THE LAND OF MIDNIGHT DAYS
By
K.A.Jack
1
Don’t look back; it’ll slow you down – just run.
The city had become the worst of urban jungles. Hunters ruled unchecked as Jeremiah Tully, running for his life, could testify.
He fled down yet another street and saw a small crowd ahead, gathered around a figure standing on an upturned crate. He came to a halt, unsure which way to turn. Then the man on the crate began to speak.
‘Brothers and sisters,’ he intoned, arms raised high,’ join me in my cause to rid this place of impurity. Let us drive out the iniquitous and send them back to their holes and dens.’
A poster hung on some nearby railings. Black letters on a white background blazed forth their message of hate:
Free the city of impurity, drive out the lower races and non-human filth. Unite in a glorious cause to restore our freedom!
That the speaker was demon-possessed there was no doubt, but the crowd surrounding him hung on his every word.
Jeremiah heard the sounds of pursuit from behind and a quick glance showed a group of youths racing along the pavement.
Ever since he’d left The Crack o’ Dawn pub they’d chased him through the dark, narrow streets, determined to bring him down. His pursuers were Wannabees, members of a fraternity dedicated to the destruction of those who were different; and he was different all right. Not only did his ancestry include membership of the last of the magical races, the once nomadic tribes of Elwyns, but he’d compounded his felony by being half-human as well. Not that the Wannabes were aware of that. All they saw was an Elwyn, with pale skin, silver eyes and slender-than-usual build.
Blind panic threatened to overcome Jeremiah, until he spotted a fire escape attached to the side of an abandoned warehouse. He hauled himself up, hand over hand, feet slipping and sliding on the wet steps. At the top he paused, hunched over, as he panted for breath. Damp hair hung in tangles over his face and his heart hammered against his ribs.
‘There he is!’
His pursuers were still after him; with a sound of despair he fled.
Coils of wire, broken packing cases, and old pipes littered the flat, waterlogged roof. He wove his way between the rubbish, until forced to halt at the parapet on the opposite side. A pair of rusty metal bars clung to the brickwork; the rest of the ladder had fallen away. Some fifty metres below, the ground seemed to rush upwards. He lurched back, fighting off an onslaught of vertigo. No use calling for help. Even if he’d been able to, no one would answer.
‘Come on, we’ve got him!’
Jeremiah looked over at the adjacent building and tried to gauge the distance – maybe ten metres.
His pursuers were almost on him. He snatched up a piece of pipe and hurled it at the nearest; it caught him across the midriff and he went down, taking two others along for the ride. Their tangled bodies forced the rest to pull up.
‘You stupid sods, what d’you wanna do that for!’
A second glance at the other warehouse told Jeremiah he had no option. He backed up a little and then raced forward. When his feet hit the edge of the roof, he pushed off into space and overshot the ledge of the next building. He landed hard and winded, curled into a foetal position.
A string of curses drifted from across the way and he forced himself to look up. Gathered at the periphery of the roof he’d just leapt from, the Wannabes continued to rant and threaten, but didn’t dare follow. For the moment he was safe.
Jeremiah shrugged off his leather backpack, took out a bulky pouch, opened it and stared at the gleaming silver contents.
Thank heavens it wasn’t damaged.
Ignoring the stream of abuse, he replaced the pouch in the bag and
ran off into the darkness.
*
Dawn had broken by the time he reached home. Tall, narrow and shabby, the dwelling stood at the end of a row of mid-Victorian houses. Despite its condition it still retained an air of faded elegance.
Next door stood the remnants of a church, its once fine structure full of overgrown bushes and nettles. Its steeple reared towards the sky, as if pointing the way home. Even devoid of glass, the graceful arches of the windows clung on to remnants of their original beauty. The wind whistled through the ruined interior as though mourning its demise.
Jeremiah jogged past the church, up the steps of the end house, where he paused to glance over the road. As expected, a pale oval appeared at a hole in the downstairs window of the opposite house. Chin on hand, wispy fair hair tied in bunches, the child lifted her face to the clouds.
‘“Rain, rain go away, come again another day,”’ she intoned, making the little rhyme sound more like a funeral dirge. Her reedy voice drifted across to where Jeremiah watched and listened.
She lowered her head again, gaze seemingly fixed on him. One side of her thin face displayed a puckered and angry red scar, the result of a raid by a gang of Street Warriors. They’d set the fire that had not only disfigured her, but also taken her sight. Jeremiah sighed and turned away. He knew the reason why the little girl spent so much time perched there night after night, when she should be in bed. She was waiting for it to come out of its den.
Forcing the warped front door open, he stepped into the hallway.
In his room, at the furthest end of the top landing, he took out the pouch and dropped the backpack on the floor. He glanced round and shivered; despite the winter cold he wore only a threadbare sweater, shabby jeans, and trainers that had seen better days. He took a seat on the bed, the single piece of furniture the room contained, and emptied out the pouch’s contents. The silver pieces glittered with breath-taking beauty.
When it was assembled, Jeremiah turned it slowly round and round, staring in wonder at the Elwyn musical notes etched on its surface. He knew, from what a friend once told him, that they were the key to something powerful and dangerous, but also something wonderful. Jeremiah had never been able to bring himself to play them, afraid of what would happen. Maybe one day soon he would, just not yet.
The melody was in two parts: a march that would sweep the listener along, the second demanded total obedience of mind, body and soul. Jeremiah knew this because he’d “performed” it over and over in his head, so clearly he could almost hear the actual music.
His thoughts strengthened his desire to hear the instrument’s voice again. He held the flute to his lips but stopped short. All too aware of the consequences if he did, he nevertheless struggled to resist the temptation. Life held so little to be glad about, so little to look forward to. He glanced down at the instrument… apart from this.
He clutched it to his chest and felt a surge of pleasure thrill through him. All his life he’d been shoved around and told what to do. He’d never been allowed to discover his identity as an individual, until the flute came into his possession. He more than loved it – he cherished it. It provided him with a sense of purpose, a reason to go on. He released a sigh. All the same there must be more, but he was damned if he could fathom out what. There was just a vague feeling that the flute held the answer.
He started to disassemble it, but his fingers were numb from the cold. Afraid of damaging the instrument, he put it down on the bed, drawing the worn blanket over it – out of sight, out of mind. His face twitched. It didn’t work like that; he needed the music to sustain him.
Don’t be a fool. You know what’ll happen and this time it could be more than just a slap across the face. He threatened to break your arm last time and if he does, what’ll you do then?
On and on the inner conflict raged, back and forth, temptation against common sense until Jeremiah could stand it no longer.
Temptation won.
He rubbed his hands together to restore their circulation, then snatched the flute from its hiding place.
Eyes closed, he began to play a soulful lament of his own composition. Exquisite beyond description, the music filled the drab room with magic that took the form of specks of silver, shaped like musical notes. Jeremiah kept this particular aptitude to himself. Already considered an outsider, if such a talent became public knowledge, it would only make his situation worse. There were other things he could do too. He could conjure up light in dark places and sometimes found himself inside people’s thoughts, able to see and hear their memories as if he’d been there. The drawback was the sounds and images were always traumatic. Take last night, for instance.
As he’d fled his tormentors, his head became filled with their feral longings. The Wannabes’ inner voices clashed and tangled with each other and added to the terror.
I’m gonna tear that stinking Elwyn apart… ‘Break every bone in his body… Piece of filth! Who does he think he is, livin’ ‘ere with decent folk… Why doesn’t ‘e go back where he belongs!
On and on it went, their hatred like a blade sunk between his shoulder blades. .
Sparkling in the morning light, the notes drove away the painful memory. Moments like this were rare and precious, they helped transcend the misery that was his lot.
*
Downstairs, to the left of the main entrance, a door led into a small room. The occupant of the iron-framed bed issued a series of snorts and grunts then heaved himself upright.
From beady eyes, still puffy with sleep, he looked around the bare, damp-patterned walls and took a deep breath. The stench in the room would have choked a horse, but he didn’t mind; it wouldn’t be home without a bit of atmosphere. He never understood why people objected to odours. His personal scent of stale whisky, mingled with sweat and tobacco, formed part of who he was.
Ezra laid back, a cavernous yawn stretching his jaws. He stared at the ceiling and tried to gather energy enough to rise. Another bloody day amongst the damned and stupid; on the other hand it did present certain opportunities.
Owner of the dwelling, he charged exorbitant rents to occupy the rats’ nest, laughingly labelled a boarding house. If anyone fell behind, they were out; simple as that. Due to the national housing shortage, accommodation was hard to come by. If some people couldn’t pay, others could; it depended on how desperate they were.
No one knew Ezra’s age, he didn’t himself. Ever since he’d arrived in this city, some years ago, there’d been gaps in his memory. He found it hard to recall his life before he came here. Oh there were brief flashes, but they slipped away as fast as they came. Not that it bothered him – the past was the past – all that mattered was today and what could be squeezed out of it. Grabbing money from whatever source he could got him out of bed in the morning. It gave him power and made him master of his own life.
He rubbed at his face so hard it made his jowls wobble. Stubby fingers raked through greasy, unwashed hair and the low slung forehead creased in a frown as Ezra blinked the sleep from his eyes.
The man’s decrepit facade was deceptive, for if ever an ogre existed it was he. More than capable with his fists, he welcomed any excuse to pound in a face or break a limb or two. His reputation brought him constant delight. Fear was meat and drink.
He swung his legs out of bed, belched, after which he pulled crumpled clothes over a grubby vest and long underpants. A bottle of whisky was snatched from a nearby table and several mouthfuls chugged down.
Breakfast over, Ezra wiped the back of a hand across his mouth and peered into the flyblown mirror hung on the wall behind the table. Yellowed teeth bared in a smile, he raised the bottle in a mock toast and prepared to take another swig, when the voice of the flute drifted down from the upper regions of the house.
An expression of fury etched itself onto Ezra’s face. ‘Shut that damn row up!’ he yelled, as he yanked the door open.
When the music continued, Ezra dragged his carcass up flight after flight of stairs. Bad enough he had to put up with that racket at all, let alone in his own house. The stupid little sod knew that and yet here he was at it again. Well this time he’d shut him up for good.
Even as the thought took shape, he hesitated; best go easy. Not sure why, Ezra only knew the boy was important in some way. Hazy memory tried to remind him, but all he knew was that there’d be consequences – catastrophic consequences if he killed Jeremiah.
He sighed; easy it was then.
***
2
As the music rose to a crescendo, the door to Jeremiah’s room crashed open. The magic notes, created by the instrument, shattered into splinters and then coalesced into a stream of pure white light, which winked out.
Jeremiah stared in terror as Ezra strode towards him. A punch landed on his right arm and the flute flew from his grasp.
‘I’ve warned you about that racket before, you little sod!’
A backhanded slap sent Jeremiah to the floor. Hand held to his cheek he didn’t dare meet Ezra’s gaze. With a growl, the old man turned his attention to the flute. Seeing his intent, Jeremiah rolled onto his side and managed to grab it before the booted foot came down on his hand. Ezra ground his heel in. Jeremiah gasped with pain, but refused to relinquish his hold.
Fist raised in warning, Ezra stepped back. ‘If I hear that thing again, I’ll shove it down your throat.’ He wiped the spittle from his lips. ‘I don’t ask for much, just a bit of peace and quiet.’ He waved a stubby finger in Jeremiah’s face. ‘Well mark this boyo, keep it up and it’s arse kicking time.’ He marched out.
Hand still throbbing, Jeremiah dropped the flute onto the unmade bed. It shone in the weak light, undamaged and as beautiful as ever. Its silver body, with the curious scrollwork etched into its surface, reflected the colour of its owner’s eyes.
He read the inscribed melody again and wondered for the millionth time what it meant. Given that Ezra detested music of all kinds, what would happen if the composition was played? Would it send him over the edge, perhaps give him a heart attack? No such luck. But maybe, just maybe, it would be worth a try sometime. Anger flared. If only a way did exist to finish the old git off once and for all.
Jeremiah tucked his hair behind ears that were slightly pointed, then lifted a hand to his cheek again. All well and good to imagine such things and yes many in this city lived by violence, but he detested it. What he really wanted was a life free of pain and fear.
A sound of breaking glass made a mockery of his wish. He went to the window and watched three hooded youths throwing stones at someone’s house. Bottom dragging along the floor, the front door juddered open and a stocky man appeared, a baseball bat clutched in one hand.
‘Bugger off!’ he roared and brought the bat down hard enough to raise chips of stone from the pavement.
Their laughter and jeers echoed down the street, as the youths ran away. Slapping the bat into his palm, the householder remained on the doorstep until they were out of sight, then returned inside. Jeremiah shrugged; violence or apathy, not much of a choice.
He reached under the bed and tugged out a cardboard box filled with odds and ends. Amongst them lay a children’s picture book. Jeremiah blew dust off the cover and gazed down at the gaudy scene printed on it. It showed a forest clearing, ringed with wooden caravans, painted in bright colours. At the centre of the campsite a fire burned and a group of adults, dressed in silk shirts, flouncy dresses and velvet pantaloons, sat around it. Children ran amongst their elders, faces filled with happiness. He trailed his fingers over the illustration, filled with wistfulness. “Elwyn fairytales for young and old,” the book’s title read; and that’s just what the picture and the stories were – fairytales.
Jeremiah rubbed his eyes. He needed sleep. It would soon be time to go out again and earn some money, but he just didn’t have the energy. He shrugged. No point in thinking like that, it wasn’t as if there was a choice.
Since the age of ten he’d scraped a living playing the flute on the streets, in the hope that passersby would throw him a coin or two. Ezra was a wealthy man, but as soon as he realised Jeremiah could pay his own way, ceased to provide even basic necessities from then on. To add insult to injury, he also took part of whatever money was made as “rent” for this miserable room. If there’d been anywhere else to go Jeremiah would have left, but few landlords would allow an Elwyn to live on their premises. Anyway the cost of rent would be even higher than he already paid.
At seventeen years old he knew how to survive, but not how to live. His main source of income came from playing in the local pubs and clubs and last night he’d had the “good luck” to find a job at a place called The Crack ‘o Dawn. Housed in a semi-derelict building that overlooked the river, it wasn’t an ideal venue. Many a fight broke out there, sometimes with fatal results; but desperation and hunger were powerful motivators.
Everything would’ve been fine if it hadn’t been for those scumbags. They’d jeered and pelted him with beer mats and empty crisp packets. One of them even went so far as to urinate in a beer glass, then hurl the contents at him. He’d managed to dodge aside, but it still spattered over one of his sleeves. Jeremiah grimaced down at the offending cuff and wrinkled his nose. Fat chance of making any money today, he stunk to high heaven.
Try as he might to concentrate, the rest of the performance descended further into farce. The Wannabees’ catcalls and jeers continued until the landlord threw them out. As he’d watched them leave, Jeremiah knew they’d be on the lookout for him.
He rubbed his sore hand and returned to the window to stare down at the potholed street again. Once paid, he’d left through the back door of the pub. This didn’t fool the Wannabees. One of them, stationed at the rear of the place, alerted his cronies the second he spotted Jeremiah.
Nausea rose at the memory of how narrow the escape had been. That leap across to the other building had given Jeremiah nightmares. Just one slip on the wet surface would have meant the end. It was always like this, having to endure the contempt, the bigotry; he felt worn out with it. And yet a feeling – something he couldn’t define – drove him on. He told himself, day in, day out, that it wouldn’t always be like this. Better times were just over the horizon.
Jeremiah shook his head. Maybe it was all a pipe dream, a device to fool himself with; but still the belief that some kind of destiny awaited him persisted. Whatever it turned out to be, it would lift him out of the doldrums into a golden world where…
His shoulders slumped and with the flute cradled in his arms, he resumed his seat on the bed.
The single constant in his life was music.
***
3
The hours dragged by and day turned once again into night. Still filled with melancholy after a day spent busking, Jeremiah made his way to a local nightclub called The Den. He stood in the doorway and looked around.
The damp cellar was wreathed in cigarette smoke, as somehow befitted its night-time status. Whitewashed plaster flaked from the crumbling brick walls. Littered with cigarette stubs and stained by vomit, the stone-flagged floor was a minefield of filth. Spilled drinks and spit added to disgusting mess, along with a tang of urine where some of the patrons hadn’t made it to the facilities. Muted conversations were interspersed by the clink of glasses and the pouring of drinks. Candles, stuck in bottles, provided the only light. This wasn’t an attempt to create ambiance, it was more about the conservation of electricity. None of the clientele complained. After all, it wasn’t as if they’d be welcome anywhere else.
As if to illustrate this, a quarrel broke out at a nearby table.
‘You cheating scumbag, where’d that card come from?’
The accused man leaned towards his fellow poker player, lip curled in a snarl. ‘Whaddya mean I’m cheating, it’s you that’s got aces stashed up yer sleeves!’
Things threatened to get out of hand, as the two men glared at each other until one of the other players nodded towards the bar.
Ezra leaned against the counter. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink, but the look he sent across the room proved more than enough; the would be combatants sank back into their seats.
Satisfaction plastered across his greasy jowls, Ezra smiled. Jeremiah glowered at him. Typical – the sod just loved lording it over people; that’s how he’d managed to “acquire” this dump in the first place. It’d been taken from one of his associates in lieu of a debt and was only one of many investments. It also happened to be his favourite.
Jeremiah’s gaze travelled to the other end of the bar where a number of women, all colours shapes and sizes, stood. Most of them were Norms, but to his chagrin there were also a few Elwyns, barred from their clans for various offences. Once nomadic, a few still clung to the old ways, but as pollution became wide-spread, and towns and cities grew ever larger, the tribal traditions were dying out. The Elwyns were the last of the four magical races. All the rest had either vanished without explanation, or been driven away never to be seen again.
Tall and slender, with eyes of unusual colours, the Elwyn women fascinated the average Norm male, despite fraternisation between the two races being discouraged. Yet in spite of this unwritten edict, many a man could be seen leaving with a slim purple or yellow-eyed beauty on his arm. Silver-eyed women were rare, but when available were always snapped up.
A minority of the patrons were down and outs and spent the last of their money on drink to drown their sorrows, which again suited Ezra fine. Their loss was his gain. The majority, on the other hand, were sailors on shore leave. Flush with backdated pay, they were keen to spend their wealth and eyed the women as if they were choice goods. Jeremiah moved down the steps into the cellar. Norm hypocrisy never ceased to amaze him.
As he walked towards the bar, he could feel Ezra’s glare burn into the back of his neck.
‘Bloody little sod, you’re late. I’d take it out of your hide if I thought it’d do any good.’
Despite his hostility towards the flute, the old hypocrite had long ago learned to turn Jeremiah’s talent to his own advantage, by having him play two or three times a week at the club. Most of the patrons were happy to pay for a little entertainment and since money was the old man’s god, he could just about put up with the annoyance the music caused him.
Jeremiah hunched his shoulders against the threat, moved further down the bar, and slid a coin across the counter. The barman, familiar with his habits, plonked down a glass of water. He drained his drink. Busking in the city all day, with little success, made him feel worn out and dispirited. After last night he didn’t dare go near any of the pubs for awhile, but money was still needed.
Although appreciated his music brought him no respect, people still treated him like mixed-race scum. They called him names such as: “Dumbo,” or “Crip-tongue” and labelled him stupid just because he had no words. Norms, who didn’t know his background, assumed from his slender build and silver eyes that he was a full-blooded Elwyn; the Elwyns, whether they knew the story or not, seemed to sense his “impurity,” and ostracised him. Because of this and the fact he couldn’t speak, Jeremiah had become somewhat isolated.
He tried to swallow down the hated self-pity, but it rose again along with memories of his only friend. In desperate need of comfort, he called on his ability to summon up memories so real, they were almost three dimensional. His mind drifted back to his first meeting with the only person who’d showed some interest in him…
…The summer sun had turned the city centre into a place alive with people. Balmy weather and blue skies were reflected by the good humour of the passersby, as they thronged the pavements.
Jeremiah felt glad to be alive on this beautiful day and it showed in the way he played. Coins pattered into the open backpack in a shower of silver and copper. Then a folded ten pound note also fell into the bag. Jeremiah stopped playing and looked wide-eyed at his benefactor, astonished at such generosity.
A halo of white hair surrounded a face like a wrinkled apple. Grey eyes, filled with humour, stared back at him. The old man smiled. ‘You play very well, especially for a street musician, but I think you have not had formal training?’
Still taken aback, Jeremiah shook his head.
A large, freckled hand patted his shoulder. ‘No matter, no matter. You have what a lot of street musicians do not possess.’ As he leaned closer the gentleman winked. ‘You have natural talent,’ he whispered, as if imparting a secret. ‘A great deal of it.’
He ambled off, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled away. Jeremiah watched him out of sight. A glow filled the pit of his stomach and gave him a sense of well-being he’d never experienced before.
Mr Greenstock, as he introduced himself, continued to stop by almost every day after that and although at first suspicious, Jeremiah soon learned the Norm had no ulterior motives; bit by bit a friendship developed between them.
A retired violinist, Mr Greenstock also turned out to be a connoisseur of different cultures’ music. He taught Jeremiah to read both Norm and Elwyn notes, and helped refine his technique. It was he who told Jeremiah that the notes etched on the flute meant something special. He said they were an obscure form of Elwyn harmony called Tripolas, or music of the soul.
With a curious sideways glance at Jeremiah, he’d said, ‘These are notes of power – the melody as a whole is “magical.”’ He’d handed the flute back and added, ‘be careful if you decide to play this tune, it could lead you down dangerous paths.’
This turned out to be one of the last pieces of advice the retired musician gave.
Jeremiah remembered the cold wet day, when he called round to his friend’s flat and found him dead. Apart from the priest he was the only other person present at the funeral; it seemed the old man had become somewhat isolated too…
…Jeremiah pulled out of his reverie and glanced around the cellar. If only the old man was still alive. Before he met Mr Greenstock, he’d taught himself to play and displayed an amazing aptitude. He only needed to hear a piece of music once or twice to be able to play it by ear. Help received from his friend proved the nearest to formal training ever received – school certainly played no part in it; state education provided only basic literacy skills and in his case, sign language. Knowledge of the Elwyn tongue was picked up from the women at Ezra’s club. As with music Jeremiah possessed a quick ear for languages, a strange talent considering he couldn’t speak himself. Angry at himself for wallowing in self-pity, he started to move past a table at which a party of drunken merchant sailors sat.
‘Here he is,’ one of them jeered, ‘the Pied Piper’s back with his little tin whistle.’ The rest of the group burst into sycophantic laughter.
Jeremiah tried to continue towards the back of the room, but the loudmouth lurched to his feet. ‘Hey Crip-tongue, it’s about time you gave us a tune.’
One arm draped about the shoulders of a bored looking Elwyn girl, the sailor stood swaying, spittle oozing from the corner of his mouth.
Jeremiah knew his companion. Her professional name was Kelly; she never used her real name at work. Tall and unusually curvaceous for an Elwyn, she had once been a student lodger at Ezra’s house, but fell behind with the rent. The old man demanded she pay off her debt by working as a waitress at his club. That’d been two years ago.
When she still lived at the house, she’d always ignored Jeremiah. Indifference turned to outright hostility when she started work at the club.
In spite of this, Jeremiah felt sorry for her. She’d been an art student and spent hours in the ruined church next to the house, painting and sketching. He’d managed to sneak a look at some of her work and although he knew little about art, thought the results quite beautiful. Part of her creativity was the ability to make images anywhere: walls, floors, the sides of buildings, even pavements, nothing deterred her – hadn’t deterred her; all that was in the past now. Like him, Kelly was trapped in this place – a lost cause – her talent swilled down the drain.
Perhaps sensing his sympathy, she glared at him with baleful amber eyes. ‘Do as the man says, that’s what you’re here for.’ An added obscenity in Elwyn caused Jeremiah to flush with anger. Unable to answer, he went to his usual seat and once the flute was assembled, began to play.
Conversations died into silence as the music wove its way around the dank, musty environment. Starved of beauty, as most of the patrons were, they soaked up the melody as though it was nectar. When it ended, more upset by Kelly’s contempt than he cared to admit, Jeremiah decided to leave. Despite being subject to such bile for most of his life, it still angered and hurt him. The usual solace he found in music was absent tonight; this place and its denizens were unbearable. He started towards the exit, but the same drunken sailor stepped in front of him again.
‘Where d’yer think you’re goin’? You ain’t finished yet.’
Ezra shouldered his way through the throng. ‘That’s enough.’
The sailor staggered around to face him. ‘Wha’? Are you takin’ the Elwyn’s part against me?’
Kelly poked him in the chest. ‘He’s not Elwyn. He’s a half-breed.’
‘Shurrup an’ gerraway from me.’ He shoved her aside. ‘This little git’s not goin’ anywhere ‘til he gives us a few more tunes. After the crap way he played at The Crack ‘o’ Dawn las’ night he owes us that much.’
Jeremiah felt the colour drain from his face.
Ezra grabbed the front of his jumper. ‘What’s this about The Crack ‘o’ Dawn? You little sod, you’ve been holding out on me!’
He saw the blow coming, but was helpless to avoid it. Light exploded behind his eyes and he went down, blood pouring from his nostrils.
Lip curled in a snarl, the sailor grabbed the old man’s shoulder. ‘You stupid, senile old fool, how the hell’s he gonna play now?’
He swung a punch at Ezra’s head, but it didn’t land. His arm was twisted up his back. Ezra shoved him forward and the sailor sprawled across a group of tables. As if ignited by a spark, the whole place erupted in violence.
Men struggled with each other. Pieces of broken furniture were used as makeshift weapons and thudded into heads, faces and bodies. Women screamed and scrambled for safety, or joined in. Jeremiah managed to grab his backpack and with a hand pressed to his bloodied nose, pushed his way towards the exit. Kelly forced her way through the crowd in pursuit.
‘This’s your fault!’ she screamed.
She leapt at him, ready to rake with her long nails. He jumped back and she ran at him, but her tight silk dress and high-heeled shoes slowed her down. Jeremiah turned to run, only to cannon into one of the sailor’s cohorts.
The seaman grabbed a hank of his hair and twisted it. Tears of pain rose as he struggled to free himself. A knife appeared in his attacker’s other hand, then suddenly the hold on Jeremiah was released. He fell forwards onto his hands and knees, and when he looked round the merchant seaman was curled up on floor, lost in his own private world of agony.
Ezra dragged Jeremiah towards the door. ‘Come on you.’ When they were halfway up the steps, he said, ‘Get out and don’t bother going back to the house. If you’re there when I get home, I’ll wring your neck.’ He disappeared back into the cellar.
As he staggered out into the cold night air, Jeremiah knew Ezra meant what he said, but to spend the night on the streets was unthinkable. He pulled the straps of the backpack over his shoulders and set out for the old factory on the outskirts of town. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d sought sanctuary in such a place and no doubt it wouldn’t be the last. How long he’d have to stay he didn’t know, maybe a few days to give Ezra a chance to cool down.
Sleeve pressed to his nose, Jeremiah stumbled away and wondered why trouble always seemed to follow in his footsteps.
