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I felt old.
Ancient, even.
The adrenaline that had once carried me on a wave of fervent energy congealed to lead in my veins. Roars of confidence were silenced by mournful wails of failure; both my own and that before me. When at last the call for Loch Ewe scraped against my rusted ears, I was half dead and longing for a long draw of tobacco.
I was not in the habit of smoking, despite my long acquaintanceship with Keane. Even so, I might easily have succumbed to that single vice, if just to warm my hands and settle the persistent trembling in my limbs. An entire package of cigarettes might have just brought a tentative blood flow to my numb fingertips, or the barest bit of colour to an increasingly bleak world.
A hot meal would have been just as well.
My success at finally securing Alessandro and myself into a cab was drastically burdened with the soaking garments still clinging to our skin. The metal shell of the train had sheltered us from the first shy drizzles of rain; however, it did nothing to save our heads between the station and the cab itself. Torrents—sharp and frozen—tore through my pounding head and ripped away all sanity. Various harbours and shipyards morphed into monstrous creatures of contorted metal. Houses crumbled to witches’ taverns. Life swelled to melting visions of the most horrid death.
Alessandro appeared rather content with it all.
He sat with his face smashed against the window; hands tracing the drops of rain as they ran down the curved glass. It was arguably stereotypical; a child intrigued with the elements of nature, while the older, more cynical voice tore me into a constant analysis of our surroundings. The weeping streets felt less like a system of organised life, but rather a series of sailing vessels. Each house was a good distance from its neighbour, and bore an even greater divide to those further on. God help me should I admit so aloud, but it reminded me a great deal of Ireland. Not the industrial bits, like Cork, but the more reserved areas Keane tended to favour when we visited Bridget and her husband. This was not, admittedly, a frequent occurrence, but when he did wish to get away every now and again, there was no stopping him from returning to his own soil.
To everyone else, he was a proper Englishman down the marrow of his bones.
But his blood would always be drawn from Éire.
Suddenly, there came a jolt from the restless lad beside me. No, not a jolt; a small elbow jamming itself between my aching ribs and forcing the pitiful lunch I had managed to keep down up into my throat. The words I couldn’t understand, but the motions were nothing if not obvious. Young hands waved at the window with a maddening smile as yet another stone house edged into our vision.
If this trip was a ruse, it was one of startling accuracy.
The last flowers of autumn bowed beneath the onslaught of heavenly tears, though the stems remained generally intact. The front windows had been washed fairly recently, as well as the small panes of glass adorning the door. I raised my clenched hand to the wood.
And faltered.
It was not out of my own fear that I did so, but the discomforting realisation the door was, in fact, unlocked. This was not strictly out of the ordinary. Quite the opposite. Keane and I rarely locked the door if we were in, unless it was within the few hours of sleep not interrupted by a frantic client in need of counsel.
Which was an occurrence perhaps more frequent than either of us would like.
No, a latch undone was not the strictest of warnings; however, even a mouse may be mistaken for a rat when the light is right.
Come now, Lawrence. Look at the facts, not the perceived truths.
I bellied myself against the worst of my imagination, raised my hand once more, and pounded against the wood until I felt my knuckles might splinter.
The result was infinitely slow in coming.
Then again, the combination of highly-strung nerves and a young boy bouncing on his heels inevitably makes time itself grow more sluggish, if just to torture those poor souls foolish enough to be stuck in such a situation. Eventually, when my impatience sored to new heights rather than faded away to dribble, I did the one thing a human being is brought up never to do.
I opened the door myself.
Whispers muffled by walls and partially opened doorways flitted through the thickening air. The phrases paused every now and again as the other party gave either question or answer, but, beyond that, the mutterings were fairly constant. It was just enough to allow Alessandro and I to enter the brightly lit house without greeting, nor notice. From the chilled, sobbing world to the ember glow of a sitting room fire, my breath caught.
And instantly relaxed.
I couldn’t place what the emotion was, or whether it was an emotion at all. It was all a confused mass of cleanliness; polished surfaces, dust-free areas, hoovered carpeting, wallpaper that was not so old it was out of date. Every aspect of the entryway was soft to the point of newfound comfort.
Calm.
So seldom had I known such peace, I nearly missed it entirely. Scents of deep mahogany wandered into my nostrils, along with a sudden sharpness that burned my eyes and deflated my lungs. There was a lightness I did not expect; spreading from my head down to my feet. Instinctively, I reached for Alessandro, only to discover his arm was not at my side. The boy did not appear to exist at all. It was not until I noticed the small legs stuck out unnaturally from behind one of the chairs did my brain push back the thickening fog.
I slung the child over my shoulder; stumbling slightly as his weight settled across my back.
Had he always been heavy?
From there I sprinted as fast as I could down the hall, which had somehow stretched to a daunting length. Alessandro’s bones became solid iron, and his flesh rough shards of glass that dug into my own skin until my eyes stung with tears. My legs began to slow bit by bit, and the door continued to flee.
But then it happened.
Wood beneath my fingertips. A metal doorknob turning. Hinges crying beneath my shoulder.
And then air.
Fresh, cold oxygen filled my lungs with each heaving breath. The rain had ceased for a moment, but even so well timed a blessing was little more than a second thought. I lowered Alessandro to the sodden ground as best I could without toppling over myself. A hand splayed across his ribs and two fingers to his neck told me all that was necessary. I shoved my kneeling form back on my heels and swept a sleeve over my sweat-coated brow.
The world at least seemed a little more steady; less likely to slip sideways the moment I stood. That was a blessing.
Perhaps if I tried walking around a bit—