Chapter 11: Over And Out

The shadowy figure stepped into the light. Clare, the sister of the tattoo woman, stood before him. With wordless anger, she unsheathed her recurved blade. She took a step closer.

Ash froze in place. He did not know whether to run or to fight. His only source of self-defence was the combat knife jammed in his boot, but, if he reached for it, he would be vulnerable to an attack.

She stepped forward.

Ash ran.

His feet moved swiftly beneath his body, stepping deftly upon the wooden ties of the railway. The sounds of a heavy push-trolley roared in front of him. The two men upon it were shouting for him to get out of the way.

Ash leapt over the rails and sprinted deeper into the network of alleys.

He turned right. He turned left. The walls towered above him.

He looked back, but the woman was not too far behind. Her blade reflected a beam of sunlight that peaked through the metal walkway above them. Ash ran once more, feeling his breathing grow ragged with effort. The alley diverged into two paths. Ash paused, trying to figure out which way would be better. He felt the heaviness of his chest. He wouldn’t be able to run much longer.

He turned left.

Mistake.

He followed the passage way around a bend only to meet a dead-end. He pivoted in place and saw the woman turn the corner. She knew he was trapped.

Ash only had one solution: climb.

He jumped onto the ladder that dangled from the walkway above. He pulled himself up, throwing his feet upon the rungs of the ladder with haste. He heard the recurve blade hit the ladder. The vibrations of the strike rippled into his arms and legs. She missed, but barely.

Ash summited the ladder and stood on the metal walkway. He had hoped that this higher level would be easier to navigate. It was not. The walkways twisted and contorted with the same convolution as the passages below.

Ash hopped into a run.

He felt the brittleness of the walkway beneath his feet. They were not designed for this sort of movement. Not anymore. The walkway had sections of missing floorboards, railings caked with rust, and several makeshift repairs. Ash kept moving, propelled by the fear of permanent death. He could still hear the woman’s footsteps upon the rickety structure.

Another split in the road.

He turned right.

Mistake.

Ash cursed. He could not believe that he chose wrongly once again. This time, there was no ladder to climb higher. The only way out was down. Ash peered over the ledge. He did not think he could survive the fall.

He turned to meet the tattooed woman.

She noticed his predicament and shot off a nasty grin. With unhurried cruelty, she tossed her blade between her hands, spinning it with a small flourish at her wrists. She would enjoy revenge. She would make him beg for death.

Ash kept looking for an escape, but could find none. He would have to fight. He crouched to his boot and pulled out his combat knife. He gripped it in his hands, and, in a sudden act of desperation, he threw it.

The knife hurtled through the air. It moved in perfect circles, seeking its target. The woman twitched her head out of the way. The knife clattered harmlessly behind her.

Ash began to panic. He had nothing now.

The woman let out a barbaric yawp and leapt into the air. Her knife, between her two clenched hands, thrust downward in a fatal stroke.

Without thinking, Ash fell low. Like a sprinter launching from the starting blocks, he threw himself forward and moved underneath the leaping woman. Instinctually, he seized her legs and tossed them over his shoulders. She blundered over the railing.

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It was over.

Ash lay flat against the walkway floor, feeling the intense beating of his heart. His mind raced and his eyes and ears received no information.

He survived.

After a few moments, he reached to railing in order to steady himself. Peering over the edge, he saw the woman against the ground. Her unmoving body was bent unnaturally.

Ash closed his eyes and stumbled away. Nausea filled him. He heaved, but could not produce vomit. Once again, he had killed. Would this woman also come to haunt his dreams as well?

* * *

Ash entered through the front doors of the Blackguard Inn.

“What?” Francis looked up from his work. He had been counting his earnings. “Oh, you. What took you so long?”

Ash said nothing. He approached the section of the bar where the other tattooed woman had died. Her blood continued to dry upon the floor, turning a darker red. Beside the stain, a sponge floated in a bucket of warm water, speckled with suds. Without thinking, without saying a word, Ash got to his knees and began to scrub the blood from the wooden floors. Crimson scum followed the push and pull of his cleaning. Ash’s eyes welled with tears. He wept silently into the puddle of his cleaning, tears dashing against the wood.

He did not hear the words being spoken around him.

“Leave him alone, Franny,” Brigid said. She approached Ash as he was cleaning. She had a glass of water ready for him to drink. She touched his shoulder.

Ash turned his head, looking into the complexion of the woman crouching beside him. He did not notice the gentleness of her demeanour. To him, all he saw was another face.

‘Would I have to kill her too?’ Ash thought to himself. The thought was invasive.

“Have some water,” she said, picking up one of Ash’s hands. She placed the cup into it.

He did what he was told. He drank the entire glass.

Brigid took it from him, observing his return to cleaning. The floor had flooded with soapy water, a light red flowing further and further away from the initial concentration.

“I think it’s clean,” she said.

Ash’s hands kept scrubbing.

“I think it’s clean,” she repeated.

He began to scrub more furiously. The movements of his hands became more frantic, more fierce. Water splashed against the counter and against his knees. He scrubbed faster and faster.

Brigid put her hand on his shoulder again, pulling him back from the floor ever so slightly. Ash resisted her touch and keep scrubbing.

“I think it’s clean.”

Ash yelled with an outpouring of emotions. He rocked himself in place, falling forward. His face into the ground. Tears fell from his eyes. His shouts filled the room.

Francis gripped him by the shoulders and pulled him up to his feet. He slapped Ash.

“Quit it!” He said, slapping Ash again.

Ash’s outburst subsided.

“What happened out there?” Francis asked forcefully. Only the briefest glimmer of gentleness hid behind his words.

“I killed her.”

“Who?”.

“Sister,” Ash stuttered. He could not bear to look into Francis’ face.

“Dina’s sister? You killed Clare?”

Ash didn’t say anything. He only looked at the floor. Water spread around his feet.

“Well, I’ll be!” Francis said. “I didn’t think a punk like you could do much.”

“Francis!” Brigid reprimanded.

“What! I mean, the boy is soft in the head. Has no grit.”

“Leave him alone,” Brigid said. She turned her back to the men and went behind the counter. She began to assemble a small meal.

Francis unhandled Ash. He looked at the mess on the floor.

“Go sit at the bar. My sister will take care of you.” Francis pulled a mop from the storage closet and began to dry the mess that Ash had made. At the very least, there would be no major blood stains.

Ash sat at the counter. Brigid pushed a plate of crispy rabbit bits and yucca fries in front of him.

“Don’t worry about anything. Just eat and try to forget about what happened,” Brigid said softly. Her hand touched his gently. Ash did not move. He just stared at the foreign looking food.

“Ah! There he is!” Sander shouted from the back of the room.

“Your friend had an episode,” Francis said, squeezing out the rest of the rag. “The boy killed the other sister.”

“You don’t say?” Sander said. He took a seat beside Ash, plucking one of the fries from the plate. He dipped it some sauce. “That’s good stuff. Really, good.” Sander stole another fry, smiling to Brigid as she scowled from the other side of the counter.

“How’re you feeling, kid?”

Ash said nothing.

“I know these days haven’t been easy on you, but I assure you, it gets easier.”

Ash mumbled something.

“What?” Sander asked.

“I want to go home.”

“Ah,” Sander sighed, “well, kid, it ain’t that easy.”

“I want to go home!”

“Don’t make me slap you again,” Francis piped from across the room.

“Hey! Butt out of it!” Sander shouted back.

“Don’t you tell me what to do in my establishment.”

“Your establishment? Pretty fancy, eh?” Sander said, getting to his feet. “Nice place, but it seems like you can’t keep order in your house.”

“Watch your tone, old man.”

“You better learn some good hospitality, you junk-round charlatan.”

Francis calmly took off his pin-strip suit jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. As he approached Sander, Brigid jumped over the counter and placed herself firmly between the two men.

“Come, Franny, don’t do this.”

“Yeah, Franny,” Sander mocked.

Francis blew air furiously from his nose.

“Brig, the moment you get out of my way, I am going to knock every single one of this man’s teeth out of his mouth. Then, I’m going to make a pair of cufflinks from his molars.”

Sander pushed closer to Francis, bumping into Brigid. The woman pushed him forcefully back with her forearms.

“Hey!” Kiara shouted as she entered the inn.

Ash snapped from his self-centered daze. He awoke to the tension of conflict.

In a few moments, fists would fly.