Descent - 1/16
Galway, 1750
A drunken shout went up. Momentarily distracted, she imagined all eyes were on her, and the shadow of the shame she should have felt threatened to spoil her fun.
Clara opened her eyes, craned her neck and saw a table fallen on its side, and several men pinned underneath. She could see the underside of the table (clean and matt compared to the slick grime on top) and the men's legs waving helplessly. Those in the tavern that were capable of standing ambled over to help lift it, or stand by and give their view of how it could be lifted, or explain why it was best it shouldn't ever be lifted, given the profanity of those trapped and how they deserved no better.
But there was no shame. Instead, she felt a heady mixture of euphoric emotions: excitement from the chase, lust possessing her like a demon; joy at the prospect of sexual fulfilment, burning pride that of all the girls in the room that night, he had chosen her, a barmaid with no money and no connections, with hardly any decent clothes to speak of, as his companion.
No-one was paying her any mind, so she closed her eyes again, and let him sink his nose into her ruddy hair, kiss her neck, tug at her clothing with his gentleman's hands and press her so close against the wall, that his body, being made of harder stuff, made an imprint in her own softer flesh.
Since first laying her eyes upon him, she knew she wanted this. Clara had no illusions about what sort of a man he was; his reputation was legendary in Galway. But there was something about him. The way he moved, like he hadn't a care in the world. The particular tilt of his smile, that brought blood to her cheeks. The exuberance of his spirits, that dragged her from her worries and convinced her that life must hold some joy, somewhere, if he was in it.
Life certainly held none for her, not 'til now. She'd been raised by the parish in London after being abandoned by her mother. The parish didn't feel the necessity of educating her, but thought it highly desirable she should work and minimise the expense they incurred providing for her food and clothing. Then, when she was still young enough to be at school, the parish found the limit of its generosity and cast her out to the world.
She rapidly settled with the first man who showed her the affection she craved. He was Irish, and she loved the way he talked, his yarns and his teasing humour. She compared them to her own silence, lack of experience and serious timidity, and was star-struck. When he went back to Galway, she went with him.
She was captivated, but she wasn't stupid, and she soon saw that in his own land he was a different creature. It was the difference between meeting someone after church and visiting them, unannounced, at home. What seemed precious on the streets of London was commonplace here. Moreover, she saw older versions of him in taverns everywhere, and didn't like her prospects. When he died in a brawl a year later, she was almost relieved. But she was also stranded - she had no money for a passage home. Without him, she felt like a stranger in a strange country. Working for that journey became her only concern.
Until she first saw Liam, and was star-struck again.
A laugh bubbled out of her as she was pulled after him out of the tavern's back door. She gave a last look back at the drunken mob that made her life a misery six nights out of seven. To hell with the lot of them.
Tonight, she would have some fun. Tomorrow would never come.
Los Angeles, 2001
A file slapped onto Angel's desk, breaking into his reverie. He raised his head slowly, expecting to see Cordy, Wesley or Gunn standing over him. Instead he found a slim, denimed thigh perched on his desk. His eyes travelled up the slate grey jacket, over the first wisps of bleached blond hair, to a face he never expected to see again.
"Angel."
"Kate... how are you?"
"I'm getting by."
"What are you... are you back in LA?"
"For the time being."
Angel looked at the file. It was made of plain buff card, with a serial number stamped in deep red ink on the top, right hand corner. A circular stain marked the spot where a coffee mug had been carelessly placed. It looked like it had come straight from a police station.
"You're back on the force?"
She pushed the file a little further under his nose. "Thought this might interest you."
Angel tried not to let out a weary sigh. It was Friday night. The past week had been rough; more than the usual complement of demons, vampires and assorted lowlifes had rolled up at their door, attacked them in the street or been sought in their hiding places and successfully vanquished. He quickly recovered from the bodily pain, but mentally, he was sorely in need of a day of peace and reflection. As for his team... they and their bruises had disappeared hours ago.
He flipped open the file. It was stuffed with images. An assortment of irregularly sized photographs, some clearly taken by LAPD photographers, some no more than snapshots, some torn from newspapers.
"The trouble with pictures," he reflected wryly to himself, "is if you get enough of them, they always tell a story."
This particular collection told a story he didn't particularly want to know, expressed haltingly, in reverse. The insides of a taxicab, covered in dark stains. Close-ups of the upholstery revealing splattered blood.
"Machine-gun fire?"
"Possibly. There isn't... I haven't seen the ballistics report."
A monochrome image of a crumpled body, clothes and skin bathed in black. Pathologist's photographs, including close-ups of wounds torn into flesh (a helpful ruler, held by a latex-gloved hand, fixed their dimensions), and a death-mask, the pale face of a young man in his twenties, brown hair, a solid jaw, regular features dominated by a large brow.
"Who is he?"
"I don't know yet."
The last of the bunch looked like a snap taken on holiday. It showed an unidentifiable beach, with blue waters stretching behind. The dead man wore trunks, and looked straight into the lens. His skin was a golden tan, his teeth white and regular, and his hair crusted into spikes by the salt and sand. There was no-one else in the shot, but the ease of his posture and the way he smiled made you feel that he knew the person holding the camera. Possibly intimately. Angel felt an irrational pang of jealousy, and pushed the file away.
"So?"
"You missed one."
Kate pushed the images about, and they slithered over each other on his desk. Sunlit sands disappeared under the horror of the murder scene and the sterile grey of the lab. Buried at the heart of the pile was a police photograph of the man's possessions. A wallet. A packet of cigarettes and a disposable lighter. A small electronic device marked "Sony" with tiny, in-ear headphones attached. A passport. A collection of items taken from the wallet, coins, Amex, Visa and assorted business cards, one of them familiar.
"I never did figure out what that was. Did we decide on a lobster?"
Angel gave her a look and she smiled. "Anyways... he was killed last week, just a block away. It looks like he was on his way to see you."