The fair was still dark and shabby but not as depressing to Gala as it had been at his last visit. No animals were outside to either greet or eat him, he counted that as a plus.
Peonie wagon door hung open und swung slightly in the breeze. Gala pulled his bag higher and jumped up the stairs, taking two at a time.
"I´ve got some coal for Dunce, now you can-", he stopped when he realized what he saw.
Peonie half lay, her head pressed on her table, a tall man pushing her down.
He only turned his head and Gala could have sworn. Korn. One of Murphys mobbys.
Korn also needed a moment to realize he knew the hunk blocking the doorway. His eyes widened with the realization. At least no grin from him.
But Gala grinned, let his bag drop and clawed the neck of Korns shirt. He tore him of Peonie who scrambled backwards and growled as Korn found the leverage to push him back.
Together they tumbled down the stairs, taking the door with them.
Korn was big, not as big as Gala, and by no case as mean as him, but Gala had just finished an exhausting shift and even for him that took a toll.
The wrestled like two trolls, unwieldy and cruel. Like two tectonic plates colliding.
It's a spectacular view, but don't you dare try to come between them.
Finally Gala gained enough freedom to ram his knee in Korn´s groin and was rewarded with a pained whine, followed by an angry roar.
Hands came for his head, but found nothing to hold on to on his shorn skull.
Gala rammed his head into Korn´s face feeling something break, hoping for the cheek, but being content with the nose.
Korn howled.
Gala staggered upwards, found his footing and kicked a still twisting Korn in the belly.
The other man curled inwards his arms over his head, trying to protect his already bloody face.
Gala kicked again and wished he his legs wouldn't be so sore from the loading. Damn barrels.
"Stop it!"
Confused Gala turned his head in the direction the scream had come from. Peoni stood in the gaping doorway, her neat braids ripped, slightly shaking. The sight did nothing to dim Galas rage.
"What?", he spat.
"You are killing him.", screeched Peonie.
Gala was tempted to say: And?
But Peonies next scream gave the answer to the unasked question:" What about Murphy?"
Gala growled, but stepped back.
Korn stayed on the ground still curled in on himself.
"What he wants?", seethed Gala. Not that he didn't had a pretty good idea.
"Protection for the fair."
"How much?", spew Gala.
Peonie looked at her feet.
"How much?", he howled, she jerked back, startled by his wrath. Still looking like she was to bold at any minute she mumbled an insane number.
Gala kicked Korn again.
"Gala!"
"Get up.", he growled at Korn.
Korn tried, but in the end, it was Galas Hand who hoisted him up. Gala had turned Korn´s arm nearly upside down to make him stand. The man would surly break it, if he tried to move. Something in Gala hoped for him to move. Gala turned, dragging the whimpering man with him.
"Say ´thank you Peoni for saving my cruddy life´.", he snarled in Korn´s ear.
"Thanks… for… thank you.", stammered Korn blood seeping down his chin, mixing with his saliva and dripping on his collar. He didn't seem to be able to close his jaw completely so that a steady and disgusting seepage oozed from the corner of his mouth.
Peoni stared at Gala with all the horror that his bestiality deserved.
Gala saw the fear in hear eyes and felt his blood burning. He didn't do fear. Never knew how to deal with it. He turned it straight into fury. Dimly he knew he had shown her something that she wouldn't be able to forget, but he couldn't stop himself. He knew he was deranged, but seeing it in Peonie was something else.
Without any more words he turned. He brought the lump of Korn to the outskirts of the fair and rammed him into the night.
Bellowing:" Don't come back. Think of the poor Cabby." after him.
Cabby had been a Lieutenant of Murphy's, the one in charge of getting Gala to and from his fights. One night Gala hadn't come, and poor Cabby had stayed gone till this day.
Gala watched the bend shape that had been Korn stumbling along and made the mistake to see his own reflection in a window.
An unhinged beast, still grinning, with a burst lip. Only his glasses saved him from his eyes, which he knew would be beaming, the animal rabid in his frenzy. He froze. Painfully pulling himself from that edge.
He couldn't go back to Peoni. Not like this.
He would try to come during light the next time. The last thing he wanted was for Peonie to be confronted with something like him in the dark.
The panic in her eyes flashed behind his temples. Dampening the beast. Making him feel sick.
Like so many times, when he lost sight of himself, he lost his reality.
It happened before, him coming back in an alley or at the harbour, sometimes at the snide bridge. After he met Dunce there he would find himself at that dingy old span more often than not.
He never knew where his feet would bring him when his brain blanked out.
After his little get away from the world he surfaced again staring into a light.
He had his head pressed back into the nape of his neck gazing straight up in a warm inviting glow.
It was yellow and flickered here and there. Like the little light was dancing.
It was nice. Peaceful. Watching that little light dance merrily. Gala felt like laughing. Not a single thought disturbed his wonder.
Then reality slammed into him like a ton of bricks.
He held on to the lamp post he had been staring an and tried to make sense of his surroundings. The surrounding houses didn't ring anything in him.
Why the hell did he come here?
It was a nice neighbourhood, nothing he would have any business in.
´Get it together´ he scolded himself.
Frantic looking up and down the street, he thought what a miracle it was that nobody had called the police.
One of the front doors opened and a broad figure stepped out. It started with purpose in Galas direction and Gala stiffed. Here it came.
"Gala?", called the figure.
Oh god, they knew his name.
He felt like he had slithered in a strange kind of not reality. White rabbits with watches as warning signs would have been nice.
The broad figure had made it into the light of Galas lamppost. His face wasn't angry, more a mix between concern and curiosity.
"Watson.", breathed Gala, he actually stumbled a little.
The Doctor held onto his elbow:" Easy my boy."
That made Gala smile. He was at least two and a halve heads taller than the good doctor.
"What happened?", asked Watson and Gala had to think for a second.
"What?", aske Gala.
The fight. Supplied his sluggish brain. He must have bruised up nicely by now and the twinge in his lip reminded him that he most likely wore a chin of blood.
"Accident.", was the first thing that he came up with.
"An accident?", asked the Doctor alarmed:" At the docks?"
"Sure.", said Gala:" Dangerous work.", he shrugged and paid for it.
The Doctor started to pull him to the house.
Baker street.
He had gone to the baker street.
Why the hell had he done that?
"Why haven´t you come in?", asked the Doctor, carefully leading him up the front steps.
"Don't know.", answered Gala truthfully:" All muddy.", he tipped at his head.
"Did you hit your head?"
Gala made a non-committing sound, that didn't seem to satisfy the doctor.
"What hit you on the head?", asked the Doctor a little sharper.
"Barrel?", Gala tried.
"A Barrel hit you on the head?", the Doctor sounded near panic now.
"Not really.", said Gala:" Just kind of nabbed me?", he spun his story while the Doctor manoeuvred him up the wooden staircase and into the warm living room:" Was a pile and they started to roll and I stood to close."
"Dear God.", said Watson:" Sit down will you?"
Gala settled on one of the wood chairs that spoke from skilled craftmanship.
The Doctor pulled a chair closer to him and sat opposite Gala.
Gala tried his best to look not like he had been ready to kill a man mere hours ago, and somehow the doctor did not see it on him.
"May I remove the glasses?", asked the doctor.
Gala grunted an answer.
The hands of the physician where gentle. He had to pull the little wire, that circled Galas ears to loosen the glasses. Gala had made them specially to stay on no matter what. The only time he removed them was right before a fight. A real fight. Not a quarrel with a Henchmen like Korn.
They came off easily. The doctor folded them and carefully laid them on the nearby table.
"Oh", was all he said when Gala squinted at him out of two different coloured eyes. One a dark blue, one nearly white and so washed out that it wasn´t easy to determine where the iris ended.
"Are they sensible to light?", asked the man kindly.
"Sure.", Gala answered. He wouldn´t tell this man, that his eyes made his pokerfaced so bad it nearly cost a friend his life. He normally said it was to disguise him. What a load of crap.
That was nearly as useful as trying to hide a horse behind a teapot. But no one was dumb enough to point that out. Or they thought he was dumb enough to actually believe it.
But even without the glasses and with the worst poker face ever known to man, the doctor did not back off.
He tutted unhappy and started to dab Galas face with something on a cotton ball but he showed no sign of fear.
He would learn early enough. They all did. Thought Gala and closed his discoloured eyes.
"Stay with me a little longer.", demanded the doctor who had turned towards Galas hands and wrists. "You should have waited a day before starting to work.", said Watson, and Gala, honest to god, laughed.
"What´s so funny?", asked the doctor.
Gala didn't answer. How should he explain to this man that he had fought with a split skull?
Well… maybe he shouldn't have done that. The headaches that knocked him out once in a while had started after this clash.
The doctor eyed him attentive:" When have you eaten last?" After Galas intent silence he said:" It was breakfast, wasn't it?"
Gala stayed silent.
The doctor signed and bestirred himself:" You crawl over to the fire, I see if there is something eatable to find in Mrs. Hudsons kitchen."
Half an hour later Gala lay in his cot in the former pantry, his stomach full of bread, cheese, pickled onions and three cups of hot tea.
He felt strange, in a way he never had. People and faces dancing in his head.
Mrs. Hudson had put a warm brick in his bed. He had come home a lot later than she anticipated, but it still held enough heat for Gala to bask in it.
He could feel his feet thaw.
She also must have found a way to heat the chamber, for it was a lot warmer than it had been yesterday. What a strange life to live.
With that thought he drifted off.
He woke up with a start after what could only have been a couple of hours to a timid knock on his door.
"Mr. Gala?", asked a voice very unsure of itself:" I´m sorry to disturb you, but the good doctor told me to have an eye on you. Are you all right? He said something about an accident?"
The poor Mrs. Hudson.
´Mr. Gala` heaved himself out of bed and stumbled to the door. He opened it carefully and tried his best to look halfway decent.
"Oh dear.", was Mrs. Hudson´s reaction. She caught herself quickly and said:" There is still breakfast upstairs if you´d like some."
"Sure.", said Gala.
She lingered for a moment longer and looked like she wanted to say more, but thought better of it and left. Gala watched her leave, her starched skirts rustling softly, and Gala longed. In another live there had been stories. Stories of little boys and adventures and kind, affectionate woman, of homes where the beds were warm and the tables filled.
Perhaps it was the maelstrom of emotions the last days had been for him, or the way she looked so much like the woman he always pictured in these forbidden dreams. The dreams he kept to himself and nurtured while he slept in the gutter and ran with the scum. Fantasies of one of these women who would see him and take him with her. It had been embarrassing dreams, and it had been painful to be brought back from them, but he had needed them so badly.
And now Mrs. Hudson looked so much like the woman in his dreams, and the tea and the coat… with a start he caught himself before he could follow her into her little kitchen.
He had forgotten that he had been one of these little boys. He had forgotten the longing and how sharp it could be.
It was ridiculous, he scolded himself. Utterly ridiculous. You can´t kill a man in the evening and want a cookie in the morning.
The thought stung. His memories of the evening were fuzzy and vague. With a plate of ice on his chest he frenetically tried to find out if he killed Korn. He remembered the fury. Remembered himself kicking and… Peonie had screamed. Why. Horror on her face. Oh shit. He had killed him. In front of her. He couldn't breath with the ice on his chest. It seemed to seep into him. Made him lose the feeling in his arms and simultaneously made him hyperaware of the hairs there standing on end.
Would Peonie report him to the police?
How long would it take for Holmes to know it?
Say ´thank you Peoni for saving my cruddy life´.
Wait.
He had said that.
He had brought Korn from the fair. He had seen him stumble away.
Galas legs buckled. He dropped down in the doorway to his little pantry. His knees bending to fit in the casing. He did nothing to cushion the fall, just thud on the cold ceramics of the tiles.
Gasping he put his hands on the scars of his head. He hadn't killed him.
The smooth lines in his scalp soothed his nerves.
He rubbed them like he did so many times before. Grounding himself.
He did not kill tonight.
There was toast and tea and Holmes, but no Watson.
The doctor seemed to have been called early to one of his patients, leaving strict instructions for Mrs. Hudson.
"More tea?", asked Holmes and looked rather worried. It was a strange expression on him. Not that he wouldn't feel for other people. Gala was pretty sure the strange man had compassion. But Holmes was so much a man of action that worrying seemed out of character for him.
"Sure.", said Gala, he took another toast as well.
"Here.", said Holmes and handed him a key.
"What?"
"So, you don't have to keep stealing Watsons. The poor man started to doubt his own mind."
Gala said nothing, but he took the key.
Holmes didn't ask about his work at the docks. He probably knew more about it than Gala did.
The man was eerie.
"Watson told me to ask you, not to work today.", said Holmes.
"What do you say?", asked Gala.
"I say, do as you please. But, I expect to require your services for a longer period of time, please keep that in mind."
Don't fall of a footbridge and die. Translated Gala for himself.
"I will."
"Excellent.", said Holmes. He excused himself not long after and left Gala at the table. He should steal the silverware and the carpets, he mused, still chewing.
Gala came to the docks late and lucked out completely by finding Bucks crew still standing in front of the distributor's bureau, waiting until Buck would find them work.
There wasn't a ship in the East India Dock every day, even if Buck had maintained the monopoly for his crew to work there, and even if the damn company had taken over a couple of country's to still Britain`s hunger.
Some of the men greeted Gala, they had seen him yesterday and were more then happy to have someone with them who´s sole presence would keep the really heavy lifting off their backs.
Most of the crew still kept their distance. Gala didn't mind.
They ended up in the Lavender Docks, which was slightly better than shovelling horseshit, but only slightly.
The Lavender Docks were a little outside of the main district, which wasn't remarkable if one saw the cargo the run-down frigates held.
Mordants, so acrid you could smell them through the barrels, carcasses of horses, halve rotten and putrid, piss and dog shit for the tanner themes down. Rubbish and refuse, crud, grime and dreck that had been scratched of the streets and sometimes lived on them as well, the foam on the bubbling filth that was London.
Five of Bucks men flatly refused to work. They rather took a day without pay then a live time of jaundice.
Gala stayed. He had worked in worse conditions, but what really made him stay was Homes voice and the shaking body hid away in an icy wagon, in dear need of coal.
They worked for the better part of the day and Gala had just decided that Holmes could go and do unspeakable things to himself.
They had draped a tarpaulin over his head and shoulders – at least that – and made him drag horse carcasses up the strake. The stench already made him throw up twice, which hadn't done his head any favours.
He let the half rotten cadaver plummet on the deck and stumbled two steps to the railings to hold onto it. He tried his best to force the bile back down his throat, spitting in the waves beneath him.
"New guy!", that was him. He looked up and saw Buck waving at him from the pier:" Get over here."
Gala tried to breath as flat as possible, while he balanced over the plank, pulling the sodden cloth from his back.
"Yeah?", he asked as he reached his gaffer, who had been standing there with a guy in a ridiculous brown bowler.
As soon as Gala was near enough to be smelled the bowler man took a step back. Gala grinned.
"He needs help with a pen in his stock. Gets some – cattle you said?", Buck asked the brown bowler, who nodded.
"Go help him with that."
Gala nodded and trotted after the bowler into a nearby storage hall. It was, like everything at Lavender Docks in dire need of reconstruction, and rubbish piled high in the corners of the big room. Rustling announced the presence of rats.
Gala waited for the man to tell him to remove some of the debris, but instead the bowler went farer into the hall, and vanished.
Gala followed and found stairs leading down in a dimly lid cellar.
He growled as he followed Bowler.
The cellar was nearly as big as the stock on top of it, but a lot neater.
"Parts are over there. We use them regularly. Needs three man to move them, but I´m short of help today. I´ll pay you the same as Buck does.", Bowler had stepped in the middle of the room and showed by going in a circle where Gala should install the pen.
"Twelve steps this way, twelve this. Hammer and Nails are over there. I need it done by nightfall."
Gala peered in the halve dimmer, he saw the pen sides, made of rough wood. They were more like a wall then a fence. The planks being hammered close to each other not leaving any room between them. He went over to them, heaving one up experimentally. It was heavy, but he would manage.
"Any problems?", asked Bowler.
Gala shook his head.
"When you´re ready, I´ll be in the office.", with that Bowler left.
Gala started dragging the pen walls in the middle of the room.
He hoped Bowler would take him for stupid.
Daft enough that Gala wouldn't notice he was being used to built a ring for illegal fighting.
Hammering nails in the worn wood he tried not to see the dark specs littering the planks.
Blood left very unique traces on wood.
Gala wrenched another wall in the centre and tried not to think of the times he stood leaning against walls very similar to these ones. He had stared at the stains on the wood to not watch what they dragged out of the pit.
It had never been only one fight in an evening. Always a couple of idiots. Some trying to prove themselves, some being taught a lesson, and sometimes, it had been plain punishment.
Gala had never been one to bask in the attention of the crowed.
He hit the nail harder, made it splinter some of the wood, to drown out the noise in his head.
There had always been a crowed. Not only the faces you would anticipate. Between the broken noses and bared teeth there had always been clean shaved and good clothed patrons.
Woman in evening dresses and man in white ties. It was a thrill for the better off.
Coming to see the beasts of men.
They had hollered and hooted as if seeing a man being dismembered was a lovely way to spent an evening.
Sometimes, depending on what Murphy had made him drink beforehand, Gala would roar back. Primeval like a beast, trying to make them shut up. But that only made them cheer.
One of the women had etched herself permanently in Galas memories.
She had stood out so starkly in his muddled brain.
So pale and delicate, her hair pinned back in an extravagant fashion, pearls dangling form her ears.
She had worn a green dress, shiny in the unsteady light of the petroleum lamps.
Her face had been twisted into a grimace, sneering, her perfect red lips parted, her eyes gleaming with bloodlust. She had screamed for guts.
Her companion, a smartly dressed man with a silk shawl, had laughed, not at all repelled by the wailing creature next to him.
Gala did not remember anything else from that particular night. He was happier for it.
He concentrated on the hammer.
Only the next nail mattered.
He would not think about the bodies he left behind.
The man who had tried to climb the pen walls only for Gala to throw him over it with such force that he … no.
He would not got there.
Another Nail.
It was over.
He wouldn't go back.
Another Nail.
It has been the eyes.
Always these damned eyes.
Equally how tough they acted, the eyes always betrayed them.
Another Nail.
Like the boy. Couldn't have been older than fourteen.
He had tried to look the part.
Had ruffled himself like a roaster.
Didn't do him much good.
Gala always saw this fight, like he was a hitchhiker in his own body.
Saw fits smash the too small body.
Tried to stop them.
Why couldn't he stop them?
Who would do something like that?
What kind of creature.
The boy went down quickly.
Laid motionless.
The crowed had been deathly silent.
But Gala couldn't hear them.
He had stared down hat the body.
Hammering against the inside of his brain, screaming to pick him up. Bring him away. Get help.
A strike against his neck shocked him out if his stupor.
Murphy.
He always used a stick during his fights. Not coming near enough until he was sure Gala wouldn't attack anymore.
Gala growled, and a hand fisted in his long hair. Tore him around.
´You did well my little monster.´
Pain brought him back to the cellar. He had hit his hand while trying to nail the last gap shut.
Gala was panting. Shaking so bad that he not only missed the nail but the wood too.
The fourth time today bile climbed up his gullet.
He let the hammer drop, grapping the pin rails with both hands.
This got old fast.
He sucked the stale air trough his nose. Trying desperately to calm down.
Gala felt the wood splinter under his hands and he quickly let go of the rail, stumbling a couple steps back.
´You can´t hurt a monster.´
Murphy laughter ringing in his ear.
´Look at him. Not a thought behind that eyes.´, more laughter:´ good for only one thing, aren't you?´ the last words were said nearly endearing, the hand in his hair tugging for good measures.
Gala sat down where he stood, the world spinning on an axis.
His hands scrubbed over his head, felt stubble. He would shave it, as soon as possible, this evening.
Like he did the second he got away from Cabby.
Had used the knife he had taken from the Lieutenant, just scrubbed his head until the fur came off. Had cut himself a couple of times, and the scares had been tricky, but he had managed. Had needed to get it off so bad.
Gala traced the lines of the scars. Trying not to think.
His vison stuttered, stopped and started, sometimes showing things to close, then not letting him see at all.
This was bad.
As bad as it hadn't been in a long time.
He let himself lie down, hoping for the vertigo to retreat.
It didn't but the nausea eased.
It took him too long to control his breathing, and when he finally could he reeked not only of dead horse but of cold sweat.
Bowler would come back soon.
He needed to get up.
Grunting he rolled on his side.
Keeping a steel grip on his breathing.
Two more nails.
The boys body laid next to him in the ring. Gala stared at the spectre. Could see the first fizz of what could have become a beard. The boy looked at him, not blinking, unseeing.
Gala lost time.
"Tomorrow at the East India again.", was the first thing he remembered. Buck. Buck talked to him.
He grunted something. It seemed enough.
Something crackled in his fist. Money.
Buck walked away, stopped to call over his shoulder:" And wash up. I can smell you from here!", laughter broke out around him.
Gala tried a grin. Tested his legs.
One step.
Another one.
He tried to find out where to.
"Whew, you reek.", the voice was disgusted but not unkind.
Gala tried to force himself back to the here and now.
"I paid Anni, you owe me.", continued the Voice.
Gala grunted something.
Another step.
"Gala?", curiosity.
Gala grunted again, hoping to lose the voice with enough dismissal.
Something touched his arm, and Gala nearly shoved Vince into a couple of cases.
Stopped himself just in time.
Vince stood unmoving, with a puzzled look on his face.
Gala wasn't surprised. Not really. Vince had a way of finding him. Had done it all the time when they worked together. It must be easy to get people to tell you things if you looked like Vince, with his blond locks and rosy cheeks. Always charming, even when tired and covered in the blackest of coal dust, that only made his eyes look even brighter.
What made Gala odious, made Vince captivating.
"Gala?", the man in question asked tentative.
"Later.", growled Gala. He tried another step. His legs somehow not entirely attached to his body. It didn't work well.
"Wait.", the hand on his arm was back:" What´s going on?"
"Nothing."
"Like hell.", Vince sounded angry:" What happened?"
Gala didn't answer.
He remembered the money in his hand. He held it out to Vince:" How much?", perhaps he could get rid of him in this way.
"Forget the bloody money.", now Vince sounded furious.
Gala wondered what he did wrong this time. Hadn´t Vince talked about money before?
"Come, you big ox.", Vince grip on his arm tightened:" We´ll get you cleaned up."
Gala resisted as Vince tried to steer him.
"What?", asked Vince.
Gala didn't answer. He didn't know what was going on. But he wouldn't go. He needed to … what did he need to do?
Vince stepped closer and couldn't suppress a grimace at the stench:" It´s me. See?", he waited till Galas eyes found his:" We´ll go to a well. We´ll clean you up. Nothing more. Ok?"
Gala blinked.
"Hell.", Vince, scrubbed a hand through his blond locks:" Come on. You´ll feel better.", he tugged on Galas arm again, and this time Gala walked.
Vince made him scrub himself in the icy water of the well. The patrons, who had shown up to get their water for the day, scattered as the foul giant overtook the handle pump.
It was like a hard slap to the face, and it was exactly what Gala needed.
He had been clever enough to remove Mrs. Hudson's blanket coat before he started dragging dead horses, and he slipped it now on after he removed the soiled shirt. His trousers still smelled, but it was bearable. Gala cherished the feeling of the thick wool on his clean skin.
"Thanks.", he growled in Vince direction, he blonde man still pumping, so Gala could rinse the last of the gunk from the stubbles of his head.
"Look who´s back.", Vince smirked.
Gala shook his head like a dog and water flew in every direction.
Vince waited for him to straighten up before he seized him with a look.
"Care to tell me what went down?"
Gala shrugged:" Long night, long day."
"Dullard.", retorted Vince. He jumped from the well rim and made it to Galas side before they left the clearing:" You look terrible."
"But I´m clean."
"You´re cleaner. There is a difference."
"How much did Anni want?", asked Gala.
"I drank the Grog."
"I pushed you in the harbour.", pointed Gala out.
"You´re right."
"So?"
"You pay the next time. And I shove you in the harbour.", finalized Vince.
Gala snorted.
They walked in silence.
Finally, Vince asked: "You got somewhere to sleep?"
A day full of surprises, thought Gala.
"Yeah"
"Don't take the piss out of me.", growled Vince:" If this is pride and I find you frozen to a wall, I swear.."
Gala couldn't comprehend why this was even a matter to discus for Vince.
He had worked with him, sure. Since they were old enough to lift a barrel. Vince would scurry in the small holds, where Gala couldn't reach, and Gala had been there to pull him out if he got trapped. Sure, the blond man had stuck to him like tar, but only because Gala had been a good thing to hide behind.
Gala hadn't mind, Vince was good company, even if he couldn't understand most of the things the blond did. But Gala had always assumed that if he someday wouldn't show up anymore, Vince would find a new brawler. That was what Gala assumed the blond had done the moment he got sacked.
The docks were erratic, you met people, you left people.
"I manage.", growled Gala. It was still early. He could get coal and to Dunce before it got to dark, and Peonie would shoot him out of precaution.
Vince sighed:" I do worry about you."
"You shouldn't."
That made Vince look like Gala had slapped his face.
The hurt in the mans eyes caught Gala by surprise, just like the way he quickly diverted his gaze, let his head fall forwards, so that his locks hid his face.
"Well I´ll… I´ll be on my way then….", the blond one stammered.
Gala tried to find something to say, but Vince vanished in the harbour throng before anything mad it out of his mouth.
How is your day going? And how do you like the story so far?