The Sale
"The cover of darkness"
Part seven
"The cover of darkness"
Part seven
Connie kept close to the railings as she crossed Handon Harbour Bridge, the traffic whizzed by on the other side of her, their tyres making that distinctive sound as the passed over the wet tarmac. It was a still night and the reflections of the quayside bars were almost mirror images, reflecting in the calm waters of the estuary. During festival time, the weather had a strange habit of raining throughout the day, and drying up slightly in the evening as the air temperature dropped. It meant that during the daytime, the streets were populated with young families, and more adventurous tourists, clad in bright plastic cagoules and waterproof ponchos. Meanwhile the evening was home drinkers, festivalgoer heading into the city in search of nightclubs, and the kind of people who normally used daylight hours for sleeping off hangovers.
As she walked, Connie ran her hand along the huge metal iron girders, which doubled as support structure, while keeping separate, the road from the narrow footpath. She kept her palm flat against the grey painted surface, sloshing through pools of cool rainwater, which collected in dips on the surface. As she manoeuvred her finger around the large, round rivets, positioned at regular intervals, she pretended that they were stepping stones, her hand becoming a little person hopping from rivet to rivet with bounding steps from her out-stretched fingers. It wasn't warm, but it wasn't cool either, and with the small amount of alcohol running through her system, she was perfectly comfortable with her jumper zipped and her hood pulled up.
She knew Handon well, but this was the first time she had been back here as a young adult, and somehow that changed things. Suddenly everything seemed a little harder, like she was looking upon it all through a different lens. Of course, when she went back home, everything would still be the same as ever. Her dad would fast asleep upstairs and her mum would be sitting on the couch reading a book, pretending that she hadn't waited up for her. But all the same, she wasn't insulated from the world anymore; she was no longer a minor, and she had to take ownership of her own mistakes.
While being a footballer obviously brought with it its own set of pressures, she still faced many off the same issues as any eighteen-year-old. Changing high school was harder she had expected, even though she had been hanging on to her student status at Douglas Academy in Handon with the skin of her teeth. St Johns had taught her that it was never easy to be the new girl, no matter how old you got, and settling into a life at both a secondary school and a club was a big test for her. She was done with education now, or would be at the end of next year. She knew some of the other young Schottic players had stayed at the Regional Development sides long enough to sit their undergrads, and others planned to go back as mature students once they hung up their boots. That wasn't for her however, she wasn't Višnja Brankovič or Stephen Paul, when she was done with football she was done full stop.
She stopped at the edge of the bridge, looking out over the row of bars and late night cafes. For so many people their evening was just beginning; the fashionably late, those who were attending late night shows, or simply couples heading out after dinner. Connie loosened the St Johns bandanna she had been wearing to conceal the lower half of her face. It was a trade off these days between getting recognised everywhere she went, and being mistaken for a member of The Bubonic Plague, with people crossing the road to get out of her way. As she had walked down Gullane Street earlier, she had come face-to-face with a young student, who had pretended to receive a phone call and turned the other way, moving quickly from the scene. It had kind of just happened over night, the recognition thing. During her trip to Port Christopher, for example, she had been able to move around with relative anonymity. People obviously knew her name, but they weren't confident enough on her face to stop her in the street. Since she had been back however, things were completely different. She had been mobbed at the airport, harassed at the taxi rank, and had local kids standing outside her parent's house.
Since her return there had been plenty of signs that the country was changing: A young woman as High Council Leader. The internationalisation of the Harbour Arts Festival. There even seemed to be have been a Burgunden BreuPub popped up on the corner of Connell Place, certainly not something she would have seen a few years ago. It was definitely busy, if the groups of smokers standing outside were anything to go by. Connie leaned over the edge of the bridge and squinted, trying to focus on the glass windows, which ran down one side of the bar. It was hard to detect exactly what was going on inside, but she could make out several groups of people. She was busy thinking about how to get into the place unseen when her concentration was broken by several woops and screams, as some lunatic, far to her left, jumped from the edge of the bridge into the harbour bellow. She turned her head just in time to see the young woman, stripped down to bra and pants, disappear under the cold dark water with a loud splash. It was quite a drop, and Connie didn't want to think about how cold it was - she was actually relieved to see the young woman resurface. Her friends obviously had been more confident than she, or perhaps too drunk to worry, as they simply cheered loudly. Connie hoped she knew how to get out of the harbour, there were only a few ladders dotted here and there.
...
There was a long way down to the Quayside, walking past the taxi ranks, and through the rows former harbour offices which had now been converted into modern apartments. But Connie had already opted for the shorter route, balancing carefully, shuffling down using the sides of her feet. She needed to pay attention as she negotiated a steep grassy banking, which ran alongside a stream of busy traffic. It was local knowledge, years of being an impish Handon youth, long hours spend exploring the city's nooks and crannies after dark, finding secluded spots to sit and drink pilfered cider bottles with her friends. A little further along the path there was a quiet area where there were normally a few houseboats anchored. It was a peaceful place to sit during the day, and when Connie had been at primary school, she and her friends had often come to play with the children on the boats - or more accurately, throw stones at them. However at night-time it wasn't the place you wanted to linger for long, the occasional needles and discarded condom wrappers they came across told her as much. There were no boats here at the moment, only leftover fish and chips wrappers, empty beer bottles, and a strong smell or urine. Connie was startled by a rustling sound coming from the bushes behind the old wooden bench that sat in the far corner. She clenched her fist, unable to see much in the moonlight. Eventually she heard the drunken giggling of a man and a woman, and while it made her feel safer, she left all the quicker. She didn't even want to think about what they might be lying on in those bushes, or how drunk they must be to think that this location was a viable option for romantic relations.
Up a flight of well-worn stone steppes, and she was back in Handon proper, and out from the murky underbelly. It was amazing how quickly you could flit between the grime and the shiny new places like the Quayside. Only in Handon she thought to herself. Only here could the structures keeping these two worlds separate be so tenuous. A biography of this harbour would be a biography of the city itself; form Acrei outpost, to the principally town of the Eastern Ossorí Empire - to its deindustrialisation, to the gentrification they were currently witnessing.
The majority of the people outside the BreuPub were neatly dressed, even if a little casual. She looked down at her skinny black jeans and trainers - probably okay, but she wasn’t going to get in with her hood up, not at this time of night. At the entrance, the doorman was busy chatting to a young woman, most likely Gylian, who almost looked like she was clad in period costume. Her dress was made of a beautiful white floral fabric, which stopped just above her ankles, displaying a pair of shinny red shoes. The doorman, a hulking tower of masculinity, seemed pretty well distracted as he talked to her, trying desperately to make conversation. Connie Knew she could make a dash for it, but in her experience it was never that easy. Years of people trying to trick them with fake IDs seemed to have meant that bouncers had evolved eyes on the back of their heads.
Connie sighed, realising that she was going to need to face the music. She removed her bandana, and stuffed it into one of the pockets of her hooded top. Then after removing her hood, she unzipped the front, to reveal a bottlegreen t-shirt, hoping that this would seem a little less abrupt.
As she nervously ruffled the longer side of her hair, waiting to be recognised, she wondered for the first time why she was going to put herself through this. She slowly approached the front door, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the ground, giving her earnest attempt at a smile, which was at best, a little disingenuous. She had her ID already out, and was holding it up for the doorman, her shoulders were slouched but tense, as she waited for whoop as her name was read out. The doorman was still desperately trying to make some headway with the young woman, and was only really watching the door with the corner of one eye. She had already made up her mind; if she was spotted she was going to head home, calling Gorman on the way to tell him the whole thing was off.
'Ye'r a'right hen, in ye' go!' The doorman said to Connie with only the faintest of glances at the ID card. Was she possibly in the clear? As soon as she was passed the doorman she pulled her hood back up, casting a shadow over her eyes. She took a quick glance back over her shoulder, to check he had returned to his conversation.
Ralph Scott wanted to meet here? She shook her head as she looked around the bar, the place was a throng of activity there was barely a free table, and people of all ages and backgrounds swarmed hither and thither carrying odd shaped glasses containing international beers she had never heard of. During festival time the Schottic people's sense of restraint seemed to go out of the window, along with any sense of decency they might have had. It was as if the influx of visitors suddenly made them strangers in their own city, and a lot of the rules they normally adhered to, were now null and void. What on earth was Scott thinking? Could he not have picked somewhere more discreet? What was even worse, it looked like a band were getting ready to perform on the small stage in the back corner. A waiter was busy lowering the lights accordingly.
Doing her best to keep her head low, Connie manoeuvred her way slowly towards the bar.
'Sor-ry mate...' Said a young student mistaking Connie for a boy. She had to swerve to avoid being soaked by the young man, complete with beard, woolly jumper, and turn-ups. As he passed, she gave him a firm shove in the back for good measure, the force enough to cause him to slosh half of his pint over the floor. Watching him have to dance, gangly limbs flailing, to avoid the puddle he had created put her in a slightly better mood.
The bar area had a smart traditional feel to it, and Connie imagined that on a normal day it would be a very pleasant place to stand there and enjoy a drink. However, with the influx of festivalgoers the whole place had become a little untidy, with empty glasses covering most of the surfaces, the drip-trays and spill-mats sopping wet and overflowing. One look at the bar staff instantly told her that they couldn't really do much more; all four of the ones Connie could see were working flat out.
'Three thirty, pal.' Said the burly looking bar person, who she guessed was the manger. Something about his Schottic accent seemed to shatter the illusion that they were in Burgundy - not that she had ever been in any real doubt. 'Cheers.' He added as he accepted a few proffered coins, which another young man withdrew from a sequined purse. Connie's Grandmother had bought her a similar one when she had been six, from a small shop on the Granton Road, but she had rejected it even then, on the grounds of it being too girly. The young man had pale skin and dark curly hair, shaved shorter at the back and sides. Connie tried to work out if he was also wearing make-up. He wore a long, white work-shirt that hung down to his thighs, which were covered by a black pair of ladies' tights.
Such was her fixation with the young man's attire that she didn't hear the bar manger address her at first.
'...oi pal, I said what ye huvin?' Startled, Connie looked up at him with her back eyeliner framed eyes. 'Sorry... sweetheart, what ye aifter?' So she wasn't his pal anymore because she was female - interesting. Well his prerogative she supposed. At least she knew the disguise - if you could call it that - was working.
She looked at the tap immediately in front of her, searching for inspiration. 'A pint of Schiele.' She said, without giving it much thought. Judging by the manager's countenance, it was an unusual selection, at least for someone of her stature. Connie, wasn't generally bothered about what she ended up drinking, and she was certainly no connoisseur. Years of sitting atop the ruins of Calton Castle with her friends, drinking cider they had stolen from the local Govmart store, had meant she could drink anything.
'The Griffon never lands where the sheep makes her nest.'
Connie took several seconds to realise that the nonsensical babble was directed at her. She turned to her left, eyes fixed on a man who had just stopped alongside her. He was wearing sunglasses, and had a baseball cap pulled low over her face. It took several seconds to work out what was actually happening...
CORNER
(Alexe Kedzierski)
