Excerpt from Smoke by Dan Vyleta, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"There you are! I've been looking all over."

Charlie corners him just before lights-out. That's the thing about school: no matter how big it is, there is no place to hide. Each nook, each hour is supervised. Empty rooms are locked and the hallways swarm with boys; porters in the stairwells, and outside it's too bloody cold.

"They say there's been a tribunal. In Trout's office." "Yes."

Charlie starts to say something, swallows it, looks him full in the face. His eyes are so full of care for him, it frightens Thomas.

"What did they do to you?" "Nothing."

"Are you sure?" "Yes."

Because how can Thomas tell him? That he's infected. That there is an evil growing in him, so dark and ugly it frightens Renfrew. That one day he will wake up and do something unspeakable. That crime runs in his family.



That he is a dangerous friend to have.

So he says, "They are letting me join the Trip." And also: "The delivery arrived. The thing they have been waiting for. Cruikshank came and told them."

Charlie hoots when he hears about the Trip, from relief and from happiness that they'll be going together. It's a joy so simple and pure, it makes Thomas ashamed before his friend. He might have apologised— confessed—had not Charlie put a hand on his arm and said, "Let's go see him. Cruikshank. We have a few minutes."

He starts running, tugging Thomas along.

"He likes me, Cruikshank does. I chat to him from time to time. He'll tell me what it is."

And as they race down the stairs, their feet clattering, each matching the other's stride, Thomas forgets, almost, that he is a sick boy, a walking blight, the son of a man who has killed.

PORTER

Two boys. They come to me with questions. One who strips the truth off things like he's made of turpentine, and the other with eyes so frank, it inclines you to confession. I talk to the second, naturally, though I keep track of the first. He's the type you don't want sneaking up on you from behind.

"The deliv'ry?" I ask, like I don't quite recall. It's how you survive in this world. Play dumb, thicken your accent. Makes you invisible: one look and they dismiss you from their minds. The powers that be. But not these boys. Smarter than their teachers, they are. They simply wait me out.

"Oh, nothin' special," I say at last. "Sweets, you know. Tea. Biscuits. From someplace in London."

That's all I give them, that and the name, to see how they react.

"Nice big stamp on the crate. Beasley and Son. Impor' and Expor', Deliv'ries to the Crown."

They don't bat an eyelid, not one of them. Innocents, then. Though the quiet one looks like he was born with a knife in his fist. Like he had to cut his way out, and didn't much mind.

"You goin' on the Trip, t'morrow, lads?" I ask, though of course I already know.

"Yes, Mr. Cruikshank. Will you be joining us?"

Mr. Cruikshank my arse. Polite little bugger, laying it on nice and thick. Though he certainly looks like he means it. If he puts that sort of look on the right wench down in London, she'll clean his piping free of charge.

"Oh no. I daresen't. Too scary for the likes of me. Wouldn't for all the world. Rather fly to the moon. Safer that."

Like I haven't been to London. It's not fifty miles down the road. Two days' walk, when I was young. Now all you needs to do is sit yourself on a train. Bring a little roast chicken along. Enjoy the ride.

Still, it's an odd venture, this Trip of theirs. Times are a-changing. Renfrew's been receiving letters. Three or four a month. No name on the flap but I can tell it's the ministry writing from the postal stamp. Richmond upon Thames. You get your map out, you'll see what you find. New Westminster Palace. The centre of power. Though there's talk of Parliament moving once again. Farther from London: the walls are already going grey. Trout gets post from the same little post office, but the hand that writes out the address is different, round and feminine, where Renfrew's man writes like a spider dragging its black guts. Hold it up to the light and you will see the outlines of a rubber stamp. "Victoria Regina," a fussy signature underneath. A civil servant's, no doubt, acting for the Crown. Bureaucrats versus lawmakers then; different corridors of power. Makes you wonder what's inside the letters. And whether Trout and Renfrew ever care to show and tell.

Excerpted from Smoke by Dan Vyleta. Copyright © 2016 by Dan Vyleta. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.