Fuck them!
It wasn’t poetic, but at least it was honest and Ryan had felt pride while writing it. He leant his shoulder to the chapel door for the second time that day and found Brynne sitting in one of the pews, deep in thought. He started at Ryan’s sudden appearance, but it was only a moment before the usual smile returned.
“How did it go?” he said quietly. “No trouble?”
“None. Except these,” Ryan wiggled his paint-covered fingers.
“Get yourself downstairs then. I’ve some turps beneath the sink.”
Ryan nodded and walked to the tapestry behind the altar. It was already drawn back to reveal the hidden staircase and he descended to the tombs where Brynne had made his home. Ryan smiled. It was good to be somewhere safe. All day he’d been watching over one shoulder, expecting gunnermen to appear. At least now he could relax. Brynne followed him into the cellar and poured out two tumblers of whisky.
“That’s coming up a treat,” he said, pointing at the shining bruise around Ryan’s eye.
He had already told him about the fight on Saintsday. Brynne had listened in silence to the whole thing, offering no comment until he was certain that the story was complete. Ryan couldn’t remember his dad ever showing that much interest in what he had to say.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do about Alia?”
He blushed at the mention of her name. Then his face grew dark as he remembered their argument. “I don’t see how it can work, if that’s what she really thinks.”
“And is it? What she really thinks?”
“Brynne, she looked me in the eye and said the gunnermen were right.” The old man nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. Ryan waited for his answer, but none was forthcoming. “I mean, I know she’d just been knocked over in the fighting. And she was probably scared, but even so…” He took another sip of whisky and thought about it some more. “So you’re saying I should give her another chance?”
Brynne chuckled. “I’m not going to advise you one way or the other. But what I will say is that we’ve all done things we don’t mean when we’re scared, or angry, or hurting. God knows I have.” Ryan watched the old man take a drink of his whisky. He always had a way of stripping complicated ideas down to their bare bones. With Brynne, everything was so simple.
“I don’t know anything about this girl,” Brynne continued, “except that she’s got big blue eyes and laughs at your jokes and makes you smile more than I’ve seen in months.”
Ryan’s ears burned.
“You’re both products of your past. Both forged in this shithole of a city. So, neither one of you is perfect. You have your own views. She has hers. They come from where you’ve been and what you’ve seen.”
“But how can we ever get past that?”
“You’ll have to teach her. Explain to her, the way I explained to you. Your eyes are open now Ryan. You see this city for what it is. Alia doesn’t have that yet. She’s still fogged by the bullshit and the lies.”
Brynne pointed at the newspaper clippings that littered his walls. “She’s blind to all of this, but if she likes you as much as you like her, then maybe you can make her see.”
Ryan took another sip of whisky and leaned back in his chair. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t think she’ll give me a second chance after last night.”
Brynne smiled. “She’ll be fine. Take her some flowers.”
“Flowers? Isn’t that a bit…you know?”
“Old fashioned?” he laughed. “You wait and see. I didn’t get to this ripe old age without learning how to impress the ladies.”
Ryan tried to imagine Brynne at his age, but it was impossible. Before he left though, the old man handed him a few copper coins.
“Remember those flowers,” he said.
Ryan smiled and then raced up the steps and out of the chapel, happier than he had been in days. Even though it was early evening, he couldn’t face going home yet and found himself at a bar two streets away. He and Brynne had been there a few times and it was sufficiently seedy to attract no attention from the authorities.
Ryan ordered a beer and took a seat on one of the back tables. There were two other people in there and Ryan looked them over while he drank. In one corner was an old man with blotchy red skin. He was hunched over a tall glass of spirits staring at the bottom of his glass. His eyes were a watery blue, diluted by alcohol and old age.
The other man was enormous and dwarfed the table he was sitting at. He had a thick, peppery beard and even out of uniform, it was obvious he was a sevener. As though sensing that he was being watched, the giant flicked his eyes up and then turns away without comment.
Ryan sat in the shadows watching time slip by. Suddenly, the heavy wooden door banged open and his heart sank. Three gunnermen pushed into the bar, full of their own importance. They were off duty and didn’t look much older than him, but they were big, with stocky shoulders and loud voices. Two of them were still wearing their green camo-trousers and they horsed around, playing up the tallest of the group. He had a broad, bony face with hair so short that it was barely a shadow across his scalp.
He ordered three beers and handed them out to his friends before scanning the rest of the bar. Ryan pretended to be lost in his own thoughts, staring at the far wall. He absently turned his pint glass on the table and watched the three gunnermen sit at a nearby table. Leaning further into his chair, he stretched his legs out, trying to seem confident. It would be stupid to get up and leave straightaway, but he wasn’t going to hang around too long. After a few minutes, the gunnermen went quiet and Ryan knew they were watching him. The skinhead pulled out a packet of cigarettes and leaned across the tables.
“You got a light mate?” He had the cigarette between his lips and mimed striking a lighter in his empty hands.
“Sure.” Ryan fished inside his pocket and brought out a box of matches which he tossed over.
Skinhead lit his cigarette and put the matchbox in his pocket. Ryan guessed it was meant to provoke him, but he’d been taught better than that. When he said nothing, Skinhead leaned over a second time. “What happened to your face?”
“This?” Ryan hesitated, searching for a plausible lie. “Just an argument that got out of hand.”
“There were quite a few people who lost arguments yesterday. Pissed up and fighting at the parade were you.”
It looked like he was just making small talk, but Ryan knew better than that. He shook his head. “Just an argument. I wasn’t at the parade.”
Skinhead held Ryan’s gaze, a tight grin on his face. “I don’t believe you. I think you were there.” The camo-boys stopped drinking and twisted round in their chairs to look at Ryan. “One of our lot did that to you, didn’t they?” Skinhead said. “So what happened? Had too much to drink and thought you could take on the big boys?”
The barman glanced over, sensing a change in atmosphere from across the room. A chair scraped out and the sevener amble slowly towards them. For a moment, Ryan thought he was going to intervene, but he moved straight past and into the toilets. Skinhead suddenly broke into an amiable grin.
“Never mind. We don’t hold grudges, do we lads?”
The camo-boys shook their heads. “Gives us a bit of sport,” one said. “You lot have always got something to moan about.”
“I’ve noticed that,” the other chimed in. “First they complain there’s no work. Then they moan the job’s too hard.”
“You should try a tour in the Outlands. That’d stop you complaining.” Then they laughed. Except for Skinhead who simply watched through narrowed eyes.
“We’ve got friends up there you know,” he said. “Killing Gabblers to protect you ungrateful bastards.”
Ryan said nothing, just toyed nervously with his beer. He gulped down the last third of his glass and felt it slop over the side of his mouth and pour down the front of his shirt. The gunnermen roared with laughter, pushing each other and pointing. Ryan shook his head and smiled weakly
before crossing the room to put his glass on the bar. He headed for the toilets and stood before the sink wiping at his beer-stained shirt. A few seconds later, the door opened and Skinhead walked up to the urinal.
“We were only fooling back there,” he said. Ryan could see his back in the mirror and when he didn’t answer, Skinhead turned to face him. “Did you hear me?”
“What? Yeah. Don’t worry about it.” Ryan said.
“I’m not worried.” He zipped up his jeans and pushed in front of the sink.
With a sigh, Ryan went for the door, but it opened before he could get there. It was the camo-boys and at an unseen signal, Ryan was shoved against the wall with a forearm at his throat.
“Card,” Skinhead demanded.
“Get off me.”
He slapped Ryan across the face while his pals closed in on either side. “Give me your card, worker.”
A hand grabbed the wallet from Ryan’s back pocket. He tried to block it, but Skinhead pinned his arm to the wall. They both watched as one of the camo-boys rifled through his cards and money.
“What’s his name?”
“Ryan Calloway.”
“Calloway? Sounds like a gypsy name.”
One of the Camo-boys laughed. “I fucking hate gypsies.”
He sent a vicious jab into Ryan’s stomach, doubling him over and then hauled him back up, ready for the next blow. Before he could throw the punch though, a toilet flushed in the cubicle beside them. The door rattled open and out stepped the sevener, apparently oblivious to what was happening around him. He plodded to the sink, washed his hands and smoothed his beard on both sides. Finally, he turned to face the gunnermen.
“Are we finished?” he said.
The camo-boys lost their bravado immediately and looked to their friend. Skinhead still had his hand at Ryan’s throat and wasn’t ready to back down yet. “This has got nothing to do with you,” he said. “We’ve no problem with the seveners.”
The giant pushed off the sink, filling the room. “I disagree.”
Camo-boys shrank towards the door. “Come on,” one said. “Let’s just leave it.”
Skinhead wouldn’t back down though. “I am a gunnerman of the City Garrison,” he said. “I’m ordering you to walk away.”
“Well I’m a big bastard who was trying to take a shit,” the sevener said. “And I don’t really follow orders. Let the kid go, or I’ll break your face.”
Skinhead unclamped his hand from around Ryan’s neck, but couldn’t resist a final dig. “You’ll keep,” he said, jabbing two fingers into his chest.
Before he could say another word, a huge hand scooped up his face and threw it against the cubicle door. It smacked open and Skinhead clattered to the tiles. He scrambled up clutching his nose, both knees wet with piss from the floor.
“Anything else?” the sevener asked.
Skinhead slid past without a word followed by his two friends. As they left, Ryan grabbed his wallet and card.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” They returned to the bar and through the window saw the gunnermen striding towards the nearest checkpoint.
“I wouldn’t hang around lad. They’ll be back soon. And with backup.”
Ryan nodded and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair.
“Shall I take you past the checkpoint?” the sevener rumbled.
“I’ll be alright,” he said. “But thanks.”
As he was leaving, the sevener shouted over. “Are you really Ryan Calloway?”
He nodded.
“Robb Calloway’s boy?”
The video from Brynne’s cellar re-played itself in his head.
Where do your loyalties lie?
With the Government. With Premier Talis.
The sevener didn’t wait for an answer. “Tell him Kellie Downs sends his regards.”
Then he ordered another beer and sat back in his seat.
Chapter 20
Alia ghosted through the Worker District, enjoying a new sense of calm. The school day had gone in a giddy haze that she could barely remember. Although she had physically been in the lessons, her thoughts had drifted far and away from the classrooms and corridors of Straybeck Central. The worries of her old life no longer held sway in this altered perspective and even when she thought back to the fight with Ryan, it no longer had the cruel sting that it once had.
As she walked now, her finger closed around the bottle of opiates. There were still enough pills to last until tomorrow, but Alia wondered if she should turn back and find one of the pushers now. The only concern that held any real meaning was the idea of losing these tablets.
She decided to fetch more tablets now and headed home where she could recover the last of her mother’s jewellery. When she reached the end of her street though, Ryan was waiting for her, leaning against the metal skip and holding a bunch of bright red flowers. Her heart snagged with the memory of their Saintsday argument, but it was only an echo of what it had been. Alia realised he was talking quietly to himself, completely unaware that she had arrived.
“Hi…Hiya…Hello,” he said and mimed offering the bouquet. “I brought you some flowers as an apology.” He changed to a brighter more relaxed voice. “Hi. I brought you some flowers. As a bit of an apology.”
Alia cleared her throat and hid the smile from her face when Ryan span round. His face suddenly beamed as red as the flowers. “You made me jump.”
She pointed at the flowers behind him. “Are those for me?”
Slowly, he drew them out and offered them to her. “If you’ll have them.”
“They’re lovely.”
“I acted like an idiot the other night,” he said. “I’d argued with my dad and then the gunnermen came and I couldn’t do anything about it. And, it’s not an excuse…well I guess it is…but I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I know we have different views on some things…”
“Come on,” she said, sparing him further embarrassment. She led him towards the front door and marvelled that it held no fear for her. A few days ago, she would have been ashamed to invite someone into her house. Now it seemed trivial. A single grey cloud in an otherwise blue sky.
Alia took the loop of string from around her neck where she kept her key and unlocked the door. There were clothes and crockery strewn throughout the hallway and she doubted that the rest of the house was any better. “Just give me a minute,” she said serenely and closed the door on Ryan.
As she stooped to tidy the clutter, she called out to her mum. There was no answer. The kitchen and lounge were empty, so she quickly tidied the dirty pots and kicked the worst of the mess out of sight. Alia could tell that her mum had surfaced briefly during the day but guessed that she was back in bed now. She ran upstairs and found her lying on top of the blankets. On the bedside table was an open box of tablets, with a few loose ones scattered next to the half-empty glass of water.
Tucking her hair behind one ear Alia bent down to her mum’s pillow. She could hear slow but steady breathing and felt a surge of relief pass through her. Without thinking she scooped up one of the tablets and swallowed it with a gulp of water.
In the hallway she paused outside the spare room. After a deep breath she pushed the door so that it brushed slowly over the carpet. The room was quiet and still so Alia crept back to the landing. She went downstairs and invited Ryan into the house.
“Sorry about that, would you like a drink?” He nodded and they went to the kitchen where the tap grumbled and shook before releasing a burst of cloudy water. “It always takes a couple of minutes to run clear.”
She grabbed two glasses and filled them up before leading him through to the lounge where they sat side by side on the sofa. Ryan sipped his drink and scanned the room. Alia followed his eyes over the tatty wallpaper and worn out carpet.
“I’m sorry about the house,” she said. “We’ve not rented long.”
Ryan frowned. “It’s not that different to mine, really.”
“I doubt th
at.” They lapsed into silence.
“You go to Straybeck central, right?” he said.
“Yes.”
“You don’t wear their uniform though?”
Alia scoffed. “It’s not through choice. But they won’t give me any at the school and I can’t afford to buy any.” Part of her couldn’t believe she’d just admitted that, but the other part was liberated by the tablet-induced calm.
“Where were you before?” Ryan said with a frown. “The technical?”
“Straybeck academy,” Alia said quietly.
Ryan laughed, but when she didn’t join in, he gave a low whistle. “The Academy? I thought you had to be super rich to go there though.”
Alia put her glass down and then pulled Ryan up from the sofa. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
When she had said they were going to Old Straybeck, Alia wasn’t sure if Ryan would come. It was an understandable reaction. Getting through a checkpoint was one thing, but unless you had been born to it, Old Straybeck was always out of reach.
“Please, just trust me,” she said. “I have to show you something.”
They reached the checkpoint and Alia presented her card to the gunnerman. Gone was the stooped shoulders and sad face from the past few days. This was now an Alia filled with self-confidence and an unswerving sense of her own belonging.
The gunnerman who took her card had worked on the checkpoint for years. He gave her a quick nod of recognition, barely glancing at the picture before passing her card back and pressing the gate-release. Once through she waited for Ryan pass his card over. The gunnerman studied the picture and then stared at his bruised and swollen face before scanning it.
“No convictions?”
“That’s what it says,” Ryan answered.
The gunnerman paused then reached for the radio in his booth. “Delta four-one.”
Straybeck Rising Page 11
