Casper wanders the streets
of Glenholm more or less aimlessly, turning one corner and the next, no real
direction in mind, the only purpose being to waste time. Doesn’t feel right to
sit down, to stay still for a single minute. He can’t settle, as unsettled as
he is. Being in one place, much less out in the open, for too long makes him exposed.
He knows it isn’t rational, he knows he isn’t making sense, but he can’t help
the way he feels. The curious glances he’s getting from behind curtains isn’t
doing him any favours. He winds up avoiding the larger roads almost entirely,
simply because there are more windows facing out along them. The center of his
corkscrewing route, however, always remains the same: the post office.
Obsessively, compulsively, inevitably, he’ll circle back
around from wherever his meanderings have taken him and find himself somewhere
within the vicinity the post. If that delivery comes today, he can’t afford to
miss it. And if it doesn’t, if it’s delayed again, or it’s come and gone
already, or it isn’t coming at all, well…
When the hours tick by and he spirals back again, and
again, and three more times for good luck, his doubts start circling like
vultures. Even the most willfully ignorant buffoon couldn’t ignore them. What
he needs is a distraction. Something to keep him from loosing his head. The town
pub, conveniently located in plain sight from where Casper’s skulking, offers
to be a promising candidate.
Opening is still an hour off, which is just as well. He
has yesterday’s buns still tucked away in his pockets. He’s not here for the
food for once. He just wants a little chat. Make up with Alicia, if at all
possible; if she’s come to his senses and isn’t going to jump down his throat
again.
The front door’s locked. Odd. Never been locked before,
even when he first made a habit of coming in before hours. Another symptom of
the unease left by Smith’s men, or is it because of Casper?
He knocks instead of strolling in like he’d prefer to. It
takes a long time for someone to get the door. Casper knocks anew, more
urgently this time. Standing out here is giving him hives.
When Alicia finally gets around to answering
him, she isn’t happy to see him. “Are you here to say you’re sorry?” She asks.
No,
Casper is not. He is feeling singularly unapologetic, in fact.
Everything
goes downhill from there.
One
thing leads to another, things better left unspoken are said. The situation
devolves particularly swiftly when Casper accuses Alicia being ‘hy-sterry-cal’,
ending not long after with Alicia giving him an earful about treating people
with the respect they deserve, then slamming the door in his face. It’s
starting to become regular occurrence between them.
Casper
stands there, stupefied. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He was
supposed to say something clever and charming and completely ingenuine that
would’ve pleased her, but no. He just couldn’t suck it up and get it over with,
now could he?
He
hasn’t even used up all his tab yet.
Casper
starts pounding on the door again. “Hey! Open up!” When that doesn’t avail him
of anything, he adds, “you still owe me money, you hear?” Someone’s hearing him
alright, but for all purposes, he may as well be falling on deaf ears. “I want
my refund!” He screams.
“Go
sod off already!” Alicia screams back, her voice somewhat muffled by the thick
door, but her ill will is plain to see.
Casper
kicks the door, as if that’ll do anything. It doesn’t budge and stubs his toes
something awful. He’s lost, and with it goes half his meals on any given day.
He’s
an idiot, plain and simple. A snot-nosed little brat who got complacent, who
got too big for his britches, thinking he was somebody just because he could
pay for a meal without scraping by ‘til his nails bleed. Who does he think he
is? A toff?
It’s
tempting to stand out there for as long as it takes to get his refund, for
Alicia to understand that, just because she can’t see him, doesn’t mean he and
all the problems that come with him will disappear. He’d know. The toffs tried
several times along that vein. It never worked, and every single damned time,
Casper’s the one who has to deal with everything good, civilized people don’t
want to face. Afterall, it’s not their problem if he can’t feed himself. It’s
still not their problem if he has a roof over his head or if he’s run off from
the latest St. Whatever they’ve stuck him in, hoping he’d stay put for once and
stay out of their hair.
He
spouts off every curse he can think of at the latest of a long series of doors
that’ve been slammed in his face. Alicia’s no different from the rest of them,
no matter how she pretends otherwise. It takes Casper a damn long time to run
out of expletives, screaming himself hoarse for a fruitless effort. He’d stay
longer still for the principle of the matter, but his ruckus is making curious heads
poke out of their windows. So much for being innocuous. Even the druggie’s been
roused from his stupor; he’s stepping out of the post and squinting through the
sun at him.
“Izzat
you li’l witch boy?” The druggie hollers.
Glenholm
collectively does a double take and starts murmuring amongst itself. Casper’s
blood runs cold. As if he wasn’t considered suspect enough already.
He
gestures sharply to the druggie (he’s positively over the moon to see him, the
weirdo) to shut the hell up and meet him around the back of the post if
he wants to talk so badly. It must be a signal Smith often uses with him; the
druggie recognises it right off the bat and gives him a not so subtle wink and
a thumbs up. If it wasn’t already obvious Casper’s fallen in with ‘the wrong people’
by now, that alone must’ve tipped off the locals.
Casper
grits his teeth and trots a roundabout route to the rendezvous. The precaution
is a moot. The whole town knows where he’s going and what he’ll be doing there,
but the detour gives him sorely needed time to cool off. He doesn’t want to
make the same mistake with the druggie as he did with Alicia. He’d rather not
talk to the druggie at all; whatever it is that goes on in the post, it gives
Casper the creeps. He won’t set a foot into the place, but he might be able to weasel
some info on that delivery from the druggie. Who knows? Maybe a vote of
confidence from the local addict will help convince Smith’s men to let him hitch
a ride?
Casper doesn’t think it likely either, but he can hope,
can’t he?
The druggie’s twitching like a bug, Casper notices now
that he can get a good, long look at him. He must be going dry too.
“Well, I’m here,” Casper announces. “Now what d’you
want?” This better be good.
“Uh, ya see here now, I’m feelin’ awful bad ‘bout callin’
ya out there, so I’m jus’ wantin’ ta ‘pologise to ya.” At least he has the
decency to look contrite about it. “Mista Smit keep tellin’ me not ta do it,
but I forget sometime when I see ya, ya know? An’ it seem awful rude not ta say
hullo…”
Casper mulls it over. “Anyone else you been callin’ to
you shouldn’t?”
“Well, uh, ya, there’s Mista Smit an’ then th’ witch man,
an’ now you too now tha’ yer livin’ in the big house with th’ rest o’ them.”
The druggie lists the names off his fingers. He knows an awful lot for someone
who can’t keep a secret. Disturbing. “Must be busy up there, this time o’ year
an’ all,” the druggie comments absently. “Big things goin’ on, big, big things.
Ayup.”
“Great,” Casper replies shrilly. “Don’t suppose you
called me all the way out here just to tell me that?”
“Ah, no, I know there were somethin’ I was meanin’ to
say, but uh- Oh! I ‘member now: it were the tele-card thing! Mista Smit said he
couldn’t send it.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Casper asks. The distinction is a fine
one, but no less crucial. ‘Can’t’ means there’s something wrong with the card
(damn the toff for setting him up); ‘won’t’ means Smith suspects something.
“Well, ya see here, now I dunno how it happened, but
somehow it got all wet an’ th’ ink went and ran out.” Sure enough, after much
searching, the druggie pulls the crumpled card out of his pocket and shows it
to Casper. “I dun read or nothin’ but Mista Smit says he can’t make heads or
tails o’ it. So… he can’t send it.”
Casper reaches a shaking hand out to the little, battered
piece of paper, stopping just short of touching it. The druggie’s right. Whatever
writing there was has been reduced to a shapeless smear, illegible, even to the
non-illiterate. Casper should’ve noticed before he handed it off, should’ve
thought to keep the rain off it that day. So much for his message in a bottle.
“Ya can have it back if ya want,” the druggie suggests
kindly. “…It were real important, weren’t it?”
“Yup…” Casper nods faintly as the druggie gently presses
the useless paper into his hands (they’re still shaking).
The druggie purses his lips in concentration, wracking
his brains. “Dun suppose ya have a spare lyin’ ‘round?”
“Nope.” He needs to sit down. To think this through.
Maybe the toff didn’t abandon him after all; the message simply didn’t get
through. But then why isn’t he here? He said he’d come back, but it’s getting
close to a month later and nobody’s come for him.
As bad as it is, this isn’t the be-all, end-all for
Casper. He still has an out.
He clenches the paper in a tight fist. “I don’t suppose
that delivery’s been through already?” He asks in an equally tight voice.
It takes the druggie a minute to figure out what he’s
referring to. “Ya mean th’ one tha’ came in last night? Yer here ta check it
came in, right?” The druggie smiles brightly and Casper’s heart drops like an
anvil. “Dun ya worry ‘bout tha’. Came in jus’ fine. Th’ wheel broke an’ they
had ta spend most th’ day fixin’ it, but they came alright. Gave me a right
fright, them knockin’ at the door in th’ dead o’ night. Thought they was a
ghost tha’ ben knockin’ ‘round all day… Ya feelin’ well, sir? Ya lookin’ a bit
peaky there.”
“Never better,” Casper gasps. His chest is too tight, he can’t
breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe. The brace of silver around his ribs
isn’t helping. “I just… need to sit down awhile.”
The druggie, always so pleased to serve, skips through
the back door and comes out shortly with a sizable empty crate. “No need ta get
yerself all dirty sittin’ on the ground,” he explains. That’s the last thing
Casper remembers hearing from him; the rest is a haze.
He’s sitting, but doesn’t remember sitting down. He
focuses on his breathing instead. Deep breaths. He can’t panic, not now. There’s
no time for that nonsense, not now. Unless he can come up with something, he’ll
be dead by tomorrow. He might be able to put off going back to the house, back
to Myr, for another day or two, but the drunk’s going to come looking
for him eventually. Myr’s easy enough to avoid, but if he sets Balor on him
(goodness knows why the old man has to do what the drunk says), Casper won’t be
safe anywhere in the county.
The druggie brought out another crate for himself at some
point. He prattles on about whatever inane nonsense comes to mind and Casper
listens to none of it, barely noticing he has company. He’s got enough troubles
trying his damnedest not to lose his head. He’s more out of it than he thinks.
After who know how long, the druggie wanders in front of him with Smith in tow.
Casper didn’t see him leave, much less them coming.
He jumps on the spot, a hair’s breadth from bolting.
Smith raises his hand and gestures for him to stay; he comes in peace. Casper
doesn’t believe him, but he’s in no condition to go running a marathon right
now, not while his breathing’s still screwed up.
“Now what’s this I hear about you being in a fit state
now?” Smith asks.
The druggie, like the good stooge he is, is all to eager
to answer. “Well, ya see sir-”
“I know, you told me already, but I think it’s best I
hear it straight from him, you hear?” Smith says it like Casper isn’t standing right
there. “Wait inside for me. I’ll talk to you after we’re done.”
The druggie looks from Casper to Smith and back again.
Casper is pointedly ignoring both of them, already fed up with the lot of them.
The druggie wishes Smith a quick good luck and makes himself scarce.
“Alright, what’s happened now?” Smith asks,
sounding as exasperated as Casper feels.
Casper doesn’t dignify that with a response. He refuses
to give Smith more ammunition on him than he already has. Why won’t he leave
him be?
Smith sighs and shakes his head. “We’re going to have to
do this the hard way, eh? Suit yourself, boy. Just know I don’t have all day,
every day to clear up every little problem that turns up on that damn hill of
yours,” he jabs with his thumb. “Do I make myself clear?”
Casper regards him stonily. “You seem pretty damn chummy
with Myr for someone who’s got nuthin’ to do with ‘our problems’.”
Smith frowns at him. “That’s different.”
“Bullshit.”
Smith sniffs, muttering something about youngsters not
respecting their elders anymore. “I’m not here to go talking about myself and
neither are you,” he adds pointedly. “So, tell me this: what in blazes has
gotten you in a huff now?”
“Nothing,” Casper lies. He knows it’s a lie, Smith knows,
God almighty too. Even the druggie wouldn’t fall for that one. Casper’s just
being petulant.
Smith rolls his eyes. “Yes, and I’m perfectly sure this
is the same sort of nothings that brought you all the way down here all up in a
tizzy last time. Come off it then; what the bloody hell is the issue?”
“…”
“…Alright. Fine. You’re not going to tell me? Suppose
I’ll have to guess then.”
“Good luck with that Sherlock.”
“A real bucket of sunshine, aren’t you?” Smith comments
dryly. “And Myr says you’re not a thing alike, between the two of you.”
“That’s ‘cause we’re not!” The gall of him to suggest
Casper has anything remotely to do with the drunken oaf. “We’re not even
related!”
“Is that right?” There’s something too sharp, too
attentive about Smith. Casper’s said too much. “Funny you should say that,”
Smith continues, “Myr was saying the exact same thing to me yesterday evening.”
“Don’t suppose he was tellin’ you how he’s plannin’ on
carvin’ me up while you ladies were sippin’ at your gin and tonic.”
The comment gains a curious look from Smith. “Keeping
tabs are we?”
Casper backpeddles. He wasn’t supposed to know Smith and
Myr spent the night drinking, not unless he’s been spying (which he has, but
Smith needn’t know that). “Lucky guess,” he deflects.
Smith isn’t convinced, but he doesn’t push it. “We spent
most of the night talking about you actually,” he says, measuring Casper up all
the while, testing the waters. “And by ‘we’, I mean him mostly. I’m the better
listener. Don’t suppose you’d know that too, would you now?”
Casper wisely
refrains from opening his mouth this time. Smith’s trying to figure out how
much he knows, how much he might’ve eavesdropped.
Smith tuts, dissatisfied, and moves on. “You scare him, you
know that?”
“I scare him?” Casper gawps. “He’s
the one who keeps sayin’ he’s gonna knock my bloody lights out every other
day.”
“I don’t deny it, but, as far as he figures, you’re the
only one around here who isn’t under his thumb, and that scares the living
daylights out of him.” Smith fishes out a cigar and lights it, more at ease now
that the conversation’s going where he wants it to. “It don’t help you’re
getting a little too close to the old devil for comfort,” he puffs.
Casper flinches at the word ‘devil’. “Who I’m with is
nobody’s business but mine. Myr can go sod off.” The tobacco fumes waft his
way. God what he wouldn’t do for a smoke of his own right now. It’s been too
long.
“That’s small-town politics for you, boy,” Smith
chuckles. “You sneeze and the whole goddamn county knows it. No mind for
minding your own bloody business at all, no propriety, no discretion. What a
mess,” he tuts, blowing a small cloud.
Casper motions to Smith to quit waving the butt in his
face and pass it over already. If he’s going to get grilled in this thinly
veiled interrogation, he may as well get something out of it. Smith looks
archly at him and pulls the cigar a touch further out of his reach. Tit for
tat, it would seem. Casper pulls a face, but he gives in. “On the topic of
gossips, I’m pretty sure everyone an’ their mother knows where I’m livin’ by
now.”
“That right…? Damn.”
“Yup. You can thank your little helper for that,
by the way,” Casper gestures the druggie waiting in the post office. “Wouldn’t
be surprised if you could hear him from China.”
“That’s what he was wailing on about?” Smith takes
another puff distractedly. “Well then… the whole town’ll know alright.”
“Yeah, I know. ‘M not exactly havin’ a good day. Now
would you hand over the fuckin’ cig already?” Smith obliges. “’Bout time.”
Casper takes a draw at it and winds up sputtering almost immediately.
“First time?”
“What?” Casper coughs. “No,” he croaks, “just been awhile
is all.” Sure enough, the second puff is easier. Little breaths. He forgot he
can’t breathe it in too much or his throat’s going to close up on him. Still,
the tobacco takes the edge off his nerves.
They pass the butt to and fro between themselves in
relative silence for the next while until it burns out. Smith crushes the
embers out under his heel. “What are we supposed to do with you, boy?”
Casper laughs, high pitched and nervous. “Not a day goes
by I wake up and don’t ask myself the same thing.”
“Amen,” Smith grunts. “From what Rodney tells me- he’s
the fellow I keep around to man shop; not all that bright, but he’s a sweet
fellow, real sweet. Anyhow, the way he was banging on about it, seems to me you
were looking to find your own ticket out of here.”
“I don’t gotta answer that.”
“That’s fine. As I said, I can do the guess work and you
can sit there and listen, just listen, mind. And if there’s something or other
in particular that just so happens to get your attention, well I don’t see how
we might not come to a resolution of sorts from there.”
Smith’s cutting a deal with him, eh? Seems awful
familiar. “Don’t suppose the old man taught you a thing or two about how to
negotiate?” Casper asks pointedly.
“You joking?” Smith grins. “I’m the one who taught him
all he knows!” That gets a cheap laugh out of Casper in spite of himself.
“There we are! That’s better eh? No need to be down in the doldrums all day.”
It’s odd to think Smith’s here just to comfort him; doesn’t fit the image of
him Casper has in mind, but it’s nice of him, ulterior motive or no. “You
weren’t far off the mark about hitching a ride with my associates,” Smith
remarks.
“That right?”
“Course. Great minds think alike. How else do you think
I’m going to get you out? I’m the only import-export man in the whole town.”
“Then why can’t I go now if it’s that simple?” If Smith’s
jerking him around…
“That’s because it isn’t that simple. That delivery you
were eyeing yesterday? A piddly donkey cart. Not nearly enough room to stow you
aboard without a body knowing about it. But. It’s not always going to be
small carts. I’ve got a big shipment coming in about two weeks from now.
Already been sending out orders and consignments for it as a matter of fact.
There’ll be plenty of empty boxes and barrels on the way out to hide in and my
men aren’t the sorts to go asking questions about what they’re getting paid
for.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me that in the first place?
I wouldn’t be cracking up right now if I’d known you had a real plan instead of
doing things all ‘let’s wait an’ see what comes up’!”
“Your confidence is inspiring,” Smith snorts. “You be
damn sure I have a plan. I wouldn’t be in this business if I were in the habit
of doing things willy-nilly now would I? Loose lips sink ships; the less who
know the particulars, the less I got to worry about something going wrong at
the end of the day. You think I tell Rodney what I’m doing on any given day or
you think I tell him what he should be looking out for and leave it at that?”
Point taken. “I don’t see what the big deal is,” Casper
grumbles “I can keep a secret. I been doin’ stuff already.”
“Maybe you can. Maybe you can’t. Maybe you’d let
something slip while you’re off playing with those friends of yours as you’re
running along in the fields.” Smith adds pointedly. “My job is to know things
and make sure what needs be done gets done. You didn’t need to know and it’d be
a damned mess if Myr found out I been going behind his back with this, so I
didn’t tell you… Don’t look at me like that! Even your old devil doesn’t know
the details; it’s a little thing called trust, you see. I expect him to do what
he needs to on his end and, in return, he trusts me not to fuck up enormously.
Simple innit?”
“Alright, alright, I get it!” As much as Smith claims to
be a good listener, he sure likes to talk. “I’ll be outta here in two weeks, I
get it.” Such a pity he’ll be dead by then.
“Good. Now how about you go back to that hill of yours
and sit tight until I need you?”
“…”
“Christ kid, what’s your bloody problem?”
“Uh, so you know how I was sayin’ Myr was plannin’ on
carve me up like Christmas dinner?”
“Yes, what of it? … Oh. Thought you were joking
about that… Ah hell,” Smith runs a hand through his combover. “Why am I not
surprised? Suppose that’d explain why you’re in such a hurry.”
“You don’t say.”
“None of that now,” Smith scolds. “It’s not funny.”
Casper’s well aware. He’s only been fretting about it since all day. “Alright.
I’ll have a word with him, see if I can’t talk him out of it.”
“You really think that’s gonna work?” Casper asks
incredulously.
“You’d be surprised boy.” Smith picks himself off his make
shift seat and straightens out his lapels. “Let’s say I’ve had practice. If I
get Myr off your back, you think you can last another thirteen days until I can
get you out of here?” He challenges.
Casper sees his bet and raises him. “You keep the drunk
from skinning me in my sleep and I’ll call you the King of fucking Spain.”
Smith grins. “Glad to see we agree on something.”
<== Day Twenty-Four - Morning ==> Table of Contents <== Day Twenty-Four - Evening ==>
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