Tales from the Grey Void

I met Claude in the summer of 2029—this was four years after the opening of the Grey Void and the terrible business that took place in Bognor Regis—Fishnarok, I think it was dubbed, after the fact. Spirits were low, where the national character was concerned, and work was scarce—certainly, no one had expected the anomalous events that led to the destruction of England's fairest seaside resort to also lead to the establishment of a new, highly lucrative industry. That this is precisely what happened seemed to catch everyone off-guard. There were those few that saw the writing on the wall of course—the legendary Harvey Cruikshank for one—and while I do not count myself among the inner circle of these rarefied individuals, I can at least say with some confidence that I was “in on the ground floor”. Next time you visit Canning Town, cast your eyes over the last remnants of the great sky-docks—those tarnished pillars of steel that scratch the belly of the sky. Cast your eyes over them and know that I was there when they were first built.

Claude was a natural sink-fisher, without a doubt—the most gifted of his kind I ever witnessed. He knew how to bait his hook, how much helium to use, where to get the best balloons—the kind that would survive the upper reaches of the Earth's atmosphere where the most valuable catches tended to congregate. He knew it all without anyone having to tell him, as if he were born to it.

See, in those halcyon days, before the great sky-trawlers took over and rendered the profession all but obsolete, sink-fishing was something that required a great deal of skill—a lightness of touch that eluded most people. When the Grey Void opened and all that people had taken for granted took to the sky like a flock of startled birds, never to be seen again, it was to these select few that we turned, hoping to regain the use of our most vital of amenities.

Certainly, there were accusations of exploitation—of the skilled minority taking for themselves what the unskilled majority had lost through no fault of their own—but the reality was very different. Without people like Claude Le Jacques, Hailey Reinhardt and Harvey Cruikshank I have no doubt society as we knew it would have collapsed.

I had heard of Claude through a friend of mine—one Wenceslaus Trevelyan, erstwhile interior designer and architectural theorist—who had in turn met him at a cocktail bar in Haggerston. To hear Wenceslaus talk, you would have thought the boy was a prodigy of some forgotten art, holed-up in a garret, learning how to cut stained-glass, or the finer points of stone masonry, but the truth was that he was far more than that—he was a pioneer, on the frontier of a new, albeit short-lived profession. He was an explorer of a new neuronic condition, through which all the flaws and all the disparate desires of our society were manifested. Most of all, however, he was my friend.

I first met the man at his flat in East Village—a somewhat ramshackle abode, indicative of many of the new-builds that had popped up around East London in the previous decade. When I arrived, Claude was fishing from his balcony, as was his way. I recall he buzzed me in and I was greeted by a fabulous Burmese cat, whose brilliant blue eyes followed me with an intelligence I had thought rare even amongst my own species.

When I stepped out onto the balcony, Claude, without turning around in his camping chair, addressed me as though we had known each other for years, and not mere seconds, as was the truth of the matter.

“Did you get yourself a drink?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“Ah, that was your first mistake. A drink always helps with the catch—it loosens the muscles and relaxes the mind. Go back inside, if you will, and fix yourself something from my cabinet.”

“Claude?” I said, not knowing what to think. “I am truly grateful—”

But Claude cut me off with a wave of his hand. Its twin clasped the rod firmly, but with a sort of louche indifference, as if he knew whatever catches might be interested in his bait at the present moment were not worth the effort of both his hands.

“No, no, do not worry about that for now,” he said. “Get yourself a drink and, if I may be so bold, perhaps you would bring me a glass of the Pinot Noir while you are at it?”

I nodded and returned to the confines of his flat in search of libations, followed closely by the Burmese, as a wary security guard might follow a known thief around a department store.

The cabinet, as I discovered, was well-stocked with all manner of liquors and wines—a veritable smorgasbord of them, the likes of which I had not seen since the end of the last decade. Certainly, no such vintages were to be found in the aftermath of the opening of the Grey Void and I marvelled at the extent of this youth’s personal wealth to accrue such a collection.

Sighing with a kind of relish, I fixed myself a stiff Sazerac and, for my generous host, I poured a large glass of Pinot Noir.

Returning to the balcony, Claude at last turned to me, accepting the glass I offered.

“That is better,” he said, drinking deeply before placing the glass upon a large leather trunk by his feet. “The soul needs the same fortitude as the body, where sink-fishing is concerned, and I do find the Pinot of great help in this matter—it is a wine for the soul, is it not?”

“I do not know,” I admitted. “I am not much of an oenophile—in fact, I barely know my Grenache from my Gavi.”

“That is a shame,” said Claude. “But I see you do know your whisky—is that the Laphroaig, I smell?”

I nodded apologetically.

“It makes the best Sazerac,” I explained. “The peated whisky compliments the sweet anise of the absinthe—though I admit it feels like sacrilege to use it in this way.”

“Do not concern yourself with that—I gave you carte blanche, did I not? Besides, I cannot be upset with a man who recognises the beauty of an Islay malt.”

“That is very good of you,” I said. “You know why I am here, I take it?”

But Claude was not listening—the rod in his hand twitched once, twice, three times and he was on his feet, almost upsetting his glass in the process. One hand clasped the rod while the other worked the reel, drawing by inches his catch from the sea of clouds above us. I watched in fascination as he turned this way and that, manoeuvring the rod so that he might use the tension of the line as well as the reel to best effect.

It was then that I noticed the clamps set into the concrete of the balcony. They were similar to the straps worn by snowboarders, which lock their feet to their board, but these were made of leather and I understood then why he had asked me to fix his drink for him. I had heard of such things—for sink-fishing was not without its risks and many an amateur had met a grisly end after being whisked into the sky by particularly feisty catch—but I had never seen them in the flesh before. Beneath the straps, Claude wore a pair of delicate winklepickers in soft grey nubuck, which seemed strangely at odds with the somewhat brutish assembly of the clamps.

“A big one, I think,” said Claude, addressing me over his shoulder. “Marble, or granite, I would guess.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I said, casting about for a means of assisting him.

“No, no, mon frère,” he said. “Only, be ready to hand me a plug once I have got her in range.”

I took a bath-plug from the box he indicated and stood close by.

Following Claude’s line, I watched as the catch emerged from the clouds—a gorgeous farmhouse sink in green-veined granite, replete with copper taps.

“Ho ho ho, she is a beauty,” said Claude.

Once the sink was within arm’s reach of the balcony, Claude slotted his rod into a cradle by his chair, locking it in place with a twist of his wrist. I handed him the bath-plug and, with a tenderness I thought strange, given the nature of his quarry, Claude pulled the sink towards him and placed the plug into its hole. The sink shuddered once, twice and then was still. As it fell still, so too did its uncanny buoyancy diminish until the full weigh of it lay cradled in Claude’s arms.

“Mon frère, would you be so kind as to hold this a moment,” he said, passing me the sink. “I would normally be fine under such circumstances, but I am afraid of upsetting my Pinot from its perch.”

“Not at all,” I said, watching as he bent to the complex arrangement of straps that kept him rooted to the balcony.

Later, once we were settled in his front room with fresh drinks—and once we had covered the usual niceties of a first-time acquaintance—I raised the subject of the purpose of my visit.

“I am here under the auspices of one Harvey Cruikshank—you have heard of him?”

“Who has not,” said Claude, smiling. “He is, I think, a man after my own heart.”

“Quite so,” I said, neglecting to mention the rather extreme differences in personality between Cruikshank and Claude, not seeing them as prudent to matters at hand—he would soon discover for himself the degree to which they shared a heart, or not as the case may be. “He intends to mount what I can only describe as an expedition—a venture deep into the upper reaches of the atmosphere in search of the finest amenities man can find. To this end, he is looking for experienced sink-fishers to accompany him and to form an advisory coterie. Under him, you would have the status of mate—fourth, or possibly third-class, depending on the others recruited to his cause—and I have no doubt he would find your abilities exceedingly useful.”

“But, monsieur, I am a humble fisher—my ventures are small, domestic, if you will. Surely, I am not worthy of such a post as this?”

“That, my friend, is where you are wrong,” I said. “You are known to be an accomplished sink-fisher—certainly, this was the opinion of our mutual friend, Wenceslaus Trevelyan, and now that I have seen you in action, it is my opinion too. You may not think it to look at me, but I hold a certain sway amongst sink-fishers, both commercial and, as you put it so humbly, domestic—my recommendation is all Cruikshank requires.”

“You would do this for me?” said Claude. “A mere acquaintance?”

“No,” I said. “I would do it for sink-fisher of unparalleled skill.”

“But what of Florence?” said Claude, gesturing to the cat curled upon his lap—at the mention of her name, the cat cracked open one eye and fixed me with it, as if she were as curious about my answer as her owner. “Who will look after her while I am gone?”

“Bring her with you,” I said. “The airship will undoubtedly have plenty of sport for her in the hold.”

Florence closed her amber eye and adjusted her head on Claude’s lap in a satisfied sort of way.

“Then it is settled, mon frère,” said Claude. “Sign me up.”