Lock & Mori

by Heather W. Petty

  “Now, Mori, I’m trying very hard to apologize, as my nana would have me do. You don’t want me to get in trouble with my nana, do you?”

  I attempted a flat grin. “I assume she’s still in America.”

  “Yes, indeed. And while you’ve never been subject to her Talking-To, I will tell you it has a longer reach than the Atlantic Ocean.” Sadie smiled. “I’ve missed you something awful.”

  I nodded, because I’d missed her too, but I couldn’t seem to say it aloud. Perhaps it was harder to make up with someone when you haven’t fought, really. Just drifted. Even though it appeared we were going to take one step back toward each other in front of Boots, one step doesn’t cross a six-month chasm all at once. Especially not the six months I’d had.

  I was silent too long, and Sadie Mae started up again, like she always did. She couldn’t stand quiet between us. There was something comforting about her prattling on, though. Perhaps we’d taken more than one step after all.

  “I won’t keep you, ’cause I know you have your studies. But I’ll look for you at school tomorrow, if that’s okay. I do hope that’s okay?”

  I nodded. “I’d like that.”

  She rested her hand on my arm and leaned close. “We’ll work our way up to the calling.”

  Sadie left with a wink and a more genuine smile than I’d seen on her in months of accidental sightings. I wasn’t ready to go home, though, so I retraced my steps around the block and gave myself ten more minutes of thinking time.

  Ten minutes wasted as it turned out. By the time I marked the corner to Baker Street, my thoughts were lost in reliving my encounters with both Sadie Mae and the great enigma, Sherlock Holmes. I’d heard so many rumors about the boy, I half thought he might be hunchbacked with the crazed white hair and chemical-stained fingers of a mad scientist. He could have at least worn a lab coat over his school uniform—live up to the stereotype.

  I was, in fact, so caught up in the memory of our meeting, I didn’t notice the music coming out of my house until it was too late. I couldn’t have done anything about it were I paying attention. Run. I perhaps could’ve run off, waited it out somewhere else. Not for the first time, I thought how pathetic it was to be afraid of your own house. Especially since my home used to feel like the safest place in the city.

  We had our very own police detail, or so my mom would joke whenever Dad paced the halls of our tiny house, making sure every door was bolted, every window locked.

  “Promise I won’t try to escape, constable,” she’d say, holding her hands in the air and quirking the selfsame smile I must have inherited from her. Constable Moriarty, Detective Constable Moriarty, Detective Sergeant Moriarty—my dad was on his way to becoming Detective Inspector of the Metropolitan Police Service, Westminster Borough. And then Mum got sick. I couldn’t remember the last time Dad secured our house. Maybe he no longer cared if anyone entered. Or escaped.

  I counted three open windows as I walked up the steps to our door, each allowing the warbling piano to tumble down toward me just before the trumpet took its turn to bleat out the simple melody of “Memories of You” by Louis Armstrong. It was an ancient song, but my parents met volunteering at a city tea dance. Dad said he first laid eyes on Mum as she was fox-trotting around the floor of an old community center in the arms of some pensioner who had better dance skills than my dad. He watched her for five dances before he got up the nerve to ask her for a waltz, and that’s when the song came on the stereo. That’s when they fell in love.

  I thought that kind of love lasted forever. Turns out, it’s more fragile than glass.

  Louis was singing about a “rosary of tears” by the time I got the courage to open the front door. The calm domestic scene in our kitchen was a bit of an anticlimax, though I saw clues of the coming chaos—a half-empty bottle of bourbon, three glasses filled to different heights with the amber liquid and scattered around the counters and table, which meant that he was already drunk enough to lose track of his tumbler. Dinner was ready, untouched and cooling on the stove, meaning Dad hadn’t eaten anything before pouring the stuff down his throat. Wouldn’t be long before something set him off.

  He emptied the glass in front of him and went back to scrolling for crime news on his laptop, while my nine-year-old brother, Sean, toiled away at his spelling work on the other side of the table. My other brothers, Freddie and Michael, knew better than to come out of hiding on “Memories of You” nights—the advantage of being twelve and ten years old rather than Seanie’s age. I hoped it wouldn’t take another year for Sean to learn.

  I squeezed past Seanie’s chair to the stove in the silent space between the end of the song and the warbling piano that started it up again. It sounded all the more eerie in its travel from my dad’s bedroom and across the hall to where we were.

  “Body in the park,” Dad grunted. When neither Sean nor I responded, he slammed his fist down on the table and then stared out the window longingly. “Found him ’bout an hour ago. Killed last night.”

  “Figures, and on your day off, right, Dad?” Sean was somehow convinced that crimes only ever happened when our father wasn’t on duty.

  “Stay out of the park till the police have it all sorted, yeah?”

  Sean smiled, and my heart sank. “They’ll never sort it without you, Dad. The police are worthless!”

  Everything fell silent as the space between the song’s repeats came up again, and I cursed under my breath.

  “What did you say, boy?” Dad stood so quickly, he sent his chair flying back to clatter against the counter.

  Sean shrank down as Dad advanced on him, his panicked eyes shifting from Dad to me and back. I knew what he’d been trying to do. On any other night, Dad would’ve cheeked back about the “sodding police” and how pathetic they were without him there. But not when “Memories of You” played. Never then.

  “He didn’t mean it,” I said, but I couldn’t distract him from Sean. I couldn’t stop him either. Not yet. If I played my cards too soon, it would get so much worse. But it was painful to stand at the counter and do nothing.

  “You calling what I do worthless? You couldn’t wipe your arse without help.”

  I watched him tower over Sean, as solid as a statue, watched his hand rise in the air. I flinched before I heard the smacking thud of Dad’s fist against Sean’s jaw but didn’t look away, not even when a stream of apologies bubbled from Sean’s lips in that simpering tone that only ever fed Dad’s anger.

  Before his fist could fall again, I was there, standing tall between them, infuriating smile sliding easily onto my lips. I tried to find Dad’s eyes in the sunken shadows of his face. I tried to show him I wasn’t even a little afraid, but inside I was cringing. Waiting. Preparing. He wouldn’t hit me—or, at least, he hadn’t yet. But not all strikes are done with a fist.

  “Out of my way, cow.”

  “You never called Mum that,” I quipped back, earning the full glare of his wrath. “Cow” was probably the kindest thing he’d call me when he was drunk. He always got worse and louder, stood closer so that I had to smell him and feel his spit on my cheek. If there were any other way to make him leave us alone, I would’ve done it.

  “You think you’re like her? You think you can take her place? Think you can wear her nobility like one of your whore outfits?”

  I didn’t respond, just stood still, trying to block his view of Sean.

  “You’re nothing like her, you filthy slag. She was an angel. You’re nothing.”

  I watched his gaze drift again toward Sean, who sat frozen in his chair, not whimpering softly enough.

  I sighed. When it was just the alcohol, he’d go through a few of his favorite diatribes and then storm off to finish his bottle, usually without hitting anyone. He was always especially creative on “Memories of You” nights—like freeing his fists freed an arsenal of insults, too.

  Ev
idently, I hadn’t yet taken enough. I slid my hands up to rest on my hips and attempted to widen my infuriating grin before the next assault on my character began. But as Dad called me a liar, a street bitch, and every other synonym of whore he had ever learned, unworthy to tread the same floorboards my mother’s sacred feet had walked, my mind drifted to the last time I’d struck this very pose. Miraculously, my thoughts filled with tubes and flasks, with the long, thin fingers that adjusted flames to a lower setting, conducting his orchestra of drips and bubbles.

  I thought of Sherlock Holmes and his ridiculous mop of hair sticking up in front, and I almost laughed. In fact, before I knew it, Dad was grabbing his bottle, mumbling something about how I wasn’t worth his breath and he couldn’t stand the sight of me. And finally he stumbled across the hall and into his room.

  As soon as the door slammed, Freddie and Michael appeared from the shadows of the staircase and descended on the food. Fred met my eyes guiltily, and I shook my head as I wiped my shirtsleeve across my cheek. Dad turned the music up higher to mask his sobs, but it didn’t work. This was the routine on “Memories of You” nights. And, fitting with that routine, I went to the freezer to grab a sack of peas for Sean’s face.

  “Make a plate for Seanie,” I said quietly as my youngest brother snatched the sack from my hand.

  “I’m no baby,” he snapped. “I’ll get my own food.”

  I resisted the urge to ruffle his hair as I walked by him toward the door to grab my coat.

  “Where’re you going, Mori?” Michael asked timidly. He glanced out into the darkness of the hall around Dad’s door, then back at me. But we both knew he wouldn’t come out again—not after one of his crying jags. I’m sure he didn’t want us to see him like that. Like hearing wasn’t enough for us to realize how pathetic he’d become.

  I caught myself staring past Michael and met his eyes with a reassuring smile. “Out.”

  Chapter 3

  The only true benefit of living on Baker Street was its proximity to Regent’s Park, which provided acres and acres of escape. Unfortunately, even the short walk from our house to the Outer Circle was too long to keep my father’s words from catching up to me. I tried to once more focus on the ridiculous boy playing alchemist in the basement of a school theater, but it wasn’t enough to block out the echo of the hate in my dad’s voice, the feel of the spittle that flew from his lips to my cheek. The disgust in his eyes.

  I was thankful for the darkness as I crossed York Bridge into the park proper. I turned left and made sure to keep my head down and only wipe at my eyes when I was in the shadows between path lights. Nothing worse than a complete stranger asking what’s wrong and having to come up with some stupid lie about how the dog’s run off or a beloved goldfish died. Once my feet were on the grass, the tears flowed more freely.

  I wasn’t the only one there. I scanned the lawn down to the lake. There had been a murder in the park, according to Dad, but all the regulars were still about. The old woman who looked like a globular thing because of all the bags she had strapped to her body. The man who had a wallet in each of his back pockets and always managed to drop one when he leaned into the rubbish cans to pick out his recyclables. I walked past them and a few silhouettes of people who didn’t matter and didn’t look up. Some kind of privacy bubble surrounds us whenever we leave civilized things like paths and lamps behind.

  The bandstand was deserted, save for one shadowed figure, who almost always seemed to be leaning on the far side of the monument when I came to the park at night. I might not have noticed him at all except for the orange glow that backlit the silhouette of his head when he took a drag from his cigarette. I should’ve been afraid of him. I used to be afraid to be in the park at night, but that never stopped me from running to it. I was, perhaps, less bothered by a racing heart than a broken one.

  I climbed up onto the platform and walked across to the side that faced the lake. The scent of burning cloves surrounded me as I tried my best to convince myself that nothing my dad said meant anything.

  Problem was, he wasn’t wrong. Not about Mum. She wasn’t the pristine saint of our memories, but she was a good mom. Dad didn’t drink when she was well. Seanie didn’t get hit when she was alive. None of the boys did. And that was on me, because it was my job to take care of them now that she was gone. Even on nights like tonight, when I just wanted to get on a train and never look back. I only didn’t because I knew that bedtime would come soon enough, and I’d have to be back at the house to make sure Seanie brushed his teeth.

  I sat up straighter and dried my cheeks with the sleeves of my coat one final time, then kicked my feet over the side of the bandstand platform to dangle freely. I could barely make out glimpses of the reflected moon through the long droopy tendrils of the giant willow tree that stood at the shore. The tree looked a little like I felt—weary and alone.

  “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  I jolted when the shadowed figure spoke, then again when I realized who was speaking. Hearing Sherlock’s voice out in the middle of Regent’s Park was so surreal, it took me a moment to realize I wasn’t just imagining it.

  “Are you talking to me?”

  He stepped into the moonlight and I almost didn’t recognize him out of his uniform. He was like a different person in his gray peacoat and blue-striped scarf, as put together as he had been rumpled earlier in the day. He pulled a drag from his dark brown cigarette, just as a pack of wiggling dogs jostled past the bandstand, their owner struggling to keep hold of the leashes.

  “I don’t understand pets,” he said, loud enough for the poor grasping woman to hear. “People claim to love their animals but then hoard them in tiny little boxed yards or houses. They force them to act against nature in line with human conveniences. It’s a bitter way to show love, yes?”

  He didn’t wait for me to answer, instead blew out some smoke and kept on with his tirade. “If one truly loved animals, wouldn’t she rather see them live wild and free? Not domesticated and caged and humiliated, as servants to be ordered about.”

  When the owner walked out of earshot, Sherlock took another quick drag and blew it out after her, then turned back to me.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your private moment, but I realized after you left my lab that I never asked your name.” When I didn’t answer, Sherlock slid one hand in his pocket and with the other flicked ash into the breeze. “I’ve seen you here many times and never once wondered after your name until today. Is that terribly cold of me?”

  “Probably.”

  He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking into an almost-grin, then dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. “Shall I guess your name, then?”

  “You couldn’t.”

  “It doesn’t suit you?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe it does. You can call me Mori.”

  “Ah, but that’s not your actual name.” Sherlock leaned back against the closest post and looked up at the bandstand’s concave ceiling. “Is it short for something?”

  “Yes, but does it really matter? Isn’t Mori enough?”

  Sherlock continued his study of the space above our heads. “Short for what?”

  “Moriarty,” I said with a sigh. I didn’t have it in me to play his game that night. “And, before you ask, that is my surname. My given name is James.”

  “James Moriarty.”

  “It’s a family name, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Not Jaime or something more feminine?”

  I stared at him silently.

  “Yes, as you said. It’s a fault of mine, always wanting to get to the truth of the matter.” He said it as though he didn’t think it was a fault in the slightest. “But surely there must be a story.”

  “Really? Sherlock wishes to discuss odd names with me?”

  “And a point to Miss Moriarty.”

  �
��Must everything be scored?” I asked, though it’s possible I preened a bit internally. “Could we not merely be two strangers introducing ourselves in the park?”

  “You started it.”

  I held back a laugh but not my smile. “You’re an idiot. Truly.”

  Sherlock smiled widely, and it changed his whole face. He looked much younger when he smiled. “No one’s ever called me that.” He stared down at the ground, still smiling, like he was suddenly self-conscious. “That’s not the truth. My brother, Mycroft, uses the word ‘intolerable,’ but I think perhaps the meaning’s the same.”

  “Your brother is named Mycroft?”

  “Yes, James. Yes, he is.”

  I made a face but refrained from rolling my eyes. “Did your mother despise you both from birth? Honestly.”

  His smile dropped. “No, she did not.”

  I was amazed at how quickly his mood shifted from a rather awkward warmth to cool indifference, and again at how guilty I felt for saying the thing that set him off. I hardly knew this boy. I really shouldn’t have minded his moods. He stared out over the water, just as I had done before, and his fingers fidgeted in the pocket of his long wool coat. But then he pursed his lips and stood upright. “Come along, then. I’ve something to show you.”

  “I have to get back. My brothers.”

  He started walking toward the path as if he hadn’t heard my protest. “You’ll want to see this,” he called over his shoulder.

  Inexplicably, I followed him. Maybe it was because I was curious what someone like Sherlock would think I’d want to see. Maybe it was because he made me smile on a “Memories of You” night. Mostly, it was because I didn’t want to go home.

  Chapter 4

  Sherlock’s long strides made it difficult for me to catch up to him but he never slowed, nor did he look back to see if I was there, not even when his path took us across Longbridge and up toward the zoo. I caught him before the circle of police tape came into view, however, and then stopped when we were still a ways from it.