6.

January 23, 1922


The lunchtime customers were more subdued than the evening crowd, but Bill had come to find that he enjoyed this time of day most of all. True, the number of men who smiled and greeted him at the bar was growing with each passing shift—his mental roster had been fully checked off by the second evening—but the nights were so beer-soaked and hectic that it was sometimes difficult to take proper mental notes. The days, however, weren't spent tied to the bar but rather roaming amongst the tables, listening to the old men at their dominoes and the young women bouncing babies on their knees, conversations quieter and often much more useful. The notebook under his floorboard was growing steadily fatter with his penciled observations.

On this particular afternoon the rush was over by two o'clock, and the tables sat empty a bit earlier than usual. The day outside was bright and clear, though still bitterly cold, and the sun shone through the front windows and reflected off the mirrors behind the bar. Bill was sweeping in the sunlight, enjoying the warmth and the quiet, humming to himself as he worked, when the kitchen door swung open and Miranda appeared, a plate in each hand and a smile on her face.

"We had so much of it left it seemed a shame to put it all away," she said. "Will you sit with me awhile?"

She didn't have to ask twice. Bill propped his broom in the corner and wiped his hands on his apron as the smell of shepherd's pie reached his nostrils. Miranda had meant her question literally—she set down the plates and then hopped up onto the bar next to them, swinging her feet between the stools. Bill, not quite so bold or so spry, took a seat on a stool beside her. She slid him a plate, then produced two small brown bottles from her apron; she handed one to Bill and grinned at his expression.

"Don't tell my father," she said. "He doesn't like me to be drinking this stuff."

"Your secret is safe with me," said Bill, and took a swallow from the curved bottle. He'd forgotten how much he liked Coca-Cola.

"How is it, then?" Miranda asked.

"It's fine. Better than I could have asked for."

"No one's been giving you any trouble, have they? And I don't mean young Sean talking before he's thinking."

Bill chewed his food slowly. "No, no trouble." After a moment, he added, "There is one man who gives me odd looks now and again, so I just make sure to stay out of his way. A dark-haired fellow, my age I think, only taller with a black jacket."

"Oh, Karl," said Miranda. She made a vague gesture with her bottle. "Aye, he's a crotchety thing, to be sure, your typical good-for-nothing troublemaker. I don't know why my da keeps him in the—" She shook her head. "Well, don't take no notice of him, Bill, he's sour on everyone."

Bill ate his peas, thinking. He did take notice of Karl Urban. He took nearly as much notice of Karl Urban as he took notice of the Monaghan lad, though for completely different reasons. The man was clearly full of anger, and already had a proven history of violence. Bill had dealt with his type before. If he did not tread lightly things could very well turn ugly, and that was the last thing Bill wanted. It would be best to keep him at arm's length and try at least to gain his tolerance, if not his trust. If he was the loose cannon Miranda described him as, it was merely all the more reason for Bill to get this thing over and done with as quickly as possible, before anything could come to fruition. Before any more blood could be shed.

"Does it hurt?"

Bill started a little. "What?"

"Does it hurt?" Miranda repeated.

Looking down, Bill realized he was rubbing at the scar on his neck. He put his hand back in his lap and drank his Coca-Cola.

"I'm sorry," said Miranda. "You don't have to talk about it."

Bill looked out through the freshly-cleaned windows. The sky was clear, cloudless blue above the row of buildings, the winter sun sharp in his eyes.

"I was fourteen," he said.

"My father was in the labor movement when he was younger. Everybody was. He settled down when Meg and I were born, but then things began to get bad again later, when we were kids. Strikes, street fights, things like that. Nothing like—well nothing too violent, at first anyway. It was just what we did.

"One day we had a march, a parade, like. We all marched in it, the wee ones carrying paper signs next to their fathers carrying rifles. The police came, and then the army. There was a lot of pushing and swearing, and then the lads started throwing rocks. One hit Meggie in the face and she started to cry."

"Bill..."

"My father started shouting, everyone was shouting...and then someone fired. I don't know who; I don't think anyone ever knew for sure. Da threw me and Meg to the ground right before the army opened fire. My mother got in the way but I didn't know that until later. I just saw my father run forward and jump on a soldier, and I tried to help him. The next bullet went through us both." He ran his finger down the red trail on his skin. "I was lucky."

He felt a touch on his hand and turned his head. Miranda's fingers intertwined with his, long and slim around his knuckles. Her eyes were pale, lucid blue. Bill smiled at her.

"After that it was Meg and me," he said. "I've taken care of her ever since. Whether she likes it or not." She smiled at his chuckle, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "It's in the past," he said.

"The past never really dies," she replied.

Bill's brow knit. Miranda opened her mouth, but then her eyes moved past him and she jumped with a startled little gasp. Bill turned around in his seat.

Dom stood framed in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the shadows with his arms folded across his chest. His face was oddly blank, but it broke into a wide smile when Miranda called out in loud irritation.

"Dominic Monaghan, what the devil are you doing sneaking around the shadows like that? You nearly put the heart in me crossways, so you did."

"I came up the back," said Dom, grinning. "I'm supposed to meet with your father this afternoon."

"He's downstairs already," said Miranda. "The others will be along directly."

Dom glanced at Bill, and then looked back at Miranda and grinned. "Right then. Are you going to give me a pint before I go, or shall I tell your da you've been drinking Coca-Cola again?"

Miranda scowled. "You're a conniving devil, that's what you are, and it's ashamed I am to be under your blackmail." She set down her empty bottle as Dom laughed out loud.

Bill took his fingers from her hand and stood. "I'd better get back to work," he said, and gathered up their empty plates. He saw Dom look his way, and felt his face go warm with his sudden, uncomfortable memory. It was likely too much to hope that the boy had been too drunk to remember anything from that particular evening—the expression on his face gave no clue one way or the other.

Dom didn't budge as he passed, and Bill had to pause before squeezing into the kitchen.

"Alright, Glasgow?" Dom said, and the amusement in his eyes was all the answer Bill needed.

"Hullo Dom," he muttered, clutching the plates, and pushed his way bodily past. As he entered the kitchen he saw Dom's grin falter just a fraction, and the scar on his neck began to itch faintly.