The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,12

taught her this, at least. “Of all the stupid…”

“Don’t you call me stupid!” He marched towards her, stiff with outrage. He was a small boy, no taller than she and scrawny to boot, and he looked utterly ridiculous – a bantam rooster defending his turf. He’d never won a fist-fight in his life, she’d wager. Still, he hurled himself at her, arms windmilling furiously.

Mary dodged his fist with an economical twist to the left and tapped him sharply on the chin, sending him stumbling.

He stopped short of falling, spun about and flew at her again.

She skipped aside and he tripped himself with his own momentum.

Screaming with outrage, he picked himself up and came back for more.

It was no contest. Mary wasn’t even fighting; merely defending herself and keeping him at bay, waiting for him to exhaust himself. Her restraint only inflamed Jenkins further. He fought with passion and energy and utter lack of skill, and this combination made what ought to have been comical seem tragic, instead. If Mary chose, she could finish him in half a minute. As it was, their fist-fight dragged on and they attracted a casual, jeering ring of labourers who shouted advice and insults in equal quantity.

Finally, a new voice sliced through the noise: “WHAT is going on here?! Stop this, instantly!”

Mary looked towards its source – Harkness, the site engineer – and in that instant, Jenkins landed his only blow, a strange accidental swing that made her nose spurt blood. She gasped with surprise, felt a stab of anger. Street fighting had no rules, of course, but that had been damned underhand all the same. She spun, caught his shoulder and delivered a solid jab that made her knuckles – and presumably Jenkins’s head – ring.

“Stop it, NOW!”

A couple of men finally stepped forward, half-heartedly offering to hold the fighters. But it was now unnecessary. Mary stood perfectly still, allowing the blood welling from her nose to drip onto the cobblestones unchecked. Jenkins writhed silently, cradling one side of his face.

“What the blazes is the matter here?!” Harkness glared from Jenkins to Mary and back again.

Neither spoke.

“Quinn! Explain yourself!”

What could she say? “Jenkins and I were fighting, sir.”

There was a rumble of amusement from their audience.

The top of Harkness’s head went pink. “All of you, clear off! Back to work!” As the men receded, chuckling, Harkness returned his attention to Mary. “WHY were you fighting?”

“He called me a liar and a thief, sir. I called him stupid.”

“I see. And who began this childishness?”

Mary glanced at Jenkins. He was still clutching his face and appeared to be choking back tears. Eventually, he managed to gasp, “Me, sir.”

Harkness stared at them for a long minute, that muscle beneath his eye spasming repeatedly. “I am very disappointed in you both. I expected better from you, Jenkins, because you’ve worked on this building site for nearly two years. And I expected better from you especially, Quinn, because…”

As the clichés began, Mary wondered whether Harkness would enquire into the root of the dispute. What was special about the tea round? Why had Jenkins been willing to attack her for it? She was also annoyed by her inability to blend in on a building site. In her first five minutes on the job she’d nearly blown her cover, twice. Now, she had drawn the attention of nearly every man on site by getting into a fist-fight.

“…Do I make myself clear?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Jenkins, still clutching his face, made a noise that could have been “Yes, sir.”

“Then shake hands like men.”

As Jenkins released his cheek to offer his hand, Mary saw that he was indeed crying. Yet through the tears, he mumbled, “No hard feelings.”

She looked into his eyes, startled and cautious. “Same here.”

“I don’t want to hear of further fisticuffs – or any sort of squabbling – between the two of you.”

Mary mopped her nose with her sleeve. The bleeding seemed to be slowing.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” A large linen handkerchief was thrust into her face.

She took it. “Thank you, sir.” It smelled of scent: the discreet, expensive type.

“Now back to work, both of you.”

As Harkness disappeared back into his office, Mary and Jenkins remained where they were, stiff and uncertain. Finally, Jenkins said, “S’pose we best start the tea round.”

Mary glanced up with some surprise. One of the working clock faces showed the time as a quarter past ten. “Now? Bit early, isn’t it?”

He shot her a wary look. “Lots to do. Come on.” Perhaps it was a boy