Sandor.
The day was dragging, and his bones were beginning to feel the ache. In the calm dark of the corner, he took refuge and lit his last cigarette, briefly illuminated in the flare of the lighter. The radio was playing the same song that is always did, although in all honestly, he could no longer tell the difference. That latin music all seemed the same to him. The air was hot and still, and the black outside crept in through the broken windows, filling the bleak little workshop with shadows. The production line seemed much less jovial tonight; perhaps the heat was getting to them too. As usual, Sandor could not understand what they said, but their chatter was restricted to a few muttered sentences and brief little interludes. The tinny music played on, echoing eerily around the bare concrete of the room.
He could see the girl called Esther from across the table. She worked like the rest of them, hands moving in dull repetition, unsmiling, across the piles of bright white powder. Her skin glistened with a slight wet sheen, defining the thinness of her arms. Her hair, still with its familiar curl, sat limp in a pony tail and there were dark circles under her eyes. She could have sat unnoticed, in amongst the line, were it not that he had searched for her. He wasn't sure why he had. Looking at her made him sad, and so he stopped.
Jaime was at the other end of the room, talking loudly with one of the other black suited men. Sandor continued to smoke his cigarette and watch quietly, hoping he hadn't yet been seen. He had no desire to talk much tonight, let alone summon the necessary cordiality needed for that particular conversation. He was finding it more difficult to face the man these days. He told himself that it was the lies he cloaked himself in; those stupid revolvers and the silk ties, that unchecked arrogance and the easy way in which he had let the rumours shape who he was. He wore it so casually. Sandor prided himself in seeing the lie in everyone – never had he seen someone revel in theirs so gloriously.
The other reason, small and inconsistent as it may be, was that he was starting to remind him far too much of her. It angered him to think that and yet it remained, as small and as sharp as a mosquito bite, and the urge to scratch it out was relentless. He thought it would have been easier being sober, when he was more in control of his mind and the places it drifted to. But the sweet dullness of alcohol was one of the only things that ended up washing it away – if only for an hour or two. The anger would never leave though. He never expected that it would.
It had been in the foggy half-light of a hangover that he had had his epiphany. It was a simple idea, and yet he still baulked at seeing it through. Nevertheless, the notion had taken root and he had determined that tonight he would seek out Tywin and tell him he must resign his post. There were plenty of other men who could trail after the woman. He would give up the flat and the microwave and the cell phone. He would give it all up to go back to the old places he knew, to a life made simple and bloody and raw once again.
There were noises from the far end, where Jaime still stood; voices, a door opening, movement in the corridor. He paid it no attention until they started to shout. He dropped the cigarette and stood, not leaving the shadows yet, still watching. The production line was already beginning to twitch, glancing at the guards nervously. Jaime was on his cell, barking orders. Someone ran up the stairs with his face flushed and said something Sandor could not quite catch. Jaime looked at him then, and called him over with a wave of the hand. His expression was stern.
'Men, down stairs. Armed I think. Not ours.'
He had his guns out, one in each hand. Suddenly they did not seem quite so ridiculous. Sandor took his out too and nodded his understanding. Behind him, the workers were beginning to scatter. Not all of them spoke English, which was adding to their panic. Jaime was shouting instructions but they were not listening. The un-bagged powder was getting knocked about, filling the air with thin, white plumes. Jaime shook his head with a growl.
'Get down there. Take Crakehall and Brax with you and head them off before they reach us. Fuck knows what I'll do with this lot if they get up here.'
When he moved in to the corridor, he could immediately hear the noise from the stairwell. Shouts rang up from the blackness, echoing from the stone walls. Footsteps fell heavy on the concrete. He did not recognise the voices, but he knew they were in the building.
The old familiar rush washed over him - a calmness that settled deep in to his bones, making his muscles relax and his mind clear. His limbs bent to his will without hesitation, moving to a well recalled memory. The thud of his pulse sounded steady in his ears, and the adrenaline made his mouth taste copper. It was the threat of something visceral, hanging just out of reach. The promise of blood set his teeth on edge. So many of them, all rushing up to meet him. All rushing to die. The world outside was a storm – here, all was still. It was the only time he felt ok.
Gun fire blasted from the floor below, scattering the stairwell with flashes of light. Shouts became screams and for the shortest of moments, he thought about the little boy with a lopsided smile who he hoped was not home.
The mob came upstairs. He couldn't tell one from the other; they were just faces to aim at. In a rain of bullets, they exploded from the end of the corridor as one – a black, seething mass coming towards them, tearing the air apart. He ducked, took cover, turned, fired and fired again, saw the red spray. The stillness remained. He could see their ragged mouths moving but no sound came from them. The only thing in his world was the slow, steady heart beat in his ears and the metal tang on his tongue. He reloaded once, twice, a third time, moving seamlessly from one to the next without hesitation. The red kept coming, but so did they. There seemed to be hundreds of them now, a torrent across the floor. They had gotten behind him somehow. He could hear Jaime shouting somewhere, but could not turn to see. One of them got close enough for its stench to fill his nostrils. He battered down on to it with the butt of his gun until his hand was wet and sticky. The tang in his mouth bloomed, became a trickle, became a flood. Some far off part of him opened its eyes and roared. The red kept coming.