Pat Kelleher - The Alleyman

Everson frowned and chewed his bottom lip. “That’s a lot of ifs , Lieutenant. By all accounts, you barely survived one of those blasts.”

Tulliver shrugged his shoulders. “But I did, and I’ve got the measure of them now; I know what I’m looking for. If we don’t move soon, these telluric geysers will pass beyond us and we’ll be back to square one. You have to make your mind up.”

Everson considered for a moment. “Do it.”

Tulliver grinned, and then paused. “I’ll need someone to fly with me. I can’t start the engine on my own.”

“Take the Padre, I can’t spare anyone else,” said Everson.

“Come on, Padre. We’ll make an angel out of you yet.”

“You may well have your wings, Lieutenant. I’m not quite sure I’m ready for mine yet,” said the Padre archly.

Tulliver tutted. “And you call yourself a sky pilot.”

The tank crew and Nellie nodded and headed off into the jungle with Tarak, who had offered to guide them back to the tank, while Tulliver departed with the Padre, leaving Everson, the Black Hand Gang, Riley, Tonkins, Hepton and Napoo to await the coming of the grey men.

Mercy watched the two groups go off.

“So,” he said cheerfully. “We’re the bait, then.”

WITH TARAK’S HELP, the crew of the Ivanhoe stuck to the edge of the Strip for as long as possible and avoided the labyrinthine groves. In the distance, through the trees, they heard the muffled roaring of the river as it headed for its underground fall.

Alfie felt an odd mixture of joy and anxiety when they finally came upon the Ivanhoe , like meeting an old sweetheart with whom he’d parted awkwardly. He barely remembered the crash over the edge of the crater, and didn’t recall Tarak rescuing him at all, but there were many other memories, not all pleasant, that stirred at the sight of the ironclad.

Looking at his crewmates, the old concerns rose unbidden. For almost two weeks they had been without the balm of the sense-altering petrol fruit fumes, and until he saw the tank, he thought he, too, was over them. Now it sat there, he could feel the dull need deep in his bones.

The Ivanhoe was quite hidden, at first sight. The ubiquitous pale strangling creepers had overgrown and entangled themselves round the machine. Thin tendrils entwined the great six-pounder guns, quested their way in through the gun slits and loopholes and tried to force themselves between the iron plates.

The lidded eyes of the drivers’ visors peered out of the fast-growing foliage as if it were some ancient forest spirit, waiting to be invoked and awoken.

Tarak started to bow before the tank, until Alfie hobbled over on his crutch to stop him, catching his arm under the urman’s armpit.

“No,” he said quietly. “We’ve had quite enough of that.”

Tarak stood, confused, but obeyed. He touched the still-livid scar on his chest with bewilderment. “My clan…”

“They were killed,” said Alfie softly. “I’m sorry, lad.”

Tarak looked at him, uncomprehending. Alfie shuffled uncomfortably, at a loss for something to say.

Nellie interrupted the awkward silence. “Right,” she said, rolling up the sleeves of her coveralls and taking charge. “We need to start cutting back this undergrowth and find those fuel drums. I do hope they’re intact. Jack?”

“We’ll find out,” said Jack. “Norman, Cecil, with me. Let’s hope that Fusilier was right.”

Nellie, Wally and Reggie set to work hacking at the liana with the fire axe from the tank and their entrenching tools, while Tarak set about it with his short sword.

Even as they cut it back, the insidious pale growth sought to regrow. “Watch it,” said Wally, ripping a thin stem as it sprouted along the track plates. “I reckon if you stand still long enough it’ll have you an’ all.”

“What the hell is this stuff?” said Reggie as he tore his hand away from a few grasping feelers. “It spreads like some pernicious weed.”

“We don’t know. It appeared many spira ago,” Tarak answered bitterly, punctuating his answer with savage swipes of his sword. “We call it GarSuleth’s Curse. Ranaman believes,” – Tarak faltered and swallowed – “ believed that it was sent by GarSuleth in revenge for our faith in Croatoan. It chokes the trees we live off. It kills the animals we hunt. It poisons those things that eat it. It is of no use, yet it spreads like a plague and nothing is able to stop it.”

There was a dull metallic rumble as Norman, Jack and Cecil herded five recalcitrant fuel drums towards them.

“We found these caught in the shrubbery,” said Jack. “A little dented, but none the worse for wear. A few others were split, worse luck. Still, we have these. We have fuel.”

“So the show will go on!” said Norman, clapping his hands together.

Jack and Cecil set about refilling the petrol tanks in the front track horns, either side of the driver’s cabin, with the salvaged fuel. Alfie, his splinted leg proving something of a liability in the tank’s cramped interior, directed Wally, Norman and Nellie as they set about restoring the compartment and stores to some semblance of order and checking the engine.

They were soon ready to depart. Alfie clambered in through the starboard sponson hatch. Tarak made to follow him, but Alfie held up his palm.

“You can’t come with us,” he said shaking his head. “There isn’t room. You must make your own way now. You saved my life and now I’ve saved yours and where we’re going you can’t follow. But thank you for all you have done for me. For us.”

The urman put an arm across the hatchway, blocking his way.

“GarSuleth has killed my Clan, the Ruanach,” Tarak said. His eyes narrowed as his voice hardened. “He has snared them and cocooned them in that living cobweb for food .” He looked down as his hand traced the raw, tender brand on his chest.

A voice called out from inside. “Alfie, get a move on!”

Alfie shook his head and was about to speak, when Jack’s great arm brushed Tarak’s hand aside. Alfie caught the urman’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed as Jack pulled the sponson hatch shut. Alfie was quietly grateful that the decision to abandon Tarak had been taken out of his hands. He wasn’t sure he’d have been able to go through with it.

He heard the urman bang on the iron plating. “I have been spared and marked by Croatoan to bring vengeance upon the children of GarSuleth,” he declared. “Take me with you.”

Alfie closed his ears to the pleading. He was doing the lad a favour. “Cecil, you’ll have to be starboard gearsman, I’ll tell you what to do,” he said quietly.

Cecil’s eyes lit up and he looked to Jack. Jack jerked his head. “Go on, lad, do as you’re told.”

Inside the cramped white compartment of the ironclad, Wally edged forward and took his place in the driver’s seat. “When you’ve got it started, come up and sit with me,” he told Nellie as he squeezed past her on the gangway. “I need a co-driver.”

“Me?”

“You can drive ambulances, can’t you?”

Nellie grinned, despite herself. Driving a tank. Since she had seen one, it was all she had ever wanted to do. She felt the same delicious thrill she’d felt when she rode her first motorcycle.

First, they had to start it.

Norman spat on his hands and grasped the giant starting handle at the rear of the compartment with the others. Norman had never quite accepted her as the others had, and held some deep-seated resentment to her presence. The great Daimler engine coughed and spluttered into life and settled into a steady roar. Nellie clambered forward to join Wally in the drivers’ seats and tried to ignore the dried blood on the gangway and walls of the starboard bulkhead.