Will Thomas - To Kingdom Come

“Get the paint pot, Willie,” O’Casey commanded. “Colin, put Penrith’s stick back into the fire.”

“I have brought my own,” my employer said coolly, handing his ivory-inlaid stick to Bannon. The tip of his cane, I noted, was much thicker than my bata stick.

He neither cracked a smile through Yeats’s silly speech nor flinched when he was given a new brand on his arm. He solemnly swore to keep the secrets of the Invisibles, on pain of death. With the paintbrush, he covered his own chest and arms in Germanic script. Then he lightly sprung from the dolmen and picked up his cane.

“Are you ready, McKeller?” he asked.

“Aye, but no hooking with that cane of yours.”

For once, McKeller looked almost afraid.

“Appeal to Mr. O’Casey, not to me,” Barker stated, going into a crouch.

“Eamon, lad,” McKeller pleaded. “Canes ain’t in the bata rules. He needs a proper knob at the end.”

“I’ll allow it, Fergus,” Eamon replied. “It’s his stick and his choice.”

Now it was my turn to see the big Irishman squirm. I looked over at Yeats and the Bannons. We all appeared to be looking forward to seeing Fergus McKeller taught a lesson.

Reluctantly, McKeller went into a crouch. He was a jammer, as I said, and he immediately took the fight to Barker. My employer had anticipated the move, however, and stepped across at an angle, swinging his stick laterally. It caught McKeller on the temple. He let out an oath and backed up.

They circled again, the light and shadows playing across their faces. Barker made a feint, and McKeller roared in. The Guv stepped under his flailing arm and, as he passed, reached up behind him, catching McKeller on the shoulder. Before the Irishman could react, he fell backward over Barker, all his limbs thrashing, and landed on his head and shoulders in the sand. There was a short moment of grappling, and before he knew it, his head was squeezed between my employer’s knees, the cane’s handle around his throat. The Irishman dared not move.

O’Casey strode over casually to McKeller and looked down into his beet-red face. “You call that ‘form,’ do you? After all the training I’ve given you? Face it, man. You’ve just been outclassed, and rather handily.”

McKeller tapped Barker’s knee and was released. He rubbed his throat.

“I still think he shouldn’t have used his cane. ’Twas no proper bata fight to my way of looking at things.”

“Are you next, Mr. O’Casey?” Barker asked, bowing.

“Some other time,” O’Casey said nonchalantly. “Where did you learn to fight, Mr. van Rhyn?”

“Here and there,” came the reply. “There are some advantages to living a nomad’s existence.”

“Are we done now?” McKeller asked his friend. “This has built up a powerful thirst, and I want to be the first to pour my new little brother a drink. Great things, brothers. Always willing to lend you a shilling for a pint or two.”

Barker went back to the cottage, and I had several pints with McKeller, while with time and night air, my wounds slowly blossomed, every blessed one of them. I have a conviction that the only good thing about alcohol is its use as an anesthetic. I don’t think I was brave enough to face all those bruises sober.

By the time I climbed into bed a second time that night, I had no trouble at all falling asleep. Between the nervous exhaustion from the demonstration, the ceilidh, the sudden kiss from Maire, and the initiation-with its branding, ceremony, and beatings-it was a wonder I was still conscious. My last thought before I slid into sleep, as easily as one slides beneath the surface of a pool, was this: of the two sides, theirs and ours, who that evening had provided the best show? At best, I’d call it even.

The next I knew, it was morning. Warm, painfully bright sunshine streamed in from an open window, and the room was full of the scent of Barker’s tobacco, which at the moment smelled like burning seaweed. I tried rising, felt the effects of too much alcohol and the pain from the initiation, and thought better of it.

Barker was leaning against his headboard, his ankles crossed, his fingers knotted over his now-ample stomach, attempting to blow smoke rings.

“Morning, sir,” I muttered. I missed my room in Newington and my privacy.

“How are you feeling?” my employer asked.

I got up, groaning, and went to the ewer and bowl in the corner. Somehow, the water began turning blue. It took a moment for my disjointed brain to put it all together. I was still half clothed and covered in paint like a savage. There were arcane symbols all over my chest and face. Barker, of course, had washed his off the previous night and looked as normal as, well, as he had looked since this case began.

“How long were you there watching before you joined in?” I asked, as I wiped my face and chest with a towel.

“I wandered over during the initiation ceremony.”

“Why didn’t you stop them?” I demanded. The burn on my shoulder was a small, circular welt that stung like anything, and my mood was sour.

“Because I wanted you to be initiated, lad. Now we’re in. We can relax, at least a little.”

“You let McKeller and O’Casey thrash me,” I complained.

Barker managed one perfect smoke ring, then spoke. “You’ll live. Had they really intended to harm you, I would have stepped in. How was the rest of the night?”

“I don’t remember much of it, I’m afraid,” I said. “McKeller kept making toasts.”

“As soon as this case is over, I shall put you in Brother McClain’s hands at his Mile End mission in London. He’s had some success with inebriates such as you. What did you do before the initiation?”

I let the remark pass. “I went out to look at the damage to the lighthouse, and I may have kissed Maire O’Casey there,” I confessed. It was the last thing I wanted to reveal to him, but I knew it might affect the case and Barker’s plans in some way.

He puffed on his pipe a moment before launching another perfect circle of smoke across the bed. “You may have? You’re not sure?”

“No, I am sure. I kissed Maire O’Casey.”

“I see. Interesting. Did she kiss you back?”

I concentrated on my memories of the night before. “Rather.”

“You do realize that she is the sister of a young man who may have blown up Scotland Yard, not to mention our chambers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re pretending to be someone else, and if she found out who you are, she’d probably loathe you. You are the enemy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And need I remind you my agency doesn’t exist to find you female companionship.”

“No, sir.” The words stung worse than the burn. I despised myself for disappointing him.

“Miss O’Casey, like most beautiful young women, is a complication, and we have enough complications as it is. Keep your wits about you, Thomas.”

I sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“It’s for your own good. Wash again. You’re still blue about the ears.” He got up and left me to my ablutions.

The group was slowly awakening. Rising from around the now-ashen bonfire, the young men broke their fast on the stale bread and stout from the night before. I decided to wait until we were in Liverpool again before I dared to eat anything.

Maire O’Casey was still using Yeats as a beast of burden. He was loading the hamper and some pots and pans into the cart. I wondered what sort of reception she would give me, after last night. As it turned out, it was none at all. I might as well have been a ghost for all the attention she gave me.

Sore, tired, miserable, and confused, I climbed into the vehicle beside my employer and counseled myself to be philosophical. This is life. One minute, you’re the hero and the next, the goat. Yesterday, after the success of the demonstration, I felt I could do no wrong. Now, all I had to look forward to was a ride back to the railway halt with a group of sullen people and a train ride to Liverpool.