Chapter 9 Chapter 9: Mad dogs and Englishmen
Softness. The smell of clean sheets. Bliss.
Then, shit.
My arms were strapped down, belted to the cold metal sides of the bed. My head spun, a nauseating carousel, and my face throbbed with a deep, rhythmic pain like I’d been kicked by a horse. Fear, cold and sharp, clawed at me. How did I get here? Where even was here?
I yelled out, my voice hoarse, “Hey, HEY! Anybody! Why am I tied up?”
The same nurse from before walked in, her expression one of practiced neutrality. “Good, you’re awake. You took a nasty-”
“Why am I naked? And why the hell am I restrained?” I yanked at the leather straps, panic rising.
“You took a nasty hit to the head,” she said, calm. “Concussion. Broken cheekbone. You were… agitated.”
“Yeah, no shit, I can feel that. But why am I strapped down like some psycho?”
She hesitated, eyes flicking toward the door. “A friend of yours, Max, is waiting outside. He and I agreed restraints were… necessary. For your safety. And ours.”
“What?” I yanked at the straps again, the leather cutting into my wrists. “Get these off me!”
She left, returning seconds later with Max trailing behind, looking uncharacteristically sheepish.
“Tilly, you’re alright.”
I jerked against the bindings. “This your idea, Max?”
“No, well, yes, but you knocked Nate out cold! We didn’t know what you’d do when you woke up. You were raving, Tilly.”
“Untie me. Now. Or I swear I’ll kill you.”
The nurse cut in sharply, “Calm down, young ma-young lady, or you’ll stay restrained. It’s for your own good.”
I forced a breath, trying to steady my heart. “Fine. I’m good. I’m calm. Just get me out of here.”
By the time they released me, and we left the med wing in Sector 3, I had only half an hour before my shift at The Spil was due to start.
I glared at Max, my head pounding with every step. “Give me one good reason not to kill you right now.”
“It wasn’t my…”
Three guards and Charles rounded the corner, cutting him off.
“Ah, Tilly.” Charles smirked, his eyes taking in the fresh, spectacular bruising on my face with evident pleasure. “Sector 1’s locals already warming up to you, I see. Second day in my town, and you’ve assaulted a respected citizen, though, luckily for you, he’s not pressing charges.” His smile sharpened into something predatory. “And I hear there was… significant trouble at a bar last night.” He leaned in slightly. “I have a feeling we’ll be talking again soon. We can take off where we left off?”
They walked off, leaving me to drag my shattered body, and whatever was left of my soul, to work.
When I arrived at The Spil, Seamus was addressing a group of his men, his voice a low growl.
“’Tis her, Tilly. This, gentlemen, is my new bar security.” He turned to four rough-looking lads who seemed out of place. “Now, you four know what’s to be done—go do it. The rest of ya, listen up.”
The four shady figures slipped out into the back alley, and Seamus continued, “It’s Friday night, so business’ll be good. I’ve let the dogs loose, means those Brits might come sniffin’ for trouble. Keep your eyes open. Stop ’em at the door. I don’t fancy scrubbin’ Brit brains off me floors again.”
Lacy, one of the Irish bar staff, came over with a tray of shots, her face grim. “Sláinte,” Seamus said, raising his glass.
“Sláinte,” we echoed, downing the whiskey in one fiery, unifying gulp.
“And that’s the last drop touchin’ your lips ’til mornin’,” Seamus warned, eyes scanning the room. “Stay sharp, got it?”
“Tilly, a word.” He jerked his chin, calling me over to a quieter corner. His eyes narrowed on the fresh bruising. “What happened?”
“Nothin’. A misunderstanding.”
He studied me a beat. “Gonna be a problem tonight?”
I smirked and cracked my knuckles, the pain in my face a dull background hum. “No, boss. I’m ready.”
“Good. Them Brits’ll be itchin’ for a fight tonight. They lost face.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “Don’t hold back.”
I took a table near the front door, tucked into the shadows where I could watch both exits and survey the whole bar. Anyone walking in would be momentarily blinded by the shift from outside darkness to the bar’s harsh green light, giving me a precious second of advantage.
Lacy and Molly worked the bar, masters of their trade. Ample cleavage, free-flowing booze, and sharp wit kept the punters happy and distracted. Every now and then, they’d swing by to refill my water glass and exchange a few words. In these early hours, they were the party.
It was a quiet night. Easy money.
Lacy was just topping off my glass. “There you go, luv,” she said, right as Nate walked in.
I launched the full glass of water at him, surging up from my chair. My left hand found his balls, crushing them in a vicious grip, while my right slammed him back into the wall. Lacy let out a cackle. “Take it you lovebirds know each other. Evening, Nate.”
Nate coughed, face pale with pain. “Evening, Lacy.” He turned back to me, palms up in surrender. I tightened my grip.
“T-Tilly, please.”
I let go and dropped back into my seat, my heart hammering. He staggered over, wincing, and took the chair across from me. He called to Lacy, “Usual, Lace.” Then he flashed me that stupid, puppy-eyed grin, strained, but there.
“Rebel’s sorry. He didn’t know you were a friend when he hit you.”
“Your fucking mute broke my cheekbone, you bastard.”
“Rebel’s real sorry. So am I.”
“I saved your life, and you lied about it. Didn’t even put in a good word for me with the town. Left me to Charles.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a rep to keep. Can’t have someone like you saving me. Looks bad.”
“That bastard Charles. And town Security, guy? You knew what they’d do.”
“I was out of it. Figured it was better if I stayed out of it. Bad for business, bringing people back without council vetting. Causes… complications.”
“Bad for business?” The words were a venomous whisper. “They burned me. Tortured me.” I yanked down the waistband of my jeans, showing the angry red soar on my thigh.
His face twitched, the grin finally vanishing. “Sorry… I thought it’d be worse if I got involved. They don’t like outsiders.”
“Fuck off, Nate. Just fuck off.”
The rage was a white-hot wire. I drew my gun, the motion smooth and practiced, pressing the cold barrel to his temple. The bar’s chatter died instantly, frozen in a tableau of shock. Nate and I rose together, slow as a funeral dance, the barrel never leaving his skull as I marched him to the door.
“Go. Don’t come back.”
He left without another word, the door swinging shut behind him.
Lacy hopped onto a stool, breaking the tension. “Free shots at the bar, folks! Show’s over!”
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.