Airship City

Chapter 1

The anger that always seemed to be just below the surface suddenly flared white-hot in Joseph, and he lashed out at Mickey. It wasn't a well-planned strike. Part of him seemed to watch his fist fly out in horror, afraid of the consequences. But another part, the part that had suddenly taken control, let out a roar of pure hatred, and drove his fist out blindly. 

Mickey dodged it easily, though his eyes grew wide as his head bobbed back. Joseph's hand fastened itself to Mickey's neck, seemingly of its own volition. Mickey struck out with his fists, aiming to connect with Joseph's ribs, but his arms were too short to reach. Joseph stood there, holding the smaller boy off at arm's length as he flailed away. 

This only served to make him more angry. Rage twisted his features as he roared dire threats at Joseph. But he was powerless to carry any of them out. Joseph felt his own anger subsiding, leaving him feeling scared and wondering what to do to get himself out of the situation. 

But he was saved from having to decide when something hit him hard on the side of his head. He turned to see Tom’s meaty fist withdrawing as the mailroom spun crazily, and its wooden floor suddenly rose up and hit him in the face. 

Joseph was thinking how unfair it was for the floor to do that, as the jeers echoed dimly around him like the caws of crows, when all went suddenly silent. He twisted around to see what was going on, and looked up into the narrow face of Janice Honeywell, the office supervisor. She was regarding him with some concern in her eyes, which peered at him through enormous black spectacles.

"Are you all right, Samson?"

He managed to pull himself into a sitting position. His head hurt badly, and he felt dizzy. "I think so, Miss Honeywell."

She frowned at him. "You don't look all right.” He avoided her gaze, looking around the room. Everyone else seemed to have left. Almost everyone, that is. Ned was lurking behind the pigeon holes, weasel face scowling at him. 

"What happened, Samson?" Miss Honeywell was insistent.

Joseph gave himself time to think of an answer by hauling himself laboriously to his feet. He steadied himself with a hand on a shelf. "I tripped, ma'am. Hit my head on the corner of the desk."

Miss Honeywell regarded him skeptically. She lowered her voice slightly. "If there's a problem— if you're being bullied— I can help you, you know. You can tell me the truth."

Joseph looked down at her earnest face. Prim and proper, buttoned up, secure in her authority here in the bank. What did that count for, out on the streets of the City or the East End? Would she follow him home tonight? Stop Mickey and his gang from beating him senseless? He looked away. 

"I have told the truth, ma'am." He felt less dizzy. He stood up straighter, releasing his grip on the shelf.

Miss Honeywell stared at Joseph a moment or two longer, frown deepening. Then she sighed. 

“Look, Joseph, I know it’s not been easy for you. Things are not turning out the way you expected. But you mustn’t give up hope. The world is changing, and there are new opportunities for young men, even if they haven’t gone to university. You could still make something of your life.”

Joseph nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Can I go now?”

Miss Honeywell rolled her eyes slightly. “Very well.” But she was still watching him as he turned to go, and called out after him. “You’d better clean up that graze.”

Joseph made his way unsteadily to the nearest toilet and washed his face in the basin, then examined his forehead in the mirror, brushing his thick black hair away to do so. The impact with Tom’s huge fist had left an ugly red mark on his left temple, but above his right eyebrow the graze wept droplets of blood. He must have scraped it against a rough floorboard when he fell. Wincing as he dabbed at it with a piece of toilet paper, he stared at himself in the mirror, asking himself the question he had asked a thousand times in the past few months. What am I doing here? He still had no answer. He didn’t belong in this place. The anger and frustration welled up inside him, so that he felt he might explode, or scream, or smash the mirror in front of him. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and the moment passed. Sighing, he threw the toilet paper into the bin, and opened the door. He felt a bit steadier on his feet as he trudged back to the post room. 

The rest of the day passed without incident, and when it was time to leave Joseph hurried out of the building and down the street, looking anxiously over his shoulder. But there was no sign of Mickey or his thugs, and he walked on with a growing sense of relief, which lasted almost all the way home. As he turned into the street where he lived, however, the familiar sinking feeling came over him. The sight of the dingy terraced house that was now his home was an unwelcome reminder of how much his life had changed after his father’s death. He still hadn't gotten used to living here. In his mind, home was the pleasant red-brick house in Hampstead, with its green lawns and shady oaks. 

He sighed, and walked up the narrow steps from the pavement, letting himself in with his key. To his surprise he heard voices from the parlour. Visitors were a rare thing in this new house. He stuck his head around the door and saw his mother sitting and talking with a strange man.

“Ah, here he is now,” she said, rising and beckoning him into the room. “Joseph, I’d like you to meet Mr Monmouth.”

The stranger stood and held out his hand. “Hello, Joseph,” he said warmly. His grip was firm. “Get into a scrape at work?”

“Oh, you mean the graze? No sir,” said Joseph quickly. He didn’t want to alarm his mother. “Just tripped and fell.”

“Of course you did,” replied Monmouth, but there was a twinkle in his eye. He nodded knowingly as Joseph’s mother fussed over him, peering up at his face.

“You must be more careful, Joseph.” She turned to Monmouth. “I think he’s grown too quickly, he’s not used to his height. It makes him clumsy!”

“How tall are you, Joseph, six foot or so?”

“Yes sir.” Joseph had learned that people automatically assumed that he would want to talk about his remarkable height. None of them ever seemed to realise that he might be tired of having the same conversation over and over again.

“And you’re only sixteen! Still, I expect you hear the same thing from everyone. Must get boring, I suppose.”

“Oh no, sir,” said Joseph, so as not to appear rude, but he had to work hard to suppress a grin. Especially when Monmouth gave another knowing nod.

“Mr Monmouth knew your father,” said his mother brightly, as she resumed her seat on the sofa. Joseph waited for Monmouth to sit down in the shabby armchair before sitting next to his mother.

“Yes, we worked together at the Zeppelin company. We were all very saddened by his death.” Monmouth frowned deeply. “A terrible loss. He was an outstandingly gifted pilot. And a dear friend.”

The silence lengthened uncomfortably, and when his mother sighed deeply, Monmouth seemed to rouse himself from his reverie. “I must apologise, Miriam, I did not mean to upset you.”

His mother forced a smile. “No, Robert, it’s quite all right. Would you like some more tea?”

“No thank you, and indeed I must be on my way.” He stood briskly, picking up a black fedora from the side table. Joseph and his mother followed him to the door, where he paused on the threshold. “Thank you for the tea, Miriam.” He turned to go, placing the fedora on his head, then turned back. “Joseph, would you like to meet me for lunch tomorrow, in the City? I’ve something to discuss with you that you might find very interesting.”