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328 lines
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<title>Chapter 26</title>
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<h2>26</h2>
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<p>Just after the bodyless head of Votek Visotsky had been
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painfully kicked by Jim Deakin, Fergus Milby and Danny Cullen were
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nearing the top of the towering chimney next to the old forge just
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across the river from the old railway warehouses.</p>
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<p>The twin stacks, a feature of the town's skyline, had been the
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subject of acrimonious letters in the Gazette for years. In the
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sixties, when the forge had shut down the primary furnace, it had
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planned to dismantle the big stack which stood shoulder to shoulder
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with its twin, great shotgun barrels of brick aiming for the
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heavens. The outcry had been considerable. The Levenax Society had
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protested in lengthy denunciation of the vandalism to the
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industrial history of the town. It would destroy a landmark, they
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thundered. There was no concern for the tons of hot fumes that had
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spilled from the great stacks for years, not only polluting the
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atmosphere and covering the town in thick flaky sulphurous ash
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whenever the wind blew the wrong way, but also befouling the clean
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white bedsheets on drying greens all across town and as far as
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Barloan Harbour eight miles up the firth. There was also little
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said, landmark-wise, about the demolition of the tenements in Wee
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Donegal and the subsequent building of the gaunt and towering
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housing blocks, or the blast of smoke and steam from the vents in
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the distillery with their greasy overlay of malting barley.</p>
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<p>The opposing faction who agreed with the demolition said it was
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an ugly old brick thing, an eyesore remnant of the sweated labour
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of the industrial revolution which made the Levenford look like a
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dirty old mill town. The sooner it was gone, they countered, the
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better. At the end of the day, the town fathers, whose gift for
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planning was such that they would to blight the whole town and the
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surrounding area within the decade, decided to keep the stacks for
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their historic value. The forge owner, William Thomson, a second
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cousin of the desk sergeant in Levenford Police Station, shrugged
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his shoulders, happy enough that he would not have to pay a fortune
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to have the stack removed brick by brick. Explosive demolition was
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out of the question because of the close proximity of the other
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chimney which was still venting charcoal fumes from the secondary
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furnace. Ten years after that, Thomson had sold out, just before
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the bottom dropped out of the foundry industry. The business had
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kept going for another twenty years or so, hammering out great
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girders and beams for the rig yard and the diminishing building
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industry.</p>
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<p>In the last couple of weeks, there had been some concern over
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the state of the north chimney. In the winter gales, a crumbling
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half-brick had come sailing down and punctured a neat hole not only
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through the corrugated iron shed which served as a shithouse for
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the dozen or so foundrymen, but had punched its way right through
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the vitreous china pan, sending shards of jagged porcelain
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scattering like shrapnel in every direction. In the third trap
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along, old Bernie Maguire, who operated the charcoal hopper, was
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doing a crossword, hunkered over like a dying junkie, dungarees at
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his knees. Bernie should have been back at the hopper ten minutes
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before, but, being prone to constipation, he was trying, with some
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effort to work out more than just the difficult crossword clues.
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The fact that his trousers were puddled around his ankles saved him
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from serious injury from the kniving porcelain flack. When the
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brick hit, travelling at enormous speed after a fall of nearly two
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hundred feet, it exploded like cannon-shot. Shards of china blasted
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out under the spaces of the door and the side walls. It tore
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Bernie's trousers to shreds and punched neat pin-holes through the
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thin cabin sides of the neighbouring traps. One small sliver sliced
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through a vein on Bernie's skinny calf and the resultant fine spray
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of blood was fifteen minutes in the staunching. The other men had
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come running out at the deafening noise and hauled the door open to
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find Bernie lying in a heap across the newspaper, pencil still in
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hand, the air pink from his spraying blood. They also discovered,
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to their disgust, that the falling brick had done the old fellow
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one favour. It had miraculously cured his constipation.</p>
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<p>Two weeks later, another brick had come down, though it had
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blasted itself to powder, forming a quite spectacular sunburst
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pattern in Pompeiian red on the concrete a few feet away from the
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chimney. The manager of the English conglomerate which had taken
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over the forge finally got authority to bring in the steeplejacks
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to find out whether the stack needed a repair, or whether its time
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had finally come.</p>
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<p>It had taken Fergus Milby and his apprentice Danny Cullen a week
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to get the ladders close to the top. It was dangerous, arduous and
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quite exhausting work, but the two-man team were the only
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steeplejacks in Levenford or any of the nearby towns. There was
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always work for them somewhere, and in the current jobs climate,
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the danger was worth it. To the untrained eye, the ladders looked
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flimsy, a delicate spidertrack up the side of the brick cylinder.
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In fact the light aluminium frames which locked one to the other,
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could easily take the weight of six men. The major difficulty lay
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in the tedious task of raising one length to fit it in place, using
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the wire bands which travelled the girth of the chimney. It would
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have been less exhausting and less dangerous, to hire a crane for
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the job, but it would have taken twice as long and three times the
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cost to erect one of the spindly jack-up jobs.</p>
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<p>The original builders had placed metal slots between the bricks,
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which made the job easier, but still, it took them eight days to
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get up to the top. Some time on the Thursday afternoon, while
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Superintendent Cowie was haranguing Jack Fallon in his office,
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attempting to browbeat him with dire but meaningless threats, they
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were putting the last section in place. Danny Cullen, eager to be
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first to the top, hooked his rope into one of the stanchions,
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making sure his safety harness was still attached with its
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anti-slip grip to the guide. He eased himself onto the flat
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surface, eight brick-widths thick because of the tapering of the
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construction, and carefully raised himself to his feet, sliding the
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guide over the edge with practised proficiency. He used the
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contraction hooks to hold the ladder in place, twisting the handles
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on the threads to bring the aluminium spars hard against the
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brickwork. Fergus Milby had told him there were two kinds of
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steeplejack, the slow or the dead, or as Fergus himself had put it,
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the careful ones or the stupid splattered bastards on the deck.
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Danny didn't want to join the ranks of the splattered. He stood up,
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avoiding a space where a brick had worked free and fallen off, and
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looked across the town from the top of the chimney. The view was
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quite spectacular. He could see the top of the blocks of Latta
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Court and its neighbours. Across on the other side of town, the
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great square red hulk of the distillery belched its perpetual plume
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of steam, like a slumbering volcano.</p>
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<p>Up here there was almost dead silence, apart from the mewling of
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a seagull passing below, a grey kite far down, a bird seen from the
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wrong angle. Sound travels, but for some reason, it does not easily
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travel <em>upwards.</em> There was no sound of traffic, except for
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the very muted, toytown clatter of a train heading out from the
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station. Little model cars were silently crossing the old bridge in
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twos and threes, followed by a dinky little bus. Almost directly
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below, just out in the river, the boats looked neat and clean, like
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yachts at a classy marina, though Danny knew these boats were all
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paint-peeled and slimed with dirt and bird crap, half of them
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unpainted and the others only half-painted by weekend watermen. The
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distance gave a cleanliness and neatness to everything. He strolled
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casually around the edge, a twenty-year-old boy gifted with a sense
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of balance and a natural affinity for heights. He looked down and
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saw Fergy Milby climb slowly towards him, unconsciously adjusting
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his safety clip with every two steps. His flat cap was on
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backwards, to keep the peak away from the steps of the ladder.
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Fergus was a careful mover who had instilled the slow-motion
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moon-mountain climb into his apprentice. Danny stepped to the side.
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Steeplejacks did not give each other a hand. There were too many
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ways to lose your balance that way. The tradesman had regaled his
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assistant, ever since he had started three years before, with tales
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of men who'd taken a tumble down a chimney, or gone sailing off to
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convert themselves into the ranks of the splattered. Fergus was
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graphic if nothing else.</p>
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<p>"Not bad, Danny-boy," he said when he got to the top and sat,
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feet dangling over the drop. It was Fergus's joke on the younger
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man's Irish catholic heritage. The steeplejack wasn't of the faith
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himself, but unlike many of his persuasion in the town, to whom
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religion meant little more than the colour of jersey a football
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team wore, it didn't matter a damn to him. He didn't watch football
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anyway.</p>
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<p>He opened his tobacco tin and rolled himself a customary
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crumpled cigarette, tamped the end on the nearest brick, lit up and
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drew in a deep breath.</p>
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<p>"Haven't been up here since I was your age," he said, gazing out
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over the toytown panorama.</p>
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<p>"You helped build it then?" Danny asked, grinning at his own
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joke.</p>
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<p>"Watch it," the boss said gruffly, although he was used to the
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boy's comments. They worked well together, and in fact, the best
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compliment the steeplejack could make was that he felt safe with
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Danny Cullen. "You want to become a <em>splatteree</em>?" he shot
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back.</p>
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<p>The younger man sauntered around the rim of the chimney as if it
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were a wide path through a park. He automatically raised his feet
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to avoid the copper straps which snaked up over the sides and
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crossed the flat, each of them corresponding to the points of the
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compass. He was looking north, towards the mountains looming over
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Loch Corran in the distance, when something jarred him as being out
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of place. He turned back to Fergus who was contentedly puffing on
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his cigarette.</p>
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<p>"What's happened to the conductors," he asked.</p>
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<p>"Eh, what's that?" Fergus asked, turning round with a casual,
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yet careful movement. He'd twisted his cap round so the peak
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shadowed his eyes.</p>
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<p>"The lightning spikes, they're gone."</p>
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<p>Fergus followed the curve of the chimney. On the top flat, it
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was eight feet across the inner edges, and about three times that
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in circumference. The copper ribbons were stappled to the bricks
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with lead fold-over flaps. They travelled to the inner edge where
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the four-pronged steel aerials should have been, a precaution
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against bolts of lightning striking the inner surface and possibly
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travelling down to the furnaces below. From where Fergus was
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sitting, he could see the furthest one had been twisted right down
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inside the funnel of the chimney.</p>
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<p>"I'll be damned," he said, getting to his feet. "There's
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something stuck there."</p>
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<p>"And here," Danny boy said. "What is it?"</p>
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<p>He got to his knees and looked down the black hole. Something
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was snagged on the spike which had been bent right down inside the
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shaft and then curled back up on itself. It looked like a bundle of
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rags, dirty and withered.</p>
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<p>"Probably blown up and snagged in the gales," he said. He
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reached down and hauled at the tattered bundle. It was stuck on the
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upcurved hooks of metal. He worried at it, holding on to the far
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edge of the chimney for leverage. The material ripped and the thing
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came free with a muted tearing sound. He drew it upwards and as he
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did, a foetid smell of rot came wafting up the funnel.</p>
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<p>"Jesus, that stinks!" he said, face screwed up with disgust. He
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could feel the stench clog thickly in the back of his throat. He
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heaved the tattered mess up and onto the flat. A piece of dirty,
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mouldering cloth flapped back in the light breeze and a small brown
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round thing lolled out and clonked against the bricks.</p>
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<p>"What in the name of.." he said, then let out a long breath of
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relief.</p>
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<p>"It's a doll," he said. "For a moment I thought it was a kid. By
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god it smells to high heaven."</p>
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<p>"How the hell did it get up here?" Fergus asked. "We must have
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ben the first folk up this height in twenty year."</p>
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<p>"I don't know. Must have been up here for ages." He turned round
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and shoved the bundle towards Fergus. Just below him, another
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tangled mass hung from the spike nearest him, this one not much
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bigger. He stretched his hand down and worried at the cloth until
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it came free and drew this one out of the hole. If anything this
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one smelt worse.</p>
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<p>As he laid it down, something flopped stiffly onto the
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brickwork. It was dark and stick-like. It looked like a monkey's
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paw.</p>
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<p>"It's another one," Danny said. Fergus could hear his gullet
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work to try to keep the stench out of his throat. The apprentice
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was poking at a small torn hood. "I think somebody's been playing
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a..."</p>
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<p>He never finished his sentence. Fergus was sitting casually,
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with one hand behind him and a foot cocked on the edge while the
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other dangled over the drop. Unexpectedly Danny jerked backwards as
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if he'd been bitten by an adder. Fergus saw him scramble to his
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feet with alarming speed, the kind of speed people who work in high
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places have nightmares about. His boot snicked the inner rim of the
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chimney. A piece of brick crumbled off and tumbled into the dark
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well. Danny tilted to the side, suddenly off balance, arms
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windmilling. One foot was out over the shaft, while the rest of his
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body was teetering on the edge of the chimney.</p>
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<p>Fergus moved faster than he believed possible. Danny began to
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fall, and a cry of surprise and fright blurted out. His boss
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whirled, got to one knee and his hand shot out. He grabbed Danny by
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the belt, inadvertently knocking the wind right out of him with the
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force of the strike and with a powerful heave, he swung him back
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from the edge and down onto the flat. Danny's backside hit the hard
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surface with a solid thud and he yelped again, this time in pain.
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He twisted to the side, almost went over the edge again, caught
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himself and then froze.</p>
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<p>"Are you off your head?" Fergus bawled. "Bloody idiot, you were
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nearly a goner there. What in the name of Christ's the matter with
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you."</p>
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<p>"It's <em>that</em>," Danny bleated, pounting into the chimney.
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The mangy truss of cloth had slipped into the well, but had snagged
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again on one of the upturned hooks beside an even larger flaking
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bundle.</p>
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<p>"What?"</p>
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<p>"It's not a doll," Danny murmured. "It's a baby."</p>
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<p>"What are you playing at?" Fergus said. "What would a baby be
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doing up here."</p>
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<p>"But <em>look</em>," Danny insisted. "It's a baby, and it's
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<em>dead."</em></p>
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<p>Fergus' hands were still shaking from the sudden exertion and
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the terrible fright he'd got when he thought his apprentice was
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about to topple into the chimney. He lit another cigarette, with
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some difficulty, and took another long draw before letting his
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breath out in a stuttering sigh.</p>
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<p>He got to one knee again and came close to where Danny sat, both
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hands firmly gripped on the brickwork. He followed the young man's
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eyes and stared at the small dirty pile. He reached a hand forward
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carefully and drew back a piece of mildewed fabric. Despite the
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care, the material tore in his hand with a whispering rip.</p>
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<p>The small wizened face gazed up at him from blind crumpled
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sockets. Its lips were stretched back tight and dry, exposing gums
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which were bare except for two tiny teeth which protruded in the
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centre of the bottom of the jaw. The skull was shiny and brown and
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both little ears were like shrivelled autumn leaves. Fergus pulled
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the cloth back further and the foetid, sickly sweet stench
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blossomed like the scent of a poisonous flower.</p>
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<p>"Dear god," he breathed. With great gentleness, he pulled back
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the ragged cloth. Just below the neck, the small, fragile ribs were
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like wires pushing through a thin, tight membrane, and below them,
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there was a gaping hole. With the movement, something black and
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slimy dribbled inside the cavity and the stink was suddenly so bad
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the steeplejack found his own throat try to clamp itself shut.</p>
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<p>He pulled himself back in revulsion and sat, staring at the dead
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face. Danny watched him white faced. Without a word, Fergus reached
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down and unhooked the other shape and hefted it out onto the
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surface. It came up easily, like a little pile of rags. He laid it
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gently down and unwrapped it from a dirty grey shawl. Danny heard
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his intake of breath.</p>
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<p>The dead child had the wizened face of a mummy. He could see,
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under the parchment-like ochre skin the zig-zag suture lines where
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the skull-plates joined and in the centre, a deep depression as if
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it had been struck a vicious blow with a club, but was where the
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soft membrane of the fontanelle, where the bones had yet to form
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and knit, had sagged. The baby was so young its bones hadn't even
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had time to form. Below the little chin there was nothing at all of
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the throat. The skin puckered and curled on each side of a gaping
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wound in which Fergus could see the neck-bones push through dried
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muscle.</p>
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<p>He laid the thing down, almost reverently and turned away. His
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eye had caught the other things hanging from the lightning
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conductors, an arm's span below the lip of the chimney. He did not
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want to see any more.</p>
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<p>"I'd better go back down and tell somebody," he said numbly.</p>
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<p>"I'll come with you," Danny said. He edged away from the
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mouldering corpses and clipped his safety rig onto the cable which
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was suspended from the clamp.</p>
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<p>"No," Fergus told him. "You'd better stay here. You're in no fit
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state to climb. Look at you, shaking like a leaf."</p>
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<p>"You can't leave me up here," Danny protested, his voice rising.
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"I'm not staying with these."</p>
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<p>"Och, don't be daft," Fergie retorted.</p>
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<p>"I don't care," whined. "You're not leaving me up here with dead
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bodies. No bloody way."</p>
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<p>Fergus shrugged. He clipped his own lead onto the braided cable
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and started making the long climb down. Danny followed so close he
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almost stepped in his boss's fingers.</p>
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<p>Five minutes later they were in the forge manager's office.
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Almost before Fergy Milby put the phone down, the wail of sirens
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started up on the other side of the river.</p>
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