The Crimson Shaw

by Elyse Lortz

  A fear of sharks.

  It was easier to find Keane maneuvering through that crowd than it would have been for him to find me. One can always find achieved greatness, but a young fledgling clinging to success may be lost to the darkened depths of time. The only thing to set me apart from those around me was the simple fact I had no intention of becoming like them. I had not been born anything wonderful or worthy of life’s breath, but circumstances—horrid circumstances that strangled me from any hopes of a pleasant childhood—made me willing to fight until I had nothing left to believe in.

  I met my companion at last and wordlessly pulled him to a slightly less claustrophobic part of the room in direct sight of the bar and card tables. It was a placement perfect in every form; however, even in perfection, there is always that daunting question to be asked.

  “Keane, do you trust me?”

  “Lawrence—”

  “Do you?” My companion gazed down at me as a teacher whose student had asked whether the world was round. An unquestionable assurance.

  “I believe you know the answer. I have always trusted you.” I knew he would say some such declaration, but it was one of the rare times in my life where reassurance was vitally necessary for those wild whips of ideas flitting through my head.

  He trusted me.

  He trusted me.

  God, how daunting a thought to have a soul—noble and, I often believed, infallible—to rely on one’s own shoulders. It was a burden too monstrous to carry.

  I jerked my thoughts into something more coherent. He trusted me. That was good. Very good. But of course, there was a test: an obstacle.

  “Then I need you to hit me.” Keane’s shoulders went rigid.

  “Good God, Lawrence. Are you certain?” Are you certain I should hit you? Are you certain I will not hurt you? Are you certain you have a plan? I turned my chin up a bit and pointed to my right cheekbone.

  “Right here. And make it a good one, not some halfhearted fling of a mollycoddle.” My companion took a sharp indraw of breath, and for one sinful moment, I walked in the footsteps of Thomas. It was not until a crushing blow sent me hurling backwards that I believed. I had the foresight to move with his knuckles, but the hand still connected with a crack. I took my stance, fists raised and feet balanced. I had rarely lost a match in my boxing days, and those were only when I had been shoved into the ring with men three times my size (not to mention eight stone heavier). This was not quite so unequal as those other bouts had been, though I would have shuddered to challenge his tall, guard-like frame under any other circumstances. It was a dance, taking turns twisting our heads as the other’s bare fist approached, while trying to ignore the blood pouring from cuts and a sore nose. It was not until the staff peeled us apart that the fighting ceased. It took two men to drag Keane off to one side, while only one came to take me away. I suspected I would be the one thrown out onto the streets. I was a new addition to their world—practically a stranger—where Keane had ingrained himself into their lifestyle nearly a fortnight before. Of course I would be thrown out. I suspected it. I knew it.

  But even Peter, having cut off Malchus’ ear, did not know it would grow back.

  And yet the savior of the world was not who healed my wound.

  “Let the young one stay, Jimmy.” A voice sauntered through the crowd. “It was the old man—McCormic—who took the first punch. He can come back tomorrow once he cools down.” Sam Barker appeared from the crowd and the fist at my collar immediately deteriorated into my own sweat. The salt of labor mingled intimately with the blood on my face, causing the sparse stripes of red to smear into the boisterous shouts of murder. A handkerchief—reeking of common perfumes, watered down for economic purposes—was shoved into my hands, along with the instructions to wipe my nose. (So that was where the blood was coming from.) Another gruff voice declared that I looked like shit. I was not inclined to disagree.

  Sam pulled me along to the bar and ordered something that was infinitely stronger than I would have chosen myself. I poured a good dose of the vodka down my throat, coughed, and finished the drink, having learned the good of it.

  “Alright?” He asked. I nodded and smacked the drained glass onto the counter. The sudden thrash of noise shook the pain tingling at the base of my skull. I was in no condition to embark upon a conversation that must be created upon carefully planned falsehood after falsehood. Sam Barker; however, was uncomfortably eager to open the gates and let the horses run rampant through my brain.

  “That was quite a fight. What about?”

  “I don’t see it is any of your business what happens between that son of a bitch backstabber and me.” It was a careful blend of anger and curses. So perfectly mated it caused my stomach to lurch. The man in front of me ran a finger along the rim of my glass.

  “You forget, I could have you thrown out of here on your ass.”

  “You? I thought Mickey owned this place. You know, that you only work for him sort of thing.” Sam Barker shot up indignantly.

  “I don’t work for anybody if I don’t want to. Just like you ain’t working for that other guy you hang around with.”

  “Me? Work for that bastard? Not on your life.”

  “See. I’d bet you are fuck’n furious for showing you up in front of all the men around here. Well, ain't’ ya?” What was it with American’s and that dreaded contraction that ought to have been thrown the instant of its creation? I ordered something weaker from the bartender. I would need it.

  “You have no idea.”

  “And you want to get back at him. Right?”

  “O’course I do.” Henry Higgins would have washed my mouth with soap, but the man leaning mere inches from me appeared to be drinking every word of my Americanisms with a daunting vigor.

  “Then, tell me what the fight was about. C’mon. He had to have done something.”

  “Something my aunt fanny.” I choked out. “He told me he wouldn’t pay for . . . for my part of our little business arrangement, even though I’ve been the one risking my neck for our customers. Owes me half a hundred thousand, and says I’m not seeing a lick of it.” The mention of such a large sum of money meant nothing to the wealthy young man. No, his attention wavered on only a single word.

  “Business? What kind of business?”

  “The kind the rich can afford, the poor despise, and the soldiers need; Hydrocodine, cocaine, opium, and . . . other things.” I had seen the devil countless times throughout my years on this earth, but they might have all been the angelic Lucifer in comparison. Gone was the carefree Sam Barker I had met at the edge of a clear, rinkling swimming pool. Gone was the conviction he did not work. All of it—the entire American dream of idle glory and glamour—had dissipated into dust equivalently worthless and common as pyrite. There was nothing special anymore about his relaxed demeanour, his countless wealth that steadily grew, or even the house he kept well populated with the figures as popular with society as they were with police records.

  Sam leaned forward, his dark hair spiking ever so slightly at the temples to the point they might have been confused for horns.

  “Do you have any photographs?” I shrugged, pushing the man’s serpentine resemblance far out of my mind’s invasive reach.

  “No. No, I don’t. But I could make some—photos, that is—and bring them to you here. Or at your house.”

  “Do that. Who knows,” He grabbed the glass half filled before me and threw the entire thing back with no loss of conviction to its mercies.

  I will drink, and right freely, just because you tell me not to.

  “And who knows,” He began again. “We might get your money out of that old Leslie McCormic after all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THERE IS AN EVIL IN powder. It has been so for centuries too numerous to count. Some powders may reach your eyes and blind you from the world; forever to stagger through darkness. Some may stain men’s lips as they make pale the brothels of Paris. And others—those sprinkle
d throughout the poor and rich alike—create a world no mind would dare build alone, and those addicted to its force would never willingly release it. And there I stood, entranced by the mystery of it all, with white grains spread before me on the hotel table. Each was a piece of sand; many among its members. They were the sands of time. They were the boundary between logic and fantasy. Love and hate. Strong and sickly. Life and death.

  How bountiful the harvest of sins.

  And yet, I did not hesitate to dip my finger into the white pile and drop a pinch onto my tongue as Keane entered from his own bedroom.

  “Lawrence, I must congratulate you on a plan well enforced, but perhaps you should refrain from tasting the sugar.” And sugar it indeed was; sweet to the tongue, but deceitful to the eye when presented in a blurred, grey form darkly engrained onto a photographer’s paper. I reformed the bountiful pile, only for the miniscule pieces to tremble out of place as Keane set three identical bottles on the table mere inches away. “These are the last of James’ collection. I had thought I had found the entire stash weeks ago. Seithí olc go maith.”

  Evil hides well.

  I nodded and backed away from the display. Evil does indeed hide well, but that in plain sight disappears easily within mortal ignorance and insecurities. Even we were secluded carefully from light. Dark curtains had been pinned over the more fashionable drapes, and a string of red light bulbs had been flung around the hatrack near trays of various chemicals. We had left the lights on, but once the photographs were taken, there would be not but darkness, spotted with eerie red eyes leering at our shoulders.

  Within an hour, we were inspecting a set of dripping photographs strung across the washroom door frame with an old shoelace. I had seen Keane tromping about the cliffs of Devon with a camera slung around his neck, but so often I had passed it for one of his many hobbies. How wrong I had been. Every line—every granular outline—was perfectly clear in the darkened grey; most certainly not the work of a mere hobbyist.

  As the photographs dried and were slipped into a manilla envelope, the necessity of the crimson glow waned away. Keane turned on the lights, revealing an open cigarette case and lighter at the ready. I waited patiently for the rich smoke to begin straining at the thin end before tearing down the dark sheets and winding the strings of red bulbs over my arm. My companion, shirtsleeves still rolled above his forearm, sat thoughtfully in an armchair with the brief streams of white unfurling into the air.

  “‘By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.’”

  “Of all the works of Benjamin Franklin, you might have chosen something more optimistic.” I countered coolly.

  “Optimism? Come now, Lawrence, is there really anything optimistic about our situation. Here I am, willingly throwing my reputation to the wolves for bait while you talk about some vain positivity of this world. But then, I admit you must have some nervousness—”

  “Damn right I do.” I dropped a clothespin to the floor with a taunting chatter. “It’s indecent how calm you are about this entire lie. These men are killers, Keane. Killers. Not door to door salesmen looking to make an extra income to send some spindly tike off to university. Killers. Murderers. Cheats. Liars. And—God, hand me that cigarette.” I snatched the glowing object from his fingertips, took a long draw, and handed it back to my infuriatingly amused companion.

  “You could light your own. Heaven knows I have plenty.” I shook my head, rubbing the sore spot taunting me from the base of my neck.

  “What? And be a smoker?” I waited for his chuckling to filter away before begrudgingly seating myself on the edge of the sofa nearest to himself. “I suppose I will have to move hotels then? Keeping up appearances and all that?” A hiss of bitter tobacco smoke jutted into the air.

  “Or you could simply change floors. There is a great psychological distance within a few flights of stairs.” A great distance for both the prey and hunter alike, and, at that moment, I was not entirely certain which we were.

  I sighed and accepted the cigarette as it was passed between us.

  “I don’t believe I fully considered the consequences of our little skirmish. I did not think that we—that I—would be abandoning you, and—”

  “My dear Lawrence, you are hardly abandoning me. You are only appearing to society’s eye that it is the case. As for considering consequences, you did not have time to look beyond the exact moment.” He stubbed out the last ends of his cigarette into an ashtray and began the slow, methodic ritual of starting another. His long fingers slipped one from the silver case, tapped the end mere millimeters from the bullet’s dent, and pressed it between his lips. Lighting the cigarette was a faster affair; the sulfuric hiss of a match, an orange glow, and, at last, smoke. Keane had spent the entirety of that time carefully formulating his words. Perhaps they had meant to be amusing, but the humour had dried over into the thin crust of fact.

  “I would be a stubborn old fool if I did not admit to the existence of danger. There is always some danger in life. Any one of us could be knocked from life at even the most inconvenient moments. Tell me, Lawrence, in those glorious boxing days of yours, did you retreat to the corner when your opponent might take an offensive stance? Of course not.”

  “But there should be another plan, in case I . . .” Fail? Is that what I was so damnably afraid of? Failure? Certainly my pride has sustained enough incidents that it was of no general consequence; however, mine was not the only life relying on my actions, just as pushing myself backwards over that bridge’s rail was as much for my benefit as it was firm knowledge that Keane was safe. As long as he was alive, James Harrison still had a chance at mortal redemption. Surely the man deserved a chance at that? He had ridded himself of unnatural demons, enduring withdrawal and nightmares forced upon him by the bountiful faults of mankind. He had waded through the shadow of sorrow and hopelessness.

  Was I really afraid of failure?

  Keane stood and moved to sit on the table; leaning forward with that same storm-like intensity I had seen when the ocean lashed powerfully at the cliffs of Éire.

  “Your insecurities astound me, Lawrence, though I shall more readily categorize it with your youth than character.” A long, thin hand stayed me from any remarks. “However, understand that I have known you for more than seven years. I know your strengths better than you do and accept your faults with more mercy than you would ever allow yourself. I have seen your stubbornness and perseverance hone your intelligence into a fine diamond incomparable to any other megre stone. Your knowledge of the world far surpasses those twice your age, and Lord knows you make it quite clear that you are the most valuable jewel of females in the world. I have seen all this in the full awareness that the strength—the coal—was there from the beginning.

  I tell you this that you may feel secure in the knowledge that, if you truly feel you cannot do this task, I will accept that without any ill feeling toward your person. You may return to England now, and I shall join you before the Holidays. At the very least, before the new year.” I shifted uneasily on the sofa’s suddenly sharp edge.

  “That long?”

  “It is inferior, I admit, but what are a few extra months in the game of life? The worst you could fear upon my return would be a collection of those unfortunate American mannerisms.”

  “And the play?”

  “As you said before, there are hundreds of young women in Los Angeles who would do most anything for such a role. While they may not have your natural talent, one can hardly be too particular in these dyer matters. As usual, the decision is entirely your own. But, Lawrence, whatever you do, I am behind you all the way.” I stared at him for an excruciatingly long moment; absorbing his words as a new wine. The initial melancholy overtones were gradually smoothed by a surprising amount of sentimentality. He was risking his reputation—his life—by producing the photographs tucked away in the envelope. He was opening himself to a blackmailer’s sword for the sake of a friend. Were I to make a mistake—some unforgivable erro
r—he, or I, or both could be killed. Should it be me, it would be a tragedy easily dismissable by the world. My novels were more set toward the young intellectuals of the age, rather than drabble for the sake of society’s ignorant consensus. Few people recognised my name, and less my life. I would not be missed by most. Should it be Keane; however, the scientific world would no doubt stutter and crumble at its loss. Though his name might not be known at a carefree party, his theories had begun to shape and mold the world so magnificently he could be viewed as nothing but a genius. The world would not mourn me, but it would cry for him. He was risking everything. How could I give nothing?

  “Even in the most horrific of storms,” I whispered shakely. “A rainbow can be found.” Keane smiled gently, a warmth running over with satisfaction.

  Suddenly, my face was pinned to his chest and the strength of his arms enfolded me in his embrace. The world stopped. Life was nonexistent. Time disappeared into the scents of cologne. And—for perhaps the first time in my tattered and torn life—I became the child I was never able to become. Innocence washed upon me in a wave of security.

  And, like a child, I began to weep.

  PART FIVE

  People do not lack strength;

  They lack will.

  -Victor Hugo