Daygo's Fury (17 page)

He had turned onto Dame Lane and walked along the curvature of the street until he was opposite Lana’s. He sat with his back to the building there and looked across at the whorehouse for a long time, staring at the peeling red paint on its front as though he might witness the decay in action; see the effects of time and the fading of life. He sat only ten yards from the side entrance but could not will himself any closer. A bubble of sorrow grew within him, inflating and expanding even as he tried to push it down and shove it forcefully from his body. It grew until it had filled every precipice and then, with nowhere else to go, it burst forth and Liam wept.

Once his weeping had subsided, he forced himself to his feet and stumbled away from the brothel, putting distance between it and himself as quickly as possible.

Without knowing where he walked, he found himself turning onto Fenrow Street and then Baker’s Corner. He looked about desperately for Racquel. The bakery was still open, so he walked across the doorway from the opposite side of the street, peeking across to see who was inside. He saw the baker, large and fat, pulling a large tray from the oven, filled with freshly baked loaves, cakes and buns. He put the tray on the counter, turning to close the oven door behind him. He seemed to yell to someone on the inside. A moment later, Racquel appeared from the doorway to the backroom. She looked timid as he saw her answer him. Liam started to move closer, crossing the street slowly, watching the scene.

As he neared, he began to hear the edge in the baker’s voice as he yelled. He started to walk menacingly towards her. Liam saw her take a step back from him in fear, her back touching against the wall. Liam’s pace quickened unconsciously, reaching a full, quick stride.

“I told you twice!” the baker yelled.

“No … I thought …” Racquel quivered, a shake to her voice as she struggled to find words.

“What? You thought what?” The baker stepped closer, a mere yard from Racquel now. Liam started to jog and then run, racing through the doorway, reaching for the knife in his pocket. Both the baker and Racquel looked up as he did so, Racquel’s face registering shock as she saw him.

“What the …” the baker exclaimed, turning to face him. Liam hesitated a moment as his fingers grasped empty air. The knife wasn’t there. He adjusted his trajectory, turning from the baker’s path, and ran to the counter. Skidding to a stop, he lashed out with his right hand at the baking tray that sat leaning over the counter’s edge. The tray burned his hand as he hit its edge but he relished the pain, snarling as it flew into the air, upending its contents to scatter across the floor of the room.

“Take that, you fat cunt!” he shouted at the baker, turning again. He ran for the door. The baker seemed to jerk in two directions at once, spluttering, before he managed to make up his mind and jump towards Liam. He set off with sluggish weight, pulling his bulk along after him and swiped out with his arm, trying to grab a hold of Liam’s tunic. It was a close call, but his hesitation had proved enough and Liam just escaped his grasp, speeding out the door.

He ran, sprinting with all his might, not looking back. He could hear the pursuit of the baker and his yells but knew he wouldn’t be caught. He ran around the corner and the corner of two more streets until he became breathless. He stopped then and kicked the wall of an opposing building in angry triumph.

He strode up and down the width of the street, panting and clenching his fists.
Take that, you fuck!

******

Racquel knelt behind the counter with her hand clasped tightly over her mouth, shaking uncontrollably. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t stop the floods of laughter that overtook her. Every time she started to calm down, the image of Galo, his face red, his eyes wide, his mouth open and spluttering for words incredulously, would pop back into her mind’s eye and a new burst of laughter would overtake her.

She was gasping for breath by the time she heard Galo’s heavy steps come back in the doorway. His panting breath was loud and clear. The sudden terror of being caught was enough to straighten her features and bring the laughter to an abrupt end. She hunched her shoulders and picked up the last few buns and loaves from the ground, laying them out on the tray before her.

She froze as she heard Galo behind her, leaning heavily on the counter top. She knew that her cheeks were lined with tears and feared their detection if she were to turn with the tray. She started to pray silently as the moment lengthened. She couldn’t stay knelt so for long. He grunted and she heard him turn away.

“Bring them in here!” he growled roughly. Racquel sighed with relief, quickly wiping her face dry. She lifted the tray and followed him into the next room. He stood in front of the table, staring straight ahead and leaning forward slightly with his hands out to either side clasping the edge of the wood.

“Put it there,” he said, giving the slightest nod, indicating the space directly in front of him. She put the tray down and pushed it across. He started to pick the buns up one by one, brushing the dirt and grit from them until they were clean-looking again, then placing them off to the side. Racquel stood awkwardly at his side, fidgeting with her hands, unsure of whether to help him or not until he turned to her and shouted.

“Be gone! Off with you.” She jumped and quickly obeyed, walking out the door of the bakery. She sighed once more with relief, letting her shoulders and neck relax.

She smiled, shaking her head in disbelief. Twice now she had seen Liam run into her uncle’s bakery with loose abandon. She wondered what he must have been thinking.

******

Liam climbed the stairs up to his flat. It was after dark. He had spent the rest of the day wandering the streets angrily.

He had stopped at a rare glass window, examining his reflection. He had stared back into the blacks of his eyes for minutes, taking in his appearance. His jet black hair was growing long, his fringe curled to the sides at the top of his eyebrows, the sides extended down past his ears and hung loosely, at a length with the back. He had boyish features, what he would consider a normal nose and chin. His hair was greasy and his face smudged.

The tunic he wore was of worn wool, holes and frays showing in places along its sides. He had worn that tunic for two years, every day since he had gotten it. It had been too big for him then, but looking at it in the window Liam saw how it ended well above his knees. Soon it would be stupidly short. It had rarely been washed and was of a varying grey, reflecting the many stains across it.

He wore no shoes or socks.

He was just another slum rat. Looking at the glass, he could see nothing else. There was nothing different about him; there had been nothing different about Calum.

He was tired now, worn out. It had been a long, tough day, as tough as any that he remembered. He had stopped again at the well on the way home and drank his fill. It didn’t stop his belly from rumbling though. He had eaten nothing since the previous afternoon.

At the top of the stairs he found the whole gang in the room. They stopped as he entered. He walked towards them as they waited expectantly, hesitant to ask anything.

“He died yesterday,” said Liam. “We were doing a job for Carrick. We had to draw a blacksmith from the forge so that Carrick could get back at him. We stole a shield but Calum didn’t make it out. The blacksmith hit him across the head with a hammer.” Liam said it all in a dead voice, too tired to feel anything but empty and drained. But nevertheless his voice broke as he finished. “It smashed his forehead … dead … straight away.”

The boys listened in shock and silence. Calum had been the strongest of them. He had been the leader. It wasn’t just Liam who had seen Calum as the future. Many of the other boys had hoped for his rise in the matis and to be brought up along with him afterwards. Calum had been shrewder, more disciplined,
harder
, than the rest of the boys in the flat. He was unbreakable. And now he was dead, the first to die in their family for over a year.

They stood around awkwardly and unsure for a while, stomping feet. Liam simply stared off to the side, into the face of the wall.

“Dear Levitas,” started Cid, reciting the prayer of the fallen that they had all learned at the school. “Accept our brother Calum into the flow of Daygo. Let him enter on the side of peace, to know the green beauty of the world.” Liam nodded his head, unable to join in. He hoped, he prayed, that it was so. Would Calum join the flow of fresh life, tranquil, happy, bursting forth from the ground? He hoped so, with all of his heart. He deserved it. He
knew
he deserved it. Yet he had done many things that the book quoted as evil. He had stolen from people, injured people, caused harm. He had killed. These were all things that meant you were bad. And bad people burned in Daygo’s fire. Alive and livid in the explosive, burning force of an erupting volcano. Shocked and screaming in the flash of a lightning bolt. He bowed his head sadly as Darren took up the verse.

“Let him add to Daygo’s beauty and bring forth life to …”

“What the fuck, are ye a destra?” said Deaglan. Darren cut off, looking embarrassed. “I heard enough of that shit in the school.” Liam looked across at Deaglan in time to see his eyes turn on him. They locked stares. “You ever come at me again and I’ll stick a knife in your gut! Ye hear me? Calum’s not around no longer to protect you now.” Liam stayed silent, his eyes unblinking as he held Deaglan’s stare. “I was sick of that fuck anyway!”

Liam could see, by his stance, that Deaglan was braced for an attack. He was goading him. The rest of the room watched nervously, the tension building in the air. But Liam was drained from the day. It had taken too much out of him. He felt a blanket of hate fall over his heart for Deaglan, but hate could be controlled and he was too tired for anger. He turned away from him and strode to his pallet. He picked the knife up from underneath his pillow and sat down against the wall. He bent his knees and twirled the blade on the floorboard between them.

There was little conversation in the room that night. Perhaps they were afraid to talk of what had happened, for fear of Liam’s or Deaglan’s reaction.

******

Over the following days, Racquel thought often of Liam. Every time she thought back to the incident with the tray and Galo’s reaction she burst out laughing, sometimes when she was performing a chore in the bakery, drawing glances from Galo and Cara. She would pinch herself, afraid that Galo would realise the cause of her mirth. She wondered if he had any fear and thought back to herself with shame. She lived in fear of Galo and his unpredictable moods. At times, she found herself longing for Liam’s freedom, to be free of such a domineering presence as Galo. But then she would feel guilt for thoughts of leaving her aunt. She had been like a mother to her, always thoughtful and caring, always trying to bear the brunt of Galo’s attacks.

It hadn’t always been so bad. Galo had always been surly and bad-tempered and capable of bouts of violence. But all of these things had become more pronounced, coupled with an edginess to him, a kind of pent-up agitation.

She couldn’t help but feel to blame for the change in the household. She often caught him gazing at her hungrily out of the corner of her eye, as though eyeing up a particularly nice cake that he had baked for a customer and frustrated that he could not take it for himself. She found herself confused and unsettled by that look.

Her aunt seemed to find herself in the room with Racquel and Galo more and more, and at times there almost seemed to be a secret war raging between Cara and Galo, one that she didn’t really understand but knew all the same that it was about her. He hit Cara often. Sometimes there seemed no reason at all, only a sudden bout of temper that he felt deserved a close target.

As she walked from the bakery the following Friday with Alison by her side she found herself watchful, glancing from side to side, hoping to see Liam walking past. She didn’t know why, but there was a touch of desperation to her scouting, as though he o
ffered her some form of escape.

******

Liam struggled through the following week. He had been working with Calum so long that he didn’t know what it was like to work on his own any longer. He was hungry every day and felt strangely isolated as he walked the streets. No longer was he part of a pair. There was no more unspoken agreement or understanding. Sometimes he found himself spotting an opportunity and looking over his shoulder optimistically only to find no one there. Then he was stumped as to what to do and often watched as the chance passed and his belly rumbled angrily, his heart clenched and aching.

But the slums did not forgive. He knew he had to snap out of it and start acting. The next time he saw a chance he took it. He slit the man’s purse but without the distraction he was caught with his fist clenched around the prize. He narrowly escaped his flailing arm and managed to escape only because of the man’s stumbling drunkenness. This became the case more often than not. The days of smart manoeuvres and clean takes seemed to be of the past. He had to rely more and more on the swiftness of his reactions and the speed of his flight.

When he was back in the flat, Liam paid little heed to what was happening. He often sat in the corner brooding. It was unlike him. A few times Darren or Cid reached out to him, but he hadn’t been receptive.

Then there was Deaglan. He had been fast to try and step into Calum’s shoes as top man. Liam didn’t try to stop him. His frown was clear anytime someone chose to speak to Liam. He was trying to isolate him from the group. This was fine by Liam. He felt deserving of isolation.