honeydew and blueberry yoghurt with malt
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Missing
Rating: G
Challenge: Blueberry Yoghurt #12: chain reaction, Honeydew #12: backlash
Toppings/Extras: malt
Wordcount: 478
Summary: Isaac Prowse never misses with his knives, but he misses other things.
Notes: So, time to see post-Charlie and pre-Ashdown Isaac. It's not pretty. Bassair’s trick-or-treat prompt: “I did nothing.”
Two large hands slammed down onto the chipped bar.
“Bitter,” Isaac Prowse blurted, before shaking his head somewhat, flicking his too-long chestnut hair from his eyes. He hadn’t even though about getting it cut. It was filthy, too. The barman, Albert Cane, looked at him partially with sympathy.
“Are ‘ee sure?” he asked, looking the young man up and down. “I think yer’s ‘ad enough.”
“Not here to ask yer advice, am I?” he growled, words blurring together. He had an ugly face when he scowled-Isaac Prowse didn’t used to scowl so much. But since Charlie had died...
“Yer s’posed to be puttin’ on a show, that’s all,” Albert said with a shrug, pulling the pintglass gingerly out of Prowse’s hands and filling it from a tapped barrel under the counter. “You better not miss. That’s yer reputation, y’know-never missin’ with those knives.”
“I won’t,” Prowse muttered, taking the glass from him and tipping most of it down his neck in one go. Albert could scarcely bear to watch.
The pub he ran was no paradise, and he had seen many men get themselves into a worse state than Prowse, but it was worse because he liked Prowse. Or at least, he had. He was quiet, never a troublemaker, always polite. Good company. However, since the death of his friend Charlie Buckett, it seemed that the man was determined to cause enough trouble for the both of them.
It was easy to understand-Albert had never seen those two apart. Charlie and Isaac had owned the alleys of Hackney: they had both been big lads, Isaac genetically and Charlie through spirit. Charlie used to have one hell of an attitude, but he had been charming in his own rapscallion way. And Isaac had always been the sensible shadow that held him back from getting himself killed.
Until he did get himself killed.
Since then, it was like Isaac Prowse had disappeared too. The quietly dignified fellow from central London had dissolved into this lank-haired mess that stood before him now, throwing darts at a target to entertain the baying drunks for what shillings he could scrape. Albert could tell he hated every minute of it. The empty glass was dropped back onto the bar and Prowse stood up, wiping the back of his hand across his lips and lurching to the side.
“Yer can barely walk in a straight line, Zac,” Albert said. “I don’t know how yer managin’ to throw yer knives.”
“I never miss,” Prowse said thickly. “An’ don’t call me that.”
Albert shook his grey head sadly as Prowse made his way back to the other side of the pub, leaning down and scooping up a handful of knives clumsily. It was true, though: he never missed.