Down by the Seaside

[Moritz Erichsen]

Country: England, Somerset, Burnham-on-Sea
Current Time: 11:05 pm
Weather Conditions: Windy, and freezing.

It was indeed a shame that such a beautiful site as the low-lying wetlands of Suffolk would be not only underappreciated but also outrageously dispensed with by one insufferably ignorant Lieutenant whose only care was the burning Bolshevik cigarette inside his foul mouth, throughout passing the Broads in the North down to the Coast and Heaths, and cross-county, as the steam engine travelled from the East of England to the West, stopping on several stations to leave or pick up new passengers; there had been around twenty thousand people in Brampton Station that morning, Moritz Erichsen amongst them, and had been only too impatient to get on board and slide the compartment door closed, isolating himself from the galling and nauseating noise of the crowds, their animated conversation, jeering tones and brisk use of language, the little children running playfully within short distance of the parents who called hurriedly after them and begged of them to behave, the old ladies who complained on their rheumatism and how it was impossible for them to handle their suitcases by themselves, that irksomely mellifluous and saccharine pitch of voice with which they kindly requested the officers to assist them, the younger soldiers and even veterans of war who pretended they understood the course of history, human nature or political, economic, social and military wartime demands, and those who easily but pre-maturely, perhaps even immaturely, gave their unwise judgement upon matters and issues which were highly unlikely of them to be able to thoroughly comprehend. All that outward raucous image was immediately blocked from the young man’s mind once he secluded himself from the rest of the world and allowed the silence to sink in, exhaling the fume from his nose and mouth, as it danced into the compartment and went up in the ceiling, already stained from other people who had sat on the same seat as him, and smoked just as him. He stared outside the glass window absent-mindedly, the trees and fields soaring past him, and took another drag.

He had never been in Burnham-on-Sea ever since he had travelled to Britain, or ever chanced to pay a visit to the place on military duty. The name reminded him of the HMS Burnham, United States destroyer transferred to the Royal Navy, which had played a critical role in the Battle of the Atlantic, adopted by Burnham-on-Sea in 1942. He had also heard of the Norton Fitzwarren rail crash in Somerset occurring on the 4th November 1940 between Taunton and Norton Fitzwarren, once the driver of the train – a GWR King Class King George VI – misconceived the signalling and track layout (when four lines were reduced to two, and without the poor man realizing he was travelling on the left-hand track) and thus driving the train off the rails, with twenty seven people being killed as a result. Other than that, the county was monotonous for him, and the town in question particularly, given its typical English naming. In 1936 the Ritz Cinema in Victoria Street had been launched (‘Successful Scenes at the Ritz Opening’; ‘Wonderful Welcome for Miss Binnie Hale’; ‘Praise for Mr. W. Trueman Dicken’s Enterprise’); Moritz had not seen ‘Hyde Park Corner’ but the truth was he was far from being enticed by the arts, a man such as himself. The train journey continued for the rest of the day at a very slow pace, and he got so bored with himself, that there was nothing else to do but smoke a ridiculous amount of cigarettes, stare out the window with frustrating boredom, and then smoke once more. He was not a man to be confined. Thus, what had resolved him to make that journey? He had the weekend off, and one of his Privates had informed him with a wicked grin that the town had a cabaret with rather promiscuous dancers, who were willing to indulge into semi-illegal acts for a reasonable price. Travelling for a good part of the day simply because of several hours of pleasure did not sound rational and perhaps it was not the best of ideas, but Moritz was not a man to think things thoroughly. At least outside the military realm. He was furthermore a man to abuse the existence of women for his own benefits and at their expense; therefore despite the dull means of transport, he was entertained by thoughts revolving around illicit acts and pairs of legs around his scarred neck.

Hours later, when the sky had darkened and the light from the lanterns was visible from the station at Somerset, the train decreased speed and soon came to a halt. The engine whistled, black smoke blowing into the air, and the officers were announcing the terminal. There were more noises, people rummaging around for their luggage, and Moritz grumbled disgruntled, swearing under his breath at all this commotion, and waiting for everyone else to get off the train, not wanting to have to endure all of their aggravating existences. He really hated human beings. Once the last officer called out for any remaining passengers, he grabbed the small sack and threw it on his back as he slid open the compartment door, and walked across the deserted aisle and into the crowded station. He buttoned up his greatcoat over his military uniform, and skulked about under cover of darkness into the abandoned, narrow and long alleyways, not wasting a single moment, and headed for the carriages to get to Burnham-on-Sea. It was a rural county mostly living off agriculture and its production of strong cider; and upon arrival at the town by the seaside, he noticed it was no different, naturally.

For a town that once used to be under the sea, a thousand and more years ago, it was holding decently, despite the area around Burnham and Highbridge being susceptible to the vagaries of the sea and rivers. Due to drainage cuts, water flow in the Levels had been altered. The next few moments found Moritz standing on Britain’s shortest pier, a shoreward end pavilion on concrete piles, constructed with Edwardian elegance and style. He pulled out another cigarette and smoked, whilst looking into the dark horizon. There were not many people on the streets as he walked across the town five minutes later, but he could distinctly hear noises from the pubs and inn, distant music played on old recorders and women shrieking with laughter. He pushed open the heavy wooden door of the Traveller’s Place Inn and entered; he looked around him, looking tall and imposing, and proceeded to sit on a chair by a wooden table on the room’s corner. There were certain people playing cards, sailors swearing to each other and making rude hand gestures, promiscuous women shrieking with laughter at some old veteran’s dirty jokes, and Edith Piaf’s ‘Un Monsieur Me Suit Dans La Rue’ filling the inn. He rubbed his scarred and raw hand through his hardened, unshaved face, and then began unbuttoning his greatcoat, the cigarette stuffed inside the cold thin lips of his mouth, while those coal-black eyes of utter abyss were scanning the place like a hawk – like a wolf, even, that was marking down the victim for its meal.

[Leeroy Atherton]

It was unwise for a person concussed to be heading out so late in the night's hours. Doctor's orders and logic dictated that she should be resting, lying back so that her shaken brain would not be jostled further, of no use until her head injury had fully healed. The faint traces of a nasty cold still did lie in her chest and throat, as well, giving Leeroy Atherton more reason to be off her feet for a while. Alas, the Romanichal was never one to be left out of action so easily, and nothing short of death would stop her from keeping an eye on the important things. The Land Girls outside of town were perfectly fine, despite soggy fields and an old banger that didn't work well in the wet; a ride via motorbike by the farms earlier had proven that. But when it came to the goings-on of the Traveller's Place Inn, where Leeroy worked part-time as a door supervisor, it was best to see how things were doing in person.

Monty Pryce, the owner of the Traveller's Place Inn, and Leeroy's sole close friend, had been busy arranging some sort of party when Leeroy last heard from him. Apparently, some officer or another had booked several tables in the bar to celebrate some recent win in the war and what-not. He had invited several of the men beneath him, and all their "special girls" and any other women who wanted to come, and Leeroy just knew it wouldn't end well. That many soldiers and that many females in the same room, with enough alcohol in the bar alone to fell an elephant or two, was a recipe for some ugly business of some kind. And what about the inn's guests, as well? Surely Monty had not rented out the entire inn to the party-goers, and that some sane, perfectly innocent member of society would be trying to get a decent sleep! What would happen if they were interrupted by a drunken fellow of ill will, and whoever else the git decided to drag along with himself (or herself)?

Such thoughts were making Leeroy's head spin. She could worry all she wanted when she saw the inn for herself; right now, she just had to focus on getting there without too much of a migraine. To try and ease her slight headache, the woman rubbed the bridge of her nose, sighing quietly. At times like that, she wished she lived on Traveller property, in that little house Monty had been considering selling to her. But, due to an untimely infestation of bats, Leeroy could not live there, not just yet. Walking to her second place of work would have to do.

It wasn't that long before Leeroy reached her precious inn. Cars, bicycles and a few motorbikes were all around, and from within, it sounded as if the Traveller was in the midst of its busiest night ever known. The Romanichal cussed lightly under her breath - of all the nights that she had to be not working, it had to be one as chaotic as that particular night? No doubt the other door supervisors had their hands full. They would never let Leeroy just come in and start working, not with her recent fall down a staircase after sneezing on a poor British officer.

Did that mean, though, she couldn't just take a small peek? After all, with such a busy place, no one would notice Leeroy, especially since people were still coming and going. That further meant that only part of the bar had been rented out. All she had to do was walk in one of the main doors, take a seat in the bar, maybe order a glass of water...nothing suspicious at all. Thus, she quickly walked in, making a beeline for one of the corner tables, approaching one near a certain tattooed, misogynistic Lieutenant. Leeroy only noticed him out of the corner of her eye, but paid him little heed, pulling the hood of her coat over her head a little more so no one would recognize her. She'd keep an eye on that one - he had a look that reminded her of troublemakers long past, including a certain Captain - but her attention was mostly focused on the entirety of the bar. Too many crude fellows, with their dirty jokes and jabs thrown at the female servers, and too many women plastered with cheap makeup and laughing at anything obnoxious.

Just what had Monty gotten himself into?

[Jason McCarthy]

As soon as the door was open the stench was like hitting a wall. The place smelled of smoke and alcohol. Quite a disgusting combination, especially if you add in a bunch of men who probably haven't showered in a few days. There were alot of people in the small inn, from privates, to captains they were all there. Jason had no idea what was going on and definately didn't feel comfortable here, but all he wanted to do was get some coffee and rent out a room so he could get some sleep. All of the other inns were closed at this hour and this was the only place with lights on in the whole street. Jason pushed past a few men and made his way to the counter where he waited for a few minutes before a man came around the corner with three brews in his hand. The man said something, but it was so loud Jason couldn't wuite make it out. He guessed it was something along the lines of,'I'll be right with you.' but he could have been wrong. He stood there for about three more minutes when the man came back with a tired look on his face. "What can I do for ye, zir." The man had an unmistakable accent, but Jason didn't really noticed. "I'd like to rent a room and could ye get me some coffee, sir?" The man wiped his brow off with his apron and said, "I sure can, wait here please." Jason sat and waited. He looked around and saw alot of rough looking people, but just when he didn't think anybody worse looking could step in, someone did. A man who was scarred and tattoed all over. He had a scowl on his face and looked kind of angry. Jason turned back around and said lowly to himself, "I wonder who let all the ne'er do wells out." He smirked to himself and sat patiently waiting for the man to return.

[Moritz Erichsen]

The inn was very busy that night, and Moritz was only waiting for the showgirls to show up in the pub; he knew his Privates hardly made jokes about such things, not when they spent half the time hallucinating over pairs of legs tightly looped around their necks and seductive voices breathing over their ears words they wanted to hear, sweet nothings, romantic incantations, inspirational poems to encourage them and boost their morale but, really, when it came down to it, animal instincts overpowered any such romantic affairs now being drowned in the shrine of carnal exposure. And who could ever blame them? For the time being the only music heard over the pub was Edith Piaf’s song, partly swallowed by the general chatter, the sailors now bickering over whose cargo had received more export from Archangel, and who had the larger biceps. The women laughed continuously in their shrill little voices, noises really, hitting Moritz’s sensitive chords mercilessly, and try as he might, it was impossible to ignore the ugly sounds surfacing their filthy red-painted lips at the old man’s vulgarities. They were foolishly battering their eyelashes and progressively raising their frill dresses higher for his viewing pleasure, slowly beginning to reveal the lace of their black stockings, torn at several parts by cats or angry costumers. “Oh, dear Mr. Downridge! You really shouldn’t have!” they stupidly shrieked in saccharine sounds that could crack bones and melt steel. “You are such a fine man, indeed! Half of Somerset has heard of your sense of humour and, might I add, your outstanding perception in human affairs! Wasn’t he the one to state, Agatha, that all this war was a big fat scam? Yes, he was, he was! What a shame really you should have been rejected by the RAF, Mister Downridge! Those fat old slobs know not how to take from the best! I always said you were a fine man indeed, Mr. Downridge! In fact, I was telling my good friend Prudence the other day of how you shot those bloody Krauts in the first war, when you had been sent to France. Oh, do talk to me about France, Mr. Downridge! I daresay it is always such a delight when you speak of France!” and such did the conversation proceed, as would dampen anyone’s hopes of being rid of the company of these ‘ladies’, except ‘dear Mr. Downridge’ who, not only enjoyed all the disgusting attention, but was a man of low moral ground ever since his experiences in The Great War. And the music was still playing.

J’étais une petite fille,
Du moins je le croyais,
Portais des espadrilles,
J’avais encor mes jouets,
Mais un jour dans la rue,
En sortant de l’école,
Je vois un inconnu
Qui, à mes pas, se colle.

Moritz grimaced, and then looked over at the bar table. “Hey bar wench!” he called out to her in a hostile rasp, his voice hoarse and bitter, impatient and brusque, words uttered in a German-accented tone, with subtle touches of Scottish intonation. “Where’s that fucking beer?” The blonde woman was not disheartened by such a demeanour, for she had evidently become accustomed to all moods and behaviours from the vast numbers of soldiers who came upon the pub, deciding that facing everything with a cheerful smile and undaunted attitude would not only prevent her from losing her spirit and thus making a ruckus of her own, but also – perhaps – import a small portion of that side into the officers, lest they should forget their moodiness.

“Coming up, good Sir!” she chimed in a singsong, whilst cleaning the tall glass of beer with a white piece of clothing, and then going over to the beer barrel.

“Yeah, you better …” Moritz muttered to himself, and then cleared his throat loudly, feeling some phlegm inside, which he thoughtlessly swallowed. He noticed a strange appearance of a woman sitting not away from his table, but did not have the chance to examine her as the waitress came over to his table with his beer and a large smile.

“There you go!” she chimed, and placed it upon the wooden table, rubbing her hands on the white apron around her waist.

“Sod off,” Moritz responded briskly without even looking at her, and at this she actually looked at him shocked, and observably embittered. He absolutely could not tolerate with her jovial disposition and the musical sound of her voice – or the fact that she was a woman. He would gain nothing from her physically (for he did not want to), and thus she was useless to him. It really was a simple as that. She turned away with attitude and muttered something indistinctive about an ‘arse’; the costumer who made the next order, needless to say, was responded to with an appropriate bark. Meanwhile, Moritz turned to look at the mysterious woman.

Un monsieur me suit dans la rue.
J’en avais rêvé bien souvent
Et fus d’avance tout émue.
Qu’est-ce qui va s’passer maint’nant ?
Quand on m’a suivie dans la rue,
J'pensais que ça s’rait épatant.
Quand on m’a suivie dans la rue,
Ce n’était qu’un vieux dégoûtant.

Le cœur a ses mystères :
Je suis prise de passion
Pour un homme, un gangster
Qu’a d’la conversation
Et quand je vais chez lui,
Il faut faire attention.
Je sais qu’on le poursuit
Pour le mettre en prison.

Though she had a hood over her head to cover herself, he could see the coal-black, raven strands of hair protruding from her forehead and those sparkling hazel and dewy large eyes that seemed too cunning, intelligent and guarding for their own sake. She did not seem to be very tall, and from the dim light falling on her he observed that her facial complexion was darker that the one of the promiscuous girls drooling over Mr. Downridge. Though she was now not looking at him, he had caught her previous glimpses, and was curious. He could tell it was a woman from the posture and the outline of her lips, upon which the fell old chandelier’s light hanging overhead. He drank from his beer and gulped down the liquid, as he then took a deep drag from his cigarette, not uninterested any longer, for he had taken to observing this creature he did not know of. He was, in way, acting like a small child, responding to anything new in his surroundings with interest and utmost observance. Of course, he was still waiting for the showgirls to arrive, but for the time being – and until they made an appearance – he would kill time like this. Those black eyes seemed to be scanning her over like X-rays, noticing every small detail from her outfit to the little dust on the left-hand side of her clothes. He was now a little child, and she was his new toy.

Voilà qu’on me suit dans la rue,
Gros soulier qui marche en criant.
Pourvu qu’on n’m’ait pas reconnue.
J’ai peur que ce soit des agents.
J’enfile des rues et des rues.
Mon Dieu, ça devient effrayant.
On me suit toujours dans la rue.
Ils approch’nt leurs mains en riant.

Je suis tombée malade
Dans un grand lit tout blanc,
Le cœur en marmelade,
Mon pauvre front brûlant.
Un prêtre me demande :
“Voulez-vous le Bon Dieu ?”
Moi je préfère attendre,
Des fois que j’irais mieux.

After almost half a quarter had passed with him simply staring at the mysterious woman, he finally stood up, gulped down more beer, his eyes closed and his head tilting backwards with a slight arc as he swallowed, and then went over to her table. Without a word, he noisily pushed back the chair opposite her, thudding across the wooden floor that immediately creaked, and sat himself complacently there, his cigarette shoved through his mouth while he was absent-mindedly searching for something inside the pockets of his military uniform. His movements became fiercer as he could not find what he wanted, and then checked the pockets of his pants. There was the bugger. He threw the lighter on the table with a ringing sound, and then pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his other pocket; he threw that on the table as well. He pulled one cigarette and lit it, while he extinguished the one in his mouth on the ashtray. All this was done wordlessly, and without making eye contact with the woman. He was casual, normal, and uninterested of the fact she was a complete stranger and that he was perhaps pervading upon her privacy. After all, little did he care. Now smoking from the new cigarette, he finally spoke. “You looking at me ‘cause I’m a handsome devil, or I have something stuck on my nose?” he asked her, the foreign accent evident through his tone. But he did not look at her; instead his gaze was fixed upon the other man sat a few tables away from them (he had caught an Irish accent when he had spoken before to the waitress). Through following his gaze she could see he also meant that man as well. In reality, Moritz was mocking. He plainly wished to know why she had been stealing covert glances at him, for he did not believe himself to be handsome; he did not believe himself to be ugly. He, simply enough, did not believe anything regarding his outward appearance; he only cared about his actions and survival. Beauty, especially in females, was something people like Moritz Erichsen could, sadly, never learn to appreciate.

Voilà qu’on me suit dans la rue.
Les hommes saluent, déférents.
C’est pour moi, j'l'aurais jamais cru,
Que les femmes se signent en passant.
Comme je passe à travers les rues,
J’arrête la vie et le mouv’ment.
Tout le monde me suit dans la rue,
Tout en noir, à mon enterr’ment.

Song translation

[Leeroy Atherton]

So the entire inn hadn't been rented out. The accent of the man was inaudible over the crowd, but from the looks of it, he was just another soldier looking for a place to sleep. That is, if he hadn't come just to get drunk, and then sleep off the effects of the alcohol in the room above. Leeroy watched the man carefully, a sense of familiarity coming over her; had she seen that man before? Or was he just another soldier visiting Burnham-on-Sea, come to see the legendary mudflats, or maybe the country's smallest pier? Both were worthy of a visit, if one was into seeking out the famous places of Britain.

The feeling of being watched did not come on suddenly, but instead, began as pin pricks, crawling up Leeroy's back the cold fingers of a creeping hand. When it reached her head, it slipped into the back of her mind, a nagging feeling of turning her head to see who was there. She did so, and her eyes - straddling the border between brown and hazel - fell upon the tattooed man again. His dark eyes, hard and cold like a cobblestone road, were examining her, and Leeroy frowned slightly. What was he looking at? He didn't know her - to him, she was just another customer, another woman sitting at a table in a room filled with hooligans. It was probably best to just ignore his looks for now.

Clasping her hands together, Leeroy glanced around the bar area, then rose a hand to gently massage the bridge of her nose. All the smoke, noise and light was already getting to her - and the footsteps of the stranger approaching helped not to lessen her headache. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at the man, watching him soundlessly for a moment. Now that he was closer, Leeroy could see he looked as brutish as he sounded, the detailed tattoos and numerous scars upon his body matching one who would abuse a chair so happily. The thing was scraped across the floor like some child's awkward plaything!

As soon as the man sat down, Leeroy's glance went elsewhere, her eyes scanning the room once more, her hand going back to massaging her nose. Leeroy spoke not a word until the man said, "You looking at me ‘cause I’m a handsome devil, or I have something stuck on my nose?" with a voice roughly Scottish, but with a stronger, more foreign touch to it. West Country, perhaps?

"Handzome?" Her head turned towards him, her look neutral, with only a touch of disinterest in her eyes. "Yer lookz bizt zomething that bizt none o' my buiznezz, good zir. I be juzt lookin' around."

To him, the accent might sound almost German, but in reality, it was not so. Burnham-on-Sea was in the aforementioned West Country territory, and thus, its inhabitants had a most unique manner of speech. The remnants of the voices of their ancestors, the Anglo-Saxons who had come from what was now Germany, their German-sounding words and archaic sentence structures was often stereotyped as the talk of some idiot, carrot-eating farmer. He probably couldn't hear it, for there were so many voices and accents in the room with the party, but almost all of the staff had that same accent.

[Jason McCarthy]

Disgust is all Jason could feel. He didn't like the scene of men gorging themselves in women and booze. It all made him very uncomfortable. His want for to leave became more and more, but he knew this was the only inn open at such an hour. So he sat feeling very awkwardly in his seat at the bar. He scanned the place out of boredom looking this way and that. The more he looked the more disgust filled him. After looking to his right towards the seating area his eyes wondered to the left where he saw a tall, violent looking man approaching a hooded young lady seated at a table. Jason watched intently as the man walked over and thrusted the chair back. It looked as if the man was already half drunk even though he had just walked in a few minutes ago by the way he moved about. The man said something and the woman replied. Jason obviously couldn't hear what they said due to all of the noise but, before he could watch any further the bartender came back. "Alright, zir. Here ye go. One cup o' coffee and a key to room zeventeen. I hope ye like yer coffee black." He said with a smile. "Aye. Thank ye sir. That'll be how much?" Jason asked. "Ye can wait 'till the morning to pay me. I have me hands full at the moment." Jason was surprised by the answer. Most of the time everything had to be paid for in advance or at the time of purchase. "Well thank ye again, sir." Jason said politely and started walking off to his room.

The room was barren. The only furniture was a bed, a desk, one chair, and a small dresser up to his knees. Good 'nuff for me. Jason thought to himself. He took off his medical bag and laid it on the bed. He then took his Bible out of it and sat at the desk. He started reading Psalm 23. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

When Jason stopped reading he started to pray. "Christ be with me, be after me, be before me, and be at my right and left hand. May everything I do be for Christ. Amen." He said everything out loud because he could barely hear himself think with all of the noise coming from downstairs. " I hope I can get some rest." He said after he heard something made of glass smash on the ground.

[Moritz Erichsen]

Moritz continued smoking from his Bolshevik cigarette, drinking his beer, and looking at the Irish man who was sat a few tables away from him and appeared to be staring directly towards the Kraut, perceptibly not interested in hiding his action. Then, for the first time since he had joined the woman’s table, he turned his head sideways, the cigarette shoved through his mouth, and looked at her. It was peculiar meeting her gaze from such a close proximity and even realizing that she was far from the prostitutes swooning over Mr. Downridge, far from the ridiculous pathetic little creatures that knew only of their social affairs and commonly known chores, for she gave off an aura of being stern and perhaps forbidding. Now that he was closer he could make more of her facial outline, the sharp points around her face that depicted a character not to be trifled with, a small nose and more intensity of eyes mingled with sheer curiosity. That night they were both creatures wondering about the other’s very being. He opened his mouth to say something to her, but a prostitute shrieked with laughed at something particularly ‘funny’ Mr. Downridge said. Moritz’s lips tightened and the muscles in his face tautened, all courtesy of his very easy temper, long and white fingers tightly applying more pressure against the large pint of beer.

“Oh, Mr. Downridge, I declare you are the jolliest man I have ever had the pleasure of meeting!” some Agatha chimed along in a way that made one’s hair curl, aside from all the trauma of listening to such an intelligent conversation of course. Then, all the girls around the grey-haired and balding man proceeded to laugh once more, and Moritz’s lack of patience had to intervene.

“Do you think I can get a bit of quiet here! I am trying to have a fucking conversation!” Moritz barked at them hoarsely, his eyebrows furrowed and his face distorted into an expression of hatred and anger, utter disdain and purest disgust, but in reality he had been painfully kind; he usually resorted to immediate action and never actually made an attempt to solve the issue like any civilized person would, but then again the man was a monster. However, all the beer was dulling his senses and loosening him up more, to the unanticipated point where such a ‘warm’ response would be addressed to those foul little ants. The women all turned to look at him, shocked and astonished, but offended at the same time, knitting what once used to be eyebrows and now was a pair of lines revoltingly drawn with a black pencil; they frowned and pouted at him.

“What’s his problem?” one woman whispered, and the others immediately backed that question. “Yes, what’s his problem, Mr. Downridge? That was quite rude –”

At their lowering of voices, Moritz turned back to the woman, not having forgotten for sure her weird but not unfamiliar accent. It sounded German, but of course Moritz was so proficient in history and geography that he never linked it to the fact she hailed from the West Country, once home of the German-bred Anglo-Saxons and their fancy accents. ‘Good Sir’. What was it about this inn wanting to appear ecstatic and nice? That phrase was too disturbing for him to tolerate with, and so he ignored it, more interested in the woman’s identity. He thought she could be working undercover for a company to check the inn’s health conditions for the costumers; she would not be the only one. She definitely had the attitude. “So,” he continued, cleared his throat and swallowed the phlegm once more, drinking from his beer to let it go down his throat, as he took a drag from the smoke next, “why the fuck were you looking at me?” he asked her bluntly, but then a round of laughing shrieks surrounded the room, and Moritz had had it. He put the glass on the table with a noisy, echoing thud, and stood up, shoving his clenched fists into the pockets of his uniform. “Excuse me,” he said in a mocking tone, the ‘kindness’ of tone obviously used for scorn. He went over to Downridge’s table and leaned over to him, his hands across the table and hovering above him like a Reaper.

“Wotcher,” he said in the same mocking tone, through gritted teeth, obviously angry. “I’m Moritz Erichsen – ”

“Aye, I know you – ”

“You know me, eh?” Moritz abruptly cut the man off, leaning over him threateningly. “Well, that’s bad, mate. That’s actually very bad for you, so you’re in deep shit now. See, you got no fucking excuse for not keeping these shit cunts of yours quiet.”

The man was shocked and speechless, whereas the girls let out a noise of deep disdain and astonishment, their filthy mouths opened wide comically, while looking from Downridge to Erichsen, and from Erichsen to Downridge. “Mr. Downridge!” one of them called to him in an offended tone. “You surely won’t allow him to talk to us like that!”

“Mr. Downridge,” Moritz told him louder and angrily, leaning closer towards him so that the man was almost devoured by the other’s sheer bulk, “your birds haven’t stopped fucking rabbiting since I came here! Now will you shut them up, so I can carry on my conversation with the lady there,” he asked, motioning his hand over to where the woman was sat over, speaking of her by such a title in an obviously derogatory tone, “whom apparently no one knows of?”

“You can’t talk to him like that – ” one of the girls protested indignantly, but a second later screamed, as all of them did, when Moritz yanked the old man’s head and crushed it against the wooden table, all the while almost funnily escorted by the ambient of Edith Piaf’s jovial song. “Oh good Lord!” they shouted and covered their mouths with their hands, stumbling backwards from the table, and looking at each other, shaken and perplexed, uncertain of what they should do.

“See!” Moritz barked at him, and crushed the man’s head against the table three time in a row; the old man tried to fight, fight for his decency, fight for old time’s sake, but the way Moritz had grabbed him, he could never overpower him, his long and strong fingers strongly gripped around the man’s neck and pressing tightly against his rotten carotid, feeling the mouldy bones soon cracking from the pressure. “See what those fucking birds are doing! Now do they ever, sodding, ever zip their holes!” he growled at him from above, and then trounced the man’s head on the table again, the disgusting ‘crack’ from the breaking of jaw enough to give the Lieutenant enough satisfaction.

[Leeroy Atherton]

"Ye be happenin' to be in my line of zight," replied Leeroy, the tone of her voice a cool one. "I bizt obzervant, naturally."

The rough man went to say something back, but was cut off by shrill laughter from one of the nearby tables. Where his eyes went, Leeroy's went as well; one of the older soldiers - most likely the organizer of the party - was guffawing heartily, surrounded by young women on all sides. The Romanichal's brow furrowed, and she was tempted to shake her head, for she recognized some of the girls as local folk. Even worse, they weren't more than eighteen or twenty; just how had they ended up entertaining some balding, fat Gorgio at some dodgy midnight gathering? They, and even some of their elder sisters, worked in the fields alongside Leeroy! Where had their shame gone?

"Excuse me," sneered the man. A small part of Leeroy was tempted to retort, but she held her tongue and didn't bother. Instead, she watched the angered Lieutenant - she had seen the diamond insignia upon his shoulders - like a hawk, and remained wordless.

~| (o) | ~ ~| (o) | ~

Lucas had had a stressful night so far. Ten drunks, a few unruly women and several complaints from the guests above had had the veteran running around like a headless chicken. He and Aaron, the other of the two door supervisors in the bar, were about to call it a night, wondering how long the blasted party was to last into the morning. It would have been easier if they hadn't been understaffed; one of the spare door supervisors was out of town, and Leeroy - well-known as the inn's owner's right-hand girl - was on sick leave. Stricken with a cold and a nasty concussion, the woman was in bed, safe at her house, recovering as well as she could. She was a strong girl, that Leeroy - a week or two more of rest, and she'd probably be back on her feet, dragging drunkards out of the bar with ease.

Yelling and profanities caught Lucas's attention, and his head quickly turned to one of the large tables at the end of the room. There, a rather irritated, rather angry-looking soldier was berating the party's organizer, one Lieutenant Edward Downridge, for not keeping the girls around him "quiet". Every muscle in Lucas became taut, ready for any sort of conflict; he could tell by the enraged man's body language that something was about to happen.

And, it did, with the man grabbing Lieutenant Downridge's head and slamming it face-first on the table, repeatedly. Lucas bolted forward, and with hands outstretched to grab, bellowed, "'EY! 'E BE KNOCKIN' IT OFF!"

Before he could pull the pair apart, though, a hooded figure rose from a table at the far side of the room. She stepped forward - the silhouette was definitely a woman's - and quickly reached for the wrists of the man, attempting to grab them. If she did so, the woman would squeeze the man's wrists tightly until he let go, cutting off the circulation to his hands so that they would loosen up. One foot would try and pin down one of the man's feet, the other placed further back, so that the woman's legs formed a triangular shape. It was meant for support, no doubt, just in case the angry, tattooed fellow tried to shove her back; she'd have a better time holding her ground, compared to if her body was perfectly, vertically aligned.

"Calm down," she said quietly. "'E's learnt 'is lesson, don't be killin' 'im."

[Jason McCarthy]

Jason jumped as he heard a shrill scream from downstairs. He almost fell off of the stiff bed where he had just laid his head." Dad was right. Men of Medicine never get sleep." He said with some disgust. The shreik was ear-piercing. He knew that the reason why there was scream was definately not a good reason. So he quickly pulled himself up and threw on his boots. He didn't feel the need to put on his jacket for he was only going down the stairs. When he stepped out of the room he heard a yell. This time it wasn't a female, but a male. He was yelling profane words and sounded almost animal-like in nature. Jason jogged to the stairs then rushed down them as fast as he could.

When Jason rounded the corner he had just caught the last crack of one man smashing anothers into a table. The victim was flailing about, attempting to fight back, but could do nothing against the other man's brutal strength. Withing a second another man joined in. The man looked like he could actually stand a chance against the tall brute. Before the tattoed man could react a hooded figure moved to him and grabbed his arm. It amazed Jason, not only was this person smaller, but a woman. By now Jason had made his way all the way down the stairs and only an arms length away from the brawl if help be needed. He heard the quiet voice of the woman speak up. "Calm down, 'E's learnt 'is lesson, don't be killin' 'im." Jason stood watching ready to help if needed. The next move was for the brutish man to make. Jason was hoping it would be a good decision.

[Moritz Erichsen]

Moritz hit the old man’s face against the wooden table again and again, ignoring distant screams that demanded of him to stop (as though he would bear such reasoning) until he felt a pair of strong arms pulling at him, and he immediately – curiously – turned around to face whomever had the audacity and daring to actually try and stop him. He was unpleasantly taken aback, for it was her, the mysterious woman, and with him being a sexist, this was actually (and quite obviously) much worse; to be pushed away by a woman was something unthinkable to him and, indeed, the morality of men not hitting women was absent from his perspective. He for seconds looked at her curiously, not quite grasping at the beginning the concept and reality that she had just grabbed him from the wrists and prevented the old boozer (Lieutenant indeed!) from kicking the bucket in such an ‘unworthy’ manner such as this. She seemed to be knowing how to appropriately keep herself in a fight, but he would not even consider so much as letting her off the hook. Her fingers were gripped around his wrist tightly, and that contact was enough to stimulate a response out of him immediately and with no hesitation. With a smooth move (and almost fascinating realising she was actually muscular and unlike any other woman he had come across), while she was still holding him, he reached his arm upwards and grabbed her neck, for he was considerably stronger than she was, and pushed her backwards within moments, pinning her against the wall, thoughts of the veteran completely wiped off his twisted mind, now giving his full attention and concentration on the woman. He was like a little child, which responded accordingly to anything new that appeared within their surroundings. Truth be told, he was enjoying this – receiving such reception by a woman, for he would be made to feel strong and invincible as he throttled her (something which came from his childhood years, during which he always resented being made feel weak as he was scouring the streets for food and chased by the social services, unable to ever find a proper lodging) and as he would teach her a good old lesson on how intolerable he was with such ‘inappropriate’ female reactions. He believed in the patriarchal society and that women needed to be stomped in times of disseverance to clarify exactly what their position in society and in the world was. He believed man was always to be placed above in the hierarchy and women were only required for the purposes of reproduction, as cold as that sounded. He did not believe in love, for he had received none; and he did not believe in true spiritual contact, for he had never sought one.

“I’ll calm down when I fucking want to,” he rasped at her, and though she was quite naturally fighting back in a most fierce manner – in a way he had never experienced from a woman before, and was even taking pleasure from it, which explained the sly smirk lurking in the corner of his foul lips – he was still maintaining a firm grasp around her neck, his long and thin fingers looped around and pressing against her carotid, controlling himself from simply crushing it: like a small child that loved to play around with fish by grasping them from the end and pulling them out of water and then back inside and watch them slowly suffer, so with the woman, he wished to stare at her flailing about like a helpless fish. She was gripping him tightly from his wrists still, but the grasp around her neck became persistent, engaged as they were in a physical fight that had been unpredictable. Life was like that. “And I’ll kill him if I want to – and I’ll decide if he’s learned his lesson,” he growled at her angrily, and then a devious smile overtly appeared on his mouth, his teeth gritted at her and satisfied from the power he was thus given, “or if he hasn’t.” He stared at her openly and intently, not bothering to hide the touches of self-satisfaction now palpably surfacing across the deviously distorted face. “And if you try and stop me again, I’ll cut your throat myself,” he expressed, and it was obvious he was far from being crushed by the idea of her becoming a rotten corpse. There was something about decomposing bodies that gave him life and a purpose – the realization he was strong. That he was alive.

The music had stopped, and the people were at this point staring silently at the scene, some frowning, several others showing their disapproval and fear simultaneously, but most of them not daring engage themselves into that situation, instead deciding to be mere witnesses into this most unfortunate ‘affair’ and state of events. Black sensations went up and down Moritz’s spine as he thrived on the inside by the awfully vivid fantasies of watching her fight a losing battle, just like a fish was waggling about in despair at the captor’s cruel sadism and trying to breathe in life, but it knew, unfortunately, like everyone ultimately knew, its moments were bleak and numbered. He was of course enjoying the moment, but he was at the same time – and curiously enough – extremely angered by her spunk to forward such a reaction. He came closer towards her, his grip firm and unyielding, like steel restraining her breath, and immobilized her by pressing his legs against hers, placing one around her foot to send a clear image of how he would not exactly appreciate disobedience. “You’re one feisty little bird, aren’t you?” he said through gritted teeth, and then rasped with a short laugh.

[Leeroy Atherton]

Leeroy was no soldier. Despite the muscles she had gained in the fields, from working the doors and the fights in her youth, she was helpless as she was pushed back. Pinned to the wall, the man's strong fingers gripping her neck like a vice, she gasped as almost all of her air intake was cut off. In a moment of panic, her body stiffened and Leeroy kicked out wildly, eyes wide with fear. As a young girl, she had been choked once or twice before in a brawl gone awry, and the feeling of slowly suffocating beneath a crushed throat was terrifying for her. Somehow, she managed to keep her grip on his wrists, but it weakened due to the sudden lack of oxygen.

"I’ll calm down when I f****** want to," said the man in a scratchy voice. For a man of the military, it seemed his voice didn't tolerate much yelling. "And I’ll kill him if I want to - and I’ll decide if he’s learned his lesson, or if he hasn’t. And if you try and stop me again, I’ll cut your throat myself."

The threat did not faze Leeroy. Being a door supervisor, threats were part of the job; unruly drunks, catty women, temperamental men and the odd soldier all had made countless threats. They had also called her dozens of names, which had helped to densensitize Leeroy to most insults directed her way, if the man wanted to add that in. The only thing she feared was being strangled by this man; she didn't want to die like that, going out at the hands of some idiot with a foul temper and matching choice of words. Or better yet, she would prefer not to die at all. This was also one of the reasons why Leeroy didn't go walking out on the mudflats; if one got stuck while the tide was coming in, one was done for.

"You’re one feisty little bird, aren’t you?" said the man as he leaned in, pinning Leeroy to the wall with his own body, wrapping one foot around one of hers, his legs touching her skirt. To a more conservative Rom, especially with the individuals of some of the other clans, it was one of the filthiest things for a man to do. Leeroy felt her blood boil, and was quite tempted to bite the man on the nose - alas, she couldn't move her face forward to do so, for her neck was still in his grip. The disgusting smell of alcohol, cigarette smoke and unbrushed teeth made her stomach churn as he breathed on her; it made her sense of helplessness feel worse.

Be pulling it together, Leeroy! said a voice weakly - but still loudly - in the back of her mind. Be rememberin' the old vights...juzt be calmin' down, calm down....

As best she could, she exhaled, beginning to feel dizzy. Not only was her windpipe being squeezed shut, but her head had hit the wall with more force than it should have - something someone recently concussed was wide to avoid having done to oneself. It turned out to be both a curse and a blessing, though, when she began to go limp, gently releasing her grip on the soldier, ceasing her struggles and letting her chin fall. Her eyes drooped, and to one, it might have looked like she was about to go unconscious - which, truth be told, Leeroy felt she was. Breathing ragged and slightly shaking, she would wait for the man to release her, allowing her to slump down to the floor like a dead body. Hopefully then, he would turn his back to finish what he started, and find his victim gone, or give Leeroy enough of a chance to get him under restraint.

Meanwhile, Lucas had darted to the nearby phone, and began to call for the authorities.

[Jason McCarthy]

Before Jason could react. The man turned around at screamed at the woman who he had talked to a few minutes before. Every word was spewing from is mouth in blind fury. The devil took her by the throat and slammed the young woman up against the wall. Jason stood there with his mouth agape for a few seconds. Just so he could contemplate what was happening. The foul words the tattooed man yelled appalled Jason, but it was nothing new to him. He always heard such foul language while men were in agony from their wounds. Jason caught one very sadistic threat. "And if you try and stop me again, I’ll cut your throat myself." Jason was done when he heard this.

Thoughts went shooting through Jason's mind. What should I do? What should I do? He had just finished his last thought when he felt the hilt of the knife that was issued to him for a 'just in case' basis. He slid it out of it's sheath. Then the thought occured to him. I save lives. I don't take them. So he slid it back into the sheath. But he had to do something about all of this. He knew the man was probably stronger than him, but Jason knew exactly where to hit to bring him down. He hoped so anyway. When he had made up his mind which took maybe one minute he walked toward the man. He was so preoccupied he had no idea Jason was walking up behind him. Jason pulled his fist back and slammed it into the man's ribs with all of his might. After the blow was landed he took a step back.Next'll be his jaw if need be.

[Moritz Erichsen]

And she was slowly crumbling. The stench of tobacco and beer he breathed into her mouth was enough to make her scatterbrained, other than the stalwart and unyielding grasp he held around her neck. Like a small, defenceless animal that knew not how to escape the captor’s fangs, so the woman was incapacitated of wriggling away from him; and he loved the feeling she was slowly crumbling under his grapple, the fact that her exhaling had become as difficult as her inhaling, as air was suppressed into the oesophagus and could not reach her lungs, was because of him. “Oh, yes you are,” he mumbled at her, in response to his own previous question, his breath tingling the nostrils of her nose and the surface of her lips. There was an obliterating sensation as he pinned her against the wall, for any shouting commands, screaming, shrill voices of complaint were completely and utterly reduced to nothing in his ears, his undivided attention almost religiously offered to the woman in front of him, the flapping goldfish, the incarcerated nightingale singing its dying song, the little white-striped tiger screaming as the circling natives were pointing their shotguns at it. They wanted the fur, and Moritz wanted the pleasure. He could feel the muscles of the back of her ankles tautening as he had tackled her, and her jaw had hardened considerably, but the blood had vanished off her face, which had at this point turned a ghostly white shade. “How much more do I need to do to make my meaning clear?” he whispered hoarsely, and only several seconds passed before he felt something hit against his back. He smiled at the woman, and then released her immediately, leaving her to drop on the floor like a sack of potatoes, as he wheeled immediately around, and for the first time registering what had been happening in the pub while he had been pre-occupied with the ‘lady over there’.

The three prostitutes had vanished from the room through the backdoor, used by the inn’s proprietor to vacate those who wished not to witness trouble and involve themselves with the authorities; the sailors were, on the contrary, with keen interest looking at the entire scene as though they were watching a particularly good movie, absolutely forgetting the game of cards, and the rest of the people looked some positively shocked, others disapproving, and with a small portion of them (mostly mere Privates in the army) appearing mildly entertained. Moritz, then, came face to face with a man who was shorter than him, and thinner than him, and less muscular than him – Moritz laughed with a bark. “Wrong move, mate,” he informed him, and then – without a warning – he grasped the Irish man’s right arm in a smooth move – the one Moritz assumed he had used to strike him with – and then forcefully made it curve from behind and sideways, watching how pained the other’s man expression would develop into, as he continued with the grasp. He then released the man’s arm while at the same time he punched him on his jaw, a disgusting ‘crack’ heard throughout the room (several people gasped) and stared at him as he slightly stumbled backwards. But then an expression of sheer rage consumed the Lieutenant’s facial features as he looked at the Irish. “You want to hit me, you –” he rasped, proceeding to throw a stream of vulgar invective at the man. “You make sure my back isn’t turned, you sodding coward,” he barked at him angrily.

[Leeroy Atherton]

The sharp crack was unmistakable of breaking bone. Leeroy's head spun as she tried to make sense of things; by the sounds of it, someone had come up and struck the brute strangling her. With the tattooed man's attention now on something else, the young woman took a few moments to steady her breathing, coughing a few times as she tried to get her head straight.

As foul, angry words were spewed, the Romanichal's mental gears turned. So, if anyone wanted to land a blow, they'd have to do it face to face? Such a fact could work to Leeroy's advantage. If the man was struck in the eyes, nose or mouth well enough, it would incapacitate him almost instantly, and allow someone to pin him onto the floor. Then, should the authorities arrive, it wouldn't be too hard for the tattooed ne'er-do-'ell to be sent to the nearest jail. Or better yet, sent to have the fight beaten out of him by his superiors in the military. Either one would work nicely; she just had to figure out how to get from Point A to Point B without much more trouble.

On the other side of the bar, Lucas had hung up the phone, and was now sprinting towards the ill-tempered soldier. Without missing a beat, he tried to tackle the man, attempting to pin one arm behind the soldier's back and get the soldier's head in a lock. If he succeeded, he would crash to the floor, sending people jumping back as he smacked into a table on the way down. That was one of the downsides of the bar's planning; the aisles between the tables could be a bit small, where all the smallest tables were bunched together in neat rows.

"THAT BE ENOUGH, ZIR!" Lucas would yell, determined not to let the man escape. Leeroy, meanwhile, would give herself a few more minutes to recover, and then, slowly stand up, much to the surprise of some of the crowd. One hand grabbed the nearest table, something to support herself on as she went up, and she breathed slowly. There was now the definite beginnings of a migraine, and she had to massage her temples for a minute, before quickly striding over to the man with the broken arm. She was surprised to feel that she recognized him; the Romanichal had seen the poor sir somewhere before, but couldn't put her finger on it.

[Jason McCarthy]

The pain was excruciating he felt a pop in his shoulder. He made a small grunt so he wouldn't yell as he stumbled back. Before he could really face his opponent again he was struck in the jaw by what felt like a brick. He felt yet another crack, but this time it was from his mouth clamping shut and his teeth knocking together. His eyesight went black as he stumbled back and fell to the floor where his back hit the bar table so he wasn't laying flat-out. He had no idea what had just happened except for the fact that he had just hit a tall Scot in the ribs with his fist. He couldn't remember what had happened.

Seconds later it clicked. Jason had come up behind the animal-like man who had a young woman in a choke-hold with one hand and slammed his fist into the man's side. After that the man whirled around and grabbed Jason's arm and popped it of it's socket. He then connected a fist with Jason's jaw. While sitting there he blinked a few times. He started to get up putting his weight on his right arm. He fell back down and let a breathe escape him in agony. He sat back down and held his arm slightly. My...arm... He thought. The pain was unbearable. With his other hand he reached up and felt his face. He felt blood coming from his nose. He wiped it off of his face and made another attempt at standing up. This time he succeeded by using his left arm and steadying himself on the bar-table. He was curious how long he had been there and what became of that brutish Scot.

When Jason rose to his feet he saw the young woman. This time her hood was back and she was upright. He noted that she was slightly familiar, but lost the thought quickly because of the pain he felt in his temples and his right shoulder. He looked over to see the tattooed Scot, angry as ever and screaming at someone...or something new. He just couldn't tell.