Chapter 1
He studied the wreckage with an almost casual eye. Like a witness to a crime within a play; an observer to the hanging of a man he didn't know. It was an ominous foreground to the verdant grasslands that skirted County Cork. The grey smoke and orange fire twisted almost obscenely, clashing with the impossibly bright grass that seemed almost to exude life itself. The contrast was nearly as vivid as foliage after a rain shower. Nearly as beautiful. Buildings that had taken months to construct were torn down in seconds. Buildings that were more than buildings, but homes, businesses, shelters. Buildings that contained belongings, livelihoods, treasures. Buildings that may or may not have contained people–
The sky was cruelly serene, he thought. Clouds of dust and smoke spilled– from openings that were no longer windows– to meet it. Just thought you looked lonely up there without the clouds, he pictured them saying, as they shadowed the sun's view. Where is my cloud? He wondered idly before shaking it from his head with a mirthless laugh. They'll send him to the loony-bin. Unless he's already there.
Below, out of the sun's gaze, blurs of tan and black sped by, dancing around the flames like a coven. They hooted and howled as the fire petered out, until all that remained was detritus and black fog. They looked, he thought, like denizens of hell. Lines from an almost forgotten poem sprang into his mind– how did it go…? That's right: "House burnt down – fleas dance in embers."
That's what they were he thought as he watched them with fingers entwined in thick silver chain. The broad, perpendicular lines of a cross dug into his fingers as they involuntarily flexed around it. His eyes caught on Potter, who smiled grimly back. Come on, Black, he mouthed and flicked his head in a signaling gesture. The others had departed once the rush of fire and destruction had taken its leave. He and Potter followed sedately, necks stiff from the strain of not looking back.
If he had participated in the romp, he couldn't help thinking later on, with the infallible vision of the present looking on the past, would things have turned out differently? Might his life have taken an alternate trajectory?
That night sleep dodged him again; this time more fervently, the buildup of aggression and energy having missed an opportunity for release. Now he was, as Sigmund Freud may have described him, an un-tempered steam engine ready to burst.
The quiet was foreign to him by this point. Though having served less than two years in the Balkans, his body had become somehow accustomed to the constant din of artillery-fire and shouts during tense times, whispers and worry during peacetimes. Tension allowed them very brief, very sporadic, and very insubstantial sleep. When one did manage to gather sleep, it was not so much falling into sleep as it was just the body simply shutting down.
His body, however, was nowhere near that state, and the tension winding through his mind and muscles forced him to walk it off. He found himself in front of one of the buildings that had fallen victim to the fire. He had come back for his cross, he told myself. It had fallen here somewhere, even though part of him knew he didn't care if he ever found it. In the vague, guttering light of a nearby lamppost, he thought he could mark a giant crater marking a roof, with only scorched beams and used-to-be walls impossibly holding it all (what was left of it) together. It was an ice cream parlor, he thought. Also, a suspected IRA haunt. The scorched neighboring buildings were simply collateral damage.
An owl hooted its own cold amusement, its call echoing aimlessly and making it impossible to glean its position. It was almost too dark to make anything out. Not that it made a difference, he supposed. It was all still there, just as it was all there– even as it was being consumed in fiery waves– when it was smoke that had concealed it. One always knew what was behind the darkness, even if they could not see it still.
A silver glint caught his eye, and he was almost disappointed how easy it was; how such a thing always seemed to find a person in the darkness, instead of the other way round. As he stooped to retrieve it, he realized it was a silver spoon, still warm and slightly uneven. Burn wounds, he thought. As he stood, a faint hum reached his ears, breaking the bare silence in a pleasing way. It was too high and soft to be his comrades or any pleas for help, too mellifluous to be speech of any kind. As if under a spell, he followed the sound into what looked like an abandoned factory, crawling amongst the flotsam and airborne grime. As he crawled, the sound became louder, more distinct, until he could safely identify it as music, the sweet breath of a violin. When he reached the end, and the notes reached a cadence, he spotted the figure of a man, small and dark, resembling a dog curled in on itself.
He had seen this person before.
Several nights ago, he had made a similar trek through the midnight streets when he'd suddenly heard low voices, making noises but not saying anything, followed by a girlish titter. A midnight rendezvous in an abandoned building, he had thought with a pang of– not jealousy, but need; like the hungry, penniless man who eyes one's chips and beer from outside the pub.
Young lovers taking advantage of the empty facility, no doubt. He thought immediately to break up their little tryst. Or in the very least, put a damper on things. Why make it easier for them, when he'd had such a hard time of it himself? he thought with a laugh.
He had banged the door open, yelling "Alright you two, get out of here," as he did so. Immediately, he saw a streak of blonde curls and blue dress shoot through the arch in the wall that functioned currently as the building's exit. A heap on the ground revealed itself to be male; shoulders slumped against the wall, legs apart, as if he'd been abruptly shoved. A curtain of dark waves parted as the man raised his head, confusion quickly wiped clean by fear when his eyes alighted on the mismatched uniform before him: the navy and khaki of the RIC— or "Black and Tans" to the locals. He scrambled backwards up the wall, eyes never leaving his interloper, in the manner a woman's eyes might follow a spider– frightened to look but more afraid not to. Frantically, his hands groped for the empty space in the wall that signaled an exit.
Inexplicably, Sirius was angered. Whether it was the thought that this cowardly man had been about to get what he didn't deserve and for which Sirius felt himself long overdue or the display of weakness itself that enraged him, he was propelled to the other side of the room and had the man's shirtfront in his grip before he could even gasp. Pinning his shoulders to the wall Sirius screamed, "Are you afraid, you son of a bitch?"
He didn't know what he meant by it. If he only meant to torment the man further, the well of tension having got the better of him, or if he truly wanted an answer. The man's eyes expanded and flickered briefly downward. Sirius followed his gaze and suddenly felt what he had failed to notice previously. "Fuck," he spat, shoving him with a force that would have sent him ten feet had there not been a wall directly behind him. There was the weighty thud of his head, and he was sprawled on the floor once more. Sirius caught his eyes for half a second before he turned to flee. He should have been more forgiving considering the man's previous engagement and expectation, but his visceral response had been repulsion. He had a brief image of himself showering the man in a series of epithets and punches, but in the end all he did was hiss "sick bastard" as he ran off. He got no response.
Before the man could sense his presence, Sirius turned to leave, but the sound of his boots crunching stone and wood rent the night. The man's eyes opened for a fleeting, panicked moment before a wave of resigned calm flooded them and they damned up to contain it. The music continued, however, with barely a hitch, louder now, as if the restraints of earlier had been broken, until he reached the song's conclusion. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back to rest on the wall behind him, his violin dropping to his side. Then, suddenly, he pulled out a fag, lit it, and let it rest between the fingers of his left hand, with his arms resting on his bent knees as if he had not noticed Sirius; as if he were actually relaxed.
"So you are a deviant then?" Sirius couldn't help noting, a nod to the hand that held the cigarette, which smoked away not having touched the man's lips. An unbidden urge prompted him to pluck the fag from the man's hand, as if on offer, and take a drag. He let it soak in for a minute before opening his eyes. The man's own were scanning the room as if he were anticipating something or someone before locking on to Sirius's and narrowing defensively.
"Waiting for someone?" The man just stared, no answer. "Go on, or are you dumb as well?" Sirius asked with a laugh, sounding more disparaging than he had intended. The man didn't take the bait. Sirius tossed the fag to the ground, took the man's shirt in his hands, and hefted him up. He flinched. Then he let his eyes drift close and turned his head aside, leaving his neck and collarbone exposed to the puff of smoke Sirius blew at him. His body was vibrating under Sirius's hands, and Sirius took the fag from his mouth and shoved it in the man's, suddenly enjoying the power; the release the exchange was allowing him. When he looked down and saw rather than felt his shame, the previous firsthand experience afforded him a quiet, dignified rage; he stepped back and let the man fell himself instead.
"You really are a wretched little bastard, aren't you?" he said to the crumpled heap on the floor. "Did you come here to fetch yourself off over your little violin, or were you hoping to impress your little girlfriend with it?"
He didn't know if by evoking her image, he was trying to invoke her presence; to let her see her "man" in such a disgraceful state, hoping she'd sidle up to himself instead of this pathetic mess. He didn't even care if she were particularly pretty. It had been so long, he would have had anyone.
Watching the man squirming haplessly on the ground, Sirius recalled his pent-up aggression, the ecstasy of control, and suddenly he was awash in it. "I could have you out for trespassing," he informed. Then he picked him up again, his shirt once again a wrinkled ball in his fist.
"Listen here," he huffed in the man's face. "Is she coming? Huh? Is she?" he asked, punctuated each question with a shake.
The man looked puzzled, widening his eyes. "Nobody's coming?" It was both an answer to the question and a query of his own.
"Nobody's coming," Sirius repeated dumbly. Disappointed and thwarted, slightly. "But–"
It's been so long.
The thought came to him immediately before rationality streamed out of him and all that was left was the body itself. Hadn't someone said that denied gratification is merely delayed gratification? That repressing a force (or a need– for release, for control, to destroy) would force it to the surface like lava from a volcano or water from a spring, in disastrous ways. He should have let bits of it free, he couldn't help thinking, like the steam from Freud's engine, like his fellows had done with their acts of abandon, to preclude the eventual explosion.
As if the thoughts were spoken aloud, he shivered.
In retrospect, he remembers merely that there was no denial, though he wishes there had been. If there were any sort of obstruction, negation, something– it would have all come to nothing. But a refusal had not been spoken. No word had.