Little Redhead

Chapter Two: Home's Calling

Stanley looked sick. Oddly, it was one of the things that Hal had noticed, even though his own anger was threatening to overwhelm him. If Sabini thought them crossing some imaginary line was a declaration of war, his own actions were little more than the beginning of the actual fighting. Beside him, John was wound as tightly as a coiled spring; it was only Esme's hand on his arm keeping him from snapping. Arthur had no such self-restraint. He'd already shattered one plate by hurling it at the wall, earning a sharp snap from Polly. But even she looked ready to pull someone apart.

'The police stopped it,' Stanley said softly, his voice like a gunshot in the silence of the room though. All attention snapped to him, but for once he didn't falter under the weight of it. 'He's still alive.'

Polly scoffed, the sound almost bitter. 'And what do you think Major Campbell will do with that?'

The revelation was like a bucket of ice water over Hal.

Stan opened his mouth, tried to splutter some kind of defence, but gave up. Instead, he settled for shaking his head ever so slightly.

'Well, what do we do?' John's voice was low, his attention trained on Esme's hand, as if it really were the only thing keeping him from rushing back to London. As if she were the only thing stopping him from getting the revenge they all so desperately craved.

Polly's attention was on him in an instant. She quirked an eyebrow ever so slightly, but didn't press the matter.

'We make 'em pay,' growled Arthur, reaching for another glass.

Finn picked it up before his brother could. The older man shot a look of utter disdain at his youngest brother before pacing the length of the room. He kept curling his hands into tight fists, letting his knuckles burn white, and then slowly releasing them.

Despite everything, Hal heaved a deep sigh, pushed himself off the wall. All attention skimmed to him. 'We can't, Arthur,' he said softly, voice filled with regret. He felt his own anger bubbling up under the surface, felt his need to pay Sabini back tenfold refusing to be quashed to make way for mere reason. But he'd learnt the hard way that hitting back wasn't always the best way to deal with things. It felt good to begin with sometimes, but eventually it ended up with you still being the losing side.

'Then what do you suggest?' asked John, his voice slightly sharper than normal.

Hal glanced at him. His friend's shoulders were fraught with tension, his eyes narrowed to almost snake-like slits.

'We wait for Tommy,' said Polly firmly, putting her cigarette out in the ashtray more forcefully than was probably necessary. She scanned the room, fixed them all with a look that left no room for debate. 'It's his own bloody mess to fix.'

***

Wilf's hand shook. Even as he tightened his grip on the paintbrush, even as he tried to clear his head of the fog that filled it, he couldn't stop the reaction. The house was horribly silent. The place he'd left behind all those years ago had constantly been filled with noise, his mother's music drifting between rooms; his father's easy laughter cutting through everything else; Luce's constant barrage of questions to anyone that would listen. Now, it was little more than a shell. A building without the soul that had once filled it with so much life.

Part of him understood why Luce had gone.

He shook the thought away though; carefully rested the paintbrush on the side. It was a stupid hobby, in his opinion. Whatever the doctor thought it was going to help with really wasn't working. He constantly found himself reaching for the reds, for the dark colours that infiltrated his nightmares. Not the more soothing, lighter colours that his mother had encouraged him to use.