Harper Horton Creative Writing; Person, Place, and Song

10/31/11 p.4

Have Love, Will Travel by the Sonics The first time I heard the song about love and travel by some sixties rock group with too much wailing, I was chained to a wall upside-down in Roscuro s skank apartment up the East End. Not exactly one of the highpoints in my life. Not the lowest either. I had a key working itself back up my esophagus, with what I was estimating to be about a third of my lunch. Things could be worse. The man himself, all six bloody tons of him, was out. Presumably getting his hungry tons the kind of dinner a bloat such as he ate. He d flicked on a decaying and ancient CD player before he d left, gracing me with the sound of some teenager bloody howling to accompany the wonderful view of cockroaches racing mildew down the opposite wall. The music wasn t all that special save the kid s howl, but that song stuck with me. Possibly because the guitar line coincided with the pounding in my blood soaked head. Possibly because towards the end of it, I finally threw up into my hand. Gripping the key as tight as I could, I worked hard to not throw up the other two thirds of my lunch. My stomach finally under control, I heaved myself up to unlock my ankles. I was no Roscuro, but you try extreme sit ups with a head wound and woozy stomach. After nearly passing out when I hit the floor, I made a quick exit. Through the window. Thank god the apartment was only second floor. *

Oi, mate! A voice called out, and I automatically slunk lower in my chair. Nothing good had ever come out of anyone calling me mate. The voice continued, dropping its accompanying body in the chair across from me, Right cagey little bastard, aren t ya? I gave Nick a decidedly hairy look. He laughed the booming laugh he d always been particularly fond of. Made him sound like Santa Clause. I always took the chance to make fun of it when I could. Now I just pulled my hood around me tighter, scowling in the drink I had. Nick inspected the table in front of him casually, before saying, Roscuro s said to be absolutely livid. Who taught you a word like that? I shot back nastily. Shut yer face, Nick glared at me quickly, but enough to quiet, I could turn you in for ransom, and you know it. I shut up, but not without another pouty look in Nick s direction. I never claimed maturity. He flicked his eyes to my hairline quick, then the rest of me. I could feel a bruise coming in along my cheekbone, another on my elbow from catching someone in the face when I was grabbed. My hair was soaked with blood; my eyebrow had a knitting split in it, and I could still taste bile on the back of my teeth. I didn t trust home at this point though. Someone looked at your head? Nick asked gruffly, his direct response to any part of showing he cared. No, I took a long slug from my drink, wiping my mouth on my dirty sleeve. I raised my eyebrow sardonically painfully, You got someone who can? Nick heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. I thought I heard him muttering something to himself, but I could also have been hallucinating. I hate head wounds. Nick looked around before standing, lightning quick, with a grip on my arm, C mon.

* The good doctor was not exactly what I expected. It was a room behind a bar that was only marginally nicer than Roscuro s skanky apartment. The examination table was little more than an antique hospital gurney that looked like it was stolen from a dump. I gave Nick my nastiest look before hopping on it. I wasn t exactly much cleaner after my run in with the thugs. The doctor came in, picture of couldn t pass med school, became shady underground doctor . I sighed internally, but lowered my hood gingerly anyways, swearing when it caught, dried into the blood in my hair. The doctor came right over, checking my cheekbone first, then patching up my eyebrow quickly. The pain there flared, then settled down into the beat of that song. Doom, doo-doo-doom, dodo-doom, do-do-do-do-do-do-doom. He moved onto my head, grimacing as he tried to shift the bloody tangles of my hair aside. Inspecting the wound, he spoke suddenly enough I jumped, Name. Kierne, I said, first name to pop in my head. Kate, Nick said. I glared. He shrugged, Possible concussion. Real answers. I grumbled, but eyed the doctor. A silent give me your worst . He looked bored by me. By everything, Year? Two thousand and eleven. Where are you? Doctor s. Back room. Bar. South London. England. Europe. Earth. Where are your parents?

Dead to me. How did you achieve the wound? I frowned, head throbbing to a new beat, and my memory curiously blank. I remembered hands grabbing me, my elbow catching someone s nose, and heavy swearing. The doctor sighed, Bingo. I stuck my tongue out at him. He didn t seem fazed. He turned to Nick instead, paperwork in hand, Are you taking charge of her? Nick sighed, looking put out. I pouted at him, pretty as I could still bloody and bruised. He growled at me, then looked at the doctor, Alright. What do I need to do? * You re a right pain in my arse, Kate, Nick called, handing clothes through the bathroom door blindly. I snatched them, checking through carefully. For what, I m not sure. You love me, and you know it! I called back, stepping into the shower. God, it was heaven. Water sluiced down the drain in varying degrees of brown, brown-red, brownish-red, and after a bit, clear. Having the muck gone allowed me to catalogue the cuts and bruises I d achieved: left elbow blackish-blue, ladder marks of fingers up my upper arms, ankles swollen and scraped raw, and one particularly large bruise over my right kidney that I neither remember receiving nor feeling before that moment. Seated back on Nick s couch in clean clothes, hair dripping freezing down my back, I repeated this all back to him at his request. Nick sat down opposite me with a cup of soup he said I was not allowed to share, the bastard, and finally asked the million dollar question, What the hell did ya do Katie?

I shook my head gingerly. It was still throbbing to that beat. Doom, doo-doo-doom, do-do-doom, do-do-do-do-do-do-doom. Nick eyed me, sipping his soup, completely unamused. I sighed and fidgeted with a fraying hole at the knee of the trousers. I mumbled softly, I might have stolen something of theirs. Kate! Nick nearly spat out his soup. I scowled, refusing to meet the heated glare I felt on my skin. Nick sighed heavily, What exactly did you take? I scowled deeper. Stupid mobsters and their stupid propensity towards hiding valuable loot in junk like boxes of clothing and books, like it was bloody moving day. I d just wanted some sweaters and a good read. Maybe sell whatever I didn t want or couldn t use. But no. I d gotten a couple good hoodies, a transcript of Withnail & I, and a bag full of uncut diamonds. Emeralds actually. But whatever. I related this all to Nick in rushed tones, squeezing my eyes shut. Jesus Christ Katie! He yelped, slamming his empty mug onto the end table. It cracked. I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter. Nick heaved out another heavy sigh. I wondered if this was becoming a new thing around me. I heard his hand rubbing over the two day stubble in his face. He flicked me softly, startling my eyes open. I looked at him. He grumbled, Not allowed to sleep. Concussion. Where are they? I blinked, then shrugged lightly, Hidden. Not at my place. Safe. You re returning them you know, Nick eyed me suspiciously. I gave my own sigh. Fine, I pouted. Petulantly. Screw off, Nick chuckled, Tomorrow. I m calling up Roscuro tonight. Fine, I sighed, But he better not bloody abduct me this time.

You better not bloody steal from him again. There s worse things than abduction. * This sucks, I informed Nick, gripping at the cardboard coffee container like a lifeline. I wasn t allowed a wink of sleep last night. The coffee alone had been a long, hard, barely won battle. Nick was scary about taking care of people. It was almost annoying. Not my fault we re here missy, Nick grumbled, sounding not much happier. I scowled, kicking at some fallen scrap of wood on the ground. We re in a warehouse. Honestly. A bleeding warehouse. This is ridiculous. They might as well just paste signs to their foreheads dictating how they learned everything about being a criminal from movies, I whined, It s frigging cold, I m exhausted, and this. Bloody. Sucks. Shut up Kate, Nick pinched at the bridge of his nose and I dropped off in sulky silence. We didn t have to wait much longer. Roscuro lumbered in, followed by a few enforcers: large men who looked completely uncomfortable in ill-fitting suits. I shifted uneasily in my own ill-fitting gains, borrowed from dear St. Nicholas. Roscuro eyed me nastily. I gave back as good as. Nikolai, He said in his heavy accent, nodding at Nick without taking his gaze off me. , Nick answered back, in his own accent. I blinked. That was new. Roscuro gave me one more look over, before turning his full attention to Nick, , , ? ? ,

Nick nodded tightly,

, Roscuro grinned nastily, flicking his eyes

over me. I shuddered internally, throwing a glare at him. Kate, Nick said, vestiges of the accent lingering, making my name sound foreign in his mouth, Give him what he wants. I stepped forward cautiously, slowly, eyes constantly on the enforcers. I held the little velvet bag out at arm s length, letting go as quick as I could when Roscuro grabbed it. I scampered back to Nick s side, watching Roscuro count out the rocks inside, nod tightly, and turn to leave. He paused, throwing over his shoulder, , .

Nick froze, watching Roscuro leave with ice in his eyes. When the man was finally gone, he turned to me, ice still present. Bits of it were actually tuned towards me. Get out of the city for a while Katie, He paused, closing his eyes, And don t talk to me for a while, ? I studied him for a moment, then turned to leave. No use putting it off.