Disclaimer: Silent Hill: Downpour and all characters within are not mine and no money is being made off of this.
Spoilers: For the entire game. This fic takes the Forgiveness ending and goes from there.
Warnings: Strong language and adult themes and content.
When Birds Come Back
The little bar was dark and smelled vaguely of stale sweat and old smoke under the booze. Twenty year old country music sounded tinnily over what conversation there was. There wasn't much. This wasn't the sort of place people came to converse. A handful of barstools were occupied by sad and tired men that slumped over their drinks and willed the world outside to forget about them. No one made eye contact. The only women in evidence were hard faced, worn looking working girls.
One booth was occupied. Murphy Pendleton sat slumped over this third bourbon, hair in his face and shoulders slumped forward. The name on his ID said 'Patrick Dougherty', but he didn't let it inside. A fake name and a fake life didn't actually change anything. There hadn't been any 'starting over' or any 'clean slate'. He had a cheap little apartment in a bad neighborhood, an under-the-table job fixing cabs at half-cost and a constant fear of being discovered. It didn't matter that no one was looking for him. New Hampshire wasn't that far away from people who knew and easily recognized Murphy Pendleton.
But he hadn't been able to leave. He'd thought about it, just fixing up a junk heap and driving it west until it gave out. Just stopping wherever the hell it broke down, making a life there. But he didn't feel finished, so to speak. He'd never been able to make things right with Carol. That bastard Sewell was still playing cock of the walk at Ryall, sleeping sound every night. And….
Well, there were just things that kept him hanging around. And maybe a small part of him hoped that somehow, against all odds and logic and reason, he could clear his name and have some semblance of a real life again. It was just a stupid pipe dream, he knew that, but…
What was that quote about hope? How it had feathers and perched in the soul?
He still dreamed often of birds.
The door to the dingy dive swung open and Murphy's third unnamed reason for staying close walked in. It always took him by surprise, how different she looked in the feminine dresses and shoes she wore when she made the trips out there. And the way her hair fell when it was down, how soft it seemed in comparison to her sharp features. And her stern expression. Tonight it was a green knee-length thing with little thin straps and a low front. White shoes with heels. It was hot as hell even after dark in August and Murphy had to admit he appreciated the view.
Not that he'd ever let her know that.
He watched her legs as she crossed the room, moving his gaze before she was close enough to tell where he was looking. She had nice legs and he couldn't stop himself from giving his eyes a taste. He lived like a priest these days and he didn't get a chance to look at many pretty girls. Hard as it was to think of Anne Cunningham as a 'pretty girl'.
She slid into seat across from him and immediately she scowled. Oh. He'd done it again, left her the side where her back would be to the door. On one had he thought she was being paranoid. On the other, he knew damn well how much she risked by coming here.
"Brought you a book." Her tone was flat as it usually was. She pulled a substantial plain covered volume out of her purse and slid it across the table to him, tapping the cover once. She had something for him.
"Thanks."
"I don't know if you like poetry, but I found it in a thrift store and…I guess I thought of you." She never looked directly at him. Her eyes always went somewhere over his shoulder or in front of him.
"That's really nice. You want a drink?" He always offered and the answer was always the same.
"No. You alright?"
"As can be expected, madame." He tipped his bourbon towards her with a tight smile and she rolled her eyes.
"I mean it."
"I'm keeping my head down and my nose clean, officer, cross my heart. I'm not about to get my ass discovered."
Anne just side-glanced at him as though she didn't quite believe him. Well, what reason did she have to? He hadn't exactly shown a history rife with good decision making. She tapped her fingers on the table between them and looked at the darkened window.
"I don't know how often I can keep coming here."
"You can stop whenever you want." Murphy shrugged. He hadn't exactly asked for her help, he'd just…never told her 'don't bother', either. Maybe he should've, maybe it would have been better for them both. She could just go back to work and move on properly, and he could head west.
"I don't want to stop!" Anne's eyes flashed and for a moment they met Murphy's. Grim determination and a myriad of unreadable things stormed within them and then she looked away, her lips a narrow line. Murphy cleared his throat and decided his hands were extremely interesting at the moment.
"I appreciate it," he managed. He knew she had her own reasons for working this, but…he liked to think at least part of it was for him. It was nice to think there was someone looking out for him, giving a damn about what happened to him. Even just a little. Even if it was her. He didn't look up at her, he couldn't bring himself to. The intensity in her eyes had shaken him, reminded him of times passed between them that were best left forgotten. He heard her clear her throat and the rustle of fabric.
"It's not for you, Pendleton. I've got to get back. I'll…be in touch."
He looked up as she rose, averting his eyes politely when her skirt rode up her thigh. She did have nice legs.
"Yeah. You know where to find me. Drive safe…" She was already walking away, oversized purse slung over her shoulder and little white heels tapping on the bar floor until she was gone.
Murphy knocked back the rest of his bourbon and grabbed the book she'd left. He slapped some money down on the counter and exited into the muggy night. She always said it wasn't for him. It was about her father, and justice. But if that were the case, why did she keep smuggling information to him? She could get justice for her father without involving Murphy at all. No matter what she wanted him to believe, she was Frank's daughter. She was a good person with a good heart, and she knew what this meant to him.
The walk back to his building was oppressive and unpleasant. The heat had him in poor spirits anyway and worrying about Anne and the danger she put herself in just to keep him in the loop wasn't helping. She'd seemed more nervous than usual tonight. Had someone followed her? She took extreme precautions - she used a car registered in someone else's name, dressed and wore her hair differently so as not to be recognized at a casual glance…. Damn it. Murphy wished he'd had the presence of mind to ask her if something had her riled up.
The apartment building he lived in was old and not in very good repair. It was rather desolate, always smelled like weed, and everyone kept to themselves. His own little unit was nothing remarkable but tonight the sight of it depressed him. There was hardly any furniture. There were next to no personal touches. Everything was military neat and hospital clean.
That was how it was in prison. Everything in its place, everything on a perfectly timed schedule. No deviation. It didn't matter that he wasn't in jail anymore, he couldn't shake those things. He still found himself using the bathroom at the exact same times, every day. Same with eating. When he made his bed he made it up the same exact way he'd been taught in prison. Nothing had really changed. This wasn't a home, it was just a two-room prison cell.
In a sudden burst of anger Murphy flung out his arm and swept the neat row of plastic cups and spice jars onto the floor. They rolled and clattered on the wooden floor. It made a good sound. Setting the book on the counter Murphy moved along the counter, pushing everything to the floor. Dish rack, coffee maker, bottles of soap…everything. He heard breaking glass and didn't care. He pulled his single pan from the hook on the wall and hurled it against the thrift-store couch that was the main piece of furniture in the whole dump.
Oddly enough, his little outburst had left him heaving and sweating. That was probably the heat, too, there was no air in here. Raking back his damp bangs, Murphy forced himself to turn away from the mess he'd made. Let it sit there. Let things be scattered all over the floor, broken glass and old coffee and paper towels…he could leave it there if he wanted to.
But he couldn't. Before he could open the book and find whatever Anne had felt the need to risk detection bringing him, he had to clean up the damned floor. His head would buzz and tingle unpleasantly if he didn't. Was it possible to develop OCD? He'd once read that it was the need to perform certain actions to dispel a feeling of doom. That was sure as hell what it felt like to him. He took care of the glass first, and felt a bit like an idiot for breaking his coffee pot. He'd have to get a new one now. The whole mess went in the trash. Cups and dish rack were righted and returned to their proper places. Frying pan was retrieved from the couch and re-hung on the wall. Spilled coffee - with bits of missed glass drifting in it - was mopped up and disposed of.
With that finished Murphy grabbed the book and a bottle of water from the fridge and retreated to his bedroom. It was a little more personal in here, with bed and dresser and bookshelf. Even a little round rug at the side of the bed, for in winter when the floors were cold. There were a few objects on top of Murphy's dresser - a hairbrush, deodorant, small signs of active life - and three of the bookshelf's four shelves were filled with paperback books, comics and magazines. On top of the bookshelf was Murphy's prized possession, in his hands thanks to Anne. A school picture of Charlie, aged seven years old, gap-toothed and grinning at the camera. Murphy smiled to it before sitting on the bed and finally turning his attention to the book.
He had a moment of surrealism when he realized it was a book of Emily Dickinson poems. She had been the one to write that thing about hope, hadn't she? How weird, that he'd been thinking of that just earlier before Anne walked in…
Maybe it was some sort of good omen.
The book opened to the hidden, xeroxed page inside. Murphy opened them eagerly, eyes scanning the text to get an idea of what it was.
An internal report on an 'incident' three weeks prior. Murphy had heard it on the radio, an inmate at Ryall beaten to death and found in a workshop closet. Funny how the place had a history with that. The official explanation had been gang violence. The report in Murphy's hand told a different story entirely.
"…was found by Officer Kyle Norman who noticed some sort of 'seepage' from underneath the door. Upon
opening the storage room Officer Norman stated 'it was impossible to see anything, but the smell was un-
godly.' Officer Norman immediately alerted his superior who discovered the body proper. It was impossible
to identify the victim on-site as the bodily damage was too extensive. Immediate cause was noted as one
of the machines in the workroom. Autopsy would reveal that victim was alive when forced into the machine.
Victim was identified prior to autopsy via headcount. The family has been notified and proper reports have
been issued to the media, print and television. The victim, Darryn Brown, has been involved in repeated
acts of gang violence, and this incident is being treated as such to the public. However, we are conducting
our own investigation, as I am sure I needn't remind everyone the reputation we are garnering here. While
inmate violence is certainly an issue for every incarceration facility, we here at Ryall have seen far too
much of it of late.
I don't know what's going on, but by God this has got to stop!"
It was signed the head of corrections, CC'ed to all supervising officers. Murphy wasn't surprised at all. There was still a monster stalking the halls of Ryall and it was a monster that lusted for blood. George Sewell was a sociopath with a badge and the thought of him both angered Murphy and scared him shitless. Sewell was a monster and they gave him power and a badge and the monster got fed and got bigger. And Murphy, who knew he had made some bad choices but didn't think he was a bad man…he had to give up everything and live in fear. It wasn't fair.
But…maybe the winds of change were in the air. This wasn't much, he knew that, but it was something. And it was well worth Anne taking the risk to bring it to him. He'd always hoped that Sewell would go too far, do too much, raise too many eyebrows.
"Hear that?" he asked the picture of his son, looking to it and grinning. "Things might just be looking up."
He folded the report back up and stuck it between the volumes in his bookshelf. He needed to figure out some other, safer way to stash his forbidden pages. There were only a few, but slowly they were starting to tell a terrible story. Murphy had thought he'd seen the worst of Sewell. He really couldn't imagine anything worse than what had gone down in those showers, the way the CO had so casually and brutally set to…
It made him shake just to think about. But worse than that were hints that what he had seen was only the tip of the iceberg. Just what the hell was Sewell doing in that place?
The first report was about an increase in inmate drug trafficking. Harder stuff was coming in and they didn't know from where. But there'd been some fights, some tainted contraband. A guard had been killed, a pretty young guy. New to Ryall and new to corrections and the 'accident' had been chalked up to inexperience. The 'accident' had ended with the twenty three year old's head beaten in against the bars of a holding cell.
The second report wasn't so much a report as a complaint from janitorial that cleaning supplies were coming up unaccounted for. But it added to the puzzle and slowly a picture was coming together. A picture that no one but he or Anne could possibly see. And she was at Wayside and he was in New Hampshire and neither one of them were close enough to really make much of a difference.
"Oh to hell with this."
Murphy didn't even know why he was so desperate to hold onto this shitty apartment and the meager scraps of a life he'd cobbled together for himself. Either Sewell's tower would come crashing down and he'd be cleared or Sewell would win and he didn't have anything anyway. Either way he couldn't just sit up here, twiddling his thumbs and waiting for Anne to smuggle him what scraps she was able to cobble together. It had been a year since he was reported dead and he knew how to keep his head down.
Maybe he was being stupid but at least he was doing something. He was feeling something. Passion was a thing long missing from his life. Even the passion of revenge had been a bitter and acrid thing, no joy to it. This wasn't about revenge. This was about justice and hell, the greatest people he'd ever known had been passionate about justice. Justice for Frank and justice for himself. Real justice, in a court of law and in the eyes of man and god alike.
Maybe he just needed something to live for.
Now, a cold shower to wash away the sweat and then bed. In the morning he'd pack up his clothes and his books and his picture of Charlie and head back towards Ryall. The prison might have been done with him, but he wasn't done with it.
Or it's wheeling and dealing devil.
