Josh moved around the gathering like a grim moth—butterfly wasn’t an appropriate simile because there were no bright colors on display inside the Scala, the old-domed bingo hall and social club on the edge of the Rothery where the mourners had retreated to raise a glass and share Boone stories. Everyone wanted to shake his hand and tell him how sorry they were for his loss, what a great man Boone had been, what a loss he would be, and share a reminiscence.
Three victims of middle-aged spread and male-pattern baldness propped up the bar, half-drained pints of stout in their thick hands.
Despite the smoking ban, the air was thick with the stuff.
Seeing him, the baldest and fattest of the trio raised a hand to call him over.
Josh didn’t have the will to resist because if it weren’t them, it would be another group just like them with another story, so he walked over to the bar to join them. “Gentlemen,” he said, forcing a smile.
“The apple really didn’t fall too far from the tree with you, did it? Bloody hell, it’s like looking at a picture of your old man as a boy.”
“Uncanny, isn’t it?” the middle man agreed, setting his pint aside.
The third man agreed with a slight nod.
Josh didn’t have the slightest idea who they were.
“How you holding up?” the first asked, but before he could answer the middle man said, “Pretty tough day, eh?”
The third man nodded his agreement again.
They were like some overweight balding version of the Fates, with the third weird brother remaining silent while the others made their pronouncements.
“Yeah, it’s been a tough day,” Josh admitted. “A tough week, really, especially for Mum. I’ll be glad when it’s all over.”
“You’re a good lad,” the first offered.
“Like your old man,” the second agreed.
And still the third man said nothing.
“Anyway,” the first continued, “we just wanted to offer our condolences, face-to-face.”
“It’s appreciated,” Josh said, managing a half smile.
“Did Boone ever tell you about the first time we met him?” the middle man asked. Josh didn’t have the heart to tell him he had no idea who they were, so he shook his head. “It was going back some, we were kids, no more than eleven or twelve, I reckon. Right in the middle of The Blitz.”
He settled in to tell his tale, leaning back against the bar now that he had a captive audience.
“It was one of those dark nights when the Krauts were in the sky with their bombs, just waiting … the air was thick with them. If I close my eyes, I can still remember the whistle from the doodlebugs and then the silence, and that was so much worse because you’d just know, shit, here it comes and there was nothing you could do but hide and hope it missed you…” he shivered, and it was obvious he really could remember. “Anyway, this old warden, Norman, was on the searchlight duty for our street. The lights were dotted across the rooftops to help our boys spot the Luftwaffe, strafing the sky. When the air-raid siren goes up and the blackout’s meant to start, only Norman’s light doesn’t go out.
“Everyone’s running for the air-raid shelters, but not Boone. See, even then Boone’s a bit of a handful. What we used to call a good old-fashioned guttersnipe back then. When the sirens go off and people run for cover he’s off to work. He finds an empty house, breaks a window, and climbs in, looking to grab some food from their pantry. We were all hungry back then, see. Properly hungry. Living hand-to-mouth. There just wasn’t enough food to go around. My old mum would queue up for hours just for a bit of dripping and a crust. Stuff likes eggs were a treat. Bet you don’t even know what dripping is, do you, lad?” he didn’t wait for an answer. “So anyway, Boone’s in this butcher’s parlor helping himself to a plate of fried sausage when he realizes the place is still lit up like the middle of the day and he can’t hear anything. That’s the worst of it. The place is eerily quiet.
“Then he realizes what he can’t hear: the drone of the doodlebugs. And the place is lit up like Christmas. The warden’s only gone and had a fucking heart attack and his light’s still on, guiding the German bombs right to the end of our street!
“Boone didn’t hesitate—and remember he’s still in short trousers—he scarpers out of the place like his arse is on fire, still eating that sausage mind you, and runs toward the light, not thinking about his own safety. It’d been drilled into us, see. That light had to be out. He climbs up onto the roof and uses a stone to shatter the bulb, even as the bomb explodes three streets away and takes out four houses in the terrace leaving nothing but a crater behind. And if that ain’t enough, he only carries the old guy back down to the street, making enough noise to raise the Devil and get help for him. A second bomb landed less than twenty feet from where Boone stood—”
“Jesus, but how—?”
“Didn’t detonate. Someone was looking after him that day.”
“Someone’s been looking after Boone all his life,” the middle man said. Josh hadn’t heard this story before. He shook his head, trying to imagine what it must have been like. “That old warden was my dad,” the middle man continued, ending the story. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your granddad, lad.”
Josh nodded. As Boone stories went, it wasn’t a bad one.
The three raised a glass to toast Boone Raines before Josh left them to their stories. He needed to get some fresh air, so he snuck out the back, closing the fire door behind him, and just stood in the shadows, breathing in the fresh air.
“All getting a bit emotional for you, eh, Cuz?” said a voice from shadows.
“Jesus Christ,” Josh said. “You scared the crap out of me.” He fell back against the wall, laughing. It was a nervous laugh full of relief that the thing in the shadows didn’t mean him harm.
“Ah, sorry, that wasn’t my intention. After Gramps’s speech in the church I thought maybe he was right, you know? It’s not our war. We should get to know each other. I mean, until today I didn’t even know I had a cousin.” He still didn’t step out of the shadows. Josh heard a curious clicking sound. It took him a moment to realize it was Lockwood’s tongue on the roof of his mouth.
“I’m not sure we are cousins,” Josh said. “Not in the strictest sense.”
“Well, we’re blood. I mean you just have to look at us,” and so saying Lockwood eased away from the wall, the shadows relinquishing their hold on him. The likeness was disturbing. He was right, there was no denying the genetic blend behind their faces. “And apropos of blood, do you know anything about this bad blood between your great-grandfather and mine? That’s right, isn’t it? The great part? It all sounds very mysterious.”
“Not much,” Josh said. “It was about a girl.”
“Isn’t it always?”
“Eleanor Raines.”
“Pretty name—and I’m guessing your great-grandmother, then?”
“Nope. I’d never heard of her until this morning. My great-grandmother’s sister.”
“Oh, now that sounds like a scandal.”
Something stopped Josh from telling his new cousin everything he knew. Instead he blew out an exaggerated sigh and shrugged. “Eleanor was the love of his life. There was some big falling out between Isaiah and Seth and that was it, the family split. Isaiah turned his back on the family, became a Raines, and my family was born.”
“Oh, what a tangled web. Families, eh?”
“Families,” Josh agreed.
Lockwood stubbed out the cigarette he hadn’t been smoking, and ground it out under his foot. “Amen,” he said.
Josh shook his head. “But, like your grandfather said at the funeral, it’s not on us, is it? There’s no need for it to define the next ninety years of our family.”
“Agreed,” Lockwood said, inclining his head slightly as he looked at Josh, weighing up what to say next. Josh wasn’t sure Lockwood believed him when he said he didn’t know what the feud was about, but couldn’t see why it should concern either of them. Like he said, it was ninety years ago, and that is a hell of a long time for old grudges to smolder on. “Anyway, look,” Lockwood held out a hand for Josh to shake, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss. I really am.”
“Thank you,” Josh said, taking the proffered hand. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Seth,” he said. “Yeah, Looks like we’re not the most original family when it comes to naming our offspring. It’s just a curse I have to bear. Thankfully, no one remembers the old bastard these days. Anyway, by all accounts your grandfather was a good sort. I can’t begin to imagine how it’d feel to lose Gideon, so, you know…” he said.
He let go of Lockwood’s hand. Those were the last kind words that the pair would ever say to each other, not that Josh realized that at the time. His cousin turned to walk away, but stopped on the edge of the shadows and turned to look back at him. “Hey, nah, it’s nothing. Forget it.”
“What?”
“It’s stupid, don’t worry about it. I was just wondering if the old guy left you anything, you know, a memento. Like I said, it’s stupid. I just keep thinking about Gideon and wondering what I’d want of his to remember him by.”
Josh’s hand moved instinctively toward the letter in his inside pocket before he could stop it, but rather than pulling back and making it obvious he carried on and pulled out Boone’s battered silver tobacco tin. “This,” he said, holding it up in the brightness of the security light for him to see. “I think he was trying to get me killed.” The joke fell flat.
Lockwood left him alone in the dark.