Dílse (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _dilse) wrote,@ 2005-10-18 22:27:00 |
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23.
Emptied of all its contents, the space beneath the floorboard in Bill's room seemed cavernous and barren. Laid out on the bed it didn't seem like all that much, now: two notebooks, an empty box of pencils, and the report cover from the Director's office, smudged with dust but not fingerprints or ink. They fit neatly into Bill's monogrammed briefcase, leaving plenty of space for the few extra belongings he had collected over the past four months.
He packed quickly and efficiently but he did not hurry. He could hear Karl's voice vibrating up through the floor, accompanied by several others. There was no point in hurrying now—a slinking, fleeing retreat would only add insult to already substantial injury. Best to just ease out the blade as quickly as possible and preclude any further rupturing. The job was over. It was time for him to go.
He heard the door creak behind him; cool air from the stairwell brushed against his legs. He knew exactly how long Dom had been standing there, watching him—he could see the shape of his shadow on the sunlit wall, feel two eyes burning into his back. Bill kept packing. There was a bird chirping on the ledge outside the window; it was the only sound in the room. The silence grew louder as the minutes ticked by; still Bill did not turn. He was not yet ready to pass through that door.
His shirts were all fairly clean; they had just done the week's wash the day before yesterday. Bill set them aside and checked each drawer for anything he might have missed. He placed each object on top of the bureau in a little row. A broken penny whistle he and David had won at the street fair in March; two folded pound notes, the winnings from last week's game of cards; a spool of darning thread (If you're set on walking about in your stocking feet, Bill Boyd, then sure you can mend your socks yourself); two matchbooks and a pack of Black Jack chewing gum. In the second drawer his hand closed on a swatch of fabric, soft green and brown striped wool. Miranda had bought him the scarf three weeks ago when he'd left his own in Orlando's lorry after a crowded ride home. Bill smiled; the lads had given him hell for that one, and more so when Mandy told him how well the green brought out his eyes. Sean had laughed for five minutes straight at that. It had been a Thursday night, he recalled, and rainy; the first night Bernard had called him "son". Bill's bruised throat ached; he swallowed painfully and rolled the scarf into a ball before tucking it into the suitcase.
"How did your parents die?"
It was the same toneless voice from the back alley; quieter now, and stretched a little thinner. Bill answered without turning.
"Exactly as I said. I never lie about my parents."
"How noble of you."
"I'm not going to do this, Dom." Bill reached for his two spare shirts and closed the bureau drawer. "I'm going to finish packing my things and then I'm going to walk out of here and leave you all in peace."
"Time to run again, is it?"
Bill looked up at that. Dom leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, shoulders squared and head tilting back against the frame. He regarded Bill with that same careful expression, but his throat was swallowing too frequently and his fingers were curled too tightly into the flesh of his arms. He said nothing else but only stood in the doorway and looked at Bill from beneath lowered brows, his pulse beating in his neck.
Bill's instincts had tensed from the moment the boy entered the room, but they began to falter as the long seconds passed. He was prepared for shouting, swearing, whatever well-deserved insults Dom deemed fit to hurl at him; what he was not prepared for was this icy silence. It grew thicker between them, glaring and palpable, the only thing standing between guilt and escape. He could handle a row, he could take the boy's curses, but Bill was not sure how much longer he could stand the weird purgatory of Dom's unwavering stare.
"You should go, Dom. Just... you should go."
"No." Dom's face did not change, but a muscle twitched at the corner of his jaw. "You don't get to run this time, Glasgow. Not yet. Not until you tell me..." The last word did not come, but Bill could see it glittering in his eyes.
He closed his briefcase with a small click, laying it flat on the bed. Then he reached up and drew the collar of his shirt aside, past his scar, all the way back until it reached the thickened tissue on his right shoulder. "Do you know how I got this?"
"The day I was shot, my Gran was too afraid to take me to hospital. She mended my neck herself, in our kitchen, with her darning needle and a sewing lamp. She had my sister boil the water because it took her and both my uncles to hold me down while she did it. By the time it was ready Meggie's hands were shaking so fierce she dropped the kettle straight off the stove onto my bed." He let go of his collar and made a sound that was something like a chuckle. "Gran stuck me in ice water and then bandaged me with cheesecloth. It took two weeks for the fever to pass."
"She had just lost her son and daughter-in-law, and she wouldn't take her grandson to a doctor for fear of going out in the street. I swore then—I won't have any more children grow up like that. I want no more of men dying and boys living to take their place. I go where I'm needed, I do what I have to. That's the only thing I have ever—" His voice stopped, and he shook his head.
"I tried to tell you."
He picked up the two shirts and dropped them into the suitcase with a small, tired sigh. He would not prolong this with any discussion. He of all men knew when it was best to cut your losses and just walk away. Dom was just too young to know when to let go.
"They're using you, you know."
"No one uses me."
"You're working for the people who killed your parents. They've taken your justice and turned it to their own ambitions. What else would you call it?"
Bill felt his jaw go hard. "What do you think this is, lad? You think you can move a few boxes in the dark, skim off a few pounds and buy your brother back? Make yourself a hero while you're at it? You've no idea what the real world is like. This is a war. People are dying, and you're going to be one of them if you don't open your eyes."
For the first time, the smooth façade of Dom's face crackled with anger. "You think I don't know death? I watched my mother bleed her lungs out because we couldn't find a doctor would come to our street. I watched my brother get shot full of holes and dragged off like a sack of tatties to be tossed on a boat for America. I've watched good men dangle off the ends of nooses and bad men strong-arm their way into City Chambers. This might be just a job to you but it's my bloody life. I live every day because I know it could be gone tomorrow. You know the same, and so you choose not to live at all."
He paused. "I know what I am, and I know what I'm good for, which isn't much. But it's my life, and I would rather die than get duped into fighting for the wrong side."
"There is no right and wrong here, Dom. There's only sides."
"Then why the hell are you here?"
Bill turned back to his suitcase. "None of this matters now. What's done is done. My reasons are my own, and you wouldn't believe them anyway. I won't waste my breath. You go ahead and hate me all you need to."
"It's not hate I have for you," said Dom. "It's pity."
Bill's hand went still on the top of the suitcase.
"You hate them as much as I do—I can see it in your eyes. You work for them to ease your conscience, to make yourself think you're so high and mighty, bestowing justice on us poor misguided souls—but you'd put a bullet in all their backs if you could. You don't fool me, Glasgow. Sure you pulled a fine trick out there but that's only the half of it. I know who you are."
Something dark and bitter began to bubble up in the back of Bill's throat. "You know nothing about me."
"I know you turned traitor for the men who shot your father dead in the street." Dom's brow creased. "They've deceived you, Bill. Can't you see that?"
"Don't you dare tell me what I've done with my life, boy. You know nothing about my life or what I want. I'm trying to end all this bloody nonsense. I'm trying to make it stop."
"They killed your parents, man!"
Bill slammed the case shut. "This killed my parents!" He pointed at the window, his face twisting with fury. "All of this, all you fucking people, all these years, everywhere! It's all the same! A bloody waste, that's what it is, and I want it over! I want—" he ran out of breath, and stopped. He rubbed the burning scar on his neck. "Don't you talk to me about deception. You don't know a damn thing about real deception. You only know the lies you tell the girls you shag and the lads who think you're serving same cause they are."
He snorted. "You deceive everyone who crosses your path! The lads at the bar, your precious cause, all those girls who give themselves to you over and over, thinking you're something you're not—you think I've been used? Ask Hannah Wood what she thinks about being used." He saw the color rise in Dom's face at that and pressed harder. "We are the same, Dom. You use your brother as I use my father. You don't want justice. You want revenge. You want a reason to be worth something more than a box of rifle shells and a shag in the cellar."
"You shut your mouth." Dom's face had paled at Bill's words but his body was lined with rage. His hands dropped to his sides as he stepped into the room. "How dare you. I am nothing like you. You come in here, you insinuate and pretend and take us all for our trust, and then you want to tell me about honesty? Well fuck you." His voice was rising in both volume and pitch. "You're not the only one protecting his folk. I know exactly what I'm doing. I take care of them, all of them. It's called allegiance—something you would know nothing about. This is the only family I've got. I love them. I loved—"
His voice cracked and he closed his mouth. Gone were all traces of the smooth-talking rake, swaggering gunrunner, silver-tongued lover; in his place stood a pale and skinny boy whose eyes shone with raw, glistening hurt. Bill had expected fury; he was prepared for spite. Bitterness, anger, hatred—those things he knew. Dom's wrath he could take; what he could not take was the pain welling up in the boy's eyes, the abject despair—the bright, swelling overflow of a breaking heart.
He had left hatred behind in his wake before; the look on Dom's face he would never leave behind for the rest of his days.
Break it clean, he thought. Not this. You have to break it clean.
"You loved what? Me? Is that what you're saying?" Bill spoke quietly. "Do you love me, Dom?"
He would not drop his head, but his eyes were wet and his voice was little more than a whisper.
"Yes."
Bill's left hand closed into a fist against his thigh. He dug his nails into the flesh—sharp, glassy pain, loud and focused. His fingers tightened until he could no longer feel the sting; then his hands relaxed at his side. He lowered his eyebrows and tilted his head, curling his lips into a mirthless sneer.
"Well I guess I got the job done after all, then."
Dom's eyes flickered wide for one terrible moment. All the color drained from his face. Then his mouth closed, and his eyes narrowed to slits as his body went stiff against the doorframe. "Aye, I guess you did." His voice was thick with disgust, but Bill could still hear the tremor beneath.
"And fucking me? Was that part of your job, too?"
"My job was to get all the information I could out of you people." Bill used the phrase on purpose, cutting, punishing. He ran his eyes over Dom's body. "Fucking you was just a bonus."
He moved from the bed and took a step toward Dom, then another. Slow and predatory, fighting the bile in this throat. Only way, his mind told him. Only way.
"Getting into your heads was one thing; getting into your bed was even better." He was close to Dom now, close enough to hear his breathing, smell the sweat on his skin. Bill smiled. "Reckoned if I chose the whore at least I'd enjoy the work."
"You bastard." Dom moved for him but Bill was too fast—Dom's fury made him clumsy and it was easy for Bill to grab him and turn, one quick shove and Dom's chest hit the bureau and shook the drawers in their brackets. His cap came off and fell to the floor; Bill kicked it aside as he pushed the bedroom door closed with his foot. He leaned up hard, twisting Dom's arm into his back from behind. Dom grunted and tried to pull away; Bill tightened his grip and he grimaced in pain. Bill's breath was harsh against his ear.
"Did you trust me, boy? Hm?" Bill laughed. "Poor naïve Dom. The little fighter, yeah? Gonna make your brother proud? Gonna save your friends from the big bad English? You couldn't even save them from me."
Dom's face contorted into a crimson scowl, pushing back the tears in his eyes. "Cac ar oineach," he spat. "You lying British fuck. You don't know us. I'll look after them. I'm—I'll keep them safe."
"Oh aye?" Bill's lips brushed against Dom's ear. "The way you did for Elijah?"
He was ready for the movement but unprepared for its ferocity. He barely had time to step back as Dom spun; he turned his head at once but Dom's fist still caught him on the jaw with most of its force. His blood was too high to feel more than a dull crack; he had already straightened by the time Dom knocked the chair aside and came for him again.
Bill's mind had reached an odd sort of clarity; he felt as if he were watching himself from somewhere outside the room. He dodged the next blow easily and swung his fist up hard into the soft spot below Dom's ribs. Dom stumbled back; Bill grabbed him by the shirt and jerked him forward, two quick punches, swift and precise to the weakest points in his belly. The boy made a choked sound and doubled over; Bill's knuckles split the skin above his cheekbone and his legs tripped over the bed before he fell back onto the wooden floor.
Bill looked down at him. Blood was pooling beneath his right nostril; his cheek was already swelling to a dark purple. He cradled his midsection and looked up at Bill, wheezing. One tear slid from each of his eyes, but they no longer shone with pain or sadness or loss. Now they were narrowed to sharpened slits, glittering with the cold light of bitter, deadly hatred.
Bill had a sudden memory of a low voice in his ear, a nudging softness at the skin above his scar. He pulled the words from that quiet place and tossed them to the floor where Dom had fallen.
"There now."
Something closed inside his chest; the bruises on his cheek and jaw throbbed but the buzzing in his head slowed and then ceased. His arms and legs felt stiff and disconnected; he no longer heard his thudding heartbeat. There now, he thought again. He looked down at Dom for one moment longer; then he stepped over to the bed, picked up his suitcase and briefcase, laid his jacket across his arm and walked out of the bedroom, leaving Dom to bleed on the floor behind him.
