“Little shit!” the man said. Liam stared him down until his brows furrowed angrily, then he turned his back and walked slowly away. He felt like antagonising people. He sat down at his table and waited, idly wondering if he could convince Carrick to buy him some stew.
A while later, Carrick shook hands with the men, seeming to be more enthusiastic than they were, and walked over to the bar. He bought a fresh mug of ale before finding Liam and sitting at his table.
“What the fuck ye comin’ over to me like that for?”
“What’s the job?” Liam cut him short, not willing to waste time with his bullshit. Carrick stared maliciously over his ale.
“Startin’ to fuckin’ wonder about you, Liam!”
Liam laughed. “Really?”
“You’d wanna get some fuckin’ manners!”
Liam didn’t respond, instead waiting for Carrick to get to the point. After a time, he got to business.
“You know that carpenter? The one that fucked me over on the smith’s job?” Liam looked up at Carrick, his eyes widening. “Been thinkin’ ’bout it, it’s ’bout time we got that fuck back now as well, like we got the smith. He needs to learn too. Needs to be quiet, though. Won’t steal nothin’ from him, so has nothin’ to do with matis, or the flags; just an altercation in the street. Won’t be expectin’ shit.”
Liam could hardly believe his ears. His heart started to pound. He could feel his face going red. He stared down at the table, boring holes into it. He shook his head slightly as Carrick continued.
“Been getting’ a lad to watch ’im, we know he’ll be getting’ supplies later on today, we can hit ’im then, when he’s away from his store. No one’ll know the difference.”
Liam’s fingers itched for the hilt of his knife.
“Was thinkin’ you’d like to get in on it, with Calum and all, get this fucker too. Teach ’im some respect. They’ll know fuckin’ better the next time!”
There was a force building inside of him, filling him up, growing with every word out of Carrick’s mouth. His mind screamed at him to jump across the table and bury the knife in Carrick’s throat. He was too pent up to speak, he couldn’t move. It took all his will to stay still, his head cocked and rigid, his eyes on the table top but seeing nothing.
“You’ll do the same as on the smith’s job, go in there and fish ’im out, then …”
His head seemed to be floating as he listened to Carrick prattle on. Eventually, it came to a stop. There was a moment of silence.
“You must be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” he said quietly.
Carrick looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face. “What?” he asked, his voice rough.
“You must be fuckin’ kidding me?” Liam repeated, his gaze coming up from the table to bore holes into Carrick’s.
Carrick looked away angrily. “What the fuck you talkin’ about?”
“After Calum, after …”
“What the fuck ye lookin’ at, eh? Go look somewhere else!”
“I’ll rip your fuckin’ throat out,” Liam whispered.
Carrick looked back at him sharply. “What the fuck’s your problem, eh? You don’t want the job, then fuck off!”
Liam’s stare didn’t drop. Carrick began to fidget, awkward and angry. Liam forced himself up. He stood, turned and walked for the door.
“I don’t want to see your fuckin’ face round here again!” Carrick shouted after him as he walked outside.
He was almost numb with disbelief and rage and terrible regret. What the fuck had they ever been doing with that idiot! Calum was dead because of that fucking idiot. It was as though his eyes had finally been fully opened. He shook his head as he walked away from the tavern and headed for home, his fists clenched tightly.
******
Racquel screamed but she knew there was no one coming. Not this time. Still she screamed, unable to contain her terror and revulsion. Not again, not again. Why? Why were they doing this? She struggled, bit, scratched, kicked, knowing it was only delaying the inevitable, knowing that it would probably only make it worse. A fist collided with her jaw, causing her mind to fog. She struggled a little less. She could hear the eagerness and excitement in their voices as they pulled at her, tearing her clothes.
******
It started to rain on his walk back. His hair was flat against his forehead; rainwater ran down his face, dripping from his nose and chin onto the wooden steps as he climbed up to the flat. He left the water run its own course, undisturbed, too melancholic to wipe at it. He was only vaguely aware of Bradan in the corner of the room. Racquel must be at the well. He sat heavily on top of his bedclothes, not caring that they would get wet.
He didn’t know what he was doing, or what he had planned. Nothing. He was unsure. What was he doing?
He was uncomfortable with the new truths that had come to him. He had been looking for another way, a new way. A way they could survive and thrive out in the slums. He had known that there was a way, that other people had done it before him, but he hadn’t known how. He had wondered what it was that gave them the edge. Now he knew. He could see it clearly, for the first time, truly clearly, without restriction. It was obvious, as clear as his knees before him. But … to do it. To become who he needed to be. What about his soul? Where would he end up in Daygo’s stream? Would he live in torment for eternity?
But they were doomed. He knew it. It was just as clear. If he didn’t change their course, if he didn’t change his way, they had no chance. Their lives would be short, like all those who had come before him, like all those others, like Cid and Calum. Short and tormented. Full of suffering and woe. They couldn’t continue the way they were, he couldn’t support himself and Racquel both. He could barely support himself alone, without Calum and without the gang, with no future there …
Racquel … she knew nothing about real slum living. She had been sheltered within the bakery. He couldn’t support them both. She would never survive. She would … she would. She would survive. But it would be worse. Better to die, not to … live like that.
There was only one way. There was only one choice. Accept it, embrace it or die. Survival or give up and die now. That was his only option, the only choice before him. He knew now that there was no point in fooling himself any longer, in foolish hope that there was some middle ground, some easy and happy way. It was either embrace it now in totality or turn from it, give in, like the homeless bums littering the streets of the slums. Like those he had always before hated. Those who disgusted him, who had given up the fight.
Only now, truly, he was unsure. For the first time he saw a reason for who they were, for what they were. At least … at least they … He didn’t know, he didn’t know which choice was better. Both seemed equally terrifying to him. But he had to choose! There was no middle ground. He had to choose now!
Where was she? He looked up from his knees, realising that he was shivering. How come I never get sick? he wondered; all of the other boys do. He looked across at Bradan. There was something strange about his demeanour. He seemed nervous. Liam hadn’t noticed, had thought it was just Cid, but it wasn’t, it was something else. He looked around the room. His heartbeat quickened. A sudden spike of fear shot through him. Bradan gave a slight flinch as Liam’s gaze fell on him once more. He stood up. Why would she be out in the rain?
“Where’s Racquel?”
Bradan fidgeted, ignoring him.
He wouldn’t …
“Bradan! Where is she?”
“I … I dono,” he answered.
“Yes, you fuckin’ do!” said Liam, striding over to him. He grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him up, slamming him back against the wall. “And you better tell me right fuckin’ now.”
Bradan looked up helplessly.
“She went with Deaglan,” he moaned.
“Where?”
“I … I dono … the … the alley, that spot …” Liam left him go, knowing where they had gone, a million spikes pricking into the
skin surrounding his body. No!
His body moved, racing down the stairs and out into the rain, his mind a separate, floating thing being dragged behind it. The rain had quietened to a bare drizzle. The street was empty except for a crippled dog lying yards away, whining softly. Somehow it pulled at him, drawing panic and fear forth. His eyes were reluctant to leave it as his feet dragged him past, careless of their step, water, mud and shit squishing underneath.
The alleyway wasn’t far away. It was a dead end, a side alley to another alleyway, hidden from the road. The walls of the opposing buildings were close together, two storeys high and lacking windows. One side leaned inwards oppressively. A roof had collapsed outwards, creating a canopy of sorts over the end of the alleyway where the wooden timbers had slid across to catch against the opposite wall. The overall result was gloomy, dark and oppressive. It was known as a place of privacy.
His mind was closed, a desperate bubble throbbing with fear as he ran. It wasn’t far. He turned up the preceding alleyway. Racquel’s cries rang painfully in his ears, shocking his system. The cold hilt of his knife found its way into his right palm, gripped fiercely. He ran past a homeless man, sitting at the side wall, rainwater flowing all around him, soaking wet. His withered face didn’t move but his eyes trailed Liam, dead, feeling nothing, without hope.
He didn’t slow as he turned the corner. Racquel was at the end of the alleyway, underneath the wooden slats. She was upright and held tightly against the left wall. Ultan was a couple of steps back from her, looking uncomfortable. He was the first to see Liam, his eyes widening and a gasp of alarm escaping his lips. The air seemed to crackle around Liam. He could feel it, laden with moisture, heavy.
Her cries reverberated through him, her terror seeming to amplify his senses and send him into blind action. His eyes widened, ears opened, nostrils flared.
Deaglan’s left hand came away from her bare chest, his right still held hers pinned against the wall. She shrieked and tried to kick at him, Erinin’s right hand slammed into her throat, hitting her head against the wall and choking her. The front of her dress was torn, the skirt had been raised high. She was straddled between the two boys. Deaglan’s features twisted in surprise as he raised his head. He stepped backwards, releasing Raquel’s arm. Liam slammed into Erinin as he half turned, his knife sliding through his side. He pulled it out, readying for another blow. Erinin, my brother. A gasp of pain escaped his lips. A shiver of uncertainty passed through Liam’s arm as he struck again, making the blow awkward. The blade hit bone and snapped, his wrist twisted, momentum pushing the hilt in his hand against Erinin’s side, sliding slightly on the blood. He dropped the hilt with shaking fingers. Erinin, all my life I have known you, lived with you, disliked you.
He cried out, sliding to his knees, his side growing damp with blood. Racquel pulled her arm free, Deaglan stepped backwards and swiftly took out his knife. Liam’s gaze had followed Erinin, he tore it away, forcing himself to back up a few steps. Ultan’s eyes were wide, shocked.
“Run,” Liam whispered, barely audible above Erinin’s moans. Racquel stumbled away a few steps, trying to straighten out her dress.
He saw the glint of decision in Deaglan’s eyes. Horror almost prevented Liam’s reaction. He jumped forward with Deaglan’s knife hand, intercepting it. Grasping the wrist, he turned it from its course, away from Racquel’s exposed back.
“Run!” he shouted, and this time she did. Ultan seemed to come alive, looking up from Erinin, his face turning murderous. He charged at Liam, knife slashing outwards. Liam jumped backwards, releasing Deaglan’s wrist just in time. Dodging the blow, he danced backwards a few more steps, readying himself.
“You fucking bastard! You’re going to pay now!”
Erinin was white-faced on his knees, on the floor, blood soaking down his right side and mixing with the water and dirt around his knee, diluted and thin. He was dead; it was just seconds in the telling.
“I should’ve stuck you yesterday! Only for Cid!” Deaglan took a step forward as he talked. Ultan glanced down, staring at Erinin. “You’ll be joining him now!”
I’m the only one to kill a brother. Liam’s hand shook with the realisation, empty space within his half-closed fist. He took a step to steady himself and cleared his mind.
The ground beneath their feet was wet and muddy, the walls to either side loomed in overhead. The alleyway was just wide enough for them to surround him. They knew instinctively what to do. They spaced out to either side. Any misgivings that Ultan had were now gone with the death of his friend and ally.
Deaglan came first, darting in from Liam’s left, the deadly blade discreet in the gloom. Liam jumped forward, avoiding the blow. He knew Ultan was coming from behind, he knew by instinct, he knew what he and Calum would do, how they would work the odds and their advantage. He knew his opponents.
Ultan’s blow was coming in low, for his hamstring, where he would struggle to dodge. He lifted his right leg, throwing it into the air and pivoted on his left, leaning into a half fall. Ultan tried to pull back, his knife arm extended having missed Liam’s right leg. Liam caught his wrist with his right hand, then his left, falling on it and pulling at it with all his strength as he turned to roll, dragging Ultan to the ground below him. He left go and rolled back to his feet as Deaglan came at him, his knife slashing out wildly. Liam ducked and drove his fist into Deaglan’s midriff just below the ribcage, driving the air from him. He pushed forward and away quickly, wary of the deadly blade, and kicked Ultan in the head as he was rising. Ultan let out a groan but his knife came swinging through the air in defence and caught Liam in the calf as he jumped away.
Ultan seemed groggy on the floor, struggling on his hands and knees. Liam leaped back over him towards the winded Deaglan, wincing in pain, trying to press his advantage. Deaglan backed off, struggling to breathe and lashed out wildly, missing Liam.
Liam jumped forward and slammed his fist into Deaglan’s throat, but his backward movement saved him from the worst of it. He slashed out again, slicing across Liam’s side. Liam ignored the pain and, grabbing the knife arm with his left hand, he drove the fingers of his right hand into Deaglan’s eye. Deaglan screamed, his left hand grabbing at Liam’s right, pulling at it desperately, his head flying backwards and banging fiercely into the wall behind him. Liam used his momentum, pushing forward relentlessly, his fingers viciously grasping and digging deep, scraping, trying to root in behind the eye and get a firm grip, while his left hand struggled with Deaglan’s knife arm but held firm.
He didn’t know how he knew. He didn’t know what hidden voice inside him screamed the warning. Perhaps his ears had heard the approach but he had been consumed with his battle with Deaglan. At the very last moment he moved, pushing himself to the left with all the speed he could muster. The knife sliced through his side, and he gasped in shock and pain, but it slid past. Deep, but a flesh wound, no internal organs cut.
A grunt of surprise and shock came from Ultan as his momentum drove him into Liam. Liam used it, grasping on, he rooted Deaglan’s eye from the socket, pulling and flicking it outwards, his fingers slipped clear, failing to tear it off. Ultan stabbed in viciously from his right, and again a last-second movement from Liam saved him from a fatal wound. The blade sliced along his midriff across his previous wound. Deaglan screamed hysterically. Liam heard his knife fall. He let go of his hand and backed away, grabbing at Ultan’s knife. He brought his knee flying into Ultan’s crotch. Ultan’s head ricocheted forward, a groan of pain escaping his lips. Liam grabbed onto the back of it with his right hand and clamped his teeth around his nose. He ripped the top off, falling backwards from the force of his movement. He let go of Ultan as he did so, scampering back a few steps, his sides and calf bleeding, his strength and energy ebbing.
Ultan charged at him like a raging bull. Deaglan raved like a maniac behind him, his hands up in front of his left eye, hovering before it but making no move. The eye hung out lopsided by its string. Liam stepped
to the side and forward, his hands reaching for Ultan’s wrists as his head fired into Ultan’s nose, ruining it further.
His knife came loose from his hands, falling to the floor as Ultan reeled backwards, stunned. Liam dived after it, grabbed it and rolled back onto his feet. His back found the side wall and he leaned against it, panting, the taste of blood strong in his mouth. He held the knife in front of him with a double grip.
“Had enough?” he croaked, knowing he had won. Blood was smeared over Ultan’s mouth, his nose a twisted, mangled ruin. Deaglan had pushed his eye back into its socket. But it seemed swollen and too large, almost popping out, angled wrong and an angry red. A sort of pus seemed to be smeared on the skin around it, his eyes weeping, as were Ultan’s. Liam had his knife now. “Want some more?”
Deaglan shook visibly, his nerve shattered. He was the first to go, stumbling for the exit. Ultan glanced at Deaglan’s knife on the ground and moved towards it, but Liam stood up suddenly and he thought better of it, turning for the exit. He stumbled out after Deaglan, hand over his nose.
Liam allowed himself to fall against the wall behind him. Blood seeped from his stomach and side. He barked a laugh painfully, sliding down the wall. What had he won?
After a moment, he forced himself back up onto his feet and struggled out of the alleyway, heading for the street beyond. He noticed the bum’s eyes once more as he passed and bared his bloody teeth at him. An animalistic growl escaped through his lips, half challenge and half roar of defiance.
He staggered from the alleyway, limping on his bad calf, stooped over, his arm pressed into his side. He walked down the street, away from the flat. Forever, he thought with dull feeling. He wanted to put distance between himself and where Deaglan and Ultan might find him, even though he doubted they would be looking for him now. He made it to the end of another street then turned into a side alleyway, looking for a private place to rest. He sat down heavily against the wall, his feet falling out in front of him.
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