Dílse

link post

2006-04-24T20:53:01Z

Here is a chapter list for your bookmarking and/or linking convenience. There is one on the userinfo page as well.

1 — 2 — 3 — 4 — 5 — 6 — 7 — 8 — 9 — 10 — 11 — 12 — 13 — 14 — 15 — 16 — 17 — 18 — 19 — 20 — 21 — 22 — 23 — 24 — 25 — 26 — 27 — 28 — 29 — 30 — 31 — 32

_dilse @ 2006-02-08T21:56:00

2006-02-09T02:56:07Z

thank you, guys. i hope you enjoyed the ride. :)

32.

November 24, 1922

The wind was a serrated squall as it funneled down the trench of the busy street. The snow whipped like buckshot, swirling up from the salted sidewalks and down from the swift, roiling sky. Bill clutched his coat around his throat and bent his shoulders against each gust. He squinted down at the wrinkled sheet of paper in his free hand; the hand-drawn map and block writing were smudged into obscurity by fat circles of splattered drops. Bill looked up, blinking the snow from his eyes. The street signs were on poles instead of the sides of the buildings, and it was skewing his sense of direction. It had taken nearly a day just to get his bearings. He'd almost been hit twice this morning by careening automobiles, and the air was filled with the urban miasma of blaring horns, clanging streetcar bells, and hissing steam vents and chimneys, all dampened by the dull roar of a winter storm. It was almost as familiar as it was foreign.

The address was barely visible on the battered paper, but Bill hadn't really been looking at it anyway. He had memorized the numbers long ago. The wind picked up and nearly snatched the sheet from his hand; he moved to catch it and his eye was caught by the sign swinging from the flagpole above. It was painted metal, green and white, glistening with ice and winter glare. Buckland's Dry Goods and Grocer. Bill checked the paper one more time, though the gesture was unnecessary. He still knew how to collect the proper details.

A braided mat lay in front of the door, stitched in Celtic lettering: WELCOME. Bill's teeth chattered as he stood beneath the fluttering awning, staring at the plate glass windows. The snow skittered over the front step, dusting across his boots. Bill crumpled the map in his fist and shoved it into his coat pocket. He drew in a breath, cold in his nostrils, and turned the brass knob.

A flurry of snowflakes followed him inside; the door closed behind him and the wind was muted to a background murmur. Bill stood on the doormat and wiped off his feet, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the light. It was a small shop, well-stocked, whitewashed walls and apothecary jars and rows of bolted cloth above the cracker barrels. The shelves were lined with boxes, jars, and tins; the winter sun sparkled on china and glass. A cast iron stove in the corner crackled with pleasant warmth; nearby was a crate filled with a family of rag dolls. In the back of the room hung a notice board covered in squares of printing-press stock. Countrymen! Help the War Orphans of Ireland. Donate to Boston Catholic Charities Here.

The shop was empty of customers; it was a little over halfway through the lunchtime hour. Behind the front counter stood a young man around Bill's own age in a white shopkeeper's shirt and apron, counting out a stack of receipts. He looked up when the doorbells chimed and gave Bill a cordial smile.

"Good day, sir, can I help? Bit nippy outside, isn't it?"

His face was smooth and healthy, blue eyes bright and cheerful, but his nose was crooked with the bump of an ancient break and his left eyebrow was split by a faded white scar. Even if Bill had never seen the grainy photograph, there could have been no mistaking him. The young man blinked at him in silence, still smiling politely, until Bill finally found his voice.

"You must be Matthew."

The man's eyes widened in surprise; then narrowed almost immediately to mask the reaction. He was definitely a Monaghan. He straightened from his receipts and looked Bill over at length, appraising him from head to toe; after a moment he crossed his arms.

"And you must be Bill."

Bill's mouth opened. Matthew' expression was unreadable; his face had smoothed over with a careful blankness that sparked unwelcome memories in Bill's head. Bill's shoulders straightened beneath his coat; he closed his mouth and lifted his chin.

"I am."

He stood as lightly as he could, his face and posture calm, but his muscles were tensed for a thousand possible reactions. He said nothing else, because there was nothing else to say. He looked the young man in the eye, and waited.

"He's in the back," Matthew said.

Bill's eyes moved to the doorway in the far corner, curtained off by an Irish flag tacked above the frame. Bill stared at the material, listening to the snow melting on his shoes and his hair dripping on the collar of his coat. His frozen face smarted in the warmth from the stove. His hands shifted in his coat as his spine straightened; he felt his fingers brush against the insides of his pockets. He squared his shoulders and walked toward the back of the room.

"Mr. Boyd."

He had picked up one of the stacks of receipts; he held it in both hands like a deck of cards, tapping down the edges with his thumb. He glanced down at them, then looked up at Bill from beneath his scarred brow.

"Thank you," he said. "For what you did for my family."

His face softened into a cautious but familiar smile. Bill returned it as best he could, and nodded.

The flag made a little swishing sound as it dropped behind him. The storeroom was long and narrow, tucked between the shop's main room and the back stairs, lit to a sunny glow by a row of clerestory windows just below the ceiling. The walls were lined with pantry shelving, row after row stocked with boxes, bottles, and jars. At the far end of the room a figure stood on a rickety stepladder, stocking the top row from a box beneath his arm. The boy's back was to the door, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the strings of his apron slung low on his hips. His body was thin, far too thin, and he moved with careful grace as he reached for the glass jars of strawberry preserves.

"That you, Mattie? Who was at the door, then?"

Bill had lived this moment in his mind more times than he could count: on his back in his bed at Margaret's, in the swaying berth of his cabin, on the foreign maze of icy Boston streets. He had a catalogue of words all mapped out in his head. He stood in the doorway and watched Dom stock jam on the pantry shelf, and he could remember now not a single one of them.

"Matt? That you?"

"No," said Bill. "It's not Matt."

Dom's hand stopped moving. His knuckles went white on the edge of the shelf. His head rose, slowly; the muscles of his shoulders went taut beneath his shirt. Bill closed his hand inside his coat pocket; he bit the corner of his lip and tried to slow his racing heart. The ladder creaked in protest as Dom climbed down one step, then another. One hand went to his side and he flinched beneath his breath; Bill's mouth pressed into a tight line. He waited, silent, until Dom descended the last step and turned around to face him.

His face was thinner, the lines around his eyes a little more visible. Weight loss had seeped some of the boyish curve from his cheeks; time and travel had left shadows beneath his eyes. His brown tweed cap sat crooked at a careless angle but the hair beneath it was combed down in the American fashion. He held himself lightly, one hand resting on the ladder's top step—but his color was strong and his back was straight, and his eyes were clear in the winter light. He was more beautiful than Bill had ever seen him.

"Glasgow."

Bill's breath felt clogged in his throat. He withdrew his right hand from inside his coat pocket; the object he had been clutching made a clacking sound as it settled across his palm. The string of beads draped around his fingers, green and white, the tiny fractures catching in the light. The chipped cross felt heavy in the center of Bill's palm as he held it at arm's length between them.

"You dropped this," he said.

Dom stared at the rosary lying in Bill's hand. He drew in a little breath and let it out again; his Adam's-apple bobbed once as he swallowed. Bill held his fingers steady, giving in to neither the desire to run away nor the desire to run forward as Dom crossed the distance between them.

"I thought—I thought maybe you might be missing it."

His voice sounded strained and stupid in his ears. Dom said nothing. He was still looking at the strands in Bill's outstretched palm. He reached out his right hand, slowly, until his fingers brushed against the beads. His thumb slid across a rusty stain on the glass. Bill forced his hand to stay open, his heartbeat shaking in his fingertips, and looked Dom in the eye as he delivered his only offering.

"It's a bit worn in parts," he said. "But it's yours, if you want it."

Fear he knew well, and pain better still—but in all his days Bill could not recall a single moment in time that bore quite so keen a terror as standing in that little storeroom, Dom's hand resting on his, listening to the queasy thudding of his own heart. He could hear the wind whistling past the window, and wondered if he would slip on the ice as he ran down the front step—and then Dom's arms were around him, and his face was buried in the scarred skin of Bill's neck, and the rosary beads were tapping against Bill's back as they dangled from Dom's clutching fingers. Bill felt them fit together, held Dom as tight as he could without pressing against his side. He couldn't breathe, something soft and swelling filling his lungs, pushing out the ache and weariness from his chest. It took him a moment to give it the name of 'hope'.

They stood forehead to forehead, mindful of the thin curtain shielding the door. Bill's hands settled easily on Dom's waist. He looked into blue-gray eyes, close and real and already sparkling back at him.

"So it is true a man can make his fortune in this town? I'm afraid I'm between occupations at the moment."

Dom looked up at him, a strand of hair slipping from beneath his cap as he grinned.

"It's a land of opportunity," he said.

the end.

_dilse @ 2006-01-27T16:05:00

2006-01-27T21:06:40Z

31.

October 29, 1922

"Tea, Bill?"

"Aye, thanks." Steam rose from the china pot as his sister poured. Bill left the cup to cool on its saucer and reached for the plate of scones in the center of the table; he plucked one off the top and took an enormous bite. "Mm. These are the best this week, Meg."

Margaret smirked at him from the opposite seat. "Flattery doesn't get you a second helping, love. But don't stop trying." She poured her own cup and set the pot aside, flicking Bill's crumbs off the tablecloth. A scone lay neatly cut in half on her saucer, one bite missing from the left side.

It was warm in the little kitchen. The light growing in the window bore the sharp edges of a winter sunrise, softened to a cozy glow on whitewashed walls. The cook stove crackled with breakfast embers and the radiator rattled quietly on the wall behind him. Bill had the Sunday paper spread across the tablecloth; the tea service clinked whenever he turned the a page. In the corner by the pantry his two nieces sat playing with their dolls on the braided rug. The cooling kettle ticked on top of the stove; Margaret stirred her tea and moved the milk bottle away from the sunlight. Bill tapped the end of his pencil against his front teeth, rolling the tiny chew-marks against his lower lip.

"Here's a good one," said Margaret. She pointed at the paper with one buttery finger. "One bedroom flat in Ruchazie, window in every room. Rent's good, too."

Bill frowned. "Ruchazie? That's a bit of a walk, isn't it? Isn't there something closer?"

Margaret sighed. "You're not compelled to live on our back doorstep, Bill. We can manage just fine." She ignored the noise he made and sipped at her tea, calling over to the pantry door. "Can't we, girls?"

His nieces looked up from their dolls and nodded dutifully, grinning when Bill turned around. "Traitors," he said, and they giggled.

He reached for the jar of marmalade. "You won't get rid of me that easy; I'm too tight to pay the train fare and you know it. Anyway, you know I don't—ah, fucking—" The jam spoon clattered to the china and he clamped his mouth shut, cradling his hand to his chest.

"Is it your finger, love?" Margaret put down her cup and drew his hand forward.

"Aye. Bloody machines." The knuckle of his forefinger was swollen with a vicious bruise; a small cut ran up to the edge of the cracked black nail. "I wish they'd let the binders tune the belts instead of the technicians. They've never bound a book in their lives; they've got no clue how it goes." Bill hissed between his teeth as the finger bent; he pulled his hand from her grasp before she could Prod him further and put the knuckle in his mouth until the throbbing subsided.

She watched him work the joint until it could move again. He could feel her eyes on him as he picked up the spoon; he scowled and scooped up a glob of jam. It was loosening up fine; nothing to cry about. He'd certainly had worse in his day. The marmalade plopped onto his scone in an unwieldy mountain; he pressed his lips together and scraped off the excess. The spoon rattled as he stuck it back in the jar. Taking a bite, he moved his eyes back to the newspaper and continued his research. The week's offerings were not much of an improvement from the week before—it looked like it might be better to wait until after the new year. He circled a note on the third row: a two-room with loo above the baker's shop. Decent rent, and not all the way in Ruchazie either. And the baker's shop, too; he wondered if it came with a discount.

"Why are you doing this?"

He looked up from the paper. "It's the easiest way to find a flat."

She had her hands wrapped around her teacup, warming them on the ceramic. "You know that's not what I mean."

Bill's brow knit; the question made no sense. He gave her a little shrug and went back to his notes. He traced his pencil over the lines of his writing, trying to find his place in the columns. Margaret sipped her tea and looked at him over the rim of her cup.

"Mum and Da are gone, Bill."

The pencil froze in his fingers.

She set her cup down and rested her head on one hand, her dark hair spilling down her arm. She waited for the wave of reaction to pass, gauging him until he was ready.

"I'm not a little girl anymore," she said. "I haven't been one for quite some time. I'm a Boyd too, you know—I don't need a minder any more than you do. I've been taking care of myself since the day I whipped the Cumberland brothers for throwing mud on my new school dress."

"That wasn't fair," said Bill. "I could've had them. They double-teamed me."

They grinned together; in the light from the window he could see the tiny lines around her eyes. "I've been through life, Bill, just as you have. I've had my joys and my sorrows, and I've made a decent life for my girls as best I could." Bill recalled her sitting at this same table, doing baskets of piecework with their grandmother, one lamp burning for both of them far into the night. Now the sewing lamp sat on the mantle, and his nieces played in their new dresses while the electric icebox hummed beside the pantry. Margaret watched him with stubborn affection; her voice grew quiet. "You've done your part by us well, brother. God knows you've been a better father to the girls then their real one ever was." She paused. "Mum and Da would be proud of you."

"Meg—" His voice quavered; he closed his mouth.

"But they're gone, love. And you're here. You've buried yourself in their grave all your life, bound up in a service you were never meant to carry. One day you're going to have to stop living in all of our shadows and step out into your own life. You can't go on like this forever—it's too much for either of us to bear." Her voice was gentle, but unequivocal. "I was proud to be your home, but I will not be your excuse."

Bill's tea had gone tepid in front of him. He swallowed over the lump in his throat.

"You're better than this," Margaret said. "This isn't the life you were meant to live."

"I don't know anything else, Meg."

"No. I don't think that's true. I've known that since you came back from Dublin." She finished her tea, ran her finger around the edge of the cup. "You've been searching all your life—in every place you go and every name you use, you were hunting and running and fighting all at once. But you've stopped, Bill. Whatever it was you were looking for, in Dublin you found it. And you let it go."

The words caught Bill completely unprepared. For a moment he floundered, groping for a reply. Margaret said nothing, and kept both hands wrapped around her cup. She held his gaze, her love and resolve and sorrow mingling with the strength in her eyes. She looked more like their mother than he had ever seen her.

"I had to do my duty," he whispered.

He felt her hands slip over his, soft and insistent, stroking his fists until they opened to her touch, careful of the injured knuckle. Her eyes were filling with tears; her chin quivered beneath her smile but her voice did not break.

"You've done them proud, Bill. You've done me proud. Your only duty now is to yourself. It's not the job you wanted, I know—but it's the only job left. You've come too far to go back into hiding now."

Bill's heart was pounding in his chest. Things were shaking inside of him that he could not identify, a network of panic buttons and blaring alarms, defenses dismantled without warning by the most unlikely of saboteurs. He looked over to where his nieces sat playing in the corner—he thought of how much of their lives he had missed, and how much more there would be to miss in the future. Their faces began to blur in his vision. Bill's fingers twitched in his sister's grasp. He looked into her eyes, his one constant source for all these years.

"What do I do, Meggie?"

She squeezed his hands until the shaking slowed. "You know, Bill," she said. "You've always known."

Something sweet and sad flitted across her eyes; she got up from the table and walked over to the kitchen sink beneath the window. Stretching to her tiptoes to reach past the jars and bottles, she plucked a small tea tin from behind the last row. She paused to wipe the dust off with her apron; Bill watched her as she walked back to the table and set the tin in front of his plate. The lid popped into his hand with only a little prying; there was a jingling sound as the tin fell over. Three pound notes tumbled onto the cloth, smudged with dust and tea. Inside were more, many more, rolled into bundles and labeled with bits of paper and steady feminine script. Yorkshire, spring '16. Aberdeen, June '17. Dunbarton, Christmas '19. Sheffield. Paisley. Greenock. Newcastle.

Her hands lay lightly on the back of his chair. Bill heard a giggle at his elbow; two freckled faces peeked at him from the edge of the tabletop. The eldest reached out a finger and poked at one of the coins; the youngest grinned up at him from a jam-smeared mouth. Bill wound an auburn curl around his bruised finger, soft and shining in the brightening sunlight. Outside, the autumn morning grew into day beyond the fragile frame of white lace curtain. Bill looked at his sister and smiled.

"I love you, Meg."

She touched his face, smoothing out the lines in his brow.

"I know, Bill. I've always known."

_dilse @ 2006-01-23T19:47:00

2006-01-24T00:47:22Z

30.

October 12, 1922

"Come on, Boyd. First round's on me."

"Maybe tomorrow, mate. I'm knackered."

The locker swung open with a rusty squeak. "Aw, come on, man, one pint's not gonna kill you."
Bill smiled. "No, but I might kill you if you don't give us a break."

"Gonna whip your government chib on me?"

Bill grinned. He slipped on his shirt, mindful of his stiff shoulder, and quickly did up the buttons. "Look, Stewart, I don't know about you but I just worked a ten-hour shift. The only thing I'm going to do right now is go home and sleep. Is that alright with you?"

Stewart shook his head in dismay. "Christ, Boyd, you're a fuckin stodger these days. I remember when you used to drink the dockies under the table every Friday, tenner or no—last man standing."

"Aye, and I remember when you boaked a pint of lager on Mary Ferguson's shoes." The wooden bench creaked as Bill sat down. He put a foot on the wall and began to lace up his boot. "I'll go tomorrow, alright?" Stewart rolled his eyes; it was a familiar expression.

They were alone in the locker room; it was over an hour since shift change and the smell of soap had mostly faded from the tile. Bill was always among the last to shut down his belt, and then Frankie had insisted on holding them up further with a smoke—by the time they'd gotten to the lockers nearly everyone had gone. That was just fine with Bill; he preferred to shower alone. Fewer questions that way. His wet hair still clung to the back of his neck, dripping down the collar of his clean shirt. His work clothes lay folded in a stack inside his locker, facing out with his razor on top. He set about tying his other boot as Stewart focused on his comb and the cracked mirror hanging from his locker door.

Frankie walked in from the loo; he was wiping traces of shaving cream off his jaw. He glanced at Bill and bumped Stewart with his elbow. "You get anywhere?"

"Nah." Stewart tucked his comb in his back pocket. "We're on our own, Frankie, you and me."

Frank was checking himself out in the mirror; he licked a forefinger and ran it down one eyebrow. "Nah, you're on your own, mate. I've a prior engagement at the establishment in question."

Stewart looked ill. "Good God, Boyd, you can't leave me on my own to watch Frankie chat up that spotty Connor hen again."

Bill chuckled. He stood up and pulled his jacket from his locker, closing the door with his elbow. A plain wooden tag swung from the grate: W BOYD. He shrugged into the coat, still grinning. "I'll walk you down pub," he said, "but then I'm afraid you're on solo hen duty."

It was overcast when they emerged onto Westerhill Road; the steam from the stacks hung in a thick layer between the buildings and what remained of the sunlight. Bill shivered and buttoned up his jacket—after being behind the binder all day the October wind bore extra teeth. Behind him, Frankie and Stewart lit up smokes and shared a laugh; the whine of the belts was still too loud in Bill's ears to hear what they said.

It was getting colder; autumn already felt like winter. The sun, never a close friend of Glasgow, was showing up less and less frequently between bouts of rain. The drizzle mixed with the ashes and factory soot, coating the buildings with streaks of gray and the streets with a wash of sticky mud. The industrial block smelled of burnt things and dirt, mildew and rust. But behind the edge of the wind Bill could smell the greasy warmth of the chip shop on the corner, the new smoke of a thousand dinnertime stoves. The sunset, like the city, refused to be smothered; the stubborn light lit the bricks to pale yellow and gold, and the newsboys hawked the evening papers as the pavements filled with homebound workers and Friday night pub-crawlers. Bill smiled.

Stew tugged at his sleeve and he turned; Frankie had paused at the counter of a newsstand. They stepped over behind him and waited, shielding themselves behind the awning while Frank haggled over the price of Red Indians. Stewart sucked on his fag and huddled inside his coat, watching a group of girls coming down the steps of the shirt factory. Bill read the stacks of newspaper headlines spreading out along the stand. They lay in tidy piles held down by brickbat paperweights—the Herald, the Evening Times, The Scotsman; the Socialist News and the Christian Gazette; the London Telegraph, News of the World, and, at the far end, the Dublin Times.

VETERAN'S COMMITTEE PRESSES FOR BENEFIT LEGISLATION, read the headline. Below that, a smaller story: Autumn Festival Planned for Saturday. Football scores and theater schedules, crime reports and almanac entries. Tiny print halfway down the sidebar: Continued Fighting in Cork. Four Killed By Roadside Bomb. The corners of the pages rustled in the wind as he scanned the columns of typeset.

"Alright then, Boyd?" Frankie appeared at his elbow, swigging from a bottle of ginger. "Gonna stand there reading the papers all night?"

"He would if we let him." Stewart peered over Bill's shoulder, blew smoke across the page. "You looking for another mystery, Sherlock?"

"Bugger off," Bill said.

"Eh?" said Frankie. "What's that then?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" Stewart was grinning at Bill now. "Dear William here used to have a secret job he couldn't tell no one about. Some government thing—used to pop off every week, months at a time. Very shady."

"Aye?" Frankie took another slug from his bottle, wiping fizz off his lip. "You don't look much like a spy to me, man. I saw them in the cinema pictures—big black mustaches. Wee bit taller."

Stewart shared his giggle. "On His Majesty's Service, eh Boyd?"

"Reckon even His Majesty needs his books bound," said Frankie.

Bill gave them both a two-fingered salute.

"Aye, but we reckon he must've got himself sacked—now all he ever does is read the papers and stay at home with his sister," said Stewart. "Tragic, mate. Pure tragic." He looked down at the front page of the Times, flicked his cigarette butt out onto the street. "Why you give a shite about a bunch of scuffling Tarriers is beyond me, mate. You always were a bleeding heart."

"We ready to go or what?" Bill plucked the bottle from Frankie's hand and took a swallow. He passed it back as they walked down the crowded stretch of Westerhill, away from the factories and toward the residential lanes on the border of Easterhouse. Frank raised his bottle to a passing pair of ladies. Stewart lit up another cigarette.

Bill didn't buy the papers anymore. He had done, at first, since the day he'd stepped off the boat in Oban—read them, binned them, stored them in his head. He'd seen it all come apart, unfolding each day in cold black print: the Records Building going up in June, taking a thousand years of Ireland with it; Collins mustering the tanks and clearing out the streets, pushing the fighting out of Dublin to country roads and villages. Death on both sides—Brugha martyred in July, Collins assassinated in August; nameless bodies in rural ditches, grainy shapes on white newsprint. No familiar faces ever stood out among them.

A small sidebar in August, just after Collins' death: Lord Director McKellen to Resign, "Post Become Too Dangerous for Crown Involvement". Bill had read the line three times, then laughed until he'd coughed himself hoarse. After that he'd stopped reading the notices of execution. He scanned the headlines now only from lingering habit, some instinct too ingrained to let go—but the struggle he had known was long since over. The fight for freedom had mutated into a stagnant blood feud.

He had come home to his Glasgow, to his family, to his room and his bed and a plain white envelope lying on his pillow, stamped with the seal of the MI5. Inside it had been his letter of resignation, refolded along his careful lines. Behind it was a severance draft and a sheet of letterhead stamped NOTICE OF DISHONOURABLE TERMINATION. He'd thrown both letters in the kitchen stove, watched them curl in the flames. The money he had put into an envelope and posted the next day, handwritten in his small print: Miss Miranda Hill, Wicklow Street, Dublin.

Two weeks later a postcard slipped through his door bearing a Dublin postmark. It was a cartoon advertisement, a man and a woman carrying towering stacks of pint glasses through a swinging door. Guinness Makes Us Strong. Glued to the back was a small American flag. It lay now in a cigar box in the back of his wardrobe, behind the jumpers and extra sheets, tucked beneath a tangle of jumbled bric-a-brac. Matchbooks and cigarette cards, keys and coins and bits of string, a packet of chewing gum and a strand of green and white beads.

The pub was just around the corner from the trolley stop, facing Pitmedden Street before the turn to Wester Cleddens. Its windows were lit to a welcoming glow and the entrance was already crowding with Friday evening patrons. The electrics were burning over the doorway, a bright pool of light on the step as they approached. They paused by the streetlamp as Stewart and Frank finished their cigarettes. Bill looked at the shapes moving beyond the colored squares—blurred and indistinct, faces unrecognizable. Warm air curled out around him each time the door swung open and the sound of glass and laughter spilled out into the gloom.

"You sure you won't join us?" said Stewart.

"Nah. Maybe tomorrow."

"I'll believe it when I see it," said Frankie. He slapped Bill on the back. "See you Monday, Boyd. I liked you better when you were a spy."

"I was never a spy," said Bill.

Stewart paused with his hand on the door. Bill put his hands in his pockets and hunched against the growing cold. "I'll see you Monday, Stew."

Stewart smiled. "Alright, mate." The bells chimed as he stepped over the threshold. "You get yourself back to your home."

The sun finally sank behind the buildings as Bill walked down the long stretch of Westerhill. The gray light grew dimmer and the streetlamps flickered into life one by one along the bricks. The wind was picking up, sweeping away the last traces of summer and scattering leaves and paper across the empty street. The sound and light faded behind him as he headed away from the square and toward the blocks of Easterhouse, alone in the dreary twilight.

"Home," he said, and dead leaves rattled around his feet.

_dilse @ 2006-01-13T16:24:00

2006-01-13T21:25:58Z

29.

Bill was running again. In his dreams he moved through sunlight and silence; now the streets all blurred together, forming an endless labyrinth of smoke and shadow and a haze of rising panic. He kept running, moving in what felt like slow motion, his progress slowed by both the crowds rushing past and the weight of Dom's body sagging against him. They pushed through the waves of people filling the length of Church Street—men and boys rushing to join both sides of the fight, policemen scrambling too late to their stations, women and girls trying to find their men. Someone knocked against Dom's shoulder and they both nearly went down—Bill grabbed him around the waist and hauled him back to his feet. Dom let out a strangled yelp; Bill's palm came up red. He balled it into a fist and struggled forward a few more steps.

"Gotta get out of here," said Dom.

"That's what we're doing, Dom, but I need you to help me, alright? Try to walk for me now."

"No...you." Dom's face had gone sallow. One arm was clutched against his abdomen. "You."

"Don't be daft," said Bill. "Come on, get your arm round me. Let's go."

Dom shook his head. "Hang you if they catch you." He stopped altogether, slipped from beneath Bill's arm to lean against the wall. "Too slow. Leave me here."

Bill's voice compressed into stern authority. "I didn't come all the way down here just to leave your worthless arse in the street. Now save your breath for walking and get your arm round me again." Dom tried to protest as Bill grasped him, but the words were stifled by a groan. Bill held him tighter and steered them back out into the flow. "Come on now—that's a lad. Just hold on to me. I'm going to look after you."

Dom's noises stopped as they stumbled down the smoke-filled streets. He made an effort to walk on his own and for a while they moved more quickly—but his breathing grew more labored with each passing minute and his shirt was wet and sticky beneath Bill's hand. Bill's own breath came harder and harder; his shoulders and back began to burn as Dom's feet grew heavier and the cobblestone stretched into eternity before them. He scanned the horizon for a single familiar face—someone, anyone who might help him get Dom away from this place before either of them were recognized. But they were moving away from the chaos and the crowd had grown sparse, and each passing shape was just the hurried blur of a stranger bent on his own pursuits. There was no one now to stop them, and there was no one now to help them.

Dom's head lolled against Bill's neck; his knees buckled and he would have fallen before Bill caught him with both arms. Bill lowered him to the pavement in front of the nearest steps, out of the street. He shook Dom once, called his name, but only a thin crescent of white showed beneath black lashes. Bill's his fingers left frantic red smears on Dom's neck—a pulse beat faintly there. He drew a deep breath and put a shoulder into Dom's gut, tried to haul him over his shoulder like a sack of grain—his ribs, bruised by Karl's fists, shrieked in pain and he sat down hard on the pavement. Dom slumped across his lap; Bill looked in desperation down both ends of the alley. I'll never get him out of here, he thought. Too late, too late, Bill, too late again.

He was gathering the strength to try again when a familiar sound drew his eyes up. The grinding grew to a roar in the alley beside them—a black lorry spun round the corner and screeched to a halt in the middle of the street. The smoke blew away from silver letters smudged with dust and soot: Bloom's Fine Grocery and Baked Goods. The door flew open before the truck had stopped moving; a white face ringed by black curls appeared at the wheel.

"Come on!" Orlando cried. "Hurry!"

"He's shot," said Bill.

Orlando's eyes widened when he saw the shape lying in Bill's lap; he gasped something in a language Bill had never heard. His face blanched at the crimson-soaked shirt, the red on Bill's hands—then his dark eyes flashed and his mouth pressed into a line. "Get him in the back," he said. "And hold on."

"How did you—"

"Astin found me. He sent me to fetch you—they couldn't find you, after." Orlando glanced at the streets around them. "The fighting's mostly done but Collins' men are everywhere. Come on, Bill, let's go!"

Bill' s ribs screamed as he hoisted Dom into the back of the lorry. He had barely climbed in beside him before Orlando floored the accelerator and the tires squealed as the lorry sped away. Bill pulled the tarp closed from the inside; the sound and light dropped to a muted gloom.

The cargo space had been unloaded; only a sailcloth lined the steel floor of the lorry's bed. There was nothing on which to prop Dom's sprawling body, nothing to cushion him from the bouncing of the axles beneath them. Bill's teeth rattled as they sped over uneven Dublin stone; it was just as well Dom wasn't conscious, he thought, and reached to tuck a fold of cloth beneath the boy's head. His other hand lay flat on Dom's belly, feeling the cooling stickiness there. He didn't want to look, didn't want to see, but the minutes were passing and he forced his eyes to follow his hand. He pulled Dom's shirttail from the waist of his trousers and flicked the bottom buttons open, drawing the fabric apart, and the first thought in his mind was oh, God.

There was blood everywhere—slippery on Bill's fingers, reeking of copper in the close air—but it was dark blood, old blood, oozing in a slow trickle from the hole in Dom's right side. It was low, nearly to the hipbone, an angry aberration against the surrounding skin. The hand on his stomach made Dom moan but Bill's mind had shifted into focus—every lesson, every training scenario he'd ever been taught now wound into life like a victrola and replayed over and over until it drowned out everything else. He got a hand beneath Dom's body and rolled him upward—he scowled in the dusty light, bending his head until he could see a tattered gash on the boy's back. Exit wound. Bill's breath left him in a long exhalation. A clean line through the muscle of the abdomen, and not the disintegrating gut shot he had feared. Oh God, he thought again.

"I don't know what charm it is you live under, Dominic Monaghan, but I swear I've never seen its like," he said. He leaned back against the wall and wiped his forehead with one shirt sleeve. A quiet sound brought his eyes up at once.

Dom's head was turned toward him. He looked at Bill with dull curiosity, as if he were noticing him for the first time.

"You're going to be alright, lad. It isn't as bad as it looks."

Dom didn't seem to hear him. He blinked twice, in and out of focus; and then his eyes shot open and he tried to rise up from the oilcloth. "Billy, you can't—"

Bill put a hand on his chest. "It's alright, Dom. I wasn't seen. Lie still now." Dom grimaced; his body was lined in pain, going slack again as he drew in a breath. He looked at the tarp above their heads, and Bill nodded. "Orlando's taking us to the docks. We're going to get you out of here."

Dom smiled. "Landy."

There was no blood on his lips, and Bill found he could smile back. "Aye. Who knew the little press would turn out to be so useful?" Dom choked out something like a laugh. Bill brushed a string of hair from Dom's forehead, tucked it beneath his cap. His eyes were already drifting; Bill's throat tightened. "Stay awake for me now, Dom."

Bill reached down and peeled back Dom's shirt, wincing at the tiny tearing sound. Dom jerked and made a noise that likely started as a swear word but Bill would not let himself be distracted. He surveyed the mess, glanced around, and then reached for the buttons of his shirt, stripping it off from the thermal he wore beneath. He cleaned both wounds as best he could amid the jostling; then he wadded up the shirt and wedged it beneath Dom's side, cushioning it a little against the bumps. And that was it, that was all he could do, except sit there and wait for the bleeding to stop. Bill closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. Please, he thought, a vague and desperate pleading. Please, please.

It was then that he realized Dom had stopped moaning.

"Dom?"

Dom's eyes were closed; his face was a waxy, ashen gray. The only sign of vivacity in his body was a small, constant whispering from his parted lips. Bill called his name; there was no response. Bill braced himself on his palms and leaned in close, bending until the barely discernible breaths became words.

"...of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen. Confiteor Deo omnipotenti..."

An icy coldness hit Bill's belly like a fist—a wave of fury followed it. He felt sick, impotent rage and blinding grief, wild light behind his eyes and he balled his hands into the collar of Dom's shirt and shook him once, hissing into his face.

"Wake up Dom, don't do that, don't you bloody do that, you're not going to die, I'm not going to let you, you're not going to die do you fucking hear me Dominic? Open your eyes!"

Mea culpa, Dom was whispering, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa...

Bill slapped him across the face as hard as he could.

Dom gasped and jerked; his eyes snapped open, wide and frightened before he saw Bill leaning over him. Bill held onto those eyes, scowling, and finally allowed his voice to break.

"Don't you give up on me," he said. "Don't you leave me alone."

He looked up as the lorry began to slow. The brake whined and they rolled to a stuttering stop; the engine shut off and everything went abruptly quiet. The wind fluttered in the flaps of canvas; beyond it Bill could hear the distant cry of sea gulls. The driver's door slammed; a moment later the tarp rolled up and Orlando appeared at the opening. Rushing up at his side were two familiar faces.

"Mother of God," breathed David, crossing himself.

"He's alright," said Bill. "The bleeding's almost stopped. It was a clean shot."

David stared, horrified; Sean pushed past him and reached for Dom's leg. "Bear a hand, Wenham, let's get him inside."

Bill forced his fingers to uncurl from Dom's shirt; he sat back and let the three men pull Dom out of his grasp. He crawled out behind them and hit the ground with both feet, ignoring the pain in his ribs, and followed them off the road and down a gravel path.

The sunset was burning itself out in the smudges of approaching cloud; the shadows grew longer in the fading light. They had parked in a small clearing beyond a line of trees, sloping down an increasingly steep embankment—at the end of the grass the river spread out before them, dark and undisturbed this far from the city. The water lapped against a single mooring and the hull of the barge waiting there. A narrow dock led from the bank to the open hatch; a light was burning within. Bill looked up, toward the horizon—the widening mouth of the Sea sparkled beneath the rising moon, open and empty. He swallowed and turned back to the ramp of Sean's boat. The wooden dock creaked as they walked across the planks.

Sean and David carried Dom inside; Orlando hung back by the gangway. His face was anxious as he peered inside the door. "Will he—will he be alright?"

"You saved his life." Bill followed Orlando's gaze into the cabin. "He'll be safe now."

Orlando's eyes were filled with sadness; he looked as if he would say something else, but instead he only nodded. "I need to get the lorry back before it's seen. I just...I wanted to tell him..."

"He knows." Bill put his hand on the boy's shoulder, gave him the closest thing he could to a smile.
"Thank you, Orlando. Thank you for saving him."

"You saved him, Bill," Orlando said. He laid a hand on Bill's arm. "Goodbye, my friend." And then he turned and hurried back down the dock, to where the lorry waited at the top of the embankment. The tires made crunching sounds in the gravel as the truck drove away with its headlamps unlit.

Inside the barge's cabin it was warm and dry. The living quarters were sparse but comfortable, as homelike as could be managed under the circumstances—it was, after all, Sean's home. The walls were lined with wood paneling; a small cook stove burned quietly in the corner. The sheets had been stripped from the bunk; Dom lay there, propped on a folded blanket. He was white as the mattress beneath him, quiet again, but his lips were still and his fingers twitched as he breathed. David hovered over him, tearing a pillowcase into long, thin strips for bandages. The vibration of the engines shook the floor beneath Bill's feet; a moment later Sean appeared in the hatch to the steering room. Bill took him by the elbow and led him over to the door.

"Nothing touches that wound unless it's been boiled. Change the dressings every day but don't touch him with your hands unless you've no choice. You've got whisky on board?" Sean nodded. "Wash him with it before you bind him. He'll not be pleased, but hold him down if you have to. Nothing else, you hear? Only boiled cloth and spirits until—until you get there."

"I can get him to Germany in two days," said Sean. "Viggo makes the crossing to America every other month. As soon as he's mended you can go."

Quietly, Bill said, "I'm staying here, Sean."

"But—but you can't, Glasgow! They'll hang you if they know what you've done!"

"They don't know. And they won't know. No one saw me. I have to go back, Sean. I have to make sure."

Sean said nothing. Bill only paused for a moment, then said, "Tea. Make strong black tea, with plenty of sugar, and give him as much as he'll drink. But just the tea—nothing else, you hear? Not till you can get fresh water. And I don't care how much he begs, no alcohol. Whisky for the outside, but not the inside."

"Well that's a bit unfair," came a voice from the bed.

Bill turned to see Dom watching them from his pillow, his face crinkled with a grin. A small breath slipped from Bill's throat.

"I thought I told you to lie still?"

David stepped aside as he approached; he was clutching the bandages in his arms. The two men looked at each other over the flickering lamp. David opened his mouth, but his voice never came. Bill nodded; after a moment, David smiled and nodded back. He stepped past them both and disappeared into the galley hall.

Bill heard the hatch creak behind him; Sean had gone back into the steering room to finish preparations. Bill sat down on the edge of the bed and eased back the towel David had pressed to Dom's belly. Dom flinched, but the towel was only smudged with red. Bill mustered a smile.

"Clever, aren't you—this time next week you'll be drinking wine on the North Sea surrounded by a flock of frauleins."

"Reckoned I was due for a holiday," Dom said. "Never was one to do things halfway, aye?"

Bill tucked the towel back into place. His hand lingered on the curve of Dom's ribcage; Dom looked down at where it rested on his skin. His grin wavered.

"Come with me."

"You know I can't."

Something in Dom's face shifted; his chin trembled once, and his grin cracked, shattered, and fell away like frost on window. His breath hitched in his chest; his eyes were bright and naked, and he looked very much like the lost and frightened little boy he had always hidden so well.

"I'm scared, Billy."

Bill's nails were biting into his palms. He looked down at his hands, filthy with powder burns and caked with Dom's blood. There were pink crescents in the skin when he uncurled his fingers. They fit perfectly over Dom's, cold beneath his touch.

"You were strong for your brother," he said. "Now be strong for me."

Two tears spilled from Dom's eyes, silver in the dirt on his cheeks. "But you came back."

"I came back to get you out. You're getting out, love. You get a new start, a new life, away from all of this. This is your chance, and I can't—" His chest constricted with a sharp pain; Dom's face swam in his eyes. "If I could have—I never—" His voice broke and he said hoarsely, "I'm sorry, Dom, I'm so, so sorry—"

Their kiss cut off his words, though he didn't remember bending forward. Bill's eyes closed, committing to memory the sound of Dom's breath, the taste of his mouth, recording forever the feel of this wordless goodbye. Their foreheads rested together, breathing each other's air for one moment longer.

"You broke your loyalty for me," said Dom.

"I found my loyalty because of you," said Bill. "I will never forget that."

His lips brushed across Dom's, a whisper both made but neither heard; and then Bill stood up and walked out of the cabin, leaving the light to dim behind him.

Outside it was dark and damp, quiet except for the hum of the engines. The mist was growing; thick drizzle swirling in the light of the moon, stinging Bill's face, clinging to his wet eyelashes. He felt the cabin light go dark behind him but did not hear the door close.

On the path ahead of him, half in a puddle of water, something lay glittering in a pool of light. Bill stooped to pick it up, wiped off the mud with his thumb. It was a rosary, green and white beads, the ivory cross stained with smears of blood. The knot in its center was cracked, rough beneath his thumb, chipped from its fall from the pocket of Dom's trousers. Bill held the strands in his fingers, watching raindrops pearl on the glassy surface. He put the rosary in his pocket and walked up the hill to the road, into the darkness as the rain grew harder and colder.

"Goodbye," he said.

_dilse @ 2005-12-21T20:01:00

2005-12-22T01:03:37Z

28.

May 28, 1922

The Four Courts looked like a war zone. The streets had been closed off to traffic of all forms; barricades blocked the empty lanes and formed an impenetrable wall around the cluster of municipal buildings. They had been beautiful once—tall, proud symbols of the Irish city, capital of the new Irish state. Now their plate glass windows were jagged holes bristling with rifle barrels, their stone walls pitted by artillery shells, blackened by smoke. Fires burned in rubbish barrels around the perimeter, creating a haze of smoke that lingered in the summer sunlight. The square was empty, its walkways littered with dirt and debris. It was no-man's-land in the middle of downtown Dublin.

De Valera's boys had held the square for thirty-six days, keeping both police and army at bay with regular skirmishes without and the threat of stockpiled dynamite within. No one knew exactly how much or what type of supplies the militants had, as several runs had slipped in and out without being detected by the police force guarding the area. They were everywhere now—patrolling the streets on foot, rifles at the ready; holding back the onlookers at the edge of the square as best they could on their skittish horses. The crowds had been thick at first, supporters of both sides throwing rocks and throwing curses—now only the diehards remained, hiding amongst the barricades, huddled behind the rubble and waiting for the next fight. The ordinary citizens of Dublin crept past the outskirts of the spectacle, but they were more weary now than angry. All through the city there was an air of waiting, of tension simmering under the surface, just beneath the tang of gun smoke. Both sides had dug in, and only an act of God was going to remove them.

Bill crouched behind a pile of lumber and peered across the back end of Chancery Street. He had used all his skills to slip through the outer lines of onlookers, reaching back past his training to a far older intuition, and as far as he could tell he had been recognized by no one. A few men stood here and there, chatting amongst themselves and propping their rifles on their shoulders as they lit each other's cigarettes, but the past few days had been quiet and no one seemed to be paying much attention anymore. But for all his luck in staying undetected, Bill had not managed to find the one face he was looking for. Wherever Dom had chosen to hide himself, it was a spot much closer to danger than Bill had yet reached. If Bill could just find the boy and get him out of this hellhole, no one would ever know either of them had been here. He only hoped it was not too late; that Dom had not yet made it inside the scarred buildings, or worse.

A police officer passed by on horseback; Bill withdrew behind the rubbish until the clatter of hoof beats passed. When it was gone he leaned forward and peered out into the street—the coast was clear. He ran across the pavement and flattened himself against the wall. Most of the people had gathered out on the opposite side of the building; his side of the street was entirely deserted. All Bill could hear was the far-off sound of horses, muted voices, crackling fires. He turned to look down the east end of the street, and was preparing to move again when a flash of movement caught his eye. Behind the next barricade, nearly invisible behind a stack of broken crates, was a set of three familiar faces. Bill's back scraped against the brick as he breathed out a sigh. "Thank you." To whom he was speaking, he was not sure.

He could see before he moved that Dom was not among them. David was the closest, squatting behind a poultry crate with a rifle between his legs. Karl's dark shape was visible just behind him; above them, Sean's face in profile looked through a chink in the barricade, bright sunlight in his hazel eyes. Bill squinted as he drew nearer, creeping forward to close the distance between them. Karl had disappeared; Bill searched the shadows around them but nothing could be seen. He frowned, and opened his mouth to call out David's name.

"You son of a bitch."

He dropped by instinct; the bottle in Karl's hand smashed against the bricks above Bill's head. He scrambled to move but Karl was on him, using his weight to drive Bill backwards until they both sprawled against the ground. The blows came hard and fast, one-two-three—Bill threw an arm across his face as warm blood began to flow into his eyes. For one moment he curled into himself, feeling each blow from Karl's fists—feeling his flesh bruise and his breath choke in his gut, closing his eyes against his punishment.

And then, it was enough. Something inside him snapped like the breaking of a twig, and every impulse Bill had ever known came him flying out of him in one surge of wordless, opaque rage. He stopped the next punch with his palm, moving with crazy speed to twist and flip until Karl was on his stomach, Bill straddling the small of his back, one fist clutched in Karl's hair to hold his face up off the pavement. Bill drew his pistol with his free hand and jabbed it into the base of Karl's neck. His fingers shook with the force of what he held in check. His voice did not.

"I don't want to hurt you, Urban. I just want to know where he is." Karl's hand flinched toward his gun; Bill jerked his fist tighter and dug his pistol into the soft tendons until Karl grunted. "Tell me where he is."

There was a small clicking sound; Bill felt cold pressure against his ear just before a shadow fell across him.

"Let him go, Glasgow."

David's face was dark against the bright sunlight. His eyes were pained and grim, but he held the shotgun with two steady hands.

Bill felt the adrenaline drain out of him. Sean's face appeared behind David's, eyes huge and dismayed. "Jesus!" he blurted, and said no more.

Karl twitched beneath Bill's grasp. "Fucking shoot him, Wenham!"

Bill said nothing. He thought of long Saturday nights in the pub, rounds of whisky and games of cards, David's laughter mixed with Dom's and bouncing off the high-beamed ceiling. Fair-faced Davie Wenham, so merry and bright, now gone hard and cold with his eyes full of anger and pain. Bill felt his own eyes begin to sting. His hand tightened in Karl's hair. He had come too far now—he only hoped they could see that in his face, and maybe understand. His desperation was all he had.

"David, please," he said.

David's eyes searched Bill's, pale over the shotgun's barrel. His mouth twisted through several expressions, then opened as the lower lip trembled. The pressure against Bill's temple wavered.

"You promise me you'll get him out of here."

"I swear it on my life," Bill said.

Sean's face was white and slick with sweat. His eyes darted from David to Bill to Karl and back again. Karl's breathing rasped against the stones. His body flexed beneath Bill's legs; Bill held him down fast but kept his thumb visibly drawn back from his gun. He would not look away from David's eyes. His pulse knocked in the pit of his throat.

At last David nodded; he stepped back and lowered his gun. "He's coming up Bridge Street, round the back of the quay."

Bill's eyes closed; he let his head drop as he exhaled. He eased back his hand, but he did not give up his leverage. With his thumb, he pushed down the hammer of the pistol. His heartbeat gradually began to slow.

Across the square a storefront shattered beneath a tremendous explosion.
They hit the pavement hard, debris raining down all around them. Gunfire erupted on the other side of the municipal building, the scraping whine of tank tread over cobblestone streets. Women screamed as the gunfire intensified. The army.

"Shit!" Sean hauled Bill to his feet as Karl scrambled up beside them. A wave of gritty smoke blasted over the barricade, obscuring their vision and stealing their air. David grabbed Bill by the shoulder and shoved him toward the street.

"Bridge Street! You get him out of here!"

"David—"

"I said go, God damn it!" David coughed and raised an arm to cover his mouth.

Bill looked at all three of their faces, as best he could in the stinging wind. He held David's gaze the longest. Then he grabbed his gun from the pavement and ran as fast as he could into the whirlwind of smoke.

It was bedlam: people ran in all directions, some trying to escape the incoming soldiers, others rushing to join the fight. Another explosion shook the ground beneath Bill's feet; he leapt over scattered rubble and glass in the street, shielding his face from the smoke. Everywhere it was screaming and shouting and the peppery toyish pop-pop-pop of machine gun fire. The sounds began to fade as Bill came round behind the building and ran up Church Street out towards the quay, searching every shape he passed until he stopped in his tracks at the end of the next turn.

And there he was, squatting behind a stack of scrap wood at the end of a narrow alley. He was alone, cut off by debris from both the buildings and the street. At his feet was his shotgun, an open box of ammunition, and two unlit Molotov cocktails. Dom crouched like a cat and peered through the slats, his shirt smudged with dirt, his face dark and lined and squinting down the barrel of the pistol he held braced across his forearm. He was cornered.

Bill sprinted forward before he could think. A shot sounded in the distance and he whirled—there was nobody behind them. The wind shifted and the smoke blew away, dissipating in the streaky sunset; looking back he saw Dom had turned and now sat with his back against the wall, reloading his pistol from the box at his feet. Both of his hands were shaking.

Bill called his name.

Dom's head snapped up and he pointed the pistol. He saw Bill standing there, twelve yards across the pavement. His eyes flickered first in surprise, then recognition; his lips parted and his mouth slowly opened. And then it closed, his jaw clenching as his face went smooth beneath the layers of dirt. He did not lower the gun.

"Dom," Bill said again. It was the only word that would come to his lips.

The boy stared at him with no reply, but his thumb had moved to the hammer of his pistol. It hovered there, motionless.

"I can get you out of here," said Bill. "But you have to come with me right now." He kept his eyes on Dom's, not looking at the pistol trained on his heart. Across the street there was a fresh burst of shouting and gunshots—they were getting close. "I know that you—look, we don't have time, I've got to get you out of here. Please, Dom, please listen, you have to tr—" but that was the sentence he could not finish.

Dom's thumb slid across the hammer, a slow caress. He stared down the barrel, eyes gone cold beneath his lowered brow. A thousand dark things moved in their depths and were gone before they could be seen. There was a faded bruise across his cheekbone; the muscle beneath it twitched. Bill said nothing. The moment was Dom's alone, and Bill could only pray that Dom could see his face through the clouds of smoke and rage. He waited.

Dom's jaw flexed; his lip twitched above a single flash of bared teeth. The vein in his neck pounded for another beat, then another, and then the tide crested and ebbed from his face. The pistol lowered until it was dangling at his side. The dark ice of his eyes cracked and shattered, thawing to a familiar blue. He picked up his shotgun with his other hand and began to climb out of the barricade.

Bill walked forward to meet him. The smoke was getting thicker—they needed to get out of there fast, and the haze could provide some good cover. Dom stuck the pistol in his trousers and climbed over the rubble, keeping his head down, edging closer to where Bill stood. He jumped down with ease and looked up as his feet hit the ground. His mouth had softened into a hint of a grin.

"Freeze!"

Bill heard the soldier's rifle click before the shadow dropped in his vision. One man, alone, his crown-issue weapon poised and wavering between Dom's head and Bill's. His green uniform was smudged with soot and dried mud.

"Step out this way, hands in the air. Slowly now."

Bill and Dom looked at each other across the street between them. Dom had moved out into the sunlight; his eyes shaded as he looked at Bill from under the brim of his cap. Bill saw his own eyes reflected there—it was all he needed to see.

They drew their guns as one, side by side as if from an unspoken signal. The shots ripped through the alley, three bullets from three guns. The unwary soldier caught both rounds in the chest and was thrown backwards before his rifle had even slipped from his hands. He landed on his back in a crumpled pile of green and red.

Bill stared at the body, watching the blood spread across the cobblestones. A dark spatter fell in a line of droplets across the soldier's neck. So it goes, Da, Bill thought.

The shots would attract attention—they needed to get out of the alley as quickly as possible. Bill turned to Dom and shoved his pistol in his belt.

"C'mon. We've got to get out of here."

Dom said nothing. He looked at Bill strangely and blinked. Bill held out a hand. "Dom, come on. It's alright, let's go." Dom looked at Bill then, and smiled; an odd, calm little smile. Bill's heart froze inside of him.

The wind blew through the alley, ruffling Dom's hair beneath his cap. He looked down at his shirttail, at the bright blood spreading across his belly. He looked up at Bill with that same tranquil, half-amused smile, and then pitched forward and fell face first onto the street.

_dilse @ 2005-12-20T22:14:00

2005-12-21T03:14:40Z

27.

May 27, 1922

The bed was smaller than what Bill had slept in over the past few months, but that was the least of its problems. It was narrow and short, even for him, and the sheets had smelled of mothballs and lye (among other things) before he'd stripped them off. The pillow was lumpy and the frame had splinters, but it was a bed and it served its purpose, and had been doing so for more than a few hours now. Bill lay on his back on the sagging mattress, one arm behind his head, bleary eyes staring up at the watermarks on the ceiling. He kept losing his count, and sometimes he forgot he was counting altogether. His feet were cold, bare toes gone numb in the draft from the open window. The lamp on the nightstand was turned up too high and the rest of him was warm, grimy skin slick beneath his vest. His socks lay on the chair beside the door; the lamp's knob was easily within reach. He moved for neither. It was possible he had fallen asleep, passed out hours ago, but he had no way of being sure and no desire to do much about that either.

It wasn't until the second knock came that he even registered the sound at all. It filtered down through the haze until he realized it was indeed coming from the door and not from inside his pounding head. Then it came again, a little louder this time, and Bill heard papers scatter as he lurched to his feet. His first step kicked through a pile of empty bottles—they clattered across the floor and the shadow beneath the door froze at once. Bill scowled to clear his muzzy head. He reached for the pistol on the nightstand, pulled the hammer back with his thumb, and approached the door from the side.

"Aye?" His voice, unused in days, cracked on the word.

From the hall outside came a whisper: "Bill. It's me."

His brow knit. He opened the door with his free hand and stood there, blinking. The hall was dark, and the figure standing in it wore a long black coat with the collar turned up, but the hair peeking out from beneath the black wool hat was wispy and blonde.

"Miranda?"

Her eyes held the only bit of color about her. They grew round when they saw him, and rounder still when they saw the pistol in his hand. Bill squinted and blinked some more, trying to bring his cloudy brain into focus. "What—what are you doing here?"

She looked behind her uneasily. "Please, Bill, may I come in?"

He stepped aside to let her pass and peered out into the hall. It was empty. Bill thumbed down the hammer of his pistol and shut the door as quietly as he could.

Miranda was staring in horror at the room around her: the dingy walls, the half-eaten food on the nightstand, the scattered piles of newspapers and maps, the empty bottles and the full ashtrays. And then finally at Bill, as close to undressed as she had ever seen him, standing there with a loaded gun in his hand and three days of beard on his face. He could smell himself as she stared at him.

"Bill...you..."

"Does your father know you're here?"

"No." Something like a smile touched her cheeks. "Sure I haven't lived with men all my life without learning how to sneak around, now have I?" She pulled off her hat; her braid was wound around her head, frizzed a little with nighttime damp. Bill ran a hand through his own greasy hair.

"How did you find me?"

"Give me a little credit, Bill. You're not the only one good at learning things. It's not hard to ask around the lodgers' houses for a stranger from Scotland."

Bill snorted; it was true enough. He dropped the pistol on the table and rubbed his face with both hands. His stubble scraped against his palms. "Look, Miranda, you shouldn't have—"

"I know where Dom is."

Her face was pale with sorrow and worry, but underneath that he could see the fiery foundation that had drawn him to her from the very beginning. Fire in her eyes, now, and steel in her voice.

"Are you going to arrest him?"

"What?"

She was as hard as he had ever seen her, and her voice, though quiet, was razor-edged. "You tell me the truth, Bill," she said. "If I tell you where Dom is, are you going to arrest him?"

"I was never after Dom." It sounded so much worse spoken so plainly. "I just need to—I've got to find him, Mandy. I came back here to find him."

She must have heard the alcohol and petulance in his voice, but her expression did not change. She looked him over in keen silence. Finally she brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. "I believe you."

Bully for you, Bill thought, but he was surprised by the depth of his relief. Miranda's posture relaxed, but her face remained shrewd and she arched an eyebrow.

"Well if you were trying to help him, sure you missed the mark a bit when you beat him senseless and then ran away instead of explaining yourself." She crossed her arms, but her voice was more tart than scathing. "And I can't see as how you're going to find him when you're stewing in a filthy kip and smellin like a brewer's mule."

"I tried. I did try. You were there, you saw your father. They won't listen to me."

"Dom will—"

"No he won't. Before I left we—I—" The taste of bile clogged his throat. He shook his head. "It's over. Dom hates me. And I can't say that I blame him."

"He's going to the Courts, Bill."

Bill's eyes closed.

"There's fighting all the time now—Collins says he'll bring in the Free State Army to clear out the trouble. It'll be civil war. And Dom's going tomorrow to help where he can. There's no way he'll make it, not on his own, but he won't listen to anyone. Not anymore." Her voice pierced him as much as the look in her eyes. "He's going, and there's none of us can stop him." There was no need for her to add the last words—except you.

Bill's heart tripped into a dizzy palpitation. If there had been anything in his stomach, he would likely have lost it. He groped behind him until his hand closed on a chair and he dropped heavily onto it.

"You know what's going to happen, don't you?"

She had never been sheltered in all her life—he respected her far too much to start now. "The orders are to shoot on sight. No exceptions."

"Then he's going to die."

"Yes."

Miranda nodded. The impish radiance he'd so admired was gone from her features; she looked older, more gaunt, shadowed lines and bloodless lips. When she spoke, her voice was absolute. "You have to stop him."

His back slumped; all his muscles seemed made of knots and water. "I can't. I had my chance. It's over." He heard the inebriated whine in his voice; it only added to his dejection. His spine bowed against the unforgiving chair. "I tried," he said again, as if the more he said it, the truer it would become.

"So you'll just give up on him now, then, is that it? After everything you've been through? After all you've lost, all you gave up, and you'll come all this way back just to drink yourself into a stupor and drown in your own pity?"

His head rose but the expression on her face bled the words from his mouth. Her eyes caught him and held him fast, flashing as sharp and clear as her voice.

"It has to be you, Bill. You know that, or you wouldn't have come back. Whatever's happened, it doesn't matter now. All that matters is what brought you back here. What you came back to save."

The softness returned to her features. "All your life, you've done nothing but what's right. You've come too far to stop now." She reached down to touch his face.

"If you love him, you will try."

"I will try," Bill said.

She did smile then; a gentle bending of light across her face. "You're a good man, Bill."

"No, I'm not," he said, "But at least now I know it."

Through the window came the faint chime of church bells tolling midnight. Miranda looked up at the sound, then took a step back toward the door.

"I'd better get back. My da'll be knowing I slipped away."

"Aye lass. You should go." He pushed himself to his feet; the room spun more now from weariness than drink. He needed sleep, and badly, but he knew even as he swayed that rest would not be his. Not yet.

Miranda pulled on her hat and tucked her hair beneath it; she hugged herself in her coat but she made no move toward the door. She must have known this was their farewell; her lips parted as if to speak but she hesitated, the skin between her eyebrows creasing as she paled. Her eyes grew bright with moisture. "Bill..."

Bill moved to her—his Mandy, his dearest friend, as good and strong and true as she was desperately beautiful. It was a simple motion to take her face in his hands. Her eyes opened wide, but they closed as he leaned forward. Her lips were warm against his, trembling only once, then parting when he opened his mouth. Her hands were small on the curve of his ribcage; she shivered at the breath that passed between them. Her eyes were closed when Bill drew back; when they opened, a tear spilled down her cheek. For the briefest instant she drew her lower lip into her mouth.

"God go with you, Miranda," Bill said.

She pressed her lips together until her chin stopped trembling. The tear slipped off her skin and disappeared. And then she smiled at him, a quiet and beautiful thing.

"And with you, Bill."

Bill stood at the open window and watched until he could no longer see her tiny shape in the street below. He lifted his hand and ran a knuckle across the cracked line of his mouth. He drew down the glass and reached over to turn off the lamp; he pulled his chair over to the window and sat there until the sun rose, watching the last place she'd been.

_dilse @ 2005-12-15T15:07:00

2005-12-15T20:07:15Z

26.

May 25, 1922

Summer was blooming on the streets of Dublin. The sky above the rows of chimneys was cloudless blue; the brick and cobblestone caught the sun's warmth and nurtured it to a welcoming heat. It had rained the day before—the everyday smells of mud and rubbish were briefly washed away, and the city was left clean with the scent of wood fires and salt air brought in by the wind. On a day like this the crowds should have been out in full, shopping and socializing in the Saturday markets—men in their shirt sleeves and women in linen blouses, picking through the cherry harvest and wandering through booths filled with fresh flowers and new dresses. Children would be playing ball on the pavement; old women would be gossiping on the steps of the tenements while boys called to each other from the windows above. But on this Saturday morning the streets were nearly empty despite the beautiful weather. Instead of lively chatter there was only a tense and muted murmuring, broken by the occasional crying child or barking dog, and in the distance was the faint hum of lorry engines.

Bill could feel eyes on his back as he walked down Wicklow street. He kept his gaze straight ahead and his pace even, neither fast nor slow but something just in between. The stares grew bolder, whispers rustling like leaves in his wake. Three times he heard his name spat out in the snatches that reached his ears. He kept walking. In front of the cloth shop two women turned their backs as he passed beneath the awning; another pulled her child behind her as if to remove him from the reach of Bill's poisonous shadow. The toddler peeked out from behind her skirt. Bill kept walking.

The sign was brighter than he had ever seen it, green and gold in the summer sun; it swung a little above his head as he reached the front step. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. The brass was still dented from the night Sean had whacked it with a shovel while they were cleaning the snow off the step; the divot felt cool beneath his thumb. In the panes of glass, his reflection squared its shoulders. The doorbells jingled loudly as he entered.

The bar had been restocked with spring shipments, new wine and old whisky and the glasses all gleaming on their shelves. The chairs were turned up on their tables and the broom stood propped against the bar. His apron no longer hung on its peg. At first he thought the room was empty, but as his eyes adjusted to the light Bill saw a figure bent before the fireplace, scraping the last of the winter ashes from the hearth. He didn't move as the door closed but the friendly greeting came at once: "A good morning to you, friend, can I help?" When there was no reply, Bernard straightened from his work and turned around.

Bill had built his life on the speed of his wit, but as he stood there not a single word came to mind. He wondered how he must look, standing there on the welcome mat—unshaven, sleep-deprived, hollowed-out and drifting at the end of an unraveling rope. Could the past month be seen on his face, in the yellowed bruises there? Did he look as battered as he felt? If so, Bernard gave no sign. He stared at Bill in silence, his face going carefully stiff. It made him look tired, and very old.

"Bill!"

There was a rush of footsteps as Miranda came flying down the stairs. She ran into Bill's arms and embraced him fiercely—he put a hand on her hair but his eyes remained on her father. Close behind her was the dog, Styb, barking out his joy and thumping his tail madly as his claws scrabbled on the floor at Bill's feet.

Miranda drew back, her face drawn with worry. "Bill, how did you—what are you doing here?"

At last, Bill found his voice. "I came to warn you." And then to Bernard: "I need to see Dom."
Miranda turned toward her father. Bernard straightened from where he'd been bent over the fireplace.
He dropped his trowel into the hearth and wiped his hands across the front of his apron. "I don't know where Dom is," he said. "And I wouldn't tell you if I did."

"Da!"

Bernard did not look at her. "Go upstairs now, Miranda."

"But Da, I—"

"Do as I say, girl!" Bernard's eyes flashed with dangerous anger; for an instant Bill could see what he must have looked like as a young man. It was a formidable sight.

Miranda touched Bill's arm; her mouth opened around a hesitant word. The word never came, and her eyes filled with tears. All at once she turned away and fled back up the staircase. Bill's eyes followed her; when she was gone, they turned once more to Bernard. He expected to see fury in Bernard's face, rage, abhorrence, disgust—instead he saw a drawn and defeated old man. He waited for curses, shouts of rebuke—instead he heard only a single weary sentence.

"Haven't you done enough, lad?"

"Bernard, I—look, I don't expect you to—" Bill sighed. "I'm not asking for anything. Just tell me where Dom is and you'll never see me again. Please, Bernard. I've got to find him."

"Find someplace else to ease your conscience, boy. You'll get no absolution here." Bernard untied his apron and pulled it over his head; he wiped his hands with it, then used it to mop the sweat from his brow. The fabric bunched between his knuckles as his hands balled into fists.

"I gave you my trust, boy. I brought you into my home, into my very family, my—" His shoulders slumped. "They told me I was a fool to do it. A daft and soft old man."

"No one has ever shown me kindness as you have," said Bill. "I never meant you to get caught up in all this. I was only trying to—all I wanted was—" His voice sounded pathetic in his ears and he stopped talking.

Bernard would not look into his eyes. He shook his head, his anger easing out into disappointment.

"You're not the man I thought you were."

And there was nothing Bill could say to that.

Styb, cowed into silence by Bernard's hard voice, began to cautiously nudge at Bill's ankles. The gentle thumping of his tail and his whines for attention were the only sounds in the empty pub. Bernard rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Finally he looked up, and crossed his arms into a line across his chest.

"Go home, Bill. Go back from where you came."

"I can't. I quit."

Bernard's eyes widened—the reaction loosened Bill's chest and brought the urgency back to his voice.
"They're coming, Bernard. It's not going to be good. My—the—the orders are show no mercy. I know Dom's going. I know what's in his mind. He's got nothing to lose, I know he wants to—" the word froze on his tongue and he chose another. "To help. He'll go down there any way he can. And if he does, he's going to die." He could hear the panicky note in his voice. "You've got to believe me, Bernard. I know you can't trust me, but you must believe me."

The sun was growing hot on the back of his neck. He could feel sweat beginning to prickle behind the collar of his shirt. Bernard's face, always so robust and blustery pink, looked now a shade of queasy gray. He listened to Bill's words with dim, empty eyes; his mouth pressed together until Bill could no longer read his expression. Then he picked up his apron, tied it around himself, and bent to retrieve the trowel from the pile of ashes.

"I don't take the words of strangers."

Bill's eyes rose to the landing, where Miranda peeked down from the top of the stair. Her face was very still, but her knuckles were white on the banister and her cheeks shone with the tracks of her tears. Bill's heart ached.

"You told me once that we all must do our part. I never knew what my part was until I came here. I will always be grateful to you for that."

Bernard had already stooped back to his work, his hands holding him steady on the bricks as he went back to cleaning his pub. His hair was the same color as the ashes he scraped. Bill reached down and gave Styb a gentle scritch behind the ear. He could not look up again, but he heard the trowel pause in its scraping when he opened the front door.

"Goodbye, Bernard," Bill said.

_dilse @ 2005-10-31T23:41:00

2005-11-01T04:41:11Z

happy halloween. :) see you after nano.

25.

May 19, 1922

The kitchen was dark as Bill entered. The stove and icebox were black shapes against the gloom, the pots and pans rows of dangling shadows above him. The room was insulated against the night chill but the floor was still cold beneath his bare feet. He moved forward by instinct, his eyes darting in the darkness. The door to the pantry was ajar; a sliver of light uncurled across the floor. His feet made small pats on the stone as he approached; he slipped through the doorway without letting the hinges creak.

There was a lamp burning on the flour barrel. Bill crept forward, peering into the shadows between the shelves. The door closed behind him and he turned, startled. Dom leaned against the post; his hand was still curled around the doorknob. His hair was mussed in sweaty disarray, his vest wrinkled from a long day's wear.

"You're late," he said, and grinned.

The door rattled on its hinges from the force of their weight; Bill grabbed Dom by the vest and moved them over to the pantry wall. Dom grunted as his back hit the bricks; his hands were already tugging at the buttons of Bill's trousers, his fingers squeezing in wordless invitation. Bill drove up hard, pinning Dom to the wall with both the weight of his hips and his fingers digging into Dom's shoulders. Dom squirmed beneath him and arched his body to push back just as urgently.

Bill shuddered and dropped his face to Dom's neck. He braced his arms against the brick, held up by the hands on his back and the momentum of his own thrusts. Dom's throat was florid beneath his mouth, vibrating as he whispered, "Love you...Billy..." He couldn't last long, he never could like this, not with Dom writhing like a flame in his arms, his moans matching the sounds of their clothing against the bricks. Dom was breathing in short gasps, sweat running down their bellies, slick against sliding skin. His earlobe slipped into Bill's mouth and he moaned; Bill shuddered as his back arched and his belly shook beneath sticky warmth. He thrust again, and again, the tremors of his orgasm holding the boy against the wall until the last wave passed and he collapsed against Dom's neck and gasped for his breath.

He lay there, sweating, breathing against the curve of Dom's neck. He drew his tongue lazily up the salty skin. The flavor had changed; too metallic for sweat, something thicker and viscous against his tongue. Dom was moving beneath him, straining against his softening body; his skin was dank and clammy, the vein in his throat cool against Bill's lips. No pulse fluttered there. The taste of copper grew stronger in Bill's mouth. He opened his eyes.

Dom's head lolled to the side when Bill drew back. The ring of purple around his throat was stark against his skin, smeared by Bill's lips, stained by the dark blood oozing from his ears and mouth. His broken vertebrae poked mismatched lumps against the side of his neck.

Bill heard a cracked sound escape his throat. Dom's filmy eyes glittered; his hands held Bill fast by the small of his back. He licked his blue lips and squirmed, whispering from his horrible ruined face.

"C'mon, Billy," he said. "Finish it."

Bill cried out and flailed backwards, trying to break free; Dom's hands were a vise on his back, pinning them together, their bodies making squelching sounds as they moved. There was blood on Bill's hands, on his belly, two bullet holes in Dom's chest leaking down his white vest, splattered across the bricks behind him. Bill was making choked noises, pleading, twisting until wrenched himself free and stumbled back; Dom's crushed neck bent obscenely as he looked up at Bill with tears spilling from his dead eyes and diluting the blood beneath his nose.

"Finish it, Billy," he said. "Please, Billy, please, finish it, I want it to be you..." He slid down the wall, red smears across the brick and Bill put his hands over his face and screamed without a sound, reeling blindly and falling back into the darkness, down and down and down—

Bill flung himself awake so violently that he almost fell out of the bed. He grabbed the nightstand to steady himself as his lungs struggled to draw in a breath. His other hand batted at his face, wiping at his mouth and cheeks. His palm was dry and clean. For a convulsive moment he was very nearly sick—and then his heart began to settle and the breath returned to his chest. The tendrils of the dream began to fragment in the air from the open window, and Bill looked at the bedroom around him and let out a shivering sigh.

He peeled the sheet from his body, wincing at the wet warmth between his legs. When he was certain he could stand he pulled himself to his feet and walked naked across the dark room, letting the cool air revive him as he headed into the bathroom.

The hotel room had a loo of its own, a luxury Bill had never been able to boast. No expense was spared in His Majesty's Service, he had been told, and even the lavatories seemed no exception. It had a floor of real tile and a clawfoot tub, the silver taps and polished mirror gleamed in the sterile light. It was a small room, but clean, well-kept and fresh with electric bulbs hanging above him as he looked into the mirror. The face that looked back at him was none of these things.

He bathed his face with cold water until he felt the strength creep back into his legs; then he stepped into the tub and pulled the chain on the shower. He washed himself until his skin was no longer sticky, until he could no longer feel slippery wetness on his mouth and bruising fingers on the small of his back. His eyes stung in the spray; he would not close them when he put his head beneath the water.
When the hot water ran cold Bill turned off the shower and reached for a towel—two a day, every day since he'd been here. No expense spared. He turned to the sink and brushed his dripping hair away from his face. He stood there, looking into the mirror; his reflection blurred a little in the steam. H drew his hand across the glass and wiped off a path of clarity.

There were dark circles beneath his eyes. The dreams were coming every night now—dreams of blood and horror and death, dreams of skin and sweat and heat. They had always dissolved to fragments as soon as daylight came—now they came too fast to scatter, hiding behind his eyelids every time he blinked. Bill stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was awake now, he knew, but he could not shake the remnants of his vision, the cold knotted feeling in his chest.

His shaving kit sat on the sink beneath the medicine cabinet. Bill glanced at it, then at his face, tired beneath the shadows of old bruises. He rubbed at his jaw and reached for the silver brush. There was an odd sort of calm in this ingrained habit, this set of methodical movements. Bill spread the warm soap across his face, then picked up his pearl handled razor and scraped a slow, careful stroke down the plane of his cheek.

His father had never taught Bill how to shave. As a child Bill had sat on the floor countless times and watched his father squint into the mirror above the basin, wiping his blade on his sleeve—but he had never emulated those movements, never played along with a comb or the back of a butter knife. It seemed like something that only men did, and Bill had known he was far from being a man. He had been content to watch the razor flash in the light as it moved down his father's face, guided by a steady hand.

Once, he had asked: "Does it hurt, Da?"

"Sometimes. But that just means you're going too fast, or your blade is not the best." His father looked down at him, his face still half-dotted in soap, and winked.

"If anything hurts you that much, wee man, it's likely you're not doing it right."

Outside in the bedroom, his belongings lay arranged in tidy order. His shirt and jacket hung neatly in the wardrobe; his trousers lay folded on a chair next to his suitcase. His shoes peeked from the edge of the bed, side by side and pointing out. His briefcase lay on the table, the evening newspapers scattered around it; Bill could see their bold black headlines in his mind. Day 28 at the Four Courts, read the Times. Four rioters shot by Free State police. And the Independent: The Fighting Continues. When will our city be safe again?

Beside the newspapers lay an envelope stamped with the logo of the MI5. Inside the envelope was Bill's new assignment, presented to him two days prior. He was due to leave King's Cross in four hours, coach class on a train bound for northern England. Monitoring suspected tax fraud in a group of Yorkshire unionists. Not all punishment was delivered by ball and chain.

He shaved slowly, blinking at his reflection through the steam. The razor slipped in his fingers and he winced; bright blood welled up and trickled down his cheek, catching on the line of his scar. Bill watched it pool along the raised skin.

You love what you bleed for, his father had once said. And sooner or later, you bleed for what you love.

The steam was evaporating from the cooling bathroom. Bill wiped the traces of foam and blood from his face and hung the towel back on its rack. He closed his shaving kit and carried it out with him.
Outside in the bedroom, the first tinges of dawn were replacing the stark moonlight. Bill's skin prickled in the cool air as he put on his trousers, socks and shoes. He buttoned his shirt, snapped his suitcase closed, and reached for his jacket.

The stack of papers lay neatly on the table. On the top was a small white card, crisp with the glint of new ink—his newly-issued MI5 identification. Bill reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew an envelope. The address was labeled in his own handwriting: Official Notice, Agent to Headquarters. Bill propped the letter against his stack of files and picked up the ID card. William Boyd, On His Majesty's Service. The card stock made a heavy ripping sound when he tore it in two. Bill held the halves in his hands for moment; he lay the pieces face down in front of the letter, picked up his cases and walked out of the hotel room, remembering to switch off the lamp behind him.

~~~~~~~~

Dearest Margaret.

Today I will be wiring you the majority of my new month's pay. There will not be another. I told you this assignment would be my last, and so it will be. I cannot say anything more right now, but my work here is over. You once told me that I am not what they want me to be. You were right. I am not what anyone wanted me to be, least of all myself.

There is only one more thing I have to take care of before I come home. It is a dangerous thing—likely the most dangerous thing I have ever done. There is a possibility that I may not return. I don't tell you this to worry you—I tell you this because if the worst should happen, this letter will be the only notification you ever receive. If you have not heard from me three weeks from today, I want you to burn this letter and tell no one that you received it.

I know you don't understand, Meg, and I am truly sorry. I will explain everything when I get home. I pray that will be soon. I love you, my dear sister. It's likely I am too late, that I will not be able to be of any help or do what it is that I am setting out to do. But I would never be able to look you or your daughters in the face again if I did not try. I have to do what's right. And if the worst should befall me, then when I see them I'll tell them I did the best I could.

It's not over yet.

All my love,
Bill

_dilse @ 2005-10-29T19:34:00

2005-10-29T23:34:30Z

24.

April 25, 1922

The spring sun sparkled across the polished mahogany of Lord McKellen's office, but enough chill still lingered in the walls to make Bill shiver a little beneath his jacket. His hands, clasped in a knot behind his back, gripped tighter together until the shivering stopped. His spine remained arrow-straight, his eyes fixed on a spot at the center of the mantle, blinking only when they began to burn.

McKellen's back still faced him, clad in a black tailored suit that soaked up what little warmth came from the window where he stood. He looked through the panes of glass, fingering a bit of drape in one hand. His waxed silver hair gleamed dully in the sunlight. He had not spoken in over ten minutes.

There was no fire crackling in the hearth; no clack of typing from the black-haired receptionist, no noise of traffic filtering in from the street, not even a bird chirping outside the spotless windows. The minutes passed, marked by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner; beyond that endless rote no sound reached Bill's ears. There was only the constant, deafening silence, unable to distract him from the thoughts prickling at the back of his eyes.

Bill stood there and waited, looking at McKellen's back but seeing Bernard's face, the expression in his eyes as Bill came down the staircase with bags in hand. The ring of icy, damning stares following him as he passed. Miranda's voice, small and trembling: Bill?

"I'm sorry, lass," he'd managed. She'd opened her mouth but then her father grabbed her arm—Bill could have said no more anyway. How large her eyes had grown when she had seen his battered face; how the echo of her voice had followed him out the door as she'd rushed up the stairs. Dom? Dom! The sound of it had lingered in his ears long after the sunshine had grown bright on his face and Wicklow Street was far behind him.

"Do they know who is behind the takeover?"

McKellen had not turned; he was not looking at Bill but still gazing at the morning outside. Bill stared at the lines of his suit, the crisp fold of his collar. He heard Dom's voice shouting hoarse across the plaza. Boone!

"No, sir," he said.

The Director turned then. One eyebrow arched in a vague fashion. "Of course not."

He turned to his desk and reached for the crystal service. There was a single tumbler on the tray. In the sunlight the claret was the color of blood.

"Well. So now your cover is blown, Agent Boyd. The truth comes out at last. You can no longer pretend to be one of the merry little band, just as you can no longer pretend to be the competent agent I was led to believe you were."

Bill said nothing. His lower back was beginning to ache; his locked knees sent tiny stabs of numbness into his legs and feet.

The stopper settled in the decanter with a tiny clink. "Oh, don't mistake me—I had fully expected you to fall in with their little cause. I knew that from the first day you came into this office. One need only take a single look at you to know you're a step away from the revolution yourself. I'm afraid it can't be helped in these sorts of situations—it's inevitable that your kind will band together in the end. Still, I'd had high hopes that I would be able to extract bit more from you before you turned up dead in the street with your new friends. The agency did pay quite a lot to have you sent over here, after all. You could have at least had the decency to earn your boat fare."

Bill was looking at the knotwork carved into the mahogany mantle above the hearth. Smooth Celtic braids, looping and spiraling, polished to a dark glow above the shadows of the fireplace. Its curves gleamed in the sunlight like the coils of an ancient serpent.

His drink prepared, the Director took a seat in his chair. He inspected his glass in the light, took a delicate sip. "I was certain I should see you hanging from a noose when all this was done. Imagine my disappointment when you failed me in both my expectations." Glancing at Bill's face, he added, "Though it would seem others were less reserved in their disappointment than I." Bill did not allow his bruised cheek to twitch.

McKellen finished his drink in three more sips. He placed the empty tumbler on the tray and reached into a drawer in his desk. He pulled out a fresh manila folder, stamped with the insignia of the MI5. It slid across the desk with a flat sound.

"Your ticket to London expires in two days."

Bill's mouth opened. "Sir?"

"Do have a nurse take a look at you before you leave the office. I expect you to have yourself presentable by the time you report to headquarters."

It took Bill several seconds to compose himself enough to form a reply. "I thought—Sir, I was under the impression I was to be relieved after this assignment."

"I do not recall thinking being part of your recruitment requirements." The Director's fingers folded together atop the blotter on his desk. His posture remained graceful, but his eyes flashed with something far less stately.

"Allow me to correct any other false impressions you may have collected, Agent. You do not earn your way out of His Majesty's service. You will do as you are told without question until this agency sees fit to release you, or you will exit this profession entirely and in disgrace. I should think that after your spectacular failure you would be grateful for the chance to redeem yourself, but I see I have overestimated you yet again.

"Do not mistake my leniency for forgiveness, Boyd. It is only my desire to avoid bringing even more negative attention to this office that precludes me having you thrown in Reading Gaol for the little stunt you pulled out there. But...no. You will take this ticket and return to London, where you will be made a full and active agent of the MI5 and given your first assignment on your new term of service." McKellen's eyes glittered with pale spite. "And if any of your friends attempt to contact you in any way, you will notify me immediately. If you come into any new information regarding the folly downtown, any information whatsoever, you will deliver it to me without delay."

"They're not my friends," said Bill.

"For an undercover operative you really are a horrendous liar, Boyd. You will inform your friends that if any one of them so much as goes for an afternoon stroll in the general neighborhood of the Four Courts, they will be shot dead on sight. Is that understood, Agent?"

Bill's mouth closed. The crushing surge of dismay in his chest fell back as McKellen spoke and now drained out of him entirely, leaving only an exhausted sort of calm. His jaw softened; the tension ebbed from his shoulders and his hands relaxed at his sides. His brow smoothed out; he blinked through dull eyes at the Director's genteelly gloating face. His back no longer ached. He no longer felt the throbbing in his cheek and jaw, the scraping swathe across his throat. He no longer felt anything at all.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I understand."