Work Text:
January 1960
“Out on business, boss?”
Sharp Eyes collared Si on his way out of the club. He stopped with his hand on the handle and sighed. He’d thought he might get out unseen if he went out through the staff entrance, but the Mekhet lived up to his nickname.
“None of yours, Sharp.”
“Oh, secrets?” He sidled closer. “I love secrets.”
Si rolled his eyes.
“Of course you do.”
Sharp frowned, adjusting the orange pocket-square in his second-hand suit. He thought it made him look like Frank Sinatra (it did not).
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you’re a stereotype.”
Sharp shrugged. “I’m just comfortable in myself.”
“I’m happy for you. Now go make sure the next act is ready.”
As he stepped out into the chilly night, Si stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and his features settled into a resting scowl. That Mekhet was too curious by half. He’d have kicked him out months back (maybe kicked him somewhere else while he was at it), but then he’d have to answer to the Invictus higher-up on whose ‘suggestion’ he’d brought him in. Si wasn’t convinced Sharp’s nosiness wasn’t the reason he’d been sent his way. Always good to have an eye on the underlings.
He shook his head. No use worrying about it now.
His hand patted his breast pocket unconsciously, feeling the shape of the straight razor tucked inside.
***
The little green door was the only sign that the high, stone walls hid anything at all. It had no sign on it. Si would probably have walked straight past if he hadn’t been looking for it, and he suspected many of the locals did just that every day. The lot next to it was a building site, as was the one opposite. Half-finished blocks of flats. The promised developments set to transform the area were already underway.
The lock was a little stiff, but after a couple tries the key proved worth the favour he’d exchanged for it. The door opened out to reveal rows of gravestones, some upright and some lying flat. Dotted in between were the leafless skeletons of trees; tall, pale birches and squat, tangled figs.
Si followed the rough path that weaved between the stones, casting his eye over each in turn, occasionally bending down to brush away moss and lichen to better read the names. Finally he found what he was looking for, tucked between a Beronson and a Weissman. The first three names on the stone were partially worn away, but the fourth one was more fresh:
Esther Gantseleiwitz: 1875-1954
“Evening, Ma.”
He stood silently for a while, hands in his coat pockets. He hadn’t planned this far.
“Grave’s looking neat,” he said in the end, “S’pose Sarah’s been by. You know she’s a bubbe now?”
His mouth twisted in something just too bitter to be a smile.
“They named him Joshua.” He shrugged. “Guess I should be honoured. Probably ain’t bad luck, given the particular circumstances.”
Another silence, broken only by the skittering of some small creature along the base of the wall.
“They’re gonna go ahead and demolish this site.” he said after a while, “Moving you all out to West Ham, I’m told.”
He held up his hand as if preempting a response.
“I checked. It ain’t a mixed cemetery.”
***
Before he could push open the green door, Si froze. His head cocked a fraction of an inch to the side. His nostrils flared. He took a single breath out, in. His muscles coiled.
Then he sprung. A shape emerged from the shadows around the entrance, melting into view as Si slammed the now-visible figure against the wall. In the dim light of the cemetery, you could just make out the orange square tucked into the intruder’s pocket.
The razor was out and in his hand and pressed to Sharp Eyes’ throat before Si realised it.
“What. The fuck. Are you doing here?”
The Mekhet’s breaths came shallow and quick. Si was close enough he could feel it.
“I thought...”
“What?” His hand was steady on the razor but his eyes were wild. “That you’d catch me hunting on claimed ground? That you’d find out about some bit of side business you could tell the bosses about?”
Sharp Eyes tittered nervously.
“...that it might be interesting?”
Si’s grip tightened. It was all he could do not to press down.
(And part of him, the part that wasn’t quite him but was woven into him too much to be separated, told him that was exactly what he needed to do. Because if the Mekhet had done it once he’d do it again, because you never knew what could be used against you, because he had stolen something Si would never have given away and now the only thing to do was to destroy it…)
He closed his eyes. Grit his teeth. Sucked in a breath through his nose and expelled it again.
He would have gotten a handle on it. He’d done it plenty of times before. He would have managed it, if Sharp Eyes had kept his fucking mouth shut.
“So... that’s what Gantsy is short for?”
He knew it wasn’t worth it. Knew it from the second the blade went down and in and through, and again, and again. Knew it as the blood ran down his arm and drenched his coat. Knew it as he let the body fall with a thud at his feet.
He knew it wasn’t worth it. But try telling that to the Beast.