#ayles

“Your daughter’s a crazy bitch,” he’d roared, holding a rag against his bleeding nose. He was humiliated but trying not to show it, particularly since the others were still jeering, and miming the way Ayles had cocked her fist back.

Talbot only shrugged, keeping his eyes on the cards he was dealing. “If she don’t want none, don’t give her none.”

It had been three years, and Dawson still hadn’t forgiven her for the slight. His obsession ran in waves; sometimes he’d follow her for weeks at a time, wedging his bulk in a doorway so that she was forced to squeeze past him while he whispered lewd threats in her ear. Sometimes she wouldn’t see him for months, when his attention shifted to chasing another piece of tail. It had been over three months since she’d seen him last, and she figured the whole thing now was nothing but sheer dumb luck on his part.

If it hadn’t been for the whore on his arm, she would’ve turned right back around and gone back out into the street, but with a pair of tits bobbing in his line of vision, she had been confident that he was suitably distracted. She cursed herself repeatedly now as he hauled her up the narrow stairs, his fingers digging into her arm so tightly that it had gone numb.

“Fuck you,” she hissed, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna. Shut the fuck up about it, alright? Stuck-up ginger bitch. He’s been lettin’ you run wild when he should’ve done somethin’ about the mouth on you.”

He propelled her down the hallway towards the very last room, too drunk to feel the kicks she kept aiming at him. Once she had come close to catching him in the crotch, but he’d merely shoved her forward and then given her a good hard shake, like a terrier toying with a rat. Fury bubbled up in her stomach and turned to bile at the back of her throat.

It wasn’t the first time she’d fucked a man, and only the initial thrust was uncomfortable. She clawed at his face, but he caught both her wrists and squeezed them until the bones ground together. Ayles screamed and let out another stream of curses, but the pain was like a splash of cold water. It turned the rage in her belly to ice and left her with the ability to properly think.

It was over in minutes; a couple dozen thrusts and then he was stiff and groaning loudly in her ear. Ayles marveled at that - all that trouble for just two minutes of his time. She sincerely hoped it was the best goddamn two minutes of Dawson’s short, miserable life. Her mouth twitched and she bit at her bottom lip, but by the time he was climbing off of her, she was snickering.

“Crazy bitch. What the fuck is wrong with you?” He slapped her hard enough to twist her head to one side, but he looked unnerved and anxious, and it only made Ayles laugh harder. Dawson raised his hand in warning, but he was already scrambling back away from her and hastily yanking his trousers back over his hips.

“You should be goddamned grateful, you know that? Ugly bitch.” Her laughter followed him out of the room and down the hall.

That night, Talbot eyed her bruises with interest, but she didn’t offer any information and he didn’t ask.

****

“I heard somethin’ interestin’ t’day.”

“Yeah?” Ayles lowered the book she was reading and sat up, raising her brows at her father. “What kinda interestin’?”

“The guards pulled a body out of the canal last night.”

She snorted and returned her attention to the book. “Da, that happens near every day. Now I’m worried yer gettin’ soft in the head.”

“I ain’t finished with the story, you insufferable harpy. Light, when the gods wanted to curse men, they gave us women.”

Ayles hid her grin behind the book and listened to Talbot mutter savagely to himself as he limped across the room. She expected a comment about the book and was faintly surprised when one didn’t come; her father was mostly illiterate and fascinated by literature in the same way that many people were fascinated by large animals that could easily kill them.

“What I was sayin’ before you went and interrupted me, was that apparently it was Marcus Dawson that they fished out.” He stopped several feet away, and she could feel him looking at her. When she didn’t interject, the man shuffled over and sat next to her on the bed, groaning quietly as he rubbed at his prosthesis.

“Wasn’t just that, neither. Before they went and tossed ‘im in t’ the canal, someone had taken the trouble of removin’ his cock and his balls, and forcin’ ‘em in his mouth. There was a lively debate goin’ on about whether or not it was the bleeding that killed ‘im, or the drownin’.”

“Mm. He must’ve had it comin’, then. That’s what I figure.”

Talbot glanced sideways at her, but Ayles kept her eyes on the page. “Yeah,” he said finally, and then reached out to give her thigh a squeeze. “I figure he did have it coming.” He patted her thigh. “Good girl. Don’t ever take no shit.” The man stood up again and made his way over to the cupboard to start noisily foraging for food.

“Da?”

“Mm?” He swung around to face her, a half-empty bottle of whiskey already heading towards his mouth.

“Wasn’t the blood nor the drownin’ that killed ‘im. It was choking t’ death on his own cock that did it.”

He had boarded up all the windows years ago, and it was impossible to tell whether it was night or noon; not that it mattered - no one had ever come ‘round with good news at any time of the day, and Talbot figured they weren’t going to start now. He pulled the sour wool blankets up around his shoulders and pressed his face against the pillow, willing himself to slide back into an anesthetic sleep.

The knocking continued though, and every sharp bang made his head throb. He pushed the pillow away and squinted at the door as he struggled to remember who he had pissed off recently. Several names came to mind, but none of them seemed inclined to pay a house call. "Fuck off," he croaked and for a blessed minute, the pounding stopped. His mouth tasted like the ass end of an orc, and his lips were dry enough to crack when he grimaced. The pounding started up again with renewed vigor, and this time he could make out the faint sound of a woman yelling.

He kicked the blankets away and reached blindly for his prosthetic, locking the artificial leg in place so that he could push himself to his feet. The room tilted ominously, and as he limped to the door, he grabbed a knife and a bottle of whiskey. “I’m comin’,” the man grunted, and knocked back a swig of liquor. He fumbled with the knife, trying to open it with one hand. “Stop beatin’ on the fuckin’ door.”

The daylight was blinding, and the pain so dazzling that Talbot Ayles wasn’t able to focus on either the woman who had disturbed him, or the torrent of words that she flung at him. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sun, and thought very hard about not vomiting. When the dull pocket knife fell from his hand, he didn’t bother trying to pick it up. He figured he had more of a chance of accidentally stabbing himself.

“For two years, I’ve done my duty. I’ve done more than my fair share, a saint wouldn’t be able to put up with what I’ve put up with, but I’ve had it. I have my own problems, and I won’t be looking after yours any longer.”

Talbot opened his eyes a crack, just enough to focus on the shrill blonde woman in front of him, and the small child she shoved in the doorway. He couldn’t immediately recall her name, but her face was sharply familiar. “Fuck,” he muttered, and rubbed at the grit in his eyes. “She sent a harpy in her place?”

“She,” the woman hissed, advancing so that both Talbot and the child were forced to retreat into the stale air of his flat, “Has been gone for two years. I can assure you, death was the only thing that would bring me here.”  She took a deep breath, and her mouth quivered indignantly.

Talbot swung his gaze down to the child that stood silently between them. A girl, dressed up like a doll in an awful pink dress which clashed hideously with the carrot-orange of her hair. He grunted as soon as he saw her hair; no use trying to deny that one wasn’t his, although he did it anyway - just for the sheer pleasure of tormenting the child’s aunt.

“It’s been how many years? Five, six?” He took another swig from the bottle of whiskey, and the ache in his skull receded slightly. “That,” Talbot said, indicating the child with the nearly empty bottle, “Could belong t’any man in this city.”

A  fist met his chin as soon as the words were out, hard enough to send him reeling and to fill his mouth with the iron taste of his own blood. He was more impressed than annoyed, and worked at his jaw for a moment. He had no idea that the dour little blonde could hit so hard. Talbot grinned as soon as he had determined that he still had the same amount of teeth he’d started the conversation with, and braced himself, expecting her to swing again. “Forgot just how pleasant you could be, Mary. That’s a shame.”

The woman inhaled sharply, and he watched the muscles of her jaw tense. She glared daggers at Talbot for several seconds, and then abruptly looked down at the girl she’d brought to him. “Mind your father,” she said sharply. “And I want you to know that I tried more than I should have, and there’s no one alive that could think otherwise.” She squared her shoulders and started to retreat, but the child sprang forward suddenly, and flung her arms around the woman before she managed to reach the threshold. The girl clung to her, and the woman had the decency to look ashamed as she pried her niece away from her. She patted the child stiffly on the head and then slipped out, slamming the door so hard that it shook in it’s frame.

Talbot snorted and swung away, limping back to the bed. He sat down heavily and waited for the sobbing to start. There was a pain behind his breastbone that was remorse or regret or heartburn, and he rubbed his knuckles against his chest. There were several women that he could think of that had a fondness for children, but all of them had their flocks of their own and would be opposed to taking on another mouth to feed. The Church, maybe. He supposed they took in strays.

“Your leg isn’t real.”

The man’s head jerked up in surprise, causing the room to start moving again on its own accord. The child was staring at him, and when he caught her eye, she jerked her chin at his right leg. He grunted, rubbing at his thigh along the ridge of the prosthesis. “It sure as hell ain’t imaginary.” The girl didn’t respond, but she wasn’t crying, and that was enough to make him look at her more carefully.

“What d’you have?” he asked suddenly, and gestured vaguely at her. The child was standing stiffly with one shoulder pulled back, hand hidden behind her back. She didn’t answer him but shifted away, confirming his suspicions. He motioned again, impatient now. “You got something, girl. Show me, or I’m gonna have t’get up, and neither of us are gonna be real happy after that.”

Her brows drew together and her expression became briefly petulant. She glanced over her shoulder at the door behind her, and then reluctantly extended her arm. A heavy suede pouch dangled from her fingertips. Dumbfounded, Talbot stared at it before everything clicked into place. His mood improved suddenly and remarkably, and he found himself fighting the urge to laugh. “Give that here. Toss it t’me.”

He caught in the air and took a moment to enjoy both the solid weight of it, and the satisfying clink of coins. “Nicked this from your aunt, did you?” The child didn’t answer, sullen gaze shifting from the pouch in his hand to his face, and then immediately back again. Talbot hefted the coin purse in his hand, fighting a grin. “Let’s git one thing straight, alright? You ever take anything of mine, and I’ll whip your little ass so hard you’ll be spending the rest of your life standing up at the dinner table. Understood?” She nodded, still staring at the pouch he had taken from her. He watched her for a moment until he was certain that it had sunk in and then allowed the grin to slide over his face. “Everyone else, though… that’s fair game.”

Talbot toyed with the pouch one last time and then beckoned for the girl to come closer. “Here. I ain’t gonna bite; I just want t’git a good look at you. You got a name?”

“Abigail Moorwith.”

“Ayles,” he corrected immediately. “It’s Ayles now, just like your da.” Talbot reached to catch the orange braid that hung down her back and thoughtfully wound it around his fingers. “Shame about the hair,” he mused. “You’re never gonna be a beauty with hair like that. I’d know.” Her expression didn’t change, but her gaze flicked towards the red hair tied at the nape of his neck. Talbot grinned. “You can blame your da fer that, but I would’ve tossed you out otherwise. I don’t got the economy for feeding bastards that ain’t mine.”

He dropped her braid and returned his attention to the coin purse, making a show of picking out several copper pieces and offering them to the girl. “Your cut,” he said magnanimously, “And the rest is ours, t’ keep us in food and drink.” He whistled a few notes to himself as he pocketed the remainder of the money. His headache still persisted and his stomach was twisted into sour knots, but he flushed with his own good-will and warm with his own generosity. Steadying himself with the bedside table, Talbot pushed back to his feet and reached out to steer the child in the direction of the door.

“Out. I got t’ git something in my stomach, and find you some clothes that don’t look like something you’d put on a damned poodle.”