The good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket.
- William Wordsworth, 'The Excursion I'
Hand-to-mouth
They - meaning the old ones who once took him to their bosoms like he was their protege and showed him off at all the wild parties, ones like Philip and Alonso, who remembered the dark times when fire and brimstone was all the rage - they had a word for exceptions like George. A word for when the cull-on-sight rule didn't apply.
'You interfered, Mitchell.'
'Yeah, I did.' He crossed his arms and scuffed the ground at his toe, he couldn't keep still. They might have followed him, might already know where he lived; the kid he left back in his flat, fast asleep after wolfing...no, after tearing into three sandwiches without chewing, wasn't safe. He regretted not putting this off until the morning.
'They were attacking him in a public place,' he said. 'It could have gotten out of hand.'
'True, true... But you know they're within their rights to file a complaint? Maybe you should get yourself a lawyer.' Seth laughed at his own joke. 'Where's the animal now, then?'
'You don't need to worry about him.' He took a step closer, towering over Seth. He needed to make it clear, needed it to get back to Edgar.
Mitchell's eyes were hard and as he thought of the old ones, just for a second, he had the sensation of splitting away from his body, of turning back and seeing in the place where he used to be some thing that was too sharp, too real, like the shadows at the end of the very last corridor.
'He's harmless, all right?' he said, every word low and exact. 'He's under my protection.'
Seth stopped grinning, his lips tightened. 'Edgar is going to go spare,' he spat, 'when he hears about your pet.'
Mitchell let it slide. Seth didn't need to know that the old name for that was vassal.
24 May 2008