigo. You’ll only make things worse.’
    I dared not breathe. I lowered my chin on to my chest and shut my eyes and heard the wind rise across the face of the building. My shoulders slumped, my hands hung open and the wind rose higher and then dropped again. In time footsteps behind me jarred the planks. I listened and listened and did not turn around until their report had disappeared.

Twenty-two
    Dusk was turning the grey sky a dirty green before I set off for home. Even after I was certain the man had gone, I could not bring myself to move from the uneven floorboards. I felt peculiarly calm. Nothing that bad had happened. I’d thought it might, and had nearly brought disaster upon myself by fighting, but had held back. The man said there were mantraps sprung in these half-built mansions. Was that really the case? No matter, the danger had passed. Now I could sit and look at the view through this jagged gap without fear. Sky, hills, city, docks, trees, building works, rubble, sheer wall. The matchstick masts of some ship or other inching its way into port. I’d kept my head. I would not be painting the rubble with my own blood any time soon.
    Such had been the intended lesson, surely, that I was master of my own destiny?
    I lost the moving masts among the clutter of those others already moored in the harbour. Where had the new ship come from? What did her cargo comprise? What precious stuff, packed tight in her hold, would the stevedores soon be busy unloading? And how much of it would the ship’s owners declare?
    â€˜Anchovies, alabaster, alum,’ I recited out loud. ‘Argol, arms, arsenic.’ I shook my head. What did I care?
    I stared long and hard at the city bubbling beneath itscloud of grime. It was as full of scheming and scamming as the next place. Why risk everything, or anything even, battling against so commonplace a corruption? From up here you could see where the town ended and all else began. I had experienced so laughably little of the rest of the world. Though sharp, the knife had barely scratched me. Abducted! A melodramatic word. The memory of the fright served only to prove how thoroughly … intact … I was now.
    Eventually, I stood up and shook out my limbs. Despite the long walk that morning and the fright of what had happened since, I felt light and abuzz and strong. I took deep breaths, savouring the fresh air. A church bell tolled in the distance. Its chimes did not resonate so much as evaporate above the city. I missed counting the hour, so checked my pocket-watch for the time and gave a start upon seeing that it read six o’clock. The poetry recital! If I paced it out, there would still be time to change my shirt and make it to the Alexanders’ house within the hour.

Twenty-three
    The poet was a woman. Her name was Edie Dyer. Upon making this discovery Mrs Alexander was all for turning around and going home, which reaction others