Luck and Other Deadly Things
Christopher Byford
CHRISTOPHER BYFORD was born in 1980 in Wellingborough, England. He learnt to walk whilst holding on to a golden retriever and fondly remembers the days of BMX bikes and conker matches. He left college to suffer as an IT Manager for a small multinational before, in his words, escaping to Gloucester. After working for some large tech companies he seized the opportunity to become a full-time author. It was the best thing he’s ever done.
Also by Christopher Byford (#ulink_581db3ee-d3a0-5812-8032-468f114e0d11)
The Gambler’s Den Series
Den of Shadows
Den of Stars
Den of Smoke
Den of Shadows Collection
Luck and Other Deadly Things
Christopher Byford
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Copyright (#ulink_d98d24ca-832b-52d0-9fa7-660ebaf2c4d4)
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Christopher Byford 2019
Christopher Byford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008335939
To those who were there at the start
and are here at the end
Contents
Cover (#u80b4de97-311e-56d0-9d19-d7146cd88864)
Author Bio (#ud0fa2345-395d-5f9f-92c1-5d7fa673687c)
Also by (#ulink_1984253d-da8a-549e-9280-f0a101a8fa27)
Title Page (#u5c6f9c0e-a963-5c24-bbc0-58029e62b145)
Copyright (#ulink_608a2263-8918-5fd2-a28a-947ace7ffca6)
Dedication (#ua309eb6a-56ab-52a9-b80e-607d37968982)
Foreword (#ulink_104ec3d9-0dcf-5067-9571-4d1acb703c57)
Den of Shadows – Additional Material (#ulink_b8993dd7-b433-5264-9916-3e07ea596dd6)
The Birth of the Train (#ulink_2e95829d-4761-534f-b3e7-f9ec9c0458e3)
The Rust Cough (#ulink_c642dd77-217f-595e-bd1b-8dd847ec6904)
Den of Stars – Additional Material (#litres_trial_promo)
Jacques and the Messenger (#litres_trial_promo)
To Catch a Falling Star (#litres_trial_promo)
Den of Smoke – Additional Material (#litres_trial_promo)
The Trapper (#litres_trial_promo)
Lost Protection Money (#litres_trial_promo)
Nothing to Lose Sleep Over (#litres_trial_promo)
Thank You for Reading! (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading… (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Foreword (#ulink_d252247b-c644-5b02-8ecd-64e692ca59f2)
As any author will tell you, the process of editing a manuscript can be testing. There is a wonderful phrase tossed around that puts the difficulty in context: ‘murder your darlings’.
Nobody wants to murder their darlings. They’re called darlings for a reason. The very thought of putting the axe to months, even years of work is nauseating. Chapters get removed for pacing reasons. Characters are deemed redundant, their lines and scenes absorbed into a more palatable fixture.
I’m comfortable with the editing process. I understand that for the sake of clarity, consistency and market, things may need modifying, tightening up, compacting, and other such terms that attempt to lessen the impact of its severity. Yet for all the hurt it causes the end result is much better for it.
This book is a collection of all of the moments when the axe was swung for whatever reason and the darlings in question were sacrificed. In here are entire missing chapters and extended scenes of those that were included for publication. It’s the book equivalent of the deleted scenes section you find on the front menu when you put a movie in, with bad sound and ropey green-screen effects. Like it, the inclusions are in various states so expect things to be a little rougher than you would normally find.
When the Den series was published, I was fortunate to have a great team at HQ Digital behind me. They steered me through what editing entailed, explaining how to polish an admittedly rough piece of work into something more presentable. From large, dramatic changes to small, detailed buffing of paragraphs, I learnt an incredible amount from all involved. They showed me how to best murder my darlings, to cleanly eradicate them and leave no evidence behind. This little collection is dedicated to them.
Unsurprisingly as we cover all three books in the Den series, spoilers will abound. If you’ve not finished them all, then please turn back now. You wouldn’t want to ruin anything for yourself. For the curious, I hope you find some enjoyment in what you hold.
As always, enjoy.
Christopher Byford
21/08/2018
Den of Shadows (#ulink_c6a4a31a-87e5-5dbf-8cd2-0d46d68e54e2)
Additional Material (#ulink_c6a4a31a-87e5-5dbf-8cd2-0d46d68e54e2)
The Birth of the Train (#ulink_65d51801-3817-54e4-b4e1-a4cde7c70573)
The Gambler’s Den was born from the Eiferian 433, an ore hauler that had seen plenty of use during the beginning of Surenth’s industrial boom. Found in a scrapheap, its restoration became the key element in Franco’s pursuit of a better tomorrow, its renovation instigated by Franco’s long-suffering grandfather better known as Pappy. This extended sequence showed their celebration upon their success, as well as foreshadowing the dangerous quirk that Misu was unaware of – one that would bring about its ruin.
Everything was looking good. It was actually looking good.
Pappy held the throttle carefully, knuckles white in anticipation, almost afraid to let it go. The main and piston rods did their thing, encouraging the colossal train wheels to complete a full rotation. The train heaved forward ever so slowly, gently advancing along the track. Franco hung himself half from the cab window, staring down as they passed over the sand-dusted ground. Drawing himself back inside, Franco found that he couldn’t stop laughing.
‘She’s moving!’ he yelled in elation. Finally, Pappy reciprocated the expression, checking the various gauges laid out before him. He reached out and began to spin a red valve, watching one of the gauges climb slowly before it tapered off. He leant out of his window and extended one arm, looking further down the track and spotting an obstruction.
‘Well? Get your ass out there and open the gate to the yard, otherwise we’ll go right through it,’ Pappy ordered.
Eagerly, Franco leapt down the steps of the engine cab and sprinted parallel to the tracks through the junkyard. He leapt over random pieces of debris that had been discarded without care or had simply rolled free of their designated pile due to the region’s winds. He reached the large chain-link gate where the yard ended and an expanse of open desert began. Franco heaved back numerous bolts and heaved open the gate itself with great effort, first one side, then the other, jumping the tracks.
The train continued its slow advance as Franco returned to it, caught hold of the assisting bar and pulled himself up to the steps of the footplate, utterly exhilarated. The vehicle picked up speed with a slight jerk as Pappy eased the throttle bar forward.
‘That’s better. Ready?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Let’s take her out.’ Pappy beamed through his snow-white whiskers.
The train funnel exploded with steam as the Eiferian 433 began to pick up the pace. It took a brisk trundle out of the yard, navigating its first bend, and chugged along the track, slowly gaining even more speed. As it left the confines of the junkyard where it had lain rotting for years, the train was born anew.
After Pappy checked everything more times than he could count, the old man finally relaxed at the controls and let the experience wash over him. Franco eased into his grandfather’s view. The boy couldn’t understand what it felt like to be reunited with such an engine after so long – but he clearly wanted to gain an impression by asking.
‘How does it feel?’
‘Despite the years I have collected for my own, I assure you, there is a younger man standing before you now. No matter what time tries to make irrelevant, it just takes the right ingredients to paint time as a fool.’ Pappy nodded to himself, his memories spurred on by the assault of smells and sights. Camaraderie was wonderful for sure, but to share this experience with his grandson made it something more potent. ‘Here, boy. Come and get a feel for it,’ Pappy offered.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Sure. You put your share of toil into getting her running once again. It’s only right. Don’t make me regret my decision now. Get moving.’
Franco cautiously stepped past the burning heat from the firebox, abuzz with excitement. He placed his hands where he was told, the throttle being his primary concern. With guidance and a gentle ease forward, the train breathed new life once more. It sent him giggling in delight.
The Eiferian 433 picked up the pace. Despite its battered appearance, for it was yet to be given new colours, it managed to catch the sight of those who had not witnessed a train take to this line on the outskirts of town in some time – years possibly.
‘Come on, is this all she can do? Let’s open her up!’ Franco’s excitement was getting the best of him.
‘Don’t get so eager. You can’t just run her hot, it doesn’t work like that. Corner coming up. Slow ’er down a spell; ease the throttle back.’
Despite the advice, Franco’s hand remained steadfast upon the throttle, unwavering and blinkered to the track.
‘What, you don’t think we can take that turn?’
‘We can if we want to jump the tracks and send ourselves down the ridge! Now ease it off before you ruin all of our hard work! Don’t make me repeat myself, boy!’ came the sharp response.
Boy. Only Pappy still called him that.
‘Okay, okay, easing,’ Franco sheepishly conceded, and pulled back a little, reducing their speed. The train drifted around the corner lazily. Finally, the tense silence was broken by Pappy’s explanation.
‘You best be careful! Keep this in your head every time you step in here: a train can’t complain about you being too rough with her until the damage is done. If in doubt, keep it simple, keep it slow. Look after her well, and the times when you need to push her, she’ll comply. Treat her wrong and it’ll be a world of troubles from end to end. Do you understand that?’
‘Yeah. I got it,’ Franco replied meekly.
‘Good. Now keep this speed until we reach the flats. Should be coming up on them past this ridge.’
‘What then?’
‘Then you get your wish. We’ll finally see exactly what this old girl is capable of.’ Pappy leant out of the cab window, taking in the shifting warm breeze. It blasted away years of his life, back to a time when his fingers were younger and didn’t ache as he gripped on to a tool. When all there was, was the job at hand. When life was a simple trek from one point to another. As soon as they cleared the bridge over one of the smaller ridges, Pappy gave the signal.
With a slow heave, Franco opened up the throttle, keeping a close eye on the gauges before him, even though he didn’t understand completely how to read them yet. Things were seemingly steady and that was enough for him to simply enjoy the powerful rush of acceleration, as if a team of keen horses were contained in the boiler, dragging the metal onward in haste. The train exploded across the landscape with little restraint, with blasts of smoke and steam painting the patchy afternoon sky in equal quantities.
‘She moves, I’ll give her that!’ Franco called over the wind.
‘Aye, that she does!’ Pappy agreed. ‘Everything is looking good. There’s an old checkpoint this way where a buddy of mine runs a supply shed. I figure we can drop in and surprise him with a hello. Won’t take more than an hour. That is, if you’re not concerned about being somewhere else.’
‘Knock it off, old man, you’re fooling no one with that talk.’
Pappy watched Franco burst out laughing.
‘This is … it’s simply incredible!’
Franco yanked hard on the whistle cord, making the train announce itself in a shrill blast. He wanted everyone in the surrounding territories to know of their presence. Let it be known that the Eiferian 433 was triumphant in its resurrection!
‘Ain’t it just? Nobody around us for as far as we can see. Masters of our own destiny! It’s a thrill, boy! This is what makes life worth living!’ Pappy slapped the cab wall in delight, beaming before his smile dropped and his face creased in concern. A finger tapped the pressure gauge and Pappy’s brow fell. The needle was bouncing all over the place. With a quick release of pressure, it settled, yet the needle wouldn’t remain steady at this speed, juddering just enough to require looking into. It was the first quirk he had seen in the train’s behaviour and quite a concern. Running too hot and for too long would be a problem if it wasn’t regulated well.
He eased the throttle just enough until the needle steadied itself from dancing. It would need to be looked into, of course, but that would be a worry for another time. Their accomplishment didn’t need to be sullied.
It needed to be celebrated.
* * *
With the sun long set, and the train’s ash dumped, the junkyard was lifeless apart from a few sleeping birds and the inconsiderate couple who noisily sat around an open fire. They sat trackside, surrounded by the comfort of illumination, alternately swigging from bottles of brown ale picked up on their earlier jaunt. The excitement had exacerbated now and the reality was becoming clear. With their success, decisions had to be made. Big decisions. Ones that would shape fate and steer their destinies onto dramatically different paths.
Franco had spent most of his time listening. Never before had Pappy rambled on about his days as a hauler so enthusiastically. He talked of the kinship among those aboard the trains that had helped bring about Surenth’s quick industrial development. He spoke of the grandiose sighs of the old trains, stirring the hearts of everyone who witnessed their presence in the Sand Sea, of the beginnings of rail transport, the tracks its veins and each train’s cargo its lifeblood.
The youngster couldn’t help but be utterly enthralled by the tales of drama and danger. The time Pappy tangled with one of the many gangs who attempted to hijack the train itself was Franco’s particular favourite, and he cheered upon being told that the intruder was unceremoniously ejected from a boxcar with a swift kick to the chest. Maybe it was romanticized in his head – but what of it? The last time Franco had indulged in fantasy was when his age was in single digits. If he couldn’t succumb to the heady possibilities before him now, when could he? After the latest bout of tales, Pappy slapped his forehead, leaving a mark of coal dust on his skin.
‘What am I doing? We’re here enjoying a drink and I almost forgot to serve one to the guest of honour. How utterly terrible; this will not do at all …’
The old man took to unsteady feet, sliding a second bottle from its case by the neck and raising it to the train before them. The hulk of iron and steel stood proudly in the ebbing glow.
‘Forgive me! Here’s to you, you beautiful thing, Eiferian number 433! May your wheels take us far from this pit and give fortune to us luckless bastards who ride with you. You are born anew!’
With an almighty heave he hurled the bottle through the star-speckled sky. The glass receptacle exploded against the pitted boiler, christening the venture in alcohol.
‘Out of respect it should be something pricier,’ Pappy confessed, holding his drink high before taking an almighty swig. ‘You don’t christen with hog water – much as you wouldn’t bathe in it. We intend no offence.’
Franco cheered loudly and gulped down the last mouthfuls of drink in his possession. As he lowered the bottle and the moon’s lustre took to the vehicle’s sides, a curious feeling stirred in his being. These last couple of years had been full of toil and frustration, but for every difficulty there was a solution. The train, with all of its hardships and annoyances, was a thing of beauty, just as his grandfather described. He had been simply too young, or too blind, to appreciate it in his youth. Times were different now. Now, all he had for the damn thing was boundless affection.
For a meagre moment, watching the stupid old fool crow in the night, clearly drunk, all was right in the world. There was no concern about their poverty. There was no fear of the local criminality. Life had meaning and all actions had a wondrous purpose. Under a pale-moon sky, the Eiferian 433 accepted the old man’s praise, situated proudly upon the tracks, despite standing in a graveyard to its kind. Though it was difficult to discern it from the scrap that littered the yard in piles of corroded metalwork, life still beat within its heart, fuelled by the four-year-long endeavour undertaken by Franco and his grandfather.
When satisfied that Pappy had made an ass out of himself, Franco put forward the burning question.
‘What do we do now?’
‘Well.’ Pappy straightened his back until it popped numerous times. ‘The way I see it, it depends on a couple of important factors. You should ask yourself how well rooted you are in this dear town. If it’s all you’ve known, going elsewhere may be a difficult feat.’
‘Funny talk, like there’s anybody who gives the slightest damn about me this ways. Anybody I knew believed that I was selling things off on the side while working with you and got angry when they found out I was doing the work straight. Even Ketan has been giving me lip, running with others who are best avoided. What do I have to stay for?’
Pappy cracked his knuckles next, letting old bones complain as loud as possible.
‘Good answer. We can sell the house, flog most of our things. There’s nowt for me but bad memories and graves far too numerous to visit. We can live on the train. The first car can be converted into living quarters – just look at her, there’s plenty of room to utilize. Paint her up while we’re at it; we can’t let her sit in the buff like this. It wouldn’t be proper. We can get hold of a couple of other cars in the yard, haggle a good price and haul goods for a living. There’s plenty to pull if you know where to look. We’ll start small, see what the mills need to transport, that sort of thing. From there, we pick up the contracts from whatever outpost we roll on into.’
‘I see. Back to what you know, huh?’ Franco casually swigged from his bottle. He lifted himself up and gave his grandfather a warm pat on the shoulder.
‘It will be. On top of this grand scheme, we’ll drink with some regulars and get them back to one of the end cars where we can play some hands of cards away from prying eyes. You can easily make a little money by gambling with the drunk or the foolish. That, my boy, is as much of a given as the sky is blue and the dirt is brown.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Franco tossed the idea about in his head, with an inebriated grin. There was something alluring about the idea of gambling, almost dangerous, a perfect accompaniment to their new venture. At his request, they struck the caramel-coloured bottles together, cementing the agreement. ‘Do tell me more …’
The Rust Cough (#ulink_6d50a059-cad2-5b1b-9b36-ade96a6e454a)
Though not elaborated on in the novel, the years that Franco and his grandfather shared were spent transporting goods around the region, with Franco learning how to operate the train. Unfortunately, this was all to be cut short. Pappy began to develop a respiratory disease on account of poor working conditions in his youth, something he would never recover from. This sequence was supposed to reveal the sudden decline of Pappy’s health, as well as a twenty-something Franco managing the train itself.
Franco picked beneath his fingernails for the umpteenth time. The dirt had congregated there so many times that it was almost a permanent fixture. He shuffled his feet forward, looking past the queue to the station house on the platform. There, illuminated by gaslight, a solitary individual wrote in his ledger. He spoke with the person at the front of the line. When their business was concluded, the individual inside called the next person forward and the line became one shorter in number. Franco looked about for the station clock, squinted at the time and exhaled in an attempt to remain patient.
Another step closer. More small talk made by those in line. The one in front was smoking like he was on fire, wafts sailing over his shoulder and traversing down into Franco’s face. He held both his nerve and his breath. The man ahead then tapped the ash from an ill-made roll-up, letting the breeze carry it away and land upon Franco’s oil-soiled jeans. Franco tried to ignore it. It was late and an argument would do nothing to help his already sour mood. He checked the station clock again. It had barely moved since last time.
At long last he was next. The smoker ahead grumbled about this and that, his conversation patchy and only half listened to, before he suddenly erupted with a deep guttering laugh.
Finally, it was Franco’s turn. He casually greeted the man behind the counter with a nod and presented the prepared paperwork in a bundle. It was separated and scanned with a modest amount of conversation made. Franco spoke only to confirm the train’s designation and its cargo, and to declare no contraband was on board.
The drum of the rubber stamp across paperwork was loud and routine. Franco said nothing, letting the station hand do his work. He didn’t flinch at the occasional flick of the eyes in his direction, condescending ones to be sure. He responded to the questions promptly, the same as everywhere else they pulled into, with the answers already prepared. Yes, he was young to be at the front of a train like this, or any train for that matter. Yes, he understood the contraband restrictions. Yes, he understood the taxation in this region. No, all that didn’t give this outpost an excuse to mark Franco up by another three per cent and assume he’d not notice.
Hauling was hard work. The more you pulled, the greater the profit, though it put the engine under greater stress. Many a train had broken down in the Sand Sea, its owners greedy and misjudging the limits of their vehicle. He had seen plenty abandoned so far out in various states of decay, the vehicles left on sidings to be consumed by the unforgiving desert. Maybe their owners made it back to civilization somehow. Maybe scavengers feigned assistance and took out the drivers, leaving the carcasses to be picked clean of anything of value. Sometimes the risk outweighed the reward.
Franco looked to the side and further down the platform. Reams of crates were designated floor space with trolleys and trucks back and forth from the stationary trains over some twelve platforms. It was quite the busy operation and, thankfully, a decent payer out this way.
The last paper was stamped and the documents passed back over.
‘Bay thirteen, shipments B through E. Hand your manifest to the station hand in red. He’ll organize to get the goods unloaded. He’ll sign you off, then you need to come back here for payment.’
‘Cheers.’ Franco grunted, turning to leave.
‘Hey, kid,’ the man interrupted, crunching up his features in thought.
Oh, here it comes.
‘You go steady out there,’ he offered, showing genuine concern, a rarity these days. ‘Your log shows you pulling a lot of jobs in the last month. It’s unhealthy to be working so hard. Try to find time when you can. Understand me?’
Franco did understand. He understood the sense of urgency he was under and having to haul further afield each job just to get a decent amount in the purse. Other people didn’t have his overheads. The train had needed servicing a month back. There were the supplies for the long hauls, unexpected costs that arose during travel.
Then there was the pay for the doctors and subsequent medication.
‘Yeah.’ Franco tipped his head. ‘Thanks.’
Franco opened up the goods cars and let those on the platform do their work. Sitting on the steps of the footplate around the engine boiler, Franco sipped coffee from a battered tin cup, alternating between a mouthful and a draw of a cigarette. The station lights did their best to blot out the flood of stars that rode the black sea of the night sky like a million pinprick boats of white. The moon was, naturally, immune to this attempt to usurp its radiance and contested fiercely with its full illumination.
As barrows and trolleys rattled up and down ramps, Franco spent the time indulging in a moment of contemplation, the closest he could get to relaxing. He caught an hour of much-needed sleep during unloading, with his waking being a less than gentle bang of a fist on the footplate.
With payment collected, Franco took himself to the lonely engine cab of the train and stoked the boiler before fiddling with the myriad of gauges. When satisfied, he took the Eiferian 433 out with a departing whistle, its headlamp illuminating the track ahead in blackest night, stumbling forward for the next leg of its journey.
The tracks clattered over and over until the steam reached the outer rail lines, which moved through canyons and passed over the grand bridges suspended above colossal dunes. The Eiferian 433 cut a path through the cold and indifferent night with its driver fixated on the route ahead. Their next destination would take a few days of travel and if that meant forgoing a little sleep it wouldn’t be the greatest of losses. He could take to his bed once he arrived. What mattered was reaching the trading post in question before anybody else and claiming the majority of the goods to transit. That was how the best contracts were won. That was how the money was made.
Franco was so absorbed on the journey, that he failed to notice the shape come up behind him. The shadow, who had silently advanced past the train’s tender to the young man, reached out – but before he could make contact, Franco noticed and yelped in surprise, his roll-up landing on the cab floor.
‘What the fu—! Damn you, old man, you nearly made me drop dead from fright!’ he protested, reaching down to reclaim his smoke.
Pappy shuffled over, cackling in amusement before struggling to clear his throat. The single oil lamp in the cab covered his thinning face with a warm yellow, barely penetrating the straggling misshapen beard that had wildly grown in the last month. Most of his movements seemed stiff and hampered, with walking taking significant effort. He shouldn’t have been out here.
‘I always took you as a hardier fellow. If a simple scare can stop your heart, then I worry about your future,’ the old man croaked in amusement. He shuffled over, utilizing a nearby handrail for stability to counteract the relentless rocking. Finally, he found himself a place on one of two leather seats that had been installed for comfort.
Franco knew better than to tell him off. His obnoxiousness was fierce enough to rival even his own. After a few minutes of tending to the throttle to navigate a series of gentle curves, Franco called to his company.
‘How are you holding up there, Gramps?’
‘Watch the track rather than me. You still take those corners too fast. Always have.’
Franco’s grandfather spasmed with coughs, his body lurching more violently as the noises became deeper. Eventually they halted as thick mucus was brought up and spat into a handkerchief.
‘You should be inside, resting …’ Franco sighed, checking the track ahead once again. The moonlight was helping matters, highlighting the long straight track that vanished into the night.
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