B00DW1DUQA EBOK (20 page)

And if he was, what was Connor expecting him to do? It was at least possible that Connor had arranged for Finn to work in the Valve Hall. If so, there must be a reason for him being here. But what? Was he supposed to escape? Or was he supposed to sabotage the valves, deliberately introducing a flaw so that some vital part of the machinery seized up or exploded? He imagined one of the great wheels tearing itself loose in a cloud of steam and rolling across the city, flattening everything in its way. But could a poorly constructed valve cause something like that? And even if it could, surely the sabotaged valve would have to be placed in just the right place at just the right time? They knew who made which valves from the numbers on them. So was Connor diverting those Finn made to some particular usage where they could do maximum damage? But if he introduced a flaw, how would Connor know which valve was the one?

For a time Finn had imagined there was some special significance to the numbers on each valve. He’d thought about each one carefully, trying to work out if there was a hidden message in it; if perhaps
this
one or
this
one was the valve he was supposed to sabotage. He would try turning the numbers upside-down to see if they spelled out a word, or he’d look for a number that might represent some important date. But he’d never been able to convince himself any was especially significant. Now, he ignored them.

In any case, he couldn’t be sure he was supposed to sabotage the valves, Perhaps Connor had been trying and failing to keep him
out
of the Valve Hall when he’d spoken to Master Owyn on the first day. Perhaps the whole place existed to weed out the trouble-makers and machine-wreckers, see who did produce flawed valves, so they could be sent off to the mines. Perhaps that was the test: be a good worker. But if so, why did people spend their lives here, dutifully creating valves?

An hour before they were due to stop work, Tanner spoke to him again.

‘Over here, behind me. Look.’

Finn was stretching his back, trying to ease the stiff pain in his neck. He glanced past Tanner at a boy he thought of as
Beanpole
because he was so tall and gangly. Beanpole was standing, now, in front of Master Owyn. He said something Finn couldn’t hear, showing him the valve he was working on. Was there a problem with his work? Or had Beanpole also worked out the valves were useless and found the courage to say so? There was further conversation then the boy was led away. Not through the Octagon doorway, nor through the entrance the completed valves were taken. Through the postern gate. Beanpole and the master stopped before it. They were close enough that Finn could hear their words. It was suddenly very hushed in the great room, all clanking and clicking of metal muffled.

‘I was mistaken, Master,’ said Beanpole. ‘Please. Let me continue working.’

The master indicated with the briefest nod of his head that Beanpole was to go through the small doorway. Two of the Ironclads had appeared from behind Finn and they now pushed Beanpole forwards by the shoulders.

What had the boy meant? Had he assembled a valve incorrectly? But then he wouldn’t have said
I was mistaken
. His words suggested he had said something about the valves. The thought of that filled Finn with a thrill of anticipation and an iron weight of dread at the same time. Part of him longed to do the same.

He watched the small door close on Beanpole. He wanted to ask Tanner about the valves, find out whether he, too, had worked out they were useless. But he dared not. You never knew who was a spy for the masters, who was really a friend.

He began work on his next valve and said nothing.

They came for him again that night. Finn was drifting away to sleep, exhausted, his thoughts a jumble of hands beckoning to him and fists swinging at him. He heard whispers and sudden running feet. Before he could do anything he felt his bed lurching onto its side. He was thrown onto the floor. Graves, Croft, Bellow and several others stood around him. They kicked at Finn as he rolled around on the ground.

‘Have you managed to remember your own name yet?’ shouted Graves. ‘Master Owyn’s little pet.’

‘Let’s use
him
as the ball,’ said Bellow.

Bellow had lost the tops of two of his teeth when Finn had tackled him on the flints of the Octagon. Since then the bigger boy had gone out of his way to make life miserable for Finn. He’d held him under the water of his bath, keeping him there even as Finn struggled frantically. When Finn had finally escaped, naked and spluttering, Bellow had laughed and walked away. Once, he’d nearly managed to push Finn down the spiral steps. Finn had only saved himself by grasping hold of the banister. Bellow had then tried to tip him over the side. Finn, terrified, had managed to kick himself loose and sprint away, half-falling down the stairs anyway in his desperate hurry to get away.

Now, as he huddled on the floor, trying to protect his head from the kicks, he suddenly knew he’d had enough. He was powerless to fight all these bigger boys. Graves, who was supposed to keep order, was the worst of them. No-one was going to come to protect him. The masters didn’t care. He’d hoped things would get better if he stuck it out for a while but he could see, now, they weren’t going to.

In that moment he found he no longer cared what happened to him. Didn’t care about Engn or Connor or any of it. His heart pounded away but his mind was clear. He knew what he had to do. His father had told him not to take any messing from anyone. They were easy words to say and, so far, he hadn’t dared follow them. Now it was time.

The alarm-clock lay on the floor where it had fallen from beneath his pillow. Finn grasped it in his right hand. It was heavy, solid brass. With a shout he fought his way to his feet and turned to face his attackers.

‘You dungbrains,’ said Finn. ‘Don’t you see what you’re doing? We should be fighting
them
. The masters. Engn. They’re responsible for everything. Are you too stupid to understand that?’

‘You see,’ said Croft. ‘Told you he was a wrecker. Told you he was one of them.’

‘Filth,’ said Bellow.

‘Come on,’ said Graves ‘Let’s get him. Let’s sort him out for good.’

It was dark in the dormitory, but enough light slanted in through the window for Finn to see roughly where the other boys were. Graves, the tallest, stood right in front of him. Without a sound, clenching the brass clock, Finn swung his right hand at Graves’ face.

He connected with a satisfying crunch. The boy’s nose, perhaps. The taller boy screamed and bent over. Croft and Bellow charged at the same moment, pounding at Finn’s head and back with their fists. But Finn vaulted over his upturned bed and ran a short way down the dormitory, between the lines of beds. His attackers were between him and the window now. He could see their outlines clearly but they wouldn’t be able to see him nearly as well. He crept forward. Graves’ muffled screams came from somewhere nearby on the floor. Croft and Bellow roared that they were going to kill Finn when they caught hold of him. Finn crept up behind one of them - he couldn’t tell which in the low light – and dashed the brass clock against the bigger boy’s head. It was Croft, judging by the scream. He staggered backwards, roaring with rage.

Bellow charged then, his outline clearly visible against the window. Finn stepped aside and thrust out a leg to trip him up. Once again, as on the Octagon, Bellow was sent sprawling to the ground.

Finn stepped away from them, back around to his bed, awaiting their next attack. He’d been lucky, but he wouldn’t be able to fight them off again. The bed gave him some sense of security and safety. He thought about trying to prise one of the iron struts free to use as a weapon. It was futile really. He’d had it now.

At that instant, once again, the electric light flicked on and Master Owyn stood in the doorway.

‘What is going on in here?’ A livid scowl contorted his face. Finn, kneeling by his bed, didn’t speak. Graves, Croft and Bellow, he could see, had all staggered to their feet, each clutching wounds on their face or head.

‘It was Smithson, Master,’ said Graves, his voice muffled by the bloody hand covering his nose. ‘He attacked us.’

The master glowered at Finn, still crouched next to his upturned bed.

‘Is this true, Smithson?’

The master would surely find it hard to believe Finn had done this to the three bigger boys. He barely believed it himself. ‘No, Master Owyn. They were fighting each other. They turned my bed over then started hitting each other. I don’t know why.’

‘You little…’ Graves charged at Finn. But Master Owyn’s voice stopped him dead.

‘Graves! Come with me. You other boys too. It looks like you all need stitches.’

The three boys filed out after Master Owyn, a trail of blood-drops on the floor behind them. Each glared at Finn as they passed. Finn simply smiled back. It didn’t matter now.

When they’d gone he righted his bed and lay down. He put the clock to his ear. He could hear a faint ticking. Hopefully it would still wake him up. He could hear excited conversation and laughter all around him, as the other boys marvelled at what had happened. Finn ignored them and tried to sleep. He would be safe enough for one night. Even if Graves and the others came back before morning they wouldn’t dare cause any more trouble just then. They would bide their time, thinking they could get their revenge whenever they liked. But they were wrong.

Finn’s head pounded as he rested it on the pillow. It was a long time before he finally fell asleep.

Next morning, he was already awake when the little clock buzzed away in his ear. He felt stretched taut as if he hadn’t slept at all. Graves, Croft and Bellow were back in their beds, white bandages visible around their heads. Finn grinned at the sight of them. He had the strangest urge to walk over to them, shake them awake even, taunt them. Or bludgeon them while they slept. It was delicious to think they couldn’t touch him now.

His right hand throbbed from one of the blows he’d dealt them with the brass clock. It was swollen when he compared it to his left hand. He shrugged and dressed himself as quietly as he could. He slipped the clock and a few other possessions into his pockets before he left.

‘Smithson! What are you doing?’

It was Boyle in the next bed. They had become friends, of a sort. Boyle was clever, witty, but he suffered because he struggled with the valves and was useless at Scrum. Finn wished he’d helped him more, stood up for him more.

‘Nothing,’ said Finn. ‘Just pretend you’re asleep.’

‘But you’re taking everything. Where are you going?’

‘Nowhere, OK?’

Finn set off for the dormitory door. After a few steps he stopped.

‘Boyle, listen. If they give you the Sixth Bell duty next, make sure you look outside. Through the skylight.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just remember that, OK?’

‘OK, Smithson.’

At the door, Finn looked back at the dormitory and its rows of iron beds. It was only a few weeks yet it felt like he’d slept there for months and months, almost as if he’d always been there. Quietly, he closed the door behind him.

Instead of crossing to the other door up to the little attic, he strode to the edge of the balcony and reached out for the rope that emerged from its slot in the ceiling. He’d tried previously and knew he could just reach it with his fingertips. He didn’t dare look down as he leaned over the balcony, the iron rail digging into his waist. One foot left the ground as he reached. He clutched the balustrade tight with his other hand. Alarm flared inside him at what he was doing but he kept at it.

Finally, he had the rope in his fingers. He scrabbled it into his hand then pulled it towards him. He began to haul it up onto the landing. Its length made it very heavy and he had to stop two or three times for the strength to return to his arms, but finally he had it coiled in a great mound beside him.

He pushed the end of the rope through the handle of the dormitory door and hauled it through. Then he threaded it through the handle of the door opposite, pulling the rope taut between them so that neither door could be opened from the inside. He knotted the rope to hold it in place then lifted the remaining coil back over the balcony. It unwound itself with an angry hiss before snapping back into place. Distantly he could hear the clock chiming the Sixth Bell. He was supposed to be ringing the alarm now to wake them all up. Instead, he walked slowly down the stairs. As he always did, he looked for the secret door, the one the clock-winder must have used. But he could see no sign of it. The rope, when he reached the bottom, now finished twenty feet or so off the ground.

He wasn’t hungry but he knew he should eat if he could. Sitting alone at their long, wooden table, he ate bread and butter and drank two cups of milk. Boys and girls from other dormitories clattered in, filling the air with the clinks and scrapes of cutlery and crockery. None of the other boys from his dormitory arrived.

Before they could, he hurried across the Octagon and into the Valve Hall. He was a little early but he could just wait inside until it was his turn at the table.

He worked for half an hour, assembling two complete valves, before Graves and the rest finally appeared. Master Owyn shepherded them inside, fury visible on his face. Bellow glared at Finn, eyes narrowed, as he sat down. Finn smiled back and even dared to wave.

He worked for another hour, and then another, losing himself for a time in the comforting, humdrum familiarity of constructing the valves. He could put them together with his eyes shut, now. Sometimes he did, just to vary what he was doing. He knew the weight and feel of each individual component so well he could still feel them, sometimes, when he was asleep, his mind continuing to work on them all night long.

He put his tenth valve down on the table and murmured to Tanner beside him.

‘Tanner. Listen. I’m going.’

‘Huh?’

‘I’m leaving today. In fact, now.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, Finn. Of course you’re not. You can’t leave.’ Tanner’s eyes were suddenly fierce. ‘What are you talking about?’