The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,61

made his round blue eyes even rounder. “That bit ain’t me!” he yelped, drawing a lazy glance from his nearest neighbour. “I never meant it to go that far,” he muttered, leaning towards her.

“But you know,” she persisted, encouraged both by the expression on his sensible, naive face and by the booze. “You know, and you told Octavius Jones.”

“I got to piss,” he said, and stood abruptly. As he pulled his hand from his pocket, a twist of paper tumbled out, bouncing onto the bench and then to the floor. Reid’s anxiety was such that he didn’t notice: a moment later, he was through the back door into the alley, which served as a generalized chamber pot. Mary slipped the paper into her own pocket and, when Reid reappeared after a few minutes’ absence, accepted the offer of another pint.

As though mention of him had conjured his real presence, the pub door swung open and Keenan himself walked in. Reid, half-way to the bar, blanched and steadied himself against a table. He stood still, waiting.

Keenan looked to be in his usual foul mood. He’d been at work that morning, though uncharacteristically quiet, and Harkness had made rather a point of ignoring him. He’d not been reprimanded for his unexplained absence yesterday. Now, his gaze settled on Reid, and although the pub was dimly lit, he narrowed his eyes. The silence between them was rich with accumulated tension. Finally, Keenan said in a low tone, “Let’s take a walk.”

Reid gulped and stared at him. He’d been drinking swiftly, downing two pints to Mary’s one, and the beer seemed to have fuddled his brain. Or perhaps it was the expression on Keenan’s face.

Keenan twitched impatiently. “Have a heart, man – I ain’t like to kill you.” It was a poor choice of words and Reid’s face blanched. His fingers tightened around the tankard in his fist. Then, as if thus reminded of its presence, he lifted the drink to his lips and drained it in one swallow. His eyes were wide and wary, and the ruddy colour of his cheeks seemed to sit atop his skin like a painted mask. Then, setting the pot on the nearest table, he followed Keenan out of the pub like a man going to his death.

Mary gave them a full half-minute’s lead before standing to leave. Suddenly, the world tilted sideways, the faces of the men around her blurring and warping crazily. Her knees buckled. She clutched at the table for support. Something solid struck her hand, making her knuckles ring. What the devil…?

A large hand grasped her shoulder roughly and she flailed against it. He mustn’t feel her back. He mustn’t know. Something smacked her bottom, hard, and she struggled again, uncertain now which way was up. What was wrong with her eyes? Blood roared in her ears. She gasped for breath. It was like drowning on dry land. She was still on dry land, wasn’t she? At that, all the liquid sloshing around her stomach began to roll and churn. Oh, no. Not that.

The pressure continued against her bottom, flat and hard and impersonal. Not a man, then. Slowly, she became aware of a general sort of guffawing. Gradually, the world resolved into a blur of likely browns, yellows and skin tones, eventually coming into focus. She was in the pub, of course, sitting on the same bench, surrounded by the same labourers.

The pounding in her ears quieted.

Queasiness receded.

She found herself taking long, shaky breaths.

“You look fit to faint,” chortled one of the joiners.

The man next to her released his grip on her shoulder and grinned. “You ain’t much of a drinker, hey sonny?”

Sonny. She was relieved to hear that.

“It’s the sitting down what does it,” said another sagely.

“Aye,” agreed another. Then began a chorus of advice, all just a few pints too late. It seemed that she’d committed two beginner’s errors: she’d not eaten before coming to the pub, and hadn’t known that suddenly standing up could transform the sensation of merry ease to that of fall-down drunkenness.

This was all helpful. And when she tried again to stand, slowly this time, the room rocked only a little, although the floorboards were damned uneven. Funny. She’d not noticed that earlier. She took a cautious step, then another, and a third, before bidding her new mates a friendly goodbye. Next came the pub door, which swung open with hazardous ease; she stumbled into the street, but that was certainly the fault of the door, which