Den of Stars

‘This is stifling,’ he finally said, striking his bottle on a table with a thump, narrowly missing the handle of his revolver that had been placed there for convenience.

‘Jacques?’

‘It makes no real difference, does it? They’re both dead and we’re sitting around talking about what could have been. We’re left behind contemplating the future. It’s selfish, is what it is. No two ways about it.’

Everyone fell quiet, the more timid among them avoiding eye contact and fiddling with their drinks.

* * *

‘We’re all hurting, Jacques. You’re not unique on that front.’ Corinne scrunched up her features in disgust. She had grown tired of this spectacle some time ago. His constant moaning and alcoholism was a bore and, frankly, she expected better of him than to drink himself stupid. They needed solidarity between them, not this.

‘Oh, work it out why don’t you. Sitting about here moping, mumbling little treasures about how the good times were. Let me tell you a fact and take it any way you desire. We weren’t saved by that pair. We were cast aside. We were left behind! They took the easy way out, dying a death out in the Sand Sea like martyrs. We got the bum end of the deal. You can be all red and puffy-cheeked in outrage but that doesn’t sway the fact that I’m right. You were all taking too long to work it out so I figured I would accelerate maters. Let it sink in. Think it over.’

His eyes locked defiantly with Corinne’s. She waited for this little outburst to be done, though he spoke with considerable malice and smiled like a predator would smile, then he took a hearty swig of poison.

‘Stings like a bitch, don’t it?’

Corinne retaliated flatly. ‘You’re drunk. Again, may I add, and it’s not even midday. Did you wash in scotch when you woke this morning? On today of all days?’

‘What can I say? Sobriety has lost its sparkling appeal.’

‘Has compassion too?’ Corinne snarled in challenge. She had tolerated this tirade for far too long. For a handful of weeks now, she had endured Jacques being stinking drunk whenever he rolled himself out of whatever bordello he had talked himself into.

‘You don’t get to say that to me. Nobody does. You have no idea how much I’ve put myself on the line for you, for all of you! You can doll yourselves up and pretend to move on, be in tears for the papers when they take nice photographs to further your agendas, but some people, better people, just don’t have the stomach for that. Sick as it is to admit, you have to respect Wilheim Fort. He has one over each and every one of you. For all his terrors, at least he never put on a charade to hide what he did. He never faked his intentions. Can you all say the same?’

There was a pregnant pause. Nobody moved.

‘You want to turn around and go out that door. Right now,’ Corinne threatened, though what she said was not a suggestion but a demand. He wasn’t welcome here any more, not if he was going to behave so undignified.

‘You’re damn right I do,’ Jacques agreed. He swung his jacket from the seat arm in a rush and made his way outside, slamming the door in frustration. The connected bell danced on its bracket, almost detaching itself in shock. Nothing was said inside for a while, as the only noise was the slowing rattle of glass in the doorframe, followed by an empty bottle tossed into the street and bursting on impact.

‘So … we’re not doing anything about that?’ Katerina finally asked. Corinne was quick to shoot down the suggestion. She marched to the door and flipped the latch to lock.

‘No. Let him go. Let others suffer his egotism – I’m done with it. We don’t need it under our roof.’

‘And what he said of Wilheim?’

Corinne sunk her teeth into her lower lip in frustration. The insult stung considerably more than the pain she administered herself.

‘Pay it no mind,’ she dismissed. ‘He’s behind bars now. He’s no concern to anybody.’

* * *

Wilheim Fort sat quite contentedly in his cell. The bars were pitted and stained by age and who knows what. The walls were carved with the names of previous occupants, some now being the only evidence of their existence. The uncomfortable slab that passed for a bed was seemingly designed by someone who clearly despised the spine and had set about destroying it under the pretence of rest. It was a cell befitting murderers, thugs, terrible people who did terrible things by the score and were to be incarcerated in equally fitting surroundings.

It was not at all appropriate for a man of Wilheim’s stature.

As was regular, the guard rapped the bars with his truncheon to get the inmate’s attention. He held in the other hand a tray of what some might generously call food. The meal was slid through its designated slot, spilling somewhat onto the stone floor, not that the jailer actually felt the slightest bit of remorse for this. He knew full well the crimes that Wilheim was to be trialled for, though in his humble opinion would rather the city forgo the circus and simply have him shot.

There were plenty who shared his thinking, a considerable amount under this roof and scores in the city who had cheered the outing of the architect of a criminal empire. Another pair of Bluecoats behind tended to the other cells with equal attention, conveying the meals with little care for the occupants within.

But, curiously, Wilheim simply sat on his uncomfortable bed, surrounded by the words of dead men, and stared directly through the bars stained with who knows what at the man beyond.

In fact, he did more than this. He smiled.

He smiled with such simplicity that one could easily mistake it as arrogance. The guard did so. He had seen this smile every time he took the slop to the cell, every time he called for attention, every time the prisoner’s lawyer came to discuss matters with him. Previously the Bluecoat had been patient. He was disciplined enough not to enter into a conversation with this individual, as his words could easily lead to attempts of bribery, or threats upon his person. This time, however, was different. This time, the Bluecoat gave in to his curiosity.

‘Every time I see your stupid face,’ he snarled, dragging the truncheon across the bars, ‘every single damn time with no break in between, you’ve got that ridiculous smile on you. You have to tell me, sitting in there and stripped of everything that made a monster like you, what could you possibly have to be so damn happy about?’

Wilheim found amusement in this, something that only made his smile wider. He chuckled, descending into a full-blown belly laugh that caused his bulbous body to ripple with each shake. When he found it appropriate to do so, he spoke.

‘You’re correct in saying that plenty has been removed from my person. Plenty has indeed been taken from me. All that I have acquired. All I have built. Well, of course, not all. A man like myself makes allowances for times such as these and ensures that if ill fortune falls upon him, then he owns a safety net of sorts.’

The guard kept tapping the bars. Wilheim continued, getting to his feet with a grunt.

‘It’s not true that I am naked in this cell. For I have something in abundance that I treasure, something that you and your ilk cannot fathom the importance of.’

The Bluecoat strained himself thinking what it could be. His eyes darted around the bare lockup, searching for any hint of something stashed away.

‘Time, you imbecile, I’m talking about time,’ Wilheim hissed in amusement. ‘I have time here to think, to contemplate … to do anything I so wish. With enough time you can raise the grandest of ambitions from nothing.’

‘That doesn’t sound so great to me. Get enough of that and you’ll be reduced to bones right here. I can imagine better things to smile about.’

‘You miss the bigger picture.’ Wilheim tilted his head to the side, his eyes momentarily flicking behind the Bluecoat and back again. ‘Time allows one to achieve a great many things. You can reclaim that which people have taken from you. You can organize repercussions for the ones who have wronged you. With enough time a broken empire can be re-formed. All one needs is patience.’

The Bluecoat exhaled in boredom. It may have been one of the more eloquent rants he had been subjected to, but it was still delivered by a crook behind bars.

‘Then you’ve got plenty of time to think on such things.’

The guard went to turn, though he froze in doing so quite quickly. The smile upon Wilheim’s face had gone, replaced with a bitter, nasty scowl. The air turned cold in the space between them.

‘I’m going to take an educated guess,’ Wilheim said, taking a pair of steps towards the bars. ‘You were assigned especially to watch over me, correct? The sheriff has considerable trust in you – you’ve no doubt been close to him on many an occasion. I imagine he deems you to be steadfast. Honourable. Infallible. Which is why you were given this most prestigious task.’

‘Something like that.’ He frowned in curiosity. Where was he going with this?

‘I imagine it was down to that raid you performed with him on the illicit bootleggers, where you saved the life of the good sheriff and two of his captains. I imagine that would have gained said trust.’

The Bluecoat turned pale.

‘H-how did you know that?’ he stammered.

Wilheim stepped forward once more. ‘Time, as I said. Time to look into my circumstances – with the assistance of others loyal to me of course. For instance, I know that you are married to the rather fetching Darleen and live in something I would consider no bigger than a shoebox. You are proud of your eldest son, since he shows interest in following your misguided footsteps. You are forthright, admired by plenty, with a badge for your steadfast, incorruptible nature.’

Wilheim stood a scant foot from the bars, his eyes glancing behind to the uniformed colleagues who busied themselves.

‘You guard me because the sheriff knows that if I offered you a bribe to secure my freedom, your unshakable character would ensure that you would decline it.’

The Bluecoat swallowed as Wilheim delivered the end of his piece.