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Margie's gift had been considered a miracle. But now as she edged closer to adulthood they started to question where exactly her gift had come from. Truth be told, they were beginning to get a little frightened of her.
    On a blistering summer day in 1922, a year before the Charleston dance craze swept the nation, Margie was dropped off at Brookland's House - a home for prostitutes and wayward girls.
    "Never saw that one coming did you," said William, as he dropped her suitcase at her feet. He spat on the floor before hobbling away.

 
    The End and the Beginning
     
    It would, at this point in time, be lovely to say that Margie settled into Brookland's (or God’s Bosom as it was referred to by the religious sisters). Or that her mother, wracked with guilt, returned a few weeks later to reclaim her daughter. And they all lived happily ever after. They didn't.
    Misfortune continued to shadow Margie as the days became years and the years became decades until eventually there came a time when Margie fell asleep and never woke up. Well strictly speaking she did, she simply didn't wake up where she fell asleep, which is arguably worse than not waking up at all, particularly if the place you’ve just woken up in turns out to be a living Hell.
     

 
    Beware All Ye Who Enter Here
     
    It was cold – minus one degrees – when Auguste stumbled upon the red haired Margie lying in a twisted heap on the cobbled street. Her hair was a matted, tangled mess. Water and mud streaked her face. Nearby, a steam powered trolleybus – the Gravitonius – lay on its roof, beetle-like in its helplessness, blasting scalding vapour into the sky. A number of vehicles pulled over and a small excited crowd gathered. Some were directing traffic round the scene. Others speculated on what had just happened.
    "She appeared out of nowhere," said an elderly gentleman pointing his cane towards an ominous looking passageway, "came racing out of Piston Alley over there like a bullet out of a gun."
    Auguste, dressed in a top hat, brass flip-goggles and fur trimmed overcoat, studied Margie intently. Was this what he had been waiting for? Was this the reason he had been dragged away from his home? She looked so normal, so vulnerable.
    A young woman leaned in and interrupted his thoughts. "She should be in a million pieces the speed she smashed into that trolleybus," she said.
    Another woman called out as she scuttled past, "you’d better watch out for the Dog Beasts," she said, "they’ll have sniffed that blood from miles away."
    "They’re not even that far away," said another young woman, head down, "I’ve seen them slinking about like demons in the shadows. Those dog machines are worse than wild dogs. You can’t train them or feed them ..." She looked over her shoulder, "or kill them!" She turned pulling her collar up around her chin and hurried away.
    The young man bent down and placed two fingers on Margie’s wrist. He pulled a chunky armour clad stopwatch from his coat pocket, a seemingly impossible feat given the size of the watch, and concentrated on counting for a moment. "Did anyone see what happened?"
    "Ran headlong into the Gravitonius," said an elderly gentleman, shaking his head in disbelief. "The bus swerved, clipped the girl then toppled over. Lucky it was empty. Riding on auto pilot it was ... that’s why it didn’t swerve in time. Modern technology, not what it used to be."
    A stocky woman with a mountain of curly black hair and the makings of a beard tutted. "She’s lucky she’s not a gonner. Silly girl. Should watch where she’s going. And you," she hissed at Auguste, "you should be ashamed of yourself." She spat on the floor, inches from where Auguste knelt, then walked away.
    Auguste ignored the saliva (he was used to it) and looked across at the Gravitonius. It was a hulk of a contraption created from an old steam boat. Old fashioned and clunky, not at all like the modern airships with their silent rotor blades and glider wings.