“What do you have to do with Myr?” The banker repeats, louder this time. The volume betrays the tremor in his voice. It’s too slight for the toff to notice, twat that he is. The boy, on the other hand, knows too well what to look for. He came from the slums; he, like all the other boys and girls born and raised there, can smell fear like a bloodhound tracks a dead man.
The question is, why is he afraid?
“He… he’s my uncle.” The boy's answer is soft, unconfident. Anyone with half a brain wouldn’t believe a word of it.
The banker, however, does. He chases them out of the building for it, howling at their backs to keep the hell away from him, for the love of God! Whoever this Myr guy is, it’s enough to scare him stupid. That terrifies the boy more than anything could. Rich, posh guys like this have too much money to be afraid, to need fear. Plus, they like other rich, posh guys, or at least they aren’t spooked like they saw the boogie man.
The boy mulls things over. The toff is predictably guileless. “I dare say that fellow has been sampling the post office’s wares.”
The boy doesn’t respond. The toff doesn’t speak. It’s the carriage all over again. The toff clears his throat once, then a second time more pointedly. It does the trick. The boy starts from his thoughts. He looks at the toff as if the man took him by the shoulders and shook him. No doubt he'd do so if he saw fit.
The toff tells him to move along. The boy follows, still glaring. What has the toff gotten him into?The boy isn’t keen on seeing that long lost uncle of his anymore. Screw the inheritance. Screw Glenholm. Screw home. He wants out of here and he wants out now. But how?
He stops dragging his feet and stops altogether. He counts the time it takes the toff to notice. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Four min-
The toff finally catches on. About time. He scowls at the boy a full block behind him and marches back within talking distance instead of yelling from afar. Thank goodness for small miracles.
“Just what do you think-” The toff starts, but doesn't finish. The boy doesn’t let him.
“My uncle isn’t a good person.”
The toff stops where he is. He blinks back at the boy’s measured stare. He opens his mouth, then closes and opens it again to sigh. “So, you’ve met him then?”
“No.” The word is sure. Firm.
“Then how would you know what he is and isn’t like, silly boy? Come to think of it, didn’t you ask me-”
“The bank fellow was scared enough to piss when I said his name.”
The lingering word ‘carriage’ dies on the toff’s lips. At first he made to talk over the boy, ignoring him and, thus, the problem. Typical toff. Too blind, too stupid to see the pistol waving in his face. But why’d he have to stop when he heard ‘piss’ of all things?
The boy waves the thought away. That’s not important. He’s got the toff’s attention. Make use of it while you can. “Then there’s the grocer lady. Said she knows every bloke in the whole bleedin’ town! So why’s it the banker knows ol’ Myr, but she don’t know scraps?”
The toff doesn’t answer, can’t answer. Sure, he responds. He parrots the empty assurance the boy's been hearing for years: new beginnings and all that rubbish. But a response isn’t the same as an answer. Since the toff’s still resisting, the boy must carry on.
“What if he’s a...” He pauses, searching for the worst word he can find. He recalls one he heard spoken in worried tones back at the homes, one only said when the sisters thought none of the boys were around. “What if he's a peddy-phil or somefin'?”
That got the toff to shut his gob.
“You gonna leave me with a freak the likes of that? All by myself?”
“I…”
The boy matches the toff's meek look with dark, desperate eyes that could petrify a basilisk.
“Well…”
The boy doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch. He can’t afford to.
“John, boy, listen to me-”
“I'm not John.” The boy’s eyes bore into him.
“It’s out of my hands! I was supposed to- to do paperwork and- and organize committee meetings and the like. Not things like, well, like this.” Like ending a young boy’s life himself, he means. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” As if saying it again would make it mean something more.
And the boy’s eyes still bore into him through all that. Through blood and bone to the soul. Or maybe it was guilt?
No, it's not. He’s a toff, remember? Toffs don’t feel guilt. If they did, the world would be a very different place than it is today. And he wouldn’t be standing here, staring at a broken man, just as frail and helpless as he is.
The boy breaks his gaze, opting instead for the packed earth at his feet. He doesn’t see the toff’s relief at being freed from the pins in his eyes, nor does he see him break again when he walks towards, then straight past him without a sound.
‘And I'm quite sure that so long as you behave yourself and are a good boy, you will have absolutely nothing to worry about.’ The memory rings round his head, laughing. Typical, typical toff. He doesn’t know jack about the real world, does he? He doesn’t know a damn thing. The boy seethes. He doesn’t say a word though. What’s the point? The toff said it himself, ‘It’s out of my hands’. He’s done for. His fate is sealed.
The unusual pair plod back to the market square. The boy leads this time. He’s impassive. The toff follows pensively behind. He’s remorseful. The sun sets to the side of both of them. It’s indifferent to them, as it is to all things on Earth. It’s merely the end of another day.
The last hours of light drench the earth and the buildings that rest upon it, painting Glenholm golden. It's surreal. Like none of it's really there, being merely an illusion that will inevitably fade when the sun finishes it's plummet over the horizon and disappears.
Please let this all disappear. The town. The people. The beginning.
Me.
Gold deepens to amber. Amber dyes itself an unrelenting red. The colours bleed from one to the other to the next, much like how the hours trickle by. He's numb to it all, the hues of twilight, the hours of dusk, the drone of the toff as he finally gets those directions he no longer wants. Not for him. Especially not for the boy.
Please let this be a bad dream. Please let me wake up.
He doesn't know how or when the toff took the lead through town and up and around the hill, all the way to the seigneur’s manor hidden behind the forested crest. It doesn't matter anyways.
It's black now. The sun's gone. Its last traces of light have faded.
There's nothing left.
Nothing left to do but face the music. Do try to appear somewhat brave. Do try to not wet yourself in the face of this man who could be a monster, who could be your uncle.
Please don't be there.
The toff raps on the door. The weighty metal knocker detonates noise in the still spring air.
The boy shivers. His clothes are thin and he's cold, but he's used to the perpetual chill of old, stone buildings. He does not shiver because he's cold.
Please don't be home.
There's someone there. The walls of the manor are robust, but you can hear the crack of the ancient boards beneath the weight of whatever is inside. It's coming to the door.
No. No no no.
It thuds against the door, shifting against the other side, dragging itself across. It clunks and rattles with the deadbolt far longer than it should take a person.
The door swings open.
Edited? Yes. Yes it is.
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