Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy. Christopher Byford
didn’t need to turn over banks or shake down others to get it. That’s how it’s earned, not by waving iron in faces. There’s nothing down the barrel of a revolver but death and damnation. Thought you would have got that by now.’
‘Absurd.’
Their exchange was interrupted with the jailer striking his baton against the bars over and over.
‘Quiet, the pair of you! Just for that you don’t get to eat tonight. Maybe that’ll keep those traps shut.’
Ketan scowled, gesturing to the guard to come closer to the bars. ‘Hey, you know I’m going to dig my way out of here, right? I’ll do so while you’re asleep. I’ve got the tools hidden away. Snuck them in, don’t you know. You didn’t even search us properly, idiot.’
The jailer scanned the cell, though saw nothing but the bare extremities that they were subjected to. What passed for a bed – a length of heavy, pitted wood – didn’t seem to have anything stored beneath it. There was nothing in the corners, gaslight illuminating enough of the cell to ensure nothing was hidden.
‘What would that be? You sitting on a shovel or something, rat?’ he cockily replied, calling Ketan’s bluff.
‘Oh yeah, I got your shovel.’ Ketan frantically searched in his pockets, and after a moment, showed his discovery. From a clenched fist he raised his middle finger in retort. ‘Right here, pal.’
The jailer scrunched his face together in annoyance, striking the bars once more. It was foolish to make him angry, especially since the held the keys for the only way out.
‘No breakfast either, is it? I can do that. Test me, lad, let’s see how far you can get. I’ll get you stripped naked and throw a dog in with you if you keep this up. Ass.’
He plodded back to his desk just out of sight and continued with his monotonous paperwork.
Franco resumed their conversation, now with a hushed voice. He could withstand the threats, but having to be sentenced for crimes on an empty stomach? To him, that just wasn’t right. He tilted his head back against the outside wall, though this time his ears picked out the smallest of noises from the gloom.
‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ Franco continued, keenly focusing on small taps against the stone behind him, each one forcing his smile wider. ‘You’re jealous because you’re here rotting in this dustbowl and I went off to see things new. You lacked whatever quality is needed to better yourself so I left you, literally in the dust. You may hate me for that but I apologize for nothing.’
‘Let’s say for argument’s sake –’
‘Oh my.’ It was Franco’s turn to be facetious. ‘Do I love arguments.’
‘– that you’re correct. So what?’
‘So you shouldn’t be so built up, all angry, stupid, and threatening. Damn, Ketan, your father is worried about you. See sense in this! You don’t have much in this life, in Her name, it passes by so quick that you have to make something of yourself. Properly. Respectfully.’
‘You’re a buffoon,’ Ketan dismissed, turning his head away.
‘And you would always call me that when I was right. And I’m right now.’
‘Keep convincing yourself of that. I’m just struggling to find a reason why you’re still here,’ he said, his words venomous. ‘Why are you keeping me company in this fleapit? What’s that grandfather of yours doing, Franc? A little late to rescue you, isn’t he? Surely he must be on his way to bail you out of another mess of your making. It’s just like the old days. You, here, with me, doing our thing. Yes, he’ll come rushing in to take you away to a better life in a matter of minutes. You lucky dog! Why whatever would you do without him saving your ass? Except for standing on your own damned feet of course!’
Franco lunged forward, blinded by his own rage. A cannonball of a hook almost knocked Ketan’s head clean from his shoulders, throwing him upon the cell floor. Franco launched three more punches before restraining himself, but it was one too many.
The cell guard barked for the pair to settle down from his desk, otherwise he would do things that they would sorely regret.
Ever so slowly, Ketan sat himself upright once more, spluttering a chuckle through a split lip.
‘There he is. Nice to see you still have it in you. I had worried that you had gone all soft.’ The words were preceded by a spat glob of blood. His fingers probed his numb jaw.
Franco’s first instinct was to apologize but as he stood – knuckles skimmed and bloodied – equally strong was the desire to finish the job. Fire still harboured in his muscles, still tense, still expectant of the next move. The apology was not forthcoming.
‘You don’t get to talk about him. Not now. Not ever. Are we clear?’
Fingers now moved to teeth, checking each in turn. Ketan licked the iron-tinged fluid from his fingers.
‘Yeah, we’re clear. Seems like that’s a sore spot for you. Guess things ain’t so perfect after all.’
‘You don’t want to know.’ Franco slumped back down, against the outer wall, catching deep mouthfuls of air.
‘He was a good man. A shade of angry at times, which would scare me to the bones, but he knew full well what he was doing. Refreshingly honest too.’
‘Did you forget what I just said?’ he asked, hoping that Ketan actually comprehended the demand this time.
‘Tanned my backside on more than one occasion if you remember.’
This conversation wasn’t going anywhere favourable. There was rarely a correct time to drag oneself through nostalgia, even in the company of someone who had known him since youth. Reminiscence was dangerous, fraught with scores of emotions that dulled the senses and buckled sensibilities. Incarcerated, all they seemed to have was time – the time until dawn and the old times that they had shared. Against his better judgement Franco indulged.
‘He never liked you being up to no good,’ Franco added. ‘Believed you were a bad influence on me. I can’t possibly guess where he got that from.’
‘It was the other way around from what I recall.’ Ketan’s memory being much more precise on the matter of who led whom astray. ‘Scrapping and thieving. How many times did you dare me, or any others who we hung around with, to grab something from a shop and run like the clappers? We followed your every word. I recall the pair of us hopping into the steelworks and making off with whatever we could carry to sell on a corner. Never did find a buyer for that sewing machine in the end. When my dad was sniffing around I had no choice but to toss it. Met its tragic end off a bridge if I remember. Shame, it was pretty too.’
This was met with silence and not a small measure of guilt.
‘Anyhoo. Your Pappy. What’s the old-timer up to these days? Is he part of your travelling entourage?’
Franco pressed his skull to the brickwork, listening to the taps that had begun anew. The mere mention of that name brought back a torrent of frustration that drink had been recently failing to suppress. He slunk his head on resting arms.
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Try me,’ Ketan suggested, now quite curious and sincere.
Old habits were rising once more. The better part of their time apart had been spent ignoring his past or, worse still, reshaping it with falsities when asked about it. Pappy had encouraged him to do better, to be better, but the seed still remained within him, once considered dormant or dead.
He had been no better than Ketan all those years back, worse in fact if honesty was worth indulging in. This was one of the facets that frustrated him the most. The slumped man with a crippled leg opposite wasn’t an old cohort. He was a damned reflection of what could have been. Every bad choice and thoughtless reaction could have resulted in matters becoming