The first thing I thought of once I had arrived back in the Great Metropolis was securing a roof over my head. Then the changes I began to notice in the place I had spent eighteen years of my life sank in. Once I had stepped past the Wall around the Great Docklands, I was struck by how much it had changed in the ten years which I had been gone. The tangle of streets and alleys which had once been Huyton were no longer the same tangle.
It had been after sunset that our ship had arrived at the docks. I remembered well the manner of men and women who haunted the streets of Huyton after dark. But I was no longer a child; years of combat training had tempered me into the man I had become and fear was no longer an option. If anything, my temper had been rising since the landing, and I had almost been looking forward to some sort of confrontation.
As I finally came across the block of flats where I had grown up, I found they had been torn down to accommodate a new sort of tenement. A flat grey, nondescript building of some twenty stories greeted my sight. The lower floor was an open courtyard; a gang of dirty children hooted and jeered at one another, amidst a rather rough footie game. I couldn't even tell which child was on which team.
I walked into the courtyard towards the standing waterpipe in its center. The children scattered, with shouts about the ongoing game or supper or my Army uniform. I grabbed one filthy child by his torn collar before he could escape, gripping him tightly with the clamps of my cybernaughtic hand.
“Where's the block manager, then, boy?” I asked, my voice raspy in my parched state.
He writhed in my grasp, staring at the metallic clamps clutching his shirt collar with an open mouth.
“Ah, Mister! The boss-man's up on the second floor! Please, let me go!” he shouted his reply, with horrified fascination in his eyes.
I nodded and let loose his shirt, proceeding to examine my choice between a stairwell that reeked of piss and gin, or a rather rickety looking pneumatic elevator. Braving the stench, I proceeded up the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few of the children watching me as I closed the stairwell door behind me.
I made the landing of the second floor in leaps and bounds when the stench began to make my eyes water. The door to my right had a large glass pane in it, and the word “Manager” was stenciled upon the yellowed glass. There was a light on in the room, but the door was locked. I rapped upon the wooden frame.
“Get outta here! Closed!” came a shout from within, punctuated by a wracking cough.
“I need a flat, mate,” I shouted back, and bent to shove several twenty pound notes under the door.
The shadow of a man appeared in the yellowed glass, and the rattle of chains followed. The frumpy man with the bulging belly and stained suit who opened the door seemed a little less displeased with me for interrupting his nightly vigil as his eyes greedily counted the notes I had pushed in to him.
“Yes, yes, come in, come in,” he said.
I knew instantly he'd be giving me a rate for my room that was surely well above what it actually rented for.
“The extra's for keeping quiet about me being here,” I said to him, uncertain of why I felt the sudden need for anonymity.
“Sure, Mister, ah?”
“Jones will be fine,” I told him.
His eyes moved to the Harp and Crown on my uniform sleeve. My name tag I had removed before landing.
“Army, eh?”
I merely nodded my reply.
“Well, this will certainly be enough for a few weeks,” his greedy eyes followed up from the Royal Irish Ranger patch, to my rank insignia, “Sergeant 'Jones'.”
“I would think it would be safe to say that would cover two months, with a little left over for your silence,” I responded with my most authoritative voice, “and I will take a quiet room with a window and a sturdy fire escape, somewhere near the middle floors if you please.”
He nodded heartily, pocketed some of the notes I had given him, and placed the rest in a lock box which had been sitting upon the desk. He then turned to a rack of keys, searching, and found one to proffer to me. The key was labeled “919”.
“Thanks. Is there anywhere decent to get a pint around here anymore?” I asked, pocketing the key.
“You could try Dublin's Delight, Sergeant,” he replied with another glance at my Ranger patch, “A lot of fellows like you there. Not much in the way of mobsters, either. But some Easies like to hang around close to there. Better watch them. They like to roll some poor veterans for their pension cheques, they do.”
“Easies?”
“Buncha hoodlums from Manchester, whose da's run shops and the like. They like to come here and pretend to be gangsters, do odd jobs for the mob.”
I nodded, shouldered my bag and turned to the door.
“You going to sign the books for me?”
“No,” I replied simply.
He didn't press the issue.
From there I went up to room 919 by way of the rickety elevator, fitted my key in the door and found it to be working, and went into the flat. It was a tiny room, with barely enough room for a bed and a small stove. The shower would be communal, then, so I decided I would wait a bit for that. With no shelves or closets, I pushed my duffel under the bed after laying out some clothes to change into.
I decided to leave my leather jacket on before I headed out for Dublin's Delight. The Irish Army Rangers patches on each shoulder stood out. The manager had said something about fellows like me there, so I was thinking I might be able to find someone to talk to.
I secured my pound notes with a clip on the inside left pocket of my jacket, and placed the roll of coin in my right outer pocket, then opened my flat door and stepped out. I quickly locked the door and examined the hallway. No one was there.
I stepped onto the road from the tenement, my trained eyes still working in a wartime mode to assess any threats. The ragged children were gone from the courtyard, and the dim light of street lamps barely lit the path ahead. There was no one within sight.
On the alert, I was hardly surprised when trouble reared its head barely a block from Dublin's Delight.
There were three of them stepping forth from the alley to my left. They were high on something; I wouldn't know what it was until after I did to them what they intended to do to me. They were dressed in working class clothes, but they were a little too clean. Their nails didn't have any dirt under them.
One was swirling something lazily about that I'd only seen once, while I had been on leave in Korea, a pair of nunchaku; the second was fingering the hilt of a large knife stuck in his belt; the third drew a beaten-looking pepperbox pistol and waved it in my direction.
“Lookit what we got here, boys!” the fellow with the pistol said, taking an unsteady aim on me.
I raised my hands to show I was no threat, and let a small, tight smile cross my face.
“Here now, lads, there's no need for trouble. I'm just a fellow on my way for a drink. You know the pub Dublin's Delight?”
Looking back on that night now, I realize that something in me was spoiling for a fight. I'd been wound up since the day they'd told me I was to be discharged from the Army. I had thought then I really was just trying to avoid confrontation, though.
“Well it seems to me you've run right smack into some trouble that you can't just walk away from, eh?” the gunman sneered.
The gun boy pressed closer, and the nunchaku boy's weapon began to move in more deliberate patterns as his eyes flashed wolfishly, waiting for his leader's go ahead. Knife boy wrapped his fingers around his knife's hilt with a grin spreading across his face.
“You got a cheque on you, eh? Pensioner, are you? Or maybe you got a fat wad o' notes, just cashed it today? What say you just hand it over and we'll call it a night, no more trouble, eh?”
I remained stationary, hands raised, waiting. He moved close enough to press the barrels of the pepperbox to my temple, caressing me with the gun. I reached one hand to my inside left jacket pocket.
Gun boy's trigger finger tensed.
“No monkey business, now, eh?”
I smiled, as meek and eager to be left alone in appearance as I could muster. My fingers withdrew my money clip. The roll of notes drew his eyes, which widened.
“Oh, yes,” he said, licking his lips.
With a flick of my wrist, I launched the clip and the notes past him, to the ground between himself and his companions. His eyes followed the notes, as I had expected. My right, meat hand reached up to grasp his wrist and pull his gun out of line with my head. He was quick, but not quite quick enough to evade my left, the metal arm, coming up to smash hard into his elbow and shatter it.
The pistol clattered to the pavement, and gun boy fell to his knees clutching himself, everything but his agony forgotten for the moment. Knife boy wore a look of shock on his face, and his eyes were fixed upon my arm of metal. Nunchaku boy reacted much more quickly than I had expected, whirling his nunchuck at my face and snapping a roundhouse kick off of his back heel after I dodged away from the length of wood. His foot caught me in the chest, driving me backwards.
Another such kick landed on my face, blackening my eye and splitting my lip. As I rose groggily to my feet, I knew I had ten years on him, he was quicker, and while I had been trained in the rudiments of hand-to-hand combat in Ranger school, I had always been more of a marksman and sniper. Unless I came up with something fast, he would beat me to a bloody pulp.
Back then, I always underestimated the edge that having a metal arm gave me. I don't do that very often anymore. His third kick in the flurry snapped towards the left side of my face, and I lifted my left arm instinctively to protect myself. His foot connected solidly with my metal forearm with a sickening crunch, and his weight after the leaping kick began to pull him to the ground. I snaked out my left arm and grabbed his ankle, the clamps digging into flesh and grinding bone. He screamed, once, before I slammed him to the ground. His head hit first, with a dull thunk. The way in which his head lolled as his body smacked noisily to the pavement told me that his neck was broken.
Knife boy let out a roar, rushing towards me with his knife raised. At the same time, I saw gun boy raising the pepperbox with his good arm and taking an unsteady aim upon me. I shifted then, and knife boy shifted to follow me. He shifted right into the path of the bullets which gun boy unleashed. The force of the bullets drove him forward towards me even as I saw the life leave his eyes. I gripped his arms to lift him up and hold him steady while gun boy unleashed three more rounds.
Gun boy's pepperbox clicked empty. Letting go of knife boy to slide to the ground, I twisted the knife from his dead fingers. Gun boy moaned as he tried to steady the pepperbox between his knees to reload the chambers with shaky fingers. I hefted the knife, flipping it in my grasp to hold the point, and threw it at the boy with the shattered arm.
The knifepoint struck in between his eyes, crunching through the bone of his skull with brutal force, and slid deep into his brain. He fell back, limp in death's embrace.
I gasped in air, adrenaline still pumping and heart hammering wildly. To my right came the sound of clapping hands. My body tensed, sensing further conflict.
The man who stepped from the shadows had a beautiful woman on either arm.
“Well done, old boy. I've never quite seen anything like it! Those Easies had it coming though, poaching on our territory like they've been.”
He stepped in, eying the dead men distastefully. The two women covered their eyes at the sight of the bodies.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said as he stepped into the dim light of the street lamps.
He didn't have to, though. Even as he said his name, my heart had already stopped with my recognition of him. Everyone who had grown up in Huyton knew Liam Gallagher. He was one of the lead figures in the Irish mob which formed the gentry of Huyton. He didn't look much different ten years after the time I had first seen him, running errands around the neighborhood as a boy. His hair had grayed at the temples, lending a bit more steel to his gaze. Yet his smile, just as ten years ago, was warm and friendly.
Even more surprising, as I attempted to stammer out a greeting to him, he knew my name already as well.
“Robb Kendall, good to see you back home boy,” he said as he gripped my right hand with his own firmly, “A shame about your poor mother, a good woman she was. Have you seen your sister yet, then?”
“No, no sir. I haven't. Just stepping out for a bit of a drink, my first night home...”
“Well I heard the commotion and had to see what it was all about. You're alright then, lad?”
I could only nod.
He reached into his coat pocket and took out a money clip. It held a generous roll of notes, and a calling card.
“Anything you need, Robb, you can call on me. Your father, bless his soul, was a good man. Saved my little brother's life back in the Pacific, you know. Anything at all.”
I nodded my thanks silently.
He winked, then glanced to the generous cleavage of each of his companions.
“I suppose I should be on my way, then. The ladies wanted a bit more genteel entertainment tonight. Have a good night, lad.”
With that, the trio turned and strode away.
Shakily, I lifted each of the dead young men's bankrolls, and took their weapons. They had little else of interest upon their persons. And from there, I headed to Dublin's Delight. I needed a drink badly.
And that was the very beginnings of how I made my way into the Irish mob of Huyton.
Tags: Scifi Etherpunk
