To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 34

The rain eventually let up, and Timothy and Sam caught a cab that took them back to the office. They wrote the article without too many differences of opinion, and left the office again with heavier pockets. It hadn't fetched as much as the previous ones, earning them only one thaler apiece, but it was still more lucrative than less bloodthirsty stories.

Timothy plopped his earnings on the table at home with a satisfying chink, then headed to the pantry with St. Vincent to see if he couldn't funnel some of his unusually high spirits into something tangible. He wrote, he stopped, he scolded St. Vincent, and finally gave it up as a loss after writing two paragraphs and scratching out three.

That night he lay in bed listening to the rain beat on the roof, wondering if the ability he'd once thought he had was gone.

The next morning he made his way to work in a careful zig-zag, trying to avoid the muddiest parts of the street without looking like a poorly-dressed fop. When he finally got through the door of The Thameton Pry, Sam flew at him with the newest paper and almost knocked him over. "Look at this!" he hissed, glancing in Mr. Graham's direction.

"Oh look, it's our article," Timothy said drily.

"Not that one, this one!" Sam exclaimed, pointing furiously to the top of the page.

Mr. Graham's was the very first story inside the cover, and Timothy was not at all surprised. What did surprise him, however, was the fact that in it, Mr. Webb confessed. He read it, and read it again, then stared at Sam.

Sam hit the newspaper Timothy was holding. "My reaction exactly! Why would Mr. Webb confess his crimes in the gossip column of a cheap newspaper if he hasn't done it for the police? It's his neck in the noose! Mr. Crilly said he denied it over and over again the night they were questioned."

"What if he didn't?" Timothy whispered, glancing at Mr. Graham across the room. "Didn't confess, I mean." Mr. Graham was either oblivious to their conversation, or making a very good pretense of being so. Lyman's pet sat with his chair tilted back and feet on the desk as if he had every prospect of owning the place one day. He probably did.

Sam looked from Timothy to Mr. Graham and back again, rocked on his heels, then headed across the room like he had a score to settle. Timothy stumbled after him, wishing a wait that was too late. Sometimes it was better to let bees be bees, from a safe distance. But no; Sam had to go and get a stick.

"So Mr. Webb confessed to it all, did he?" Sam asked in a tone that no one ever used without being very, very angry. Timothy cringed. Everyone around them stopped what they were doing to look.

Mr. Graham let his chair down with a thump that sounded too loud in the silent room. "If you're blockish enough that you can't get decent results, I pity you from my heart Mr. Paine."

Timothy arrived just in time to save Mr. Graham's irritatingly perfect face from the disgrace of a black eye—not that he wouldn't have enjoyed seeing it happen. He put a hand on Sam's arm, then frowned when he found him shaking. Mr. Graham had stung him right where it hurt, and he suspected the wound was fresh. Sam was speechless with fury.

Timothy took a deep breath and nodded at Mr. Graham. "I confess I am astonished," he said. "I shouldn't have thought you had the imagination to spin a story like that; I really didn't. You ought to write plays. I could see the stage having use for someone of your talents."

Mr. Graham stood slowly, deliberately, and when he did he was far, far, too close. Timothy fought the urge to back up, staring fixedly at a point on the wall over Mr. Graham's left shoulder. "You're right," Mr. Graham said quietly. "I haven't enough imagination to see why Lyman keeps on a half-wit and a gimp."

Timothy stepped back, breath coming ragged. A gimp. Was that how everyone saw him? "Sam can spot a plot hole," he said, turning away. "Which is more than you thought to give your readers credit for." His head felt light and his leg felt heavy, and every eye in the room had never burned him so badly. He barely made it through the door before he was forced to sit on the stairs and hold his head until the dizziness went away. Oh God! Why did You spare me for this?

A minute or two later Sam's steps creaked on the stairs above, then creaked by him and stopped below. "What say you and I mutiny and join the competition?" he asked. "You know, write about good people doing decent things."

"People are predatory," Timothy muttered. "I don't know why I still expect so much from them."

Sam was silent for a long moment. "Perhaps because you've seen just enough decency to keep you hoping."

"If hope is what you want to call it." Timothy was skeptical. It didn't feel like hope. It felt more like nothing except stubborn determination kept him going, but only because he was too cowardly to lie down and give up. He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. He didn't feel much like writing anymore. "Want to go hear Mr. Webb's side of the story?"

For answer, Sam trotted down the rest of the steps and held the street door open like a well-trained butler. "Prison sounds positively charming."

–––––––––

"People are predatory" was a line that Timothy had spoken for a long time in my head before I had the opportunity to use it.