#carthy

Her neck was a column stained dark blue, her face a tactile journey of newly raised bumps and nicks. There was a deep laceration creeping down from her hairline from that first hit with the metal piping, sitting dark and oozing on the backdrop of a bruise.  There were a dozen shallow scratches from glass she’d rolled into, then some half-moon gouges from when her scrabbling hands had slipped, and her nails had broken her own skin. It wasn’t an understatement to say she looked like shit.

It wasn’t a surprise that Viridity’s first reaction to Carthy was horror, either.

“Hello.” Carthy said, then stopped, giving Viridity time to move past her involuntary gasp, the rock back of the heels, the worry that rolled so distinctly across her features. On her part, Carthy shifted her weight, rolled her shoulders. Don’t ask, said her nonchalance. I’m not interested in talking about it.

Gradually, Vir pushed her questions from her eyes, and Carthy spoke again.

“I was wondering how you were doing. I haven’t heard any violin today.”

Stupid, was how that sounded, but the line of Viridity’s lip softened, and her face shifted further towards a tender kind of worry. She’s touched, Carthy surmised, watching how Vir’s knuckles became slightly less white. That wasn’t something she’d expected Carthy to notice.

“I’ve been okay.” Vir replied, hugging the side of the door. Her eyeliner was faultless, but it did nothing to detract from the ugly bruises on her face. The observation resounded in Carthy’s stomach as well as her head.

“Drew a little, went on a walk. Got some books out from the library. Do you wanna come in, by the way? You never usually knock, so I... is this a house visit? It doesn’t have to be a house visit.”

“Do you want it to be?”

Vir bit her lip, soft skin dimpling under the press of her teeth.

“Please. I could use company.”

“Then it’s a house visit. Just as well, because I brought banana bread.” said Carthy, holding up the brown bag she’d wrapped it in. Viridity blinked at her, momentarily baffled, then slowly began to smile.

“I didn’t know you baked.” she said a wiggle and unlatching of the door chain later, letting Carthy inside. Vir’s apartment smelled overwhelmingly of paint, and was strewn with various items of clothing. Flung over her sofa, bundled on the floor, Carthy imagined Viridity fussing for hours over the perfect combination. Trying to work out how best to hide from the world how badly she’d been shaken.

So this is your armour, then, Carthy thought, glancing over Viridity from head to toe. Skater skirt, chunky boots and that blasted bomber jacket.

“I don’t bake well.” Carthy clarified, “Or often. But banana bread I can do.”

“It smells delicious. And it… it really means a lot. You don’t have to do any of this.”

Didn’t she though? Now more than ever it was important Carthy knew Viridity was safe, lest she end up with her dead body on her conscience.

“It’s no problem.” was all she said, looking again at the paintings on Vir’s easels, “Just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Viridity had drifted over to the kitchen counter in search of plates, but could not quite keep her eyes from Carthy’s face. Every moment or so they darted back, and the smile on her face grew ever halting.

“I have to ask.” she said, after the quiet grew between them for too long, “You don’t have to answer.”

Carthy sighed.

“I was an idiot.” she said, “I was too drunk, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and a fight broke out. That’s all.”

“That’s all? No repeats on the horizon?”

“Not that I know of.” Carthy shrugged, taking a seat at the piano stall. Absently, she ran her hands along the keys. It had been a while since she’d played, but the sheet music opened on the stand still sounded with surety inside her head.

Viridity must have caught her scrutiny.

“Do you play?” she asked, setting one plate of banana bread down near Carthy, and curling up on the sofa with the other and a well-worn blanket.

No, was Carthy’s instinctual response.

“I used to.” she said instead, rolling out her shoulders once more. She wanted to be casual, approachable, “But I don’t own a piano anymore.”

“Oh really? What happened to your old one?”

“I left home, moved away.” Carthy replied, starting on the food, “Never found a replacement.”

“Use mine.” Vir offered immediately, before devouring half her food in one gulp, with great sounds of enthusiasm. Carthy watched, quite amused, as she licked crumbs off her lips, “I need a teacher, anyway. If you want to teach, that is. Obviously, you don’t have to.”

“I don’t even know if I want to play.” Carthy said frankly, pressing a key a half-centimetre down. It didn’t sound, “It was just something I did as a kid.”

Viridity made a long noise of understanding.

“Ahhh I see. The parentally pushed activity?”

One corner of Carthy’s mouth lifted.

“That’s the one.” she agreed, “We all have them.”

Viridity made a loud humming noise at this, and nodded vigorously.

“Mine were violin, which I actually enjoyed, and languages. French and Italian.” Her grin broadened, her voice bled through with laughter. The sound was mesmerising, “Mum said it was for my benefit but really she just wanted a translator, so she could move to Italy. I guess I got pretty good.”

“Can you still speak them?” asked Carthy setting her plate down so that her hands could prop up her face instead.

“Speak them?” Vir considered this, electric eyes pointed upwards as she thought, “Not well. I could still read them though, I think. Can you still play?”

“I’d be rusty, but the memories are there.”

“I can’t play at all.” Vir said longingly, “I’ve been trying to teach myself and its really not going well.”

“That’s because you’ve decided to start with Beethoven.” Carthy pointed out with the beginnings of a grin, indicating to the music on the stand, “Were you expecting anything less?”

Viridity lit up in beautiful indignation.

“Hey, you’ve heard my violin! I can do music, I’m not so used to- these different mechanics.”

She finished with a weak hand gesture, looking ever so slightly embarrassed.

“Start simpler. Get a beginners book. Hire a teacher.”

“Are you offering?”

“Viridity.” Carthy said, almost laughing as she remembered where her mind had gone the last time Vir had asked her that question, “I don’t even know if I can play myself.”

“So, you won’t be my bodyguard, and you won’t be my piano teacher... What exactly are you here for, Carthy?”

Oh, sweetheart, Carthy thought distantly, abdomen bit through with sudden heat. Was that a challenge?

“Well, I figure we’ve reached at least the level of occasional drinking buddies.”

Vir grinned, coyly, a smirk that stretched right up to her blue-spark eyes.

“This I can get behind.” she said, eyebrow raising, “Day after tomorrow, how about we hit the town? You, me, maybe one of my mates-”

“Hit the town?”

“Let me live, Carthy.” Viridity said, body rising as her words did, an unconscious betrayal of her nerves. Not for an instance had she stopped grinning, though, and not for an instance had the colour left her cheeks.

Carthy found herself... thankful.

“Sure, Vir. Day after tomorrow I’ll take you drinking.”

“And tonight, will you play for me?”

No, went Carthy’s gut again, and this time she did not struggle against it. Instead she looked to Vir, and found her eyes were uplifted at the corners, her eyelashes ever so slightly ginger. She found her face impish, her lips drawn wry and poised to part. She found her eyes overwhelmingly... earnest.

“You don’t have to.” Viridity added, gentle, gentle. It struck Carthy then, that Viridity was a good person. She wanted, she did not take. She felt, she did not impose.

“What’s your surname?” Carthy asked, and Viridity shot her a strange look.

“Rheyes. Why?”

Viridity Rheyes was a good person.

“No reason.” Carthy murmured, “What would you like me to play?”

Vir splayed her fingers.

“Anything.” she said, looking ever so slightly giddy, “Something that makes you feel.”

“Alright.” said Carthy, turning to face the music stand. Her hands hovered over the keys as she considered where to lay them to rest, her fingers a study of continual vibration. Something that made her feel. Something that made her feel.

She had nothing.

“I’m so lonely in this city.” came Vir’s voice from behind her. Low and dreamy, Carthy was all at once hit, “You help, so much, but I barely know a thing about you.”

Lips pressed together, Viridity’s words thumped through Carthy’s chest.

“You’re not missing much.” she managed.

“I don’t believe that for a second. You’re full of secrets.”

Carthy exhaled, roughly.

“Probably.” she agreed, stretching out her hands once more, flexing them, “But they are mine to keep.”

“I know.” said Vir, a soft sigh of sound, and Carthy found herself caught.

I’m lonely too, she realised, and it was as obvious as it was laughable. Of course, she was lonely, she’d spoken to nobody but clients for the past three years. And of course, Vir dizzied her head, she was bright and laughing and warm.

Suddenly sure of what to do, Carthy brought her hands down and played. Viridity listened in silence, and when Carthy finally turned tears had streaked down her neighbour’s face. Beautiful, was what she said. Carthy’s mind repeated the word, over and over and over.

Hours later, she lay awake staring at her ceiling.

They’d watched a movie. Had coffee, which had quickly devolved into spirits, which had quickly led to putting a very giggly Viridity to bed. She’d been babbling throughout about how she couldn’t get Carthy’s face right, and so Carthy had asked- why must you get my face right? - to which Vir had responded it would be a crime not to, and that was enough for Carthy to know.

Vir liked her. Vir was definitely flirting with her. Should Carthy give the go ahead, Vir would probably do a whole lot more than flirt with her, and Carthy didn’t really know what to do with that information. Nothing could happen between them. Not usually and especially not now.

What was Carthy supposed to do? Ignore it? Tell Viridity she had no hope, outright?

Rolling over, she let out a disgruntled huff. She felt like a teenager, agonising over her first crush. She felt hot and prickly and… embarrassed. She could not stop fidgeting. Her senses would not shut off.

That’s when she heard the click.

All her doors had new hinges and latches, all her doors sounded with marked percussion. Listening close now, Carthy heard one sound from her hallway, accompanied by the near silent groan of a floorboard. She heard the wind, a rumble of traffic that had not been there before. Whoever this new attacker was, they’d gone through her back door again.

Predictable, then.

Fingers wrapped around the piping Marcas had left her, Carthy got out of bed.

Head stabbed through with agony, eyes streaming with tears, Carthy wasn’t bored now.

Not pausing to think she rolled over, hurling her glass at her attacker before he could hit her with the piping again. Her senses were giddy from the blow to her head and the whiskey rolling in her otherwise empty stomach, her aim was off. The glass only clipped the side of the man’s head.

Nondescript, black shirt black jacket black jeans, ski mask, small but powerful-

Luck was on her side, the snap of his chin caused his whole upper torso to twist, and he dropped his piping and stumbled backwards. Carthy lurched to her feet, kicked the piping behind her, and smashed her bottle of whiskey across the attacker’s face. He grunted, but it wasn’t enough to get him down.

Pivot on the balls of your feet, twist your hips, go back forward again and stab him with the jagged end of the bottle-

He launched himself at her, tackling her round the waist, and in her surprise, she dropped the bottle. Her mind raced as she was pushed to the floor, his weight over her torso and her hands ineffective with their scrabbling- she bucked her hips, tried to hook her ankles round his, tried to wriggle out from beneath him but she had no leeway.

Fingers wrapped around her throat, and Carthy began to choke.

Legs twitching, eyes bulging, Carthy couldn’t breathe, the blood vessels to her brain were being squeezed shut. She tried headbutting him, but her neck was stapled to the floor below her. Desperate, still thrashing, Carthy reached out her hand and splayed her fingers. There had to be something, there had to be something, her lungs ached and her head was turning alarmingly faint-

Holding his eyes, distracting him with her struggles, Carthy touched glass. Smooth against her finger-tips, only just within her reach-

Please.

The shard pushed elusive against her fingers, Carthy couldn’t quite get a hold on it, she began to lose her sight. She rolled her hips again, swivelled as violently as she could, strained against her ligaments and the pins and needles swarming between her ears- the pain in her chest and head was insurmountable, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t-

The scene changed around her as sudden as whiplash. Carthy had the glass, then she lost the glass; she’d driven it right into her attacker’s neck. Aimed right, she could tell, from the way he broke his silence to gurgle, from the way his hands flew to staunch the wound as he fell down to the carpet next to her, locking the pair in some macabre embrace.

Air whooshed down Carthy’s throat. Her pelvis rose from the floor, ribs shooting outwards as she gasped. She barely noticed the shocking spurt of warmth running over her fingers, or the sting of cuts across her palm. How long had it been? How long had she been without oxygen?

Movements languid, sloppy, she fumbled at the man’s neck until she managed to rip the shard back out again. He spurted blood all over her carpet, too fast for Carthy to bother clawing herself further away. He died. Sprawled on the floor besides her, both of them with heaving, greedy chests, he died.

If Carthy had lived any other life, she’d have called an ambulance.

She’d have fished her phone out of her pocket, dialled 999, and waited for help. She’d have Viridity round in an instant, spare key in hand, fetching her water and pillows to lie on. She’d go to hospital, and cry, report it all to the police and she would fear no retribution.

But Carthy didn’t have a phone, or a spare key, or a clean slate. She had a body in her room, and it needed to go.

Head woozy, Carthy stood up.

The world had tilted on it’s axis, somebody had turned up the lights, and her throat was tremendously sore. Staggering backwards and bracing herself against the wall, Carthy assessed the situation.

The body she had to deal with tonight. She had to bury it, far from here, preferably in pieces. Her carpet was also wrecked, but she’d have to fix it because there’d be no removing the blood from the floorboards underneath. Or the scent, once the body really started to smell. Carthy had to get going as soon as possible.

The fire-escape door was a weak spot, an obvious target. Why bother with her windows, when they could pick one lock unseen and enter this way? Why bother with the potential witnesses involved in going via the front entrance, when the half rotten door round the side of the building looked so much more attractive?

Nobody criminal in their right mind would enter Carthy’s apartment any other way… which meant it was the only way in Carthy had bothered rigging. It was the first place she checked if she heard noises in the night. It was the first place she checked now, at 12:09, climbing up to her backdoor. What she found turned her blood cold, and her mind into a cacophony of expletives.

Fuck.

Somebody had been here. The strip of clear double-sided tape she’d left near her door was smudged with dirt, the slice of a footprint clearly discernible. It didn’t match her shoes.

Her chest shrunk about her lungs, cutting off her breath as her palms started to sweat and her legs twitched with indecision. Crouching, Carthy found half the pencil lead she’d left balanced on the door hinges. Her door had been opened, the lead snapped in two. Somebody had entered her apartment, this much she was sure of- but why? And were they still inside?

Fuck.

Best case scenario, petty thievery. Somebody had seen the easy entrance, picked a lock, had a snoop around and then left. Carthy could deal with that, she could deal with the loss of her laptop and even her handguns, she could deal with her alcohol stash being cleared out and her personal effects being stolen, but-

Worst case scenario, she’d been found. Somebody knew, somebody had figured out what she’d been doing, and had come to kill her. Or worse, he knew, and had sent someone to drag her back. The very idea filled her throat with revulsion, crawled up from her stomach, a living oozing thing intent on choking her-

Just take a look¸ she thought, nauseous. Get in, have a look, get out if it’s dangerous. It’s probably just thievery. It’s probably just thievery. You’d hate to leave this place over nothing.

As quietly as she could, Carthy unlocked her backdoor. Nothing but blackness awaited her. Had the intruder come and gone all in the hours of daylight, or were they hiding?

Inching further into her apartment, Carthy found the light switch on the wall and flipped it. Everything was as she’d left it, the wreck of her carpet sparkling with broken glass, Viridity’s polka-dot plate colourful in an otherwise threadbare room. Slowly, taking care not to get anything crunchy underfoot, Carthy picked her way across the floor.

Kitchen first, she decided, moving low and sinuously, ears pricked. She didn’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to hide somewhere so open plan, but she didn’t want to dismiss the idea and get attacked from behind later, either. Besides, in the kitchen were her knives, and Carthy felt better once she was armed. She shook less, at least.

Come on now, keep going.

One fist raised, the other loosely wrapped around the hilt of her knife, Carthy crept into her hallway. The space was narrow, the doors obstructive when opened, and her heart beat ever more ferociously at the thought of being jumped. That’s what she would do, if she were the intruder. She’d hide in one of these rooms, wait for the kettle to sound and then either attack or scarper-

Closest to her was her bedroom- empty, her wardrobe yawning wide open. Next was the tiny bathroom- no one in there either, nobody hiding behind her shower curtain or wedged against the other side of the sink. This left only the soundproofed room. The room which she would hear nothing from, no matter who was inside it. The room that she wouldn’t be able to see into much either, not until she’d stepped fully inside.

For a fleeting, foolish second, Carthy considered calling the police. Too late for legality now¸ she thought instead, jaw locking. Every muscle in her abdomen begged her to run.

Come on, Carthy.

Lip trapped between her teeth, she pushed down on the handle and opened the door.

Waited.

Listened, strained her ears. Breathed deep into her stomach, controlled. The knife slid against the sweat of her palm, sharp, poised as she was. Carthy heard nothing.

She took a step forward then back, nothing. She slapped her palms against the door as if entering the room with nervous momentum- nothing, no shift, no hitch of breath, no scrape of fabric. Gnawing at her lip, she darted into the room- flinched- and found nothing.

There was no one there. Carthy sagged against the wall, all the energy drained from her as she dazedly blinked back tears. Just a thief, just somebody looking for stupid shiny valuables. She was hidden, still. She was safe.

Once again, Carthy inhaled. Exhaustion pressed insistent against her eyelids, relief throbbed thick in her throat. She needed a drink.

She needed a drink.

And I’ll have one, too, Carthy decided with spiralling abandon. She’d get trashed as quickly as she could, stumble into bed and forget every thought that had passed through her head this evening. She’d forget the ammo man and his strange farewell, she’d forget the inconvenience that was her neighbour. She’d chase her fear down with whiskey, she’d strip away the terror that had ripped through her heart and lungs and tongue and teeth. It was a technique she’d employed for years, after all. Why stop now?

Carthy walked into her kitchen, yanked open her alcohol cupboard, and pulled down the nearest bottle. Headed straight for her bedroom, already savouring the familiar burn of the spirit sliding down her throat, how it settled warm against the perpetual edge that existed in her stomach. She’d downed two shots worth before she’d left her kitchen, a third reached her lips half way across her living room.

The hit would be hard, sudden, dizzying. She anticipated it with undeniable hunger, breath ragged in her throat as she knocked back yet more, the world turning fuzzy at her fingers and cheeks.

Carthy didn’t quite hear the person move behind her, or see the silver streak of piping whistle through the air towards her head. She felt it, though.

“Hi, Steve.” Carthy greeted, setting her coffee down on the table between them. Too loudly, apparently, with too much of a click. Steve and his pretty, pretty eyes inched backwards.

“How’s the book going?”

“Forget the book.” Steve said, surprisingly mild for a statement so authoritative, “What happened?”

Carthy looked at him. Steve looked back, frowning. Patient. By no means backing down.

Should have been a therapist, Steve, Carthy thought to herself, noticing the pen stuck behind Steve’s ear and the ink smudged across his cheekbone. You’re too invested in other people’s wellbeing to be an artist alone.

“Do you have my money?” she asked instead of answering his question, after a long, weighty pause. Her voice, mercifully, still worked, even if it had taken a packet of throat sweets to coax it back to life. Judging by Steve’s twist of the mouth, Carthy supposed that he didn’t appreciate that specific factoid nearly as much as she did.

“Carthy.” he said, his bottom lip falling prey to his teeth as his forehead furrowed further. He’d dressed in a striped sweater and shirt again, slightly crooked and the same soft lavender as Viridity’s hair.

“Steve.” Carthy replied, drinking from her cup. The coffee was hot, dark, strong. It did nothing for the ache behind her eyes.

“What happened?”

Carthy exhaled through her nose.

“I ran into trouble. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Maybe lies, maybe truth. What Carthy had learnt this morning was that Marcas Lu was a fake name, nowhere to be found in any police or health service data base, anywhere. But did that make the man a professional killer? Or just a guy who’d faked a driving licence, a semi-smart criminal who’d seen the opportunity of Carthy’s apartment and taken it?

“What kind of trouble?” Steve asked, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. His hair was the colour of caramel.

“The violent kind.” Carthy disclosed with a pointed smile, “Really, don’t worry about it.”

“That’s what my sister said.” Steve countered, so stubborn that Carthy let out a sharp bark of laughter. Oh, this boy, this personification of consideration. What was she to do with him?

“I’m not your sister.” she told him, drinking again, “But thanks for your concern.”

Steve was far from convinced.

“It’s not like I can go to the police, Carthy.”

Carthy quirked an eyebrow.

“If you’re not going to the police, what’s the point of you knowing? Just relax, Steve, this isn’t the first time I’ve been roughed up.”

It was the first time she’d been roughed up in this city, though, and the first time she’d been caught unawares in 3 long years. Carthy kept this information to herself, taking Steve’s uneasy quiet as cue enough to pull out his manuscript and set it on the table between them.

“Your setting is gorgeous, but you don’t need to emphasise it so much. Here, for example,” Carthy flipped to an ear-marked page and pointed to a highlighted paragraph, “The first two lines are brilliant, the rest is needless. If you make these bits of prose too woolly, they’re going to get skim read. The good bits will be missed.”

“Carthy.”

“I can understand the main character’s motivations, but his love interest is only a cardboard cut-out at the moment. She’s all over the place. One moment she’s the shyest person in the room, the next she’s talking out of her ass to anyone who will listen. There needs to be either a smoother transition, or some kind of turning point.”

Carthy thought on this a moment more, steadily ignoring Steve’s expectant gaze.

“Or alcohol.” she supplied, “Alcohol works.”

Steve looked insurmountably sad, just for a second or two. Carthy saw his hands twitch towards the sheaf of paper between them, as if he wanted to put it away, tuck the distraction into his satchel bag. As if he wanted to demand answers from her.

Don’t push me, Steve, Carthy thought, then tried to convey with the flatness of her stare, the boredom of her manner. Don’t even try.

He didn’t. Stupidly invested as he apparently was, he read her body language and backed off. Smart boy.

“I’m having problems with working out Renae’s breaking points…” he said instead, and together the pair of them stumbled into awkward conversation. They leant over his manuscript and the scrawled notes Carthy had peppered it with, exchanging ideas back and forth and successfully ignoring how every sip of coffee made Carthy grimace.

He noticed it, though, just as she noticed how Steve cringed at every point of criticism. Carthy had to marvel at how he lived such a sheltered life, and had still managed to hire her. Here was a man who had blood on his hands, and who feared nothing more than being told his sentence structures bordered on non-sensical. Here was a man who had ordered a death with unusual conviction, but couldn’t cull a plotline no matter how pointless it was.

He was ridiculous. Perhaps even more ridiculous than the alcoholic contract killer he’d hired, or the art student who lived across the hall.

Viridity. That mild inconvenience.

Carthy knew she had little choice to stay in the city until she had more money or information- but what of her neighbour? How closely was Carthy being watched, if at all? Would Viridity be targeted if they were seen together? Would Steve be targeted? Were they already at risk?

Carthy couldn’t say.

She thought on it more as she travelled home, face numb from the snow and senses trained on every person who moved around her. She could buy some decent camping gear and trek further north, but work would be impossibly unreliable, her money would run out and Carthy would starve. She could move into her weapons cache, save money on rent and protect her neighbour with distance- but Viridity could already be a known soft spot, and three blocks away was still close enough for the girl to make worthwhile bait. At least if Carthy were closer she’d notice if Viridity went missing.

And besides, if this was her father, he’d be expecting her to run. That was the game they always played, but could Carthy staying flip it on its head? Could her outward confidence- arrogance even- dissuade him from coming any closer? It had been three long years, after all, and even he could be scared off by unknown variables sometimes…

Wishful thinking, Carthy decided absently, attention directed behind her. Somebody had been matching her steps for the past 10 minutes, following her from local high-street to residential loops of road, never falling back or drawing nearer. From reflections and the corner of her eye, she saw his face was half-covered in a striped woollen scarf and his shoes were falling apart. His gait was unfamiliar, she didn’t recognise him.

Carthy entered her apartment building. When she climbed up to look through her favourite roadside window, he’d walked right on to stand in another doorway across the street. He got out a key, fumbled, went inside. Carthy released a breath, and wandered into her kitchen.

Down, he dropped, knife tumbling from his grip. Carthy kicked it aside, held his head from behind, and kneed him in the face. Once, twice, three times. She dropped him, he reared back snarling, blood dribbling down his chin. Cap-man and ginger had dashed off on first impact; Carthy gave him 5 seconds before he lost his nerve.

5 to go, he yelled something, incoherent, spitting. Carthy’s ears split from the noise. 4 left now and nobody answered him, joined him, supported him. He turned behind and saw that he was alone. Shifted on his feet like a cornered rat. 3, and his fists twitched upwards, downwards, from side to side. Carthy knew, lived, had breathed that sequence- he wanted to punch out, wanted to make hallowed connection between knuckle and cheekbone- 2 seconds, all emotions dropped from his face, 1 second-

He ran.

Just as well, Carthy thought distantly, heart racing. If they’d come to blows again, she might have wound up killing him.

The night was cool, her skin was boiling, her temper was warmer still. For a moment all she could do was stand there, lungs greedy for oxygen and mind clawing at her surroundings in an attempt to stop spinning.

Then she turned. Viridity knelt before her, pupils dilated, face streaked with tears, lip split. She didn’t quite look as if she were breathing, or that she remembered how to.

“Viridity?” Carthy asked lowly, inching closer, “It’s me, Carthy. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

“I’m fine.” she mumbled, staring numbly at her fingers, “I’m just- fuck, that was- You just saved my life. Jesus Christ. Bloody hell. Okay. Okay.”

Gradually, jaw set with strange determination, Viridity collected her canvases and rose to her feet. She’s shocked, Carthy recognised, seeing how jerky her movements were, how her gaze stalled and then shot from one place to another. She stood blank and shaking, like a terror-struck doll.

“We should call the police.” she said, motionless, breath quieter than a breeze. Carthy got the distinct impression that she was talking more to herself than anyone else.

“Give me your phone, I’ll make the call.” Carthy said, easing closer, “You’re in shock right now, Vir. Let me handle this.”

“Okay. Jesus.” Viridity whispered, swaying slightly on her feet. Carthy steadied her shoulders, waited, wrapped a supporting arm round her waist when Viridity’s only reaction was to rest her head against neck.

“Is this okay?” Carthy checked, shifting slightly so she was bearing more of Viridity’s weight.

“’S fine. Feels familiar.” she mumbled, handing over her phone, “You’re wearing a dress?”

“Uh- yes?”

“Looks good.” Viridity said dazedly, breaths fluttering at her throat, “This is even more dumb than the last time. Are you always gonna be looking out for me?”

I’m fleeing from this city, and you, as soon as it’s convenient.

“Long as I can, Vir,” Carthy said instead, dialling 999, “Stay with me now.”

The operator chimed in. Viridity went very quiet, the wet of her tears at Carthy’s skin, and skating beneath her dress. Carthy closed her eyes, clinging to the frigid sensation, struggling to keep up with the operator’s questions. It had already been a long night. The wind blew gentle, lulling, almost warm, and Carthy wanted to sleep.

The paramedics came first, bundling Viridity in a shock blanket after checking her for obvious injuries. She knew her name, the date, where she’d been all evening, her pupils were of equal size and both contracted when exposed to light. Her vitals were strong, her bruising minimal, the only true cause for worry was her ribs. That could wait, they said, they promised to Carthy’s unspoken demands. She’ll be fine for a few hours.

Second was the police, insistent that they came to the station. Vir seemed hesitant to leave Carthy’s side, so she stayed with her: through her statement, drawn with voice wavering and distracted repetition, then through Carthy’s, short and sparse in detail. She told them about Fisher’s park, how she’d been worried her neighbour had stayed out in the snow again, and they accepted it without skipping a beat.

Exceptionally lucky¸ they told Vir, and Carthy near throttled them for it. You were exceptionally lucky to get off as lightly as you did.

Viridity left her details, Carthy begged off. When Viridity disappeared into the bathroom, Carthy caught the attention of a young, fresh-faced officer. Biting her lip and lowering her voice, she told them she had PTSD. Please don’t let this get out, she implored, please don’t tell anyone about me. I just want a quiet life. I’m not a hero. News coverage would be awful, really. Keep this on the down-low.

The hospital came next, with the usual, agonisingly long wait times. Viridity kept dozing off and falling from her chair, so eventually Carthy took her into her arms. Sleep here, she said, guiding Viridity’s purple head to the crook of her elbow. I’ll hold you, don’t worry about it. Just sleep.

They made an odd pair. There was Carthy, dress on and earrings still dangling, eyelids smudged with smoke and lips dark. And then there was Viridity, a paint smeared youth clad in ripped jeans, a crop top, and that damning bomber jacket. No wonder her attackers had known that she was gay. No wonder the nurses assumed they were dating, and brought Carthy with Viridity when they were finally able to be seen.

Fractured ribs, was what it amounted to. Fractured ribs, time advised off college, and a whole lot of trauma.

They took the taxi back.

“Thank you.” Viridity said quietly, staring out the window. The time was 4:11, the season winter. It wouldn’t be light for hours.

“For helping me. For sticking around afterwards. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I’d be an asshole not to.” Carthy said, watching her, “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

In the intermittent bursts of streetlight, she could see that Viridity’s face was beginning to bruise in earnest, and that the cut on her lip likely wouldn’t scar.

“You saved my life.” said Viridity, just as she had hours earlier. Disbelieving, mildly nauseous. Carthy suspected coming down from the alcohol wasn’t helping.

“It wasn’t my fault this time, was it? I know I should have been home sooner. I know it’s a bad idea to walk home drunk. But those assholes… I don’t know. Maybe it was my fault.”

“No, Vir.” Carthy said. To Viridity’s sudden, searching look, she raised a corner of her lip. Small smile, grim smile. Viridity’s big blue eyes were overwhelmingly sad.

“Definitely not your fault.”

“But if I’d just been more careful-”

She broke off, apparently seized with frustration.

“Being vulnerable isn’t an invitation to getting beat up. Or it shouldn’t be, to anyone decent. You’re not in the wrong here, Vir.”

She sighed, exhalation soft. Rustling. Like velvet.

“You stayed up for me.” she said, eyes ahead, “Why?”

Carthy opened her mouth, closed it. Ryan had completely flown from her mind.

“There was something I wanted to talk to you about. You weren’t in, so I waited. It got late, I got worried.”

“Talk to me about what?”

Carthy shook her head once more, rubbing at her eyes.

“Tell me tomorrow? Along with that drunk story?”

Carthy cast a long-suffering look to the ceiling.

“You’ve got a good memory.” she commented dryly, and Viridity did, at last, smile.

“Where it counts.”

A few moments slipped by in a beat of rain, windscreen wipers and the quiet drone of the radio. The engine of the taxi hummed beneath Carthy’s fingertips.

“I can stay the night, if you like.” Carthy offered at last, staring out of the window, “If you want company. Or moral support. I know I wouldn’t feel safe on my own, if it had happened to me.”

Viridity’s shoulders rose, fell, rose again. Deep breaths, composure slipping, suggested the quiet voice always assessing in Carthy’s mind. She thought she might be crying.

This is beyond casual, said one half of Carthy’s mind. Shut up, said the other.

“I’d like that.” was all Viridity said, as her fingers curled and shoulders shifted towards her knees, “Thank you.”

"Beautiful, as well as talented." he said by way of greeting, inclining his head and smiling, "Won't you come in?"  

Snake, Carthy surmised, noting the fluidity with which he took her coat and led her into his dining room, the ease with which he covered his ogling with a layer of charm. What sent you running to me?  

Her guess was debt, simply because he didn't look like someone who could resist indulgence. Everything he wore looked incredibly expensive, from the silk of his half-buttoned shirt to the chunky gold of his watch. His apartment- one of many, he'd said- was gorgeous. Utterly beautiful. Some walls were brown brick, others were papered with cream threaded through with subtle metallic detailing. All were dotted with art, aside from those with huge windows, through which you could see the city stretched out beneath them like a bumpy spread of tiny stars.  

Clicking softly over the gleaming wooden floor, following Vincent to his dining room, Carthy found herself exceedingly jealous.

“I’m not usually in the habit of entertaining such esteemed guests,” Vincent said, filling her crystal glass to the brim. Red wine, vividly gorgeous in colour, “Please do let me know if there’s something that could be improved, to be better to your liking.”

“This is sufficient.” Carthy replied, eyeing the starters he brought over. They looked and smelled divine. Were they a deliberate distraction?

She took up her wine, sipped it, and gave him a lilting smile. He relaxed to it. Clinking their glasses together in precise, watchful motions, the pair began to eat.  

“You have a reputation for discretion.” Vincent began some minutes later, wiping the corners of his mouth with a fine, monogrammed handkerchief, “I am hoping you can extend this service to me, I come to you with an exceedingly… how shall we say… delicate matter.”

Carthy raised her brows, prompting.

“I should, by all accounts, be a rich man.”

“Oh really?” Carthy asked, no indication of her satisfaction on her face, “Am I to take it something is preventing this?”

“Someone.” Vincent corrected, smiling pleasantly but through gritted teeth. He took the next moment to stand, and ferry the main course to the table. Surprised, Carthy noted the set of his jaw and realised that already his composure had slipped further than he would have liked. Vincent apparently could not tolerate appearing anything but polished.

Control freak, Carthy thought to herself, seeking to impress and intimidate, always. He is not enjoying having to outsource this.  

“Someone,” Vincent continued, “Is in the way of me and my fortune. I married a very rich woman, who’s keeping me on a- tighter than expected leash.”

This is what you call a tight leash?

“Her name?” she asked, swirling her wine round her glass. She’d decided to wear earrings, but now found they weighed far too much. Combined with the atmospherically dim lighting and orchestral music, Carthy’s head was beginning to throb.

“Luisa,” he said, smoothing down his sleeves and straightening his cufflinks, “If you agree to take the job, I’ll provide you with more information.”

Luisa, stinking rich, anywhere in the 20- 60 age range, recently wedded to Vincent Everett in likely a garishly public ceremony. Carthy could find her full name, tax records and favourite holiday resort with that information alone, but there was no point in letting Vincent know as much. Slighted contractors became terribly awkward.

“So, dear Luisa isn’t as amendable as you’d hoped she’d be, and now you want her dead?”

Vincent shook her head.

“No,” he said slowly, “My wife is already dying. Brain tumour, inoperable. Highly tragic of course.”

You knew that before you married her, Carthy took from his words and light tone. You’re a gold-digger, through and through.

“Do you get any of the money, when she dies?” Carthy asked, filling her voice with a detached curiosity. It wouldn’t do to let any of her judgement show.

“I thought I would have all of it.” said Vincent, refilling both of their glasses, “But recently I discovered she’s left me but a pittance. The majority of it is going to her daughter.”

Ah.

“And I suppose your bet is, if your wife suddenly no longer has a daughter, the money will instead go to you?”

“That is correct. She has no other relatives to leave it to, no favoured charitable endeavours. I am the next best option.”

“Are you quite certain you wish to act on that chance?” Carthy asked him. Vincent pursed his lips.

“My step-daughter is set to inherit just under £50 million that would otherwise be mine.” was all he said, chin lifted in an expression of dark indignation, “Of course I wish to act on it.”

£50 million. Carthy near saw stars.

“And if it isn’t left to you?”

“Then there are legal routes I can follow, once my wife is dead. It will all be easier with the daughter gone.”

Carthy sat, and mulled this over. While she did so, the pair of them moved onto dessert. Thus far, her odds of killing this unfortunate heiress did not seem high.

“I want it staged as an accident, preferably within the month.” Vincent continued in confident, rolling tones, “I don’t care where it happens, or how, just so long it doesn’t at all lead back to me. You can make it gruesome, if that takes your fancy. I wouldn’t know how the mind of a contract killer works.”

Briefly Carthy considered laughing at him, then dismissed the idea.  

“Tell me more about the daughter.” she said, keeping her control, savouring her next mouthful of strawberries and cream. Vincent’s face flickered, a fine layer of distaste settling over his features.

“She’s a brat.” he said smoothly, “Spoiled, immature. She neglected to come to her mother’s and my wedding day, which dearly grieved us both. She misses no opportunity to spite me.”

“How so?”

“She refuses to live under the same roof as me. She refuses to defer to my will.”  

“Does she have any unpleasant business ventures? Drugs, money laundering, organised crime? Exploitative companies?”

Vincent shook his head.

“I’m quite certain she’s never done anything entrepreneurial in her life. Quite an unsuitable heir to a business empire, one would think.”

“Has she raised her hand to you? Vandalised your property, or that of her mother?” Carthy asked, changing tack.

“Of course not. Do you imagine I’d allow myself to be beaten so by a girl?” Vincent seemed to find this highly amusing, and Carthy had to sternly remind herself not to make a scene. Stabbing his hand to the table with a fork just wouldn’t do.

“Has she actively pressed to have you written out of her mother’s will?”

“No, but she hasn’t supported my claim to be written into it for a substantial amount. Nor did she agree to give the money onto me separately after Luisa’s death.”

“Does she know her mother is dying?”

“No, I don’t think so. Luisa hid it from her. Why do you care?”

Hid, past tense? Is the daughter estranged? Does the mother hide it because of distance, or love, or both? The daughter is inheriting, they can’t dislike each other very much…

“Where is the daughter now?” Carthy asked, and Vincent’s jaw set once more, so minutely she wouldn’t have noticed if it hadn’t happened before. Not used to not being answered, are you?

“She’s elsewhere.” he said, dismissively. As he shifted, the candlelight winked off the glass face of his golden watch, “Studying. She was always home-schooled before.”

Young, then. Probably never done anything ‘normal’ before in her life, probably getting a thrill from it, probably been looking forward to it for years. No wonder her mother hasn’t told her.

Carthy found herself feeling… sorry, for the girl, which made everything utterly useless. The target was undeserving, the contractor unlikable but hardly enough so to bother killing. The only thing she Carthy to gain here was the rest of her cheesecake, which she now gobbled down with unreserved haste.

“So you’ll take the job?”

“No.” she told him, downing her drink before standing, “My apologies, Mr Everett, and my thanks for a wonderful meal, but I do not believe I can help you.”

For a second he only stared, expression peculiarly dull. Strains of music rose up in the silence between them.

“I can offer you £500,000.” he finally got out, voice struggling to remain even. Carthy’s entire being clenched, because £500,000… she could move far away from here, to a different country even with that kind of money. She could invest in a new profession, something decent and legal. She could reinvent herself, entirely.

The offer was tantalising. Bewitching.

“You are in debt.” she said instead, a fact she didn’t know to be true until he visibly flinched, “You cannot afford to pay me £500,000.”

“I can pay you afterwards.” he said, blood vessel fluttering at his throat. Elevated heartrate, stress response. Carthy suddenly had the impression that this had happened before.

She shook her head.

“That won’t do.” she said firmly, “I will not perform such a service before being paid. And besides, Mr Everett, I find your manner to be quite contradictory to mine. I do not believe it wise that we work together.”  

“You’re making a mistake.” he said, still like something waiting to pounce, sheen above his upper lip like somebody terrified.  

He was all posturing, little content, and obviously inexperienced. Carthy did not imagine he’d be able to convince anyone proficient to take up his offer, especially if they cottoned on to the debt he was in. With no money and no strong-arm, Vincent couldn’t become dangerous. Carthy would not worry about him further.

“I wish you luck on your business endeavours.” she told him, with as much graciousness as she could muster, “But they are not for me. Goodbye.”