I'm not only attempting NaNoWriMo this year, but I'm making it harder (or maybe easier) on myself by writing it sequentially, too. So this is chapter 1, written on day one. Chapter 2, written on days 2 & 3 (
) to follow
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The air was heavy with smog. Pollutants from uncountable chimneys mingled with fog rising from the rivers, streams and marshes of the town. The gas lights spluttered, reflecting light off the moist particles around them, but doing nothing to light the way of those below. Barely able to see a hand in front of a face, people stumbled through the streets and alleys. Arguments broke out as pedestrians and coaches alike bumped into each other. The more respectable citizens (or those who liked to think of themselves that way) pulled coats and cloaks around themselves, and hurried as fast as they dared for safety, imagining danger lurking around every corner. The smog muffled what sounds there were, and the normal airborne cacophony of the fly-boys was absent - it was dangerous to be driving a coach - either horse or steam powered - in this weather. It was deadly to try flying in it. Midday had come and gone unnoticed by all except those within earshot of a clock striking the hour; and now, with dusk fast approaching, it was as dark as night.
Smog crept in through every crack and crevice. It stole in through windows even slightly ajar, slid under doors and even seeped down dormant chimneys. On the river boatmen cursed and tried to find safe moorings, worried about running their boats into the cutwaters around the bridge piers, or into each other. The mudlarks usually present one the banks had called it a day long since, preferring to risk the wrath of their mothers and fathers than the worse fate of drowning. Most others of the more desperate and criminal classes had also given in for the time being - picking pockets, for example, is best accomplished when you don’t need to be physically touching the person before you can see their pockets.
Smog swept down the broad thoroughfares and hung there. It slipped into allies and around the rookeries, clothing them in a slightly greasy, discoloured cloak; making those twisty ways even more dangerous to those who had no business down in them. It washed into the railway stations, where steam and smoke from the trains mingled with it and fed it.
In parliament, the learned gentlemen peered across the divide and wondered just how many were there, and how many had taken advantage - especially in the back benches - to sneak away for a pie and a pint. And wondered if they dared risk it, too. In offices across the city, workers seemed more productive as there was less opportunity to gaze idly out of a window, or fling paper across the room. In pubs, the smoke from fires, cigarettes and pipes added to the smog that dashed in with each new patron, until the bartender was having a hard time finding the right pumps.
The working day drew to a dim close. Clerks poured out of their banks and offices, and into one another, adding to the unseen chaos. A snippet of conversation between two young men trudging up Holborn Hill floated to the ears of those nearby, causing a wry smile of recognition.
“Y’know, Phiz, I wouldn’t find it at all odd were a brontosaurus to waddle past us”
“Or a megalosaurus, Boz”
Shops drew down their shutters and locked up. The smog was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, no-one could easily see the wares on display in the windows; but on the other, more people took refuge in the shops to escape the weather. The canny shopkeeper knew how to manipulate these refugees into buying something, even if it wasn’t much. Tea shops and coffee rooms also saw an increase in trade. One enterprising, or possibly just foolish, street trader was trying to capitalise on the weather, calling out to passers by as he heard their footsteps.
“Gitcha real pea soup ‘ere. Eat pea soup in a pea souper. Steamin’ hot and freshly made”
Those who were foolhardy enough to try it later said that the man must have been taking advantage of the fog to ensure his face could not be seen. No-one could quite agree what ingredients they thought were in it, but everyone was in agreement that none of them were fresh. Or even actually edible.
Brothel madams tried every trick they could think of to keep some visibility around their doors. More lights just made the banks of smog seem brighter, fanning the air made it swirl around like petticoats, but without giving any tantalising glimpse of what lay beyond. In the end they, like everyone else with something to sell, resorted to calling their wares to passing traffic, using the smog as a ruse to entice people in.
The news boys didn’t have any such option. They could call out the headlines, but they could provide nowhere sheltered for people to read the papers. The brighter ones took to hanging around by coffee rooms, tea shops, pubs and chop houses - something that was normally discouraged in case it put off passing trade, but in weather like this actively encouraged as it was more likely to draw people in.
The last of the daylight faded away, unnoticed by the city’s inhabitants. The theatres and music halls had boys shouting from their doors, promoting not only the evening’s show but also the relative smog-less-ness of the auditorium. The calls acted as beacons for the confused traveller, giving them a signal to navigate by and a safe haven at least for a short period. No-one believed that the weather would have improved after they left these places, they were very aware they were delaying the inevitable. But eating, or getting drunk, or watching a show seemed preferable to fighting home through the smog immediately.
The hour grew late and the streets were emptier. Those still out were either making their way home from an eating or entertainment establishment; or were wandering, lost, trying to get their bearings. The smog gave an extra air of menace to the night, and those still out tried to hurry as best they could towards home.
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The city had grown up from the Thames, the river that ran through its heart. London sat above a chalk basin, filled in with a heavy, stiff, blue-grey clay. Other rivers fed into the Thames, and streams fed into them. Springs abounded in the meadows and marshes further afield. All this water allowed people to settle and make their homes there. The opportunities that the larger rivers afforded for trade and travel, as well as food and water, were an added bonus which helped the place grow to the size it had. The clay had benefits too, making tunnels and deep foundations easier to build. But the conditions that attracted humans to it also attracted fog to it. The indigenous fog was, to be fair, no worse than fog found in similar sites around the world. But unlike most similar sites, London had added industrial pollution to the mix, creating a yellow brown shroud that lay thickly over the city, blotting out even the midday sun.
By now, many of the streams and smaller rivers had been partly or completely covered over, and the marshes and meadows built on. The water was still there, though, and made itself known through floods and fogs.
The city itself did nothing to help disperse the smog. It had sprouted, almost organically, from the small hamlets and villages that had sprung up around water sources. These had merged together into mess of narrow alleys and streets. From time to time, town planners found an excuse to put a broad thoroughfare here, some wider roads there. But for the most part it remained a jumble, grown rather than planned. It seemed almost as it it was alive - devastating events such as the great fire of 1666 didn’t lead to much in the way of complete renovation, but more of a rebuilding along the same lines, as if the city itself was dictating its own form.
For the most part people stoically accepted it; partly because it didn’t really do anyone much actual harm, but mostly because it was taken as a necessary side effect of industrialisation, itself seen as a necessary driving force of the Empire. Those who claimed that the new factories springing up were dehumanising the workforce and taking jobs away from them pointed to the smog as the evil satanic belching of industry, but in the city more people were benefitting from the factories than otherwise. More people with influence, that is, and who could also escape to the still-unpolluted countryside when it all got too much. The movement for change gathered some momentum, mostly amongst the downtrodden and those who felt unable to fight back on their own, but amongst the majority it went largely unnoticed.
But despite this, there were some murmurings of discontent amongst the middle classes. They were benefitting from industry, that they did not doubt. But not all of them were rich enough to keep a house in town and a house in the country to escape to when London became unbearable. And technology had made some tremendous leaps and bounds. If Charles Babbage and Ada Lovelace could create a machine that would do away with a whole room of computers, then why couldn’t someone apply their mind to cleaning the London air and making it more breathable. They weren’t opposed to the continued industrialisation, but they felt it should be applied to making their lives better in all ways. Many couched this in terms of improving everyone’s lot, but it was generally accepted that they only did so in order to make themselves not look too selfish.
And a very few used the criminal angle - claiming that the smog provided extra cover for thieves, and thus made the streets even more unsafe than they were already. Something should be done, they declared, for the safety of everyone. How can we have the centre of the empire enrobed in a thick covering of toxic smog which only gives additional encouragement to thieves to prey upon both the natives and foreign visitors. They tended to act alone, or in very small groups, and were largely ignored as scare mongers or worse.
On this night, as on the last several nights of heavy smog, an odd clockwork noise could be heard from a narrow alley near the heart of the city. Those feeling brave enough to investigate simply found out that the noise was coming from behind the doors of a coach house. The newspapers had run a couple of stories on it, noting that the noise was only heard on nights with really bad smog. Some took the stance that it was an inventor trying to find a way to clear the smog, others that it was a criminal mastermind looking for ways to capitalise on it. But after a few nights of noise and no action, interest gradually waned to the point that it became part of the scenery.
On this night, unlike the last several nights of heavy smog, the coach house doors swung silently open. The noise of the clockwork was a little louder without the doors to muffle it, and this attracted the attention of a young lad, feeling brave after a night in the pub. He felt his way up the alley, and paused. The clockwork noise seemed to be getting louder, and underneath that noise, he could hear something that sounded like wheels rumbling over cobbles. He slowly edged forward, and just saw a looming tower trundling towards him in the gloom.
There weren’t many other passers-by at that time of night. But those who were there froze in their tracks at the sound of an almost inhuman scream sounding out, then suddenly ceasing. The papers the following day were full of the “Mechanical Murderer”, and the cry went up that someone must do something.