Allegiance: A Dublin Novella (19 page)

“Oh aye?” William’s lips brushed against Adam’s ear. “The way you kept Kevin safe?”

He was ready for the movement but unprepared for its ferocity. He barely had time to step back as Adam spun; he turned his head, but Adam’s fist still caught him on the face with most of its force. His blood was too high to feel more than a dull crack; he had already straightened by the time Adam knocked the chair aside and came for him.

William’s mind had reached an odd sort of clarity. He felt as if he were watching himself from somewhere outside the room. He dodged the next blow easily and swung his fist up hard into the soft spot just below Adam’s ribs; before he could stumble back, William grabbed him by the shirt and jerked him forward, two quick punches, swift and precise to the weakest points in his belly. He made a choked sound and doubled over; William’s knuckles split the skin above his cheekbone and he fell to the floor.

William looked down at him. Blood pooled beneath his nose, and his cheek was already swelling to a dark purple; he cradled his midsection and glared up at William, wheezing as his tears cut through the blood on his face. His eyes no longer shone with pain or sadness or loss – now they glittered with the cold light of bitter, deadly hatred.

William had a sudden memory of a low voice in his ear, a nudging softness against his neck. He pulled the words from that quiet place and tossed them to the floor where Adam had fallen.

“There now.”

Something closed inside his chest. The bruises on his cheek and jaw throbbed, but the buzzing in his head quieted and then ceased.
There now
,
he thought again. He looked down at Adam for a moment longer; then he stepped over to the bed, picked up his cases, laid his jacket across his arm, and walked out of the bedroom, leaving Adam to bleed on the floor behind him.

22.

April 25, 1922

The spring sun sparkled across the polished mahogany of Lord Christopher’s office, but enough chill lingered in the walls to make William shiver a little beneath his jacket. His hands, clasped behind his back, gripped tighter until the shivering stopped. His spine remained arrow-straight, his eyes fixed on a spot at the center of the mantle, blinking only when they began to burn.

Christopher’s back still faced him, clad in a tailored black suit that soaked up what little warmth came from the window where he stood. He looked through the panes of glass, fingering a bit of drape with one hand. His waxed silver hair gleamed in the sunlight. He had not spoken in over ten minutes. There was no fire crackling in the hearth; no clack of typing from the black-haired receptionist, no noise of traffic filtering in from the street, not even a bird chirping outside the spotless windows. The minutes passed, marked by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner; beyond that there was only the constant, deafening silence, unable to distract William from the thoughts prickling at the back of his eyes.

He stood there and waited, looking at Christopher’s back but seeing Gerald’s face, the look in his eyes as William came down the stairs, cases in hand. The ring of icy, damning stares following him as he passed. Mary’s voice, small and trembling:
William?
He had managed a quick “I’m sorry, lass” before
her father grabbed her arm, but he could have said no more anyway. How large her eyes had grown when she saw his battered face; how her voice had followed him out the door as she rushed up the stairs.
Adam? Adam!
The sound of it had lingered in his ears long after Wicklow Street was far behind him.

“Do they know who is behind the takeover?”

Christopher had not turned; he was not looking at William but still gazing at the morning outside. William stared at the lines of his suit, the crisp fold of his collar. He heard Adam’s voice shouting hoarse across the plaza.
Cory!

“No, sir,” he said.

The Director turned then. He regarded William indifferently; one eyebrow arched in a vague fashion. “Of course not.”

He turned to his desk and reached for the crystal service. In the sunlight the claret was the color of blood.

“Well. So now your cover is blown, Agent Young. You can no longer pretend to be one of the merry band, just as you can no longer pretend to be the competent agent I believed you to be.”

William said nothing. His back was beginning to ache; his locked knees sent tiny stabs of numbness into his legs and feet.

“Oh, don’t mistake me
– I fully expected you to fall in with their cause. I knew that from the first day you came into this office. One need only take a single look at you to know you’re a step away from the revolution yourself. I’m afraid it can’t be helped in these sorts of situations – it’s inevitable that your kind will band together in the end. Still, I had hoped that I would be able to extract bit more from you before you turned up dead in the street. The agency did pay quite a lot to have you sent over here, after all. You could have at least had the decency to earn your boat fare.”

William was looking at the knot work carved into the mantle – smooth Celtic braids, looping and spiraling above the empty fireplace. The polished curves gleamed in the sunlight like the coils of an ancient serpent.

His drink prepared, the Director took a seat in his chair. “I was certain I should see you hanging from a noose when all this was done. Imagine my disappointment when you failed me in both my expectations.” Glancing at William’s face, he added, “Though it would seem others were less reserved in their disappointment than I.” He smiled at that, pleased with his own wit. William did not allow his bruised cheek to twitch.

Christopher finished his drink in three delicate sips; he placed the empty tumbler on the tray and then reached into a drawer in his desk. He pulled out a fresh manila folder, stamped with the insignia of the MI5. It slid across the desk with a flat sound.

“Your ticket to London expires in two days.”

William’s mouth opened. “Sir?”

“Do have a nurse take a look at you before you leave the office. I expect you to have yourself presentable by the time you report to headquarters.”

It took William several seconds to compose himself enough to form a reply. “I thought
—
Sir, I was under the impression I was to be relieved after this assignment.”

“I do not recall thinking being one of your recruitment requirements.” The Director’s fingers folded together atop the blotter on his desk. His posture remained graceful, but now his eyes flashed with something far less stately.

“Allow me to correct any other false impressions you may have collected, Agent. You do not earn your way out of His Majesty’s service. You will do as you are told without question until this agency sees fit to release you, or you will exit this profession entirely and in disgrace. I should think that after your spectacular failure you would be grateful for the chance to redeem yourself, but I see I have overestimated you yet again.

“Do not mistake my leniency for forgiveness – it is only my desire to avoid bringing even more negative attention to this office that precludes me having you thrown in Reading for the charade you tried out there. Now you will take this ticket and return to London, where you will be given your first assignment according to your new term of service.” His eyes gleamed with pale spite. “And if any of your associates attempt to contact you in any way, you will inform me immediately. You may tell them that if any one of them so much as takes an afternoon stroll in the vicinity of the Four Courts, they will be shot on sight. Is that understood, Agent?”

William’s mouth closed. The crushing dismay in his chest fell steadily back as Christopher spoke, and now drained out of him altogether, leaving only a peculiar calm. His clenched jaw softened; the tension ebbed from his shoulders, and his hands relaxed at his sides. He blinked through dull eyes at the Director’s genteelly gloating face. He no longer felt the throbbing in his cheek and jaw, the hot scraping swathe across his throat. He no longer felt anything at all.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I understand.”

23.

May 19, 1922

The kitchen was dark as William entered. The stove and icebox had become black shapes against the gloom, the pots and pans hanging in rows of dangling shadows above him, the tile floor cold beneath his bare feet. He moved forward by instinct, his eyes darting in the darkness, furtive, searching. The pantry door stood slightly ajar; a single sliver of light uncurled across the floor toward him. His feet made small flat sounds on the tile as he slowly approached. He eased the door open and slipped through without letting the hinges creak.

An oil lamp burned on the flour barrel, lighting the pantry to a dim haze. William crept forward, peering into the shadows; the door closed behind him and he turned, startled. Adam leaned against the door, his hand still curled around the knob.

“You’re late,” he said.

The door rattled on its hinges from the force of their weight. Adam grunted when they turned and his back hit the brick wall, but his hands were already working at the buttons of William’s trousers. His fingers closed around what he sought and squeezed in wordless invitation. William slid both hands between their bodies and jerked at hindering fabric, fumbling and impatient, until they both were free; then he grabbed Adam by the shoulders and pressed up hard, and their perfect rhythm began.

William dropped his face into the crook of Adam’s neck. He braced his forearms against the bricks, held up by Adam’s hands and the momentum of their movements. Adam’s throat was florid beneath William’s mouth, vibrating with sounds that became words.
“Love you…Will…”
He couldn’t last long, he never could like this, not with Adam writhing in his arms and moaning with each harsh rasp of his back against the bricks. Sweat ran down their bellies, slick with their quickening pace; William took Adam’s earlobe in his mouth, and the sound Adam made was all he needed to swear and shudder as his back arched and his belly shook beneath hot, sticky warmth. He thrust again, and again, his tremors holding Adam against the wall until the last wave passed and he collapsed against Adam’s neck and gasped for breath.

He leaned there, sweating, breathing against the curve of Adam’s throat. Sated, his impatience ebbed to mischief, and he drew his tongue lazily up the salty skin. The flavor there had changed; too metallic for sweat, something thicker and viscous against his tongue. Adam moved beneath him, straining against his softening body; but now his skin was dank and clammy, the vein in his neck cold against William’s lips. No pulse fluttered there. The taste of copper grew stronger in William’s mouth. He opened his eyes.

Adam’s head lolled to the side when William drew back. The ring of purple around his throat swelled stark and torn, stained by the dark blood oozing from his ears and mouth. His broken vertebrae poked mismatched lumps against the side of his neck. His filmy eyes glittered; his cold hands held William fast; he licked his blue lips and squirmed, whispering from his horrible ruined face.

“C’mon, William. Finish it.”

William cried out and flailed backward, but Adam’s hands were a vise on his waist, pinning them together at the hips, their bodies making wet squelching sounds as he struggled. Blood coated William’s hands and stomach from the two bullet holes in Adam’s chest, leaking down his white vest, splattered across the bricks behind him. William made a choked noise and twisted until he wrenched himself free and stumbled away; Adam’s crushed neck bent obscenely as he looked up at William with tears spilling from his dead eyes, diluting the blood crusted beneath his nose.

“Finish it, William,” he said. “You have to finish it, please, William, I want it to be you
…” He slid down the wall, red smears across the brick and William put his hands over his face and screamed without a sound, reeling blindly and falling back into the darkness, down and down and down—

William flung himself awake so violently that he almost fell out of the bed. He grabbed the nightstand to steady himself as his lungs struggled to draw in a breath; his other hand batted at his face, wiping at his mouth and cheeks. His palm came away dry and clean. For one convulsive moment he was very nearly sick – and then his heart began to settle and the breath slowly returned to his chest. The tendrils of the nightmare began to fragment in the cool air from the open window, and William looked at the bedroom around him and shivered. He peeled the sheet from his body, wincing at the wet warmth between his legs; when he was certain he could stand, he pulled himself to his feet and walked naked across the darkened room.