big ugly churches that were virtually windowless and were probably always freezing to pray inside. A pack of mangy stray dogs set to barking. One of them limped behind him, looking as if it might try for a taste of his leg.
Somewhere off to his left, a mournful steeple bell rang, as if to warn people away. He looked up at the high grey stone walls, the cobbled thoroughfares, wide and empty, the unadorned houses with closed green shutters.
There was something so grimly utilitarian and military about the scene that he half expected to see Russian soldiers marching around the next corner. Somewhere above him, in the belfry of a dark bell tower, the leathery rustle of bats’ wings could be heard. He looked up and saw a cloud of them filling the sky. They swooped down and some brushed against his hair, filling him with dread. He was not comfortable with the things that crawled and flapped through the countryside at dusk. His natural home was in the streets of Belgravia and Mayfair, at the gaming tables, in the pubs, not here where there were only inbred farmers and their sow-faced wives. Where was everyone?
As he reached the corner, a pair of drunk old men staggered past.
‘Look here,’ Nicholas called, ‘is there a hotel? I need a room for the night. I’m from London. You do know London?’ He was met with more blank looks. ‘The most important city in the world? Glittering jewel of the Empire? Ring any bells? No?’
‘It is not safe to be here,’ said one of the old men. ‘There is a curfew. Have you not heard the news? The army has already reached the next town.’
‘When will they arrive here?’
‘Tonight, after dark. You must go! Go! ’ One of the drunks waved him away. ‘We want no more trouble.’
‘Is there a train I can catch?’
In the distance there was the sound of a train whistle. Blast the stationmaster for his lies.
‘That was it,’ said one of the drunks, unhelpfully. ‘There are no more now.’
‘But there is one at midnight. I heard tell—’
‘Catch that if you want to dance to the Devil’s tune.’ The beery old men took one last opportunity to stare at him before bursting into phlegmy laughter and staggering away.
‘Cretinous yokels,’ Nicholas muttered under his breath, and continued on. Ahead was a great stinking factory of some kind, from which came the smell of smelted ore and the clang of beaten iron.
The foundry had a vast blank stone wall topped with a steep tiled roof, and tall chimney stacks that pumped out oily black smoke. As he passed, he looked through the great rusted iron doors and saw a vision of Hell. Men stripped to the waist in the heat, silhouetted against the furnace flames, shovelling coal and hauling glowing rods from a bank of fire that looked and felt like the surface of the sun. What kind of lives did these men have? How long did it take before they began to cough up black soot and expire? It would be a miracle for any of them to survive into their thirties.
Nicholas considered himself wise beyond his years. He understood how men behaved and how women could be controlled. And yet for one so wise, he often seemed to make the kind of mistakes that required him to get out of town as quickly as possible.
He carried on walking. A soldier in a khaki uniform was leaning against a wall lighting a cigarette. ‘Hey, friend,’ he called to Nicholas, ‘have you seen any men coming over the hill?’
‘No, but I hear they aren’t far way.’
‘Good. We’ll have some pleasure from this town tonight.’
‘You’ll be garrisoned here?’
‘You could say that.’ He shook his match out. ‘We’ll drink the place dry. You find good beer in towns like this.’
‘Perhaps I’ll join you,’ said Nicholas.
‘You may not want to. After we’ve had our fill of the beer and the women, we’ll bayonet every man who isn’t with us and burn these damned houses to the ground.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘The next time you pass this way, all
Somewhere off to his left, a mournful steeple bell rang, as if to warn people away. He looked up at the high grey stone walls, the cobbled thoroughfares, wide and empty, the unadorned houses with closed green shutters.
There was something so grimly utilitarian and military about the scene that he half expected to see Russian soldiers marching around the next corner. Somewhere above him, in the belfry of a dark bell tower, the leathery rustle of bats’ wings could be heard. He looked up and saw a cloud of them filling the sky. They swooped down and some brushed against his hair, filling him with dread. He was not comfortable with the things that crawled and flapped through the countryside at dusk. His natural home was in the streets of Belgravia and Mayfair, at the gaming tables, in the pubs, not here where there were only inbred farmers and their sow-faced wives. Where was everyone?
As he reached the corner, a pair of drunk old men staggered past.
‘Look here,’ Nicholas called, ‘is there a hotel? I need a room for the night. I’m from London. You do know London?’ He was met with more blank looks. ‘The most important city in the world? Glittering jewel of the Empire? Ring any bells? No?’
‘It is not safe to be here,’ said one of the old men. ‘There is a curfew. Have you not heard the news? The army has already reached the next town.’
‘When will they arrive here?’
‘Tonight, after dark. You must go! Go! ’ One of the drunks waved him away. ‘We want no more trouble.’
‘Is there a train I can catch?’
In the distance there was the sound of a train whistle. Blast the stationmaster for his lies.
‘That was it,’ said one of the drunks, unhelpfully. ‘There are no more now.’
‘But there is one at midnight. I heard tell—’
‘Catch that if you want to dance to the Devil’s tune.’ The beery old men took one last opportunity to stare at him before bursting into phlegmy laughter and staggering away.
‘Cretinous yokels,’ Nicholas muttered under his breath, and continued on. Ahead was a great stinking factory of some kind, from which came the smell of smelted ore and the clang of beaten iron.
The foundry had a vast blank stone wall topped with a steep tiled roof, and tall chimney stacks that pumped out oily black smoke. As he passed, he looked through the great rusted iron doors and saw a vision of Hell. Men stripped to the waist in the heat, silhouetted against the furnace flames, shovelling coal and hauling glowing rods from a bank of fire that looked and felt like the surface of the sun. What kind of lives did these men have? How long did it take before they began to cough up black soot and expire? It would be a miracle for any of them to survive into their thirties.
Nicholas considered himself wise beyond his years. He understood how men behaved and how women could be controlled. And yet for one so wise, he often seemed to make the kind of mistakes that required him to get out of town as quickly as possible.
He carried on walking. A soldier in a khaki uniform was leaning against a wall lighting a cigarette. ‘Hey, friend,’ he called to Nicholas, ‘have you seen any men coming over the hill?’
‘No, but I hear they aren’t far way.’
‘Good. We’ll have some pleasure from this town tonight.’
‘You’ll be garrisoned here?’
‘You could say that.’ He shook his match out. ‘We’ll drink the place dry. You find good beer in towns like this.’
‘Perhaps I’ll join you,’ said Nicholas.
‘You may not want to. After we’ve had our fill of the beer and the women, we’ll bayonet every man who isn’t with us and burn these damned houses to the ground.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘The next time you pass this way, all
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