He took a drag from his cigarette, blowing smoke into the night. Or was it early morning by now? He had lost track of the time between glasses of whisky and forced smiles at the men crowded inside the Garrison. He watched as the smoke furled out into the still air and disappeared towards the clouds that obscured any chance of seeing the stars. He could hear men at the pub across the street laughing and talking, but he stayed in the darkness, leaned up against the wall.
The pub had become too crowded, too loud, and no loudness could compete with the noise inside his own mind. His mind always won, forcing his feet to find some quiet, some place where he could let the sound take over, beating inside his skull and pushing his thoughts to the side. A man like him could not afford to lose control of his thoughts, to forget himself. So sometimes, he had to let the noises win.
They were winning currently, as he continued to burn through his cigarette. He wished it was something stronger, but more whisky meant he would have to return to the crowd and opium meant hours of losing himself. So he stood, and he watched, and he waited for the noises to finish shredding their way through pieces of his mind so he could carry on with the numbness he grew to welcome. But then, a noise that was unfamiliar.
High heels on cobblestones, out of place in this neighborhood, but especially at the late hour he still had not determined precisely. A woman, shoved along by a man stumbling a few paces beside her. Another drag from his cigarette, and a sigh. Another whore off to her nightly work. The couple drew closer, and he noticed the woman's clothes were far too fine for a prostitute, far too fine for any woman in this place.
The man grabbed her arm and shoved her down to sit on a barrel outside the Garrison. "You're to sit right here until I get back out, you understand?"
A scoff from the woman that spurred the man to shove his hand into her curls and yank her head back to meet his eyes. "Did I not make myself clear enough?" He tightened his grip further, but she didn't flinch.
"Are you at least going to leave me with your gun? Or do you not care I'm a woman alone in the dark well past midnight."
So he had his answer, at least somewhat. It wasn't yet one in the morning, which meant he had at least another hour before men would start to leave the pub and he could return home to his opium freedom. A noise again, this time a barking laugh from the man. "You think I'm giving you a weapon? So you can turn it on me the second I walk towards the door?"
Silence from the woman seemed to be all the answer the man needed. He spit on the ground near the woman's feet. "It might be my lucky night if you became someone else's problem for a change, eh?"
He walked unsteadily towards the door, off in search of more alcohol he clearly did not need. Men like him always wanted more than what they had. He knew this, because he was one of those men himself. The woman sat on the barrel as though it was a throne, spine straight and chin high, watching into the blackness for what trouble could undoubtedly await a woman like her. After all, he was there.
And she knew it, apparently. "Are you going to keep lurking or are you going to do whatever it is you're waiting for? I can see the light of your cigarette."
He sighed and took a final drag, dropping it to the ground as he stepped into the street. He wasn't ready to go back to the yelling and the lights of the pub. There were still pieces of his mind the noises hadn't torn through yet and it wouldn't do to keep them waiting. He walked toward the woman anyway, appraising her as he went. She maintained eye contact as he stopped in front of her, never flinching. "And what is it you think I'm going to do?"
She smiled, a thin line that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Nothing, now."
He paused at that. The noises paused too. "Because you know Shelby men don't allow the mistreatment of whores in their territory?"
He wasn't sure why he had taunted her. It had been clear even through the dark haze she was too fine a woman to be a whore. Now up close, he could see he had been correct about her clothes and the way she carried herself, but there was no light behind her eyes. He was reminded of Lizzie after all. But the fire in her voice when she had snapped at the man who left her defenseless and when she challenged him in the shadows had seemed to burn its way into his brain, driving out the noise. She blinked up at him, unperturbed. "I don't know who the Shelby men are, and I'm not a whore."
He tilted back his head, appraising her. "You're American?"
She gave a slow nod, as though she was unsure of the answer herself. But her accent had given her away, and he looked past her inside the pub, considering. The noises started to creep back in, winding their way through caverns of his mind he tried so desperately to keep them away from. He knew he should just walk inside, go back to his brothers, but the quiet that seemed to surround her was too sweet to pass up.
"So you don't know the Shelbys, eh? If I were a betting man, I'd say your companion inside certainly does. He's at their pub, after all."
He followed her gaze as she looked over her shoulder towards the door. She had turned herself with her back against the wall the moment the man had gone inside. It seemed looking over her shoulder was a familiar action. He and his brothers often sat in a U-shape even inside their own pub, none of them willing to leave their backs exposed. The war and years of tough living in Small Heath had given them the instinct. What had given it to her?
She still said nothing, simply turned back to look him in the eyes. He missed the burn of her voice already.
"Given that I'm sure your companion knows of the Shelbys, he also knows where he's left you. Small Heath is no place for a woman at this hour."
He was rewarded with a chuckle that held no humor. "Didn't you hear from your place in the shadows? I'm sure he's hoping I'll be dead by the time he stumbles back out. Our arrangement doesn't require him to care for my wellbeing."
He watched as her eyes flashed for the briefest moment. A spark of life there in the blue that matched his own, but deeper. These were depths you could get lost in, the noises told him. He sighed inwardly. Only on dire occasions did the noises form words. It was only a matter of time before he was catatonic. Self-induced through opium, or frozen in an endless scream by the shredding chaos of the noises. The noises always got what they wanted, and that was him at their mercy. "And what is your arrangement?"
He didn't know why he asked. He didn't care. It had been a long time since he cared about anything, or anyone. Greta's death and the war and the noises had taken all the occupancy his mind had to offer. A long moment, then two. The noises were recreating air raid sirens, their personal favorite. It wasn't often the sirens could be heard from the tunnels, but with them had come the fear of a cave-in that would leave him trapped in endless night. Endless until his last breath, at least.
She was still looking at him, silent. He turned to walk inside, to find more whisky or to find his brothers and make his excuses, he hadn't decided which. Then the fire came again. "You really were wrong about me being a whore, you know. At least whores are paid for their troubles."
He looked at her, considering. She made a noise from deep in her chest, derision. "Don't pity me. You don't even know what you're pitying me for."
He laughed then, a real laugh. "I'm not a man that's been accused of pity often."
"And what about a man accused of being involved in business that's not his own?"
He considered laughing again. That part, at least, was true if you were to ask Ada or Polly. "I'm a man who makes things his business. You didn't answer my question."
She rolled her eyes and he marveled. He couldn't remember the last time someone had done that and kept their eyes. And yet here she sat, unafraid and unbothered, looking into the night as though there could maybe be something more dangerous than the man next to her. He supposed she didn't know that there was no way that was possible.
"I don't believe I have a reason to."
He reached into his pocket and then held up an object in the light. "You do if you want this."
She leaned forward to look at the small metal piece in his hand, the lantern flames turning her hair to gold. "What is it?"
With a flick of his wrist, the knife flashed open. She jerked back, nearly toppling the barrel. For the first time, she looked afraid. "So you're going to cut me if I don't tell you who the man I'm here with is?"
He wanted to tell her if he was going to cut her, the razor in his cap would have been a better option. Instead, he flicked the knife back closed. "No, I told you that you would tell me if you wanted this," he said, dangling it in front of her face. "Your companion decided to leave you unarmed and I was under the impression you were displeased."
Her composure regained, those blue eyes followed the pendulum of the knife swinging from his fingertips. "If you were listening, you would also be under the impression I wanted a weapon to use against him."
"I don't much care what you use it for. Though if you're going to be out here a while, you might need it for someone else."
She looked back to the darkness again. "Fine. Hand it here."
He tutted. "I'm not in the practice of handing things to someone who hasn't held up their end of a deal. It's just bad business, you see."
"Why do you care? Who am I to you? If you're so concerned about a poor defenseless woman like myself, I would think you would just hand it over with no conditions." She smirked as though they were old friends. Or maybe as though she knew he didn't really care at all.
"I told you, I'm a man who makes things my business. I want information, and you want to protect yourself. So, who is he?" He wasn't used to making bargains, not really. He was more comfortable taking what he wanted. It wasn't often he had to ask. Again, that smirk. Like she knew that too.
"Something tells me we're both better off without you knowing. Have a good night, sir." And she turned away from him, facing back out into the blackness. A dismissal. His hand twitched around the knife. No one dismissed him. Ever.
Why couldn't he walk inside? This woman was nothing to him. He supposed it was true what they said about Americans, the brash boldness and distinct lack of self-preservation. He truly believed her then that she didn't recognize him or the meaning of the cap he wore. The noises roared, as angry at the disrespect as he was.
"Do you not care if you die out here?" He could hear the cold edge of his own voice and was sure she could too.
"No." She said it simply, as matter of fact as if he had asked if she cared for a drink. Looking into his eyes again. Still sitting firm and unflinching.
Forcing his feet to move and telling the noises to fuck off, he walked to the door, his anger at this woman who didn't know her place and at himself for not being able to get a simple answer greater than his need for the quiet. As he yanked the door open, she sighed.
"I'm not afraid of death. I'm afraid of how slowly it may come, or what comes before it."
He knew the sentiment well. He was never afraid to die in the war. He had come close many times and never felt fear. He had only felt that cold dread creep in when he thought of tunnel collapses that would leave him alive for days, hungry and oxygen deprived, waiting for rescue that would never come. He always kept his loaded pistol in reach for those occasions.
"So answer my question and I'll give you this to protect yourself from the before."
She stood from her seat on the barrel and looked up into his eyes. "You're a dangerous man."
He smirked. "I thought you said you didn't know who I am?"
She took a step closer. "I don't have to know you to see you for what you are."
They simply looked into each other's eyes, a contest. He turned away for the final time to go back to his brothers. This woman was more trouble than she was worth. She broke first, as he knew she would.
"He's my husband, Mr. Shelby."
Without another word, he handed her the knife. As he pressed it into her palm, fire shot up his fingertips at the places where he brushed her skin, and he knew then the flames from her voice were barely heat at all compared to the burn that he was sure would one day consume him. The noises had retreated entirely.
It was quiet.