Page 38

“Couple of messages,” Patrick said, apparently with no other prelude on offer.

“First—a shipment of goods and produce arrived this afternoon. Our market tables will be full tomorrow.” A cheer.

Fists pounded the air. “But”—Patrick called, and the crowd silenced like a school of admonished children—“if we see the same chaos that ensued last month, some will go without. Do you hear me, Randerson?” Patrick looked over at a man sliding halfway down his stool in an attempt to melt into the floor.

“If you start breakin’ the queue, Scottie will haul you out. Wait your fuckin’ turn!”

The man nodded into his drink. “Aye. Sorry, Pat,” he muttered.

“There was a hawker intercepted at the market earlier today. His wares were thrown into the canals. Anyone with information about the origins of the… bluff he was carrying will be handsomely thanked. And if need be…” And here Patrick paused.

“We will conduct another search, home to home, to find all those in possession and the people responsible for producing it.”

A collective titter rippled across the crowd. A few women raised their eyebrows at one another.

Patrick ignored the rousing.

“These are desperate times,” he said, walking across the bar top.

“Our miners—many of your loved ones—are still belowground each day in places we can’t reach, doing what is necessary for the Union.

But despite the pressure, we won’t fold to the strain on our backs!

” He held up his pint, matched by every other patron in the pub.

“They haven’t figured us out yet, have they?” Patrick shouted, the cords of his neck straining.

“NO!” the crowd roared, and I jumped in my chair as it was jostled from behind.

“It’s a time war we’re fightin’, but we are resilient. We’ve held our breath beneath ground for centuries—can we can hold it just a little longer, for our freedom?”

“YES!” Hollering ensued. The woman on the tabletop stood tall in her apparent elation and knocked her head against a brass pendant light.

When the last hurrah died, Patrick wiped the sweat from his brow, sniffed once, then said, with no small amount of resignation: “Right. Complaints?”

The herd surged forward, all of them at once. I watched Patrick’s jaw tighten.

It went on for longer than I could stand.

“The drains round Blinder Street need clearin’ again! An’ not by old Frank—his knees don’t take the strain and the job don’t get finished.”

“The Eastern mine is bogging, Pat—soon the whole fuckin’ hill will slide right into town!”

“Those Wembley kids are runnin’ free in the street, day and night. Left cat shit on my damn doormat again! If they can’t be controlled, I’ll—”

“I want fair compensation from that lousy dust collector. He broke a wheel and spilled soot all over my hydrangeas!”

Such trivial grievances. None seemed worthy of mention in wartime, and I grew quickly irritated. But Patrick listened, nodding to each complaint as the woman I presumed to be his mother scribed them. The sheets of parchment before her piled at an alarming rate.

How entitled these people were? How utterly oblivious to the fires outside their fortress?

From the looks on their faces, Donny, Scottie, and Briggs shared my opinion. Their expressions soured with each passing minute.

I watched Patrick carefully, saw how he took the brunt without remark or reaction.

I wondered how many pieces made up the whole of him, beyond his bloodied fists and the flask inside his vest. Beyond the dog waiting for him by the window bay and the tin lighter he’d kept since his childhood…

Had the boy I’d met been snuffed out somewhere between twelve and twenty-five? I desperately wanted to ask.

I also wanted to feel nothing for him at all. You don’t know this man , I shouted in the chambers of my mind, banging the walls to ensure I paid attention. It did nothing to drown the sudden defensiveness clawing inside me as these people made their demands.

But you do know him , another voice hummed. It all began with him.

Eventually the grievances diluted to things like soil quality and a “peculiar smell” behind the scrapyard, and I sensed the meeting was finally concluding. Patrick’s mother banged her pencil on the countertop and put her fingers between her lips, whistling at an aching decibel.

“We’re done,” she shouted, glaring at the crowd. They fell deathly silent. “No whiskey. You can have another dark mild before you trot off home, but if you fight, Gunner and Scottie will be escortin’ you.”

A low rumble of conversation arose, but no dissent.

I thought most would leave—the pub had grown oppressively hot. Instead, someone began clanging the keys on the piano, the volume rose to an earsplitting revelry, and the men and women continued on with a sense of ease, apparently lighter after having aired the soft inconveniences in their lives.

“Bunch of whinging pricks,” muttered Briggs as he lit a cigar with a match. “It’ll be a busy day tomorrow, boys.”

Donny nodded. “I’ll take care of the coal collector. He’s on the bluff again, droppin’ dust all over the place.”

“You and your brother need to find where on God’s green earth it’s comin’ from, Donny,” Scottie said. “Ain’t no point takin’ their bluff where they can make more.”

Donny scrubbed his face, looking tired. “It’ll mean another raid.”

“Fuck me,” Briggs mumbled, pulling deeply on the cigar. “I’d prefer the fuckin’ tunnels—”

“Shut up, Briggs. We’re in company ,” Donny said sharply. Briggs eyed me with suspicion and fell silent.

I bristled. “Patrick told me about the tunnels.”

“Did he, now?” Donny seemed unperturbed. “Did he threaten to leave you down one of them?”

My jaw ticked. “No,” I said. “Though leaving me in a tunnel wouldn’t render much use.”

Scottie was smiling at me, entertained.

“No?” Donny said, leaning his forearms on the table and looking smug in his gold-buttoned waistcoat. “Taken a fancy to you, has he? Well, bully for you—whatever keeps you aboveground.”

I wanted to shake the foundation beneath us, just enough to topple him from that high horse.

“I take it you’re here to help us clear out the water rats, too,” Donny continued, sipping his liquor.

“She ain’t here for the rats, brother” came Patrick’s voice from behind my shoulder. I turned slightly to find him standing with his hands in his pockets.

“Ah, Patty,” Donny shook his head, sniggering. “Tell me you didn’t bring her all the way out to the brink just so you could bend her over?”

My hands itched to slap him.

Scottie buried his fist in his mouth to quell laughter.

I looked up to find Patrick grinning, as amused as Scottie, it seemed.

He placed his hands to the sticky table and leaned toward Donny.

“I brought her all the way out here to bend earth , Donny,” he said.

His brother’s face went immediately slack.

“No need to dig your own grave. I promise Nina here can do it quicker.”

Scottie broke then, laughing so uproariously his head tipped back to the ceiling. Briggs stared at me wide-eyed.

“No shit!” Donny said simply. “You fuckin’ found one?”

“The only one, Don,” Patrick corrected. “And here you are, insulting her where she sits,” Patrick resumed his seat. “You ought to apologize.” He said it casually, though there was that hint of malice in his words, making it clear that it wasn’t a mere suggestion.

“Aye. Sorry, milady,” Donny said, holding his hand out to take mine again. For the second time, he kissed my knuckles. “That was right fuckin’ rude of me.”

“Your foot’s so far down your throat, Don, it’s a wonder you don’t choke and die.” Briggs muttered.

“If only,” I said, and they all snorted, Donny included.

“Bloody hell. She’s a beauty, ain’t she? I can tell. Guess I’ve already blown me chances.”

Patrick nodded, upending yet another glass of amber liquor to his lips. “Aye,” he rasped, not looking my way. “I’m afraid she is.”

A scuffle ensued then. People crowded near the entrance called out in reproach as they were pushed aside.

I caught sight of three black pointed hard hats adorned with Belavere’s emblem before a firm, slender hand grasped my upper arm, hoisting me off my chair.

“Move it, girl,” came a feminine voice, Northern accented and scorched.

“Go,” Patrick said to me once, short and sharp. He and the other three men had already rounded the table, heading straight for the hard hats.

The woman who I presumed to be Patrick’s mother pulled me to the stairwell door, pushed me through, and followed after me. The door clicked shut behind us.

Tess Colson pressed her ear to the door. “Shut up,” she hissed, and I realized that I was panting.

The police had come.

“Why are they here?” I breathed, blood pounding against the drums of my ears.

Tess did not look back at me. “They live here, darlin’,” she said. “And as far as Belavere City knows, they do a stellar job of policin’ the entire province, while we pay them handsomely to do the opposite.”

“I meant, what are they doing here ?”

“If I could hear a fuckin’ thing, I might tell you,” Tess said, then opened the door until a slither of light split her in two. I crept hesitantly closer at her back and peered over her head.

The patrons had fallen into silence again. It was the ringing kind. The violent kind. The mere creak of a floorboard might incite a brawl.

Fingers squeezed around the handles of heavy pints. Bodies turned to the black steepled hats in their faded black uniforms. The police stood with long batons in their hands, glaring at a room of curled knuckles and bared teeth.

“Hello, boys,” Patrick said to them. “Got the uniforms out of your trunks for a night, eh? What’s the occasion?”

“Colson,” said the officer in front. He had sagging undereyes and a bent nose. His front teeth pleated and gave him the overall impression of a dunce. “Is your mother in?”

“She’s indisposed,” Patrick replied, even-tempered, eerily calm. “What can I do for you, Kirkby?”