Independent by Means of Magic

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The strange and untrustworthy afterglow from McDuff’s conversation with Victoria Haversham only lasted until he walked down his own Paddington street, far from those posh, sprawling mansions around Mayfair.

If these creaky old dumps had ever been grand, it had been years before he was born. The clusters of boarding houses were hardly as dire as the tenements and slums in London or any other city, but McDuff didn’t bother trying to ignore how shabby and run down everything he saw truly was.

The house itself may have been a pleasant enough tan color in days gone by, or perhaps green. Now the dingy paint was more peeling than in place, and the square, blocky building wouldn’t have been graceful or elegant in its prime. Twelve rooms, more or less clean, rented out to fifteen or so men who weren’t anyone’s idea of a dream match.

Many, like McDuff knew himself to be, would be lucky to marry at all, much less marry well.

He walked onto the stoop, avoiding the loose third step out of years of habit. The front sitting room, with decades-outdated but clean furniture and a threadbare rug, was blessedly empty. McDuff passed through quickly, not wanting to give over-attentive Mrs. Richards a chance to chat about his long, sad day.

She was pleasant enough, he supposed, and the meals he took in her dining room were generous if not particularly flavorful. She and his brother Michael had been friendly with each other. Besides not wanting to speak to one more person after a day full of unpleasant conversation, McDuff had no desire to reminisce about his brother today.

They’d rented out the room on the third floor—the freshly arrived McDuff brothers—nine years before. He still paid the extra rather than moving to a single room. Jamming all of Michael’s clothing and shoes and various assorted junk into an even smaller space would help no one.

And leaving that room they’d found when they were both full of the hope and optimism of a new start would hurt too much.

McDuff lifted the doorknob and shoved with his shoulder just like Mrs. Richards showed them that first day. The air in the room was thick and miserable with heat from two south-facing windows overtaking the breeze from one on the north side. Those same sunny windows helped a bit with the cold in winter, but the drafts nearly canceled them out.

The wardrobe on his side of the room stood open from that morning, the mirror on the door mottled and cracked. His dark blue policeman’s uniform hung inside, untouched for the last two years he’d been given clearance to work in ordinary clothes. When asked, he repeated the lines about witnesses and even suspects being far more willing to talk to him, and more honest, when he knocked on the door looking like them.

All of that was certainly true, but he suspected his own comfort simply made him a better investigator.

McDuff hung his jacket, trousers, and shirt on a string in front of the window instead of putting them away. The evening breeze should dry everything out and let him avoid paying Mrs. Richards for a wash for a few more days. His worn and scuffed brown shoes on the windowsill did nothing to help the stale aroma of the room, but they needed the airing out even more than his clothes did.

He sat on a creaky wooden chair in front of a tiny, battered desk in his shorts and undershirt, stocking feet up on Michael’s bed. McDuff never slept or even sat on that bed, still covered with a scratchy brown blanket from the last morning his brother left here a free man six years ago.

Even after so much time, and with no hope of sharing the room again, the habit persisted.

Files and notes from the investigation waited, tucked into the case beside the desk. The hour was early yet on a Friday evening.

McDuff could dig into the mess and try to find any connections.

And no one would be willing to talk to him for the next two days, even if he could track them down away from work. The only things sitting on the desk at the moment were a nearly full bottle of whiskey and a relatively clean glass that fit perfectly into his hand. What McDuff could afford on his salary, or more because he was loathe to spend the money, would pale in comparison to the fine rum Mr. Haversham had shared.

McDuff knew from long experience that what he had on hand would do the job just fine.

He poured himself two fingers of light brown liquid, unable to stop himself from comparing all of it to Haversham’s fancy cut glass and far superior libation. McDuff held his version up in the general direction of his brother’s closed wardrobe.

“May this find you well, brother.”

McDuff’s first swallow found him well enough.

That girl, Cheryl Mallory.

That poor girl.

From all accounts, she’d been bright, curious, full of excitement about her life. Seventeen years old and all of it thrown away whether she managed to keep the baby or not. No one yet knew how the poison Cheryl had nearly killed herself with would affect her pregnancy.

McDuff privately thought a child so deeply unwanted might be better off never drawing a breath.

His brother had been that same age. Not nearly so bright or curious, but always full of excitement, believing things would work out for him in the end. Believing his big brother Robbie would set it all to rights, even before McDuff had turned to policing for a living. He hadn’t been able to save Michael any more than he was going to be able to save Cheryl.

McDuff was again left with no choice but to do all he could to stop it from happening to anyone else.

With full knowledge that he would fail far more than he managed to succeed.

Warmth spread from his throat and stomach through the rest of his weary body. McDuff was already far less concerned about working this evening, or during the weekend. This time he poured three fingers and didn’t bother with the toast.

When his mood turned so dark and melancholy, he wasn’t even suited for talking to himself.

Everything he’d done for Michael had only made things worse. Getting him out of those original arrests, right back onto the street and deeper into the gangs. Dragging both of them hours away from home into a strange city. Too slow to understand what was happening when Michael suddenly had new friends with connections back to Glasgow.

Those so-called friends pushed McDuff’s little brother into far worse trouble than he ever would have found on his own.

If he’d never gotten Michael out of trouble that last time back home, he might have served his time and found some other way. McDuff finished his whiskey and poured a third to keep in reserve.

After a long hot day and on a mostly empty stomach, the spirit was hitting him like a sledgehammer. His feet felt impossibly far away on Michael’s bed, his head floated a bit on his neck. Every ache in his body had faded away.

The aches in his heart only grew deeper.

If he hadn’t been so determined to arrange Michael’s life for him, maybe they’d both be in Glasgow still. Instead he beat his body and mind against the river of crime in this wretched city, as deep and never-ending as the Thames. And his brother rotted in Fodelson Prison.

McDuff finished the third drink after all.