Chapter Text
Will is in a particularly good mood. It's a warm, sunny evening, the streets lit by the orange glow that comes in the last weeks of summer, with a hint of crisp coolness hitching a ride on the tail end of the light breeze. He's just finished checking up on Matthew, who's doing remarkably well considering everything he's been through. He's started an after school club for homeless youth, and with Will's help, the group is growing. Some locals have even pitched in to provide whatever help they can. There's a light in Matthew's eyes that Will hasn't seen before, a cautious happiness that's infinitely better than the despair Will had seen there what feels like ages ago now. He's moving on, and Will's moving on, too, and it's a wonderful feeling.
He's in a particularly good mood, so when he hears a shrill cry followed by a young woman shouting, "Get off!" he can't help but pull a sour face as he breaks into a jog in the direction of the sound. Not that he doesn't want to help, but he would really appreciate it if his feeling of contentment could last longer than a few moments.
"I said, off!" the woman cries, and Will turns into an alley, already darkened by long shadows as the August sun sinks below the horizon. A man, visibly drunk and with a half-full bottle of booze still dangling in one hand is pinning a woman against the wall, his free hand tightly gripping her pale wrist, his head bent down toward her neck. She's struggling, but she's a small thing and the man outweighs her by at least a hundredweight.
"Hey!" Will calls.
The man turns, and his lips pull into a smirk. He can't be much older than Will, but years of hard drinking and, if Will had to guess, hard living, have etched lines into his roguish and otherwise handsome face.
"Whaddya want, preacher?" he slurs.
"Let her go," Will says.
The man only scoffs and turns back to the woman, who makes eye contact with Will and says, "Please!"
It takes Will two steps to close the space between himself and the pair, and he grabs the man by the shoulder and pulls him back, then drives a fist into his nose, knocking him, stunned, to the ground.
"Go," Will says harshly to the woman, who's already scurrying away. He's watching her when he feels a hand tap him on the back. He turns (stupidly), and is met with a fist to his face. He stumbles backward as the man squares up.
"How d'ya like that, you dandy shit?" He's grinning wildly, eyes wide, blood pouring from his nose.
"Look," Will says, trying not to lose his temper as his eye smarts. Six months ago, he would have been happy to beat this man to a bloody pulp. But now he hasn't the same impulse, nor desire. "You're drunk. Just go home. You don't want to do this."
"Oh, I do," the man says, swiping the back of his arm across his face, smearing blood across his cheek. "Never done a man o' God before." He throws another blow, and Will dodges it easily. He suspects that the man knows how to fight, and is probably good at it, too-when he's not drunk as a fish. The alcohol thinning his blood has him unsteady and sloppy. Will ducks a few more shots.
"Hold still, ya Berkeley Hunt," the man says. His face changes, just slightly, and he glances to the forgotten bottle in his left hand.
Will sees this, which gives him just enough time to throw up a hand as the man swings the bottle, hard. Will catches it and, with his left hand, drives a fist into the man's kidney, while his right hand twists the hand with the bottle until there's a pop and the bottle falls, shattering on the cobblestone and filling the alley with the sound of breaking glass. The man lets out a grunt and falls to his knees, pulling his left hand toward his body.
"Bastard!" Spit flies from the man's lips as he says it, panting. He starts to stand. Will's voice stops him.
"Don't." He's taken a fighting stance, squaring his shoulders, feet spaced apart, arms raised, hands in loose fists. The man eyes him with a mixture of surprise and begrudging respect, and lowers himself back to the ground.
"Bugger all," he mutters. "You learn that in preacher school?"
Will just smiles wanly. "You should get home while it's still light out. Get some water and sleep. Sober up."
The man spits and Will sighs as thick blood lands on his shoe just as he turns to leave. He keeps his guard up as he walks out of the alley, but he's fairly certain that man won't follow. The assumption is a correct one, and he makes it back to his bike without incident. The sun has already gone down now, and his ride home is much less pleasant than he'd thought it would be.
xxx
"The bleedin' hell took you so long?"
Charlie freezes at the bottom of the stairs. He's had some time to sober up a little on the walk home, and some time to think. The priest was probably right to do what he did, and if nothing else he was a fascinating man. "Nothing," he says.
"Nunna that nothing shit. C'mere when I talk to you." He uses the tone that makes Charlie feel like a child again, young and stupid and helpless. He sighs and takes a deep breath to steel himself, then walks to the kitchen where his dad is waiting, seated at the table looking stern. His eyes narrow as Charlie approaches.
"What happened?"
"I told you it was nothing."
"Don't look like nothing." He looks Charlie up and down, then makes eye contact once more. "Yer hand broke?"
Charlie nods reluctantly.
"You want the rest of your arm to be broke, too?"
Charlie feels himself pale, clutching his left arm a little tighter to his chest, furious at his own cowardice. "No."
"Then out with it."
"I deserved it."
His father's calm demeanor suddenly shatters and he slams a fist on the table. Charlie flinches.
"I don't doubt you deserved it, you stupid sod! I don't give a shit! I can't have you looking like a fuckin' fool, you know why?"
Charlie swallows. "Because it'll make you look like a fool."
His father hits the table again, face red, and raises his voice to a shout. "Because it'll make me look like a fuckin' fool! Now this is your last chance 'fore I get up out of this chair. Who did it?"
"Some...some preacher."
"What the fuck are you on about?"
"I ain't lying," Charlie says quickly. He knows better than that. "It was a priest. Had the collar 'n everything. And a helluva punch."
His father sits back in his seat. "Go clean yourself up. I'll call Nancy to come look at your hand in the morning."
Charlie nods, but doesn't move. "What're you gonna do?"
"Doesn't matter now, does it? It's out of your fucking hands. Now get out of my sight."
Charlie obeys, trudging out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the washroom. He tries not to think about the man in the alley, and what's going to happen to him.
xxx
"What the hell happened to you?" Geordie asks, looking up from his desk as Will walks into his office, eyebrows raised.
Will is confused for a moment, then nods his understanding. "Oh, this," he says, gesturing at his blackened left eye.
"Yes, that," Geordie says.
"Drunk in an alley."
"You were drunk in an alley?"
Will snorts and sits in the chair across from Geordie with a sigh. "No, there was a drunk in an alley, attacking a young woman. I stopped him."
"You didn't kill him, did you? 'Cus I can help you with a lot of things, but that's not one of them. Scotch?"
Will shakes his head with a chuckle as Geordie pours himself a glass. "No, I didn't kill him. I was content to leave it at a bloodied nose, but he came at me with a bottle. I may have broken his hand, but that's it. And-no. On the Scotch, thank you. I've been cutting back on the drinking. Been trying to cut back on the fighting, too."
Geordie harrumphs. "You're no fun." Then, "How's the kid? Matthew?"
Will smiles. "He's doing really well," he says. "I was worried about him for awhile, there."
Geordie eyes Will with a poorly concealed smile. "I know the feeling."
Will can feel heat rise in his cheeks at that. Sometimes Geordie is more like a father than a friend, and to be honest Will doesn't mind it. But he's certainly not going to talk about it, and he knows Geordie would be embarrassed about it too, so he changes the subject. "So what do you need me for, Geordie?"
"What, I can't invite you in for a friendly chat?"
"In your office, in the middle of your work day?" Will says, an eyebrow raised.
Geordie starts to answer, then closes his mouth and sips at his drink. "You're right, of course," he concedes. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his face growing serious. Will begins to suspect that the small talk may have been an attempt to delay a graver conversation. "We've a little boy here whose father's been murdered early this morning. Beaten to death."
Will's chest tightens painfully, and it takes him a moment before he can speak. "Is the boy alright?"
"Well no one's put a hand to him, if that's what you mean. We think he may have seen it, but he won't say a word to anyone."
"His mother?"
"Left some years ago, apparently."
Will nods, brow furrowed. "So you want me to talk to him."
"His late grandmother used to bring him to your sermons before she passed not long ago," Geordie says. "We think a familiar face may make him more comfortable. And you've got a way about you that people seem to take a shine to."
"His late…" Will's face changes. "You don't mean dear old Margie?"
"Margaret Harris, yes," Geordie says, and he looks sorry. Guilty. He watches as Will leans back in his chair and rubs his hand on his forehead.
"Poor child," the priest breathes, moving his hand down to push his eyes shut. He keeps them that way for a moment before opening. "His name is William too, isn't it?"
Geordie nods. "Will you talk to him?"
"I can't very well say no, can I?" Will tries to smile, but doesn't do a very good job.
Geordie nods again, and stands. "He's in the back."
Will follows him through the bustling station, breathing deeply in preparation for the task before him. He's not sure he'll get anything from the child either-he's scarcely more than four years old. But if there's any chance of helping Geordie, then he has to try.
Geordie finally stops at a closed door.
"The file room?" Will says.
"It was that or an interrogation room," Geordie says quietly, not looking at Will. "We've tried to make him comfortable. You ready?"
"As I can be," Will says, and Geordie opens the door. An officer Will doesn't recognize is standing inside and, upon Geordie's silent signal, leaves the room.
William is sitting on the floor, pushing a wooden train back and forth with one hand and clutching a stuffed rabbit in the other, his dark hair falling in his eyes as he looks down at his toys. He's humming quietly to himself, the notes wandering and tuneless, and he doesn't look up as Will walks into the small space.
Will crouches before speaking, putting himself at eye level with the child. "William?" he says softly. His eyes land on a dark spot on the boy's collar, and his throat tightens.
The boy falls silent and looks up and his hair falls back, revealing round blue eyes. Will collects himself and smiles at him.
"Do you remember me?"
"Yes," William says, shyly, his voice small. "From the church."
"That's right," Will says. "Did you know that I'm called William, too?"
William lets out a peal of laughter, and the bright sound is startling. "That's silly," he says, with a lisp that only makes Will's heart ache more. He glances over at Geordie, who mouths keep going.
"It is a bit silly, isn't it," Will agrees as the boy turns back to his train. "William, do you remember this morning?"
He bobs his head, pushing the train a little slower.
"Can you tell me what happened?"
William pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and pretends not to have heard.
"I know it's scary, William, but you're safe here. I need you to be brave. Can you do that? Can you be brave for me?"
William stops pushing the train and clutches the toy rabbit to his chest with both arms, then looks up at Will from beneath long, dark lashes. "Yes."
Will gives what he hopes is an encouraging nod. "What happened?"
"The angry man hurt Da," William says quietly. "And now he's, um, in heaven with Gran."
"The angry man?" Will says, and he can feel Geordie's eyes drilling into him. William nods. "Did you know him?"
William shrugs, holding the rabbit tighter.
"Had you seen him before, William?"
"Yes," William whispers.
Will takes a deep breath. "Do you know his name?"
The boy shakes his head.
"Did he say anything to your dad this morning?"
Another shake of his head.
"Did your dad say anything to him?" Geordie says suddenly, breaking his silence, and the boy shrinks.
Will quickly puts a comforting hand on the boy's arm. "It's okay, William. Geordie is a friend of mine. He wants to help you. You can answer his question."
The boy mumbles something into his stuffed rabbit, eyes saucer-wide and staring at the floor.
"What?" Geordie practically barks, and Will gives him a sharp look before turning back to the boy.
"Can you say that again, William, a little louder please? It would be a big help. I need you to be brave, remember?"
"'I'll get you the carpet,'" William says in a deep voice that would have been comical in any other circumstance, and then makes a face. "I got to go wee."
"Anderson!" Geordie calls, and the officer from before materializes at the door. Geordie leans forward and lowers his voice. "Take William to the toilet, then go in Larry's desk, top left drawer. He's a tin of biscuits which he thinks is cleverly hidden under a stack of old papers. The lad'll be needing them more than he will."
Anderson nods. "C'mon, then. I'll take you to the loo," he says to the kid, and William looks at Will.
"Go on," the priest says. "He's one of the good guys."
William scrabbles to his feet, holding tightly to his rabbit, and trails after Anderson. Will stands, watching the child until he and Anderson disappear around the corner. As soon as they're out of sight, Geordie lets out a string of curses.
"Unbelievable," he says, face dark. "Bastard beat a man to death in his own home, in front of his own son, for a few lousy quid."
"How do you know that?" Will asks, idly running his hands on his numb legs in an effort to get the blood flowing again.
"Carpet. It's Cockney slang for thirty pounds. Thirty pounds! Unbelievable." He walks out into the hall in the direction of his office. "I may finish that bottle of Scotch," he mumbles.
Will doesn't answer, at first. His mind is stuck on Cockney slang. "Geordie?"
"Hm?"
"Do you know a lot of Cockney slang?"
He shrugs as he opens the door to his office and steps in. "From my time in London, I suppose. Not much of it here, though." He picks up the bottle of Scotch and pulls his glass closer to him.
"So Berkeley Hunt-"
Geordie lets out a choking sound and almost drops the bottle, his cheeks and ears turning a deep shade of crimson as he stares at Will with wide eyes. "Where the hell did you hear that, priest?"
"It's Cockney, then?"
Geordie snorts. "Um, yes. And you probably don't want to repeat it."
Will hums thoughtfully.
Just then, the telephone rings. Geordie looks at it with a sigh. "That'll probably be the coroner's office."
"I'll go," Will says.
Geordie reaches for the phone, and then pauses. "Thank you. For talking to him. We know a little more now than we did before. That's better than nothing."
"Sure," Will says. Then, "You might want to find William a change of clothes. There's a-a spot of blood on his collar."
Geordie gives a solemn nod and then answers the phone. Will walks quickly out of the station with his hands jammed in his pockets, his thoughts swirling. The boy and his train, the fight in the alley, the blood on the child's collar. They take a darker, more introspective turn and suddenly Will is once again face-to-face with his dead father, all vacant eyes and wet scarlet. Will ducks into an empty alley and leans against the wall, breathing quickly and deeply, staring at the wall opposite him and memorizing the detail of every brick in an effort to keep his mind from returning to the child in the file room. To the man in those woods.
For a moment, it makes him question his decision to pursue sobriety. But he knows too intimately what alcohol can do to a man, especially in moments like these, and he'd just as soon avoid it.
xxx