My work as a messenger girl for the sake of the resistance was tedious to say the least, but at least it was simple work – “all you have to do is bring the packages from point A to point B, do you think you can handle that?” My boss was a smelly old fool with an oversized nose – he often joined my father on Saturday nights for poker, and he’d often go home the poorer.
The packages I delivered were letters mostly, along with the occasional box of something – I never knew what they were, and I bet they’d lock me up if I ever found out. All I knew was the senders and the receivers. In fact, if I were ever captured by president Lace, I bet I’d be able to give him the names of just about every single person of value in the resistance. Good thing I threw away that cyanide pill.
There were six men who sat in the upstairs section of the resistance – my father included – and at the very top was a man known as Arthur Patrick Benson. He was the man who accused Archibald Lace of treachery, and ever since then there has been this war. I’ve only ever met the man three times in my entire life – once when I was twelve and he was having dinner with my father, once about a year later during some kind of social campaign where I shook his hand, and a third time two years ago, when I first received my job as a courier.
The other four men at the top of the resistance’s ladder were Revus Mgonan, who I believe owned a chain of breweries throughout the city; then there was Daniel Spriggs, who was a military man; Richard Donnellan, the famous car manufacturer; and lastly Reginald Clayman, who owned the bank, and was one of the richest men in the city.
Six powerful men who all believed in a cause, and they had the means to see that cause through to the end. I’d think given my father’s position that I’d have a more grievous job, but thank god he just left with delivering packages. And speaking of packages, I had just ducked through several narrow streets and across a main road where a rumbling cart full of fireworks was being pulled along by two brute men, and then I was back into the narrow streets again until I at last arrived at the tiniest, most secluded section of the city where my pet pigeons flew back and forth.
I found good news, too. One of the coops had a visitor, and that meant a job for me. Of course, the people of the resistance understood the risk of using birds instead of communicating through direct contact, and yet sometimes it came in handy, as it had tonight.
I checked the spot where my pigeon had left his gift, and I found an envelope that, surprisingly had been addressed to my father, and it was sent from professor Adrian Sierra – a close friend of mine, and one of few. The professor was a genius man for someone so young, but it saddened me to think that I hadn’t seen him for at least five months. There was no doubt he had been working on some great project – he always was – but still, he could at least say hello every now and then.
I first met the professor when I was ten years old and my father had him stay over one night for dinner. I found him incredibly interesting, and he was very polite. He was only twenty-two at the time, more or less still a kid, but I remembered the way he had dressed as if I were seeing it right now. He wore a black long-coat and a bowler hat, and when I was little I thought nothing of it, but when I grew older I began to realise how hard he always tried to appear older. I think he was intimidated by my father, even though they were the best of friends, but that was just how he was. He preferred the company of his lab rather than the time of most others. He wasn’t a people person, and that made him my friend. I remembered once the time when he pulled his favourite magic trick on me, transferring the face of a playing card onto another. When I couldn’t figure out how the hell he did it, and when he refused to tell me, I puffed up my face and told him that it just wasn’t fair. He smiled at me then and told me that the world was never as it appeared, and that there was always more to somethings. Of course, I didn’t care for any of his excuses – I just wanted to know how he did the damn trick.
As I collected the letter from the slot and released my pet back into the fiery night sky, I couldn’t help but wonder what the professor’s words could have been this time, as well as why he never talked to me anymore. He was probably just busy, and asking my father for a pay rise, but it was far more exiting to think that maybe, just maybe, my father had the good professor working on some great device that would end this stupid war forever – I knew that if anyone could build something like that, it would be him.
But I’d have plenty of time for wondering on the way to my father’s office down at the resistance headquarters on the south side of the city. So I strolled rather casually away from my little secluded corner of the world and then I looked up as a clap of thunder caught my ears. Luckily, it wasn’t real thunder. It was the fireworks! More vibrant colours exploded into life on the evening of the carnival, and their immense beauty once again captivated me, raining down like magical stardust from the burning heavens. I knew that from this point onwards the colours would continue to paint the sky all the way until midnight, and I smiled at the thought.
As I walked down the street I overheard the frightened whining of a dog somewhere behind me. Poor little guy, he must hate all this noise. I saw him pad hastily across the street – a shaggy golden retriever, probably homeless. I even considered helping him, but then I realised that there really wasn’t much that I could do. Oh, he’ll be fine.
I was just about to turn back onto the next road when I thought I spotted the shadow of a figure in the alley behind me. I’d have passed it off as nothing and continued on my way if only it hadn’t of happened again. Okay, there might be someone following me.
The main area was quite far away and there weren’t exactly many people around. I began to feel paranoid, but as my lovely boss would say; “in this line of work paranoia isn’t only recommended, it’s a requirement!”
I turned a corner and quickened my pace. I needed to get to the main road… in fact I needed to go anywhere that was busy, so long as it wasn’t here! But I soon realised that the ghost in the street behind me had a friend, and he looked awfully dangerous.
It wasn’t very often that I experienced fear – that icy feeling you get in your blood and the crushing weight on your chest.
“Hello there!” said the man in front of me, in a low haunting voice. He was a big man – poorly shaven head and a few missing teeth – he had the perfect appearance of a low-life scumbag. “Ain’t that a letter you got? You’d best be giving that to us now.” He lifted a handgun from his coat. I stood less frozen, unable to move let alone run away.
I could at least think about my next move. Okay, he’s got a gun, and on a normal night I’d be able to use the shot to get people’s attention, but with all these fireworks going off no one will hear a thing! So I just give them the letter; in which case he’ll probably just kill me anyway to avoid having any witnesses, but if that were the case he would have shot me already. If I run he’ll probably shoot, and even if he doesn’t he’ll chase me down anyway. And there’s one more thing; does he know that I am John Abigail’s daughter? If he does then I know that he won’t shoot because I’m a valuable source of information, if he doesn’t then I know I’m at risk…
The man stood with both his gun and his fierce eyes staring right at me. I listened to the heavy patter of the other man’s footsteps behind me and I felt about as trapped as a caged bird.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked, practically hoping for the best.
The man with the gun squinted his eyes and tilted his head. “Why, you’re the messenger girl.”
And at that moment I felt a rush of relief. Good, they don’t know who I am… wait, that’s bad!
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