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Authors: Justin Richards
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cobbles. A darker patch of the wall resolved itself into an opening. Heavy wooden doors set back into the wall must lead inside. Clara tried them, but they barely moved – locked or bolted firmly. She gave them a frustrated kick and moved on.
Maybe the whole place was shut down. She didn’t know how long ago Oswald had been here. Perhaps Milton had closed the place since then. Even so, she thought, there might be some clue inside. Something to tell her who he really was and what he was up to.
Another alcove with more wooden doors – also locked. It was as easy to keep going as to turn back. The alley turned abruptly, still following the wall of the huge building. Soon Clara arrived at another set of doors. But these were different – larger, and flush with the brickwork. It was the closest she had so farfound to a main entrance. There was a sign above the doors, but it was so faded that she couldn’t make out the words.
The doors, predictably, refused to budge when Clara pushed and pulled at them. But there was a smaller door set into one of the large ones. Not expecting any more encouraging results, Clara tried the handle. And the door creaked open.
She stepped inside. The building was a shell. A huge, empty space. Smog had crept inside, curling through cracks in the dusty windows where light struggled to follow. Looking up, Clara could see the rafters, high above. The far wall, all but lost in shadows and the misty air, must be on Alberneath Avenue. She had walked down the other side of it. No wonder she had heard nothing.
Even as she contemplated the silence, there was a sudden fluttering, beating, high above her. A bird, probably, trapped inside. She walked slowly across the solid floor. There were the remains of fixings and holes where machinery had stood. Probably not that long ago, Clara thought. There was a smell of oil a well as dust and damp. The remains of the metal brackets gleamed in the dim light. If they’d been left for long surely they would have gone rusty – like the metal edges of the windows.
Further in, and she could make out something else on the ground. It looked like snow, but she couldn’tsee where it might have blown in. A scattering of white. As she approached it resolved itself into small shapes, like confetti. She crouched down as she reached the first, and picked it up. A piece of paper, folded into the shape of a small bird …
Behind her, the door slammed shut. Clara turned abruptly at the sound. The wind? She hadn’t felt a breeze. With rising anxiety, she ran back to the door. It was locked. But there was no key. No keyhole. What there was, she saw, was a small plastic keypad fitted to the wall close by. The sort of security lock she might find in her own time with no surprise at all. But here, in the 1890s it was totally and frighteningly out of place.
Her fingers trembled. Something tugged at them. She held up her hand, and saw that the paper bird’s wings were moving as it struggled to break free of her grasp. She let go in surprise, and the creature fluttered away, dancing up through the air like a large moth.
Behind it, the whole floor was coming to life. Pale paper shapes lifted into the air. A mass of tiny folded stylised birds rising up. Swarming. Suddenly hurtling towards her across the factory.
In moments, Clara was enveloped. A blizzard of paper beating at her. The sharp edge of a wing sliced across the back of her hand as she tried to defend herself. Tried to beat away the creatures that battered at her. She ran, but they kept pace, swirling round herhead, blocking her vision. Smothering everything in a whirl of white, scratching and scraping at her.
Her foot caught on a metal bracket set in the floor and Clara crashed to the ground. Her head cracked down and she closed her eyes, knowing it would smash hard into the floor. But the impact never came. She opened her eyes and saw that she was lying with her head over the edge of a pit – a wide opening in the
Maybe the whole place was shut down. She didn’t know how long ago Oswald had been here. Perhaps Milton had closed the place since then. Even so, she thought, there might be some clue inside. Something to tell her who he really was and what he was up to.
Another alcove with more wooden doors – also locked. It was as easy to keep going as to turn back. The alley turned abruptly, still following the wall of the huge building. Soon Clara arrived at another set of doors. But these were different – larger, and flush with the brickwork. It was the closest she had so farfound to a main entrance. There was a sign above the doors, but it was so faded that she couldn’t make out the words.
The doors, predictably, refused to budge when Clara pushed and pulled at them. But there was a smaller door set into one of the large ones. Not expecting any more encouraging results, Clara tried the handle. And the door creaked open.
She stepped inside. The building was a shell. A huge, empty space. Smog had crept inside, curling through cracks in the dusty windows where light struggled to follow. Looking up, Clara could see the rafters, high above. The far wall, all but lost in shadows and the misty air, must be on Alberneath Avenue. She had walked down the other side of it. No wonder she had heard nothing.
Even as she contemplated the silence, there was a sudden fluttering, beating, high above her. A bird, probably, trapped inside. She walked slowly across the solid floor. There were the remains of fixings and holes where machinery had stood. Probably not that long ago, Clara thought. There was a smell of oil a well as dust and damp. The remains of the metal brackets gleamed in the dim light. If they’d been left for long surely they would have gone rusty – like the metal edges of the windows.
Further in, and she could make out something else on the ground. It looked like snow, but she couldn’tsee where it might have blown in. A scattering of white. As she approached it resolved itself into small shapes, like confetti. She crouched down as she reached the first, and picked it up. A piece of paper, folded into the shape of a small bird …
Behind her, the door slammed shut. Clara turned abruptly at the sound. The wind? She hadn’t felt a breeze. With rising anxiety, she ran back to the door. It was locked. But there was no key. No keyhole. What there was, she saw, was a small plastic keypad fitted to the wall close by. The sort of security lock she might find in her own time with no surprise at all. But here, in the 1890s it was totally and frighteningly out of place.
Her fingers trembled. Something tugged at them. She held up her hand, and saw that the paper bird’s wings were moving as it struggled to break free of her grasp. She let go in surprise, and the creature fluttered away, dancing up through the air like a large moth.
Behind it, the whole floor was coming to life. Pale paper shapes lifted into the air. A mass of tiny folded stylised birds rising up. Swarming. Suddenly hurtling towards her across the factory.
In moments, Clara was enveloped. A blizzard of paper beating at her. The sharp edge of a wing sliced across the back of her hand as she tried to defend herself. Tried to beat away the creatures that battered at her. She ran, but they kept pace, swirling round herhead, blocking her vision. Smothering everything in a whirl of white, scratching and scraping at her.
Her foot caught on a metal bracket set in the floor and Clara crashed to the ground. Her head cracked down and she closed her eyes, knowing it would smash hard into the floor. But the impact never came. She opened her eyes and saw that she was lying with her head over the edge of a pit – a wide opening in the
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