Tactics at Twilight

Tactics at Twilight a short story by Michael Cobley

He stepped off the train beneath the station's arching immensity, and with a vague sense of recognition looked up. Gargoyles and masks stared down from elaborate stretches of stone and ironwork. Light from grimy gas lamps set high illuminated some areas, cast others in inky shadows. Pigeons perched on the lips of black circular niches, or fluttered in the maze of ceiling beams. Shepherded off to one side by his guards, James Fordyce was aware of a strange continuity between this, the Glasgow Grand Terminus, and the college that lay a day and a life behind him. The pervasive feeling of power and the weight of years was indistinguishable from the atmosphere of Northminster Monasterial College. As if they were somehow part of the same building, a framework of authority expressed in architecture. The hub of Empire indeed, he thought grimly as locomotive breath plumed the air. Other passengers glanced his way as they strode by, haughty curiosity becoming masked dread when eyes saw the compasses-and-cross brooches his guards wore. Fordyce stared back, his sombre mood slowly refining into anger as he took in their fur-edged cloaks, jewelled collars, goldfeather fedoras, their meek prosperity. Then they were all past and his anger ebbed. I've spent myself these six months, he thought. Fury requires vitality and I'm too old now for wholehearted hate. Hegarty, the Commission Officer, returned with the rest of the Diocesan guard, one of whom held Fordyce's valise. "Dr Fordyce," he began, "the remainder of your journey will be conducted under the jurisdiction of the Cardinalate of Glasgow. Follow me, please." Part way along the platform an unlit staircase led down to a doorway bright with daylight. They came out in a long shelter half-open to the elements and echoing to the din of porters, crowds and carriages. A black-and-bronze coach waited nearby and as they hurried towards it the side door swung out and a thickset man emerged. Like Hegarty he wore a brimless cap of black velvet with matching mantle and tabard, except that his pockets and hems were trimmed with grey. He nodded at Hegarty and turned to Fordyce. "I am Officer Maguire, his Eminence the Cardinal's secretary. Please take a seat, Doctor. We will be leaving shortly." Stiffly, Fordyce stepped up into the coach where two Diocesan guards sat with pistols on their laps. He eased back into the soft upholstery, almost sensing their blank gazes measuring his strength, gauging his reflexes. He smiled inwardly at that: no need to worry, my friends - I go to my exile in peace. No more struggle. The two officers exchanged document wallets and formal farewells,

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