a draft (cont'd 3)
Last chapter was evidently too large for one post. Even though it's fewer pages than the other chapters. Whatever.
It was a nasty shock when Frank Collins walked in only six days after his daughter had come calling. He wore a different coat, but he was the same ashen, wraith-like figure underneath. Looking back, Jonathan was surprised he had recognized the photo at all; what walked into the shop was just a wasted shade of that man, the joie de vivre sucked from him by what Jonathan now assumed was grief.
Mr. Collins was still a gently trembling mess. He opened the door so slowly the bell barely clinked, and he walked across the floor with the carefully constructed courage of a deer finally daring to cross the highway. Jonathan’s mind whirred at record speeds. What should he do? It was important not to frighten him again, but what would he say if he was right and had to explain to Mr. Collins that what he came for was a scam?
Panic rose like bile in his throat as the man made his approach. He thought of phoning Emily. His conviction shaky, he had decided to save her number to his cell that day before wearing away the ink. Now that it turned out he’d been wrong, he was sorely tempted to excuse himself, give her a call, and hide in the bathroom until she came to retrieve her specter of a father.
But his phone remained nestled in his pocket, and Mr. Collins cleared his throat.
“Excuse me,” he murmured. His voice was breathy, and he looked not at Jonathan, but at the countertop. Jonathan made a valiant effort not to stare as the man composed himself, drawing his fists in against his chest and taking shallow, steadying breaths between white lips. “I called this morning. You’re Mr. Lowsley?”
“No! No. I’m his, uh-I work here. In the shop.” He looked fretfully toward the basement door. If Mr. Collins called, there was a good chance Lucas was expecting him. If Lucas was expecting him, Jonathan didn’t have much time to handle this. The only problem was that he didn’t know how.
“I-I brought everything,” Mr. Collins pressed on urgently. “Everything he said. The photo is recent, too. It was taken just a few months ago. Our anniversary. Before she-” He stopped himself. Twisted his mouth into an ugly grimace of self-restraint and fished for his wallet with unsteady fingers.
Something slid into place inside Jonathan. Something painful. Something necessary. It didn’t matter how hard he squeezed this man’s heart; it would be nothing compared to the anguish he’d be spared down the line. The important thing now was getting Mr. Collins out of the shop and back to his life, no matter how unbearable it might seem to him. He came round to the other side of the counter and took a gentle grip on Mr. Collins’s elbow, staying his searching hand and earning a startled stare for his efforts.
“Mr. Collins,” he said quietly, “you need to leave.”
The cold light of fear dawned in Mr. Collins’s eyes, and he shrank away with it, jerking his arm from Jonathan’s touch. “No,” he moaned. “No, no, no, he said! If I just brought everything, Lowsley said-”
“Lowsley is a liar, Mr. Collins! This ‘resurrection service’ of his, it’s all just some con, there’s no such thing!” He had to make Mr. Collins understand. Of course it seemed like something wonderful, like a bona fide miracle, but when people were dead, they were dead. Jonathan didn’t understand how people were falling for something as incredulous as resurrection, but God help him, he would make Mr. Collins see. So preoccupied he was in reassuring himself of this that he did not hear the basement door or the soft-soled tread of the third party that joined their conversation.
“Mr. Collins, I told you to come to the side entrance,” said Lucas crossly.
Jonathan’s heart rocketed up into his throat and he spun to face his employer. Lucas never looked happy, but now he was on the edge of livid, eyes flashing and forehead creased with spite. Jonathan rallied quickly-tried to, at least, taking deep breaths and standing at his full height, feet planted solidly on the shop floor.
“I won’t let you do this, you know!” he proclaimed, praying to God he sounded more commanding than he felt.
Lucas’s hand shot from him like the head of a coiled cobra and clutched Jonathan unkindly by the arm, and whatever strength the young man had collected for just such a standoff withered like a parched July lawn. It was the first time Lucas had really touched him, and there was something unpleasant about it that had little to do the current situation. Not unlike a static jolt delivered from a doorknob when the weather turns cold, it was a source of immediate and heavy discomfort. He tried to pull free.
“You are on increasingly thin ice, Stillwell.”
“It’s… not real, then?” Employer and employee both turned toward Mr. Collins. They had, for a brief moment, forgotten he was there. He looked sick with misery, his faced washed out and his eyes glassy, and Jonathan felt once more the ache of pity flooding his chest.
“Of course it’s real,” Lucas replied tersely, and he gave Jonathan’s arm a painful warning squeeze before letting go. Jonathan promptly hopped back, rubbing at the finger-shaped marks hidden by his sleeve.
“Sure,” he said, latching on to Mr. Collins’s distress, attempting to build himself back up. “Sure! And why exactly did you want him to use the side door, huh?”
“So he wouldn’t be accosted by you, naturally,” said Lucas plainly, and Jonathan couldn’t believe the man had admitted it just like that. He expected denial, some ready-made story, but Lucas was honest. “You’re causing a scene.”
Mr. Collins was at a loss. He looked from one of them to the other, all the while putting a subtle space between himself and the pair. Jonathan was prepared to make another appeal when Lucas gestured toward the basement door.
“I wouldn’t ask you to enter into such an arrangement on blind faith, Mr. Collins. If you’ll accompany me downstairs, I’ll give you a demonstration. You can decide afterward whether or not you wish to enlist my services.”
Mr. Collins nodded mutely, and when Lucas began to lead him, careful not to touch him, to the door that would take them downstairs, Jonathan followed. How the hell did Lucas think he was going to demonstrate? Maybe he knew some sort of stage magic, some smoke and mirrors routine that would offer just enough convincing deception to inspire the changing of money from one hand to another. Maybe he was a hypnotist. That would explain the stupid pocket watch he always carried.
He made it as far as the closed door before Lucas stopped, his hand on the knob. “The invitation was not extended to you, you realize.”
“What does it matter if I watch?” Jonathan asked. He felt brazen. Reckless. He was pushing this, and he knew it, but he also knew if he could just get down those stairs, he could disprove everything. This would not happen again.
“It’s a little personal,” Lucas replied, and Jonathan had trouble holding in a derisive snort. As though Lucas cared about this man’s feelings!
“It’s all right,” Mr. Collins cut in. It was hardly louder than a whisper. “I don’t mind.” Lucas’s shoulders tensed. Jonathan heard him let go an exasperated breath, but he didn’t argue. He opened the door, and the three of them descended to the basement.
It was a nasty shock when Frank Collins walked in only six days after his daughter had come calling. He wore a different coat, but he was the same ashen, wraith-like figure underneath. Looking back, Jonathan was surprised he had recognized the photo at all; what walked into the shop was just a wasted shade of that man, the joie de vivre sucked from him by what Jonathan now assumed was grief.
Mr. Collins was still a gently trembling mess. He opened the door so slowly the bell barely clinked, and he walked across the floor with the carefully constructed courage of a deer finally daring to cross the highway. Jonathan’s mind whirred at record speeds. What should he do? It was important not to frighten him again, but what would he say if he was right and had to explain to Mr. Collins that what he came for was a scam?
Panic rose like bile in his throat as the man made his approach. He thought of phoning Emily. His conviction shaky, he had decided to save her number to his cell that day before wearing away the ink. Now that it turned out he’d been wrong, he was sorely tempted to excuse himself, give her a call, and hide in the bathroom until she came to retrieve her specter of a father.
But his phone remained nestled in his pocket, and Mr. Collins cleared his throat.
“Excuse me,” he murmured. His voice was breathy, and he looked not at Jonathan, but at the countertop. Jonathan made a valiant effort not to stare as the man composed himself, drawing his fists in against his chest and taking shallow, steadying breaths between white lips. “I called this morning. You’re Mr. Lowsley?”
“No! No. I’m his, uh-I work here. In the shop.” He looked fretfully toward the basement door. If Mr. Collins called, there was a good chance Lucas was expecting him. If Lucas was expecting him, Jonathan didn’t have much time to handle this. The only problem was that he didn’t know how.
“I-I brought everything,” Mr. Collins pressed on urgently. “Everything he said. The photo is recent, too. It was taken just a few months ago. Our anniversary. Before she-” He stopped himself. Twisted his mouth into an ugly grimace of self-restraint and fished for his wallet with unsteady fingers.
Something slid into place inside Jonathan. Something painful. Something necessary. It didn’t matter how hard he squeezed this man’s heart; it would be nothing compared to the anguish he’d be spared down the line. The important thing now was getting Mr. Collins out of the shop and back to his life, no matter how unbearable it might seem to him. He came round to the other side of the counter and took a gentle grip on Mr. Collins’s elbow, staying his searching hand and earning a startled stare for his efforts.
“Mr. Collins,” he said quietly, “you need to leave.”
The cold light of fear dawned in Mr. Collins’s eyes, and he shrank away with it, jerking his arm from Jonathan’s touch. “No,” he moaned. “No, no, no, he said! If I just brought everything, Lowsley said-”
“Lowsley is a liar, Mr. Collins! This ‘resurrection service’ of his, it’s all just some con, there’s no such thing!” He had to make Mr. Collins understand. Of course it seemed like something wonderful, like a bona fide miracle, but when people were dead, they were dead. Jonathan didn’t understand how people were falling for something as incredulous as resurrection, but God help him, he would make Mr. Collins see. So preoccupied he was in reassuring himself of this that he did not hear the basement door or the soft-soled tread of the third party that joined their conversation.
“Mr. Collins, I told you to come to the side entrance,” said Lucas crossly.
Jonathan’s heart rocketed up into his throat and he spun to face his employer. Lucas never looked happy, but now he was on the edge of livid, eyes flashing and forehead creased with spite. Jonathan rallied quickly-tried to, at least, taking deep breaths and standing at his full height, feet planted solidly on the shop floor.
“I won’t let you do this, you know!” he proclaimed, praying to God he sounded more commanding than he felt.
Lucas’s hand shot from him like the head of a coiled cobra and clutched Jonathan unkindly by the arm, and whatever strength the young man had collected for just such a standoff withered like a parched July lawn. It was the first time Lucas had really touched him, and there was something unpleasant about it that had little to do the current situation. Not unlike a static jolt delivered from a doorknob when the weather turns cold, it was a source of immediate and heavy discomfort. He tried to pull free.
“You are on increasingly thin ice, Stillwell.”
“It’s… not real, then?” Employer and employee both turned toward Mr. Collins. They had, for a brief moment, forgotten he was there. He looked sick with misery, his faced washed out and his eyes glassy, and Jonathan felt once more the ache of pity flooding his chest.
“Of course it’s real,” Lucas replied tersely, and he gave Jonathan’s arm a painful warning squeeze before letting go. Jonathan promptly hopped back, rubbing at the finger-shaped marks hidden by his sleeve.
“Sure,” he said, latching on to Mr. Collins’s distress, attempting to build himself back up. “Sure! And why exactly did you want him to use the side door, huh?”
“So he wouldn’t be accosted by you, naturally,” said Lucas plainly, and Jonathan couldn’t believe the man had admitted it just like that. He expected denial, some ready-made story, but Lucas was honest. “You’re causing a scene.”
Mr. Collins was at a loss. He looked from one of them to the other, all the while putting a subtle space between himself and the pair. Jonathan was prepared to make another appeal when Lucas gestured toward the basement door.
“I wouldn’t ask you to enter into such an arrangement on blind faith, Mr. Collins. If you’ll accompany me downstairs, I’ll give you a demonstration. You can decide afterward whether or not you wish to enlist my services.”
Mr. Collins nodded mutely, and when Lucas began to lead him, careful not to touch him, to the door that would take them downstairs, Jonathan followed. How the hell did Lucas think he was going to demonstrate? Maybe he knew some sort of stage magic, some smoke and mirrors routine that would offer just enough convincing deception to inspire the changing of money from one hand to another. Maybe he was a hypnotist. That would explain the stupid pocket watch he always carried.
He made it as far as the closed door before Lucas stopped, his hand on the knob. “The invitation was not extended to you, you realize.”
“What does it matter if I watch?” Jonathan asked. He felt brazen. Reckless. He was pushing this, and he knew it, but he also knew if he could just get down those stairs, he could disprove everything. This would not happen again.
“It’s a little personal,” Lucas replied, and Jonathan had trouble holding in a derisive snort. As though Lucas cared about this man’s feelings!
“It’s all right,” Mr. Collins cut in. It was hardly louder than a whisper. “I don’t mind.” Lucas’s shoulders tensed. Jonathan heard him let go an exasperated breath, but he didn’t argue. He opened the door, and the three of them descended to the basement.