Richard Ford - The Shattered Crown

‘Eh?’ she replied, still hoping there’d been some kind of mistake.

‘His fingers,’ said Friedrik, sounding a bit impatient. ‘Come on, we don’t want to be down here in this shit-hole forever.’

Everyone was looking at her now. They were just standing there, watching her, waiting. There was nowhere to run to. No way to get out of this. If she didn’t do it, Walder wasn’t the only one who’d be losing bits of himself.

Rag walked towards the prone body bleeding on the floor. The knife was still on the chair, the blade sharp and shiny in what little light there was down in the cellar.

Ain’t no point in waiting on it, girl. Just get along and do what needs to be done. No room for pity or mercy or any of that old shit. Walder’s got this coming whether it’s you that does it or someone else.

She picked up the knife and knelt beside Walder. His breathing was shallow, but at least he wouldn’t be conscious for what was coming. Rag fished in her pocket and pulled out a kerchief. After twisting it she tied it around Walder’s little finger and fixed it there with as tight a knot as she could manage. Hopefully it would stop him losing too much blood.

Walder didn’t stir as she took his hand and placed it on the chair. Didn’t moan or cry out as she placed the knife over his finger. Didn’t shout and open his eyes in agony as Rag slammed her hand down on top of the knife, the blade slicing right through bone and flesh.

A couple of the lads laughed at the sight of Walder losing his pinky. Rag fought to keep down the bile that was rising in her throat.

She looked up to see Friedrik smiling his approval. ‘And the other one,’ he said shooing her on with his hand like he was in a hurry.

Doesn’t look like you’ve got any choice in the matter.

Rag took Walder’s other hand and did as she was bid.

The sight of those dead, pink little fingers stayed with Rag for some time after. They stayed with her all the way from that dank cellar, following Friedrik and his hulking bodyguard, to their little tavern. Of course it wasn’t a tavern at all, though it had a bar and kitchen and rooms. This was Friedrik’s own private lair. Rag had learned quick that Friedrik liked his comforts. He was a homely fellow, truth be told. It was just his habit of hacking bits off people, or having them hack their own bits off, that made him stand out from other blokes.

They sat together, just she and him, as the rest of Friedrik’s men milled round in the background. A plate of roasted lamb haunch and veggies sat in front of them, but she found that the thought of Walder had ruined her appetite. All she could do was push that food around with a fork, staring at it like it was the last thing she’d ever want to stick in her gob.

‘What’s the matter, little Rag?’ Friedrik said from a mouth rimmed with grease. ‘Not hungry?’ She just shook her head. He shrugged. ‘Best not let it go to waste. Don’t want to upset cook.’

Rag knew that cook couldn’t have given a shit whether she ate or not. Friedrik, on the other hand, was a different matter. His amiable act was just that, and at any moment he could become that menacing bastard again, all subdued fury and concealed hate. Not that he’d tried that on with her in the weeks she’d been with him. In fact, he treated her as something of a pet.

She was dressed in the best finery — but not a gaudy dress only fit for the stuffy bollocks in the Crown District. She wore hand-stitched britches, with a silk shirt and embroidered waistcoat. Her shoes, which had taken some getting used to, were waxed and buffed to a mirror sheen, the buckle on the top shining like gold. Every morning she combed her hair like Friedrik wanted and secured it with a silver clasp.

How this had happened, how she had ended up as Friedrik’s right-hand girl, she couldn’t fully explain. Back in that warehouse, when she’d held a knife to his throat and given him no choice about taking her on, she’d thought he would just give her a job pinching on the streets. But it was clear he’d taken something of a shine to her, and there weren’t no talking him out of it.

That didn’t stop him being a scary bastard though, and in the intervening weeks she’d seen more beatings, stabbings and torture than she cared to remember. Today was the first time he’d made her join in, though. She hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.

But who was she to complain? Wasn’t this what she’d wanted — a way into the Guild? And as much as she hated the way people got treated, it beat the shit out of living on the streets.

Rag picked up her fork and stuck it in a piece of roast turnip, seeing Friedrik smile as she stuffed it in her mouth. She did her best to smile back as she chewed, visions of squealing Walder and his mutilated hands dancing in front of her eyes. She chewed until her jaw ached, then swallowed hard.

‘There’s my girl,’ said Friedrik, going back to hacking at his lamb.

There’s my girl.

For all she didn’t want to complain, Rag still felt trapped. But what was she supposed to do? Where was she supposed to go now? Back to the street?

No chance of that . Even if she did, he’d come looking for her. And Friedrik was the Guild — it wouldn’t take him long to track her down.

Fact was she was stuck here, but there was food in her belly, clothes on her back and a roof over her head. What more could a gal ask for?

Maybe a life that didn’t involve watching people being beaten to shit?

Well, nothing was perfect, now was it? She was part of Friedrik’s crew. Part of his little entourage, for better or worse. Best to just keep quiet and deal with it.

Rag looked around the room, glancing at the other members of their little group. Her new pals.

There was Harkas of course, silent imposing bastard that he was. She avoided him whenever possible, even though he mostly ignored her. It was pretty obvious there weren’t nothing going on behind those blank eyes of his, not until Friedrik gave him an order to hurt someone.

There was fat Shirl. A bit useless in all respects, but loyal nonetheless. He’d been the one Rag had stolen the knife from weeks back when she’d given over Krupps’ head in that warehouse. She still kept it in a little sheath at her waist. If Shirl was pissed off about it he didn’t say nothing. There was no way he’d risk upsetting Friedrik.

Yarrick and Essen were the last two men close to Friedrik. Neither said much, other than to each other, and both had thin faces and broad shoulders, which made Rag think they might be related. She’d never had courage enough to ask, though.

Of course there were more thugs and brutes and snakes and rats loitering around, but they came and went, often sent off on one errand or another that most likely involved someone getting stabbed or robbed or both. Rag tried her best not to overhear lest she learn something she’d rather not know and she found she’d got good at that — ignoring the bad things.

She looked up at Friedrik stuffing his face full of roast meat and vegetables and remembered that day she’d been on top of him, knife to his neck. If she’d stuck it in his throat, right to the hilt, that might have changed something. Walder, for one, would still have his fingers.

Friedrik looked up and smiled, mouth full of food, and she smiled back. Then the door opened.

Two men walked in and Rag knew them before she could even see their faces through the gloom. They were the only two men in the whole of Steelhaven who would have entered this place so brazenly, rather than wringing their caps and bowing their heads in respect.

The first was tall with a strong build, and a thick dark moustache that drooped around a grim, set mouth. His eyes glared with wolfish intent as though he were on the hunt for something. Second fella was slight and gaunt featured, eyes set deep within his skull. Though he was hunched in the shoulders he still walked across the room as though he owned the place.