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Everything in life, in my experience, at least, is a series of wildly strung events. Perhaps it is not necessarily a smooth transition, but it is at least constant; a continuous leap from one moment to the next. The night preceded the day, just as light led the dark. More than once it occurred to me that any motion on my part may not be required at all; that I could just lie in the illusion of death, and yet live at the same time.
Though, at that moment, I wished I had really and truly perished beyond all mortal salvation.
It didn’t matter how it was done; blade, gun, poison. I would have even thrown myself bodily into the sewers of France if just to force the blacksmith to cease driving an iron spike through the base of my skull. My vision was partially blurred by red splotches pulsating in time with the searing pain.
Though my ears did manage to recognize a few sounds within the ruckus.
There were words, I thought.
Words.
I could understand words much of the time. Indeed, I could understand a great many things even in the most deplorable of health.
But not these.
Not words.
My brain—scarcely breathing between horrid bursts of anguish—filtered through a list of possibilities as to why these phrases, once so familiar and calming, sounded painfully foreign to my ears. I did not believe it to be French. It was not, to my relief, the harsh tones of Germany. Nor was it Italian, Russian, or Gaelic of any variation.
Then it came to me; screaming to the front of my burning mind just as the very language fought to escape my cracked lips.
Cursing.
The voices were cursing.
And quite well at that.
A sharp roar of forbidden syllables shot through the door, while a far more reserved voice barely crept through the cracks of my mind. Yet, it was the lesser of these I found my aching mind able to comprehend; high tuned with the piercing blow of a broken string. Many men were burdened with such a grating curse, but—
The voices stopped, just as a hollow cry was born within the pit of despair and swelled upwards into the darkness. Only when the supply of oxygen still left in my lungs was momentarily depleted did I realise it was from my own lips.
My teeth slammed together and the noise stopped.
But the footsteps were already approaching; rapid and ruthless. The left leg—or was it the right—bore a considerable heaviness the other limb lacked. A limp perhaps? Soreness?
Weakness.
I heaved my dismembered muscles off of a bed I remembered just as well as the room; which was minutely, if not at all. My head thudded with every measured step. Walls bowed. Floorboards tipped. With the boots only just beyond the door, I was forced to stop and press a hand to the wall. A cold wall. Papered. Blue. No, Green.
Irrelevant.
The snap of metal exploded from the keyhole as the starter positioned before a line of runners. A flickering countdown began between my temples.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
The door swung open at the exact instant I stuck my leg into the opening. A shout barely preceded the sudden thump of an unprepared body meeting the unforgiving ground. I ran like an Olympian; desperately and frantically The light, be it waning or rising, was a laser through my head. My eyes melted. My brains began to fry.
Searing, excruciating pain.
I dodged right into the first room.
Nothing.
Second room?
The same.
My mouth remained firmly clamped against calling out as the blurring row of doors grew into a stampede of boots and cursing. I swung further right into the sitting room, or a sitting room, at any rate.
The room was littered with various stages of decomposing furniture. Nothing matched. Not well, at least.
And then it was spinning.
Reeling.
Wild, uncontrollable motion tossing the furniture towards the singular man entering the room. Whatever ill-feeling remained in my collapsing limbs surged toward a blatant recognition.
“Sergeant Crowley.” A surge of nausea gripped my throat; bile forcing me to choke back both thought and word as hands guided me to an infinitely worn chair.
Head resting to one side.
Glass of water.
Short, slow sips trickling down my throat as the contents of my stomach were gradually pushed back down into the depths of my twisted intestines. The further the vomit was suppressed, the clearer the Sergeant's voice became.
“There now. Better?” I nodded cautiously; vaguely aware of polished boots shuffling towards a wooden chair. “I must apologise on behalf of my men, Miss Joanna. Their instructions were to keep everyone inside the house. I had thought they would use official tactics in doing so, rather than...well...is your head—”
“Fine. I’ll be fine.” Once the pounding ceased and the world discovered its axis once more. “You might explain why I was delayed, though. Is this an official arrest?” The officer shifted slightly.
“I did warn you I could not keep the court at bay forever.”
“Another two or three weeks would have been enough.”
“I don’t have that sort of power. I have superiors to answer to.” A hand, fidgeting incessantly against the fraying trouser knee, swept to the buttons of his uniform for an instant before once more pinching and pulling at the dark fabric. The strands were still woven enough not to strike against his majesty’s services; however, there was no doubt a trained eye could catch the discoloration of the threads as they were separated from one another.
I reached for the glass of water, just as the Sergeant shifted forwards in his seat.
“What do you know of the Soviet Union’s recent plans? Or, more specifically, any advances in weaponry.”
“Before I answer anything, I need to know Alessandro is safe.”
“You have my word.” His word. The gentleman’s promise. The problem with gentlemen; however, is, as impossible as they are to find, they take little trouble to replicate. I shook my head.
“No, this time I need more than assurances. I need proof.” The officer flinched slightly. Proof meant compromise. Comprise meant equality. Equality was a balance of power.
Could he spare that?
Apparently so, for, just as I began to fear the worst for the young boy Keane had left under my charge, Sergeant Crowley signalled somewhere vaguely to my right. The officer retreated in the precise thud of military precision, only to return with the softer, wild flurry of small footsteps. Alessandro bounded into the room with a threadbare animal thrust under his arm. When the hyperactive youth was carted merrily off again, I momentarily believed the constant downturn of Crowley’s lips to stretch slightly toward that of optimism.
“My men are taking fine care of the lad. See, we want this conversation to be as informal and comfortable as—”
“What about Keane? Is he safe?”
“The officials in Aberdeen are holding him in the local prison. We managed to pick him up under the ruse of inebriation and disturbing the peace. Nothing that would make any onlookers suspicious.”
“You think we are being watched?”
“Don’t you?”
“Certainly, which is why we did our best to avoid attention from either side.” Again Crowley flinched and began poking the fabric of his uniform with a particular vigour. “Did it occur that your actions may have actually put Keane in danger, rather than remove him from the chaos?”
“We were extremely careful.”
“As you were when you knocked me over the head?” The constant hammering at the bruised edges of my skull justified the accusation, but the deathly pallor on the Sergeant's face made me wonder if it was just one breath too far.
Or not far enough?
“Aberdeen is a busy city.” He assured me weakly. “We did our best.”
“I should hope so.” I muttered. All the energy and anger acquired through the past few weeks leaked from my bones; sponged from my aching body by the sheer incompetence of neglect. Is it better to say what should never need to be said, or wither away as a fool? Was it better to recall life, yet forget law? Or awaken, having forgotten to sleep?
Sergeant Crowley opened a worn notepad and leaking pen.
“Now, what do you know of the Soviet Union?”