Gin Mills and the Goods

An Eye for an Eye

"You're lying." Coughs Tedros, not for the first time. "You're lying."

He has to be, because if he's not, Tedros doesn't know what to do.

He's woozy. His wrists and ankles are rubbed raw and bloody from the ropes lashed around them, and he's shivering and soaked from the bucket of water they'd thrown over him to wake him up. He rams himself further into the corner, trying to get his thoughts in order.

Number one: He'd gone to see his father.

Number two: His father had been murdered. Poisoned, the person on the call had said.

Number three: He'd believed them, obviously. They'd known too much for it to be a hoax.

Number four: He'd written a message on the mirror for anyone who came looking for him, changed as fast as he could, and ran all the way home to find that--

His father was dead.

Tedros crumples against the wall, the realisation finally sinking in. He remembers, now.

He'd arrived before the ambulances and the police, which he hadn't thought about at the time. He should have done. He should have wondered who the call had come from, but he hadn't. Firmly in the grips of panic, he'd gone through the conspicuously unlocked back door, barely wondering who'd opened it, and found his father crumpled like a great rag doll at the kitchen table, already still and white.

Horrified, he'd rushed forwards--

And someone had grabbed him.

But he'd had too much experience with people trying to grab him, between the incident outside Bartleby's, working in the club, and Hort, so he'd sunk his elbow into the soft part of his assailant's stomach, and hurled himself into the table when the grip had slackened. Scrabbling for something, anything, to use as a weapon, he'd spun to see who his attacker was--

He'd caught sight of ruddy hair, pale skin and harsh blue eyes before they'd snatched him by the hair and slammed his head into the table; once, twice. Tedros had hit the flagstones, stunned, and they'd knelt over him, laughing--

Tedros had clawed at his face, grateful for how the club meant he'd kept his nails long to paint them. He'd definitely broken skin, and his attacker had reared back, swearing.

They'd stamped on his wrist, hard, in retaliation. Something cracked, Tedros gasped, and his attacker took the opportunity to clamp a cloth over his mouth and nose.

A heavy, oppressive, scent, and then--

Then--

Then he'd woken up here.

God, no wonder he could barely focus.

"I ain't lying, and if you let me explain rather than sayin' that over and over like a broken record, you'd see why." Rhian, he'd said his name was, sits back in his chair, propping his feet on his desk.

Right. His claim. His insane claim.

Brothers. Half-brothers, anyway. They claim they're Arthur's children by some woman called Evelyn Sader.

"I've never seen you in my life." Tedros snaps.

"Yes, you have. My mother came to see our father. We were all about nine or ten. I was in the car with Japeth." He indicates his brother, stood silently in the corner. "You saw us from the window. It was raining."

Tedros opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

Because he's right. It matches his memory exactly. The memory he's never breathed a word of to anyone.