08 A Little Hatred: Book One (The Age of Madness)

‘The Great Change!’ The squinty bastard caught Mally by the arm, painfully tight, almost dragged her over. Funny how, whenever men talked about freedom, they never really meant for the women. ‘What a day, eh?’ he shrieked in her face, blasting her with foul breath.

‘Aye,’ she said, smiling as she twisted her arm free. ‘The Great Change.’

Was it a change for the better, though? That was her concern. Maybe she’d wake tomorrow and the world would suddenly have turned sane, and someone would’ve fixed her broken lock, too. She had her considerable doubts. But what could she do but smile through it and hope for the best? Least at that she had plenty of practice.

She saw Sparks watching her. Felt like she had to do something cruel, show she was one of them. The naked lawyer blundered past and she stuck out a boot and tripped him. He tumbled over, rolling in the dirt, and she pointed at him and howled with forced laughter.

She didn’t like it any, but a choice between getting hurt and doing the hurting weren’t no choice at all. She’d sat at the shitty end o’ that see-saw often enough.

‘Up, pig!’ someone snarled.

Randock staggered to his feet, clutching at his side, trying to hold up a weak hand and dance at the same time. He’d never been much of a dancer. Even with his clothes on. And he was exhausted now, sweating like a hog in spite of his nakedness, the old dyspepsia burning up his throat. But dyspepsia was the least of his worries.

That girl Mally had tripped him, he thought. Now she was pointing, screeching with laughter. He could not understand it. He had helped her, often. Financial assistance, from the good of his heart. That was why he kept coming here. To help these poor girls, driven into lives of debauchery by the harsh times. If they wished to express their natural gratitude, he would not demean them by refusing. He had a strong social conscience. And this was how they repaid him, the ingrate bitches. Fucking filthy whores, the lot of them!

He lumbered past the hill of documents they were heaping up around that poor fellow in the cheap suit, tied to a stake like some heretic by fanatics in the savage South. Perhaps there were some of Randock’s cases in the pyre, ready to be sent up in smoke. The waste of it. The folly! He had given his life to the law. More charity, on his part. He had sweated on behalf of his clients. So conscientious! You’re in good hands with Randock! He had built a reputation on it. Thus the thriving partnership of Zalev, Randock and Crun. Zalev died some years ago, of course, taken by the grip in that cold winter, but Randock wasn’t paying for a new sign just on his account, and Crun was away doing patents. Lot of money in patents these days.

With paper and ink one could level mountains, he had always said, if given the time and appropriate connections about the Courthouse. Nothing was stronger than the law! Now it seemed that fire was stronger still. Law alone, without enforcement, is just breath. He flinched as part of the bank’s roof sagged inwards, flames spurting up, sparks whirling. Never cross Valint and Balk, Zalev had told him the day he entered the law. Never. By the Fates, if they with all their wealth and secrets and power could be burned, what was safe? The fire was already spreading towards the narrow building where his own offices were located.

He had spent his life’s work on that firm. Built it up with his own hands. Well, his and Zalev’s and Crun’s, he supposed, but mostly his, since Zalev had died and Crun was concentrating on patents.

He lurched to a halt, wheezing, groaning, bending over with hands on knees as the horrible music sawed on, and the whores pointed and laughed and drank. The injustice! He came here to help these girls. He was their benefactor. Their patron. A father figure! Well, no, more a kindly uncle. He was loved in this neighbourhood. And now they mocked him while he blundered about naked. Like a sad bear he once saw with a travelling show.

Still, it could have been worse. It could have been him tied to the stake with all that legal kindling about his ankles. He put a hand over his mouth, trying to swallow his dyspepsia.

Someone hit him and he squealed in agony. A line of fire across his bare buttocks.

‘Please!’ he wheezed, holding up that desperate hand. ‘Please!’

A little fellow with a nasty squint leered at him, held up a coachman’s whip.

‘Dance, you fat shit!’ he snarled. ‘Or you’ll be the one in the fire!’

Randock danced.

‘What a day!’ screamed Moth, ’cause the Great Change had finally come and everything was turned upside down, and the folk who’d been on the bottom all their lives were suddenly on top, the scum made lords, and all the things he’d wanted but knew he’d never get he could just reach out and take. Who’d stop him? ‘What a day!’