The Nature of Time

Chapter 31

"I don't think you understand," said Gerard. "There are more players in this out of control game than we know." He spoke into the phone abruptly, hunched over his desk leaning into it as to assert the severity of the information he knew. A voice softly rattled on the other end, bobbing up and down like a puppet given scripted lines.

"If I could just have a word with," he began, but the line went dead. He slammed the listener back onto it's hanger while Damien stood idly by, watching his friend with a glint of frustration upon his brow. People within the small bar glanced over, yet paid attention for only moments before resuming their mingling in huddled company.

"This whole thing is out of control, Damien," snapped Gerard. "I've said it before and I'm sure I'll have to say it a thousand times over: this play of powers is a machine that will not step lest it's unfed."

"It's never been in our control," sighed Damien. "The governments, the royalty, even the Ministry are all just pawns. What separates each is only their allotted movement on the board. They're all just pawns."

"Damnit, Damien," argued Gerard. "When did you turn into such a pessimistic person? I thought I at least taught you better than to follow down that path."

"We've both seen this to be true, Gerard," said Damien. "No matter how good the intentions are that create any institution, it is the people that dictate its' course. Greed, corruption, extortion. It happens because we have still not overcome those tendencies."

They stood in silence, both fuming and rubbing their brows, locked in a stale mate that resembled those of a child to a parent. Unwilling to budge, they moved to a nearby table with a candle in the center of it. Half drunk pints of frothy ale had been pushed to edges of the table as well as some unclean plates with morsels of devoured pies. A server came over and grabbed what she could of the mess. Gerard nodded a thank you while Damien adjusted his coat near the neck.

"Anything I can get you gents?" she asked.

"An ale, a strong one, please," said Damien.

"The same, if you would, madame," added Gerard.

She nodded heading to another table on her way. Damien watched as she moved on, then turned his attention back to Gerard. The old wooden walls of the tavern hadn't aged well. Leaks of oil and hemmed water marks ran down various lengths where the wood had grown flimsy and weak. The decay even struck his nose as he inhaled, which he cut from his nostrils with his sleeve to block the scent.

"This place is filthy," Damien noted, looking behind the seat Gerard occupied. A small row of nooks were occupied by shrouded faces, huddled over the small candle flames centred on each table.

"It'll do," retorted Gerard. "The less glamour, the less attention and eyes on us."

"We seem to have enough of them already by being here," sighed Damien. "Why did we come to this place anyways?"

Two full pints dashed against their table spilling bits of froth onto the wooden and a bit onto their legs. She winked at Damien and asked, "Anything else I can get you?"

Both men shook their heads as she spun and left before they could properly thank her. They lifted their glasses bumping the ales carefully together before nodding. They took a sip, persperation coating the sides of the thick containers.

"That is one of the better ales I've had in awhile," laughed Damien. Gerard let a smirk creep over his mouth taking another sip and nodding his head.

"Probably better than that one we had in France," giggled the older man. "I can't even recall the name of it."

"I think it was La Belle Nuit, if I'm not mistaken," Damien speculated. "I could be wrong. It was so light, though. I do recall that."

"Your incessant banter is an offence to my friend's ears," chided a tall man who stood near their table. His beard hid most of his mouth save for a sour underbite. His bushy brows matched the thick hair above his lips and his eyes were like crooked daggers digging into their affairs. His English was accented heavily by a thick Parisian accent that fettered on the side of pure french the more he spoke.

"Pardon, monsieur," said Gerard.

"Don't pardon yourself, just shut up," barked the man. "Qu'est-ce que tu parles, petit oiseau? Le français?" The man laughed heartily slapping the table as he turned his back on them.

"Little bird?" asked Gerard as the tall man sat himself back at his table. "How does he know we're Ministry?"

"I don't like that one bit," said Damien smiling dryly while leaning in closer so that their voices were saved for each other.

"Don't you dare try and start a fight, Damien," exclaimed Gerard.

"Would you calm down," retorted Damien, incredulously. "We're getting out of here. I don't want a fight." The last part came out as a joke, one that teetered on lie and truth. He placed a couple of coins on the table of half drunk pints and waived at the barkeep and the waitress.

The two men hurried out as fast as they could. Gerard fumbled with his coat as Damien gripped the older man's arm, practically dragging him along. He shoved the bar's entry door open and shut hastily walking down the damp, city streets sparsely lit by fading lamps.

"Where do you think you're going?" asked a familiar gruff voice.  An entourage of footsteps followed the main man's lead and Damien turned to see the bushy, bearded man with seven compatriots flanking his sides.

"Taking a stroll on this fine evening before heading off to see your aunt," chided Damien. "She sends her regards too. Told me to say hello to her little bushy brows."

He swore something under his breath so quickly that he could not make out the term used. The men withdrew batons the length of their legs, brandishing them between their hands. They moved fast, rushing at Damien and Gerard like a pack of hungry wolves.

Gerard snapped a revolver into the air taking aim at the tall man's beard. He just about squeezed the trigger to a full twitch, but screamed as Damien and he vanished in a blink.

They stumbled onto the ground only a block over from where they jumped and Damien screamed in agony gripping his arm.

"Bloody hell it hurts," he screamed writhing on the ground. A pool of blood fanned from his clothes near his damaged arm. Gerard pushed him down trying to still him under his cries.

"Damien, stay still," he pleaded. "What is going on?"

Gerard rolled up Damien's sleeve and stood back, aghast. His hand covered his mouth quivering as his eyes widened with horror. Damien's skin began to flake off, disintegrating like wisps of decaying flower petals lost to the wind.

"What's happening?" Damien screamed. "Gerard, help me."