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