5.


"I do believe this is the last of the lot," said Miranda. She set her basket of dirty towels on the bar and wiped her arm across her forehead. "I think these lads spill more beer than they drink."

Bill looked up from his broom and smiled. The last of the chairs had been upended on the freshly-wiped tables, and Miranda was gathering the few remaining glasses to take to the kitchen. The pub was quiet and dim, Bill having blown out the lamps after the last straggling customers had tottered out the door. Now the light from the dying fire and the glow of the electrics from the kitchen cast long shadows across the wood floor. Styb lay curled up by the hearth, snoozing contentedly. Bernard was sitting on a stool at the end of the bar, counting out the night's receipts into tidy stacks and noting down the numbers in his books. Miranda scooped up her last load and slipped into the kitchen. Bill finished sweeping and dumped the dustpan into the bin.

"You did well tonight, lad," said Bernard. "I was thankful of your help. And the lads took to you straight off, as I knew they would."

"I was glad of it, Bernard," said Bill. "I don't want to cause you any trouble."

"Nonsense," said Bernard, "You're a natural. It's glad I am I found you before you ended up in some dirty warehouse, or worse—in another pub." He smiled at Bill's chuckle and then pointed to a small stack of coins. "There you are, my boy, your share of the night."

Bill's eyes widened. "I don't need that much, Bernard, honestly."

"No, but you deserve it." Bernard waited until Bill stepped forward and picked up the coin before continuing. "Now Miranda and I will be in church tomorrow morn, so you'll need that to find yourself a spot to eat anyway. There's a fine place three blocks down run by some Jews—they'll be open for you. Good bread, they have." He looked up with a wink and added, "Unless you wanted to come to Mass with us, that is."

Bill laughed and dropped the money into his pocket. Before he could answer he heard Miranda calling from the kitchen. "Bill?"

"Aye?"

"Could you be a love and get me some more soap? I'm up to my elbows in laundry in here. It's in the storeroom, second shelf on the right."

Bill propped his broom against the counter. "Be right there." He left Bernard to his bookkeeping and headed down the stairs to the cellar.

The corridor was lit to the dimmest gray by single bulbs in the rooms on either end—storeroom on the right, wine cellar on the left. Bill turned right and felt along the damp wall until he reached the storeroom. It only took a moment to scan the shelves and find what he was looking for. He gathered up a handful of square paper packets and pulled the chain on the bulb, hurrying back to get out of the chill. He was at the base of the staircase when he heard something thump softly from the opposite end of the corridor.

Bill stopped, crinkling his brow, and listened. The noise came again—a thump and a rustle, followed by a small, high sound. The hairs rose on the back of his neck, but the inspector in Bill was walking down the shadowy corridor before he realized it, clutching his armful of soap packets, and he peered silently around the doorway into the shadows of the wine cellar.

The walls were lined with rows and rows of bottles, one end stacked with a mountain of beer barrels and the other corners dotted with crates and boxes. The girl was perched atop one of these crates, her back against the shelves, one leg dangling toward the floor and the other wrapped tight around the figure rocking steadily between her thighs. He held her round the waist with one arm, the other braced against the wall, taking up the weight of his thrusts to cause as little jostling as possible. His braces hung in loops at his sides, the fly of his trousers gaping and half-hidden by the wrinkled folds of her skirt. Her shirt hung open around her small pale breasts and her head was tipped back as she arched into him, her dark hair spilling down his arm, her eyes closed and mouth open, and his lips moved across the skin of her throat as she clutched at his back and gave another high-pitched sigh.

"Dom..."

Bill's breath stuck in his throat. His instincts pushed him back through the arch and up the staircase, but not a single muscle responded. He stood motionless, forgetting to breathe, eyes wide and round and dilated in the gloom. The paper packets of soap crinkled warm and soft in his palms.

Dom was kissing Hannah now, kissing her hard and fast, his fingers gripping the shelf as he pushed up sharply until she whimpered into his mouth. His cap hung from a cork on the next row, and her small hands mussed his hair in sweaty spikes along his brow. His eyes moved behind their lids, his face dark and quivering, pearled with sweat. He pushed faster, the broad muscles of his thighs coiling with tension, fingernails scratching on the wooden shelf, his other arm jerking Hannah closer as she clawed silent trails down the back of his shirt. They rocked together against the crate until the wood began to creak with the strain, and now her breathy moans were matched by his low grunts. Dom broke the kiss, gasping in a breath, and his eyes opened heavy in the murky light to fix directly onto Bill's face.

Bill blinked three times in rapid succession. His mouth opened and then closed again. He wet his lips and swallowed; his fingers twitched on the paper in his hands.

Hannah, her eyes still closed, dropped her forehead to Dom's shoulder and quickened her tempo with another soft call of his name. Dom jerked and hitched in a breath, pushing up farther to meet her. He looked at Bill from beneath his brow, eyes glittering in the dark as a single bead of sweat rolled down his face. And then his lip twitched up into something like a grin, and he turned his head to plunge his mouth behind Hannah's upturned ear. She bucked and he groaned, louder, their uninterrupted pace increasing until the bottles behind her back began to rattle against each other with small tinkling sounds.

Bill backed up a step, then another, and then turned and fled down the hall and up the stairs as silently as he had come.

The bright light of the kitchen made him blink and squint. Miranda took the wrinkled packets from his hands and looked into his face.

"Are you alright, love?"

"I'm fine."

"I was afraid you were getting lost."

Bill pressed his hands together before he could tell if they were shaking. He pulled off his apron and hung it on its peg before he took the back stairs to his room.

"I was," he said.