Whitechapel
1867
It’s always hard to sleep in St. Mary’s Matfelon. The once-church carries the stench of rat dung, blood-sweat, rotted wood, human piss. The torn roof lets in wind, vermin bite at her toes, and rain collects in puddles by the corners. But Aisling Finnerty tries anyway. Curling up at the foot of what was once the church altar, now a throne of white cloth, church brass, and pew-wood.
Her sleep is interrupted by a tug, the sounds of cold and heavy chains. They link to the iron collar around her neck, pull her, gasping and coughing, up the seat. Soon she’s swarmed by a breath like rot, skin that’s mottled, or pock-marked, and at the fingertips pink. She’s held down as she squirms, pushed by her chin to look up. The man holding her wears a ragged coat, a scraggly beard, and a hat with small bite marks. His eyes are midnight black, stray whiskers shoorting from his nose. A rat slides out of his shirt collar as he reveals a startlingly clean smile.
“Foygl.” Ratcatcher scratches her cheek. “Feelin’ drowsy?”
Her mind seizes in fear. Her fangs grow in need.
As her Harav pulls her closer, she looks around. Once, it was said East London ended where one couldn’t hear Matfelon’s bells. But the belfry’s collapsed, sinking half the steeple with it. She can see London’s red smog through the fallen wall, the wood rotted, the white paint flecked away. It’s preserved like this, in perfect ruin, by Ratcatcher’s word alone. He’s long since driven out any ‘civil servant’ who could stop him. And it makes his message clear:
East London ends with him.
The church is filled with his men, the men of the Rook. Soldiers and supporters. His Eyes perimeter the walls, and packed tightly in the chancel, the orphans where he raises them. Thugs line the pews, with pots and knives and stakes and clubs, shoulder-to-shoulder with fatcats and slumlords, those rare Rookers who ‘made it,’ and pay Harav tribute. At the far back stand his enforcers, Cappie and his even larger wife, Mags. Behind the throne, one for each arm, Ratcacher’s top lieutenants. Her competition.
Rathe Haversham. Padraig McCallister. Above in the sky, Below beneath the ground. Rathe is the pretty one, with a wizened face, and a patchy coat. The Lord of the Chimney Sweeps, seems ragged, half-starved, covered head to toe in soot. A spitting image of his child-Kepts, except that he isn’t beaten.
Padraig, in turn, is hideous; at night, the shitmen, come to every sleeping house, have more access to their secrets than anyone. He’s half-rotted, coated in faeces, and always hosts a swarm of flies that he lets feast in his dead organs. But in Ratcatcher’s Kingdom, disgust merits pride.
How they envy her, sitting on Harav’s lap. And she, in turn, envies them. She was Rathe’s, once, a Kept of the roof tiles, but she was sold when she was young and scrawny, and Rathe has made known his lust for the flower that’s since blossomed. She told him she would bite his cock if he tried.
He had told her that’s just how he likes it.
But there are other men to concern herself with now. Namely, the Harav himself, master of 90,000 souls, holding out his arm for her.
“‘Ow long since you last eaten, foygl?
Blood. Blood. Her eyes gleam like the glowing veins. She reaches for it, claws out, the hunger pulling at every muscle in her body and screaming when Ratcatcher moves his hand away. A squeak flies from her lips, to his clear delight.
"Answer."
“F-Four days.”
“Four days since you been the best. An’ you ‘ave to be the best, if you want the Harav’s blood. Right?”
She nods a dozen times. A hundred. The hunger’s grown unbearable. He’s ordered her not to eat from anyone else. To sate it, she’d do anything.
“Good. So behave.” He pulls her by her hair. "Want you to give Keaton a good impression?"
"On your lap?" Finnerty trembles. "H-Harav-"
“Shhhh…” He puts a finger on her lips. “Jes’ smile.”
She does.
“Good." He forces her to look at the door. “We ‘ave company.”
The church doors swing open, and a procession files out. But she’s too distracted to see. The twist in her gut is almost drowned out by the overwhelming scent of his aether.
They come from all walks of life. Steelmen, cab drivers, ‘48 refugees. Patches on their coats denote them all, Irish and English and French and Russian. Each is armed, burly, well-fed. Seventy unions, they say, have joined him, along with all the exiles of all the past Revolts. Keaton’s banner flies over them all, a long flag of blood red. They march with the discipline of a true army. She can’t hide the fear that sparks. She was expecting brutes and bullies.
Not this.
One woman stands within the sea of men. Erika Mittenwalde. Keaton’s Prussian. She’s not pretty; an equine face with long blond hair. She dresses like her master, beige greatcoat, tinted goggles, a massive hunting shotgun. Somebody ignored Finnerty’s orders to not try and take it. Their blood splatters Erika’s coat.
At her entrance, the pews erupt. In taunts and jeers and calls for sex. Ratcatcher demanded every pawn with a stake in his Kingdom make noise for the intruders, and the dogs do know how to bark.
“FAHKER-”
“- RIP YOUR ‘EAD OFF!”
“SHOW US YOUR FAHKIN’ ARSE!”
Erika fires into the air, a cloud of smoke surrounding her. That only riles the Rookers further. They start slamming into the union men. Throwing punches, grabbing their guns. Finnerty’s head perks up as the chaos unfolds before them. Ratcatcher’s smile grows wider.
“ENOUGH!”
The fighting stops. The union men stand tall. The East Enders grow quiet, and look back. As a final figure enters the church, with heavy, spurred steps, Finnerty knows that not even Ratcatcher could blame them.
“Aubrey Keaton!” Erika barks. “VOICE OF THE WORKING CLASS!”
At first glance, the Man with Ten-Thousand Faces looks like any of his men. Long coat, thick boots, smouldering goggled eyes. But with each step, she sees a new face. A boyish youth. A haggard crone. Blonde hair, curly brown, raven black. His face bends like a knife through honey, one shape after another, always twitching. The only consistency, that glow in his eyes. Even his voice changes with every phrase.
“A honour to meet you.” He stops at the throne. “Hermit King.”
A second passes. Two. And then Ratcatcher starts howling with laughter.
It’s a loud, obnoxious, braying sound. Finnerty fidgets on his lap, keenly aware of all the eyes falling on her.
“You!?” Ratcatcher points. “You’re the one threatenin’ my kingdom? A… a cheap magician? A pencil-pusher!?”
He starts laughing again, but stops. Scowls at the silent reception. He grabs a loose stone from the floor, chucks it at Rathe Haversham’s head. “LAUGH, YOU SHITS! IT'S FUNNY!”
The church erupts with laughter then. The orphans point. The fatcats lift their chins. Even Finnerty manages a frightened giggle. Then Harav lifts his hand, and everything goes quiet.
“You fink ‘ose powers make you strong?” He spits. “I could do ‘em in me sleep.”
“Yet you do not.” Keaton replies with a woman’s voice. “And here I stand.”
Ratcatcher offers a silent grin.
“The class war is as inevitable as the proletariat’s supremacy over it,” Keaton continues, his eyes glowing. “Without labour, there is no capital. Without labour, there is no power. Such is the preface of historical materialism, a philosophy free of the opiates of religion, a philosophy free of bourgeois sentiment. It states -”
“Ah.” Ratcatcher lifts a bony hand. “Lemme skip to the good part. You fink I’m a crook. I fink you’re a bookworm.”
“It isn’t thinking when I know you are.”
“Don’t bovver callin’ the cops. ‘Ey’re on ‘eir way already.”
Keaton frowns. “Every society has a breaking point. Britain has reached ours.” Keaton takes the form of a Negro man, clenching his fist. “You can see it on the street, the factory, in this very room. We drown in wealth, and yet we starve. We’ve conquered the earth, and yet we slave! This country, this world, is dying.”
“‘Low me to guess. You wanna save it?”
“No. I want to shoot it in the back of the head.”
There’s a long silence. Finnerty feels pink fingers pinch at her skin.
"Well." Ratcatcher tilts his head. “That's a new take on fings.”
“Every hour, we bring class traitors to justice. Every day, a bourgeois hangs. The rich are running now, hiding behind their cops and their fences. Our only threat is the so-called ‘New Sun’. She smells the coming storm like sharks smell blood in water. Already, she tries to solve this crisis the same way she solved the last. Her weasels slink into our Freeholds with their bribes and their-”
“Bribes?” Ratcatcher's intrigued.
Keaton scowls through the goggles. “The Hindu call it sakar ki churi. Knife of Sugar. Sweet to the mouth, but a blade all the same. You’d be a fool to hold it.”
“Maybe,” Ratcatcher shrugs. “But your blade tastes like iron.”
Silence. She can see Keaton’s anger, glowing through his skin. Ratcatcher rises, hoising Finnerty screeching off the throne.
“All youse scholars an’ rebels an’ university PRICKS! You fink I can’t listen to what youse say ‘bout me? You fink I don’t ‘ave EARS?!” He laughs mirthlessly.. “Thief. Raper. Murderer. Jew. ‘At’s what you fahkers’ always fink, ‘bout ALL OF US! I ‘ear the thoughts before ‘ey even enter your heads. WE’RE RUBBISH TO YOU! Yet you expect us to play in ‘is fahkin’ pageantry!”
“Because you took the New Sun’s money!”
“I took ‘er peace! An’ saved my people from a losin’ war! You saw ‘at in Forty-Eight too, Aub-rey-Kea-ton!” He spits out each bit. “Or you wouldn’t ‘ave tucked your schvantz in your tuches, and made pretty back in your noble daddy’s manor in Dublin!”
The crowd starts jeering again, encouraged by his words. Erika pulls her gun close. Keaton doesn’t move at all.
“WHY SHOULD WE WORK WIFF A MAN WHO THREATENS US!?” Ratcatcher shouts to the rising crowd. “WHY SHOULD WE GO TO WAR!?”
“And why are we talking, scum!? WHY SHOULDN’T WE GO TO WAR WITH YOU!?”
Ratcatcher stops, and looks. Erika’s scowling, aether churning through her muscles, her face bright red.
“You’re a warlord. A crimemonger. A freak! You’ve taken the proletariat’s plight, and turned it into a throne of shit and suffering!”
“Careful, love!” Finnerty bares her fangs. “You’re kneeling at ‘at shit throne now! Don’t like it? ‘En best hide behind your master’s coat.”
“Says the woman adorned in chains!” Erika skirts across the hall, towards. “The Freeholds were made to be better than the Court! Not in every way worse!”
“Quiet, bitch! The East End's as free as it gets!”
Erika lunges towards the orphans. They try to leap back, but not fast enough. A nine-year-old’s screams fill the hall, followed quickly by mass outrage.
“HARAV!”
“LAZ IR GEYN!”
The East Enders start throwing bricks and glass. Erika ignores them all, pulls the kid close, pointing at every pock-mark, bruise, and yellowed scab.
“Look her in the eyes!” She slams her shotgun against the girl’s cheek. “Look her in the eyes AND TELL HER THIS IS WHAT FREEDOM IS!”
“DROP THE KID!” Ratcatcher’s voice is shrill. “NO ONE TOUCHES THE FAHKIN’ KIDS!”
“EXCEPT FOR THEIR FUCKING KEEPERS!”
“GENUG!” Finnerty charges her, claws out. “I’LL SHOVE YOUR GUTS IN YOUR FAHKIN’ THROAT!”
She runs and runs and runs. Forgetting the chain, forgetting her tether. Until it pulls on her neck, and she’s left sputtering on the rotten wood.
Erika smirks, and is about to reply, when her cheekbones crack against the barrel of Keaton’s revolver. He whips her again, a sharp blow that draws steaming, gilded blood. Then her grabs her shoulder, squeezes hard, and cuts off her words.
“Stop.”
Erika growls. “They're monsters!”
“And workers all the same. It’s not our war…”
He stares Ratcatcher down.
“... unless they want it to be.”
“Issat your final offer, Aubrey Keaton?”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Refuse the New Sun, and we will part ways. Accept, and I will turn this town to ash.”
“You fink your boys will succeed where the Queen’s Army failed?”
“Quite. Easily.”
Ratcatcher’s expressionless, at first. Then he grabs Finnerty’s chain. She’s still coughing when he pulls it, tripping over herself and slamming into the throne. But she looks up, meets his eyes…
… and slowly, her face upturns.
To a look of joy. And wonder.
“It’s funny you mention envoys, Aubrey Keaton,” Ratcatcher sits back down. “Becuz, heheheh… Joan Byron already sent one.”
The tension rises, so thick that Finnerty could choke. She sulks behind the throne, pulling away crowns and trophies and baubles.
“Five million pounds. A formal treaty to recognise yours truly as Sovereign.” Ratcatcher smiles. “A surprising offer, from a bigot. I half-expected her to show me thirty pieces of silver. But ‘ere’s somefin’ neivver her nor you understand. I might be a Jew, but I ain’t a pig!”
Finnerty finds what she’s looking for, still attached to its stick.
“An’ when anyone fills me a trough and finks he can feed me like one... I MAKE SURE ‘EY SQUEAL!”
She clambors up his throne and lifts the impaled head.
Erika’s face falls, but the Rookers break into cheers. The head’s deep grey, slathered in tar, dull pale eyes staring lifelessly ahead. Maggots fester in its bloated, bursting tongue. The orphans hop around, the fatcats beat their chests, even Below’s flies make a buzzing, disgusting chorus.
“AUNDZER FIRER HARAV! KHBUD TSU AUNDZER MLKH!” Finnerty waves it around, riling the chapel up. “WHO OWNS THE EAST END!?”
“HARAV!”
“WHO LOVES THE EAST END!?”
“HARAV!”
“Keyn har! Keyn geter! Keyn tates! Keyn harn! Di Rukeri endikt zikh mit Harav! Zal zeyn mlukhh doyern aoyf eybik! FOREVER!”
“FOREVER!”
“And may the Goyim.” Ratcatcher grins. “Never forget.”
For so long, she’s lost in the moment. Giddy, inconquerable, the scent of his blood sending her high. But slowly, her eyes settle on their ‘guests.’ The Man with Ten Thousand Faces, who somehow wears no face at all.
It’s not with disgust that he looks at her. Or even something like Erika’s rage. Finnerty’s well used to those faces now, from the kids she robs, the priests she throws stones at, the words she insists don’t really hurt. And a man like Aubrey Keaton feels nothing towards the beheaded man, except, perhaps, envy that Ratcatcher killed him first.
No. His look is worse than all that. It’s the look of the Society and the Samaritans, the slummers and bakers who throw bits of bread. It’s a look that could drive her to madness. A look she would kill dozens for if it meant she never had to see it again.
Pity. He looks at her with pity. And in doing so, denies her everything.
It could make her aether boil.
“Do we ‘ave an understanding, Aubrey Keaton?” Ratcatcher asks
Keaton pulls away, scowling at her master. “Perfectly.”
With a wave of his hand, he, and Erika, and all the armed men, march out the way they came.
Finnerty breathes. Honestly, went better than she expected. There will need to be retribution, of course, for the Fenian’s little stunt, but that’s for the others to worry about. With Keaton gone, her attention pulls itself back to the arm. To Harav…
“Dinnertime, foygl?”
Her lips tremble. Her fangs fall out. She’s about to sob.
“Ah.” Ratcatcher pushes her back, before offering his palm. “No freebies.”
For an instant, her instincts can’t even parse the words. But then, she springs. The pouch flies from her pocket, strings loosed. She’s dumping all the gems into his gleeful, waiting hand.
“Hahahaha.” His eyes gleam. “Kum tsu…”
He stops. Finnerty seizes. The gems fall too short, too fast. He glares at her, and she feels her heart shrink.
“Are you tryin’ ta ROB ME!?”
“NO!” She lifts her hands. “H-Harav, please! Cappie-”
“Cappie! Always Cappie’s fault, innit? And if not his, then Rathe’s, or mine, or Queen bloody Victoria’s!”
“IT’S THE GIRLS! ‘EY WON’T LISTEN! Scared shitless of bein’ caught, cuz there’s nuffin’ left to-”
“Enuff! I grow tired of the excuses. No feedin’ today. Try ‘arder tomorrow!”
“NO! Harav, I need it! I’m gonna die!”
He smacks her. Hard.
“Ain’t ‘at what you’ve earned, you little lying shit!?”
She buries her face in her hands, lost in panic. She should’ve hit her. She should have BEATEN the bitch! Sent her back! She was weak, weak, WEAK!
“Foygl.” Her Keeper calls. “Look at me.”
The Keeping demands. Her hands pull away.
Ratcatcher’s hand flows from her thigh, to her belly, to her breast. Ignoring her squirms.
“‘Ere are… ovver ways… to make yourself useful.”
When he pinches her nipple, she lets out a whimper.
“H-Harav-”
“What’s the problem, foygl? You know the ovvers don’t get ‘is chance.”
“Y-You said I could stop-”
“I did. When you was winnin’.”
She shakes her head, more from reflex than desire. Ratcatcher squeezes her skin, evoking more cries. His eyes still glow.
“What are you, Aisling?” He asks. “What would you be wiffout me?”
Tears form in her eyes. “N-nuffin’.”
“‘At’s right.” He fondles her. “An urchin. Gutter trash. Doomed to die trapped in some dark an’ claustrophobic chimney. Your own parents not even wantin’ ya!”
She nods quickly, her eyes shut.
“But ‘at’s not what I seen.” He strokes her hair. “I saw potential. An’ I gave you skills, an’ jobs, an’ immortality, an’ even the fahkin’ bird. I gave you time. So much time. I’ve been so patient, ‘aven’t I?”
“You are, Harav, you are.”
“I coulda taken you when you was young. But I waited. ‘Til you was nice an’ ripe.”
Her eyes can’t leave his wrist. She’s hungry. She’s so hungry.
“I saw Keaton lookin’ at you. Prolly finkin’ the same fings. But does ‘e care? No. ‘Ey’se liars. ‘Ey say they fight for the rest of us, the stepped-on man. But ‘ey ain’t like me, Aisling. ‘Ey just wanna be the next stepper.”
She kisses him. A fierce, and warm, and sloppy kiss, letting his thick tongue choke her mouth. She swallows down the sensations, the pit in her gut, the aching fear. He throws off her headscarf, and she pulls down his hat. Kissing his nose, his cheek, his beard, down to the neck, until-
“Ah, ah!” Ratcatcher pulls her off, just before her fangs can sink in. “We only feedin’ if you do a good job. After.”
Her smile cracks, thoughts consumed by hunger. He pulls down her rags, revealing swathes of mottled skin. But she doesn’t think about that. She has to do a good job. Better. Better. Better.
“Now.” He grins. “Show me ‘ose fahkin’ feathers.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
August, 2004
The raven flies from the window of the darkened old plant, swooping down to greet her mother. Finnerty’s seen this place pass a dozen hands, churn through thousands of women. They spoke English, then Yiddish, then Bengali, made clothes then engine parts then microchips then finally clothes again. They always needed longer hours, and larger cuts. Competition, competition. Southwark’s coming, then Jersey, then Taipei, then Chongqing. In all those centuries, it felt like the floor barely breathed.
Until the day the competition caught up, and the factory, like so much else here, could simply breathe no longer.
Nancy scrambles up her mother’s shoulders, starting the dance between two species that reflects their speech to one another. To an outsider, it looks like a series of clicks, and squawks, and swaying around like wind-snapped trees. But Finnerty knows this language by heart. More fluent in it than any of the six she actually speaks.
Nancy shoots away, and Finnerty pulls open the thick, heavy steel doors. Her mandem’s already there, as she marches through rows of rust and concrete. They hold lead pipes and cricket bats and crowbars, nearly a dozen. The ‘community man,’ sits on a cheap plastic chair, his limbs tied to each end. Her youngest, Andrzej, a lanky Polish teen, rushes up to her with a notepad.
“U-Uhm, Aisling-”
“Thomas Allen. I fookin’ know.” She shoves the notepad in his chest, forcing him back. “Girls already told me.”
A few birds still hang in the rafters. Pumblechook and Cratchit, Brownlow and Artful Dodger. Their eerie songs fill the space as she nears the seat. Withdraws her six-inch Fairbairn-Sykes knife.
“Wait!” The mortal squirms in his seat, trying to lift his hands. “Allen! I’m Allen. Th-there’s been a misunderstanding, you see. I’m trying to… to level-up this historic neighbourhood! If you would untie me, I…”
He winces as she keeps her glare. No doubt he sees just another dangerous child. She snatches the pamphlet Jayden offers her, filled with smiling families and the motherfucking Pearly King and Queen. She squints. Reading’s still a challenge. The letters come slowly, jumble all together. “Fook’s ‘is?”
“Not Mans.” Jayden whispers.
“The, uh… the first phase of our renovation scheme!” Allen nods enthusiastically. “So many lots in this town, disused or in disrepair. My company - with the backing of the city government, I’d like to add! - is planning to invest millions. Tens of millions. F-far more than you’d find in my wallet-”
“Cost.”
Allen blinks. “Wh-what?”
“Cost, Allen. ‘Ow much will ‘is fookin’ cost?”
Allen starts to bubble. “W-well, current estimates and contracts-”
“Not the buildin’, you fookin’ nonce! The rooms! ‘Ow much are the fookin’ rooms?” She’s flipping through the pictures. Trying to find a smiling family with a hijab, or a skin not bleach-white.
Allen goes silent. For too long. Long enough to know. “Um… Miss…?”
“Aisling.”
“Ashley,” he smiles. “There’s a lot of nuance in community redevelopment, see? We’re not merely trying to fix uphouses. We’re trying to attract business. An economy! Don’t you want to see cinemas? An’ artists? And… and I’d bet you’d fancy a good ice cream shop!”
“Ice cream would fookin’ hit right about now.”
“Exactly!” Allen nods again. “But… the East End can’t get that if we can’t attract bet-... talented Brits! Young, skilled Brits, looking for an exciting locale to call their first home!”
She tilts her head towards one of the Bengalis, Ayan. Subtle enough that Allen won’t notice.
“So, Ashley, if you’d understand-”
“Oh, I understand perfectly.”
She thrusts her knife in his knee. He screams.
“ARRGHHH!”
“YOU WANNA FOOKIN’ REPLACE US!”
““No, no, NO!” Allen writhes around, held barely in place by Ayan. “YOU DON’T-”
“You fix the house. You raise the rent. Soon every scumbag does the same! Until ‘ere’s NUFFIN LEFT FOR US! Nuffin' but coffee shops an’ artists an’ fookin’ freaks!” She stabs him another three times. “DO I LOOK LIKE AN ARTIST TO YOU!?” A fourth. “DO I LOOK LIKE A FOOKIN’ FREAK!?”
Allen melts into sobs and whimpers. She scowls, grits her teeth, barks at her men. “WHO SENT ‘IM!? WHO FOOKIN’ SENT ‘IM!? Andrezj, you ‘ave the files! Which fooker hired ‘is fooker so I can KILL THE FAWKING BITCH!!!”
She stops, covers her lips. Goddamn. This kvetch got her so mad that she’s squawking. Her breath feels ragged, and sweat layers her brow. When she swipes the manila folder from Andrzej, she sees the way it shakes in her hands.
“In my town my town my FAWKIN’ TOWN!”
She throws sheets on the floor, looking for names, faces, signs.
“We’re not trying to replace you, Ashley! We’re trying to help-”
“It’s perfect! YOU HEAR ‘AT, SHITARSE?! THIS TOWN IS MINE, AND ‘AT MEANS IT’S PERFECT! JUST THE FAWKING WAY IT IS!”
She reads the memo’s header. Optimate Properties? Oh, that’s fucking rich. She’ll see how optimate…
…
She blinks. Looks at the logo a second time. A third. A black Sun, rising over the company name, its rays bold and piercing.
Ayan sees her expression first, his grip on Allen lax. “Wagwan, bird? You lookin’ par.”
She stares frozen at the sheet. Jayden swipes it from her pale hands, before his expression falls too. “Oh, fahk. T‘ey’se backed by the fahkin’ Court!”
Pandemonium breaks out among the boys. Finnerty doesn’t move. Allen just seems dazed.
“The Court?!”
“The fahk ‘ey want!?”
“Feds stirrin’ shit up-”
“- ain’t goin’ back -”
“- it’s ‘at bitch Fireside’s-”
“SHUT UP!” Finnerty barks. “Shut the FOOK up an’ let me fink!”
“Fink? Fink ‘bout what?” Ayan loops around the chair, approaching her. “‘Is is war, bird!”
“No. Can’t be. We don’t fahk wiff the Court. We don’t fahk!” Her speaking grows softer. She looks at her hands. “It’s the rule. Me one fahkin’ rule. An’ ‘ey know it, ‘ey know it, cuz we’re better we’re better we’re better-”
“Are you scared?”
Silence. The tension in the room spikes. Even Jayden steps back. Finnerty’s head shoots up, her eye twitching. She stares at Ayan’s trackie, his white Nike shoes. “What did you say?”
“End ‘im!” Ayan puts his pipe on the developer’s throat. “What the Court gonna do? ‘Ey’se stuffed wiff geezers an’ corporates. ‘Ey come to ‘ese streets, we’ll show ‘em who owns it!”
“No.” She shakes her head. Stomach tight. “We can’t fight ‘em. Not an option.”
“‘Ey wanna force us from our homes!”
“AN’ WE’LL FORCE ‘EM OUT FIRST!” Finnerty growls, looking at Jayden. “Belgrave, I wanna fookin’ spree yesterday! Twenty muggin’s. Five lootin’s. Three dead.”
“DEAD!?” Ayan shouts.
Jayden gives her a look. “Bird…”
“You wanna scare ‘ese suits or not!?” She sees the fear in his eyes. The betrayal. “What? Fink you’re better ‘an ‘at!? JUST FIND THREE FOOKIN’ BLOKES WHO DESERVE IT!”
“Deserve it?” Ayan grows fierce. “You’d rather kill your own!”
“‘Ey’re weak!” Something quirks in her voice. Her body shakes. “‘Ey don’t matter! ‘Eir sacks of meat, dead eivver way! An’ if you’re gonna challenge ‘at-”
“I wanna challenge the fact that you hide the moment someone big come along!” Ayan grits his teeth. “What the fahk does ‘at make you, bird? It makes you weak.”
Her breathing stops. Her mind shrinks.
“It makes you a fahkin’ coward!”
She hits him. A solid punch, fused with aether, that sends Ayan sprawling across the floor. She thrusts the bat from Jayden’s hands, runs up, and starts wailing at him. Faster and faster. Harder and harder.
“I’m the coward!? I’M THE COWARD?! I’LL SHOW YOU WHO’S A FAWKING COWARD!”
She seethes. The bat’s broken. Blood pools on the concrete where Ayan’s skin has been split. The other boys leap back as she grabs the disarmed pipe and starts beating Ayan with his own weapon. Finnerty screams.
“Aisling…” Jayden approaches slowly, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Hey-”
“GET OFF ME!” She slams the pipe hard against his neck. He falls to the floor. “I’M NOT WEAK! I’M NOT!”
Ayan can barely breathe, his face smashed, and his body like a puddle. Finnerty hops around, wielding the pipe like an axe, swinging at the air whenever one of the terrified children moves.
“It’s MY home! I’m in charge! I won, I won, I WON! An’ if any of you PRICKS try to STOP ME, I’LL…”
She pauses. Some of the boys, their expressions have changed.
“... I’ll…”
Something warm and metallic slides into her mouth. Blood.
Mixed with her tears.
The pipe falls to the floor with a loud crash. Finnerty’s lip quivers, her scowl grows, and she marches through her men and back to the thick steel doors. Snatching Andrzej’s shirt collar as she goes.
“A-Aisling!?”
“I need to feed me fookin’ girls.”
She doesn’t wipe her face as she leaves. That would make her weak. That would make the tears real. She just stares at the ground as she returns to her true form and only stops when she feels the summer air. She turns, and points at Allen.
“COME TO MY TOWN AGAIN, AN’ I’LL CUT OFF YOUR FAWKIN’ FINGAH!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Whitechapel
1867
She leans against the sloped brick wall, her mind split in half, her eyes clouded over.
Finnerty doesn’t know what candy tastes like. She’s only seen it in shop windows, on streets too guarded for her to smash. But Harav… his blood must come close. She can feel it flow through her now, making her stronger, sharper, better. She has to be better.
She has to be.
But there are bruises on her thighs, bite marks on her neck, and her clothes are still half-missing. She knows she should feel joy. Utter elation. But instead she feels… feels…
She needs to preen. Her feathers are dirty.
A flutter of wings, followed by a caw. Finnerty looks up from her knees, at the curious, prancing bird that pecks by her toes. Nancy. Shit. Nancy needs her blood too.
Finnerty moves for her knife, but a rising shadow cuts her off. She’s enveloped by it, black against the flickering streetlight.
“You.” She frowns. “Where’s Mags?”
“You were right.” Cappie’s voice is too soft. “We’ve been fightin’.”
A tiny oblong rolls across the cobbles, settling into a divet by her feet. Finnerty holds it up, squinting in the smog-light. A porcelain teacup, with a bronze inlay. The handle’s been knocked off. “The fahk is’ is?”
Cappie shrugs. “A shiny.”
She gives him a look. “‘Is s’posed to make up for the stolen jewels? Cuz Harav ain’t gonna-”
“It ain’t for Harav, dumbarse. It…” He exhales. “It was a weddin’ gift, arright? From before our Lightin’, an I... I can’t bring meself to throw it out. An’ don’ wanna see it in the hands of ‘ose fahkin’ pawners.”
“So you give to me?”
“Yeah. Why not? You ain’t got shit. An’ birds like shiny fings.”
He storms out before she can reply. Laughing and shaking his head, as if everything he said was crazy.
Finnerty looks down at the scrap of junk. Briefly considers throwing it at him, watching it shatter, just to prove his immense stupidity. But… then she looks at it again. Shifts it in the light.
It’s still a piece of rubbish. And frankly, not even that fucking shiny. If someone offered it at her wedding, she’d…
…
She keeps thinking back to Cappie’s words. “You ain’t got shit. You ain’t got shit.”
He’s right. She doesn’t. Everything she takes, she gives to Harav. Her jewels. Her coins. Her info. Her…
She closes her eyes.
Maybe Harav doesn’t need to know about this.
Maybe she’s allowed to keep one damn thing.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
August, 2004
She inspects the cute little golf ball, spinning it around in her hand. Blue coat, gold letters. ‘James and Darla’s 35th.’ She can read it easily in the light.
“Aisling?”
Her hackles raise. More from habit than any true need, now. The days of heedless murder have long passed the East End, except when she’s creating them.
She looks at Andrzej. He’s sixteen, a bit younger than her. Shitty blonde haircut, some unknown band’s tee, a thin, pimply face. She can see the fear his Keeper taught him every time her moves, and makes something rise in her chest, something fierce. She’s so glad he had it rough.
And so jealous he had it easy.
He’s struggling to carry her five plastic tubs full of corn. “You want rest?”
“Nah.” She stands up. “Keep going.”
She keeps the golf ball in her fist, fully intending to place it in her nest, with all the others. But Aisling Finnerty still waits for the right moment to slip it stealthily in her pocket. Just in case.
Someone in Hell might still be watching.