When she went to claim Harvey's remains, some specifically warned her that their rites should be conducted as simply as possible. Continuing to bang on about it all was just further a disgrace to the dead, doing nothing to help the reality. In circumstances like these, one could hardly believe the term 'bereavement pay' ever existed. No one had a snowball's hope of getting anything meaningful out of those lackadaisical officials, at least not for now. So in the end, all the protests earned was a promise—verbal, of course—that they'd end the conflict ASAP and return everyone to work sooner than ASAP, if only every single factory would just shut up and stay that way from now on until the steam engines turn again. 'Believe in Victoria, and after that, go back inside.' Not unexpected, the remaining workers agreed. Still more behind her than were dead, luckily. Catherine was just the one who stepped up precisely when people were hoping for someone with a backbone. She led the lot back into the safety bounds, and wrapped the whole affair up on the spot. The funeral was over just as fast as those negotiations. The way back from church to the workers' residences wasn't any longer than it used to be. Catherine hiked up to the first floor, and just like always, just like that, pulled the door open and went in. Harvey never locked the door. All the workers on the assembly line were brothers and sisters to one another; everyone visited each other whenever they liked. Thick as thieves on the clock, and off it too. But now, Catherine stands as straight as ever in her sitting room. She looks about it. It's all the deathly same; there's still half a jumper sitting on the tea table next to the window. That's Lindy's knitting, at least before Lindy went to the hospital. Then Catherine took over and promptly snapped one needle while not watching what she was doing. She couldn't be arsed to replace it, so she pilfered the thinnest screwdriver out of her toolbox and used that instead. That is why the last two rows have every stitch unworked, leaving only a long succession of yawning holes. Let's finish that first, Catherine mutters to herself as she picks up the jumper, catches sight of what was underneath it, and then freezes. Only a worker could recognize it for what it is at a glance: a scale miniature of a steam engine, built bloody well for being cobbled together from resmelted scrap. Could only be Harvey's work. <i>Right. He always was brilliant at this sort of thing,</i> it hits Catherine. It's obviously just a random thingamajig built by someone with spare time to kill. Nothing valuable about it. No need to treat it like a part of him that's still here, clutching it, weeping long, bitter sobs over him. The phase where their sacrifices were exchanged for concessions was over now. Dressing death up any further than this should be enough to make anyone sick. All that happened here was someone made a decision, and didn't hesitate once about it... and that was that. Catherine puts the jumper down, opens the window, leans over and strikes a match against the heel of her boot. The scent of a cheap cig scatters through the air, floats out of the window, melts into the grimy grey urban scape. <i>Seems I'm not going out for drinks today,</i> she thinks to herself.