Chapter Six
Auntie descends on us almost as soon as we enter the house. She's a large woman, not tall, but big. When she was younger she took a more active role in the Resistance; now though she runs the boarding house where some of us live. She functions as a replacement mother for those of us who no longer have our own: worrying, fretting, feeding, and offering unwanted advice just like the real thing.
She engulfs me in a hug as soon as I clear the doorway, then swoops in on the Ringer. Auntie has no issues with personal space, and I have to smother a laugh when I see his face pressed against her considerable bosom. She once wielded the blades I do today, but her powerful muscles are going to slack now that she's in retirement. The Ringer looks as though he's in danger of being suffocated.
"Welcome, welcome!" Auntie slackens her hold and the Ringer is able to shove himself far enough away to breathe again. "Ryland told me ages ago to expect you." I quickly look in her direction, shocked by this admission. So she knew about his impending arrival well before I did. Interesting. "Come along, my boy, and I'll show you where you'll be bunking."
He looks from me to her, as if waiting for my word. I put my box down and remove the contents. "Go on. I'll catch up with you later."
The Ringer nods and pulls his clothes out of the box he's been carrying. Auntie looks at me sharply, taking visual inventory. "What on earth have you done to your head?"
I sigh. Then I hold up the braid of my hair. She clucks her tongue at me while ushering the Ringer to the back of the house. I catch a glimpse of his smile before he disappears around the landing. "Well, we'll figure out something to do with you later."
I troop the three flights up to my bedroom. It's small, with just a twin bed and a small chest of drawers tucked under an eave. There's a sink with a mirror above it on the wall opposite the door, but I have to share a bathroom with the two other tenants on this side of the hall. I shuck off my pack and slicker, dumping them and my coat at the foot of the bed. I slip the pouch containing my rosary over my head and hang it on the bed frame.
I want a shower, something hot to eat, and a decent night's rest, in that order. I walk to the sink to gather up my kit, stopping once I see my reflection in the mirror. I lift my hand to touch the ends of my dark brown hair, now so much shorter after the enforced haircut. I turn my head from side to side, noticing how much lighter my head feels without the weight of so much hair. Then I stop and study my mirror image. I look different with my hair in my face, less severe. I look younger, softer. I look different. My eyes meet the muddy grey-blue of my reflection's. I try and smile, but I look like I have indigestion. I drag fingers through my hair, pulling it back once more. There she is, the old me. I let my hair fall back down. The new me. I'd better get used to it because the new me was going to be around for the foreseeable future unless I figure out how to make my hair grow overnight.
I put the long braid on top of the chest, brushing it once more with my fingers. My mother had loved my hair—she'd always said my hair was one of my best features. I loved it because it looked like hers. It was the last thing I had of hers really, other than the rosary.
I bundle my shower things into my bathrobe and head down the hall. The bathroom is thankfully unoccupied, so I take my time in there. When I emerge, the entire room is clouded with steam and I am pink and content. The hot water took the ache out of sore muscles and relaxed tense shoulders. I feel like I could almost skip food and go straight to bed. My stomach rumbles and I realize that though I might appreciate the rest, my body is crying out for something substantial.
I am pulling on a t-shirt when there's a knock at my door. I tug on a pair of lounging pants and pad over to it, wrapping a towel around my wet hair. When I open it, the Ringer is standing there. His hair is wet, sticking up in spikes like a hedgehog and he's managed to find some fresh clothes. "Hi."
"Hello." I squeeze water from my hair while I wait for him to continue. When he just stares at me, I ask, "Is there something I can do for you?"
"Is there anywhere I can grab some food?" He steps back to lean against the wall. "I don't want to bother you, but I haven't eaten in almost two days."
I raise my eyebrows in surprise, both at his admission and at the fact that Auntie didn't let him know about dinner. But then again, she tended to forget the simple things in light of learning more about her charges, however temporary. "I was just going to go downstairs to get some supper." I slip on my shoes. "Follow me."
I toss my towel on the bed and close my door. "So where'd Auntie put you?" If I'm to be his guide while he's in London, it's a good idea to know where he's staying.
He falls in beside me. "Bottom floor, west corner."
"I know the one." It's got an entrance to the back garden, which exits out to the street behind the house. Nice of her to give him a room with a possible escape route. I look at him intently. Now that I take the time, I can see the marks of a hard journey on him. His cheeks look hollow, and a fading bruise decorates his right one. There are shadows under the green eyes. He looks like he could use a long sleep and a hot meal, both of which he can get here. But there's something haunted about him too, a sadness that he carries with him but tries to hide. "How long has it been since you slept?"
He laughs ruefully. "I'm not sure. A few days at least. We've been traveling almost non-stop to get here. It's mostly been catnaps in the backs of trucks for me."
I lead him into the kitchen. Auntie always has a stew or soup or something like it on the stove and tonight is no exception. I lift the pot's lid and inhale the scent of lamb and root vegetables cooking in the thick brown stock. "Hand me those bowls." I get the ladle from its hook on the wall above the stove.
"Please?" The Ringer's voice has a rebuke in it.
I look up to find him looking at me with one eyebrow raised. I stare at him for a moment before I understand what he's after. "Please hand me the bowls," I say, trying hard not to sound gruff, especially when he grins like a little boy getting away with something. I realize that I'm out of practice with my manners, but I'm not enjoying his constant reminders of it. Patrick though would be having a field day with this. He was always trying to get me to be more polite.
The last time we had fish and chips together, Pat made another attempt at civilizing me. I had asked him to pass me the malt vinegar. He quirked a dark eyebrow at me and asked, “What do we say?”
“Now, before I thump you?” I grinned at him around a mouthful of chip.
“You are hopeless, you know that?” He handed me the bottle. “You may as well wear animal skins, live in a cave, and hit things over the head with a club.”
Clearly, Patrick’s lessons didn’t take.
"You're welcome," Dham says, needling me. I ignore him.
As I ladle in the stew, he observes, "Not big on manners, are you?"
I put the bowls aside and grab one of the loaves of dense brown bread on the bread board. I slice off two thick pieces, offering one to the Ringer. I gesture towards the small sitting room off the kitchen and follow him. "Don't have much cause to be. I spend a lot of time by myself." I settle myself on the loveseat, putting my dinner on the low table in front of it. The Ringer sits next to me. "And it's not like there's a lot of time for formality when you're fighting a Blight. 'Oh do be so good as to please duck so I do not slice off your head by accident' is a bit of a mouthful."
He tries a spoonful of the stew and closes his eyes as he swallows. "That's possibly the best thing I've ever tasted." He pauses. "Granted, I probably wouldn't complain if you set a plate of fried dog food in front of me, but this is really good." He tears off a hunk of bread and dips it in the broth.
I find myself grinning. "I'll try to remember to convey your exact words to Auntie. You want some tea?"
"Whatever you're having." He wolfs down more of the stew while I get up to prepare the tea. I turn on the electric kettle, so it isn't long before I'm setting a tea tray down on the table.
I pour out two cups and pass him one. "Thank
s," he says, wiping his mouth on a napkin. I can see he's almost polished off the bread and is nearly through his bowl of stew. "So besides carving up demons and having no manners, what else is there to know about you?"
I find myself smiling. I can't help it. I find him equal parts obnoxious and compelling. I take a bite of stew to try and keep him from seeing it, but the smirk on his face tells me he caught me. "There's not much to tell." I wash the stew down with a sip of tea; one sugar and a dash of cream. "I’m full-time Resistance. I come here, I go below." I dropped out of school a year ago so I could take on more missions. Not that anyone but Patrick noticed; it’s not unusually for someone to just stop attending classes, and it was better for all involved not to ask too many questions about it.
I watch as he cleans his bowl, mopping up the last bit of liquid with his bread. "What about you?"
He shrugs and gets up, bowl in hand. "You want some more?" I shake my head and wait until he comes back with a second helping. He sits down and proceeds to eat, but stops when he notices me staring. "What?"
I put down my spoon. "Besides an obsessive interest in good manners and a talent for music, what is there to know about you?"
"Like you said, not much to tell." He takes another bite. I don't believe him. He's here for whatever meeting Ryland is holding, and he came all the way from New York to attend. That's the exact opposite of not much to tell.
I try a different tack. "What's New York like?" I haven't traveled anywhere. London is the only place I've been. It's always been enough for me, although I do wonder how other cities would compare to it. And I’d like to see where my mother came from one day.
He leans back against the pillows and runs a hand through his hair. His hair is darker when it's wet, almost brown, but as it dries it has golden highlights running through it. I dunk my bread in the stew and wait. "Kind of like here, I guess. Tall buildings, bombed churches, ruined synagogues and mosques, frightened people, underground subway tunnels full of demons." He takes a spoonful of stew, then cocks his head. "New York feels bigger though and at the same time...more compact." He looks at me. "I'm not sure how to explain it. London feels like it sprawls more. Maybe it's because the buildings aren't as tall."
I take another bite of stew, chewing thoughtfully. "How did you get involved in all this?" What I really want to know was how he came to be chosen to come over here, but I suppose I should work up to that.
His face grows serious and he looks down at his bowl. "You mean the Resistance?"
I nod. "And the bells. You said earlier that musical talent ran in your family, but this seems like...kind of an extreme way to use it." I take another sip of my tea as I wait for him to answer.
"Have you ever played an instrument before?" He sounds defensive.
I try to diffuse the situation. "I have absolutely no ear for music. When I sing, dogs howl and babies weep." I smile at him to show him it doesn't bother me. That's not where my skills lie.
"Well, it's not easy to learn. And the bells are even harder than a regular instrument, like a piano or guitar. They require more focus and attention. You need a strength of will to wield them properly, or at least that's what my sister always said." He looks at the fireplace, his eyes on the flames. "So when I say that it's a family calling what I mean is that we kind of have no choice. Not everyone has the knack for it."
I stare at him, watching the play of shadows and light from the fire flare over the bones of his face. I take the moment to study him when his mind is elsewhere and I can look at him freely. The dim light takes years from his face; he looks much younger now and smaller, almost like he's lost part of himself. I wonder how I look in this light. Probably like a gawky, adolescent boy, with my small chest and short hair.
"Is your sister older or younger?"
"Was. Older." His jaw clenches, the points jumping in the firelight.
"Was?" Bollocks.
He faces me, his movements sharp and quick, and there is a darkness in his eyes that wasn't there before. He looks sad and angry and heartsick, a far cry from the easy cheerfulness that I've seen since he's been here. Then his eyelids close, shuttering what's behind them like a blind. When he opens them again, I think I see a sheen in them, a hint of tears, but then it's gone. "Not open for discussion."
I nod, drinking my tea to give my hands something to do. The silence feels different now, loaded like a land mine that he and I are stepping around. I ruined the mood with the question about his sister. I feel like I should offer something of myself, of my background, but I can't talk about it either. I try not to think of my mother, of how she died. Some days I actually succeed.
So what to do? He's pushing his food around his bowl absently, no longer interested in eating. The fire is dying. Soon we'll be sitting in the dark, in silence, which will not help the awkwardness one jot. And lord only knows when more tenants might come barging in and make infantile jokes at our expense. In our present moods, well at least my present mood, that confrontation is not to be wished unless you like bleeding.
I take his bowl from him, stacking it with mine, and gather up the tea things. "Come on, there's something I want to show you." I drop off the tray in the kitchen, intending to come back for it later. For now, though, I have something more important to attend to.
I lead him back up the stairs, all the way to the top floor and my room. I push the door open and switch on the light. It's dusk, the sun slowly fading, and the room is wrapped in darkness. I push up the window and climb out on the ledge. There's a fire escape that leads down to the street, but I begin to climb up to the roof. After a moment, the Ringer follows. I pull myself over the edge and survey my rooftop.
Patrick was the first—and up until now only—person I’d ever brought up here. I remember that London had been encased in a light drizzle for days that weighed on everyone like watery chains. So when the sun finally made an appearance, like a celebrity on a red carpet, I dragged him along with me to enjoy it. We were maybe thirteen at the time, but I’d been living at Auntie’s since my mother’s death. Patrick’s mother had tried to insist that I move in with them, but Ryland had taken me under his wing as my mother’s last request and he was going to honor it. It hadn’t made Mrs. Bowen very happy, but I guess she figured Patrick would report to her if I was being starved or beaten or had scurvy or anything. She must have been disappointed when it turned out Auntie was a more than adequate caretaker.
Patrick and I spent a lot of time together, either at Auntie’s or running loose all over the city. I couldn’t go back to his flat—it reminded me too much of what I’d lost. It was too hard for me to walk up those stairs and turn to walk into his flat rather than my old home across the hall. He seemed to understand that, and he still never presses me to come to dinner or spend time at his house. I am grateful for his consideration.
That clear spring night, I climbed up the fire escape that led to the roof of the building and waited while Patrick took his time. He’d changed over the past few years, becoming more and more cautious. I sometimes wonder if it had to do with how his father died—on his way to work when a terrorist bomb went off—that made Pat so careful. Chance took his parent; everyone agreed it was a simple case of wrong place-wrong time. But Pat was determined to take all chance out of his life—every decision he made was weighed and measured like an ingredient in a cake. Patrick intended to never leave anything to chance ever again.
I found out much later from Ryland that although the Resistance had been blamed for the terrorist attacks, it was the Inquisition that was responsible for that particular bomb. I didn’t tell Patrick and I may never. He’s careful with my wounds, it’s only right that I’m careful with his.
When Patrick had finally made it to the roof, I led him to the side with the best view. You could barely notice the gaps in the buildings where the churches used to be. And you couldn’t see the building that housed the Inquisition at all. The brisk wind sent the grey clouds scudding across the sky, reminding me of sheep being h
erded by a collie out in the country. “So this is it.”
He looked around, brown eyes blinking against the diffused light from the sun through the clouds. He nodded to himself, taking a slow circle around the roof. He never makes snap judgments, so I let him take his time to come to his own conclusion about my little hideaway from the world.
Finally he stopped. I looked at him, waiting for him to say something. When he smiled, I felt something knotted up inside me relax. Patrick was always so serious; when he smiled, it was like a gift. “I like it.”
I grinned at him, pleased that he liked it. I rummaged through one of the weatherproof boxes I kept up here. I pushed aside the candles I had up here for night visits and pulled out a couple of novels and a bag of crisps. I tossed him the bag, and made my way to a patch of roof that was almost dry.
He sat down beside me. “Is this what you do up here? Eat junk and read?”
I leaned back. “I’m a teenager. It’s what we’re supposed to do.” I didn’t mention my forays into the Underground. Patrick still doesn’t like to think about it. It’s just one more land mine we have to navigate around. I’d been noticing more and more of them and it concerned me. I smiled to show I was kidding. “We can’t all be like you, content to think great thoughts and exist on air and our own genius.” I nudged him playfully.
He nudged me back. “Pity that.” He slanted his eyes at me, cautious. “Maybe if you came to class more often....” He left the sentence hanging.
I looked away, not wanting him to see the look on my face. I wish I could go to class like a normal person, but sometimes my work in the Resistance interfered. A lot of the time. I usually missed the maximum number of days a student can and still pass because of the missions Ryland assigned to me. “It’s enough.”
Patrick dropped the subject, but I knew he was unhappy about it. An awkward silence rose up, something I wasn’t used to between us. We’d always talked about anything and everything; no subject was taboo. That day though, it felt like we were apart by the merest inches but that might as well have been an ocean.
I said the first thing that came to my head. “I heard Brianna talking about you in the ladies the other day.”
“What’d she say?” He didn’t sound particularly interested, more grateful that the silence had been filled.
“She thinks you’re delish.” I rolled the last word out of my mouth with a vocal flourish.
“She did not.” He glared at me. “She’d never say anything like that to you.”
Point to him. Brianna would never say anything at all to me actually. I was pretty certain she and her group of friends weren’t even aware that I was alive. “I was in a stall at the time.”
He nodded, understanding. I knew he thought I had an antisocial streak that meant I enjoyed hiding in the bathroom. I didn’t tell him that it was amazing the tidbits of information you could pick up by eavesdropping on bathroom conversations. Parents weren’t always as careful as they should be when talking in front of their children. Brianna’s mother was a middle manager in one of the Inquisitorial agencies. I had already picked up a number of juicy tidbits that I could take back to the Resistance.
“Okay.” He shrugged.
“Okay?” One of the popular girls in school liked him and all he could say was okay? I thought at least a look of horror was appropriate.
“What do you expect me to do?” He sounded angry.
“Well, do you like her?”
“Would it matter to you if I did?” His voice rose in a challenge.
I blinked. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. But Patrick was my friend. If he liked Brianna, I would be happy for him, even if I didn’t care for her. “Of course it does! I want you to be happy.”
He shook his head. He looked like he wanted to say something important—his eyes narrowed at the corners and his mouth went all firm—but then his face cleared. “I don’t like her.”
“Oh, good.” I tucked my hands behind my head and watched the clouds. “That would have been strange, you with a girl like Brianna.” I turned my head so I could look at him.
He stared at me for a few minutes. His eyes were very big and intense, like when he’s thinking about something really serious. When he didn’t say anything, I filled the silence with a joke. “Grandmother, what big eyes you have.”
Patrick stood. I still remember how much his speed surprised me. “I’ve got to go.”
“But you just got here.” I wasn’t sure what I’d said or done, but I knew I had done something. Patrick never just left like this.
“I’ve got a project due that I just remembered. I’ll see you in a bit.” Before I could protest any more, he was scampering down the fire escape.
That was the last time I brought anyone up here.
I leave the edge of the roof to find my usual spot. I sit, leaning back on my elbows. The Ringer stands next to me. The layout of my part of London is laid out before us, still faintly illuminated by the dying sun. You can see the shapes of the buildings, but not the details, everything turning into a study in shadow with the fading of the daylight. The blank spaces where churches once stood are empty pockets of brightness against the blackness of buildings.
This is my favorite time for the city. And this is my favorite place.
"Wow," he breathes, turning to admire the view from all directions. We aren't terribly high, but we have a good location to see the sprawl of the city. There's something about this view at twilight that seems magical. I feel like Wendy must have felt when flying over the rooftops of London with Peter Pan. This is the closest I can come to flying away to Neverland.
"I know it's not New York, but it's not so bad."
He drops down beside me, his posture mirroring my own. "This is beautiful." He turns his head and looks at me. For a few moments he just stares and I have to force myself not to fidget. His attention makes me uncomfortable. "Your eyes are blue. I didn't notice that before."
"More grey, actually. Not really a color at all." I turn my gaze back to the skyline.
"They're like the ocean when there's a storm."
I shrug, unsure of what to say to that, feeling suddenly awkward. My face feels warm. I've only seen the ocean a few times, when I was much younger, so I'll have to take his word for it. My mother took me when she could get time away...I stop myself before I go too far with the thought. Up here is safe from that world. Up here, I am away from it all, if only for a brief while. "I love coming up here," I tell him. "It's so quiet, so peaceful."
"Does anyone else ever come up here?" He leans in closer, his head almost at my shoulder.
I pause, thinking about Patrick. But I don’t want to bring him up right now. "I don't think so. Most people prefer the back garden. There are no trees or flowers to recommend this place." Which is why I prefer it up here. It's the one place I can go where I can truly be by myself. I'm not even sure why I brought Dham up here, except that he was hurting and I thought that seeing the view of London might cheer him up.
"It reminds me a little of home. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I'm on top of my old apartment building." He leans back and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. "Except it doesn't smell the same." His nose wrinkles a little.
"Probably the petrol." I don't say anything else. I just sit and watch the night come in, shading the sky in roses and light blues, royals, and violets, until finally deepening to black. I wrap my arms about my legs and press my cheek to my knees. The quiet washes over me. I feel the day release its hold on me, and I can relax. For a moment, I can pretend the world--and what's in it--is nothing to fear.
I look towards him. He's so still that I wonder if he's fallen asleep. But then he opens his eyes. "Thank you, Amaranth."
Without moving, I smile faintly. "You are welcome, Dham."
The Iron Bells Page 5