BLUEMANTLE by Karen Langston (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

of Governor Wallace. Introducing a programme of controlled migration to boost the city’s workforce and productivity, Wallace had ordered the construction of tens of thousands of low-cost housing units to accommodate the bloated population. The Hundred of Creaser was created, incorporating the Rader Tenements and the twenty-four tower blocks that constituted the vast Wallace Estates.

Aside from addressing residential demands of a burgeoning population, Wallace had commissioned sprawling public buildings such as the Exchange, New City Bank and City Hall. The Messam, the business district and mercantile heart of Wydeye, was dominated by monolithic structures, bearing hard angles and jutting promontories, with blind façades or inside-out apertures revealing slices of glass.

As the railmotor looped through The Messam, Chase witnessed the full force of Wallace’s intent. The city seen from above the line was an imposing demonstration of industrial might: huge edifices made from steel and concrete – vast, muscular and aesthetically aggressive.

On reaching part of Wallace’s legacy, Chase and Naylor descended the Elevated and stood before the tenement blocks of Rader. As they entered the intimidating maze, they found themselves surrounded by row upon row of six-storey terraced dwellings, cowering beneath the shadow of the neighbouring high-rise.

In common with their attendant giants, the terraces were identical and constructed from concrete – unrendered blockwork, rather than precast. Small letterbox apertures barely broke the grey – the only feature on the façade, aside from six-foot-high iron grills at intervals on the ground floor, providing the means of entry and escape. Street after street, the tenements of Rader led the eye down long channels of soulless repetition and anonymous isolation.

Street twelve, block H. Passing the bullet kiosk no one had answered, they approached the building, pushed open the grill and stepped inside. They climbed a dark, concrete stairwell until they reached the fifth floor. Four doors led off a narrow corridor. Chase approached the furthest door, marked ‘H20’, and knocked. No answer. He pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and used one to open the door.

Wella’s quarters consisted of two small rooms and a broom-cupboard bathroom. The space was dark and undecorated, the walls the same blockwork as the exterior. Two narrow apertures let in negligible natural light. Naylor flicked a switch by the front door, turning on a bulb that hung limp from the low ceiling.

Chase stood in the centre of the first room, head down and fists clenched.

“How long since you’ve been here?” said Naylor.

“Six years. I helped her move in. She’s not invited me back.”

“I didn’t realise they were so small.”

“She’s so damned independent. Refused to share, even though she could’ve ended up somewhere nicer. And living with our folks was out of the question, apparently. This is all she could afford.” He shook his head.

Naylor clapped his hands together. “Okay, then. Let’s get looking. I’m guessing that’s her bedroom next door, so you look in there. I’ll search in here.”

“Remind me what we’re looking for.”

“Anything that might be something. Names, phone numbers. A diary would be good. Signs that she might have packed up and gone somewhere. Clues.”

“Clues…” said Chase, his voice flat. He walked into the adjoining room, struggling to imagine what such a thing might look like. He knew he wouldn’t recognise if anything appeared different or out of the ordinary.

They searched in silence, scanning pieces of paper, peering into cupboards, looking behind cushions, mindful of the reluctant transgression of privacy. Eventually Naylor called out, “Chase, take a look at this.”

Chase hurried over to Naylor, who handed him a pamphlet of sorts. It was folded concertina-style, creating ten pages, front and back, around ten inches by six. The paper was covered in blocks of text in various fonts, arranged between sketched illustrations and stylised border art. The sections of text were at odd angles – a manual cut-and-paste job – with the pamphlet representing a grainy copy of a master. “What do you think it is?” said Naylor.

Chase scanned the text. It referred to music, bands, snippets of news relating to them. “I’m not sure, but I don’t like the look of it.” His eyes darkened.

“Looks odd. Maybe it’s nothing,” said Naylor, sensing the change in Chase’s mood.

“Oh, it’s definitely something alright.” He opened it up, scanning front and back. “Where did you find it?”

“Inside one of the books on the shelf over there. Saw it poking out the top.”

Chase approached the shelf and picked up books at random, flicking through the pages. Another pamphlet dropped to the floor. Then another from a different book. “Hidden.”

“Why would she hide them?”

“Music, Naylor. Why do you think?”

“But there’s nothing wrong with music, only—”

“Tell that to Brann.”

Naylor turned away, knowing the reference to Chase’s younger brother was a clear end-of-subject jab. He reached down. “Look at this,” he said, picking up one of the pamphlets that had fallen to the floor. He pointed to handwriting, obscured amid the greyscale blur of one of the illustrations, and read, “Ursel – Telltale Circus.” He looked up at Chase. “This is it. This is our clue.”

Chapter Two

Governor Blix stood in her office, staring out of a tall window that overlooked the Authority Complex: huge concrete edifices that dominated the Hundred of Leven Hyder. She was in her mid-sixties, with silver hair scraped back from her pale, humourless face, into an immaculate bun. Her sharp grey suit blended well with the view.

A knock at the door pulled her attention back into the room: a sparse office swamped by a huge black desk and a high-backed swivel chair. “Enter.”

A tall, heavyset man walked in. He had spiked black hair and wore a long, leather trench coat, despite the heat. A deep scar ran across his left cheek down to his upper lip, carving the impression of a permanent sneer. “You called for me, Governor.”

“Ah, Commander Wulfwin. Sit down.” Blix gestured to a low seat before her desk, while she slid into the swivel chair opposite. “The latest on the Glos investigation.”

Wulfwin remained standing. “We’ve stabilised the area. Utilities have rerouted supply. Construction are