The Girl With One Friend: The Factory Girl Trilogy, #2

Some Reviews of Stephen Palmer’s Books

"A gonzo homage to the late Victorian/Edwardian British adventure yarn... imagine Michael Palin and Terry Jones’ Ripping Yarns doing a Steampunk episode with a large helping of early 70s British prog-rock psychedelia, some very peculiar flying machinora, and a chocolate train... Stephen Palmer is a writer you should read. His work is unique, original, sometimes challenging, always fresh and sometimes barking... Hairy London is strange, mad, subversive and possibly just a little bit dangerous. You won’t have encountered a vision of London like it." Amazing Stories

Stephen Palmer is a find. Time Out

Stephen Palmer has concocted a beguiling adventure that draws on some of the best sf of recent years for its basic themes... Starburst

Stephen Palmer’s imagination is fecund... Interzone

This latest novel confirms that in Stephen Palmer, science fiction has gained a distinctive new voice. Ottakar’s

Give him a try; his originality is refreshing. David V Barrett

... (a) supremely odd yet deeply rewarding experience. CCLaP

...a thrilling chase across a ravaged Europe, a burgeoning North Africa and balkanised US, interleaving excellent action set-pieces with fascinating philosophising on the nature of consciousness. A gripping read to the poignant last line. The Guardian, on Beautiful Intelligence

Palmer is a writer of unique and remarkable imagination. Teresa Edgerton, SFF Chronicles

The Girl With One Friend

Book 2 of the Factory Girl trilogy

Stephen Palmer

Published by

infinity plus

www.infinityplus.co.uk

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© Stephen Palmer 2016

2nd edition copyright © 2019 Stephen Palmer

Cover © Tom Brown,

with design © Stephen Palmer

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

The moral right of Stephen Palmer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Books by Stephen Palmer

Memory Seed

Glass

Flowercrash

Muezzinland

Hallucinating

Urbis Morpheos

The Rat and The Serpent

Hairy London

Beautiful Intelligence

No Grave for a Fox

The Girl With Two Souls (Factory Girl, book one)

The Girl With One Friend (Factory Girl, book two)

The Girl With No Soul (Factory Girl, book three)

Contents

The Girl With One Friend

About the author

More from infinity plus

Dedication

To Dorothy Rowe, whose books and dedication to humanity have long been an inspiration.

CHAPTER 1

Five leather straps bound Kora to the table, two at her ankles, two at her wrists, and one over her neck. She lay on her back, gazing up into the blue eyes of Archbishop Paxman. There was no trace of emotion in his face, though a single bead of sweat ran down one cheek.

Will it hurt? she asked.

Archbishop Paxman glanced at the door leading into the nave of St Matthew’s church. Then he looked down at her and said, I don’t think it will hurt your body. Be brave, child. Something has possessed you and it needs to be cast out.

Kora did not feel that her question had been answered to her satisfaction. So I won’t be hurt?

Again he hesitated. It will be distressing for all concerned, that’s a fact. But we must do this. There is much evil in the world, and something evil has taken up residence inside you. It must be expelled in the name of God.

Kora wriggled. The straps held her tight. Frank had given her only the smallest snippets of information concerning the procedure, though he had mentioned that she would be restrained. Her stomach gurgled, through lack of supper and through anxiety. She said, When will you begin?

He threw water from a silver vessel over her, so that it soaked the summer dress she wore. It has begun, he replied.

Kora felt her body jerk as the cold water struck.

Archbishop Paxman leaned over her and frowned. That was holy water, he said. Where is the steam? I heard no hiss.

Kora struggled against her bonds. I don’t want to do this now, she said. Let me go, please.

Again Archbishop Paxman glanced at the door. We cannot, he said. You have an evil spirit within you. He stood up straight and raised his arms, so that they stretched out over her face. Do you have a spirit of anger? Or do you have a spirit of revolution?

Again Kora struggled. She felt no pain, no horror, only disquiet that she had made the mistake of agreeing to this.

Now Archbishop Paxman’s voice became loud and deep as the ritual began. Do you have a spirit of revolution, or do you have a spirit of disease?

Kora wriggled again, trying to move her head so that she could see the doorway, but she was too tightly bound.

The doctor said you had lung cancer, Archbishop Paxman continued. That is a lie! There is an evil spirit within you, a spirit of disease, and it must be cast out.

Kora gasped for breath and struggled as much as she could, but the leather straps bound her without mercy. She felt sweat forming on her forehead – the church was warm this evening.

Start blowing out, Kora, Archbishop Paxman said.

Blowing out?

He leaned down and shouted, "Yes! Start to blow out this evil spirit! Then he stood up and raised his arms high. Kora, child, you have a spirit of disease within you. Do you hear voices? Do you feel another spirit within you? Yes you do! You are a believer, and yet you feel another spirit within you, and you are possessed. Blow out, Kora!"

Kora, not knowing what he meant, took a deep breath and exhaled as hard as she could.

Good, Archbishop Paxman said. Keep blowing out. You are ready! He dropped his arms so that his hands lay over her face, palms down. Spirit of disease! he shouted. "I bind you with chains of steel. I bind you and cast you out in the name of God, in the name of Jesus Christ and in the name of the Archangel Michael. Loosen your hold on her! Keep blowing out, Kora. Out, out."

Kora did as she was instructed, but she felt nothing move within her – no hint of Roka, no dizzy anticipation, no sense of struggle or desperation. She took deep breaths: she exhaled hard.

"Out, spirit of disease! Kora was intended by God to be a righteous Christian woman. Her guardian is a staunch member of society who protects her in the name of God. Out, spirit! Come out in the name of Jesus Christ, our lord and protector. Out, spirit! Come out, disease! Come out, vile spirit of evil. You will not have this Christian girl."

Kora took a deep breath, but then, as phlegm caught the back of her throat, she gagged, raised her head and coughed once. Bloodied spittle flecked Archbishop Paxman’s white surplice. He staggered back, and his face turned pale.

It is coming out! he gasped. He wiped Kora’s spittle from his face and leaned over her. "Out, spirit! Come out in the name of God and all that is holy!"

Kora, gasping for breath, coughed again, sending blood and phlegm into his face.

He stared at her, his expression ecstatic, and he yelled, "Out, out, out! In the name of God, of Jesus Christ and of the Archangel Michael, come out, spirit of disease! She will be free of you! Keep blowing out, Kora. Cough that evil spirit out of you! We are almost done. I will exorcise this spirit. Out, out, out!"

Kora shrank back beneath his untempered zeal – he bent over her now, his face a foot from hers. Her chest hurt, but she was more frightened of his wild manner than of anything else, as if he was the enemy here. But he was invigorated by the ritual, strengthened it seemed, and for the first time she wondered if Roka within her was an evil spirit, a thing of hate and disease, that had departed the smoking pits of the Factory to seek her out and ruin her.

Oh, God, she cried out. Leave me be!

Archbishop Paxman stood upright, then staggered backwards and thumped into the chamber wall. His face was white, his hair unkempt, his eyes staring.

Frank! Kora wailed. Frank, where are you?

At once she heard footsteps from the doorway, and moments later Frank stood beside her. Kora, he said, are you free of it? Can you see me, can you hear me?

With tears in her eyes she nodded.

Frank took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her mouth, then placed one hand upon her forehead. You’re burning up, child, he said.

Kora turned her head to see what had happened to Archbishop Paxman. She watched, appalled, as he slid to the floor, his hands covering his eyes, as if he was exhausted by the exorcism. Frank looked up too, then ran over to help him.

Are you done, Your Grace? he asked. Is it all over?

We shan’t know until tomorrow morning, Archbishop Paxman replied. He gasped, then uttered a wail. I am enervated! Casting out the spirit has weakened me. Please, Mr Darwin... pass me that water. I must drink.

Frank did as he was told. Hands trembling, still seated upon the floor, Archbishop Paxman drank the water then handed back the empty glass. Shall I help you to your chair? Frank asked.

Set the child free, Archbishop Paxman replied. She need not be bound any longer. I’ll recover presently.

Kora watched Frank leap to his feet and return to her. Like the Archbishop he also trembled as, fumbling, he tried to undo the leather straps. Curse these things, he muttered. Can’t undo them. Patience, Kora, patience...

Kora nodded, but made no reply. The lack of any change within her mind worried her. Though Roka was never accessible to her during normal days, she had nonetheless expected to feel different after the exorcism. She did not feel different. But as Archbishop Paxman explained, the final proof would appear in the morning.

She shuddered. It would be awful – so disappointing for Frank and Erasmus – if Roka walked down those stairs, to grin and make her breakfast as she had done so many times before at Peak View House. Kora shut her eyes. If that happened she would be ashamed.

What’s the matter? Frank asked, as he undid the straps at her wrists.

Oh... nothing. But Frank, I do hope this works. What will you think if it doesn’t?

He made no reply, but his expression was all the answer she needed.

Freed, Kora sat up, whereupon Frank brought her a glass of water. You feel well? he asked. You feel whole?

Kora tried to laugh as he fussed around her. How he reminded her of Dr Spellman, for both men, though different in character, were kind at heart. She wiped a tear from her eye and replied, I think I’m well enough. But I feel uncomfortable. A bath would be welcome.

Frank turned to Archbishop Paxman, who was clambering to his feet. Your Grace, he said, I don’t like to leave you, but Kora needs to be back home.

Archbishop Paxman nodded, then waved at him. Yes, yes... please, do leave. I’m recovering. The verger will see to my needs. By tomorrow I will have returned to normal.

Frank turned to Kora. You’re strong enough to walk? he asked.

Oh, Frank! Kora replied, trying to keep the anxiety she felt from her voice. She smiled, though she knew it would appear forced. I can certainly walk.

Frank placed a hand upon her shoulder to guide her to the doorway; moments later they stood in the nave of the church. Kora glanced up at the stained glass windows, at the altar, then at the cross upon that altar. She had said nothing about her religious doubts. Shocked by Dr Barlow’s diagnosis, she had been unable even to think, let alone to argue against Frank’s wishes. But now she wondered what the point had been of the exorcism. Had it worked? Could it work?

At the entrance to the church – locked from the inside – she saw the white-haired verger, and beside him the small, slim figure of Erasmus. She stumbled forward, and was surprised when Erasmus gave her a hug – brief, yes, but heartfelt.

Are you well? he asked.

She nodded, then glanced aside at the verger. May God be with you every day, poor child, the old man said, making the sign of the cross over his chest. He took her hand to add, Possession is neither a sin nor a crime, Miss Blackmore. Walk away, healed. You will be most welcome to return to our church at any time.

Frank laid both hands upon Kora’s shoulders and moved her away from the verger. Open the door please, he said.

The verger nodded, then pulled back the bar that held the door shut, so that they were able to walk through the doorway into a street lit by evening sunlight.

Kora glanced from side to side, sure there would be people nearby who knew what had just happened – who would stare at her, point at her, perhaps even curse her. But all she saw was working men in flat caps, women in evening dress, and automata. Dozens of automata.

St Matthew’s church stood in Carver Street, a short walk from Peak View House, but nonetheless a landau with its roof cover closed stood before her, driven by one of Frank’s automata. Frank helped her to board. A second automata sat within the carriage: big and burly. Clearly he was taking no chances.

Moments later the landau moved off. Frank relaxed at her side, then sighed. It’s over, he said. He turned to Kora and smiled. Thank God!

Kora found herself unable to smile back. She had heard the word God far too often that day.

Erasmus, sitting next to the burly automaton on the seat opposite, leaned forward and said, Do you feel different, Kora?

Kora shrugged. I don’t know. It was over so quickly. But the Archbishop was drained by the experience, so I suppose something must have happened.

I don’t believe you have cancer, Frank said. "How could you have? Notion is absurd. No, there must be something inside you – indeed, we know there is. Roka."

Kora nodded. She wanted to be free of Roka as much as anyone. Roka will put up a fight, she murmured.

You coughed Roka out of you, Frank insisted. "I saw that myself. Archbishop Paxman saw it. He staggered backwards when you coughed. Then you said, what was it... leave me be. We all heard that. Oh, I pray Roka’s been cast out."

Again Erasmus leaned forward. You must not write in your diary this evening, he said, for we know that Roka has taken to reading it.

Frank nodded. Agreed, he said. Too risky. I s’pose she might linger a while inside you, like a bad dream. Must fight Roka every way we can.

Again Kora nodded, but the tone of the conversation began to upset her. Roka was human. Roka also suffered. Alas that there was no easier way out of her dilemma. She felt inside the pocket of her dress, to feel the comforting shape of her book of Amy’s Garden. After a while she sighed and said, Roka will do as Roka wishes.

Frank tapped his fingers against his knees. And if exorcism doesn’t work...

Kora glanced up at him. Yes? she said.

I don’t countenance failure, he continued, but if it doesn’t work I have heard of a new procedure called psychosurgery.

What is that? Kora asked.

Was a Swiss gentleman called Gottlieb Burckhardt who invented the procedure, Frank replied. Died three years ago, but others continue his work. If truly you are ill and not possessed then perhaps the good doctors of today can help. Psychosurgery involves removing the affected part of your brain. Pre-frontal lobotomy. Have read in the science journals that it’s most effective.

Kora glanced across at Erasmus, to see that he was as horrified to hear this as she was. She said, We can’t go to such lengths–

"I must help you! Frank interrupted, turning to stare at her. Not God’s purpose to let you die young, Kora. If this is all the work of Satan or Mr Apollyon then I won’t stand idly by. I’ll fight!"

But... surgery...

Frank appeared upset now. "Roka will not win, he said. Will do this for dearest Spellman, my friend. And for you, Kora. I’m no coward, I’m the son of Charles Darwin, and we Darwins do what we have to do."

Kora sat back, unable to answer. Rarely did she see Frank in this mood. He mentioned Dr Spellman little, and she knew he had been affected to his core by the death of his friend. She realised now that Frank took his role as her guardian with the utmost solemnity.

All I meant, she murmured, is that Roka will struggle against you if you do fight her. We’ve all seen that.

She’ll fight, Frank agreed. But she won’t win.

Do you hate her? Kora asked.

He looked away, his expression one of distaste. Don’t hate anyone, he said. I do what’s got to be done. A matter of principle – for friends, for the greater good.

As he said this the landau turned into the drive of Peak View House. Kora, frightened by her glimpse of his crusading fervour, sat back and said nothing further. Erasmus, also unhappy if his face was anything to go by, sat back to gaze into the sunset.

They walked in silence into the house. In the hallway Frank paused, standing beside a mahogany table. From it he took a package, which he handed to Kora. Was going to leave this for a while, he said, but I think you deserve it now.

Kora took the package, which was small – no larger than a hymn book. What is it? she asked. Have you spent more money on me?

He uttered a humourless chuckle. Just open it, he said.

She did as she was told. Inside she found a pack of playing cards, which, to her astonishment, she saw had been graced by the hand of Sir John Tenniel, the illustrator of the first edition of Amy’s Garden. Frank! she gasped. Look... the queen of clubs – Amy’s sister Alice. The queen of diamonds is the Tongue-less Lady. The King of spades is the Missing Link. Oh! And the ace of spades...

The Photographer? Erasmus said.

Kora nodded. Who else? she replied. "But they are all beautifully illustrated. Frank, they must have been simply too expensive!"

He smiled, then pointed to the top of the stairs. Kora turned to see a large, chunky automaton dressed in dark workmen’s garb: short legs, long arms, and a face almost human, albeit rendered in brass, glass and Bakelite. In answer to your question, he said, yes, I have spent more money on you. A considerable sum, which went to your father’s business.

What is it? Kora asked.

A dedicated guardian. Similar to my heavier automata, though less flexible than some your father makes. Much stronger, though. Ah, but I only had one task in mind for it – protecting us. Will accept stenotype instructions and act of its own free will in dire need. It’s been programmed to protect us three. You first, of course. He paused, then added, We’ll call it the Simian. He sighed. You’d better have your bath, Kora. Me, I need a cigar and a brew of tea.

~

Although the table appeared to be normal, the ropes upon it – all of them attached to clamps screwed to the sides – were not. Strong ropes; and unexpected. Roka glanced back at Frank, saying nothing. He likewise remained silent.

A Duloid stood on the opposite side of the chamber. Good evening, Miss Blackmore, it said. Good evening, Mr Darwin. I am Bishop Mavros and I have been expecting you both.

Roka took a few steps backward, so that she stood closer to Frank. She whispered, I thought you said this was going to be a cleansing?

Frank nodded. It is. Shhh! In a louder voice he said, Bishop Mavros... Your Grace. Thank you for receiving us.

The Bishop said nothing. Roka stared at it. Tall and dressed entirely in black, it moved as if underwater – ponderous, careful. Its face was made from silver and brass, and its hair was jet black, but from the top of its skull two antennae protruded, each set with numerous cross-struts. Roka had never seen anything like it. She glanced again at Frank, then shrugged.

Frank took a few steps forward. Thank you for welcoming us into the... He paused, glanced around him, then continued in a less confident voice, ...into the church of the, er, Soul-Giver. I’ve explained to Roka that this is to be a cleansing, following a difficult time, and she’s come here full willing.

That is just as well, Bishop Mavros replied, since here, though we are a new church with new ideas, we approve of the moral principles of your old church. An expression approximating a smile passed across the Bishop’s face. It is best to fit in, is it not?

Indeed it is, Frank replied.

Roka, listening to this conversation, which to her ears seemed formal to the point of ludicrousness, could not restrain her questions any further. Is that table going to be used in this cleansing? she asked. "Why are there ropes? I want to know."

Bishop Mavros stepped forward to caress the nearest rope. You will have to be restrained temporarily, it said. This is usual, and is no reflection on you. I know from speaking with Mr Darwin that you are a sensible, meek girl, who does as she is told – like all good girls.

Roka frowned. This did not sound like the sort of thing she would agree with. "Why do you have to do it? Are you going to touch me? I’ll push you away if you do."

I won’t lay a finger upon you, Bishop Mavros replied. The rite of cleansing requires that you remain in a fixed position for a brief period, that is all.

Frustrated, Roka turned to Frank. So you’ve been here already, she said.

Of course. To arrange this. I did tell you, didn’t I?

Roka sighed. Yes, she muttered.

Frank appeared nervous now. Your Grace, he said, can we get on with it, please?

Bishop Mavros bowed once. Miss Blackmore, please lie on the table in any position that suits you most comfortably.

Scowling, Roka followed these instructions. Bishop Mavros tied a loose knot in one of the ropes, then, with exaggerated tenderness, placed it around her left ankle. Another followed over the right ankle.

Roka sat up and said, If you touch me–

"It won’t! Frank shouted from behind her. Roka, please! Do this for me – for us. Such a little thing. You’re safe here – this is the Bishop, after all."

Roka sighed and lay back. Soon two more ropes restrained her wrists. Bishop Mavros said, Now I shall place one loose across your neck. You will feel almost nothing... there! That was not so bad, was it?

Get on with it, Roka muttered, deciding to mimic Frank so that she could needle both of them in one go. And don’t dawdle.

Roka, Frank murmured. Courtesy at all times, remember?

Roka offered no reply. She watched the Bishop. Its expressionless glass eyes, as grey as an evening storm, lacked even a hint of sympathy. Yet this Duloid, Frank said, was already being accepted into Sheffield liturgical society.

Bishop Mavros turned to her. Roka Blackmore, it said, we are here to make you clean inside. The Soul-Giver is–

There came a shout, then a clang at the door. Roka, startled, gave a squeal, then turned her head just enough to see a commotion from the corner of her field of vision. Then came the unmistakeable voice of AutoRoka.

What’s going on here? Why did you leave me behind?

Frank leaped forward, saying, How did you get here? You should be at home with the automata. Go away–

No! My place is beside Roka.

Then Erasmus ran into the chamber. Uncle! It shoved me aside and I fell on the floor. I could not stop it.

Bishop Mavros strode forward. Who is this Duloid? it said, in a voice much louder than any that so far it had used.

Roka did not see what happened next, but she heard it all. AutoRoka said, None of you here is to harm Roka. If you do I will stop you by means of force. Stand back, away from the table.

This is the church of the Soul-Giver! Bishop Mavros replied. You have no authority here.

AutoRoka, stand back, Frank said. This is far beyond you.

Then, in a calmer tone of voice, Bishop Mavros said, This Duloid is related to Roka? Duloid – you are named?

AutoRoka, came the reply. Yes, I am with Roka.

At once Bishop Mavros returned to the table. They must be twins! It is a divine miracle.

Roka began twisting her body. "Let me go! You’re a charlatan. Let me go."

Bishop Mavros ignored her. Leaning over the table it said in a quiet voice, "You will go to sleep. You will remember. You are safe here with me. You will speak to me in your real tongue so that the truth comes out of you. I will extract truth from you."

Roka heard herself say, I am safe here with you. Then her vision blurred, the Bishop’s words a balm upon the turmoil in her mind. The chamber around her faded, to be replaced by a grey fog. She saw shapes in the fog; balloons perhaps. She shuddered, then wavered as a dizzy spell hit her. The balloons seemed to have faces upon them. Blank, pale automaton faces, constantly asking questions, constantly telling her things, constantly–

Dr Spellman! she screamed. "Dr Spellman, it’s Roka, I’m lost! Help me!"

The face of Bishop Mavros floated before her. Speak to me in your true tongue! I know what you are. You can trust me! Talk to me, Roka Blackmore.

Behind Bishop Mavros, Roka saw a landscape of numbers, a landscape that she had always known existed in her mind but which she had never before seen. That landscape allowed her to perform miracles of calculation: this she knew. But she had never before known how she pulled off the trick.

She said, One, two, three, five, eight, thirteen, twenty-one, thirty-four–

Silence! Bishop Mavros shouted. Speak to me of your inner soul. I see it inside you! Speak to me now.

But if I do...

Yes?

"If I do, you’ll see me. And I don’t want that. It’s too much."

"I will have you! said Bishop Mavros. I know you’re in there."

But before Roka could reply there came a thud from the world of the grey fog, and Bishop Mavros’ face vanished. Roka screamed, then sat up, remembering that she lay on a table inside the church of the Soul-Giver. At once the real world returned to her vision and the mesmeric grey world summoned by Bishop Mavros vanished.

She looked up. Bishop Mavros and AutoRoka were fighting.

It was a fight of such speed Roka could not see most of it, let alone grasp what might be happening. Both Duloids moved so fast their limbs became blurred, so that when sparks fountained from clashing metal they existed for a fraction of a second only, in a space clouded by whirling motion. Two bodies danced around the chamber, legs and arms moving with rapidity enough to make those bodies seem at times to float upon thin air. AutoRoka had that ability of the hummingbird to keep its torso and head set firm in space while its limbs worked around it. Bishop Mavros was no less astonishing, but it moved its body as one entity, ducking, dancing, leaping, so that it was concealed in a mist of blurred motion enlivened only by hallucinatory gleams created by candle light.

After a few moments there came a crescendo of clashes; then a pair of spark fountains leaped into the air. AutoRoka jumped backwards out of the battle like a cat, leaving Bishop Mavros motionless, crouching, looking up at the ceiling.

AutoRoka ran across the chamber then pulled the ropes away from the clamps. Now is the time to depart, it said.

Bishop Mavros stood up. No! We have not yet completed the rite.

Nor will you, AutoRoka replied. Roka’s like a sister to me. Do you think I’d stand by while you play tricks on her mind?

Bishop Mavros strode forward. "A sister, you say? Then you are twins?"

AutoRoka hesitated, and Roka knew it was perplexed by this question. She realised then that all the talk of automaton belief, of the sacred nature of twins and of the ultimate cause and desires of the Soul-Giver, if not true in actuality were believed by AutoRoka. This was no ordinary, stupid Duloid, as had been the case