TWENTY-FIVE
Cordelia went with Malcolm to pick up the ashes from a crematorium in the northeast quarter. The box was small, but no smaller than any of the others lined up behind the counter. Malcolm wouldn’t carry it, so she tucked it under her arm.
“Glad we don’t have to see his face again,” said Cordelia, as they waited for the trolley. “The way they marked him up … I could hardly stand going to visit him in hospital. Those bruises…”
Malcolm made a small sound. She changed topics.
“We gonna do a funeral or something?” she asked. “For the rest of the folk at the Bee? He didn’t have no family in Amberlough, that I knew.” He shrugged, his shoulders stiff. “Queen’s sake, Mal. Say something.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“‘Sorry’ would be a good start.”
“Sorry? What for?”
“Being an ass? There’s more important things going on right now than you scowling over my knocking Tory. Jealousy ain’t flattering, especially not now.”
“You think that’s why I’m bruised? Get your head out of your rear, Delia.”
“It’s just I can’t help thinking we’d be a little kinder to each other if you weren’t still so pinned about it.”
“We really gonna talk about this right now?”
“When else? He was our friend—our friend, Mal—and now he’s dead, and I ain’t gonna scrap with you over him anymore, y’understand?”
He opened his mouth, but the trolley bell cut off whatever he’d been about to say, and he didn’t try again.
They got on board and struggled to the back. Even with all the windows cranked wide, it was close and stinking and far too loud to talk. Instead, Cordelia let her hand drift toward Malcolm’s. He curled his fingers into a fist, but she was patient. Eventually, he relaxed, and covered her knuckles with his palm.
“Where are we headed?” he asked.
“Let’s go to mine,” she said. “I got a bottle of gin—if you promise not to throw it across the room. We can light a couple of candles and set out an extra glass.” She put her free hand on the little brown box, where it sat on her lap.
When Malcolm didn’t say anything, she looked over to see if he was angry. But she caught him swallowing, hard, his eyes aimed up like he was wearing mascara and trying not to let it run.
*
Cordelia climbed out of sleep to the sound of frantic hammering on the door of her flat. She’d gotten a new lock, with a chain; it rattled on the freshly painted drywall. Cordelia hoped it wouldn’t scratch. She’d fixed the place up nice with the cash coming in from Ari’s tar.
Her mouth was dry, her eyes gritty. She hurt all over, with grief and sore muscles. Malcolm took up most of the small bed, forcing her to sleep cramped up. There was a reason they’d always stayed at his.
“I’m coming,” she said. Her voice came out a rasp. The racket didn’t stop. “Hang it,” she shouted, “I’m coming! Don’t break down the door.”
Malcolm rolled over and rubbed a hand across his face. “Mother’s tits. What time is it?”
Cordelia looked out the window and got a smarting eyeful of sunrise colors. “Too early.” The banging on the door doubled. “I swear, I’ll ram their own fist up their ass.”
She grabbed the discarded sheet from the floor—the night had been hot, and Malcolm was better than a radiator. Wrapped in threadbare cotton folds, she shuffled to the door and undid the locks. Opening it a crack, she saw Tito in the corridor. His thin, brown face was pallid. A streak of soot marked one cheek.
“Tee,” she said, through a yawn. “What’re you doing here?”
“Mr. Sailer in?” he asked. “He weren’t at his flat, and I didn’t know where else to try him.”
Springs creaked behind her. Malcolm called out, “Dell, who is it?”
“Mr. Sailer?” Tito bobbed like a buoy, trying to get past Cordelia. She stepped back and let him in.
“Tito?” Malcolm pulled a pillow over his tackle and sat up. “D’you know what time it is?”
“Sorry, sir, but you’ve gotta get down to the Bee. Now.”
That was all he needed to say. Malcolm snatched his trousers from the foot of the bed and stepped into them, flinging modesty aside with Cordelia’s pillow.
Cordelia took a little more convincing. She grabbed Tito’s sleeve and pulled him to the dormer window. “Sit,” she said. “I’ll make some coffee.” She had a gas ring now—a good one.
“Ain’t time for that, Miss Lehane.” He shook free. “Get your clothes on if you’re coming.”
“Will you at least say what happened?”
The card boy cast a nervous look over his shoulder, where Malcolm was tugging his undershirt over his head. “Blackboots,” he said. “They busted the place up. Tried to set a fire.”
Malcolm’s head popped out of his collar. “What?”
“Didn’t spread, sir.” Tito held his hands up like he was apologizing. “Just … the marquee’s a little scorched, and the lobby—”