Chapter Three
The day dawned bright and brilliant, the clear blue sky and cold wind threatening to freeze the puddles that had formed overnight.
Damien Carter scowled up at the blinding sunshine, pulling his coat closed at the neck.
What he wouldn’t give to curl up in a dark room and sleep, but instead he was walking towards Liverpool’s docks, last night’s rum still thudding in his veins, his coat still damp and heavy from standing out in the rain.
The beauty of being in a new city for only one night was that there was so much possibility, and so few consequences.
He couldn’t trick someone into gambling away sums like that every evening – for that would raise suspicions.
But for one night? He could blow in like an autumn storm, leave a trail of empty pockets behind him, and by the time anyone had even thought of looking to claw their coin back, he’d be gone.
Of course he was careful. His rules saw to that – and out of principle he only ever cheated those who cheated others.
They hadn’t earned the coin filling their pockets, so why shouldn’t he relieve them of their ill-won gains?
If deceit were a circle, then he was at the heart of it – spinning that same wheel, over and again.
Urgh.
Just the thought of spinning made his stomach clench.
He needed to board a ship and be rocked back and forth by the waves like he needed another hole in his boots, but Damien had been through worse.
In just seven days he’d be in New York City, and a whole new life would begin to unfold around him.
One where he didn’t need to move from place to place.
One where his father would never find him.
There was a queue when he reached the docks, which surprised Damien, for the boarding time on his ticket read twelve o’clock, and it was only eight.
He’d planned to steal an hour of sleep, and perhaps a morsel – but people were already climbing up the gangway of the great ship, dragging leather bags and canvas sacks, and so Damien reluctantly joined the snaking line of passengers shuffling forwards, eyes on the churning mass of water.
The river looked hungry. Muddied waves sucked greedily at the ship’s dark hull and slapped against the landing stage – turning the wooden walkway black.
Damien disliked open water, even when it wore its intentions as plainly as the River Mersey, and he tried not to focus on how the walkway swayed with each smacking wave, nor how his own heart swayed with it.
When he finally reached the front of the queue, Damien handed his ticket to the large, unsmiling man in the ticket booth.
He glanced at it briefly, and then slid the ticket back to Damien.
‘This one’s in dry dock,’ he said. ‘Departure is delayed. Next!’
Damien frowned. ‘Doesn’t look like it’s delayed to me. Looks like people are getting on it.’
‘That’s the Persephone,’ the man said, his white moustache wobbling. ‘The Aurelia has engine problems.’
‘So then put me on the ship that’s leaving,’ said Damien.
The man’s watery blue eyes narrowed. ‘You see this?’ He tapped at the ticket.
‘You see this price? You only get it if you book a specific departure, on a specific day, for a specific ship. The reason it’s so cheap is because it’s non-transferable, Mr …
’ The man looked at the ticket and then up at Damien. ‘Mr Wozniak.’
‘But that wasn’t the plan,’ Damien said, feeling his skin become clammy. The plan was to be in Liverpool for a night, and then leave for New York.
‘Excuse me?’ a woman’s voice trilled from behind him. ‘Some of us here have the right tickets.’
‘And some of us need to learn some patience,’ Damien muttered, though he kept his gaze on the man in the booth, who had begun to knead his bushy grey eyebrows with knuckles the size of ham joints. ‘When is the Aurelia due to sail?’
‘She’s not likely to be sea-worthy until February,’ the man said.
‘February? Is that a jest? I buy a ticket for September, and you tell me I can sail in February?’
‘As I said, Mr Wozniak, you bought a very specific ticket—’
‘Which was not cheap,’ Damien said, trying to wrestle his frustration into something more useful. ‘Do I look like a man who wastes his money?’
The man’s gaze flicked across Damien’s fine, silk hat – fingered from the train station the day before – and the ‘garnet’ pin shimmering at his throat, and his stony demeanour wobbled.
‘No, sir, you do not.’
‘Then we’re agreed. You’ll transfer my ticket to that ship. First-class.’
The man swallowed a little. ‘I should state that the Persephone is bound for Boston, and not New York.’
‘Wonderful,’ muttered Damien.
‘And that a first-class ticket at the very last minute …’
‘Would be hard to come by, yes, yes,’ Damien said haughtily. ‘But you will do it, lest you wish your bosses to hear of it.’
The man licked his lips. ‘I’m not authorized myself to make such a transfer––’
‘Then I shall wait, while you fetch whoever is authorized,’ said Damien, ignoring the sigh of disbelief from the woman behind him as the flapping door of the ticket booth opened, and the man waddled from it.
‘We shall be late now!’ the woman behind him said, her voice shrill. ‘I travelled all the way up from London for this steamship, I’ll have you know.’
Damien turned. She was older than he’d imagined, and dripping in jewels – from the diamond brooch pinned to her hat, to the coil of pearls twinkling at her throat.
‘Madam,’ he said, turning his voice silken. ‘I promise you, the ship will not leave without you.’
She huffed an impatient breath through her lips. ‘I should hope not.’
‘Please accept my apologies for the delay.’ He ducked her a short bow, giving her his most charming smile – and watched as some of her terseness dissolved.
‘I suppose it’s not your fault,’ she said primly, a flush rising on her cheeks as he pressed a kiss to her fine, leather gloves.
He suspected the lumps he could feel beneath the leather were a set of sapphire paperweights masquerading as rings.
‘They really should have notified you in advance if there was a problem with your ship.’
‘Thank you for your patience with me, madam,’ Damien said, turning back as the white-whiskered man reappeared, followed by a spindly fellow with beady black eyes.
‘When I heard Mr Wozniak had cause for complaint, I had to come at once,’ said the spindly fellow.
His mouth was pinched, his brown hair receding rapidly beneath his hat, and he peered down at Damien questioningly.
‘For Mr Wozniak is one of our most regular travellers. Spends a small fortune with us.’
Damien felt the man’s words like a bucket of cold water down his spine. This wasn’t good.
‘But of course you’re not Mr Wozniak, are you – sir?’
He said the word accusingly, and in that moment Damien saw the beginnings of what he liked to call ‘the shift’.
It happened when the person in front of him saw the real Damien, or a flicker of him, behind whatever he had cloaked himself in.
Today he’d been playing the role of a well-to-do young man, thanks to the ruff of fur on his coat’s collar, and his fine leather gloves.
One glance at his now clean-shaven face, his round, silver spectacles and his nearly clean brown hair, and people tended to make assumptions.
Assumptions that often got him moved to the front of queues, or let into establishments that were technically member-only.
But you take one of those things away and suddenly he was just a man again – a man who couldn’t afford his own ticket, a man who wasn’t worth another moment of anyone’s time.
A thousand stories conjured themselves in Damien’s mind all at once. He could pretend to be Mr Wozniak’s brother, perhaps. Even a cousin? Damn it all, he could have played his butler, were he not wearing such finery. He knew the cravat pin had been a mistake.
‘I am his business associate,’ said Damien smoothly. ‘Mr Wozniak is sending me ahead to New York, and gave me his ticket while he settles matters here.’
‘A business associate?’
The man’s expression grew taut as he studied Damien closely – a little too closely for Damien’s liking.
‘Tell me, sir. What business is Mr Wozniak in?’
Damien fumbled, trying to stretch his memory back to the inn in Leeds, and the wide-bellied man who had sat opposite him. They’d spoken about his business, he was sure of it – but what was it? Oil? Railroads? Liquor?
‘You know Mr Wozniak,’ said Damien, showing the man a perfect set of teeth. ‘He has his fingers in many pies.’
A curtain drew across the man’s expression. ‘I suggest you write to Mr Wozniak, and have him accompany you. Then I shall be happy to put you on the first ship to New York.’
Damien pinched at the bridge of his nose. His head felt like a thousand tiny drummers had taken up home behind his eyes, and were now thudding out a battle march.
‘Mr Wozniak does not have time to travel to Liverpool, and play nanny. Listen, I have a ticket.’ He waved it emphatically. ‘And I will not move until it has been transferred for today’s departure.’
The man gave him a flat look. ‘You have a ticket in another’s name, and without their express authorization, I cannot allow you on this ship.’
‘But I need to be in New York,’ said Damien firmly. ‘I need to leave England.’
‘So do most of the people here,’ the man snapped. ‘So please, step aside.’
‘Mr Wozniak will hear of this,’ Damien lied – clutching at the last straw he possibly could. ‘And he’ll take his business elsewhere.’
‘And I shall deal with that complaint personally, if it ever comes,’ said the spindly man, his smile all teeth now. ‘In the meantime, if I catch you at these docks again with another man’s ticket, I will call the local constabulary. Do you understand?’
Damien lifted his chin, a perfect tableau of confidence – though he knew he had lost this particular fight. ‘A good day to you then, sir,’ he said, tipping his hat at the man before turning.
The woman behind him was now wearing one of the most infuriatingly smug smiles he had ever seen.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, brushing clumsily past her as he moved from the line. ‘So sorry.’
‘Such impertinence!’ the woman scoffed, stepping forwards to the ticket booth.
Damien squared his shoulders, determined to walk tall past the snaking queue of people, and back towards the belly of the city.
A city I was meant to leave. A city I can’t stay in.
As soon as he could, Damien turned off the main street – crowded as more and more people flooded towards the docks – and ducked into one of the narrow alleyways.
He pressed his forehead to the brick, squeezing his eyes shut, and let the feeling that had threatened to choke him on those busy street spill out in shallow breaths.
With his eyes closed he could be anywhere, and he tried to cling to the familiarity of the darkness around him, squeezing his hands into fists so tight he could feel the sharp press of his nails into his palms.
His father’s voice came to him then, as it often did in these moments, his scratched tone: Bad things beget bad things.
Damien should have known something would happen. He should’ve suspected that it would all go wrong. But he had been in tighter binds than this.
He put his hand in his pocket, pulling out the fine, jewelled bracelet he’d slipped from the woman’s wrist.
This simply gave him more time to prepare – more time to gather coin, and build up a nest-egg to start a new life with – a thought that might’ve proved more comforting if it wasn’t swiftly followed by: So long as you’re gone before he can catch up to you.
Damien stepped back, spots of black dancing across his vision.
And then he saw it.
For pasted onto the brick was a poster – a woman’s face etched in thin black ink.
Someone had glued it rather shoddily, the flapping corner folding her delicate features in half.
Even reduced to lines and paper, the woman was fair, with light hair curled beneath a plain, black hat.
The artist had captured her with her chin lifted – almost in challenge – and she stared out at him with eyes so pale he wondered whether the ink had run.
But it was the final line that caused him to stand there, watching the poster flap backwards and forwards, watching the wind try and tear it from the brick, her beautiful face creasing and un-creasing each time.
Unlock your mind.
Unlock your mind.
Unlock …