Paul Durham - The Luck Uglies

“The sickly skinned cockle knocker lurched out at us from the muck while we was eating,” he said, raising a hand like a claw.

His audience seemed transfixed by his story.

“Fortunately, I kept my wits about me,” the man continued. “Made eye contact with it – like they says to do.” He paused for dramatic effect. It caused everyone to stop their drinking and hang on his words – not an easy task. At last he thrust his fist forward.

“Then I gave it a stiff punch in the snout!”

The men roared their approval. Several women gasped. Over the din, a voice called out dryly.

“Rubbish.”

“Who said that?” the tall man asked.

“Bogwash,” the voice said again.

Several patrons stepped aside and Rye saw that it was the man with the monkey. He sat in a chair with his legs crossed, glaring over his fingers, which he’d folded into a pyramid on his chin.

“You’s saying I’m a liar, gypsy?”

“If you actually saw a Bog Noblin,” the man with the monkey said, “which I highly doubt, I suspect you wet your knickers and threw your chicken leg at it. If you had tried to punch it in its snout, you wouldn’t be standing here at all.”

The storyteller took a menacing step forward. The man with the monkey stood up. The monkey put up its fists. The men who stepped between them were soon pushing and shoving one another, and before long everyone seemed to forget who had started the trouble in the first place.

Rye and Folly dashed away, disappearing into the forest of legs. Someone stepped on Rye’s foot. Someone else bumped an elbow and accidentally spilled wine on the girls’ heads. They shrieked, then looked at each other and laughed.

“What do we do now?” Rye asked.

“Are you hungry?” Folly asked.

“I could eat.”

They worked through the crowd and positioned themselves near the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Before long, a barmaid hurried out, balancing a heavy tray of food. Folly reached up when the barmaid wasn’t looking and grabbed two grey-black lumps of meat. Folly and Rye skipped back into the crowd before the barmaid could notice the empty plate.

“Try one,” Folly said. “They’re hot.”

Rye took a tiny bite and chewed. She chewed some more. It was salty.

“What do you think?” Folly asked.

“Rubbery,” Rye said, finally swallowing. “What is it?”

“Sea lion,” Folly said.

They didn’t eat sea lion back on Mud Puddle Lane … or anywhere else Rye could think of. She examined the dark meat between her fingers. Suddenly she felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. The pain made her drop the rest on the floor.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“More for me,” Folly said, dangling her share over her lips.

“No, really, Folly.” Rye clutched her side. “I’m going to be sick.”

Folly tossed the sea lion aside and grabbed her hand. “Well, don’t do it here. Come on, let’s get upstairs.”

“Hurry, Folly,” Rye said, turning green.

The girls ran through the crowd, Rye’s insides on fire.

They were almost to the stairs, Folly pulling Rye, when Rye crashed into someone’s leg. She bounced off and stumbled into a barmaid, who dropped an entire tray of empty mugs. There was a crash, then a roar of cheers from the crowd.

Rye was about to stop, but Folly just pulled.

“Keep going,” she said.

When Rye glanced over her shoulder she saw that she’d run into the woman in the cranberry-coloured dress. The one who was sitting at the Mermaid’s Nook. The woman was apologising to the barmaid. She never saw who hit her.

Rye noticed that the woman had soft features and dark-black hair tied into a ponytail with a simple blue ribbon. She held a goblet of wine in her hand and, round her neck was a black choker strung with runestones. It looked just like Rye’s.

“Pigshanks!” she said, slamming to a halt. “It’s my mother!”

Rye and Folly were lying on their bellies in the third-floor hallway, staring through the railing down into the inn below. It was the only position that made Rye’s stomach feel better. The sea lion had already come back to visit her three times, along with her supper from earlier that day. There was nothing left in her belly, but it still felt like she’d swallowed an old boot.

“Are you sure she didn’t see you?” Folly asked. Her voice was sleepy, her eyes half closed.

“Yes,” said Rye. “Believe me, if she had, sea lion would be the least of my worries.”

Abby O’Chanter was back at the Mermaid’s Nook with the tattooed man. They were speaking quietly to one another across the mermaid’s body, but Rye couldn’t tell if Abby was happy or sad. One thing she did know was that she’d never seen her mother wear a dress like that before. She’d never known her to show so much of her shoulders and neck in public.

“Do you have any idea who that man is?” Rye asked.

“No,” Folly said. “It seems that other people do, though.”

“My mother said she had a special sale for customers at The Willow’s Wares,” Rye said. “What’s she doing here?”

“Maybe she’s finished her business,” Folly said, drifting off to sleep. “Or maybe he’s one of the customers.”

The inn began to spin and Rye thought she was going to be sick again, but she realised it was just the massive chandelier bobbing in front of her eyes. A rook hopped among the bones and candles, trying to keep its balance with its creepy little feet. Rye crinkled her nose. The filthy creature must have flown in through a window. A black bird that flies by night was considered bad luck. The worst kind. In its beak was a large, metal fish hook that glinted in the candlelight, its barb still slick as if the bird had plucked it fresh from some mackerel’s mouth.

Rye jumped as the rook spread its wings and dived down from its perch. It swooped unnoticed over the heads of the partygoers before passing over the Mermaid’s Nook, where it lost its grip on the hook. The hook dropped straight on to the table. The bird flapped awkwardly upwards and disappeared into a dark corner of the rafters.

Rye leaned forward. Her mother had pushed herself back from the table, but her companion picked up the hook and seemed to examine it with great interest. Unbelievably, he held it under his nose and sniffed it.

Rye’s concentration was broken by a loud ringing below. Folly’s father had mounted the bar and he now clanged a brass ship’s bell. He kept it up until the crowd grew quiet. He cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Last call,” he bellowed. “Last call.”

There were rumbles and hisses. Fletcher Flood pointed to the large hourglass behind him. The black sand had almost run its course.

“Finish your cups and be gone,” he yelled, “or the doors get locked and you drink ’til dawn!”

There was a roar of approval. Then the crowd raised their glasses and broke into a chant.

“ The Black Moon rises, thick with thieves! No one enters, no one leaves! ”

“Folly,” Rye asked. “What’s going on?”

Folly was snoring.

“Folly!” Rye jabbed an elbow in her side. “What’s going on here?”

“Huh?” Folly said. “Oh. On the Black Moon the doors get locked at midnight. Everyone is free to go or stay, but once the doors are locked, no one gets in or out.”

“What? It’s midnight already? Why do they lock the doors?” Rye asked.

“I don’t know; tradition?” Folly said. “Most people stay. It can get really crazy in here after the doors are locked.”

Rye looked back towards the Mermaid’s Nook. Abby and the man were now standing. Even from this distance, Rye recognised the lines of worry on her mother’s brow. Abby flung her everyday cloak over her shoulders, extinguishing the striking cranberry dress like mud on a fire. The man had one too, black as the charred shark on the spit, and when he turned, Rye noticed two sheathed swords strapped to his back. They made their way with haste to the front of the inn with a handful of others.