Chapter 17 Chapter 17: Blood and Guts
The bar gradually settled back into its usual murmur, and for the next few hours nothing out of the ordinary happened, until the four lads from earlier slipped in through the back door. They huddled in a quiet corner, still wearing their coats, faces tight with a tension that screamed trouble. Lacy went over, exchanged a few hushed words, then hurried to my table, pale.
“They’ve done it,” she whispered. “But Liam’s cut bad, I think. We’ll need help getting him to the back. And the boys shouldn’t be here tonight.”
By the time I reached their table, three of the lads had already disappeared into the crowd. Liam sat deathly still, pale as a sheet, sweat beading his forehead. We half-carried, half-dragged him to the back room, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
“I’ve got this,” Lacy said, firm. “You need to be out there, Tilly. In case.”
As I turned to leave, Lacy peeled back Liam’s coat. Blood and worse spilled out, soaking his shirt. Liam didn’t make a sound, his eyes wide with shock. The door clicked shut behind me, and a cold certainty settled in my gut: a man doesn’t survive a wound like that.
The bar’s atmosphere had shifted, grown thick with unease, like the air before a storm breaks. I positioned two of the Irish boys near the back door, clubs ready, and another behind the bar with Molly. Guess he’s learning to tend bar tonight.
About ten minutes later, a young boy, no older than ten came sprinting into the bar, eyes wide with fear. “Brits are coming, loads of ’em!” he shouted before darting back out into the night.
“Lock and bar the back door!” I yelled, already moving toward the front window to see for myself. The street outside was alive with torchlight, flames casting long, flickering shadows as at least ten Brits marched forward, clubs and pipes in hand.
“You!” I pointed at the guy behind the bar; his name lost in the rush of adrenaline. “Go find help, get Seamus!”
Turning to the two men nearest me, I asked, “You two with me? You tooled up?”
“Aye,” they answered in unison, pulling short, weighted clubs from their coat pockets.
We stepped out into the cold night air. Over my shoulder I barked, “Lock it up, Molly!” and braced for the fight.
Three against ten. The odds were shite. They could’ve cut us down without a word, but the stupid bastards wanted to talk first…to gloat.
“You torched three of our betting booths,” their leader sneered, stepping closer. He was a big man, with a broken nose and a top hat perched absurdly on his head.
I kept him talking, buying seconds. “Just payback for scratchin’ our Seamus’s head.”
He jabbed his club toward my two men. “You, the new Irish whore. Tell you what… after we kill these two, I’ll show you how a real Englishman fucks. Then the rest of my lads’ll have their turn”
I didn’t let him finish. One step forward, one perfectly placed punch to the throat, he dropped like a sack of bricks, gagging silently.
The fight erupted in an explosion of violence. Clubs cracked against bone. Fists thudded into ribs. A tooth skittered past my boot, glinting in the torchlight. My arms burned, every block a little slower, every swing a little weaker. Blood slicked the cobbles, reflecting the Brits’ fallen torches like a hellish mirror. Another Brit went down, his skull cracked by a club, but there were still eight of them left.
We were outnumbered, tiring fast. Raw will kept me swinging. One more Brit fell, but not before taking one of ours with him, boots crushing bone, making widows.
I thought we were done for.
Then, reinforcements. Ten lads came charging down the street, Seamus at the front, a baseball bat in his hand. It was already caked with hair and brain matter as he swung it again with a furious roar.
The tide turned. We were winning. We were going to live.
But just as our men pushed the Brits back, Security showed up, guns drawn, faces stern.
Guy, their leader, kept his M6 trained squarely on me as he spoke to the crowd.
“Evening, ladies and gentlemen. You are all required to lay down your arms, kneel with your hands on your heads. Now.”
Seamus looked puzzled, playing the innocent. “No need to get all official, Guy, just a little scrap between friends. Nothin’ to worry about.”
“No unauthorised weapon use in town. You know the rules.”
Seamus shrugged. “These ain’t weapons, they’re… tools of persuasion. Anyhow, what’re you doing here so quick, Guy? You got here before Ajax; you piss the bed or somethin’?”
I probably shouldn’t have laughed. A short, sharp burst of disbelief escaped me.
And for the third time in this town, I took a blow to the head, this time from the stock of Guy’s M6. Luckily, I was already kneeling, so I didn’t have far to fall.
“Number 327, Tillyanna. I am placing you under arrest!” The words rang in my ears as I tried to push myself up, warm blood pouring down my face from a new cut on my scalp.
“Why’d you have to hit her? She’s done nowt wrong!” someone from our side shouted.
“Our information differs,” Guy snapped, voice cold. “Our informants say she’s assaulted citizens on at least three occasions, and in two of the three, she used a deadly weapon.”
“You mean your rats told you that?” Seamus spat, roaring now. “Same rats that told you we were here tonight, I bet!”
“Move along, everyone else, or you’ll get the same.” Guy’s voice brooked no argument.
“This is bullshit!” Seamus roared as they clamped the cold metal cuffs around my wrists.
There was really no need, the blow to my head had been hard enough. My vision swam, the world tilting on its axis as they hauled me to my feet.
Guy stepped close, his voice low and threatening in my ear. “You understand how serio-”
I vomited all him.
After that, I don’t remember much, just being half-dragged, half-carried somewhere, the world spinning and fracturing into blessed blackness.