Chapter 3: Aoife (part 3 of 4)

  Later the same evening, Aoife braved the dark streets of Enfield again, this time on her own.

  There was a lightness to her steps. Ma was the best she'd seen her in ages. She had watched her finish nearly the whole bowl of soup. After that, Ma even felt spry enough to go downstairs and join the rest of the family at the dining table.

  When Aoife had left them, Ma was holding Fiona in her lap and listening attentively to Liam's recounting of his schoolyard escapades, while Niall cut in time and again to poke holes in the story. Clodagh sat by their side in silence, looking relieved yet oddly contemplative. Their eyes met just as Aoife had put her jacket back on by the front door, but her sister didn't say anything.

  Aoife suspected that Ma wouldn't stay well for long. Whatever improvements she had managed to elicit, they didn't seem to get at the root of the problem. After tonight's display, however, she felt like she finally had a concrete plan on how to save Ma. If she could keep Ma's spirits up long enough with doses of her blood tricks, maybe Ma would soon agree to seeking out professional care. For that to happen, they would need to prepare the requisite fees, and it made it doubly important that Aoife not miss out on any of her income.

  The weeknight job she had picked up didn't demand much of her time. When she had first started out, the business seemed somewhat inconsistent, and there had been times where she would wait several weeks before being called in. Things had picked up in recent months, and now she was regularly expected one night a week. Yet even from one night's work, the pay was many times that of her day job at Aunt Cara's, and this had quickly become the main source of funds flowing into the Griffin household. There were now days she would take shifts off from Aunt Cara's, better to train and keep herself fit for the side job.

  Whenever Ma or Aunt Cara had questions for her, she kept the details vague and uninteresting. Mr Carmichael was one of those Enfielders who had come into new money concurrent with the rise of the EIC. He liked to hold dinner parties with guests aplenty. On some occasions, he needed extra hands to help out in the back. Ma was usually too sick or tired to ask too much about it, but Aoife had a funny feeling that Clodagh suspected she wasn't telling the whole truth. In their younger days, her sister might well have pestered her until she came clean. But much like Aoife hadn't broached the topic of adventuring before tonight, Clodagh too seemed to hold back from interrogating her about these late-night outings. As they got older, there seemed to be more words between them that were left unsaid.

  The shortest route to Aoife's workplace took her through a maze of unlit alleyways where the smell of dinner still permeated the air. On a cloudy night like this, she needed the light peeking through neighbours' windows to help her navigate.

  Suddenly, she was hit by a wave of fatigue and her steps became heavier and more sluggish. In an instant, she felt as though she had just walked several miles carrying one of Clodagh's rock-filled rucksacks. Her shoulders, knees, and ankles—the parts she'd exerted most stringently on her afternoon trek across rooftops—felt especially sore, and a dull headache was also coming on.

  Not good. She felt like she had already finished a night at Mr Carmichael's dinner party before she even arrived. Had she tapped into her heat too hard and too often in the afternoon? And that different trick she had just used with Ma... maybe that had taken an extra toll. In any case, there was no choice but to carry on. A part of her was afraid to find out how Mr Carmichael might take to unannounced absences. But more than that, she feared the loss of pay that was already owed her.

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  After a short while, her body seemed to acclimate to the state of fatigue and she forced herself to regain her pace. She then rounded a corner onto a longer stretch of alleyway. She became aware of low voices ahead. By the dim light from a nearby window, she was able to make out at least two shadowy figures, leaning against a fence and apparently in the middle of an animated discussion.

  As Aoife got closer, she could see one of them flailing his arms wildly and heard that his speech was slurred. A couple of drunkards, possibly spilt over from the Testimony—though plenty of Enfielders needed no excuse or special occasion to get drunk. She sped up her pace in time with her quickening pulse, and stared straight ahead. As she neared them, one of the drunkards' incoherent ramblings abruptly resolved into a shout in her direction. "Hey!"

  Aoife didn't slow down or shift her gaze. But despite her best efforts to ignore the men, heavy, uneven footsteps approached before a figure cut in front of her. She was forced to come to a stop, and was made aware of her beating heart, along with the heat that began bubbling anew.

  The man that cut her off was squat, just about the same height as her but likely more than twice her weight. His breath was heavy and reeked of alcohol, which mixed with his body's days-unwashed odour for an especially pungent effect. Aoife made a conscious effort to steady her own breathing so not to let her apprehension show. This is fine, she told herself, I've handled worse than this.

  "I said hey. Didn't ya hear me?" his words were so badly slurred that the question at the end came out in one muddled syllable. As he spoke, the air between them grew fouler. Aoife didn't answer, and instead listened, borrowing some of her heat again to heighten her senses. There was another set of breaths, irregular and moderately wheezy, behind and slightly to the right of her.

  "I'm talking to you, girl. Are ya deaf?" the man in front of her made to grab her with his right hand. She reacted before she fully registered the threat. With a fluid, sharp movement, she crouched slightly then brought the full force of her left fist upward and drove it into the underside of the man's elbow.

  He yelped with surprise and pain, staggering backward. She took the opportunity to walk around him on his left side, keeping his frame between her and the other man who stood by. She resumed her earlier walk, staring straight ahead and hoping she had discouraged the drunkards enough.

  They hadn't given up. There was a roar of anger behind her and more footsteps, fast approaching. Aoife decided then to retrieve just a trace more of her heat. She swivelled on the spot and caught the man's outstretched arm near the wrist. He tried to pull his arm free but it stayed in the air, rigid within Aoife's heated grasp. He then formed a fist with his free hand and swung at her, but she was ready for that as well. She focused a dollop of heat onto her own free hand and punched the underside of the man's swinging arm, this time catching him mid-forearm. As she connected, the arm gave way and softened at the point of impact.

  The squat one let out a scream of agony and crumpled to the ground, hanging helplessly from Aoife's hand that still held the other arm. A mixture of caution and anger compelled her to maintain the grip, and her fingers dug into the arm, provoking a tonal rise in the man's scream. Aoife heard the other set of footsteps approach and prepared to turn her attention to the wheezy companion. However, the footsteps stopped short, behind the first man, and the second voice rang out, just as drunk but tinged with panic. "Come on, let's get out of here. It's her!"

  So these blokes were familiar with her work with Mr Carmichael. They did seem to fit the descriptions of some of his usual clientele. Aoife allowed herself to breathe easier, shut off the heat completely, and let go of the arm, satisfied that they won't be bothering her anymore. Without a second look, she turned around and continued on her way, leaving her would-be acquaintance sobbing in pain and confusion. The sobs soon faded into the night as she rounded the next corner. She quickened her pace once more, but this time her worry had shifted toward the effort to avoid tardiness.

  There was a time—not too long ago—when she would have been sick to her stomach that she'd broken someone's bones. But someone wiser than her had once said that 'repetition is the father of learning'. In this case, repetition had helped her learn that she'd much rather live with a guilty conscience than end up dead on the streets—or worse, destitute like her family had been before. This was the responsibility she had taken on for herself. She would break a thousand more strangers' bones if it meant that her brothers and sisters wouldn't go hungry, that her mother could regain health and peace of mind, that no one else in her family had to die before their time.