A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) (12 page)

Once Muriel had changed Harold’s bandages with some rags
from her own sheets - with an expertise that Harold found surprising he said his goodbyes. He was scared of William or the guard finding
him but he needed to check on his father, to warn him before O'Brien’s
thugs got to him. There was an uncomfortable moment as Harold left
with Muriel standing just inches apart. Harold guessed that because of
the way she earned her living, she had no fear of closeness, but the feel
of her warmth emanating from her stirred something in Harold he
wasn’t sure how to deal with. Harold looked down to say goodbye and
felt his lip trembling for the touch of hers. He did not give in as he was
not sure if she felt the same. He didn’t know how she could, they had
only met a few hours before, and he felt stupid for feeling the way he
did. Maybe her kindness was just a ploy to score more money from
him. Harold hoped not, but it would still have been improper to kiss
her, they had only just met and Harold was suffering from shock. As
Harold left Muriel’s home the fresh air outside, bitterly cold as it was,
faded the image of her soft lips from his mind and helped him make
sense of everything that had happened and allowed him to prioritise.

The walk to his father’s was a hard one, his nerves on edge as
Harold watched every shadow on the way, worried that it would be
either a constable ready to arrest him or William again come to kill him.
Harold didn’t know why, maybe it was some kind of intuition but he
was sure after seemingly escaping William’s path of destruction for a
second time he would see him again. If Harold avoided either of those
fates there was still the chance that the O’Brien’s would come to kill
him. The odds of him making it home safely were not in his favour as
Harold ducked into an alley between Homefield Avenue and East
Street. Harold watched, hidden, as two officers chased down an orphan
who had pick-pocketed some well dressed man who was still shouting
loudly from the other end of the Avenue. It was a welcome distraction
from his own mind, for someone who had always loved day dreaming
Harold wanted to keep his mind occupied on anything but his thoughts
at that moment. Other than watching the orphan give the guard the slip
it was an uneventful journey as Harold passed the many shades of
white and brown that made up the north end of Neeskmouth’s
buildings.

It was not until Harold stood outside his father’s house, with
his hand quaking above the knocker, that he could relax even slightly.
Harold knew his parents would either be worried sick about his
disappearance, or maddened by the unattended shop. In a twisted way
Harold presumed he was trying to find some light heartedness in all the
darkness, but it now seemed amusing to him that a few nights ago
getting that order ready had seemed so important. Now Harold could
not care less about making clothes. He dropped the fish shaped
knocker with a gentle clap and waited for an answer. When none came,
Harold felt the panic rise inside him. What if the O’Brien’s had arrived
before him? His parents may lay dead inside his father’s home.
Thinking of his parent’s death sent a sudden image of the guard
inspector at the roadside flashing across his mind. It was followed by a
cold numbness that stole his breath, it left him feeling faint. It was the
first time Harold had seen someone die. In only a few days, Harold had
been present while everyone in the Queens had burnt to death and then
he had seen the chunk ripped out of an inspector’s neck while two,
already dead, specials slumped against the reins. Harold froze outside
the door with his stomach churning over as his mind raced. With
everything happening so fast Harold had barely had time to think on it,
even while talking to Muriel it seemed like a dream. It seemed like it was
a nightmare and Harold was going to wake up and find himself
slumped in the chair with a reel of thread in his lap and a sore thumb
from the long hours of darning that had sent him to sleep. It had taken
the cold and returning home to make it real and Harold froze.

Once Harold was able to think clearly, he realised it was
unlikely that the O’Brien’s had paid a visit. The door was locked shut
and it was late, very late. In fact, it was well after two in the morning
and his father was probably asleep. His mother would have gone up to
bed leaving him sitting by the fire in his slippers. His pipe would have
smoked itself out on the arm of the chair and whatever book he had
been reading would have fallen to the floor stalling time in that fantasy
world. Harold knocked again, a little louder this time, and heard
movement from inside. His father came to the door the sleep still
evident in his eyes confirmed Harold’s suspicions. His father was
wearing his red smoking jacket and his thinning hair on his wrinkled
head fluffed at one side showing that he had been asleep for at least a
few hours. The dents in his face matched the embroidery of the chair
his father always sat in perfectly. He looked sicker than when Harold
had last seen him, the flu was obviously taking a lot out of him.

“Harry, where have you been?”
His father asked his voice weak
and laboured. His breathing worried Harold terribly. It was so harsh,
like air escaping from one of those new fangled Dwarfen steam
engines. Before Harold had time to answer his father looked around
the darkened Greenway around them and stepped aside.
“Come in, come
in, you’ll catch your death of cold out there.
” He said as he turned and scuffled
along down the hallway and Harold noticed how much older he
looked. It seemed like old age had caught up with him in only a few
days. Harold followed close behind his father and he could hear the
rattle in his father’s chest even over the sound of their footsteps. As
Harold followed his father he noted that nothing in his father’s home
had changed from his last visit. It had, after all, been only a few nights
since Harold was last there but to him it felt so much longer. The thin
golden and red aged carpet with its decorative ivy still ran the length of
the hallway it was handmade in one of the cottage industries that now
faltered in the wake of the toxin spewing machines that could produce
rugs in their hundreds in a third of the time. The wallpaper, a pattern of
little flowers in baskets, shone in blues and pinks across the walls,
stained yellow from tobacco smoke. Some of the sheets had begun to
peel from their top-most corners but his father was too old and Harold
too busy to replace them. Entering the sitting room his father headed
straight for his own chair. Similar in design to the wallpaper, it was now
yellowed and threadbare. The arms and legs were a dark mahogany and
matched the rest of the furniture in the room; two large bookcases
filled to the brim and a table between made from wood that had been
cut from sacred oak and stained, before the Dragons had been
vanquished for the first time, 128 years prior. It showed that their
family had been prosperous.

Harold did not know to which side of the battle his linage
belonged. He suspected purely by their stature and strength that they
had been the invading Iron Giant army that had settled in the city, but
his family never spoke of it and Harold was born after the war had
ended. It had been common place for some of the Poles to take a
second name to try and integrate with the Neeskmouthains. It was then
Harold noticed it. The vase on the reading table was empty. To most
people that would not have been something of note but his father had
kept it filled with fresh flowers every day since his mother and he had
married. If it was allowed to sit empty then his father was in much
worse health than Harold thought. Harold walked across the sitting
room to his chair, a lesser-used copy of his father’s, which sat opposite
his by the fireplace, itself echoing of the riches that once filled this
home.

Although the house was close to the memorial of Execution
Fields, the place the late barbarian king Ingaild first displayed his might
in executing many of Neeskmouths heroes. It was within the poor
parts of the city and thus was built of wood and clay. It was not a
shabby house and rather stood as a marking of a new class of men, not
nobles and not poor but a working man, men of industry, a class
between the two. A middle class and such it showed both sides of life,
luxury and necessity, without the aid of servants.

“So, where have you been, Harry? Your mother’s been worried sick.”
His
father asked while he fumbled, trying to load his pipe with fresh
tobacco. The doctors said the stuff was good for you, but Harold was
sure they were wrong. Harold could not see how breathing in a weed
was good for the body but his father smoked it regardless of his
protests.

“
Dad, please believe me-”
Harold said, before explaining
anything. Harold really needed someone to believe him and, although
he had told Muriel about the fire, the visit from O'Brien’s hit men and
the guard, Harold had left out the fact that it was a dead man who was
responsible. Harold needed someone to know, someone who would
believe him.

“Believe what?”
His father replied, his voice muffled by the long
shaft of the ivory head that hung from his lips. It was shaped to
resemble a lion and had been in the family for years. Harold had no idea
where it came from and only knew what a lion was by its carvings. A
trade ship or explorer must have brought it back to Neeskmouth at
some time in the past.

“
Nymon night when I left the shop, I went to the Queens as normal. It was
burnt down.”
Harold said starting with just the basics.
“
I know. It was in the papers. Your mother has already got you burnt to
a crisp and buried in an unmarked grave. You know what she’s like. You should
have got word to us.”
His father always had a habit of interrupting Harold
and it drove him mad at the best of times let alone now, but Harold hid
his frustration as he continued trying to tell him what had happened.
“I was taken to hospital.”
Harold continued before he was
interrupted again but didn’t get far before a plume of smoke was sent
his way as his father carried on talking.
“I guessed that, boy. The bandages give it away. Such terrible stitch-craft
on them though. I wonder if we could offer to do them better.”
He said and it made
Harold smile a little inside. Even as sick as his father was he was still
looking at ways to increase trade to their family shop.
“Father, if you let me finish without butting in, then you wouldn’t need to
ask so many questions. Please just let me finish.”
Harold said, a little out of
turn. His father nodded but Harold could see the scowl even through
his reddened cheeks. He did not like the fact Harold had become a man
and his equal, not just the boy he could take his belt to if Harold spoke
out. He had not been an abusive parent, far from it. It is just that he
held discipline and respect at the head of all he did and had brought
Harold up to do the same.

Said.
“
Preposterous!”
His father exclaimed. “
Harry, I won’t have it.”
He
yelled and Harold knew he was serious as he put the pipe down.
“It’s not just the city guard, father. The Drow of the docks, the O’Brien’s,
they threatened to come here, father.”
Harold explained, ignoring his outburst.
Harold wanted him to believe it wasn’t him but he also hoped his father
would take his mother and leave the city. Neeskmouth suddenly started
to feel very small and unsafe, but Harold should have known how
stubborn the old fool would be and it took less than a second for him
to show it.
“Let them come, there is still life in this old dog yet.”
Harold’s father
said before choking heavily and ramming his sleeve against his mouth.
His body convulsed with the effort and when he came back up to look
at Harold, his eyes were glazed and watery.
“
The guard arrested me, father. I was being taken to the station but,
before we got there, the horse and cart was attacked by the same person that set fire to
the Queens. He killed the three guard officers escorting me and would have killed me,
too, if I had stayed, so I ran.”
Harold said, hoping he sounded innocent
because, despite being in his twenties, Harold still feared his father’s
wrath, even though he could barely lift his own weight now. His bushy
grey and white eyebrows wrinkled, Harold was not sure if it was from
confusion, frustration, or maybe just plain surprise. What stunned him
more was that he didn’t reply, he just sat there looking at Harold.
“
Muriel helped me escape.”
Harold explained.
“
Who’s Muriel?”
His father said, his breath still short from the
coughing fit.
“She’s a working girl from the harbour area, father. She saw the fire at the
dock and was there when William attacked the guard officers. She grabbed me and
helped me escape.”
“Sounds like she has something to do with it all, you can’t trust those
pinch pricks. I take it she was the one to bandage your head again? That explains the
cheap work. We best get them off soon, lad. God only knows what diseases she has.
You checked your purse since you left there?”
He said innocently. The question
annoyed Harold but his hand slipped down to his trouser pocket,
feeling for his wallet, which was still there. Only a couple of days
before, Harold would have shared his father’s opinion but the girl had
risked her life to save his.
“
She’s not a thief.”
Harold said thankful that it was true.
“Anyway, I’m sure she’s nothing to do with it. I saw who did it, I even recognised
the man.”
“Then why didn’t you tell the guard
?” His father asked. He was
unaware how corrupt the city had become. He still thought it was as
prosperous as when William Boatswain was still governor after the war;
he still thought the city guard did what was just and right. In other
words Harold’s father was a man who refused to see the downfall of
the city he had fought to join.
“I did, they didn’t believe me. The man is dead, Father
.” Harold said
bluntly, wishing he had found a better way of saying it, but how many
different ways are there of saying you saw a dead man running around
as if he were still alive?
“What the hell do you mean, the man is dead? You said you escaped. Did
you see him die? Someone shot him maybe, serve him bloody right. Bet he was one of
those immigrants. You mark my words, all those Drow are trouble.”
His father
grumbled. He was not very accepting of people. He was almost as bad
as the inspector had been, before Harold watched him die.
“No, Father. I mean he was found dead last week.”
Harold said,
knowing it sounded insane. If Harold had been his father, he would
have put it down to the head wound. His father’s gaze froze and
Harold could see he was investigating him, studying his face for any
sign of madness, but he knew Harold had never been one to believe in
fairy tales. Hell, as a child Harold did not even believe in monsters
under the bed.
“
Are you sure, son?”
His father asked, his tone quiet. The last
and only time Harold had seen him like this was when their dog had
died and he had to tell him when Harold was about five or six.
“Yes, I am, but then I also know it is not possible
.” That was the
honest answer.
“
Sounds like total codswallop, lad, but I believe you. There is more to life
than man knows, Harry. When I was a boy, I swear I saw a woman walking down
our lawn, all dressed in white she was. She got as far as the stream that used to run
towards the cliff and then just vanished. I got one hell of a hiding from my old man
when I told him. I promised myself then that if anyone ever came to me with a story
too unbelievable to be true, I would give them the benefit of the doubt.”
His father
had never told Harold that before. When he was younger, Harold’s
father was a strong man, in every sense of the word, and Harold
guessed sharing ghost stories did not really fit in with who he was.
Harold’s father flicked the last of his pipe into the fire before laying it
on the side of the armchair. “
It’s late
.” He said as the sounds of Saint
Anne’s bell tower echoed across the city. After counting the chimes, he
continued. “
Rather it’s early, three already we’d better be heading to bed. Take my
advice, Harry, and steer clear of the devil’s work. I don’t want any son of mine getting
involved with walking corpses, thank you very much, and I’ll have no more talk about
it. Once my chest has cleared up a bit, Harold, I will help sort things out with the
guard, until then just stay home. I’ll get your mother to get Janet’s boy to mind the
shop for us until this is over
.” He said, before struggling to his feet once
more and walking out of the room.
Harold sat there for a while longer watching the fire flicker,
but he was tired and went up to bed shortly after. Harold had not slept
well for days and expected to collapse as soon as he crawled into bed.
Harold did not, however, but instead lay there thinking how he had
never had the courage to make the final move and actually move out of
his childhood home. Harold knew his father wanted him married but
housing was expensive and Harold could not afford it alone. The fact
was that Harold had never found the right girl. They were either too
self-centred or typical of the middle class or below his standing and
Harold knew his father would never allow that. Now with his father
sick, Harold could not see him leaving any time soon. As if to reinforce
the point his father exploded into another choking fit down the hall.
He would have to convince him to send for the doctor in the morning,
Harold thought to himself, as he drifted off to sleep.