Manuscript: Wayside, Chapter 10

“Who was it?”

“I don't know.”

“What did they look like?”

“I didn't see them.”

“Where did Noura go?”

“I don't have a clue.”

Grim sat on a wooden chair in an large office in the Wayside constabulary, which smelled of burnt coffee, and at the moment housed both Grim and a large, balding, uniformed officer. Grim rubbed his hands and did his best to respond to the ruddy-faced constable's interrogations. He had no helpful answers. He had reacted in instinct to the flash from the second story window that preceded the attempt on Noura Naysmith's life. He hadn't taken any time to soak in the details of the scene.

The constable blew out his mustaches and leaned in. “You'd best start recalling something, boy. I don't think you understand how volatile a situation you're in.”

“Oh ara be whist.” Murphy Fish stood in the doorway with Osborne close behind. “The kid obviously didn't take a bloody picture.”

The constable pointed an accusatory finger at Murphy. “I'll have words with you two, later. Letting Noura Naysmith wander around like that, unprotected.”

“Unprotected?” Murphy stiffened. “She's not a damned princess. She can come and go as she pleases.”

Osborne put a hand on Murphy's shoulder and addressed the constable. “When you're done wasting your time with the boy, we'll escort him back to the Viccars. Sir.”

Murphy made a very rude gesture and glared daggers at the constable as Osborne led him out of the room. Grim smiled at Murphy's performance, but a dark look from the officer turned the smile sour.

“We'll will be keeping an eye on you, lad. Consider that boon and bane. If you remember anything, the tiniest detail, you get your ass back here and tell me.” The constable waved at the door and Grim bolted without pause.

* * *

Grim met Osborne and Murphy in the lobby and they escorted him back to the Viccars. The city was moving into night-mode; People moved around with homeward intent, wrapping up their daily doings and closing up their shops. As the three friends approached the front of the Viccars, Osborne reassured Grim that he was safe, and that they'd figure out what was going on and what had happened to Noura Naysmith.

Grim's head was buzzing. His own safety was far from the first thing on his mind. He had prevented a murder, and the culprits were on the loose.

“Let me help you,” Grim said to Osborne.

“Of course not,” Osborne dismissed. “I'm not going to be responsible for getting you hurt.”

Grim clutched Osborne's sleeve. “Come on, Charlie. The Viccars' is so boring. I want to help you find --”

Osborne's eyes were ice. Not since Osborne had saved him from Lyudmila's pool had Grim been so intimidated by the Commander. Grim let go of his sleeve. Murphy was granite. “You will stay here and you will not attempt to go out looking for trouble. Am I clear, Grim?”

“Y..yeah. Fine.” It was not Grim's friend who stood next to him. This was a different Osborne, one that Grim was not pleased to meet. Grim stepped back.

“I'll be along tomorrow to check on you.” Osborne turned and walked down the path leading back to the city, leaving Murphy and a stunned Grim behind.

“Did I do something wrong?” Grim asked Murphy.

“Oh. Nah. It's just Osborne, you know?” Murphy sat on the steps of the Viccars.

“Didn't seem much like Osborne to me,” said Grim, and joined Murphy on the steps.

“He's complicated, our Commander. He's never told you how he came to be here?” Murphy lit a cigarette.

Grim's eyebrows rose. “I...never asked. Seems kinda personal.”

The tip of Murphy's cigarette glowed, and he breathed out the smoke. “I suppose. He was a guardsman in the battle of Ypres. Well...the third battle of Ypres. His squad was part of the entente assault on Passendale.”

Grim was a little ashamed that he didn't know enough about European history to even know what war Murphy was referring to, but held back his questions, as it seemed Murphy was in story-telling mode and he did not want to interrupt it.

Murphy continued. “Passendale is surrounded by reclaimed marshland, or at least it was back then, and three months worth of artillery and air strikes made the place a dirt soup. The German Imperials were pretty well hunkered down.”

“Murphy's squad went in on the third wave, but as they got near the town a German shell went off near the Commander and he was knocked clean out. Pwft. Cold. Sank into the mud and couldn't be found.” Murphy flicked the ashes from his cigarette.

“He woke up here and since it's doubtful anyone's going to be dredging the whole swamp for bodies, here is where he'll stay.”

Grim's eyes widened. “So he's...dead, then?”

Murphy smiled. “Well if he wasn't when he took his mudbath, he certainly is now. He'd be over a hundred in our world by now.”

“How about you?” Grim looked anew at his friend.

Murphy paused for a moment's effect, then he knuckled Grim in the shoulder. “Nah, skin. Still kicking. Though I'd reckon I look a lot younger than my years. Lee certainly thinks I'm still a tiddler. Of course he's practically a bag of dust, so.”

Grim smirked. “That doesn't really explain why Osborne went all Darth Vader on me though.”

Murphy shrugged. “Not my place to say. 'Sides it would only be a guess...” Murphy gave Grim a knowing glance.

Grim rolled his eyes. “Well go on.”

“Well,” Murphy breathed. “I suspect you remind him of his son.”

Grim's stomach flopped. “What?”

“When he went off to the war he left behind a doting wifey and a chisler. Probably a bit younger than you are now. Guess that's why he's not forgotten after all this time, too. Familial remembrance and all.”

They sat in quiet for a few minutes as Murphy finished his cigarette. The light bouncing off the grass suggested it was late. Grim thanked Murphy for the chat and excused himself. Murphy waved goodbye, promising to beat him at that checkers game whenever Grim felt the need for a thrashing.

Grim walked down the west hallway in silence and entered the boys dormitory. Cane and the other boys were asleep in their beds. Grim crept to his bed and put on his sleep clothes, then shuffled into his cool sheets.

Grim stared at the ceiling. He thought about Osborne, unable to ever return to his family or even his world. Is that what Grim wanted? Did he want to stay here, forever? He could grow up a Waysider. Maybe he'd join Osborne in the Finders when he was old enough. He thought about his mother and his bastard step-father in the trailer park, and about his wayward father in Atlanta whom he didn't really know and might never have the chance to, if he stayed here.

And what about Cane? Would the boy be stuck here forever, too? Unable to recall enough of his life to get back to it? Was he doomed to be forgotten?

And Noura. He could recall clearly the sound of her head smacking into the concrete. The odd sensation as her body vanished from below him. He wondered if she was safe and where her attackers could be at this very moment. As the faces of people he had met in his weeks at Wayside drifted through his thoughts, His eyelids grew heavy and he faded into sleep.

* * *

Murphy walked alone down the main street of the Garment district. Steam rose from the street vents as the lower laundries worked through the night. He smoked another cigarette and promised himself that he'd stop the nasty habit the following day. It cost him a lot of stories to maintain a pack a day.

He reached Madam Lenoire's Hotel and Clothiers and rummaged through his pocket for the key. As brought key to lock, the hairs stood up on the nape of his neck and he turned to see a black figure in the lamplight across the street. He looked around. There was no one else on the road.

“Hello?” Murphy stepped back out into the road and reached for the comfort of his rifle strap.

“No need for that,” said the shrouded man.

“Yeah, well I'll be the judge of that, won't I?” Murphy said, pulling his rifle around to easy reach.

“Do you know what has become of our beloved Noura Naysmith? I would hate to think any ill had befallen her.” The man moved back into the shadows as Murphy approached. “Remain where you are, please,” he said, thrusting out a gloved palm.

Murphy stopped. “What do you know about Noura?”

“Only that she is not in Wayside, and could very well be in danger. Her safety is valuable to me.” The shadowy man's voice was thin and hollow and Murphy came to the conclusion that the man was addressing him not in Babel, but in his native English.

“So, what do you want from me? I'm no emere. I couldn't pop in on her world so much as I could make the sky blue,” Murphy wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers.

“It is still your world, too, you know. As it is mine.” The man turned his head and peered down the street. “Your organization does keep track of every emere that comes to Wayside, does it not?”

Murphy raised his rifle. “That's classified.”

The man in black put his hands up. “I merely request that should a new emere come across your path, I be informed. I wish to check on our mutual friend.”

“Why,” asked Murphy. “I could just tell them myself.”

“It is more complicated than that. Besides, I could make it worth your while.” The man opened his gloved hand and revealed something to Murphy that tantalized his imagination. A small thing that shone in the streetlight. At that moment, Murphy felt it could be the most important thing in all the world.

He swallowed, unable to keep his eyes from the object. “How would I reach you? What's your name?” Beads of sweat were forming on his brow.

A white grimace cracked the shadows of the man's cowl and he palmed the object. “Just ask the rats. Tell them you would speak with Lif. They will deliver your message.”

Murphy wilted as the man concealed his treasure.

The man put a hand to his heart and gave the slightest of bows, then slipped into the shadows between two buildings and was gone.

Murphy tightened the grip on his rifle and shuddered. His eyes darted around the street. Satisfied that the conversation had been private, he returned to the hotel door and let himself in. His cautious bootsteps were silent as he crept up the stairs and into his room, easing the door shut and turning the deadbolt.

He leaned against the door and breathed out, long and low. He lit a cigarette and let the sweet, acrid smoke saturate his lungs. He chuckled. Maybe he wouldn't stop smoking tomorrow. After all, there would be plenty of time to quit.