Page 72 of The Song Rising

The people here moved like sleepwalkers. Most wore threadbare factory uniforms and blank expressions. Others sat in doorways, wrapped in filthy blankets, their hands outstretched for money. A young woman was among them, her arms wound around two small boys. Her cheeks were blotched with tearstains.

I asked for Jonathan Cassidy at several small businesses in the district: a coal merchant, a shoe-shop, a tiny haberdashery. I was met with averted eyes and mumbles of “not here”. Almost as soon as I had left the haberdashery, a sign readingCLOSEDappeared in its window. It was tempting to take off my respirator and prove I wasn’t trying to track him down for Scion, but there was no guarantee that I would be safe here.

My search soon brought me to a cookshop Hari had mentioned, which was perched on the corner of Blossom Street. Its narrow door had no window or handle. Shriveled paint named itTeach na gCladhairí—House of Cowards. A yellow-bellied eel twisted on its sign.

A wilted bouquet of must and cigarettes awaited me inside. Paintings of tempestuous landscapes cluttered the walls, which were covered by peeling floral paper. I drew my hood down and sat at a round table in a corner. A bony, sour-faced amaurotic barked at me from the bar.

“You want something?”

I cleared my throat. “Coffee. Thanks.”

She stormed off. I replaced my respirator with my red cravat. Within a minute, the waitron had banged down a cup in front of me, along with a dish of soda bread. The coffee looked and smelled like vinegar.

“There you go, now,” she said.

“Thank you.” I lowered my voice. “I wonder if you could help me. Do you have a patron by the name of Jonathan Cassidy?”

She gave me a dirty look and stalked back to the bar. Next time I should show my wallet.

There were several other patrons nearby, all sitting on their own at small tables. Somebody must know where this guy was hiding. For appearances’ sake, I picked up the greasy menu and scanned it.

“You should try the stew.”

I glanced at the bearded amaurotic who had spoken. He had come in after me, and had just been served. “Sorry?”

“The stew.”

I eyed it. “Is it good?”

He shrugged. “It’s grand.”

It was tempting, but I couldn’t linger. “Not sure I trust the cook, to be honest,” I said. “The coffee smells like it should be on chips.”

The man chuckled. Most of his face was obscured by a peaked hat. “You from Scion Belfast?”

“Tipperary.”

“That’s quite an accent you’ve got. You must have left a long time ago.”

“Eleven years.” I could hear my lilt thickening just talking to him. “You from Galway?”

“I am. Been here two years.”

“And I suppose you don’t know anyone called Jonathan Cassidy, either.”

“Not anymore,” he said. “I’ve left him behind.”

I looked away, then back, as I realized what he was implying. He extended his free hand.

“Glaisne Ó Casaide.” After a moment, I shook it. The palm was thickly callused. “Changed the first name completely when I came here, but I couldn’t bring myself to cut all ties. I’m sure you know the feeling, Paige Mahoney.”

I sat very still, as if even the slightest flinch could make him reveal my identity to the rest of the district. This man might be a fellow fugitive, but there wasn’t always honor among thieves. “How did you know?”

“A Tipperary woman with a scarf over her face, seeking out someone wanted by Scion. Doesn’t take a genius. But I won’t tell.” He turned to look out of the window. “We all have our secrets, don’t we?”

When I saw the other side of his face, I only just kept my expression in check. The cheek around his jaw had rotted away, showing blackened, toothless gums and absent teeth.

“Phossy jaw. You get it working with white phosphorus,” he said. “Can’t go to a hospital. One of the many downsides of not having the correct Scion settlement paperwork, along with the poor wages. And they wonder why I started a little business on the side.”

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