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“I’m not afraid of a nasty, dark criminal.”
Hearing similar words many times hadn’t left enough callouses for them not to hurt. But Alastair was still used to the bile, so he pressed on. “Well, because you’re not very clever. You’ve just contradicted yourself, too… aren’t you worried about Muriel’s reputation? Doesn’t that scare you?”
“Get out.”
“Only after you listen. Don’t worry. I won’t take long; I despise it in here.”
“It’s already been too long,” said Sykes, taking a step closer. “And I don’t listen to the likes of you.”
It had been clear during their meetings that Sykes did not think much of those who actually dirtied their hands with the direct illegalities he avoided. He felt he was above everyone, but clearly didn’t mind reaping the money from others’ risks. Whoever had first used Sykes as a fence, Alastair thought, didn’t think it through. Anyone with foresight would’ve seen he was too petty, too overindulgent with his intoxicants, and too disdained by locals to be a good intermediary.
“Here it is: if I hear of you harming or harassing anybody,” said Alastair clearly, without malice but with careful emphasis, “there’ll be hell to pay.”
“The fuck are you on about?”
“Just what I say. Stop being yourself. Be decent.”
The curtness provoked Sykes in a way Alastair didn’t expect, and he wouldn’t have called the man pleasant by any definition.
A snarl parted from Sykes’s mouth as he brandished the knife.
Alastair quickly shifted slightly to the side, prepared to disarm him in the next moment. Sykes mirrored the movement. But his left boot caught on the edge of a thick rug, and when he tripped, there were no dull thuds of knees or hands on the wood floor. No cursing, no labored breathing.
Instead, the cups juddered as Sykes’s forehead caught the table’s edge. The impact knocked his head as the rest of him slumped down. He was already limp when he came to rest, and the knife clattered from his open hand while his hat went askew.
After several moments of abject stillness, Alastair knew he wouldn’t rise again.
“Fuck’s sake,” he mumbled, stunned, careful not to alter where the body now rested. He edged away from the blood that began to seep from Sykes’s forehead, leaving an even darker stain in the lightless room. Since he had no intention of attracting attention while he left, he imagined most everyone would just accept this as Sykes’s logical, fitting end.
He knew a decent man would probably care more, but Alastair hadn’t considered himself decent for a long time. Still — given all recent events — even if he couldn’t be decent, he might be persuaded to believe in God again.
After a moment of thought, he cautiously took the knife from Sykes’ limp grasp. He could either take it with him, or try to put it away in a place that made sense. Rather than take any chances, no matter how slim, he pocketed it with a grimace. It felt odd to have something of Sykes’ on him, as though the man’s cruelty and peevishness might seep into his own temperament.
Three hours past midnight as candles burned low on the bedside table, Alastair murmured, “Sykes is dead.”
“Ah, is he?” Paul tried not to be amused after he realized the words were in earnest. He wanted to understand what the hell had happened, and why, and how Alastair was feeling about it. And decency dictated that amusement wasn’t the right response to anybody’s death, even if the person wasn’t well-liked and the circumstances of its divulgence were a little comical.
But Alastair had only announced the news after they’d shed their clothes, found their way to bed, and made far too much noise within it. Even this late into the night, Paul waited for Jack to pound on their shared wall behind the headboard. While he was fortunate in his lodgers’ ambivalence about his private life, he’d understand if they took issue with their sleep being disturbed. He’d had men home before and nobody passed remarks on it, so it was also possible that no one knew.
He’d be incredibly lucky if they were unaware now. With a burning, permission-seeking look that Paul had answered with a nod while they were both entwined, Alastair had covered his mouth with a careful palm to muffle his sounds. But both the look and warm pressure had just induced Paul to moan more readily.
He was still hoarse right this moment.
“Very,” said Alastair. “Damn dead.”
“Is that where you were earlier tonight? With Sykes?” He’d slipped outside at the same time a little crush of patrons had arrived. Too occupied to think about it, Paul assumed he was going to gather his meager possessions, and he did return with a small leather bag.
“I was,” said Alastair. “I didn’t do it, if you were wondering.”
“No… not particularly.” Only a bit. But if anything, the idea of Alastair killing a man like Sykes titillated him a little.
“Would it bother you if I had?”
Studying his face and his brown eyes soft as velvet in the weak light, Paul shook his head. “No. It’d be a welcome murder, actually.”
Seeming pleased with the response, Alastair kissed his forehead. “I’m not a clandestine assassin or an indiscriminate killer, just so you know.”
There had to be many things he was, clandestinely, but assassin didn’t feel like one. Paul said, “No, you’re too sweet.”
