FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 10]
Apr. 23rd, 2013 09:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splix*
Title: The Need of Comrades
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.
Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
*
It seemed odd, Harry thought, that a man as meticulous and orderly as Gavin Rowe should have such an untidy office. It was true that he didn't spend much time in it – always dashing about, checking on this and that as if he didn't have supervisors and foremen like Harry to do what was necessary – and only swooping into the office to search for a needed bit of paper work or an extra carbide lamp or soft cap for a miner who'd lost his. He tidied at the end of a day, but by the next midmorning the place was always a shambles again. Sometimes important papers were left lying about, and that was a handy thing to a bright and prudent fellow like Harry, who was meticulous and orderly in his own way.
Harry carefully folded a report from Inspector Whittaker at the Department of Mines affirming that all safety measures prior to the June accident had been properly undertaken and stowed it in his pocket. Then he leaned back in Gavin's chair and steepled his fingers under his chin, gazing at the laborer who stood before the desk, twisting his cap in his hands. Tears had cut tracks through the layers of black dust embedded in the man's skin. Harry shook his head slowly, feigning deep regret. "It's a pity, Joe, it surely is. But rules are rules. You know that."
Joe Wasilewski shook his head. His throat worked and his lips moved, but no sound emerged. He fumbled a grimy handkerchief from a pocket, then blew his nose and wiped at his eyes. "Mr. Slater –" Wasilewski swallowed, rendered nearly mute from desperation. "My little girl, she is sick. She needs medicine." His English was broken and made less intelligible by his tears. "My boy – he is small, but he is strong also. He could start tomorrow."
"How many kids have you got, Joe?"
"Five. One, he is a nipper already." Wasilewski smiled proudly through his tears.
Harry returned the man's smile. Twenty-four years old and already five brats. The only race that bred more than the god-damned Polacks was the god-damned Irish. Bloody vermin, the lot of them. "And your lad's how old?"
Wasilewski hesitated. "Twelve. Small for his age, though. But strong," he repeated hastily. "He is a tough one."
Tough. That, at least, was likely true. Harry mentally shaved a few years off the boy's supposed age. Probably eight, maybe nine at most, and in school. At least his English might be better than his father's. Harry had protested quietly when the younger Mr. Mortensen had had safety signs erected in several languages. "Better that they learn English, Mr. Mortensen, and right away. They're Americans now, aren't they? Let 'em learn the language, or let 'em go back to where they came from."
Mr. Mortensen had given Harry a hard stare. "I think most of the men are very eager to learn English, Mr. Slater, but there's no sense in depriving them of fundamental safety instructions if they've only been here a few weeks. We're not the first colliery to do this. I'm only sorry I didn't think of it earlier." He'd turned on his well-shod heel and left the office, ignoring Harry.
Well, Mr. Fancy Viggo Bleeding-Heart Mortensen thought he knew it all. He was a lot like Freddy Watkins in that respect. Rich young fellows with the world at their feet. But he didn't know it all, no sir. He didn't know that Harry had a tidy venture going on with the fellows on the railroad who altered the shipping manifests for a small cut. He didn't know that Harry had become proficient, in just a few months, at skimming a little cream off the top here and there. Oh, Harry had to do his job, and well, for Gavin was too sharp-eyed a boss to tolerate laziness, but there were little compensations.
There were other things young Mr. Mortensen didn't know. He didn't know that Harry knew the truth about him and Sean Bean. It was clear as day for anyone who knew how to read the signs. And he didn't know that his pal – no, his sweetheart Sean was a would-be murderer; he'd stake his life on that. And maybe Harry would tell him one day, if the need arose. Sean was too stupidly devoted to deny it. Telling Viggo Mortensen what he knew – that might be a lucrative pleasure to be savored, one day.
"Mr. Slater."
Harry brought his attention back to Joe Wasilewski. "Sorry, lad. I was trying to think how best to help you, but I'm afraid my hands are tied. You know the rule – no new hires under the age of thirteen. That's not my law, that's Mr. Mortensen's."
"But the doctor says…he says my little girl needs medicine. I don’t have no more money." More tears trickled down Wasilewski's tired, seamed face.
Best for all concerned if the brat died. That would give the bleeding papist something to cry over, Harry thought. He leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. "Look here, Joe. If I employed your lad, we'd have to lie about it. That's a serious offense, according to Mr. Mortensen. But that's an owner for you – happy enough to deprive a family of a living wage, as long as his own pockets are lined."
Wasilewski nodded fervently. "All the same. Bastards." Some English he'd learned quite well.
"And since he's underage, well…I'd have to have some sort of compensation." He sighed, examining Joe's face as he tried to work out what Harry might mean. "You'd have to turn over a portion of his earnings."
There was hesitation on the blackened, tear-stained face. It was clear that he'd finally realized he was being rooked. "My little girl."
"Take it or leave it, lad. It's all the same to me." Harry shrugged and picked up a newspaper, waiting to hear the man's footsteps.
"Okay. I take it."
Harry put the paper on the desk and offered Joe a gentle smile. Stupid Polacks. No bloody spine. "I think…sixty-forty ought to do it. What do you say?"
Joe's face creased more deeply. It was clear he didn't understand what Harry meant, but he searched Harry's face and might have seen boredom and something else flickering in his eyes. He nodded again. "Yes, that would be fair. Thank you. Thank you." Smiling, showing fine white teeth, he put out his hand, saw that Harry had no intention of shaking it, and clasped his cap in his hands again. "I may bring him tomorrow?"
"Six sharp. And mind you, he's on probation. If his work isn't satisfactory, I'll have to sack him unpaid. Oh, and Joe – best that you don't mention any of this to Mr. Rowe, or any of the superintendents, eh?" Harry's tone was mild, but his eyes bored into Wasilewski's like icicles.
"Thank you, Mr. Slater." Wasilewski bobbed his head and backed out of the office as if Harry were royalty. Harry bit back a grin and opened the paper again. A few extra bob never hurt, and as thorough as Gavin Rowe was, he didn't have time to examine every breaker boy that came in. Many of them were undersized at any rate, thanks to miserable and inadequate food, and that was as well to Harry – made it easier to hire the younger lads cheaper. Mortensen should have been kissing his feet in gratitude; well, if Harry had actually saved him money instead of pocketing it, he should have.
He glanced up as the postman came in with the day's mail. "There he is, George the lad."
"All right, Harry." George Hopkins set his leather bag on the desk with a thump. "Be a right scorcher out today."
"Come and work in the pit," Harry invited him. "Always nice and cool down yonder. Not too cold in winter, either."
"Aye, and filthy and dangerous and back-breaking besides. No, thanks all the same. My dad did that so I wouldn't have to. I'll just find me a nice tree to rest under for a bit." George began to sort through the mail. "Lots for you today. There you go."
Harry took the packet with a nod. "Ta, George."
"Don't work too hard now, Harry," the postman said with an amused glance.
"Count on it. I'll buy you a pint this Friday night."
"I'll take you up on that. So long."
Harry flipped idly through the mail and stopped at a thin envelope addressed to Gavin in Viggo Mortensen's neat copperplate hand. The words URGENT AND CONFIDENTIAL were scrawled across the bottom in hasty capitals. He turned it over, noted the wax seal, and frowned. He held it toward the window, squinting in an effort to read the writing beneath the envelope. The note was folded writing-side inward.
A scowl like a thundercloud gathered on Harry's brow. What was so urgent and mysterious that fancy young Mr. Mortensen found it necessary to write only a day or two after his absence? He didn't like other men's secrets, not one little bit. Mortensen was becoming uncomfortable with the union pressure, that was certain. Gavin had said he'd gone home for some family emergency; that was rot if Harry had ever heard it. Went to try to find a fancy lawyer, likely, to try to break the union, and was writing Gavin about it.
Mortensen didn't have the first idea what the struggle was really all about. It wasn't higher wages, longer tea breaks, safety regulations or the company buying the miners' blasting caps and fuses. It was about holding the whip hand, pure and simple. And bugger decency and humanity and Johnny Mitchell and the working man's rights. Fear: that was the key. You held the whip hand, and men learned to fear you, if they were smart. If they were stupid, they learned right sharpish, for Harry was only too happy to teach them, and happier still to see the clear light of recognition dawning in their eyes. It was true that it was easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar, and Harry had done just that for the most part. No arse-licking needed – just a believable show, a glossy helping of good will and concern. Little insinuations for the wavering ones, veiled threats for the stubborn. Brute force if all else failed. The blokes at the Winsley mine had learned fast enough. Freddy, now, he'd learned too late to do himself any good. Pity, that.
Temptation gnawed at his innards. A quick glance round the office told him he was utterly alone. He broke the green wax seal and withdrew a single sheet of twice-folded paper.
Jerry Mowry, one of the company hands, skidded over the threshold. "Mr. Slater, they're asking for you. I told 'em I'd look for you, and they wanted to see Mr. Rowe too, but he ain't here either."
"Jesus Christ. Slow down, for buggery's sake. Who wants me?"
"Couple fellas from Leeds, England. They look like coppers. I told them I'd look for you."
A peculiar cold shudder nibbled its way up Harry's spine, and the morning's languor dissolved instantly. He felt wary and alert, as if he'd seen a coiled and hissing snake next to his shoe. He let one corner of his mouth turn upward. "You already said that, lad. Coppers, is it?"
The boy could have been wrong. There were plenty of Englishmen hereabouts, and anyone with a good suit of clothes and an air of authority probably seemed like a copper to fourteen-year-old Jerry Mowry. But no. Harry had a nose for these things, and he knew who they were, all right. He'd be lying to himself if he'd said he wasn't expecting it, even. He should have kept moving, gone to Canada or somewhere remote. The chickens had come home to roost, and the coppers were here to arrest him for the murder of Freddy Watkins. How had they found out? He'd never done anyone else in Winsley, for Christ's sake.
Harry got to his feet, folding the envelope from Mortensen into neat thirds in order to still the violent trembling of his hands. He had a knife in his pocket. He cut his eyes sharply toward the door. Grab the lad, that was it. Hostage, human shield. Demand a horse, make a getaway. Bloody shame it was only Jerry Mowry and not someone who mattered, like Gavin or even Sean-bloody-fancy-arse-fucking Bean. He slid the envelope into his other pocket and curled his hand round the hilt of the knife. It was his jackknife; he could have one arm round the boy's neck and the blade at his throat in a matter of seconds. Sweat trickled down Harry's back.
Two men in sober, dark suits, one tall and broad, the other small and thin, shouldered their way into the office. "Mr. Slater? Harry Slater?"
"That's me." Harry marveled at how calm he sounded. He took a step closer to Jerry.
"Tom McClure," the large fellow said, "and this is Angus Hart. We'd like to ask you some questions if we may, sir, about one of your employees, Sean Bean."
The blade stopped halfway out of Harry's pocket. "What?"
"Mr. Bean, sir. We understand he's employed by Mortensen Coal, but he's out of town at present. We've spoken to Mr. Viggo Mortensen in Philadelphia a few days ago, but we were wondering if you and perhaps Mr. Rowe and a few others wouldn't mind answering a few questions."
Harry found it hard to catch his breath. "All right. What's it all about?"
"It's a rather sensitive inquiry, Mr. Slater," Hart said, nodding at Jerry in a little-pitchers-have-big-ears gesture. "Perhaps we could have a few moments of your time?"
"Sean's not in trouble, is he?"
McClure cleared his throat. "Perhaps we could discuss this in private."
Blood pounded in Harry's ears. They wanted Sean. Not him. A horrid, giddy jubilation surged in his gut, making him want to laugh and vomit at the same time. Sean-bloody-fancy-arse-fucking Bean, wanted for murder. Great bloody fucking glory. Delicately, he slid the knife back into his pocket. "Jerry, go on, lad. I've got to have a word with these gentlemen." Harry blinked sweat out of his eyes as the door closed.
"Hot today," McClure remarked sympathetically.
"That it is," Harry agreed. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and froze, seized by a vast, implacable certainty. "Please have a seat, gentlemen. I need to attend to a matter before we get started. Can I offer either of you a cup of tea?"
"No, thank you," Hart said. He took a chair and set a bulging valise beside it.
"Just give me a moment. Make yourselves comfortable." Harry stepped out the other door into the breaker. Oblivious to the deafening noise of the tippler and sieves, he drew the letter from his pocket, unfolded it, and read:
Dear Gavin,
A matter of the most desperate urgency has arisen just to-day. When you receive this letter, please ask Mr. Bean to telephone me immediately at my parents' home in Philadelphia. I would be obliged to you if you instructed him not to identify himself – or rather, to identify himself as some one else. The name Peter Smith will suffice. Please tell him that I have news regarding Mr. Frederick Watkins. I regret the necessity for subterfuge and promise I shall explain soon. I know I can depend on your discretion.
In haste,
Viggo P. Mortensen
Harry's mouth twitched. So they'd questioned Mr. Mortensen first, had they? And Mr. Mortensen wanted to warn his sweetheart. Wasn't that lovely. Just lovely indeed.
Well, post went astray all the time. It was a sad fact. Very sad.
He put the letter back in his pocket and re-entered the office. "My apologies, gentlemen. Now – you wanted to discuss young Mr. Bean." He heaved a deep sigh. "I knew his dad well, in Winsley. Poor man. Always wanted the best for his boy, only to find –" An eloquent shrug lifted his shoulders.
McClure leaned forward, clearly surprised. "You know him, Mr. Slater?"
"Oh yes. His dad, at least. Sean – well…."
"To find what, Mr. Slater?" Hart took a notebook from his valise.
"The lad's not in trouble, is he?"
"We have some questions," Hart said grimly.
Harry bit the inside of his lip, careful to suppress the glee that wanted to dance to the surface. "Of course. Of course."
*
Market Street Station was nearly empty; only a few passengers waited half-collapsed on benches, sweating and lethargic in the heat. The lone ticket agent, in shirtsleeves and green visor, mopped his brow with a handkerchief, his nose buried in a book. A bootblack snoozed beside his shoe-shine stand, a sweets vendor glowered as if Sean had designs on his barrel of broken ginger biscuits, and a newspaper boy fanned himself dispiritedly with one of his broadsheets. The boy glanced up at Sean as he walked by. "Paper, mister?" he inquired without much hope.
"Aye, give it here, lad." Sean transferred his suitcase to his left hand, fished a dime from his vest pocket, and tossed it to the boy. "Keep the rest."
"Thanks, mister!"
Sean strolled away, the paper tucked beneath his arm, a smile on his face. Not even the explosive heat of the station enervated him. He rode on a wave of self-congratulatory pleasure; the trip had been successful beyond his hopes. He'd been anxious at first, apprehensive about meeting the elderly, rich, and reputedly eccentric Peter Halloran, afraid that the man would hear his working-class accent and haughtily send him packing in a flurry of disgrace. But the old man had proved a surprisingly easy nut to crack. He'd been a fellow Yorkshireman, from near Leeds, and his voice was comfortingly familiar and, to Sean's surprise, more than a hint of working-class itself. They'd got along like a house on fire.
Over currant scones and sweet, milky tea into which Halloran poured generous slugs of whiskey, the old man had delighted in telling Sean the story of his move to America from the coal pits of Britain, his first mine purchase in 1859, and his rise to success selling anthracite coal to the Union during the Civil War. He'd always been fair to his employees, he said, because he'd never forgot where he came from, and he'd heard that young Mr. Mortensen had a conscience. "Most of the owners are bleeding mardy bastards, lad," he'd confided. "They think I'm daft and can't stand the sight of me, and I feel the same way about them. No love lost there, I can tell you. Your young fella will hear about it, if he hasn't already. But some of the union men are no better. Oh, some are a bit of all right, but a great many of 'em couldn't organize a piss-up in a brewery. Still, best to try getting along with them. The owners who think the union lads are going to just fade away are nowt but a pack of fools. You can only spit at a working man for so long before he decides to spit back."
"Mr. Mortensen asked me to make it very clear that he wanted to cooperate in the fullest measure with the UMW, sir," Sean had replied.
"Well, he knows his own mind, doesn't he? Can't say I entirely agree – cooperate too much and he might end up knuckling under – but he's thinking ahead, at least. And I'll tell you this, lad – I'll not sell to the giants, the Fricks or the Carnegies or the Morgans or their like, even though I could name my price and they'd pay without blinking an eye. Truth is, I'm old and I've got enough money, and I'm bloody-minded enough to sell to a small operator."
"Mr. Mortensen's interested, sir."
Halloran had smiled. "You don't talk much, do you, lad?"
"I listen, sir."
A wheezing cackle had erupted from Halloran's chest. "I like that. Tell young Mr. Mortensen I'll meet him."
And there it was, amiable as you please. Sean had toured all four collieries, inspected the safety reports, talked to the company men and contractors, dined with Halloran in his palatial home, and rode back to Wilkes-Barre in a haze of happy anticipation. He'd stop at the boardinghouse, leave his things, and then dash to the office and telephone Viggo straight away if he hadn't come back from Philadelphia. Viggo would be pleased, and they'd celebrate upon his return. Sean found himself wishing Miss Grace would stay in the city, or go back to her friend Charlotte's house. He was fond of the lass, no question, but it was a bother trying to be quiet while he and Viggo were going at it. More than once Viggo, half-laughing, half-panicked, had clapped a hand over Sean's mouth to stifle his groans.
Sean grinned. If Grace were there, he'd try to persuade Viggo to use the bedroom above the Mortensen office. No one would hear them there, and they could make as much noise as they pleased.
He bounded up the boardinghouse stairs and went inside. An aroma of baking floated past his nose. The hall clock read half two. Most of the boarders would still be at work. Sean heard snoring from the parlor, poked his head in, and saw Rhys Higgins the postman, lying on the couch with the newspaper on his rising and falling belly. Sean smiled, set down his bags, and moved quietly into the kitchen. "Mrs. Donnelly?"
Maggie Donnelly sat fast asleep at the kitchen table, her head tilted back, upper lip fluttering with her snores. A tin bowl of shelled peas sat in front of her, there was a stack of snow-white napkins, smelling of starch, folded on the sideboard, and a half-unpacked basket of groceries littered the countertop.
The kitchen window was open, and upon it reposed a pie dish covered with a tea towel to protect it from flies. Sean lifted a corner of the towel and inhaled the fragrance of baked peaches. He leaned over and deftly stole a handful of peas, savoring their crisp, green taste. He sat at the table and folded his hands. "Mrs. Donnelly."
Mrs. Donnelly came awake, emitting a choked snort. She saw Sean and jerked in surprise. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she gasped. "You put the heart across me, boyo. Are you trying to kill me?"
"Sorry to wake you. You looked right comfortable."
"Aye, probably drawing flies, like as not." She heaved herself up from her chair and bustled to the kitchen counter. "Help me put these on the high shelf, will you, lad? When did you get in?"
"Just now." Sean rose obediently and shuffled boxes around on the top shelf of the pantry. "Scorcher out there today."
"It is. Thanks, Sean." Mrs. Donnelly dusted her hands on her apron. "Listen, laddie – you've had a couple of callers. Coppers by the looks of them."
Sean stared at her. "Coppers? For me?"
"You're not in any trouble, are you lad?"
"Well, I should hope not! What did they want?"
Mrs. Donnelly shrugged. "To talk to you, but that's what they all say, so it is. I didn't tell them a blessed thing. They said they'd try to find you at the colliery."
"No trouble there, I hope?"
"They didn't say. I've not heard a thing myself, and you know I keep my ear close to the ground." She took a ring of keys from her apron pocket and opened a drawer in the sideboard, withdrawing a letter and squinting at the return address on the back of the envelope. "Only one letter for you, from Mr. Mortensen."
Sean smiled at her unabashed curiosity. "Thanks, Mrs. Donnelly. I couldn't wheedle a bacon butty from you, could I?"
"Aye, I suppose you could. Go on and have a wash." She shooed Sean away with a dishcloth.
The third-floor room was stifling. Sean set his bag on the floor and opened the window, hoping in vain for a stray breeze. He shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, ran a forefinger over his sweating upper lip, and sat on the bed to read Viggo's letter.
Thirty seconds later he pounded down the stairs, hatless, letter in hand.
"Sean? Where are you –"
He let the door bang shut and ran down the porch steps. Three blocks to the office. He tried to walk, the picture of nonchalance, but his heart trip-hammered in his chest, and his feet moved faster and faster to match its frantic rhythm. By the time he reached Franklin Street, he was running. People stared and moved aside, aghast at a man mad enough to move at such a speed in the heat.
A dozen panicked thoughts jostled each other unmercifully in a disordered and undignified scrum. Freddy dead. Detectives. Leeds. Telephone Viggo. A false name – Peter Smith, for Christ's sake? Why? Murdered, Freddy, stupid, careless Freddy, and the detectives at the colliery, asking questions. He'd be sacked. No, Viggo wouldn't allow it, but – why him? Why had they come all the way to bloody Pennsylvania to find him? He hadn't killed him. Freddy had been alive and well when he'd left. How in God's name had they found him?
He half-stumbled up the steps and stood panting for a moment. Calm down, he chided himself angrily. You can't be talking to Viggo in this state – he'll think you're guilty. He searched in his pocket for his office key and stilled his hand's trembling as he fitted the key into the lock.
"Mr. Bean? Sean Bean?"
Sean closed his eyes. A horrible, liquid weakness flooded his limbs. "Aye," he said softly. "That's me." He turned to face the man who'd addressed him.
There were two men: one tall and broad, with a bushy mustache, and one small, with black eyes and a thin, sallow complexion. Oh yes – coppers, no doubt about it. They didn't need uniforms; they had the sauntering assurance of their profession, the smug demeanor that said they had the full weight of the law behind them, and if they took a few extra measures to get what they wanted, that was just too bloody bad.
"Thomas McClure and Angus Hart, Mr. Bean. We're here at the behest of Mr. Frederick Watkins, Senior. May we ask you a few questions?"
*
They could have all the time they wanted, Sean had thought, as long as in the end they understood he was innocent. But that had been more than an hour ago and they showed no sign of leaving. He rasped out a sigh. "I've told you all I know," he said in a parched, ragged voice. "Freddy were alive when I left."
McClure nodded ponderously and stroked his mustache. "So you've said. But you haven't said how you knew that."
Sean's neck and face grew hot. "He gave me money for my passage."
Hart gazed at Sean with his button-black eyes. "And why should he do something like that, Mr. Bean?"
"I don't know," Sean snapped. "Kindness of his heart, maybe."
A thin smile crossed Hart's face. "Maybe. Or maybe you were blackmailing him."
"I never – I never did a thing like that. Why would I, for Christ's sake?"
"Come along, Mr. Bean," McClure said quietly. "No need to become excited. We know about Mr. Watkins' predilections. We know that you were one of a succession of young men he employed, but you seemed to last longer than most of the others. Why is that, do you think?"
"I weren't stupid. That's why." Sean knew his face was bright red. He stared down at the desk blotter, seeing the faint imprint of Viggo's handwriting on the leather, and traced his fingertip across it. Gathering his courage, he glared at the two men. "Or do you mean owt else?"
Hart called his bluff. "You know we do, Mr. Bean. Why did he give you money? Was it in payment for your services?"
"No."
"The butler, Dudden, says that he recalls you visiting the house on more than one occasion." McClure looked at Sean pointedly. "After you'd left Mr. Watkins' employment."
"Is that a crime?"
"No," McClure said. "But Mr. Watkins is dead. You say he gave you money, and you won't say why. When we checked the shipping manifests, your name failed to appear. We checked as far back as a year, you see, and quite thoroughly at that. Did you use a false name for your passage?"
"I – I –" Sean shook his head. "Freddy told me to do that."
"Why?"
"He said it were the smart thing to do."
"Oh, very smart indeed. And you jumped ship in Philadelphia."
"Aye." Sean slumped down in his chair. It was looking bad for him – no, bloody terrible. They'd take him back to England in irons, and hang him. "He said I should do that, too."
"He certainly was eager to help you."
"I didn't kill him. If that's what you think, you're bleeding wrong, you are."
Hart leaned back in his chair. "But you cannot prove you weren't in the vicinity when Mr. Watkins was murdered, Mr. Bean. And such a brutal, horrific crime. Even if he was a sodomite, that's no way to die. His tongue was hacked from his head, both arms were broken, his feet smashed, his genitals –"
"Stop!" Sean cried. "Christ, can't you stop?"
"His body was dumped in a bog near your house, Mr. Bean," Hart continued implacably. "It was a miracle he was found at all."
"I didn't do owt," Sean muttered. He ran his hands through his hair. Tears stung his eyes. "I asked him for more, but – I didn't kill him." Viggo couldn't help him now; nobody could. A confused and reeling part of his mind told him to confess to a lesser crime. "He didn't tell me to jump ship. I did that. It were blackmail all right, but I didn't kill him. I couldn't…I couldn't do what he asked me."
"What did he ask you to do?" McClure inquired.
"To kill Harry." It came out as a voiceless rasp.
"Harry?"
"Harry Slater."
The two detectives exchanged puzzled glances. "The same Harry Slater who's working at the Lynwood colliery?"
"Aye, that's the one," Sean said bitterly. "He told you, didn't he? Told you I bleeding –" He looked up and saw consternation on the detectives' faces. "What?" The men didn't reply. "What did he tell you, for Christ's sake?"
McClure heaved himself to his feet and walked to the mantel. He stood staring out the open window, his large red face gleaming with runnels of sweat. Hart remained where he was, pale and arid. The two men exchanged another glance, and Hart flipped through his notebook, gazing at the closely packed writing.
Sean watched their faces. They no longer seemed hostile or accusatory, merely perplexed. He thought of Harry's sly smiles, his veiled threats. Surely Harry wouldn't go so far as to accuse Sean of murder, even if he knew Sean had slugged him and left him tied up in his cellar. Surely the beating Harry had arranged for Sean – not that Sean could prove it, true – had been revenge enough. How had Harry found out that Sean was the one who'd done that, in any case?
Freddy. Had to have been Freddy. Had Freddy told him about the letters? Given them back under duress, perhaps? And what if Harry were the type to hold a grudge? A breath hitched in Sean's chest, and he was cold despite the killing heat. He licked dry lips. "What did he tell you?" he whispered.
McClure leaned an elbow on the mantel and drew a heavy sigh. "Mr. Bean, I think perhaps you had better tell us everything, from the very beginning."
*
Sean sat rigidly upright at Gavin's desk, drumming his fingers on the paper-littered surface. Harry was taking his sweet time about coming round, and if he didn't turn up in the next five minutes Sean was going to find him and drag him into the office by the scruff of his neck.
The door opened, letting in a blast of clattering and grinding from the breaker. Sean half-rose in the chair, then slumped down. It was Gavin, his red face creased with anxiety. "Jerry Mowry said you had a face like a wet week," Gavin said. "Anything wrong, lad?"
"Aye, you could say that." Sean rose from Gavin's chair and offered him the seat, but Gavin waved it away.
"Bad luck with Halloran? I hear he's a tough old buzzard."
"Nay, it weren't that. Gavin, did Mr. Mortensen write you this week?"
Gavin shook his head. "I haven't got a letter from him, no."
"He wrote me that he sent you a note."
"Maybe the post is slow."
"Maybe," Sean acknowledged. He sighed and paced to the door, opening it and peering round the jamb. He came back in and slammed the door. The glass rattled in the window. "That bastard, where is he?"
"You're looking for Harry? I saw him going down the slope just a moment ago." Gavin knew of Sean's fear of the tunnels, the close dark. It was something of a joke between them and he supposed word had got round, but no one had ever been unkind to him for it – like as not because Sean was Viggo's second in rank. "You want me to fetch him out, Sean?"
"Nay. I'll wait for him." Sean sat at the desk again. "Tell me what's been happening here."
Gavin sighed. There had been mischief, he admitted glumly. Small things – names erased from the mine office roster so that there was no record of a man's presence in the pit, lamps missing, obscene graffiti chalked on the walls. "It's the erasures that have me bothered," Gavin said. "That's bad business."
Sean rubbed his closed eyes. That was more than mischief; it was downright malice. Mines were often fouled by blackdamp, a gas that seemed to suck the air out of a chamber; it caused lethargy and eventual unconsciousness and death. A man working alone would become faint because of blackdamp and unable to summon help, but Joe Cooper, the fire boss, and his helper performed checks throughout the day, making sure each man was accounted for and breathing clean air. If a man's name was erased from the slate, then there was no way for the fire boss to know he was underground. "Have Joe write the names down and keep the list with him," Sean said. "He'll grumble, but there's nowt for it. I'll not have a man dying below because some bugger's playing nasty tricks. Any idea who it is?"
"I could name some I suspect, but –" Gavin shrugged.
"But you've not caught them in the act yet."
"That's it. There's one other thing, Sean."
"Aye, what's that?"
"In here." Gavin pushed his spectacles up on his nose and dragged his hands through his thinning hair. "There's papers gone missing. The safety report, for one."
"We need that, Gavin," Sean said in dismay. "A copy will take weeks."
"I know. I'm sorry for it, Sean. I've never had papers go missing before. I know it's a bit of a whirlwind in here, but there was a place for everything, if you follow."
"You'd better start locking it when you're not here."
"Aye, but if I do that…some of the other men use it too."
"Who?"
Gavin named them. Harry Slater; Joe Cooper, the fire boss; Sam Omashel, the driver boss; the three slate bosses, the breaker engineer, and the two hoisting engineers. "I can't keep them locked out. And sometimes I send one of the lads, Jerry or Pasko or Clyde, to fetch things for me. I don't think it's the boys, though. They're good sorts."
"Aye, I'm sure." Sean ground his teeth. He couldn't accuse Harry, not outright – he'd have trouble on his hands for certain. That bastard would bear watching, though, and God help him if he tipped his hand. "Perhaps we can attach a separate office for the other men. I'll speak to Mr. Mortensen about it."
"All right. Listen, lad, what's this all about? Is it about those coppers that were here the other day?"
"Aye. Aye, it is. I might have known word would get around." Sean sighed. There was no way out of this mess now. But he'd be damned if he'd be dragged into the muck alone.
"Can't be helped in a place like this, everyone in each other's pockets. Is Harry making mischief for you?"
Before Sean could answer, there was a knock on the door, and Harry sauntered in, a smile on his face. Anyone looking at him might have thought him a man of quiet gentleness; his countenance was bland and serene, his clothes tidy, his posture relaxed. But his eyes, alight with happy malice and as cold as two holes hacked into the ice of a frozen pond, told a different story. "Morning, gents. Heard you wanted to see me, Sean."
Sean replied with frozen silence and a long, measuring stare. Harry's smile widened, and he leaned against the doorway, hands in his pockets.
Gavin stood. "I'll leave you be. Unless you need anything?" he asked, his eyes searching Sean's.
"Nay. Thanks, Gavin." He watched Harry step aside as Gavin slipped out the door, closing it behind him. Harry sank into one of the chairs opposite the desk, still smiling that falsely gentle smile. They regarded each other without speaking for a moment. Outside the office, the muffled clatter and grind of the breaker went on and on above the hectoring shouts of the slate bosses.
Harry broke first. "You planning to stare at me all day, lad?"
Viggo would have known the proper icy, polite words to intimidate Harry. Sean hadn't Viggo's gift for words. He curled his hands into fists, wishing he could simply stand up and beat Harry to a pulp. "You bastard. You've got some bleeding cheek to sit there smiling at me like that."
"I'm not following you, lad," Harry said, satisfaction settling over his face and the spare economy of his lean frame.
"And you're a liar, too. What did you tell them detectives about me?"
"You?" Harry feigned surprise. "Well, they didn't just want to know about you, lad. You've probably heard that poor Freddy Watkins is dead. They were curious about the fellows who worked for him. Good-looking lads, all of them, and young. Like yourself."
A bitter laugh forced its way from Sean's chest. "Like myself, aye. And you didn't breathe a word about yourself, I reckon."
"Well now. I never worked for him but down the pit. Young Mr. Watkins didn't take to visiting there often, you see. I didn't know him as, ah, personally as you did." Harry's grin mocked Sean, daring a contradiction.
"That's not what I heard. Or should I say that's not what I read?"
Harry's smile evaporated. "Once more, I'm not following you," he said softly.
"Don't let's hand each other shite and pretend it's brass," Sean retorted. "You know what I'm talking about. You know it were me who broke into your house that night. I coshed you on the head and tied you down cellar. Don't look at me and smile and lie."
"Broke into my house, did you?" Harry's voice was as soft as before.
"Aye, and you bloody well know it. And now the coppers do, too."
"That was right bold of you, lad, to confess to a crime like that."
"Who told you it were me? Freddy?" Harry chuckled, and Sean stifled the urge to wrap his hands around Harry's throat and bang his head against the floor. "Did you come to America to even the score, Harry? Did you have them good-for-nowt scum give me a beating?"
Harry held up his hands. "Steady on there, lad! My God, you've got a high opinion of yourself, haven't you? What makes you think I give a toss about you? Christ, you rise a bit in the world and your head swells. It's a wonder you fit through the damned door. I came to America for a bloody job – same way you did, eh?"
White-hot coals of wrath kindled in Sean's chest. Harry Slater had an answer for everything. Slippery as a bleeding eel. Stay calm, he told himself. Don't let him get the best of you. He waited for a moment, considering his choices. Clever; he had it all sorted, did Harry. But he didn't have Sean's trump card. "I gave that McClure one of the letters, Harry."
"What letters?"
"The packet of letters Freddy hired me to steal back from you. 'Dearest Harry, last night was a grand adventure.' The letters you were using to blackmail him. Come on now, Harry, don't tell me you can't remember."
All pretense of good nature trickled from Harry's face. He rose to his feet slowly and moved toward the desk. "Letters to me?"
Sean sat back. Something strange was happening behind Harry's pale blue eyes, some calculation and peculiar detachment he couldn't understand. But he wasn't about to be cowed by the likes of him, not now. "Aye, that's right. Perhaps I can have Mr. McClure show it to you, if you like. Might jog your memory a bit."
"And how do you know they were addressed to me?"
"They had your bleeding name on them, that's how."
"There are a lot of Harrys in Yorkshire. How do you know it's me?"
Sean paused. Had there been an envelope? An address? No, just those words. Dearest Harry. He scrambled to equivocate. "Since I took the letters from your house, that's just a fair guess on my part. Wouldn't you say?"
"Funny thing, that," Harry said. "I don't remember anyone breaking into my house. I'd recall that. I'd certainly recall if someone had knocked me unconscious and left me tied up in my own cellar. If things had been missing from my house, I'd have remembered. I'd have told the police if a terrible thing like that had happened." His grin spread over his face again, cheerful and sunny. His cheeks had the high, ruddy color of a man who spent his life outdoors, in wholesome, honest pursuits.
A warning bell rang in the back of Sean's head. He gazed into Harry's eyes and saw, behind the bluff cheer, a churning like frigid waters, dark deliberation, fury barely tempered. He saw Harry's hands curled into fists, the knuckles white. He saw a glimmer of sweat at Harry's temples.
Sean knew. Impossible to prove, but he knew it just the same. Harry Slater had murdered Freddy, had tortured him, had committed unspeakable atrocities upon him, and for what? Because his pride had been wounded? Because Sean had discovered that Harry had a taste for men? Had it been a crime of passion? Then why come after Sean? A faint prickle of fear traveled along Sean's spine. He contained a shudder and maintained his steady gaze. "You didn't tell them you knew Freddy at all."
"I didn't. I told you, lad – he didn't come down to the pit. Maybe he was afraid of them." Scorn tinged Harry's voice. "He was soft, or so I heard. Had a taste for handsome young lads. Word got round, you know. And those lads, why – they weren't discreet. Came to see him openly, worked for him as…clerks, isn't that it? Just like you. Hard to clerk away when you're arse-up over that red Chesterfield, I should think. And demanding money, they were. Not surprised Freddy wound up dead. Like I said – not discreet. They could take a page from your book, Sean.
"You working for Mr. Mortensen, now – that's how an employee should be. Quiet, dignified. Not drawing attention to himself. Taking a good, steady salary instead of demanding sums left and right. I'm sure Mr. Mortensen rewards behavior like that, especially from a working-class bit of rough. I'll bet that surprised him, eh? And keeping a letter with a common name like Harry, just in case the police come sniffing round – that's downright genius, lad. Well done." He offered Sean a triumphant smile.
Sean sat stunned, heavy stones of terror and defeat crushing inward. Harry had an answer to everything. There was no solid evidence against him – no proof of blackmail, no proof of flight, no surname on the incriminating letter. If Sean dared to make a counter-accusation, nothing would stick, and Sean would be the one dancing at the end of a rope. If the detectives had had some suspicions about Harry, they'd have come asking for him, not Sean. They'd warned him that the police were watching the train stations, the roads. If Sean tried to run, they'd bottle him up in no time flat.
Harry shrugged, as if he were bored with the conversation, and turned toward the door. "I've got a job to do, Mr. Bean. Sorry the coppers are making trouble for you."
"How did you know Freddy had a red Chesterfield?"
Harry paused, his hand upon the doorknob. He turned and winked at Sean, then left, letting in another brief, cacophonous din of machinery and human bellowing.
Dazed, Sean rose to his feet, his heart slamming unevenly in his chest, fear crushing him as if he were down in the mines, surrounded by damp, by darkness, by the black and sinister weight of the earth. There was too much evidence against him, helped along by Harry's vindictive bile. Thank God his parents weren't alive to see their son tried and hanged for murdering his former lover.
Lover. The word was tawdry when applied to Freddy. Freddy hadn't loved him; he'd fucked him, no more, no less. Was that what Freddy and Harry had been – lovers? Freddy had fucked Sean, and betrayed him, true, but he'd paid for it with his life, and now Harry was making sure Sean would pay with his life, but Harry wasn't going to bleeding pay, was he? No, clever, vile Harry would get off scot-free.
He stumbled to the door and threw it open, ignoring the assault of noise. He scanned the vast lower floor of the breaker and saw Harry talking to the breaker engineer. Hot blood filled his ears, and a savage dizziness gripped him.
Two breaker boys nearby turned to peer at him curiously. He stared at their blackened faces. "Think he's sick, Mr. Blair!" one of them called to his supervisor.
"Back at it!" the boss shouted, then pivoted on his heel. "You all right, Mr. Bean?"
"Leave them be," Sean said, and pushed past him, toward Harry. The engineer had walked away, and Harry stood still, meditatively smoking a cigarette. Sean grasped him by the lapel and slammed him against the wall. Harry's breath whooshed out in a low grunt, scarcely audible beneath the din.
Sean grabbed Harry's other lapel, drew him close, and slammed him into the wall again. "You frigging bastard, you fucking arse-lick. You did it, didn't you? Didn't you?" He pulled Harry forward and shoved him back again. The wall behind Harry was corrugated tin; it rattled each time Harry's back connected with it. "You bloody well murdered him."
Harry struggled for balance, then brought a foot up and kicked Sean solidly in the thigh. Sean gasped in sudden, blinding pain, then drove a fist into Harry's belly. Harry fell back against the wall. Tin rattled.
Sean wiped sweat from his eyes, watching Harry stagger, caught unprepared when Harry dived low and caught him round the waist, bringing him sprawling to the ground. Sean's back hit the floor, and stars exploded in his vision. A sharp pain flared in his hip, as if he'd landed on broken glass. Then Harry reached between Sean's legs and squeezed. The stars flared into spinning constellations; a thin wail that Sean hardly recognized as his own voice issued from his throat.
Then there were voices, running feet. Harry was pulled off him, held by Simon Uncoski, the breaker engineer, and two of the slate bosses. Gavin was at Sean's side, helping him up. "All right, lad. You're all right."
"What the hell's going on here?" Simon bellowed.
Sean sank into a crouch, cradling his wounded testicles. "Fuck –" The pain was throbbing, white-hot. Tears stood in his eyes. Dimly he realized it was quiet; someone had shut the machinery off. He looked up and saw Harry panting heavily and grinning at him, but it was less a grin than the baring of teeth. The mask of amiability had fallen away.
"I've had enough!" Gavin Rowe pointed at Harry. "You – get your things and get out. Now."
"He attacked me." Harry strained against the men holding him. "Fucking lily boy."
If Sean hadn't been in so much pain, he would have laughed. There was the pot calling the kettle black. Slowly, he gained his feet. "You heard the man," he said. "Get out of here."
"You can't sack me, lily boy. Not without cause." Harry's face was pallid with wild anger. "Go ahead and try it. We'll call a strike."
The men holding Harry looked uneasy. A few of the breaker boys, the older lads, had crept from their chute benches and were clustered in small knots, watching and waiting. Violence still thrummed in the air. "Come on, Harry," one of the slate bosses said. "Probably quarrelling over nothing, eh? Apologize to the man and let's all get back to work."
Harry spat on the ground. "Apologize, nothing. Fucking molly. Him and Mortensen both, the pair of them." He let out an ugly laugh. "Thought nobody would find out, didn't you? Think you're something special? Bloody bum-boy, is all you are. Go on, sack me, you little bastard. This place will shut down faster than you can fucking blink."
"Get out," Sean repeated. "Give your keys to Gavin. I'll send someone to your house with your personal effects."
"Go fuck yourself, lily boy."
"Get him out of here," Gavin said to the slate bosses. They looked from Gavin to Harry uncertainly. Gavin was the mine boss, but Harry was the union man. Crossing either of them was unwise.
One of the slate bosses looked at his feet and stubbed out Harry's smoldering cigarette, then shuffled in discomfort. "Come on, Harry," he muttered. "Been enough trouble already."
Harry shook himself free of the restraining hands. "I'll go." He dug in his pocket and found his ring of keys. He dropped them and spat again, then gave Sean a long stare. A smile that was nearly tender creased his cheeks. "You'll regret this, Sean. See if you don't."
Sean turned and walked slowly back to Gavin's office. Gavin steadied him, his hand firmly gripping Sean's elbow. "All right, lad. Have a seat." He lowered Sean into a chair and turned to the unlit stove. "Gave your jewels a squeeze, did he? Dirty bastard." Busying himself with pouring cold tea into a chipped pottery mug, he remained silent until he'd handed the mug to Sean and sat in the chair behind the desk. "Just breathe deep a bit. You'll get to feeling properly in a moment."
A nod was all Sean could manage. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe past the throbbing ache.
"Listen, lad," Gavin said in a low voice. "What he said…don't pay a bit of attention to it. He's only trying to stir up trouble. Fellows like him, they don't care what they say, as long as it cuts. You follow me?"
Sean nodded.
"Did he hit you first?"
"Kicked me," Sean rasped.
Gavin winced. "Christ. Well, he might try to make good on his threat, but there's no call for violence. Was it over those coppers?"
"Aye. It was that."
A harsh sigh seemed to deflate Gavin's chest. "Well, then. Something that happened in England, I take it."
"He killed a man we both knew, Gavin," Sean said, his voice still hoarse. "I can't prove it, but he did it sure as you're sitting there. And he's trying to pin it on me." He saw doubt flickering in Gavin's eyes. "It's true," he pleaded. "I swear it."
"All right, lad. Don't take on so. I don't reckon I'm any judge of character, but I know enough to realize you're a good sort and Harry's…well, Harry's one of the ones I suspect of causing mischief. I might as well tell you now that he's gone."
"His friends might cause trouble. I have to telephone Mr. Mortensen." Sean rose painfully to his feet and set the mug on the desk. "I've got to go back to the office, Gavin."
"I'll drive you."
*
tbc.....
Title: The Need of Comrades
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
*
It seemed odd, Harry thought, that a man as meticulous and orderly as Gavin Rowe should have such an untidy office. It was true that he didn't spend much time in it – always dashing about, checking on this and that as if he didn't have supervisors and foremen like Harry to do what was necessary – and only swooping into the office to search for a needed bit of paper work or an extra carbide lamp or soft cap for a miner who'd lost his. He tidied at the end of a day, but by the next midmorning the place was always a shambles again. Sometimes important papers were left lying about, and that was a handy thing to a bright and prudent fellow like Harry, who was meticulous and orderly in his own way.
Harry carefully folded a report from Inspector Whittaker at the Department of Mines affirming that all safety measures prior to the June accident had been properly undertaken and stowed it in his pocket. Then he leaned back in Gavin's chair and steepled his fingers under his chin, gazing at the laborer who stood before the desk, twisting his cap in his hands. Tears had cut tracks through the layers of black dust embedded in the man's skin. Harry shook his head slowly, feigning deep regret. "It's a pity, Joe, it surely is. But rules are rules. You know that."
Joe Wasilewski shook his head. His throat worked and his lips moved, but no sound emerged. He fumbled a grimy handkerchief from a pocket, then blew his nose and wiped at his eyes. "Mr. Slater –" Wasilewski swallowed, rendered nearly mute from desperation. "My little girl, she is sick. She needs medicine." His English was broken and made less intelligible by his tears. "My boy – he is small, but he is strong also. He could start tomorrow."
"How many kids have you got, Joe?"
"Five. One, he is a nipper already." Wasilewski smiled proudly through his tears.
Harry returned the man's smile. Twenty-four years old and already five brats. The only race that bred more than the god-damned Polacks was the god-damned Irish. Bloody vermin, the lot of them. "And your lad's how old?"
Wasilewski hesitated. "Twelve. Small for his age, though. But strong," he repeated hastily. "He is a tough one."
Tough. That, at least, was likely true. Harry mentally shaved a few years off the boy's supposed age. Probably eight, maybe nine at most, and in school. At least his English might be better than his father's. Harry had protested quietly when the younger Mr. Mortensen had had safety signs erected in several languages. "Better that they learn English, Mr. Mortensen, and right away. They're Americans now, aren't they? Let 'em learn the language, or let 'em go back to where they came from."
Mr. Mortensen had given Harry a hard stare. "I think most of the men are very eager to learn English, Mr. Slater, but there's no sense in depriving them of fundamental safety instructions if they've only been here a few weeks. We're not the first colliery to do this. I'm only sorry I didn't think of it earlier." He'd turned on his well-shod heel and left the office, ignoring Harry.
Well, Mr. Fancy Viggo Bleeding-Heart Mortensen thought he knew it all. He was a lot like Freddy Watkins in that respect. Rich young fellows with the world at their feet. But he didn't know it all, no sir. He didn't know that Harry had a tidy venture going on with the fellows on the railroad who altered the shipping manifests for a small cut. He didn't know that Harry had become proficient, in just a few months, at skimming a little cream off the top here and there. Oh, Harry had to do his job, and well, for Gavin was too sharp-eyed a boss to tolerate laziness, but there were little compensations.
There were other things young Mr. Mortensen didn't know. He didn't know that Harry knew the truth about him and Sean Bean. It was clear as day for anyone who knew how to read the signs. And he didn't know that his pal – no, his sweetheart Sean was a would-be murderer; he'd stake his life on that. And maybe Harry would tell him one day, if the need arose. Sean was too stupidly devoted to deny it. Telling Viggo Mortensen what he knew – that might be a lucrative pleasure to be savored, one day.
"Mr. Slater."
Harry brought his attention back to Joe Wasilewski. "Sorry, lad. I was trying to think how best to help you, but I'm afraid my hands are tied. You know the rule – no new hires under the age of thirteen. That's not my law, that's Mr. Mortensen's."
"But the doctor says…he says my little girl needs medicine. I don’t have no more money." More tears trickled down Wasilewski's tired, seamed face.
Best for all concerned if the brat died. That would give the bleeding papist something to cry over, Harry thought. He leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. "Look here, Joe. If I employed your lad, we'd have to lie about it. That's a serious offense, according to Mr. Mortensen. But that's an owner for you – happy enough to deprive a family of a living wage, as long as his own pockets are lined."
Wasilewski nodded fervently. "All the same. Bastards." Some English he'd learned quite well.
"And since he's underage, well…I'd have to have some sort of compensation." He sighed, examining Joe's face as he tried to work out what Harry might mean. "You'd have to turn over a portion of his earnings."
There was hesitation on the blackened, tear-stained face. It was clear that he'd finally realized he was being rooked. "My little girl."
"Take it or leave it, lad. It's all the same to me." Harry shrugged and picked up a newspaper, waiting to hear the man's footsteps.
"Okay. I take it."
Harry put the paper on the desk and offered Joe a gentle smile. Stupid Polacks. No bloody spine. "I think…sixty-forty ought to do it. What do you say?"
Joe's face creased more deeply. It was clear he didn't understand what Harry meant, but he searched Harry's face and might have seen boredom and something else flickering in his eyes. He nodded again. "Yes, that would be fair. Thank you. Thank you." Smiling, showing fine white teeth, he put out his hand, saw that Harry had no intention of shaking it, and clasped his cap in his hands again. "I may bring him tomorrow?"
"Six sharp. And mind you, he's on probation. If his work isn't satisfactory, I'll have to sack him unpaid. Oh, and Joe – best that you don't mention any of this to Mr. Rowe, or any of the superintendents, eh?" Harry's tone was mild, but his eyes bored into Wasilewski's like icicles.
"Thank you, Mr. Slater." Wasilewski bobbed his head and backed out of the office as if Harry were royalty. Harry bit back a grin and opened the paper again. A few extra bob never hurt, and as thorough as Gavin Rowe was, he didn't have time to examine every breaker boy that came in. Many of them were undersized at any rate, thanks to miserable and inadequate food, and that was as well to Harry – made it easier to hire the younger lads cheaper. Mortensen should have been kissing his feet in gratitude; well, if Harry had actually saved him money instead of pocketing it, he should have.
He glanced up as the postman came in with the day's mail. "There he is, George the lad."
"All right, Harry." George Hopkins set his leather bag on the desk with a thump. "Be a right scorcher out today."
"Come and work in the pit," Harry invited him. "Always nice and cool down yonder. Not too cold in winter, either."
"Aye, and filthy and dangerous and back-breaking besides. No, thanks all the same. My dad did that so I wouldn't have to. I'll just find me a nice tree to rest under for a bit." George began to sort through the mail. "Lots for you today. There you go."
Harry took the packet with a nod. "Ta, George."
"Don't work too hard now, Harry," the postman said with an amused glance.
"Count on it. I'll buy you a pint this Friday night."
"I'll take you up on that. So long."
Harry flipped idly through the mail and stopped at a thin envelope addressed to Gavin in Viggo Mortensen's neat copperplate hand. The words URGENT AND CONFIDENTIAL were scrawled across the bottom in hasty capitals. He turned it over, noted the wax seal, and frowned. He held it toward the window, squinting in an effort to read the writing beneath the envelope. The note was folded writing-side inward.
A scowl like a thundercloud gathered on Harry's brow. What was so urgent and mysterious that fancy young Mr. Mortensen found it necessary to write only a day or two after his absence? He didn't like other men's secrets, not one little bit. Mortensen was becoming uncomfortable with the union pressure, that was certain. Gavin had said he'd gone home for some family emergency; that was rot if Harry had ever heard it. Went to try to find a fancy lawyer, likely, to try to break the union, and was writing Gavin about it.
Mortensen didn't have the first idea what the struggle was really all about. It wasn't higher wages, longer tea breaks, safety regulations or the company buying the miners' blasting caps and fuses. It was about holding the whip hand, pure and simple. And bugger decency and humanity and Johnny Mitchell and the working man's rights. Fear: that was the key. You held the whip hand, and men learned to fear you, if they were smart. If they were stupid, they learned right sharpish, for Harry was only too happy to teach them, and happier still to see the clear light of recognition dawning in their eyes. It was true that it was easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar, and Harry had done just that for the most part. No arse-licking needed – just a believable show, a glossy helping of good will and concern. Little insinuations for the wavering ones, veiled threats for the stubborn. Brute force if all else failed. The blokes at the Winsley mine had learned fast enough. Freddy, now, he'd learned too late to do himself any good. Pity, that.
Temptation gnawed at his innards. A quick glance round the office told him he was utterly alone. He broke the green wax seal and withdrew a single sheet of twice-folded paper.
Jerry Mowry, one of the company hands, skidded over the threshold. "Mr. Slater, they're asking for you. I told 'em I'd look for you, and they wanted to see Mr. Rowe too, but he ain't here either."
"Jesus Christ. Slow down, for buggery's sake. Who wants me?"
"Couple fellas from Leeds, England. They look like coppers. I told them I'd look for you."
A peculiar cold shudder nibbled its way up Harry's spine, and the morning's languor dissolved instantly. He felt wary and alert, as if he'd seen a coiled and hissing snake next to his shoe. He let one corner of his mouth turn upward. "You already said that, lad. Coppers, is it?"
The boy could have been wrong. There were plenty of Englishmen hereabouts, and anyone with a good suit of clothes and an air of authority probably seemed like a copper to fourteen-year-old Jerry Mowry. But no. Harry had a nose for these things, and he knew who they were, all right. He'd be lying to himself if he'd said he wasn't expecting it, even. He should have kept moving, gone to Canada or somewhere remote. The chickens had come home to roost, and the coppers were here to arrest him for the murder of Freddy Watkins. How had they found out? He'd never done anyone else in Winsley, for Christ's sake.
Harry got to his feet, folding the envelope from Mortensen into neat thirds in order to still the violent trembling of his hands. He had a knife in his pocket. He cut his eyes sharply toward the door. Grab the lad, that was it. Hostage, human shield. Demand a horse, make a getaway. Bloody shame it was only Jerry Mowry and not someone who mattered, like Gavin or even Sean-bloody-fancy-arse-fucking Bean. He slid the envelope into his other pocket and curled his hand round the hilt of the knife. It was his jackknife; he could have one arm round the boy's neck and the blade at his throat in a matter of seconds. Sweat trickled down Harry's back.
Two men in sober, dark suits, one tall and broad, the other small and thin, shouldered their way into the office. "Mr. Slater? Harry Slater?"
"That's me." Harry marveled at how calm he sounded. He took a step closer to Jerry.
"Tom McClure," the large fellow said, "and this is Angus Hart. We'd like to ask you some questions if we may, sir, about one of your employees, Sean Bean."
The blade stopped halfway out of Harry's pocket. "What?"
"Mr. Bean, sir. We understand he's employed by Mortensen Coal, but he's out of town at present. We've spoken to Mr. Viggo Mortensen in Philadelphia a few days ago, but we were wondering if you and perhaps Mr. Rowe and a few others wouldn't mind answering a few questions."
Harry found it hard to catch his breath. "All right. What's it all about?"
"It's a rather sensitive inquiry, Mr. Slater," Hart said, nodding at Jerry in a little-pitchers-have-big-ears gesture. "Perhaps we could have a few moments of your time?"
"Sean's not in trouble, is he?"
McClure cleared his throat. "Perhaps we could discuss this in private."
Blood pounded in Harry's ears. They wanted Sean. Not him. A horrid, giddy jubilation surged in his gut, making him want to laugh and vomit at the same time. Sean-bloody-fancy-arse-fucking Bean, wanted for murder. Great bloody fucking glory. Delicately, he slid the knife back into his pocket. "Jerry, go on, lad. I've got to have a word with these gentlemen." Harry blinked sweat out of his eyes as the door closed.
"Hot today," McClure remarked sympathetically.
"That it is," Harry agreed. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and froze, seized by a vast, implacable certainty. "Please have a seat, gentlemen. I need to attend to a matter before we get started. Can I offer either of you a cup of tea?"
"No, thank you," Hart said. He took a chair and set a bulging valise beside it.
"Just give me a moment. Make yourselves comfortable." Harry stepped out the other door into the breaker. Oblivious to the deafening noise of the tippler and sieves, he drew the letter from his pocket, unfolded it, and read:
Dear Gavin,
A matter of the most desperate urgency has arisen just to-day. When you receive this letter, please ask Mr. Bean to telephone me immediately at my parents' home in Philadelphia. I would be obliged to you if you instructed him not to identify himself – or rather, to identify himself as some one else. The name Peter Smith will suffice. Please tell him that I have news regarding Mr. Frederick Watkins. I regret the necessity for subterfuge and promise I shall explain soon. I know I can depend on your discretion.
In haste,
Viggo P. Mortensen
Harry's mouth twitched. So they'd questioned Mr. Mortensen first, had they? And Mr. Mortensen wanted to warn his sweetheart. Wasn't that lovely. Just lovely indeed.
Well, post went astray all the time. It was a sad fact. Very sad.
He put the letter back in his pocket and re-entered the office. "My apologies, gentlemen. Now – you wanted to discuss young Mr. Bean." He heaved a deep sigh. "I knew his dad well, in Winsley. Poor man. Always wanted the best for his boy, only to find –" An eloquent shrug lifted his shoulders.
McClure leaned forward, clearly surprised. "You know him, Mr. Slater?"
"Oh yes. His dad, at least. Sean – well…."
"To find what, Mr. Slater?" Hart took a notebook from his valise.
"The lad's not in trouble, is he?"
"We have some questions," Hart said grimly.
Harry bit the inside of his lip, careful to suppress the glee that wanted to dance to the surface. "Of course. Of course."
*
Market Street Station was nearly empty; only a few passengers waited half-collapsed on benches, sweating and lethargic in the heat. The lone ticket agent, in shirtsleeves and green visor, mopped his brow with a handkerchief, his nose buried in a book. A bootblack snoozed beside his shoe-shine stand, a sweets vendor glowered as if Sean had designs on his barrel of broken ginger biscuits, and a newspaper boy fanned himself dispiritedly with one of his broadsheets. The boy glanced up at Sean as he walked by. "Paper, mister?" he inquired without much hope.
"Aye, give it here, lad." Sean transferred his suitcase to his left hand, fished a dime from his vest pocket, and tossed it to the boy. "Keep the rest."
"Thanks, mister!"
Sean strolled away, the paper tucked beneath his arm, a smile on his face. Not even the explosive heat of the station enervated him. He rode on a wave of self-congratulatory pleasure; the trip had been successful beyond his hopes. He'd been anxious at first, apprehensive about meeting the elderly, rich, and reputedly eccentric Peter Halloran, afraid that the man would hear his working-class accent and haughtily send him packing in a flurry of disgrace. But the old man had proved a surprisingly easy nut to crack. He'd been a fellow Yorkshireman, from near Leeds, and his voice was comfortingly familiar and, to Sean's surprise, more than a hint of working-class itself. They'd got along like a house on fire.
Over currant scones and sweet, milky tea into which Halloran poured generous slugs of whiskey, the old man had delighted in telling Sean the story of his move to America from the coal pits of Britain, his first mine purchase in 1859, and his rise to success selling anthracite coal to the Union during the Civil War. He'd always been fair to his employees, he said, because he'd never forgot where he came from, and he'd heard that young Mr. Mortensen had a conscience. "Most of the owners are bleeding mardy bastards, lad," he'd confided. "They think I'm daft and can't stand the sight of me, and I feel the same way about them. No love lost there, I can tell you. Your young fella will hear about it, if he hasn't already. But some of the union men are no better. Oh, some are a bit of all right, but a great many of 'em couldn't organize a piss-up in a brewery. Still, best to try getting along with them. The owners who think the union lads are going to just fade away are nowt but a pack of fools. You can only spit at a working man for so long before he decides to spit back."
"Mr. Mortensen asked me to make it very clear that he wanted to cooperate in the fullest measure with the UMW, sir," Sean had replied.
"Well, he knows his own mind, doesn't he? Can't say I entirely agree – cooperate too much and he might end up knuckling under – but he's thinking ahead, at least. And I'll tell you this, lad – I'll not sell to the giants, the Fricks or the Carnegies or the Morgans or their like, even though I could name my price and they'd pay without blinking an eye. Truth is, I'm old and I've got enough money, and I'm bloody-minded enough to sell to a small operator."
"Mr. Mortensen's interested, sir."
Halloran had smiled. "You don't talk much, do you, lad?"
"I listen, sir."
A wheezing cackle had erupted from Halloran's chest. "I like that. Tell young Mr. Mortensen I'll meet him."
And there it was, amiable as you please. Sean had toured all four collieries, inspected the safety reports, talked to the company men and contractors, dined with Halloran in his palatial home, and rode back to Wilkes-Barre in a haze of happy anticipation. He'd stop at the boardinghouse, leave his things, and then dash to the office and telephone Viggo straight away if he hadn't come back from Philadelphia. Viggo would be pleased, and they'd celebrate upon his return. Sean found himself wishing Miss Grace would stay in the city, or go back to her friend Charlotte's house. He was fond of the lass, no question, but it was a bother trying to be quiet while he and Viggo were going at it. More than once Viggo, half-laughing, half-panicked, had clapped a hand over Sean's mouth to stifle his groans.
Sean grinned. If Grace were there, he'd try to persuade Viggo to use the bedroom above the Mortensen office. No one would hear them there, and they could make as much noise as they pleased.
He bounded up the boardinghouse stairs and went inside. An aroma of baking floated past his nose. The hall clock read half two. Most of the boarders would still be at work. Sean heard snoring from the parlor, poked his head in, and saw Rhys Higgins the postman, lying on the couch with the newspaper on his rising and falling belly. Sean smiled, set down his bags, and moved quietly into the kitchen. "Mrs. Donnelly?"
Maggie Donnelly sat fast asleep at the kitchen table, her head tilted back, upper lip fluttering with her snores. A tin bowl of shelled peas sat in front of her, there was a stack of snow-white napkins, smelling of starch, folded on the sideboard, and a half-unpacked basket of groceries littered the countertop.
The kitchen window was open, and upon it reposed a pie dish covered with a tea towel to protect it from flies. Sean lifted a corner of the towel and inhaled the fragrance of baked peaches. He leaned over and deftly stole a handful of peas, savoring their crisp, green taste. He sat at the table and folded his hands. "Mrs. Donnelly."
Mrs. Donnelly came awake, emitting a choked snort. She saw Sean and jerked in surprise. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she gasped. "You put the heart across me, boyo. Are you trying to kill me?"
"Sorry to wake you. You looked right comfortable."
"Aye, probably drawing flies, like as not." She heaved herself up from her chair and bustled to the kitchen counter. "Help me put these on the high shelf, will you, lad? When did you get in?"
"Just now." Sean rose obediently and shuffled boxes around on the top shelf of the pantry. "Scorcher out there today."
"It is. Thanks, Sean." Mrs. Donnelly dusted her hands on her apron. "Listen, laddie – you've had a couple of callers. Coppers by the looks of them."
Sean stared at her. "Coppers? For me?"
"You're not in any trouble, are you lad?"
"Well, I should hope not! What did they want?"
Mrs. Donnelly shrugged. "To talk to you, but that's what they all say, so it is. I didn't tell them a blessed thing. They said they'd try to find you at the colliery."
"No trouble there, I hope?"
"They didn't say. I've not heard a thing myself, and you know I keep my ear close to the ground." She took a ring of keys from her apron pocket and opened a drawer in the sideboard, withdrawing a letter and squinting at the return address on the back of the envelope. "Only one letter for you, from Mr. Mortensen."
Sean smiled at her unabashed curiosity. "Thanks, Mrs. Donnelly. I couldn't wheedle a bacon butty from you, could I?"
"Aye, I suppose you could. Go on and have a wash." She shooed Sean away with a dishcloth.
The third-floor room was stifling. Sean set his bag on the floor and opened the window, hoping in vain for a stray breeze. He shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, ran a forefinger over his sweating upper lip, and sat on the bed to read Viggo's letter.
Thirty seconds later he pounded down the stairs, hatless, letter in hand.
"Sean? Where are you –"
He let the door bang shut and ran down the porch steps. Three blocks to the office. He tried to walk, the picture of nonchalance, but his heart trip-hammered in his chest, and his feet moved faster and faster to match its frantic rhythm. By the time he reached Franklin Street, he was running. People stared and moved aside, aghast at a man mad enough to move at such a speed in the heat.
A dozen panicked thoughts jostled each other unmercifully in a disordered and undignified scrum. Freddy dead. Detectives. Leeds. Telephone Viggo. A false name – Peter Smith, for Christ's sake? Why? Murdered, Freddy, stupid, careless Freddy, and the detectives at the colliery, asking questions. He'd be sacked. No, Viggo wouldn't allow it, but – why him? Why had they come all the way to bloody Pennsylvania to find him? He hadn't killed him. Freddy had been alive and well when he'd left. How in God's name had they found him?
He half-stumbled up the steps and stood panting for a moment. Calm down, he chided himself angrily. You can't be talking to Viggo in this state – he'll think you're guilty. He searched in his pocket for his office key and stilled his hand's trembling as he fitted the key into the lock.
"Mr. Bean? Sean Bean?"
Sean closed his eyes. A horrible, liquid weakness flooded his limbs. "Aye," he said softly. "That's me." He turned to face the man who'd addressed him.
There were two men: one tall and broad, with a bushy mustache, and one small, with black eyes and a thin, sallow complexion. Oh yes – coppers, no doubt about it. They didn't need uniforms; they had the sauntering assurance of their profession, the smug demeanor that said they had the full weight of the law behind them, and if they took a few extra measures to get what they wanted, that was just too bloody bad.
"Thomas McClure and Angus Hart, Mr. Bean. We're here at the behest of Mr. Frederick Watkins, Senior. May we ask you a few questions?"
*
They could have all the time they wanted, Sean had thought, as long as in the end they understood he was innocent. But that had been more than an hour ago and they showed no sign of leaving. He rasped out a sigh. "I've told you all I know," he said in a parched, ragged voice. "Freddy were alive when I left."
McClure nodded ponderously and stroked his mustache. "So you've said. But you haven't said how you knew that."
Sean's neck and face grew hot. "He gave me money for my passage."
Hart gazed at Sean with his button-black eyes. "And why should he do something like that, Mr. Bean?"
"I don't know," Sean snapped. "Kindness of his heart, maybe."
A thin smile crossed Hart's face. "Maybe. Or maybe you were blackmailing him."
"I never – I never did a thing like that. Why would I, for Christ's sake?"
"Come along, Mr. Bean," McClure said quietly. "No need to become excited. We know about Mr. Watkins' predilections. We know that you were one of a succession of young men he employed, but you seemed to last longer than most of the others. Why is that, do you think?"
"I weren't stupid. That's why." Sean knew his face was bright red. He stared down at the desk blotter, seeing the faint imprint of Viggo's handwriting on the leather, and traced his fingertip across it. Gathering his courage, he glared at the two men. "Or do you mean owt else?"
Hart called his bluff. "You know we do, Mr. Bean. Why did he give you money? Was it in payment for your services?"
"No."
"The butler, Dudden, says that he recalls you visiting the house on more than one occasion." McClure looked at Sean pointedly. "After you'd left Mr. Watkins' employment."
"Is that a crime?"
"No," McClure said. "But Mr. Watkins is dead. You say he gave you money, and you won't say why. When we checked the shipping manifests, your name failed to appear. We checked as far back as a year, you see, and quite thoroughly at that. Did you use a false name for your passage?"
"I – I –" Sean shook his head. "Freddy told me to do that."
"Why?"
"He said it were the smart thing to do."
"Oh, very smart indeed. And you jumped ship in Philadelphia."
"Aye." Sean slumped down in his chair. It was looking bad for him – no, bloody terrible. They'd take him back to England in irons, and hang him. "He said I should do that, too."
"He certainly was eager to help you."
"I didn't kill him. If that's what you think, you're bleeding wrong, you are."
Hart leaned back in his chair. "But you cannot prove you weren't in the vicinity when Mr. Watkins was murdered, Mr. Bean. And such a brutal, horrific crime. Even if he was a sodomite, that's no way to die. His tongue was hacked from his head, both arms were broken, his feet smashed, his genitals –"
"Stop!" Sean cried. "Christ, can't you stop?"
"His body was dumped in a bog near your house, Mr. Bean," Hart continued implacably. "It was a miracle he was found at all."
"I didn't do owt," Sean muttered. He ran his hands through his hair. Tears stung his eyes. "I asked him for more, but – I didn't kill him." Viggo couldn't help him now; nobody could. A confused and reeling part of his mind told him to confess to a lesser crime. "He didn't tell me to jump ship. I did that. It were blackmail all right, but I didn't kill him. I couldn't…I couldn't do what he asked me."
"What did he ask you to do?" McClure inquired.
"To kill Harry." It came out as a voiceless rasp.
"Harry?"
"Harry Slater."
The two detectives exchanged puzzled glances. "The same Harry Slater who's working at the Lynwood colliery?"
"Aye, that's the one," Sean said bitterly. "He told you, didn't he? Told you I bleeding –" He looked up and saw consternation on the detectives' faces. "What?" The men didn't reply. "What did he tell you, for Christ's sake?"
McClure heaved himself to his feet and walked to the mantel. He stood staring out the open window, his large red face gleaming with runnels of sweat. Hart remained where he was, pale and arid. The two men exchanged another glance, and Hart flipped through his notebook, gazing at the closely packed writing.
Sean watched their faces. They no longer seemed hostile or accusatory, merely perplexed. He thought of Harry's sly smiles, his veiled threats. Surely Harry wouldn't go so far as to accuse Sean of murder, even if he knew Sean had slugged him and left him tied up in his cellar. Surely the beating Harry had arranged for Sean – not that Sean could prove it, true – had been revenge enough. How had Harry found out that Sean was the one who'd done that, in any case?
Freddy. Had to have been Freddy. Had Freddy told him about the letters? Given them back under duress, perhaps? And what if Harry were the type to hold a grudge? A breath hitched in Sean's chest, and he was cold despite the killing heat. He licked dry lips. "What did he tell you?" he whispered.
McClure leaned an elbow on the mantel and drew a heavy sigh. "Mr. Bean, I think perhaps you had better tell us everything, from the very beginning."
*
Sean sat rigidly upright at Gavin's desk, drumming his fingers on the paper-littered surface. Harry was taking his sweet time about coming round, and if he didn't turn up in the next five minutes Sean was going to find him and drag him into the office by the scruff of his neck.
The door opened, letting in a blast of clattering and grinding from the breaker. Sean half-rose in the chair, then slumped down. It was Gavin, his red face creased with anxiety. "Jerry Mowry said you had a face like a wet week," Gavin said. "Anything wrong, lad?"
"Aye, you could say that." Sean rose from Gavin's chair and offered him the seat, but Gavin waved it away.
"Bad luck with Halloran? I hear he's a tough old buzzard."
"Nay, it weren't that. Gavin, did Mr. Mortensen write you this week?"
Gavin shook his head. "I haven't got a letter from him, no."
"He wrote me that he sent you a note."
"Maybe the post is slow."
"Maybe," Sean acknowledged. He sighed and paced to the door, opening it and peering round the jamb. He came back in and slammed the door. The glass rattled in the window. "That bastard, where is he?"
"You're looking for Harry? I saw him going down the slope just a moment ago." Gavin knew of Sean's fear of the tunnels, the close dark. It was something of a joke between them and he supposed word had got round, but no one had ever been unkind to him for it – like as not because Sean was Viggo's second in rank. "You want me to fetch him out, Sean?"
"Nay. I'll wait for him." Sean sat at the desk again. "Tell me what's been happening here."
Gavin sighed. There had been mischief, he admitted glumly. Small things – names erased from the mine office roster so that there was no record of a man's presence in the pit, lamps missing, obscene graffiti chalked on the walls. "It's the erasures that have me bothered," Gavin said. "That's bad business."
Sean rubbed his closed eyes. That was more than mischief; it was downright malice. Mines were often fouled by blackdamp, a gas that seemed to suck the air out of a chamber; it caused lethargy and eventual unconsciousness and death. A man working alone would become faint because of blackdamp and unable to summon help, but Joe Cooper, the fire boss, and his helper performed checks throughout the day, making sure each man was accounted for and breathing clean air. If a man's name was erased from the slate, then there was no way for the fire boss to know he was underground. "Have Joe write the names down and keep the list with him," Sean said. "He'll grumble, but there's nowt for it. I'll not have a man dying below because some bugger's playing nasty tricks. Any idea who it is?"
"I could name some I suspect, but –" Gavin shrugged.
"But you've not caught them in the act yet."
"That's it. There's one other thing, Sean."
"Aye, what's that?"
"In here." Gavin pushed his spectacles up on his nose and dragged his hands through his thinning hair. "There's papers gone missing. The safety report, for one."
"We need that, Gavin," Sean said in dismay. "A copy will take weeks."
"I know. I'm sorry for it, Sean. I've never had papers go missing before. I know it's a bit of a whirlwind in here, but there was a place for everything, if you follow."
"You'd better start locking it when you're not here."
"Aye, but if I do that…some of the other men use it too."
"Who?"
Gavin named them. Harry Slater; Joe Cooper, the fire boss; Sam Omashel, the driver boss; the three slate bosses, the breaker engineer, and the two hoisting engineers. "I can't keep them locked out. And sometimes I send one of the lads, Jerry or Pasko or Clyde, to fetch things for me. I don't think it's the boys, though. They're good sorts."
"Aye, I'm sure." Sean ground his teeth. He couldn't accuse Harry, not outright – he'd have trouble on his hands for certain. That bastard would bear watching, though, and God help him if he tipped his hand. "Perhaps we can attach a separate office for the other men. I'll speak to Mr. Mortensen about it."
"All right. Listen, lad, what's this all about? Is it about those coppers that were here the other day?"
"Aye. Aye, it is. I might have known word would get around." Sean sighed. There was no way out of this mess now. But he'd be damned if he'd be dragged into the muck alone.
"Can't be helped in a place like this, everyone in each other's pockets. Is Harry making mischief for you?"
Before Sean could answer, there was a knock on the door, and Harry sauntered in, a smile on his face. Anyone looking at him might have thought him a man of quiet gentleness; his countenance was bland and serene, his clothes tidy, his posture relaxed. But his eyes, alight with happy malice and as cold as two holes hacked into the ice of a frozen pond, told a different story. "Morning, gents. Heard you wanted to see me, Sean."
Sean replied with frozen silence and a long, measuring stare. Harry's smile widened, and he leaned against the doorway, hands in his pockets.
Gavin stood. "I'll leave you be. Unless you need anything?" he asked, his eyes searching Sean's.
"Nay. Thanks, Gavin." He watched Harry step aside as Gavin slipped out the door, closing it behind him. Harry sank into one of the chairs opposite the desk, still smiling that falsely gentle smile. They regarded each other without speaking for a moment. Outside the office, the muffled clatter and grind of the breaker went on and on above the hectoring shouts of the slate bosses.
Harry broke first. "You planning to stare at me all day, lad?"
Viggo would have known the proper icy, polite words to intimidate Harry. Sean hadn't Viggo's gift for words. He curled his hands into fists, wishing he could simply stand up and beat Harry to a pulp. "You bastard. You've got some bleeding cheek to sit there smiling at me like that."
"I'm not following you, lad," Harry said, satisfaction settling over his face and the spare economy of his lean frame.
"And you're a liar, too. What did you tell them detectives about me?"
"You?" Harry feigned surprise. "Well, they didn't just want to know about you, lad. You've probably heard that poor Freddy Watkins is dead. They were curious about the fellows who worked for him. Good-looking lads, all of them, and young. Like yourself."
A bitter laugh forced its way from Sean's chest. "Like myself, aye. And you didn't breathe a word about yourself, I reckon."
"Well now. I never worked for him but down the pit. Young Mr. Watkins didn't take to visiting there often, you see. I didn't know him as, ah, personally as you did." Harry's grin mocked Sean, daring a contradiction.
"That's not what I heard. Or should I say that's not what I read?"
Harry's smile evaporated. "Once more, I'm not following you," he said softly.
"Don't let's hand each other shite and pretend it's brass," Sean retorted. "You know what I'm talking about. You know it were me who broke into your house that night. I coshed you on the head and tied you down cellar. Don't look at me and smile and lie."
"Broke into my house, did you?" Harry's voice was as soft as before.
"Aye, and you bloody well know it. And now the coppers do, too."
"That was right bold of you, lad, to confess to a crime like that."
"Who told you it were me? Freddy?" Harry chuckled, and Sean stifled the urge to wrap his hands around Harry's throat and bang his head against the floor. "Did you come to America to even the score, Harry? Did you have them good-for-nowt scum give me a beating?"
Harry held up his hands. "Steady on there, lad! My God, you've got a high opinion of yourself, haven't you? What makes you think I give a toss about you? Christ, you rise a bit in the world and your head swells. It's a wonder you fit through the damned door. I came to America for a bloody job – same way you did, eh?"
White-hot coals of wrath kindled in Sean's chest. Harry Slater had an answer for everything. Slippery as a bleeding eel. Stay calm, he told himself. Don't let him get the best of you. He waited for a moment, considering his choices. Clever; he had it all sorted, did Harry. But he didn't have Sean's trump card. "I gave that McClure one of the letters, Harry."
"What letters?"
"The packet of letters Freddy hired me to steal back from you. 'Dearest Harry, last night was a grand adventure.' The letters you were using to blackmail him. Come on now, Harry, don't tell me you can't remember."
All pretense of good nature trickled from Harry's face. He rose to his feet slowly and moved toward the desk. "Letters to me?"
Sean sat back. Something strange was happening behind Harry's pale blue eyes, some calculation and peculiar detachment he couldn't understand. But he wasn't about to be cowed by the likes of him, not now. "Aye, that's right. Perhaps I can have Mr. McClure show it to you, if you like. Might jog your memory a bit."
"And how do you know they were addressed to me?"
"They had your bleeding name on them, that's how."
"There are a lot of Harrys in Yorkshire. How do you know it's me?"
Sean paused. Had there been an envelope? An address? No, just those words. Dearest Harry. He scrambled to equivocate. "Since I took the letters from your house, that's just a fair guess on my part. Wouldn't you say?"
"Funny thing, that," Harry said. "I don't remember anyone breaking into my house. I'd recall that. I'd certainly recall if someone had knocked me unconscious and left me tied up in my own cellar. If things had been missing from my house, I'd have remembered. I'd have told the police if a terrible thing like that had happened." His grin spread over his face again, cheerful and sunny. His cheeks had the high, ruddy color of a man who spent his life outdoors, in wholesome, honest pursuits.
A warning bell rang in the back of Sean's head. He gazed into Harry's eyes and saw, behind the bluff cheer, a churning like frigid waters, dark deliberation, fury barely tempered. He saw Harry's hands curled into fists, the knuckles white. He saw a glimmer of sweat at Harry's temples.
Sean knew. Impossible to prove, but he knew it just the same. Harry Slater had murdered Freddy, had tortured him, had committed unspeakable atrocities upon him, and for what? Because his pride had been wounded? Because Sean had discovered that Harry had a taste for men? Had it been a crime of passion? Then why come after Sean? A faint prickle of fear traveled along Sean's spine. He contained a shudder and maintained his steady gaze. "You didn't tell them you knew Freddy at all."
"I didn't. I told you, lad – he didn't come down to the pit. Maybe he was afraid of them." Scorn tinged Harry's voice. "He was soft, or so I heard. Had a taste for handsome young lads. Word got round, you know. And those lads, why – they weren't discreet. Came to see him openly, worked for him as…clerks, isn't that it? Just like you. Hard to clerk away when you're arse-up over that red Chesterfield, I should think. And demanding money, they were. Not surprised Freddy wound up dead. Like I said – not discreet. They could take a page from your book, Sean.
"You working for Mr. Mortensen, now – that's how an employee should be. Quiet, dignified. Not drawing attention to himself. Taking a good, steady salary instead of demanding sums left and right. I'm sure Mr. Mortensen rewards behavior like that, especially from a working-class bit of rough. I'll bet that surprised him, eh? And keeping a letter with a common name like Harry, just in case the police come sniffing round – that's downright genius, lad. Well done." He offered Sean a triumphant smile.
Sean sat stunned, heavy stones of terror and defeat crushing inward. Harry had an answer to everything. There was no solid evidence against him – no proof of blackmail, no proof of flight, no surname on the incriminating letter. If Sean dared to make a counter-accusation, nothing would stick, and Sean would be the one dancing at the end of a rope. If the detectives had had some suspicions about Harry, they'd have come asking for him, not Sean. They'd warned him that the police were watching the train stations, the roads. If Sean tried to run, they'd bottle him up in no time flat.
Harry shrugged, as if he were bored with the conversation, and turned toward the door. "I've got a job to do, Mr. Bean. Sorry the coppers are making trouble for you."
"How did you know Freddy had a red Chesterfield?"
Harry paused, his hand upon the doorknob. He turned and winked at Sean, then left, letting in another brief, cacophonous din of machinery and human bellowing.
Dazed, Sean rose to his feet, his heart slamming unevenly in his chest, fear crushing him as if he were down in the mines, surrounded by damp, by darkness, by the black and sinister weight of the earth. There was too much evidence against him, helped along by Harry's vindictive bile. Thank God his parents weren't alive to see their son tried and hanged for murdering his former lover.
Lover. The word was tawdry when applied to Freddy. Freddy hadn't loved him; he'd fucked him, no more, no less. Was that what Freddy and Harry had been – lovers? Freddy had fucked Sean, and betrayed him, true, but he'd paid for it with his life, and now Harry was making sure Sean would pay with his life, but Harry wasn't going to bleeding pay, was he? No, clever, vile Harry would get off scot-free.
He stumbled to the door and threw it open, ignoring the assault of noise. He scanned the vast lower floor of the breaker and saw Harry talking to the breaker engineer. Hot blood filled his ears, and a savage dizziness gripped him.
Two breaker boys nearby turned to peer at him curiously. He stared at their blackened faces. "Think he's sick, Mr. Blair!" one of them called to his supervisor.
"Back at it!" the boss shouted, then pivoted on his heel. "You all right, Mr. Bean?"
"Leave them be," Sean said, and pushed past him, toward Harry. The engineer had walked away, and Harry stood still, meditatively smoking a cigarette. Sean grasped him by the lapel and slammed him against the wall. Harry's breath whooshed out in a low grunt, scarcely audible beneath the din.
Sean grabbed Harry's other lapel, drew him close, and slammed him into the wall again. "You frigging bastard, you fucking arse-lick. You did it, didn't you? Didn't you?" He pulled Harry forward and shoved him back again. The wall behind Harry was corrugated tin; it rattled each time Harry's back connected with it. "You bloody well murdered him."
Harry struggled for balance, then brought a foot up and kicked Sean solidly in the thigh. Sean gasped in sudden, blinding pain, then drove a fist into Harry's belly. Harry fell back against the wall. Tin rattled.
Sean wiped sweat from his eyes, watching Harry stagger, caught unprepared when Harry dived low and caught him round the waist, bringing him sprawling to the ground. Sean's back hit the floor, and stars exploded in his vision. A sharp pain flared in his hip, as if he'd landed on broken glass. Then Harry reached between Sean's legs and squeezed. The stars flared into spinning constellations; a thin wail that Sean hardly recognized as his own voice issued from his throat.
Then there were voices, running feet. Harry was pulled off him, held by Simon Uncoski, the breaker engineer, and two of the slate bosses. Gavin was at Sean's side, helping him up. "All right, lad. You're all right."
"What the hell's going on here?" Simon bellowed.
Sean sank into a crouch, cradling his wounded testicles. "Fuck –" The pain was throbbing, white-hot. Tears stood in his eyes. Dimly he realized it was quiet; someone had shut the machinery off. He looked up and saw Harry panting heavily and grinning at him, but it was less a grin than the baring of teeth. The mask of amiability had fallen away.
"I've had enough!" Gavin Rowe pointed at Harry. "You – get your things and get out. Now."
"He attacked me." Harry strained against the men holding him. "Fucking lily boy."
If Sean hadn't been in so much pain, he would have laughed. There was the pot calling the kettle black. Slowly, he gained his feet. "You heard the man," he said. "Get out of here."
"You can't sack me, lily boy. Not without cause." Harry's face was pallid with wild anger. "Go ahead and try it. We'll call a strike."
The men holding Harry looked uneasy. A few of the breaker boys, the older lads, had crept from their chute benches and were clustered in small knots, watching and waiting. Violence still thrummed in the air. "Come on, Harry," one of the slate bosses said. "Probably quarrelling over nothing, eh? Apologize to the man and let's all get back to work."
Harry spat on the ground. "Apologize, nothing. Fucking molly. Him and Mortensen both, the pair of them." He let out an ugly laugh. "Thought nobody would find out, didn't you? Think you're something special? Bloody bum-boy, is all you are. Go on, sack me, you little bastard. This place will shut down faster than you can fucking blink."
"Get out," Sean repeated. "Give your keys to Gavin. I'll send someone to your house with your personal effects."
"Go fuck yourself, lily boy."
"Get him out of here," Gavin said to the slate bosses. They looked from Gavin to Harry uncertainly. Gavin was the mine boss, but Harry was the union man. Crossing either of them was unwise.
One of the slate bosses looked at his feet and stubbed out Harry's smoldering cigarette, then shuffled in discomfort. "Come on, Harry," he muttered. "Been enough trouble already."
Harry shook himself free of the restraining hands. "I'll go." He dug in his pocket and found his ring of keys. He dropped them and spat again, then gave Sean a long stare. A smile that was nearly tender creased his cheeks. "You'll regret this, Sean. See if you don't."
Sean turned and walked slowly back to Gavin's office. Gavin steadied him, his hand firmly gripping Sean's elbow. "All right, lad. Have a seat." He lowered Sean into a chair and turned to the unlit stove. "Gave your jewels a squeeze, did he? Dirty bastard." Busying himself with pouring cold tea into a chipped pottery mug, he remained silent until he'd handed the mug to Sean and sat in the chair behind the desk. "Just breathe deep a bit. You'll get to feeling properly in a moment."
A nod was all Sean could manage. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe past the throbbing ache.
"Listen, lad," Gavin said in a low voice. "What he said…don't pay a bit of attention to it. He's only trying to stir up trouble. Fellows like him, they don't care what they say, as long as it cuts. You follow me?"
Sean nodded.
"Did he hit you first?"
"Kicked me," Sean rasped.
Gavin winced. "Christ. Well, he might try to make good on his threat, but there's no call for violence. Was it over those coppers?"
"Aye. It was that."
A harsh sigh seemed to deflate Gavin's chest. "Well, then. Something that happened in England, I take it."
"He killed a man we both knew, Gavin," Sean said, his voice still hoarse. "I can't prove it, but he did it sure as you're sitting there. And he's trying to pin it on me." He saw doubt flickering in Gavin's eyes. "It's true," he pleaded. "I swear it."
"All right, lad. Don't take on so. I don't reckon I'm any judge of character, but I know enough to realize you're a good sort and Harry's…well, Harry's one of the ones I suspect of causing mischief. I might as well tell you now that he's gone."
"His friends might cause trouble. I have to telephone Mr. Mortensen." Sean rose painfully to his feet and set the mug on the desk. "I've got to go back to the office, Gavin."
"I'll drive you."
*
tbc.....
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Date: 2013-04-25 08:45 pm (UTC)