The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,20
snapped back and forth on her shoulders and her eyes began to water. “Where the hell do you think you are? Little Lord Fauntleroy’s nursery school?” snarled Keenan. “This is a building site, you bleedin’ lazy little scoundrel!” He didn’t appear to expect a response, and didn’t stop shaking her long enough to permit any. “Of all the stupid, wasteful, mutton-headed things to do! Why is that Jenkins brat here to begin with?! Why ain’t you carrying the blasted hod?! What the hell you playing at, Quinn?!”
He might have kept shaking her until she fainted, but somewhere in that storm of fury and nausea, Mary dimly registered a placatory voice. “Aw, Keenan, he’s only a kid. Thrash him if you want, but don’t shake him to pieces.”
No change for a few dreadful seconds. Then there was a reluctant slowing of the shaking action. It finally stopped altogether, but Keenan kept a firm grip on Mary’s hair. Slowly, the world turned the right way up once more. The flashes of black and red in her vision subsided. She began to discern faces again, prominent among them Keenan’s enraged features, only a few inches from hers.
Instead of relief or remorse, Mary was gripped with a boiling sense of outrage. She wanted to attack Keenan, to kick and punch and bite him until he knew what she was feeling. But even in the first rush of fury, a distant common sense prevailed: Keenan could smash her to a pulp. He was a large, powerful man and she was a slight woman. There would be no contest.
She stood as still as she could manage, swallowing huge gulps of air and glowering at him through her tousled fringe. They stood there for several minutes, bricklayer and assistant, staring at each other, hating each other. Keenan panted with the effort of shaking her. With visible effort, he turned his gaze to the fallen bricks: three chipped, one broken in two. It was as well that Jenkins was so short; had the bricks fallen from a greater height, they might all have been wasted. As it was…
“We can use these chipped ones,” said Stubbs mildly, scooping them up with the two undamaged bricks. “Turn them the other way out.”
Keenan grunted, still staring at the mess. Finally, his gaze reverted to Mary. “You’re a lucky son of a bitch,” he muttered. “That’s only fourpence off your wages, for the broken one.”
She forced herself to nod.
“But I’m still going to teach you a lesson,” he continued, with grim satisfaction. “You’ll know better than to play about on a building site, when I’m done – and that includes you.” He wheeled about and stabbed a finger at Jenkins, who dangled limply from Smith’s fist. “Hold this one!” snapped Keenan, shoving Mary towards Reid.
She stumbled once, then was caught in a firm, dispassionate grip. Reid’s hands were heavy on her shoulders and she was suddenly grateful he’d caught her so well. Her breasts were tightly bound, of course, but the binding itself might be noticeable were he to grip her across the chest. Her pulse, already racing, sprinted even faster at the thought. Furious as she was, she now felt a fresh stab of something else: fear.
She knew better than to offer excuses – or worse, to plead. Instead, she stared defiantly at Keenan as he unbuckled his belt. She stood very still as he doubled it in his hand, weighing the thickness of the leather and the heft of the buckle.
“Now,” he said in a new, soft voice. “Who’s first?” He looked from Mary to Jenkins, an unpleasant smile stretching his mouth.
Silence. Mary didn’t look at Jenkins, didn’t look anywhere except at Keenan’s brutal, ruddy face. She hated him with everything in her and didn’t bother to disguise it. All her senses were heightened, in this moment: she heard the different layers of traffic, both on the river and in the streets just beyond the site walls; felt the dank heaviness of the air on her forehead and the coarse fabric of her shirt against her neck; tasted the bitterness of rage in her mouth; and amidst the sticky, complicated smells of the city, she smelled something new and sharp and warm. Something ammoniac…
Beside her, Jenkins whimpered very quietly and she suddenly understood what had happened. A glance confirmed it: his trousers had a darker patch that clung to his leg, and a small pool of urine was collecting beside his right foot.
Keenan hadn’t missed it, either. A sadistic sneer