Centuries old screams drift on the wind like dust,

Drowned out by prayers that are older still.

The smoke of dissolution has blown away,

But scars in the rubble are plain to see.

And yet

Here, now

New prayers harmonise with old

Fresh salve for festered wounds

A chorus of ages

Yet we dare not join the choir

For these words are not in our hearts.

But the sound...

The sight...

It is enough to bear witness

To a familiar faith

Blooming without us

Haunt me with memories

While you linger in my space

And let me plague you just the same

As you remember my embrace.

For you are here even when you aren't

And your presence is etched into my life

Indelible, regardless of time.

This is no malicious haunt

These feelings bear no poltergeist

But I am taunted all the same

By a joy I know too well.

And by a joy I know I must wait to feel again.

As our lives merge

This longing will grow

But every separation will hurt less

As the certainty of meeting again solidifies

So we can bid a tearless farewell

Just as we did today.

The drops falling alone will dry

Sure enough

When the time comes

To wake from this dream

We mustn't remain sleepless

Until we can rest again

Hand in hand.

For you will feel my hand

As I feel yours

Entwined, at the back, the arm, or on a shared glass

Even all these miles away.

So we needn't stay awake so long.

To a path I used to take

Many years ago

The journey we must make

Is staggeringly slow

A torturous heat

As we were packed like fish

Consumption complete

The beast ate its dish

The suffering was not bitter:

But the salt of skin stained the air

Endure it if you're no quitter

And pass me water with care

We crawled from it's mouth

Pushed open it's teeth

Felt the sky, and headed south

The ground steady beneath

What a reward we were granted

Earned with blood and flesh

All to say we landed

In a land with winds so fresh

To a path you have taken

With me long ago

That bench so forsaken

Still supports us as if to show

Show that it was waiting

Six years on dying breath

My joy is devistating

Though this could mean its death

Live, live on with us

The memory, the delight

For you, we survived a bus!

And took photos into the night

There were two boys who fell in love with the Moon.

It began with star gazing, when they were young and couldn’t really think of much else to do. They each had duties in the day, but found time to go together at night and watch the sky. After making several half-hearted attempts at learning the constellations, they seemingly simultaneously decided that since the Moon was much prettier, and far more consistent, they would just focus all their attention on her.

She didn't have to be a "her" but the boys had picked up the habit of calling all objects "her" from their fathers, who worked with boats.

Most nights as they talked under the Moon, they would throw the odd compliment her way.

"You're as bright as ever!" one would call.

"You're more beautiful than anyone!" the other would add.

As the days and months and eventually years grew on, this habit of complimenting the Moon grew, and was almost competitive. They each confessed their undying love for her daily, and they would say that they only had eyes for her.

Two friends falling for the same person is often a cause for fights, but as neither of them really believed they had a shot, they didn't bicker about it much.

When the boys had become men, one of them had to move away. And so they no longer sat together under the Moon.

I thought that was the last time I would ever see my friend, but I tried not to be disheartened since I could still see the Moon.

I knew that wherever he went, he would also look at her each night, and we would share in that delight even a hundred miles apart.

It was the first night I looked at her alone that she spoke to me.

Her voice was clear and regal, but also kind. For one that had never talked before, she was well spoken.

"Peter says I am as beautiful as the petal of a daisy, floating alone atop a pond. What say you?" She asked me. After a moment of panic - because, really, the Moon was talking to me, for Christ's sake! - I stammered out my response.

"I- I say that you are as beautiful as the first sip of water after a day toiling under the sun!"

"Shall I tell him you say so?" she asked softly. "Or is it enough that I know?" she added, and my heart skipped a beat.

"I... I am glad that you know, but please tell him I say so!" I clearly deliberated over that response. Would she feel slighted that I needed him to know my feelings? Did she wish for it to be our secret? But if she told me what Peter said, he must have asked her to tell me.

She fell silent after that until it was nearly time for the day to break her hold of the sky.

"Peter says that I am more beautiful than any painting of my visage, and that my glow guides him when he fears he has lost his way. What say you?"

"I say that your existence gives me a feeling of home! When my eyes fall on you it takes away all hardships of the day, and I feel a warm calmness that I can't find elsewhere!"

She hummed pleasantly. I couldn't tell if she enjoyed the compliments, or if she felt their sincerity at all, but I would like to believe she enjoyed the talking.

And so a new routine formed between the three of us.

Wherever it was that Peter had gone, we would still gaze at the Moon each night, and compliment her. Now that she could speak, she made it possible for Peter and I to talk again, though not directly, but that was enough.

After a few weeks of this I asked her "how is he?" and I was ready for the usual long wait as she asked him, but this time she answered right away.

"He is well, but there is a coldness," she said. This was the first time she hadn't relayed a direct quote from him. Perhaps this just was her opinion.

"A coldness?" I queried. "Is he not warmed purely by your sight?"

"He enjoys my sight, and is delighted by it, but he must wish to see something more." She didn't sound sad, but I felt the need to console her.

"I certainly do not wish to see anything more!" I assured her. "Your sight gives me the gift of not only seeing you, but seeing each memory I have with you, and each memory with Peter, and each memory of my love for you!"

A long silence fell, which meant she was talking to him now. While I waited, I plucked grass and fed it to a wandering colt, then chewed on a loaf of bread and took wine.

I often would set up a picnic in a field two miles from my estate for these nights, so I could sup with my beloved.

I wondered if Peter was eating enough.

"He says that he is grateful for the memories that my presence gives him, but that memories alone are not always enough in this world."

"And what did you tell him?" I asked, something I had never thought to ask before. I wanted to know if she only quoted my words, or if she shared her views with him as well.

"That is a secret," she said playfully. I laughed.

"Then I shall have to find a secret for you to keep only with me! I will surely find one, and then you must promise not to tell Peter."

"Must I? Very well."

I never could find a secret, though. At least, not for three more years.

Over time, certain obligations would often get in the way of our nights together. Of course, I made time when I could, but it seemed the difficulty was not only on my end. Peter also grew busier. Now, when the Moon relayed our words, it wasn't simply words of praise but also full accounts of how our previous weeks had gone. The shift was gradual enough that I didn't notice at first, but the Moon had become much more of a messenger than a simple object of affection.

I wondered if she was upset by this, or perhaps felt like the third wheel, but I didn’t know how to ask, and what I said instead may have made her feel worse.

“I have found a secret,” I announced, half drunk on the melancholy I got earlier that day after finding a collection of old sketches Peter and I had drawn of the Moon. “You must promise not to tell him,” I cautioned.

“Indeed.”

“I wish that I could see him,” I confessed. “While seeing you is more than anyone could ask, I can’t shake the feeling that I would prefer to look at you with him by my side.” She was silent after that. “Please don’t misunderstand! Your beauty and kindness are more than I can ever hope to express the way I want, even after all these years of telling you. And even now, as you keep me connected to Peter, for which I am infinitely grateful, I feel greedy for wanting more. So, please don’t tell him about this greed of mine. And, though it is too much to ask, please do not think less of me for this, either.”

“I see,” was all she said. Once again, she was silent.

I worried she was telling him what I said, so I began pleading for her not to. I rambled long into the night and slightly into the day, but she didn’t speak again. I was repetitive and probably pathetic at points, failing to justify my own greed while chastising it in equal measure.

The next night there was no Moon in the sky.

The night after, she was still gone. Thick clouds obscured the heavens as they had never done before, and wouldn’t budge. Even if she was there, I couldn’t see her, and she didn’t speak no matter what pretty or pitiful words I threw into the air.

The guilt I felt was crushing, but nowhere near as much as the loneliness. For the first time, I was left without Peter or the Moon.

It had been nearly two months since she left when I had something of an epiphany.

I’d continued to walk into the fields each night, though now only to sit alone in dark silence. I was always wishing to reunite with the two of them, but then, as though bargaining with some unidentified other force, I would ask for just one.

If both was impossible, maybe at least I could see Peter again? Though that was less likely than seeing the Moon, it was undeniably my preference. It dawned on me that I didn’t miss seeing and speaking with the Moon so much as I missed how she allowed me to talk to him, and kept embers of hope for a reunion stoked in the furnace of my heart.

Once I realised this, I had to wonder if it had always been that way. It’s true that as children, the Moon was simply an excuse to spend time with him, but I did gain genuine appreciation for her. Still, though, even when professing my feelings for her, some parts of me simply wanted Peter to be impressed with my word use, or try to one-up me.

It all made sense, but in the emptiest and most useless way. I had no idea where he was, and I couldn’t talk to him without the Moon, who seemed to be done with me.

I clenched my fists and stared purposefully upward into the night. She likely wouldn’t respond, but she could surely hear me, so I called to her for what I decided would be the last time, and gave her a final message to relay.

“Even if I cannot see you, please hear this!” I began. “Tell Peter that it was him all along, not you, that I loved!” I stated as clearly as I could, but my voice trembled over the word in a way it never did when I used it for her.

Just as I unclenched my hands and decided to walk home, a sliver of light illuminated the field. I looked up as the previously steadfast clouds finally rolled away, revealing the Moon in all her luminous glory.

“So he says,” the Moon sighed. “What say you?” I couldn’t shake the confusion until my eyes fell on a figure standing several feet away.

“I say that those words alone made the entire journey worth it,” Peter announced, his eyes firmly on me. I almost collapsed from shock. His face was older, his body broader, but his voice was the same as the last time I heard it. There was no mistake.

“How…?” was all I managed to ask as he walked closer to me. He simply pointed upwards, and once my eyes followed his finger to the Moon he embraced me.

“You must have been lonely. Try not to be too jealous, but I needed her to light my way here, so she had no time to shine for another, not even you,” he explained, his nose rubbing along my neck and his hot breath tickling my skin. “But now things are as they should be. All of us here together: you, me and the Moon.” His hands rubbed up and down my back soothingly before he pulled back. “Really, I didn’t plan to do this, but after you said all of that, you didn’t leave me much choice.” Our eyes met, but I could hardly see him through the fountain of tears cascading over my face.

“Is this… a dream?”

“Not a dream, but a wish” the Moon answered me. “Forgive me for telling your secret, but I have been taking great pains to make this moment happen for years.”

I realised then that she must have always known what I’d only just discovered. And how much did Peter know?

“Peter,” I began, encasing one of his hands with mine.

“John,” he replied.

“How long?”

“Since the very first.”

Well, damn. If I’m the last to know then it seems I have a lot to catch up on to make up for. In the spirit of wasting no more time, I held his face, tilted it into the Moonlight, and kissed him for all I was worth.

At first, the Moon watched on proudly in the sky, but once things started getting more intimate she politely dipped away below the horizon to give us some privacy. Finally, it was just me and him.

"What're you afraid of?"

"Only you."

"Me? I thought I'd done a good job of baring my heart to you."

"You did. If only your heart wasn't so rotten."

They sipped in silence for a while then. Bone china holding tea and crystal holding vodka rested, equally empty, on the shared table. The rim of one was pristine, as though it had never been touched, while the other was tinged rouge by the aftermath of bitten lips. However, different as they may be, they were just as warm when they sat beside each other on that table.

Much like their owners.

"My rotten heart is nothing new, so I hardly see how that's relevant. Will you do it?"

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't, won't, and don't want to."

"So you're unable, unwilling, and uninterested?"

"In so many words."

Drinks were replenished, and sipping resumed, though it was laced with hostility. If only the drinks had been laced as well: this conversation might have been going better.

"How can I convince you?"

"... I thought you enjoyed puzzling such trivialities for yourself. Why seek assistance now?" The vodka was gulped then, rather than sipped, and overtook the tea. "I'm unworthy of helping your great and wise self with these matters."

"Bullshit." The tea, still scalding, met its counterpart on the table, fuller than the other but no better.

"How vulgar."

"Let the rotten hearted wretch be vulgar for one fucking conversation, would you?"

"I would. Go on, then." Vodka-burning lips lifted to an accommodating (or perhaps condescending) smile.

The tea-tasting mouth opposite could only repress a sneer, and curl into something far more charming than the person they belonged to. "We both stand to gain from this. You need an alliance as much as I do. Maybe more."

"I wonder where you get your information, to think that way? You're misinformed: I benefit more from severance than alliance."

"My information is from me puzzling out the trivialities, as you so eloquently put it. I can see through your bluff as easily as that damn blouse - would you put a jacket on already?"

"Vulgar, and a pervert." There was a begrudged sigh, and the rustling of clothes, and then the coat of one was thrown over the other. "I'm not wearing it: vodka makes me sweat. Puzzle that one for me: you don't want to see me undress but you provide all the reasons for me to do so."

"Drink tea then, you despot."

"If I wanted to consume leaves I would have a salad. When are you going to learn to drink like an adult? What, still can't hold your liquor?"

The vodka was snatched from the table. "I can hold it just fine. See?"

The humour was held with the eyes that met each other then, though the brows of both were playing hard to get and lowered to glowers.

"It would be easier to agree if I had some reassurance."

"Reassurance about what?"

"About you not taking advantage."

"Of you?"

"Of the situation." The vodka-drinker took the time to laugh, and dabbed away wet eyes with the coat in their lap. "As if you have the balls to take advantage of me. You're a rotten bastard, but you are a funny one: I'll give you that!"

Anger simmered, but did not boil over. It cooled, and when it was just pleasantly warm it was swallowed down along with the tea. "I've explained everything to you. My plan works for us both. All details about how well this would work should be understood, but I see you hate me too much to know me."

"Don't be ridiculous. I know you too much to hate you. Of course I'll agree: I was only teasing. If you also knew me you would know that much."

"Oh, darling, I love you too much to know you."

With a hand full of moss, I dove into the murky water. What is seen will not be unseen, what is known cannot be unknown. Betrayal looks like a patch of moss, and growing up looks like death.

The shapes of everyone I loved, the colours of everyone I hated, the taste of a faith that felt like longing... all tapestried across the green ceiling of scum and spawn above me as I sank.

Down.

Down.

She is down there.

The mangrove web played cats cradle and laughed in the way roots do. How could I know the ways of roots? I didn't... I do now. There is so much below them. Of course they would laugh.

Silt rain to blanket me. Fine enough to fit in every wrinkle I couldn't prevent. There is nowhere to hide from time.

I welcome the silicate softness, to bleed in my blood... preserve me. Please, preserve me. But not like this. Not how I am. Preserve me how she saw me.

She was below me. She had been for so long. Sleeping in peat and dreaming of coal. Oh, if time weren't so cruel.

Anoxic abyss, let not the pressure of the world change us. I wished her preserved, but she had loftier goals. A future of anthracite.

I promised I would never touch her. I would never interfere. I would die before I broke that promise... and so I did.

Could they find us, one day, entwined like this, and tell false stories of our love?

The bog bodies who met their deaths in an embrace.

One that neither of us felt in life.

He had more money than God and more secrets than the devil. He was a tough nut to crack even if you brought down the hammer. Stickier than toffee and slicker than silk. A guy like that was made to make trouble for a guy like me, and damned if I didn't like it.

The chain cord of my desk lamp was teasing me like a feather does a cat: I just had to tug it. The office was dark, damp, and starting to smell. Just like everything in this city. If I could afford a better place, I still wouldn't, though. What can I say: I'm a sucker for black mould.

The dark helped me think. Not that I'm not a fan of that beautiful buzz of fluorescent lights, but if I had to see one more word on my pages about that man then it would just blind me. Something about not seeing the wood for the trees, you know how it goes. Nah, I had to know him better than that. Better than a file, better than my supervisors, and better than his fucking wife. I'd eat, breathe, and sleep with this man, if I could just pin him.

Opportunities come like taxis, so long as you alight them properly. I was actually waiting for a taxi when I got my first real lead on him.

Rain was coming down in sheets, and the little umbrella I stole from a coworker weeks ago finally breathed its last under the weight of it. I tossed the crumpled mess of aluminium and nylon into the gutter, and turned up my drenched collar as if that would make any difference. I could've just gone back to the office: it's not like I haven't slept there before. But something stubborn in me kept holding out my hand to the street, waiting and waiting until I would've gotten in any car that so much as slowed down near me. The yellow streetlights always flickered when there was a downpour like this, and it made my shadow jump out and retreat back against the pavement. Something I'd never do. Once I have my sights on something, I cross the word "retreat" out of my dictionary.

And then the car came. Cadillac, I thought. Not the taxi I was after, but sure as hell the ride I was looking for.

"Detective Cohen, the weather's quite poor today. I must insist on giving you a lift."

"How considerate: I'm of the mind that you should let street dogs drown, but I'm not complaining."

"Even dogs wouldn't be out in this. Get in."

"Woof-woof."

I climbed in the car, all urgency and no grace, and shamelessly let myself soak the seats as I shook the water out of my hair, playing the part of the pup. "Business must be slow these days, is the minister still giving you a hard time?" I asked. He turned from the passenger seat to look back at me with a raised eyebrow. "Just figured things must be tight if you're having to pick up shifts as a cabbie."

"Well, my meter runs faster than your mouth: I'll make the money back with one job. Where to?"

"Your place?"

"I don't have pets on the estate, I'm afraid. Stop barking and I'll consider it."

I shrugged into a laugh. "Meow?"

He turned away from me and gave his driver a simple wave of the hand, telling him to go. The rearview mirror didn't show his lips, but I saw a smile in those eyes.

I'd been at his heels for months, a dog indeed, though we'd never spoken much before this. The waters were tested: hell, I'd just been soaked in them. Now I just had to figure out how to push further.

I kept my face neutral, but the fact that he actually took me back to his place was enough to get my hackles rising. I staked this place out enough, to no effect. And bribed enough of his guards, to the effect of my empty wallet. But I never set foot in it. I already knew pretty well how many people that went in there were found with cement shoes later on. Never anything actually connecting the incidents, of course, but just enough to catch my interest. Enough to be feeling a cold sweat mix with the rain down my back when I got out of the car. At least my face is already so wet that he won't notice if I start to cry, I thought pleasantly.

"You're dripping everywhere," he complained, handing his overcoat to a subordinate who waited, bent at the waist, for the order to come. "Bring detective Cohen a towel."

"You're gonna wrap me in a towel?"

"What else would I wrap you in?" His eyes were daring.

"A rug." My eyes were about the only daring part of me left, so I had to match him with them.

He laughed then. God, what a laugh. "You read too many horror stories. Why waste the rug?"

"I'm not worth a rug?"

"You were hardly worth the drive."

My turn to laugh. Just being polite. I had a gun in my belt and a knife in my boot, but he had everyone in the damned building. I didn't have enough security to play nice, so I thought about playing nasty. "My feet are too big for cement shoes: they'd never fit. But the ones we found on Eric Longwood were so nice I was almost jealous. Wasn't he your business partner? Heard your sister was gonna marry the bastard next spring. What, not worth the dowry?"

"Eric was a good man," he said flatly. I started to notice how all the people milling around the place had vanished, leaving us alone. If it was one-on-one, I fancied my chances, but I'd still have to get out of the place afterwards. "I thought detectives were supposed to investigate these things, but this is the first I'm hearing about it. From the official channels, at least." He waved a hand towards me. "It's not even been in the news yet. How nice of you to tell me personally."

"You're admitting you already knew," I pointed out.

"It wouldn't have been a good threat if I didn't know about it."

I blinked at him, outwardly dumbfounded but inwardly letting my gears turn. "Richardson?" was all I asked.

"If I knew you could think that far ahead on your own, I wouldn't have invited you over." He sighed, and waved a hand again, this time summoning back the lackey with a towel for me. "Let's talk over tea: I wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

We talked through most of the night, and I got the jist of it. If I hadn't already spent all my waking moments and most of my sleeping ones trying to decipher this man then I would’ve been led in circles just listening to him, but as it was I was decent enough at mind games myself. He was very good at keeping secrets, so he wasn't going to start happily revealing them all to me even though he was asking for a favour. What's more, for every secret I learned, I found ten more under it.

His was an empire built on blood, and it kept raking in the money. Sure enough, I wasn't the only lowlife in the city trying to take him down, but I was the one he turned to for help that day. For all he could offer me, I'd have done it for free. But I wasn't about to tell him that.

"I'm just a dog, right? Throw me a bone and I'll chew on it."

"No need to chew Richardson," he cautioned.

"Not in my business to let other guys take my quarry. If you're putting me on him then he's mine."

I watched him spin his glass. We'd gone from tea to wine to scotch in the time we talked, and cigar smoke mingled with the alcohol in the air.

"You must leave a string of jilted lovers behind you on every case."

"I don't mean to boast." I drained the last of my scotch. "But what's that got to do with this?"

"You've had your eyes on me for months, but just the hint of another man and you're leaving me behind."

"You couldn't pay me to leave you alone, even after Richardson. Don't get too lonely: some of the boys from the brass will keep watching you."

"But they aren't as easy on the eyes."

"Well, they're all married: they let themselves go. I see your wife isn't around tonight."

"Oh, was I married?"

"Last I heard."

"Louise is in France."

I could've asked why, but I already knew. As if there was anything I didn't know about him. Still, if he wouldn't show his hand then I was gonna keep mine just as close to the vest. "So the cat's away? Is that why we're getting to play tonight?"

"I thought you were the cat." He gave me a meaningful glance. "We can play whenever you want, detective. What's my wife got to do with it?"

"Wow, my jilted lovers must have nothing on yours."

"We can compare numbers if you'd like."

"Don't tease me too much, mister Gillingham, or I'll get jealous."

"Why so formal? Call me Bruce."

"Fine. Bruce it is."

I crashed on his chaise lounge with some documents I was thumbing through as a blanket, and one eye open. I knew better than anyone that I was in the belly of the beast that night, and didn't intend to give him indigestion. I made sure to politely decline his offer to drive me to the office in the morning, and was careful about being followed.

Richardson was a more or less upstanding citizen, squeaky clean by all accounts. No one was looking into him before this, and no one would help me with it now. He wasn't like Gillingham, who stood out so much he glowed, and had crime and law alike looking at him. Nah, Richardson wasn't anything like that, which was why he could pull off even worse shit than we were accusing Gillingham of. The only reason I guessed it was him who was threatening my man was because they were competitors for oil rights a while back, and Richardson was the only one rich enough to look at Gillingham without bowing his head.

The more I dug into Richardson, the more I learned about Gillingham, and that was all the motivation I needed. It was just a matter of de-clawing the tiger before slaying the dragon, or so I thought.

No one on my side knew what I was looking into, so I'd discuss findings and theories with Bruce. Yeah, always “Bruce” when we met after that night. I don't remember when I stopped being “detective” and started being “Paul” but he sure was smooth about the transition. Getting all this face time with the guy I’d been obsessing over was just kindling to the flames, and damn if I didn't blaze when it came to Bruce.

You learn a lot of unimportant details about someone when you’re keeping company like that. I even learned how he liked his toast in the morning. If he knew I was watching: plain. If he didn't: drizzled with honey.

The man was even keeping his breakfast preferences secret, how could I resist?

“I’ve got physical ties to Richardson for the first five bodies, but nothing for Longwood. Yet.”

“Five’s plenty. You could’ve taken it to the chief with one.” Bruce warmed his hands with the cup of coffee his staff gave him, and watched me pour myself one from the pot.

“Already told you that I don't like to share. If I don't get them all and make the call, there’s no way I’d get credit.”

“And here I thought you did this work out of the goodness of your heart. You’re shattering my opinion of you.”

“Heart’s well and good, but a man’s gotta pay the bills. It’s not like you’re footing me for the overtime on this. But don't let your opinion of me fall to pieces just yet: I already know how I’ll get him to slip up.”

“And how’s that?”

“Not telling.” I swiped a slice of dry toast from his plate and devoured half of it in two bites. Turning my back on him, I continued, “you oughta think about how you’ll reward me when I bring him down.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Get a bad attorney when I take you to court.”

“How could I put Mr Campbell out of work like that? He’s been with me longer than Louise. Think of something else.”

“Something else, huh?” I pretended to mull it over, but this was exactly what I was aiming for. “How about throwing me a bone of yours to chew on when this is over? Richardson’s all meat and no marrow. I’m after a sweeter meal.” I tossed the half-eaten slice of toast, now covered in honey, back onto his plate and strutted away.

He laughed as he called after me, “I thought you didn't share?” but I had no intention of replying.

I couldn't tell him my plan for finding a solid link to Longwood because it was fairly fucking reckless, even for me. I was too close to stop, and too keen to show off. The only odd thing about Longwood’s body was his missing engagement ring: the going theory in my department was that Bruce took the ring before sending Eric to sleep with the fishes because he didn't approve of the relationship with his sister. Since I knew that wasn't the case, I’d already chased up every pawn shop or possible buyer before concluding that Richardson kept it. But if I wanted to find it, I had to go searching through his stuff.

A few days later I was staking out one of Richardson’s boats by the dock, and that’s when it all went south. The waters were so turbulent that night, I should've known I was in for it. Afterall, I knew better than anyone how the people close enough to Bruce to enter the estate all got those cement shoes, and here I was as the guy who knew him best, just offering myself up to the chopping board. Richardson’s goons got me. I was trussed up and half-pummeled before I even knew what hit me, but they made one fatal mistake: forgetting to shut my mouth.

“Detective, I’m sure I don't know what this is about,” Richardson drawled. One thing I got to know about him during the investigation: the guy loved to drawl.

“Check tomorrow's paper and you’ll hear all about it,” I bluffed. “I sent over my findings a few hours ago. Backup’s on the way for me.”

“If that were true, why would you come alone in the first place?”

“I live close by.”

“Bruce’s estate is on the other side of the city: I’d hardly call that close.”

“Since when do we live together?”

“Oh? You spend enough time with him I was sure he would put you up. Better than the flat on the high street that you scrape by for rent each month.”

I grinned at him, not letting any panic show, but I couldn't bullshit him forever.

“Oh, Paul, you could’ve told me if you were struggling,” an overly familiar voice floated over, and the way it calmed me is something I’ll take to the grave. “Move in anytime: I’d be a very fair landlord.”

“I couldn't afford you,” I found myself saying, barely registering the bullets flying over my head.

The goons were down, the moonlight making the blood look black against the ground. Now there was just me, on my knees, and Bruce, on his feet. Ain't that typical.

“I don't need your money,” he was saying, speaking to me like he always did, as if there wasn't an ongoing struggle around us while his men detained Richardson.

“Want me to pay with my body, then?”

“You’ve practically paid for yourself tonight.”

“Finally worth a rug?”

“For you? The whole carpet.”

I hung my head and let a sigh escape into the wind. Bumping me off now would’ve been a smart move: I couldn't even be mad about it. I already found all the evidence he needed, and now I’d seen his people in a gunfight. But rather than a barrel and a bullet on my brow, I got his hand instead. Petting me like the dog I was.

“‘Hero detective bravely uncovers Richardson’s dirty dealings and takes down would-be captors’.”

“You come up with that yourself?” I asked, not raising my head yet because there wasn't any rain that night to hide my tears.

“I’ve got someone drafting the article as we speak. The boys used a service revolver, so the bullets should match yours close enough.” He crouched down then, and made me face him. “I said “practically” paid for yourself: I’m not done with you yet. Get that body of yours moving already, I think I deserve a tip for tonight's expenses.”

I knew him. God, how I knew him. But he could still surprise me. My turn to surprise him, then.

He was already so close, it only took me moving an inch and I’d finally capture him. Capture my real aim, for who knows how long: those lips.

It didn't suit him well to grieve, and he knew that much. Dry eyes and straight back were all he brought to the funeral, and all he left with. The hand that used to warm the crook of his elbow didn't accompany him.

Elaine was waiting. But he couldn't see her.

Work was preferable, anyway. She should have known that, like she should have known him, but she never seems to. How much did a man need to open up before someone actually understood? Understood that he was simply empty inside.

He was empty enough to fill himself with her, but she was already too full for him. The affection was mutual, but the value it had to each of them was incomparable.

When they met again, at last, after everything had cooled off, the sky was dimmer than the mood. They were only standing a foot or so apart, but there was a chasm between them. A rift that neither cared to cross.

"Happy?" He asked.

"I'm always happy."

"Sure, sure."

"Are you?"

"Yeah I'm fucking thrilled."

"You're a dick."

He rolled his eyes and made to leave. Those lips that used to trace loving caresses on his neck were now sneering at him, and it was more annoying than he was willing to be civil about. "You're the one who killed him: who's the dick here?" He tossed those words over his shoulder as he stalked away, not expecting a rebuttal. Not expecting the claws at his throat. Hadn't he paid for her last manicure? French tips.

"Say that again and you're next."

"As if I wasn't already going to be next. Piss off, Elaine: it's not like I can do anything now."

"Oh, don't be modest."

"I'm a man of immeasurable qualities, modesty is just one."

"You never used to be this annoying."

"Well you used to be prettier. We all change."

Those french tips were reddened by the blood they cut out of his cheek. Little bits of flesh piled beneath the acrylics.

He eyed her coldly as he pulled her hand away. "Satisfied?" he asked, dabbing away the blood with a handkerchief.

"No."

"Yeah, I never satisfied you, I get it. He didn't, either, and you killed him for it. Aren't you just a little too insatiable?"

"I thought that was how you liked them."

"It still is." Surprising them both, he captured her wrists and held her into a kiss that was as passionate as it was hateful. When he released her, he spat. "Nah, maybe it isn't." He finally managed to leave her then.

The following weeks were hellish. The lingering knowledge of how Elaine had killed his brother kept them bound, but all they wanted was to separate. Every past delight had soured.

The lips of both still felt the lingering bitterness of their last kiss, and nothing on earth could wash away the taste.

First, every lit window in the city pulsed like the strobe lights of the world's greatest rave. Second, they flickered like fireflies over the lake. Third, they ceased to be visible at all. The power surge left everyone in darkness, and those sensible enough to keep candles lit them.

The lights would come back on soon, they assured themselves. But some weren't convinced. Fewer still knew what was really going on.

The common man had to grumble through, complaining about this and that but basically making the best of things, while those burdened with knowledge feared for the worst. This was no accident, and those with power didn't care how many of these common men must suffer until they got results.

The city was all but being held ransom, as a dominance battle raged amongst the political leaders. The lights would not return until the mayor was made to bow, more metaphorically than physically but getting the nasty bastard to bend a knee would have been a satisfying bonus.

They were reaching a stalemate. Hostages only worked if someone gave a shit about them, and the mayor was no such sentimental man. He had a private generator, and no personal problems at all in the following days. Until his personnel became the problem.

It was as though Prometheus had taken the fire once more, and given it to the people. Or like Robin Hood taking from the mayor and dispersing his power. But no one knew who it was.

A meeting was called with the leaders of the country to reach appeasement with the Mayor, and they were courteous enough to not allow cameras during the meeting. The mayor had no intentions of bowing to these people, even after he had tasted hardship himself. Supported by his entourage of bodyguards, he felt no fear and would not fall to intimidation. He would never fall himself: but he could be tripped.

A man well past his prime was standing to the left of the mayor, and when it was finally time for his employer to speak he kicked out the back of the mayor's knees, making the man collapse to the floor. Confused indignation coloured the mayor's face until he saw who exactly had kicked him. His most trusted bodyguard. He had served as bodyguard for many others in the past, and was at least a generation older than any of his coworkers. One should be wary of the old man in a profession where men die young. It wasn't luck that kept the old timer ticking: it was his strength alone and will to survive. Part of survival is knowing where to place your allegiances, and when to disregard the paychecks and jump ship. Loyalty had no value to someone who prioritised self preservation. He hadn't died young because he would never die for these people in the first place.

The lights were back, but the only one guiding the elderly man out of the city was the dim cherry of his cigarette. Onto the next job.

"You won't die for those you serve."

"That's right."

"But they hire you to die for them."

"That's their problem."

"You should find another line of work."

"Why would I?"

"Corpses can't pay well."

"It's not about the money." The old man laughed to himself. "It's just nice seeing their faces."

"You're scary when you get like this."

"I'm always scary."

"Not always."

"Then what am I, always?"

"Alone."

The old man stopped talking to himself after that.

Jacob took the beast from his cave. He had explained his plan, as irritatingly eloquent as ever, but the beast would have gone with him even if he didn't. They had been apart for too long now for any upset feelings to remain: there was only a deep longing to never separate again.

They did not need to travel especially far, and the sea would take them most of the way. The beast was hiding in a barrel on Jacob’s little ship, and couldn't resist his usual urges. He scratched at the barrel and marveled at how soft wood was compared to stone! Delighted, he kept scratching, and it was not as painful as it used to be.

“Do you still need to do this when I am here with you?” Jacob asked after looking in the barrell. He had brought some food for the beast that was not a mollusk or crustacean or fish, and let the beast take it apart curiously and eat slowly.

“Just in case…” the beast said.

“I see. You told me the reason, and it is a very good one, so I understand. But do not hurt yourself any more for this.”

“Wood doesn't hurt as much.”

“... That's good then. But perhaps I can give you something softer.”

Jacob bore his own flesh to the beast, and let him scratch as much as he needed to before they arrived at their destination. The beast was curious about Jacob’s body, because it had the same number of limbs as his, and he did want to take it apart and get a good look, but this was an urge he could ignore. Where Jacob was concerned, his muddled mind had uncommon clarity, and a clear mind can suppress some innocent urges.

Traveling by sea, and then working their way up a freshwater stream, the pair found their way to the water supply for the very same kingdom the Gods were currently betting over.

There it was that Jacob stabbed John for the second time in their lives, but this time John did not return the gesture. Beastly blood gushed black and red into the water, and he was still bleeding when he finally closed his beastly eyes to rest.

The next day the Kingdom was overjoyed, for their sick had been healed, but they did not know who to thank. Some thanked doctors and some thanked Gods, but nobody would have thanked a beast. At least, not yet.

The Gods were similarly uproarious but for a rather different reason. Where on earth was their bookmaker? Today was the day to reveal it all! They swarmed the kingdom and searched for him, but there were no caves here, so why bother? Having lost all patience, several Gods screamed to ask the only thing they cared about anymore: “who is the winner?!”

“I am.” The voice was not loud, but it seemed to speak directly to the minds of all the Gods. This was the voice of their bookmaker. Only humans that were near enough to the person speaking could hear it as well, but one such lucky person was Michael.

Then, someone else spoke, loud and clear and in a way that made people listen. “Blood of a beast is the cure for this sickness. Having cured the kingdom, at much personal sacrifice, he has become their hero, wouldn't you agree? And he is not only the hero of this time, but the hero of last time. He was the only one able to save somebody from this sickness: I know this because he saved me. By stabbing me with a dagger covered in his own blood, he made sure I could never catch this sickness, and the blood in his own veins protected him though he had already caught it! So that is two people from the past, and all people in the present. I’m sure none of you bet on that, did you?”

The Gods were silent.

“But I did. You’ll find I bet on this exact outcome: just ask your bookmaker.”

The beast walked out, every step agony, but his back was straighter than ever. The beast looked up to the sky, to where the Gods lived. “I win,” he said again, quite satisfied. “Because Jacob wins.” And it wasn't just this bet he won. The bet about John and Jacob all that time ago did not have a time limit. Jacob placed his bet very properly, and followed all procedures. You should never try to cheat the Gods, because they do enough of that themselves. For the best play of all you need to follow the rules, beat them at their own game, and take them for everything.

“Small bets beget cheer, while large bets beget ruin,” Jacob had said when they were in the cave, musing how much he should bid.

“... So we bet small, then?” the beast asked. Jacob looked at him and smiled.

“What good is cheer? If you're going to bother at all: go for ruin.”

He was all-in.

That is how a bookmaking beast managed to beat the Gods, and become a hero.

I hope that my mentioning my own small role in this story has been overshadowed by my excellent researching skills, for I found all the details that time and Gods would overlook. I even found the beast’s old cave, and saw for myself what he was really scratching all those years.

It did have a good reason.

Reason enough to turn fingers into scratchers, and reason enough to bear the pain.

On every surface of that cave I saw art. Sculptures in the stone, calligraphy in the rock, great portraits carved through nail and flesh and bone over years. Everywhere I looked I saw Jacob. The beast called John knew his mind was breaking, but he knew there were some things too important to forget, even if you need to destroy your body to remember them. There was never any need to keep a tally: John knew there was only going to be one outcome.

To be honest, I was only a scholar, with dreams of being a poet, and I knew I would not help my people more than that. But I didn’t need to, because our hero had been there from the start.

Yes, I am Michael.