Newt Run

  Blanket; Northside; trouble

  The snow that fell in the afternoon's swallowed the ring, coverin it over with a nice, clean blanket. Lookin at the same space now, it's almost enough ta think the ring never existed, but that's only wishful thinkin. It's still there, under the snow. Somethin like that never really goes away.

  J hauls back in his throat and spits.

  "Did it get colder?" he asks.

  "Yeah," I say. "It's night. The sun went down."

  "Feels like the ass-end a'the moon out here."

  It is cold, not that it makes a difference in Northside. The streets are hummin, with small crowds gathered at every coffee and whiskey stand, and the miners are out in force, spillin out a'the bars, laughin, or else caught up in shouted arguments, one sound bleedin inta the other. The boys go hard at night, desperate ta slough off the time they spent in the pits, crammin a day's worth a'livin inta the space of a few narrow hours.

  As we walk, loose fingers a'steam drift across the road, leakin from a series a'pipes tacked ta the side of a tenement. Man-shaped shadows move about in the mist, and smaller, fleeter, child shaped ones, dartin here and there, or burstin forth inta the clear air, laughin. The door of a nearby bar swings open, and a blast a'tinny music escapes inta the street. Two mine heads stumble out, one a'them with his fly undone, as if he's gettin ready ta piss in the middle a'the road. His buddy, a rat faced little nothin in a leather cap, pulls him aside, and half cajolin, half pushin, manages ta lead him inta the shaded decency of a nearby alley.

  Once we turn onta Norfolk, the street widens and the sound a'the night grows softer, the tenements and coffee stands and mine-head bars givin way ta empty, darkened restaurants, and proper houses with small, snow-covered lawns. A little further on is the Eft and Dragon, the last bar in Northside, or the first, dependin on which direction you're comin from. It's a squat buildin with paneled windows and an old-fashioned, shingled roof. The only difference between it and its neighbours are the black scorch marks along the base a'its walls – the evidence a'some long forgotten fire – and a single neon sign that sits in one a'the windows, a blue lizard roundin on the tail of a pink dragon, the pair a'them formin a rough circle. J throws open the wooden door, and the warm air closes in around us, dense and homelike.

  The big, oak counter at the center a'the room is crowded with young heads and a few scattered college kids. Tam is standin at the counter, and I can see Auld sittin by himself at a table in the back. He looks up like he was expectin me, but I signal him to wait, followin J ta the bar.

  Tam glances at me sidelong, and smirks, his hands wrapped round an empty pint, the last flecks a'white foam clingin ta the side a'the glass.

  "Hey," he calls ta the bartender. "Another, and two more for these wasted young whores."

  "Tam," I say.

  "C," he says, very casual. "J."

  I take the bag a'powder from my jacket and hand it ta him under the counter.

  "I'll weigh it later," he says, and looks over at J, who's grinnin. "What're you smilin at, you dumb fuck?" J shrugs.

  "Just happy ta be alive," he says. Tam laughs once, passin a hand through his hair, and then he laughs again, more natural this time. The bartender sets our pints on the counter. I offer ta pay for the round, but Tam shakes his head.

  "It's mine," he says, and hands the man the cash.

  "Very generous," says J.

  "'In giving, the greatest good,'" Tam intones, and we set inta our beers, finishin them fast and easy, and without much more in the way a'ceremony.

  After my pint I leave them ta it, those boys always on about the same old shit, past lays and the collected reminiscences a'long, brutal weekends full a'drink and weed. That kind a'nostalgia was never good for me, not unless I'm drunk, and I'm not even a fifth a'that yet. Instead, I pick my way across the bar, the air thick with the smoke a'filtereds and the acrid stench a'hand-rolleds. An argument breaks out at a table full a'drunk heads, one a'them stickin a pudgy, mine-blackened finger in his friend's face. Behind them, unnoticed, two girls are makin out, but lazily, as if they'd rather be doin anythin else, and not much further on is Auld, sittin on his own at a table in the back. He has a way a'keepin himself ta himself. Never ceases ta amaze me how he can claim a whole table in a place as crowded as this.

  He kicks a chair out for me. I sit down and lean back, raisin the chair's front legs from the floor.

  "Everything smooth with Tam?" he asks me.

  "As always."

  "You guys have this all figured, huh?"

  "Seem to."

  "Well, don't lose your focus."

  "Meanin?"

  "Meaning keep your eyes open."

  "Auld," I say, sittin forward and bringin the chair down with me. "One day you're gonna run out a'useless comments."

  "Could be."

  "Just hope I'm around ta see it."

  "Keep your eyes open and you will be."

  He smiles, very mild, and without thinkin I glance again at the line on his face, a purple slash runnin from his brow through his left eye and down the front a'his cheek, the line he'll never explain and the one I've quit askin about. He stares back, but it's impossible ta tell what he's thinkin. Could be it's all a joke ta him, me and J, our dealin powder, life in general. With him there's no tellin.

  "But you'll be fine," he announces. "For a while."

  I snort.

  "You ever want ta elucidate on that you just let me know."

  "Most people have a hard enough time when they don't know what's coming. Think of how much harder it would be if they did know."

  "Just the same."

  "How's that?"

  "It'd be the same," I say again. "Everyone knows what the day brings, at least up here they do: work, food, sleep and more a'the same tomorrow."

  Auld shakes his head.

  "Go forward a year, or ten years or a lifetime, and then what? Not knowing how it turns out is what keeps people living."

  I snort, not sure I buy it. Seems ta me it'd be nice havin some indication a'where I'm headed. Could make the struggle ta get there a little easier.

  "Trust me," continues Auld. "If you knew what was going to happen it'd be like you'd already lived it. Surprises C, that's the key."

  "I thought the key was moderation."

  "That's good too."

  "Anyway, how is it you get out of bed, knowin what you know?"

  "Because I have something to do," he responds, his voice flat, and he looks away, wavin his hand at someone behind me. I turn around.

  Three girls are drawin up ta the bar. One a'them, the tallest, and natural, dirty blonde where her friends are all platinum-dyed and vulgar, waves back. She turns ta the girl nearest her, says somethin, and starts in our direction. She approaches the table, clear-eyed and neat in a short, leather coat and black leggins under a denim skirt; she's not quite pretty enough ta be beautiful, but she does make an impression, and I can't help smilin as she sits down next ta Auld.

  "Last place I thought I'd find you," she says ta him, very straight, in the crisp, functional accent a'the capital.

  "Really?" asks Auld. The girl shakes her head, once, in an odd, short movement, almost defensively, and then she turns ta me and sticks out her hand. The tips a'her fingers are all done orange, bleached ta the middle knuckles.

  "Hazel," she says. I take her hand and shake it.

  "Call me C."

  She glances at Auld.

  "They tend to keep things simple here," he says. "Short, they feel, being better than long."

  "In some things," I add, but the girl doesn't seem ta catch the word play, which is just as well, it bein a rather obvious and feeble attempt in any case.

  "What brings you ta town?" I try instead, but rather than answerin, she fishes inta the pocket a'her coat for a pack a'filtereds. She offers me one and I take it from her, polite fucker as I am, although I can't stand the things. Might as well be breathin steam for all the taste in them.

  She
takes some matches from her jeans, and lights my cigarette before movin on ta her own. Auld pays no mind ta any a'this, seemin content just ta stare off at some point in the distance.

  "The trouble," she says finally, exhalin a cloud a'smoke and leanin back in her seat.

  "What's that?"

  "The trouble in the capital. It's why I'm here."

  "A lot a'people have been filterin in lately, for the same reason. You got family out here?"

  She nods.

  "My uncle."

  "Been in town before?"

  "No," she says. "First time."

  "Well there's a first time for everything," says Auld, and laughs. I choose ta ignore him.

  "This what you were expectin?" I ask. The girl shrugs.

  "It's not much different from back home. There's the miners, sure, but in the end it's the same thing, people drinking, talking. It's the same all over the world. You ever been to the capital?"

  "Once, but I was too young. The only thing I remember are the crowds."

  "Those are still there."

  "Good ta know."

  "But it's no place you'd want to be now."

  "What exactly is it that's goin on there?"

  "No one really knows," she says. She looks at Auld, as if she'd like ta ask him the same question. He shrugs.

  "How should I know?" he says, smilin, and it's hard ta tell whether that smile's meant ta reveal his knowledge or conceal his ignorance. Hazel looks away and stubs out the end a'her filtered.

  "It started last year," she says. "Around springtime, but then some people say it started earlier, even back as far as five years ago with the block killings. You remember those?"

  "Yeah," I say. Auld's starin down at the table, movin the end a'his index finger over the surface, drawin somethin there, or writin.

  "That upset people. I mean it was messed-up right? Murders in broad daylight, and some people just about butchered. And then it got worse. Or anyway... more confusing. Because at least the block killings had been about something, you know?"

  "Territory."

  "Well, that's how they wrote about them in the papers. But then last year all of a sudden you've got people in the streets, marching, carrying on about reform and social responsibility and at the same time other people saying everything's coming undone, claiming the protesters were just stirring up trouble, or making revolution or something. But revolution about what? Against who? Nobody knew. There were a lot of theories. It was in the news every day, and it was enough to drive me crazy, how much ink they wasted writing about it."

  "Read some a'that myself," I say. She makes a face like she wants ta roll her eyes, but then stops herself, maybe too polite. It's possible she thinks I can't read.

  "It was ridiculous," she says. "Experts contradicting other experts, and none of them really knew anything. It was the same with the prices rising. There were all kinds of statistics to explain it, but in the end they didn't amount to anything. They were just numbers. In reality no one had a clue. And then there's the rings."

  "Rings?" I interrupt. "Hadn't heard that. Thought they were our problem."

  "You've had rings in New Run?"

  "The last few months."

  "I didn't know," she says.

  "Why would you? News from town can't be very interestin."

  "But that's why I came here," she says. "I woke up one morning and there was a ring outside my door, and suddenly it just seemed like a good idea to get out, you know?"

  Auld looks up at me. He passes a hand over the table top, erasin all the invisible lines he'd drawn there.