Page 25 of The Last Kiss

The spade jolted against stone, jarring Harry’s arms. “What the fuck are you talking about?” The boy’s eyes flared at the curse, but Harry didn’t care. “Well? I asked you a question.”

“I ain’t lying,” John said sullenly. “I was on my way back from the bog and heard all this crashing about. He threw something, I reckon. I heard it smash. Frightened the bloody skin off me at any rate. And when I looked, there he was, standing at the window all white like a ghost. Halffuckingnaked.”

Harry’s mind shied away from the image, stomach contracting anxiously. Christ, poor Ash. “The man can’t help his dreams. You should mind your own bloody business.”

“Iwas. ’Till he started yelling like a looney.”

“Then keep it to yourself. Ain’t you got no respect for a man’s privacy?”

“If he wanted privacy, he shouldn’t be standing there with his curtains wide open, should he? What if a girl had seen?”

“I — You know what? Shut up. It ain’t none of your business.”

A shrug. “Thought it was funny, is all. Him an officer and crying like a baby. But Pete said all the officers were a bunch of la-de-dah pansies, afraid to get their feet wet, while the real men like him was — ”

“ThenPetedoesn’t know what he’s fucking talking about!” The noise of the spade hitting the floor ricocheted through the stable. Harry didn’t even remember throwing it down, his mind pounding with a thick, angry dread.

John had gone white. “Don’t you speak about my broth — ”

“Out,” Harry snarled, teeth gritted to keep himself from grabbing the insolent little shit and thrashing him into the ground. “Get. Out. I ain’t listening to any more of the shite coming out of your mouth. Go on, run back to your mother. You ain’t fit to work like a man until you can behave like one.”

The boy shook, but with anger rather than fear. He threw down his broom with a clatter. “Alright, keep your hair on.” A sly knowing look crossed his face. “Oh, I forgot. You and Mr Ashleigh were bosom chums, weren’t you?”

The hair on the back of Harry’s neck stood on end. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” That wretched insolent smirk tugged at his lips. “Maybe I do.”

“You think so?” Harry lurched forward, using all his height and bulk to intimidate. “What do you reckon you know?”

Fright in his eyes now, John glanced away. “Nothing.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s right. You ain’t never been to war and you know sod all about men who have. So keep your mouth shut. If I ever hear you disrespecting Ash” —shitting hell— “Mr Ashleigh again, you’ll feel the back of my hand. Understand?”

John squirmed, embarrassed and angry, and Harry felt his pulse quicken because there was danger here. He recognised the vindictiveness in the lad’s half-grown face, the malicious mind flickering behind his evasive eyes. Harry always found it best to smooth things over with gits like John Pierson, buy a bloke a drink, make a friend of an enemy. But he didn’t seem to be thinking straight when it came to protecting Ash, and maybe that was the biggest danger of all. He’d opened his mouth to speak, to try and defuse the row, when a shadow fell over them both.

“Oi, now, what’s going on here?” Boyd stood in the doorway, drizzle beading on his coat, and he didn’t look pleased.

“Nothing. John’s got work to do in the kitchen, is all.”

Boyd stepped further into the stables and jerked his head toward the door. “Go on then, boy. Do as you’re bid.”

John hesitated and Harry’s heart skipped. Fuck, now he was afraid of the little shit. But in the end John just said, “Alright then” and slid a cold glance at Harry as he slipped past Boyd, disappearing into the mist.

And that ain’t the end of that, Harry thought with clenching unease.

“Well?” Boyd said when they were alone.

“He was — ” He picked his words with care. “Seems Mr Ashleigh was, uh, bothered by bad dreams last night and the boy thought it was his business to laugh about it. Repeated some nonsense his brother told him about officers, too, and — ” Hell, just the thought of Ash alone and upset tied him in knots. Thinking of that little bastard watching, sniggering and making sly insinuations choked him. Not that rounding on the lad would have helped, most likely he’d just made it worse. “Ah, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my rag.”

Boyd pulled off his cap and ran a hand over his thinning hair. “Too much like his father, that’s John’s problem. You did right, chastising him, if he was disrespectful about Mr Ashleigh.”

“Will his father want words, do you think?”

“Doubt it. He’s six feet under and has been these last ten years. Got drunk, wandered into a mire, and did us all a bloody favour. Bert Pierson was a nasty piece of work. And, not to speak ill of the dead, but so was young Pete. God rest his soul. I’m afraid John’s going the same way.”

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