At the Bottom of the Bay

Chapter Six

Sofia took her duffel bag; it had all the important stuff, like her clothes and, she discovered, her wallet (she wondered if Kelsey was ever going to mention packing that). She climbed out the window, crushing a leafless dead bush beneath her boots, and crouched low as she darted out of cover. She didn't slow down until she made it five houses down the road, running parallel to the beach. As houses cropped up on the right, blocking her view of the sea, she breathed easier, relaxing a fraction.

She also took Kelsey's pillow. She hadn't planned on that, just found herself zipping it into the duffle. She would give it back if Kelsey asked for it, though she suspected she wouldn't.

The sky was grey as always, but the air more humid, and by the time Sofia reached Barren Avenue, her shirt stuck to her back, her skin cool and clammy.

She pushed through the door to Lantern Light, blinking in the sudden darkness.

Three overhead lights hung low over the bar, to discourage dancers who might want to climb atop it, Miriam had told her. Six tables took up the space to the left, each ringed with mismatched chairs, no more than four each. Cracked leather booths lined the far wall, three of them, ending at the heavy door marked with a staircase sign. Another door had a sign that simply read "Toilets" and the last door, just behind the bar, read "Kitchen."

Sofia hefted her bag further up her shoulder and walked through that door.

The room she found was less a kitchen, and more a storage room. Drams of beer sat against one wall, crates of whiskey and rum on the other. A freezer hummed under the only light, a bare flickering bulb, swinging in the breeze of the door opening.

No Miriam. Sofia returned to the front room.

She sat on a stool at the bar, set her bag next to her. The place was empty, maybe closed despite the unlocked front door. She wondered if Miriam ever locked it, wondered if she even needed to. People didn't fuck with Miriam Creighly.

After a cursory scan of the place, Sofia determined there weren't any No Smoking signs, and pulled a pack from her pocket. They were Pall Mall, not Marlboro, and she was trying not to be bitter about it.

Miriam finally arrived, from the door to the stairs, just as Sofia was considering hopping the bar to pour herself a drink.

"There you are," Miriam said, like she'd been expecting her. "About time."

Sofia watched her through the smoke as she circled the bar, grabbed two glasses and a bottle of brown liquid.

"On the rocks?" Miriam looked at her with eyes so filmy with cataracts, it was a wonder she could see at all. She did, though, Sofia was sure of it. She could see everything.

"No, thank you." Sofia didn't know where the manners came from. She took the glass Miriam slid to her in both hands as the old woman laughed.

Miriam downed her drink in one gulp, slammed the glass on the bar top so hard it should have shattered, and went back to watching Sofia, just watching her in silence.

Miriam Creighly was anywhere between eighty-four and one hundred and fifty years old, but she had none of the doddering fragility that typically accompanied such an age. She stood tall, shoulders back, her pockmarked arms wiry, her jowls etched into a permanent scowl. Today she wore her usual uniform of a brown jumpsuit, the top half tied around her waist with the sleeves, a flower-patterned blouse (this one was daffodils and sunflowers) and a grey bandana wrapped tight around her head, only a few thin strands of white hair falling out to frame her face.