“What’s wrong?” Sarah-Kelly asked. She raised her face to look at him virtually nose-to-nose. “It’s not your arms that are supposed to get stiff.”
Donald did not answer. He frowned, trying to gather the words, in this moment when he was not interested in words.
“Is it your wife you’re worried about?”
This time Donald laughed. Sarah-Kelly had to duck against his shoulder to avoid the blast. A memory had come to mind from his days at college. Some cronies and he were drinking in a cheap pub, being served by an attractive, tough young woman rather like Sarah-Kelly. One crony was foolish enough to prod the cleft of her backside—and blood splattered from a broken nose. They had to carry him out half-stunned to find a doctor.
“I would give my treasury for Lavinia to see us now,” he said.
He looked directly into her eyes. He pulled her closer and kissed her deeply. There was an even more burning satisfaction than love as he fumbled with the toggles of her overalls, to Sarah-Kelly’s giggles as she rolled on her back. Their act of love was the ultimate defiance. Together they waved two fingers in the face of the whole bloody arrogant sovereign caste.
Afterwards, they trembled arm in arm and then melted away. Donald fell asleep for some while, getting awoken by the cold creeping up his legs. The fire had died down.
“My feet are cold,” Sarah-Kelly said, as she felt him stir.
The library carpet was no place to continue the night. With just his dress shirt on, he carried her up the stairs to the master bedroom, where he laid her on the bed. She smiled up at him, running her hand over his muscular arms and shoulders.
“You’re quite the man of surprises,” she said, smiling.
At this moment, Donald almost got into bed beside her. It was the peace that stopped him, for in that peace he heard the rumble of the generator. He had forgotten to switch it off. Swearing under his breath, he pulled on his pants and slippers and descended through the biting cold house to the Engine Room, where he silenced the machine. Back upstairs, he was almost through the bedroom door when he stopped dead, reversed and went into his study. On the writing mat of his desk lay a sealed letter. He had not noticed it earlier during the search of the house, having been rapt to the danger of lethal assault at the flick of a light switch. Butler Campbell must have left the letter before bailing out. Perhaps in his mind, there was a good reason for leaving the house open and deserted. Donald broke the seal and spread the letter flat, perplexed by the slanting, cramped scrawl of the writing. It certainly had not been left by Butler Campbell. As he read into it, the message completely stormed his mind, like trying to gain control over a stampede of wild horses. It was from his brother. Lawrence had escaped from the Night and Fog. The charges against him were false. He sought help to clear his name and return to a useful place in society. To avoid the risk of being trapped in the Central Enclave, he hoped to gain asylum with Sarah-Kelly’s family at North Kensington basin. He apologised for the terrible writing, it was four months since he had last written so much as his own name. Donald read through the letter twice, conscious of his heartbeat visibly shaking his body.
Lawrence was the intruder. His brother had been inside the house, showered, taken some weapons useful to a desperate man and departed without even knowing he had missed Sarah-Kelly by the thickness of a pane of glass.
Donald struggled to decide on what to do. There was no way of knowing how Lawrence’s escape would complicate negotiations between the Ultramarine Guild and TK—probably a great deal. Donald was not even sure it was wise to inform TK, at least, not now with the threat of a mass uprising. A basic rule of survival is, don’t bring the boss problems. TK was not going to want a bloody mess like this on his plate when he had the safety of his citizens to worry about.
The best course seemed to be to secure the house and join Lawrence with the Newman family to wait out the crisis. The more he thought about the idea, the more it appealed. If a mob did penetrate Bloomsbury, there would be no escape for those who stayed. Whereas, North Kensington basin would not be a target and had its own defence forces. It was even possible Nightminster would keep Lawrence safe at the Value System pig farm whilst TK concluded business with the ultramarines. The process might stretch out for weeks.
The trouble with this damned thinking was that it burst new shoots. At the very least, they had to go out to North Kensington basin and make Lawrence aware TK was working hard on his behalf. As a brother, Donald had that duty, irrespective of any other matters. The prospect of the meeting did not excite him. It would be a reunion stilted by questions neither dared ask.
As for Marcia and Cynthia, he could be confident they would be safe under the watch of Marcus-John Krossington. In contrast, he was anything but
