Chapter 13 Chapter 13: The Spil
The humid, metallic air of the Under-sector clung to my skin like a second, less welcome dress. Max stood there in the grimy corridor, looking like the cat that got the cream, sweaty, smug, and thoroughly pleased with himself. He ran a hand through his greasy hair, his grin a slash of white in the dim light.
“Time for a drink, methinks,” he announced, the words slimy with self-satisfaction. “Sex is thirsty work.”
I cringed, the sound of the bathhouse’s pipes still echoing in my ears. “Max, for the love of the Blessed Mother, keep it to yourself.” The details of his escapades were the last thing I needed painted on the inside of my eyelids.
He gave me another once-over, his gaze lingering on the line of the dress I’d foolishly thought would make me feel human again. “You look nice, though, in a dress an’ all. Almost proper.”
My fist, connected with his bicep with a satisfying thud. “Don’t. Go. There. Max.”
“You’re a bit touchy, ain’t ya?” He laughed, a short, barking sound that drew glances from passers-by. “Guess you never got any, then. C’mon, Tilly, you can shout me a drink. For all my help, like. Connectin’ you with my guy. Very professional, that was.”
We pushed into the main thoroughfare, a river of bodies flowing between the makeshift stalls and glowing holographic signs. But as the crowd grew thicker, the illusion of normalcy evaporated. I felt the stares, not glances, but assessments. The deliberate brushes, calloused hands grazing my arse, my breasts, wherever they could pretend it was an accident in the press of bodies. My skin crawled. I’d had enough of being touched.
After the bathhouse, the feeling of being scrubbed raw, I just wanted the sanctity of my bunk, my mood sinking lower with every step. “Max, another time, my friend. I’m calling it a night.”
“You sure? One drink. Wash the dust out.”
“Yeah. I’m kind of sleepy.” It was a lie, but the truest thing I’d said all day.
I turned to leave, but before I’d taken three steps, a hand, deft, slid up my dress, fingers.
I reacted on a hair-trigger. Two decades of Sister-drilled reflexes took over. My left arm snapped out, a vicious backhand elbow that connected with a soft thump, slamming the assailant to the ground. In the same motion, my right hand dipped, cleared leather, and drew my gun. The familiar weight was a comfort. The barrel swept down, pressing against…
A child.
A girl, no older than nine or ten, her face smudged with dirt, eyes wide with a terror that froze the blood in my veins. She trembled, staring into the abyss of the .38-calibre muzzle. “I-I’m sorry, miss!” she stammered, tears welling instantly. “I thought you were a princess in that dress, I just wanted to see-”
The world screeched to a halt. The crowd around us froze, a tableau of horror and accusation. My breath hitched. Before I could lower the weapon, before I could form an apology that would mean nothing, she scrambled to her feet and bolted, a small ghost swallowed by the crowd, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Max, hearing the commotion, was at my side in an instant. “Sweet bleeding martyrs, Tilly,” he hissed, his hand closing over mine, forcing the gun back into its holster. His smugness was gone, replaced by a sharp, survivalist urgency. “I think you’ll be wanting that drink now, eh? Strong one.” Then, louder, to the gawking onlookers whose faces were a mix of fear and outrage: “It’s alright, folks! Nothing to see here, just fun and games! The little scamp got what was comin’ to her!”
He didn’t wait for a response. He grabbed my arm and hurried me down the street, shoving me through a heavy, scarred door into the nearest bar. The sudden shift from the chaotic street to the dim, boozy interior was disorienting.
“We’ll be safe in here,” he muttered, scanning the room. “Just… don’t do that again. Right? Pointin’ iron at kids is… bad for business.”
The best way to describe that bar? Green. Not a pleasant, emerald green, but a sickly, bilious shade that seemed to soak into everything. The walls were panelled in peeling mint-green laminate. The stools were upholstered in cracked, avocado-coloured vinyl. Even the light filtering through the thick glass of the porthole window seemed tinged with algae. A flickering neon sign declared this place The Spil, and behind the bar stood a man who looked carved from old whiskey barrels and tougher times: Seamus. Irish Sector leader, part-time gangster, the patrons’ unofficial psychologist, full-time badass, and the bar’s hard-nosed owner.
Tonight was Thursday, Saint Patrick’s Day, which meant live music (if you could call it that). The bar’s “band” consisted of a gaunt violinist missing half his strings, producing a mournful wail; a guy with a terrifyingly intense expression banging two rusty spoons together; and a pretty female singer with a voice of pure honey who single-handedly carried the whole wretched act. There were more green decorations than usual, tattered streamers, shamrocks drawn in what looked like grease pencil on the mirrors and thankfully, happy hour lasted all night.
At this early hour, the place wasn’t packed yet, maybe ten customers, excluding the staff, the “band,” Max, and me. I ordered two glasses of whatever brown poison Seamus recommended, the memory of the child’s terrified eyes flashing behind my own. We sat at the bar, listening to the low chatter. I was still shaking, the day’s disasters piling up like a funeral mound: losing that damn book, Nate’s betrayal, and now this. The face of my bathhouse assistant, kind and concerned, haunted me. So, I did the only smart thing left, I palmed my last stim and dry-swallowed it, feeling the familiar electric jolt kickstart my nervous system.
“On me, missy.” Seamus reached over with a bottle and refilled my glass without asking. “You’re new here, how d’you like the Irish Sector? See, we Irish run, the water. Those fool Brits do the farming, and we share control of Tech and, of course, God Himself. The churches” He raised his own glass, a thick tumbler of amber liquid. “Sláinte.”
We both downed our drinks. The alcohol burned a hot trail down my throat, buzzing against the stim now screaming in my veins. Tonight’s gonna be a good night, the chemical lie whispered.
“It’s all still so new to me,” I admitted, the words feeling loose. I held out my hand. “I’m Tilly. Nice to meet you.”
Instead of shaking it, he made a theatrical show of kissing my knuckles, his beard rough against my skin. “Wait, Tilly? Now, I’ve heard that name before. Aren’t you the one Nate got himself shot up savin’? Heard he took two bullets and still carried your pretty arse to town.”
“That lying, thieving scumbag.” I shoved my glass toward him, the anger a welcome replacement for the shame. “Yeah, that’s me. And you’d better pour me another, hell, leave the bottle. I’m gonna need it.”
He burst out laughing, a sound like gravel rolling downhill. “Here’s your medicine, sweetie,” he said, still smirking as he slid the bottle over. “Wouldn’t get in the way of a scorned woman, not old Seamus.”
I knocked back two drinks right away, the room beginning to hum with a pleasant fuzz, then poured him and myself one more. “Sláinte,” I said, trying to mimic his accent.
“Sláinte,” he repeated with a wink.
More people came and went, the bar was packed now, a loud, sweating beast of a crowd, but something felt off. The air was thick with more than smoke and booze. A tension had coiled itself around the room. Those two guys by the wall, Brits by the look of their worn tweed, weren’t drinking much, just standing there like statues, waiting for something. I was sure there’d been three of them when they walked in. So where was the third? My eyes, sharpened by stims, scanned the room, there. Lurking in the shadowy corner, nursing a drink alone. Maybe it was the chemicals and the booze messing with my head. Maybe I was seeing ghosts.
Then, all at once, chaos.