1 Chapter 1

The scream was blood-curdling,as if an animal were having its throat cut.It reverberated through the hot,stifling air of the weaving room,slicing through the steady hum and thud of the looms with the sharp cruelty of a blade.

Inside my sheltered office I heard the noise as clearly as if I were on the factory floor.I was on my feet at once,though my bookkeeper held out his hand to pacify me.“Sir,please don’t trouble yourself,the manager will see to it…”

In two strides I passed both him and his tedious reports,the sheets of paper fluttering from his fumbling hands as he tried to get out of my way.I stepped out on to the platform outside my office,from where I had a view of the looms below.I could hear the wails and shouts even over the relentless clattering of the bobbins.Clusters of workers were huddled against the wall,their bodies silhouetted against the light from the tall windows.I saw the floor manager crouched down at the back of the room.The heavy spindles of coloured thread lay on the floor around him as if toppled aside in his haste to reach that particular loom.

Slowly the frantic noise lessened.Wails sank to mere moans;the pace of the machines slowed.The manager moved and then I could see the crumpled figure on the floor at his feet.A slender shape—a young woman,I thought.I employed many of them at the mill,as their hands were more skilled on the delicate finishing work,and they so often had young families or old parents to support.She was so still and her face so white I realised at once she was badly hurt.Then I noted the awkward position of her left arm and with sickening horror saw that her arm was almost torn from her shoulder,the elbow twisted awkwardly against her hip.A pool of blood seeped steadily fromunder her body.

The smell hit me for the first time;cloying,sickly-sweet blood.The wooden floor was stained like an abattoir.

The manager was shouting and gesticulating,ordering the other workers back to their positions.He glanced up at me and shook his head.She would die in a very short while,as any person would after such an accident.We’d seen it happen before.Carelessness or tiredness would nudge a worker one step too close to the machinery,and there’d be no mercy for them.I consider myself ahumane employer and I’ll call my doctor to treat illness,but for this level of shock and dismemberment there was no aid to be sought.

There was another small group of workers gathered around the body.Some were crying,and they clutched at each other for support.They all had the same long dark hair as the dying woman,the same thin body under the shapeless shifts they wore,the same pale skin.I wondered briefly if they were family members,or from the same ethnic group.Then one of them,a tall young man,stepped away from the group and ran a hand roughly over his eyes.The sleeve of his shift fell back from his wrist,showing a strong arm but long,delicatefingers.

I was about to go back into my office but in that instant he looked up at me,and it gave me pause.Even from this distance,I could see his eyes were damp with tears.His pupils were dilated,an impenetrable blackness surrounded by vibrant blue irises.They glinted at me,vivid in his thin,smooth-shaven face.His mouth was surprisingly well-shaped for a man,and as I watched,the full lips formed words I couldn’t physically hear over the hubbub,but appeared just as clearly to me as if I had.

Help us all,he seemed to be saying.Help me.

****

It was over an hour past the time I would usually leave for the evening.I had pulled my greatcoat around my shoulders and I held my cane ready in my hand,but I was still waiting alone in my office.

I’d never thought of myself as a particularly introspective man,yet I’d been restless all day.The factory floor had settled down again after the morning’s disaster,but the accident had lingered in my mind.I’d given my report to the local police,and the undertaker had arrived and taken the body away to bury it at my charitable expense.In most people’s minds the business had now moved on.Accidents happen.No point dwelling on it.You’vedone your duty as an employer,why waste any more time?Neither the manager nor the supervisors said anything aloud—they were too cautious of angering me—but I could guess their thoughts.After all,that’s what always happenedin the old man’s time.

I’d experienced some difficulty in getting support when I took over the factory from my father,for many of the other local businessmen thought I was too young to maintain it.Many also thought I was too weak,I’m sure,for I’d spent much of my earlier years in more artistic pursuits.I’d been a quiet,careful boy,who liked nothing more than my books and some amateur painting.But I had accepted my inheritance with stoicism and a few ideas of my own.Even before the passing of the recent Acts to restrict the use of children as employees,I’d refused to employ the scrawny,often orphaned waifs my competitors used—although their cost was so much less—but instead,I’d sought to provide employment for young men and women,to support the local families.I established a system of shifts so no employee worked inordinately long hours.I maintained a doctor for their health and provided some basic refreshments for their meals.

No one gets rich with those ideas.I knew what was being said behind my back.Small factory,small ambition,small mind.Yet it was the only way I found I could tolerate the business.And now,five years later,I was still young,of course—at least compared to the pompous dignitaries of the town—but I’d gradually proved I could foster commercial success as well as appreciate the aesthetic qualities of the product.I would never compete with the larger factories,the more mechanised trade.But we produced good quality cloth,some of it with a lustre to the fabric that was close to silk,and much admired.The business made money,I had a good product I could be proud of,and a steady stream of reliable workers.I’d made myself a comfortable,if modest life.

It had never been an easy time for me,though.My sacrifices had made me what Iwas today.

The tentative knock on my door was expected,and I beckoned the young man intothe room.If I hadn’t sent my secretary home some hours earlier,I’m sure she would have thought it highly irregular I should call an employee personally into my office,especially when many of the workers had gone home and the looms were soon to be stilled for the night.

Up close he looked older than I’d estimated,and I wondered if he were one of the seniors of his shift’s group,sent to me as spokesman.But in front of me,he seemed to lack any real confidence.He stood awkwardly in his ill-fitting shift and trousers and his clumsy boots,looking for all the world as if he were awaiting punishment for some sin of his own.I was disconcerted to feel his nervousness prompting a similar echo inside myself,although I’d successfully hidden my personal insecurities behind my professional face for a long time now.His hands were clasped in front of him as if in supplication and I noted again the fine bones and fingers.There was a smear of dried blood on them,which I suspected was from touching the injured woman,earlier.

“I’m sorry if you lost a friend in the accident,”I said,not unkindly.“But I hear that your group has refused another employee to help with your workload,and I can’t allow any drop in productivity.If you feel you cannot work here any more…”

“But I can!”His words burst out.It was the first time I’d ever heard him speak.Whatever my compassion towards employees,it wasn’t accepted behaviour to socialise with them.“Forgive me,sir,that wasn’t my intention.We can manage the extra work.We all help each other.And it’s just…we don’t want to work with a stranger.”He had a slight accent which Ididn’t recognise,but his speech was unexpectedly clear and well formed.There were unshed tears in his eyes,making him seem younger and more fragile.