CIGS, BOLAN & STRANGE MEN WITH GUNS
by Gayle Ramage
Copyright 2011 Gayle Ramage
Smashwords Edition
License Notes
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
‘Hey, Arsey-Darcy, show us your koalas!’
A boorish roar went up behind her, accompanied by a couple of wolf-whistles. Emitting a heavy sigh, she turned from the photocopier and plastered a wicked grin on her pretty features. ‘Yeah Jim, sure. As long as you show me your didgeridoo!’
After a slight hesitation, another encouraging cry rose up from the group of men. The idiots hadn’t a clue what a didgeridoo was, but as long as it sounded saucy they were happy. She collected the sheets of paper from the copier out-tray and took a glance at the nicotine-stained wall-clock. She had half an hour until she finished, though judging by the booze her colleagues were knocking back, anyone would have thought clocking-off time was hours ago.
She returned to the desk at the corner of the open-plan office, mindful not to get too close to her tipsy colleagues. The smell of booze could be overpowering in such a small space. Of course, Darcy liked a little tipple now and again, but usually after work and in a pub. On the whole, they were harmless enough, but now and again, they’d be a little too “hands-on” for her liking. A tight grip of their little British balls usually did the trick, but she had a nasty feeling they were beginning to enjoy that. Now, she tended to just stay out of their way as much as she could.
Marc Bolan was to blame. If she hadn’t fallen in love with him back when in her impressionable teenage years, the thought about setting foot in England would have never have crossed her mind. But it had. As fate would have it, though, the very year she made the trip across to England, the singer had died in a car crash. 16th September 1977, she'd remember that date forever.
It was also the year she’d clinched the job as Junior Reporter for the newspaper. Well, that had been the official title. Tea-maker/cleaner, was more like it. Not that she knew that then. It was so pleasing to have a job after months of looking. She'd stopped at an off-license to buy a bottle of wine to celebrate, and got a disapproving look from the man behind the counter. Who gives a shit, mate? she’d said, exaggerating her Brisbane accent to full effect.She’d found, pretty quickly, that once people realised you weren’t a native, things you did were more tolerated. She’s from Australia, many of her friends had said by way of an excuse, when she landed herself in trouble.
Putting the paper on her desk, she paused by her seat. Her cigarettes were calling to her and she knew there were at least three left in her handbag. She grabbed a Marlboro and her lighter. ‘Just going out for a smoke,’ she hollered over to the men currently in deep discussion about football. Darcy wasn’t a sports fan, music being more her thing. Her colleagues stopped chatting and turned their attention on her. Again, it was Jim - the editor of the paper - who piped up: ‘Want me to keep you warm out there? It’s a bit cold out. I know you aussies are used to the heat.’
‘Yeah, you like wearing little bikinis, don’t you?’ Cyril, a little weedy man who spoke through his nose, added leering at her as usual.
‘Anytime you want to wear one of those bikini things, you feel free,’ smirked Clive. He was the political journalist for the newspaper, spending most of his days propping up the bars in Westminster alongside many famous politicans and Lords.
Darcy had made a monumental fuck-up of sleeping with Clive in her first week. They’d gone out to celebrate some award the paper had received - though how anyone would even think about giving the paper any sort of recognition was beyond Darcy - and she’d got pissed with the rest of them. Clive, who lived a couple of streets away from her, had offered to walk her home. Stumble home, more like it. One thing had led to another and, through her drunken haze, saw Marc Bolan standing before her, feather-boa round his neck like a playful snake, instead of a colleague with the personality of a pig.
Ignoring the increasingly sexist remarks coming from the main cluster of tables, she went out into the chilly English autumn, and lit up. She could have easily smoked in the office, everyone else did, but this was the only time she got any peace and quiet so she grabbed it with both hands.
The front of the office led straight out into a quiet alleyway. The sky was darkening but the light from inside nearby buildings emitted some light. Not that there was much to see, just rows of large dustbins, full of crap.
The door to the office led straight out into the side of a quiet alleyway. It was getting dark but the nearby buildings gave her some light to see. Not that there was much to see, just lines of large dustbins, full of crap. A bit like some of the men she’d met since coming across to London.
Her last boyfriend, Carl, had been dumped weeks before. Originally from Melbourne, the ten years he’d been in Britain had given him a jaded view of his adopted country.
‘We’ve got to stick together, baby,’ he’d said, one evening in the local pub. ‘Against these pommy bastards, y’know?’
It was then she’d decided to end it. She didn’t really have feelings for him, but the sex was reasonably good. But, jesus, he was having a laugh. Stick together? She’d left Australia to get away from arseholes like him. He hadn’t seem too bothered when she had given the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ bull. In fact, she could have sworn he’d been sucking the face of some poor blonde thing when she’d finally decided to leave the pub.
She watched as blue wisps rose from her mouth up into the night’s sky. That was another thing she had to thank Mr. Bolan for. During her formative years, she’d never had much interest in smoking, despite it being all the rage at high school. That was until she’d seen Marc puffing away, on various interviews, looking all elegant and sexy. Of course, being a silly, sycophantic teenage girl, she and her friends had put their money together and bought a pack of cheap cigs. They’d gone to the park that very day and taken one each. All of them had coughed up their guts, of course. But they’d all stuck with it, thinking they looked cool. Ha! She wondered if any of them still smoked.
The cigarette butt fell to the floor and Darcy squished it under her brown heel. She sighed. Time to get back to the grind. Her watch read four-thiry seven. Oh, for the want of a time machine. She turned to go back but a door to one of the buildings looking onto the alleyway was thrown open. A man rushed out, gasping for breath.
Darcy watched as he ran, almost stumbling, her way. ‘You all right, mate?’ she asked, not wary enough to run back inside the office. As the man approached, she could see he was injured. His large hands clutched a bloody patch on his shirt; his green kipper tie was dangling down as he leaned over. Christ, was he going to die right in front of her?
The man stopped when he reached her and stretched an arm out to steady himself on the wall. He looked mid-forties, though he was already going grey all over. The days-old stubble wasn’t doing him any favours, either. He would have looked a mess even without the wound.
‘Want me to call for an ambulance?’ she went on. He looked in a bad shape, but shook his head furiously.
'All right, all right,’ she soothed. ‘Just stay there and I’ll get a towel or something for that.’
Once again, she turned to go back inside but the appearance of two men, coming out of the door the injured man had just staggered out, stopped her. For some inexplicable reason, Darcy hid amongst the bins clustered nearby. The men hadn’t seen her, thank god. She crouched down low, feeling like shit for leaving the bleeding guy there. But if the stupid idiot hadn’t refused her help, she could have taken him inside before the men appeared. It was his own fault.
The men approached the bleeding man casually. As they neared, Darcy got a good look at them. By christ, they were hot! Twins, too, by the look of things. One wore his chestnut hair short and was dressed smartly in an expensive-looking grey suit. His brother’s hair flirted with his shoulders, and he wore jeans and a plain black t-shirt, showing nicely-toned arms. Jesus, it was typical. She self-imposes celibacy and then constantly sees sexy men everywhere, even if they were carrying guns.
Shit, they’ve got guns.
They didn’t seem in a hurry to finish the bleeding man off. Short-Hair folded his arms while his brother shivered with the cold. Short-Hair noticed this.
‘You should have really worn something warmer, Val.’ His cockney accent was soft, less harsh than some she’d heard. ‘There’s plenty of winter coats in the wardrobes, you know. You’re going to get yourself the flu, never mind the cold.’
His brother gave him a look. ‘It really doesn’t matter, Victor. Can we just get on with it? It’s Nigel’s last day, remember? I’ve still to wrap his present.’ Val - strange name for a bloke, thought Darcy - spoke with a slightly posh English accent. Darcy was rubbish with regional accents. She could barely tell the difference between Irish and Scots.
‘All right,’ said Victor. The two men looked at the third man, who had now sat down on the ground, hands over his wound again, his breathing ragged. ‘What’s he want to go and retire for?’ Victor asked. His brother sighed loudly. ‘Well, I mean, why? A roof over his head, no bills to pay, all the food he wants. Where the hell did you say he was going to?’
Val spoke but a bus pulled up at the end of the alley, making a godawful racket, so Darcy couldn’t hear. Both brothers looked up, and she got a good look at them. Yeah, they were hot. Big gorgeous eyes and high-cheekbones. Why were all the sexy ones bastards? Excluding Marc, of course.
‘Come on,’ said Val, turning back to the injured man. ‘We’ve wasted enough time.’
‘It’s not fair,’ sniffled the man on the floor. ‘I just wanted to save him.’ The tears fell from him.
‘An admirable deed, I’ll give you that,’ said Victor, looking down at the man. ‘But you know you can’t. You’ve got to let him die the way he died.’
‘But.. But why?’ snivelled the man, wiping the tears with his free hand. ‘Why can’t that.. that piece of shit die instead?’
Val crouched down so he was face to face with the man. ‘It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid,’ he said, so quietly, Darcy was straining to hear. ‘Just you being here can change so many things.’
‘But.. But I’ve only been here -’ he broke off to look at the watch strapped round his wrist. It was a big one. The strap was at least two inches wide. ‘Ten or so minutes.’
‘That’s long enough,’ Val said, with a sad smile. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘You lot, I’ll never understand it. You know you’re not meant to come back and change things, but you still try.’
‘Do you have to kill me?’
Darcy clamped her hand over her mouth to stop her screaming, and continued watching.
Victor aped his brother, and knelt down. ‘Afraid so. You don’t belong here. We can’t let you go free. Any interaction you have with people here, could have an devastating effect on the future. You’d risk all that just to save the life of some singer?’
This seemed to give the man a new lease of life. He leaned forward and jabbed Victor with a finger. ‘He is not just some singer! He’s the greatest -’ he grimaced in pain. ‘ - the greatest musician who ever -’ Through gritted teeth, he tried to continue but couldn’t. The brothers got to their feet again.
‘Please,’ the man pleaded. ‘Let me at least go off somewhere by myself, then. Somewhere like.. like the Scottish Highlands, or something. I’ll speak to no one, see no one.’
‘Sorry,’ Val said, bringing his gun up and rubbing it slowly against his cheek.
The man watched mesmerised at this, tears running down his cheek. In an instant, it was over. Victor had knelt back down and embraced the man. The shot was muffled. Victor held onto the man for a few seconds, then laid him down gently on the ground. Val stopped playing with his gun, and put it back in the holster he wore round his waist.
‘Would you look at the state of my suit?’ Victor remarked. ‘Better get that into the washing machine when we get back or that red’ll never come out.’ He looked at his brother. ‘You got the car keys?’
Val nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Good. Let’s get him out of here.’
‘Wait a second.’ Val disappeared from view. Darcy peered to see where he’d gone, then jumped back with a start, as his face appeared right in front of her. ‘Hello, there,’ he said, politely. ‘Want to come out there, now? Can’t be comfortable, cramped in that little space.’
Shit.
She stood up, and raised her arms. Victor looked taken aback when he saw her emerge from the bins. ‘What you got your hands up for?’ he chuckled, ‘Val, she’s got her bloody hands up. Does she think we’re going to shoot her, or something?’
‘Aren’t you?’ she felt brave enough to ask.
‘Not sure,’ Val said.
‘Well, you can’t let me go. I’ve seen you kill someone,’ she went on. ‘I could tell the police, or something.’ What the hell are you doing, Darcy? Are you inviting them to kill you?
‘That is true,’ Val nodded. ‘But then they’ll never find us. Or the body. In the end, you’ll probably be charged with wasting police time.’
‘You seem pretty sure you wouldn’t be caught.’ Her arms lowered slowly.
‘Are you Australian?’ enquired Victor.
‘Brisbane. So?’
‘Aw, Australia,’ Victor smiled. ‘We were there when we were small boys, weren’t we Val? Had a great time. A bit warm, though. I didn’t like that. Got sunstroke.’
Darcy watched the guy in disbelief. He was rabbiting on like those women queueing up at the post office with their trivial chatter. ‘Is he simple, or something?’ she asked Val.
‘Well, that’s not very nice, is it?’ frowned Victor.
Val laughed. ‘No, he’s a very intelligent individual is Victorious.’
‘Victorious?’ Darcy smirked. ‘Nice name. And you’re Val? Valerie?’
‘Value, actually.’
She laughed loudly, her arms dropping by her side. ‘Oh, jesus! Now I’ve heard it all. Value? Value for money, eh?’
A suggestive smile spread across the man’s face. ‘Maybe,’ he said, one eyebrow raised. ‘Can we acquire the name of the beautiful lady before us?’
‘Oh god, you’ve got to work on your pick-up lines, mate. It’s Darcy, if you must know.’
‘Well, Darcy; for someone who’s just witnessed someone dying, you don’t really seem too shocked by it.’
She looked down at the dead man, blood spreading from the fresher wound and onto the black bin bags he was lying on. She gulped, and ran her tongue over her dry lips. ‘I suppose I’ve never been the sensitive type,’ she said, boldly, though inside she was on meltdown.
Val regarded her for a moment then looked at his brother who’d been watching the exchange with interest. ‘What do you think? Shall we take her with us?’
Victor frowned. ‘What?’
‘Well, Nigel is leaving. We have a vacancy. We can’t do it all ourselves.’
‘And you want to bring this lady back with us, Val? I’m not too sure about that. In fact, I'm not even sure we're allowed to. What if she turns out to be a direct ancestor of someone important?’
'Easy enough to check,' shrugged his brother. He took out a small contraption from his pocket and aimed it towards Darcy. Before she had time to do anything, a light appeared from the little object, bright enough to make her look away. When she turned back round, both men were peering at the device. 'See?' said Val, a note of triumph in his voice. 'No kids, ergo no one of importance.'
Darcy stared at him. 'How do you know I can't have kids?' she asked in a small voice, but she was ignored.
‘Come on, we can train her up.’ He turned back, appraising her. ‘She looks like she could handle herself.’
‘Yeah, but it’s a big risk,' Victor said, sounding dubious.
‘Look,’ said Darcy. ‘You two can squabble all you want but I’m going to ring the police.’ She went to return to the office but her arm was grabbed. ‘Let go off me, buster!’ she hissed at Val. His grip painful.
‘I told you, there’s no point of calling anyone. We’re taking the body and you, if you want.’ He released her.
‘If I want? What to become part of your underground mafia ganglord thing?’
‘Mafia?’ said Victor.
‘Ganglord?’ said Val, smiling. ‘We’re none of those. We’re.. What would you call us, Victor?’
‘Safeguards.’
Val laughed this time. ‘Safeguards?’
‘Yeah,’ Victor said, warming to the idea. ‘Safeguards of the future.’
His brother nodded in agreement. ‘Sounds about right.’ He turned back to Darcy, his brown eyes gazing into her own. She felt goosebumps. ‘How would you like to live somewhere for free? No rent or bills to pay. Have a never ending supply of different clothes. Live in a large, beautiful manor house, and be able to use time wisely?’
She didn’t understand that last bit, but she had to be honest, the rest sounded great. ‘And it’s nothing dodgy? You’re not going to force me into prostitution, or something?’ Both men had such a look of distain, she bit her lip to stop herself laughing.
‘You would be living the life of a millionairess, be your own woman,’ said Val.
She regarded the two brothers, then glanced at the dead man before looking at the dull brown door to the office. Her heart was thumping. Decision time, Darcy. Alice had a choice; stay put or go down the rabbit hole. Which will you choose?
Then she heard herself say. ‘Where do I sign up?’
THE END
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Now Available via Amazon & Smashwords
'The Shoemaker's Son', a story involving overworked assassins, bodysnatchers, alehouses and aborted timelines.
1807. As a young boy, Brogan O'Malley encounters the strange and enigmatic Darcy on the streets of Edinburgh. Ten years pass and Brogan, now a petty thief, meets her once again and is surprised to discover she has not aged one day.
A further ten years later, it's 1827, and Brogan's life has taken a turn for the worse. About to become involved with unscrupulous bodysnatchers, William Burke and William Hare, the reappearance of the ageless Darcy sees Brogan discover a secret that will change his life forever.
Excerpt from ‘The Shoemaker’s Son
'Another ale, Janet, if you please!'
Brogan watched as the pretty barmaid acknowledged his request with a raised hand and then snaked her way around the crowded tables. He settled back into his chair and gulped the last of his ale, minding not to swallow the dregs at the bottom.
His three drinking friends were far gone. Each sat slumped in their seats, their eyes struggling to focus as they muttered incoherently to one another. Brogan smirked, relishing the prospects of emptying the men of their pockets at closing time. There were always benefits to staying sober when those around you proceeded to get drunk. Afterwards, he would maybe seek out Lemon Lil, one of the cleaner prostitutes in the area. Ale always made him frisky, and he had enough coins in his pocket going spare. Janet appeared at the table with his drink. He thanked her by pinching her bottom as she turned to leave. She looked back and glared at him but he just laughed before taking a sip of the warm beer, grimacing at the taste.
The door to the tavern had been used all evening with people coming and going. Brogan always watched to see who was coming in for a drink, that he could scam or rob afterwards. The two men who appeared this time, though, caused Brogan to slouch down in his seat, hoping they wouldn't see him in amongst all the other clientele.
Thankfully, the men hadn't spotted him, and were making their way across to the counter. Brogan seized his chance to slip out of the tavern, unnoticed. As luck would have it, he had only reached the door when someone gripped him by the shoulders and spun him around.
'Well, if it's not the little Irishman.'
'Hullo, Spices,' Brogan said, attempting a smile. 'What a pleasure it is to see you in this fine establishment.'
'Got our money, Irishman?' Spices' breath was as foul as his scabbed face.
'Well, it all depends on your definition of your, really,' Brogan began, but he was shoved against the wall before he could finish. Another man stepped forward, a man worse than Spices. He was dressed in fancier clothes and carried an air of natural authority.
'That's enough, Spices. You're scaring our friend, here.'
Spices knocked Brogan against the wall again before moving aside.
'Now, Brogan, what Spices here was trying to do was to ascertain whether or not you have, on your person, sufficient coinage to repay our good selves.' Thomas Forres was well-known to the city's criminal underworld, and to any poor soul who'd had the misfortune of dealing with the man. He grinned at Brogan, displaying a devastation of black and broken teeth.
'You know how it is, Mr. Forres,' Brogan said. 'Money is scarce at the moment.'
'But your father's one of the best shoemakers in the city, and respectable people always need shoes. Surely he has some wealth.'
'Well, you'd think that but...' his voice trailed off at the unimpressed look Thomas was giving him. 'I promise I'll get the money to you by the end of the week.'
'Ah, but promises from you are like promises of love from a whore. Worthless.'
'I swear on my life, you'll have the money by the Sabbath.'
Thomas regarded him, then sighed. He leaned in closer, his breath almost as bad as Spices'. 'That's not good enough. I want my money by this evening or Spices here'll have to teach you a lesson. You remember last time, don't you? Those bruises took weeks to heal. You're a handsome lad. We don't want to have to mess up that face of yours and scare off the ladies.'
'This evening it is, then,' Brogan agreed.
Thomas patted him on the shoulder then walked back across to the counter where Janet was already pouring his drink. Spices remained where he was, his eyes burrowing into Brogan's.
'Well, Spices my friend,' Brogan said, composing himself again, his hand back on the door handle. 'I may have to get beaten up to look ugly but you don't seem to have that problem, do you?' He paused, watching as the brute took a moment to work it out. As soon as the eyes narrowed, Brogan swung open the door and raced out, his hysterical laughter more from relief than amusement.
The relief only lasted a moment. Brogan felt the man behind him and took off, sprinting down the street towards Canongate, the ale sloshing about in his belly as he ran. But he couldn't stop now; Spices wasn't the fastest person in the world, but he was the most persistent.
The busy city streets gave him an instant to catch his breath while hidden within the crowd. He knew, though, that Spices would still be searching for him. A well-dressed gentleman was trying to cross the traffic of people and Brogan, still peering over his shoulder trying to spot his follower, knocked into him. 'Oh, I do apologise sir,' he said. The man's face soured and he walked on, muttering to himself.
Brogan continued on, laughing at the gall he had to go pickpocketing when someone was after him Before he pocketed his swag, he glanced down at the items he'd just taken from the gentleman. That fob-watch looked well-kept, it would fetch a bob or two at the pawn shop. The few coins would pay for his next couple of ales. The handkerchief, however, had a suspicious stain on it, so was tossed to the ground. He slipped the rest into his pocket.
Deciding that he couldn't really go walking around the city for the rest of the day, Brogan quickened his pace and turned off into a side street. Up ahead stood a familiar bottle-green door. He ran a hand through his thick brown hair and smoothed down his clothing. Maybe the encounter with Lemon Lil would be earlier than anticipated. Before he could reach the door however, it opened and a woman charged out, almost bowling him over. Brogan caught sight of her face as she passed. It was pretty enough but he didn't think he'd had the pleasure before.
And then a memory leapfrogged in and out his mind. He turned round and watched the woman striding along the side street. 'Lady Darcy?' he called out.
The woman halted and faced him. 'Yes?'
Breaking out into a big smile, Brogan walked back along to her. 'It's me. Brogan. We met when I was a boy.'
Her memory was obviously good. As soon as he'd introduced himself, she had matched his grin in surprise. 'Pipsqueak?'
'Yes,' he laughed. 'I've grown up somewhat, but you -' he paused and took in the sight. 'I don't think you've changed one little bit. You still look exactly how I remember you.' He frowned, realising he meant every word.
'Good skin,' she said, hazel eyes twinkling.
Another memory popped into his head, one of a manor house and a man wearing red. He was going to ask about it but remembered she had been quite angry with him at the time. This time, she seemed happier to see him and he wanted it to stay that way. 'Still having trouble knowing what year it is?' he asked, cheekily.
'A bit,' she said, making a face. 'Just the ten years too early, instead of twenty.'
'What?'
'Never mind.'
'So what are you doing at the brothel?' he asked, indicating the green door she had just come out of. 'Looking for work?' he asked with a raise of the eyebrow.
'Huh, I'd slap you if I could be bothered. No, I was looking for someone but yet again I've got the wrong time.
'You're a very strange woman,' he observed, mildly. 'Did anyone ever tell you that?'
Darcy laughed. 'All the time. So, how old are you now then? You were just a little thing yesterday.'
'Oh, I think it was a bit longer than that. I'm twenty-one years of age, now,' he laughed, standing to his full height.
'Wish I was twenty-one again,' she remarked. 'Well, Brogan. It was nice seeing you again but I have to be on my way.'
Brogan reached out a hand and held her arm. 'Wait a moment.'
'What is it?' she said.
'I'd like to speak with you. I meet this strange-sounding woman when I was a little boy. Now, ten years later, she's back and hasn't changed one little bit.'
She gave him a haughty look, and put her hands on her hips. 'Strange-sounding? You never heard of Australia?'
'Is that where you're from?' asked Brogan, happy that one mystery had been answered. 'I thought you were English. So, you live with all the prisoners, then?'
She gave him a confused look. 'Pris-' She stopped, then slapped her forehead. 'Ah, of course. No, I don't live with prisoners, mate. I moved to London years ago.' Bemusement spread across her face. 'Or years in the future, if you like.'
'You're still an odd lady,' he replied, in jest.
'And you're still cute as a button,' she said in response, ruffling his hair just as she did all those years ago. 'But I really need to get going.' She turned and headed back along the side street. Sighing with regret, he watched her walk away.
Just as Darcy neared the end of the street, someone passed her, heading this way. Spices. Brogan turned and walked quickly to the green door, before Spices could see him. It was a plan that had failed before it had begun.
'Brogan!' The man barked. Brogan ignored him and rapped his knuckles on the door, wishing someone would answer in the next two seconds. He knew Spices had been banned from the establishment for inappropriate conduct and the owner wouldn't allow him to cross the threshold. He glanced back at Spices. Darcy had made a u-turn and was walking behind him. Now Brogan had a dilemma on his hands: He could enter the brothel and leave Darcy in the hands of the ruffian, or he could act like a gentleman and make sure she stayed safe.
Mind made up, he turned to face Spices. 'You're ever the persistant fellow, Spices.'
The man laughed, low and guttural. 'Did you think you could go in there and let the whores keep you from me?'
'Something like that.'
'I believe you're too late for that.'
'It would appear so,' shrugged Brogan. He looked beyond Spices. 'Darcy, you said you were leaving. Just go.'
'Huh?' Spices looked behind him and saw Darcy. 'Never seen you before, woman. You belong to this place?' He ran a hand over his mouth. 'Wonder how much you're being rented out for.'
Darcy stood with folded arms. 'Why does everyone think I'm a prostitute?' she muttered, with a shake of the head.
'Who are you, then?'
'Oh don't mind me,' she said, with a wave of the hand. 'I'm not supposed to interfere, just observe. Go about your business.'
Spices frowned, then glanced at Brogan before returning his attention to Darcy. 'And what would you say, miss, if I told you I was going to beat up this man?'
'I'd say it's a bit pathetic, to be honest. It's more intelligent to sort out your problem by talking it through instead of using violence. But that's just my opinion.'
He looked at her and then started to laugh. Darcy joined in and, after a few hesitating seconds, so did Brogan. 'And,' Spices went on, still jovial. ' what would you say if I told you that after I'd beaten him up, I'd take you into an alleyway and sort you out?' The leer in his voice made Brogan want to knock him out. The implication of what Spices said didn't seem to upset Darcy in the least.
'Well, I'd say if you want your balls to remain connected to your body, then I'd strongly advise against that,' she said, conversationally.
In response, Spices reached inside his long black overcoat and pulled out a long piece of rusty, copper piping. One end was jagged, as though it had been snapped off a longer piece. 'You think I'd listen to advise from a woman?' He asked. Brogan would have told Darcy to run, were it not for the fact that she'd started laughing at the makeshift weapon.
'Oh you know what the best part of my job is?' Darcy asked Spices, playfully rocking from side to side like a little girl. 'That I don't have to worry about insignificant little meatheads like you. There used to be days when I'd get nervous around violent little cretins, but with the training I've had, all I can say to you is -' she paused. Taking a step back, both hands disappeared beneath the collar of her own coat before bringing out a magnificent-looking sword. ' - how fast can you run?'
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About The Author
Gayle lives in Scotland with her partner and two young children. She hopes to one day grow her own TARDIS.
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