Freehold (slang, n.): A territory occupied (often illicitly) by Nocturni unaffiliated with the Court. While the Royal Nocturnal Charter of 1075 (reaffirmed in 1215, 1535, 1707, and 1801) grants the Court sole legal authority over supernatural affairs in England, locations with minimal law enforcement presence or uniquely strong ethnic, religious, and local ties are often usurped by Shorn, who might push the populace to disregard the Court and British rule in favour of ‘their’ Nocturni.
Historically associated with the ‘Unbound’ movement and their control over working and lower-class districts, the modern Freehold has since devolved into a criminal pseudo-state where boss ‘Freeholders’ direct gangs of 5-30 Nocturni to traffic contraband, extract ‘protection’ rackets, offer predatory credit, and compete for networks, contacts, products, etc. from rival mortal or immortal gangs. For decades, the Court’s Reeves waged an aggressive campaign to remove such elements from our cities; however, since the Accords of 1985, RoAS Wynter, in the hope of easing local tensions, has pursued a more conciliatory and reintegrative policy.
Before entering a Freehold, new members of the Court must obtain a Travel License signed by their Keeper and are encouraged to read all relevant guidelines about the Freehold(s) they visit as posted by the nearest Reeve’s Office. All Freeholds are assigned a Risk Assessment Score of 1-5, factoring past incidents, local crime rates, historic affiliation with the Unbound, and agreements made with local leadership. For ratings of 3 and 4, caution is encouraged; a rating of 5, now rare, designates a Freehold that is actively hostile to Court operatives, and should be avoided at all costs.”
Excerpt from So, You’ve Been Vamped! A Newlydead’s Guide to the Unlife, 2003 Edition, published by the Magistry of the Scáthshiúlóir
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Texas
May 15th, 1851
It’s a slow path up the hilltop. Difficult for both horse and rider.
They’re in the Hill Country. By his reckoning, perhaps a day’s gallop from Austin. It's rough terrain, rocks and brush that always gets his thoroughbred tangled. The sun bakes overhead, always seeming hot and high.
They’ve had to sleep beneath hedges, caves, large trees not already claimed by rattlers. The ranchers aren’t kind. The place is peppered with Germans; Germans with accents still thick from the old country, and minds full of new ideas. New ideas that are rarely tolerant of him.
Or more accurately, his cargo.
The bigwigs thought their new law would calm things down. Red knew better. Laws always make it worse.
The Negro’s quiet, like he’s been the whole time, a rare reprieve from wailing and misery that Red deeply appreciates. The boy’s kept out of trouble, too, which Red appreciates even more. When a big guy like him gets desperate, it usually only ends one way, and that way's not good for his conscience, or his pocketbook. It's not like the men paying ever understand the logistics, after all -- that's what drivers are hired for.
They just know he lost their slave.
The boy was clever. Almost clever enough. Knew that going North ain’t so keen as it was before the Act, that hunters like Red knew the Road, knew the usuals, and could prowl over every hot-spot with dogs and guns and slips of paper. Boy figured that if he was strong enough to pass through Texas, the Cession lands, nobody’d follow him to the Pacific. And in most cases, he'd be right. But he underestimated the desert and underestimated how desperate some folks are to keep strong lads like him.
Apparently, he was his plantation’s strongest worker! Picked two bushels quick as most men pick one. And the kids, oh, the kids, Mister Eddards! They love the way he sings. We just can’t imagine telling them that he’s really, really gone.
Red doesn’t know why they tell him this. Maybe it’s to themselves, to justify his price.
By the time he found the boy, a hundred miles off Bernalillo, whatever strength he had was gone. He was half-starved, too weak to stand, and either bitten by a snake or so fried beneath the heat that he was blubbering and half-delirious. Red didn’t care to find out at that point. His hound had croaked in Lamb County. Made it a real bitch to find him.
He gave water, and food, and found some shade, and allowed the boy three days to recover before he gave the same talk he always does.
“Howdy.” Red always takes off his hat. “Ya know what I am. I know whatcha are. But only one got the law on our sides, so let’s try an’ keep things simple. I’m takin’ ya back ta Texas. Try ta run, an’ I’ll chase ya. Try ta kill me, rob me, an’ I’ll shoot ya first. Yer in my country now, boy, and while ya probably ain’t too fond a’ the country ya jes’ left, I’ll warn ya that things can be a lot less civil when no one’s around to hear our shots.”
The Negro nodded. No pleading or spit or curses. Likely, he was just amazed that Red bothered to save his life.
“Now, normally I’d have ya walk beside my horse like, but ya ain’t in a peachy condition, right?”
“Nossir.”
“So I’m puttin’ ya on Lou’s back. Best prep yerself; she gets bumpy, an’ ya’ll be tied ta her the whole way there. Now, she’s a sweet thing ta me, ya hear? I quite like her. So if ya-”
“If I hurt her, ya shoot me?”
“Yeah.” Red nodded. “Got questions?”
The slave blinks away the sun, and asks, “Why Texas?”
“‘Cause that’s where the Louisiana Marshalls said they’d meet me.”
“Ya’ve gotta name?”
“Josiah. Don’t like knowin’ yer’s.”
“Heh. I bet.” The boy paused, for a moment. “... why ya doin’ this?”
“I’m gettin’ paid.”
“Ya can get paid in lotsa places.”
“Ah. True. Then I'll say it's 'cause there's more cash in hand where the grass dry." He climbs back to his feet. “It's the same reason y'all run. Right?"
It took ten days to ride back, and most of those days were quiet. The boy never complained, always took the food offered, wore the bruises Lou’s back gave him in silence. When there was conversation, it was mostly Red’s, the boy always asking something before they slept. How far he’d been. What critters he’s seen. How many slaves escaped him, and how many he got back. It was always another slave's stories. Never his own. Maybe the boy was contemplative. Maybe he thought he could play the friend. It didn’t matter much to Red, if it kept the boy from trying to run.
But there’s a moment. A moment when the old life comes knocking, and reality hits them bare. It's a moment every hunter dreads, and every hunter is paid for.
This boy's moment comes when he sees three marshalls gathered beneath the hilltop's tree.
“Josiah,” he says. "I-I've got money."
Red sighs. “They’re got more.”
“Ya don’t get it. Them overseers? They’re monsters. The things I see ‘em do… the things ‘ey do ta my sister-”
“Boy.” He quiets down when Red scowls at him. “I know what yer doin’. I know that yer desperate. But ya ain’t gonna win over me with words, or anyone if ya tell them ya abandoned yer sister.”
“This ain’t Christian.” The boy’s breaths turn ragged. “‘Let my people go,’ at’s what Moses said. This ain’t pleasin’ ta God.”
Red lowers his head, so that the cowhide hat covers his face. Him and God have a history. His arm shoots out, clutching the boy, and keeping him pinned while the first marshall, a man with a grey coat and grey beard, trots his gelding down the hill.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He smiles. “If it ain’t Red Eddards.”
“Sam Sampson." The old cowboy nods. “Been a while.”
“Nuevo León, I wanna say.” The marshall dismounts near Lou’s back. “How ya been?”
“Desert took the dog. Almost took the boy.”
“Desert does that.” The Negro pales as Sam lifts his forehead, inspects his eyes. “You Jeremiah?”
Red frowns. He doesn’t like learning their names.
The marshall pulls up the boy’s shirt, scans his back “Scars seem ta match.” With a thrust, he swipes the tan cloth that might’ve once been a left shoe. “An' his little toe’s missin’, too.”
“I’m not goin’.” The boy blinks rapidly, shifting to look at Red. “J-Josiah, sir, please-”
“Boy!" Sam laughs. "Yer talkin’ ta the meanest sonavabitch that ever crossed Santa Anna. I don’t think he’s gonna help ya.”
“We… we can’t. Not Christian, not Christian.” The boy starts fighting his restraints, squirming on the horse. “Ple-”
The marshall yanks him off. There's a yelp. Clear pain. Red sighs again. “Can ya tell the folks back in Baton Rouge ta go easy? Desert ain’t left him in much condition fer punishment.”
“Can’t tell the folks that,” Sam says. “He’s property. It’s the law.”
“Tell ‘em anyway.” Red insists. “Think they’d rather pay me fifteen hundred fer a live one.”
“Fifteen hundred?” The marshall shakes his head. “Good God. Gotta be a third the slave’s worth, who's payin’ that?”
“Times are tough. Abolitionists don’t make the job easy.”
Sam grins. “Reckon you don't mind."
Suddenly, a shift. The boy’s thrown himself from Sam’s grip, stumbling to his knees and then sprinting with all his might.
“Ah, shit!” The marshall shouts.
The Negro tumbles, briefly, before running. Running. Running. Maybe he thinks he can escape. Maybe-
BLAM!
The boy stops. The shot rings. Birds on the trees caw, and Red loads another bullet into his revolver's chamber.
“Don’t make me, boy.”
“I ain’t goin’!” The Negro turns around, but doesn't move. “Ya won’t do it, Josiah! Ya won't shoot!”
Red says nothing. Just pulls back the hammer. Aims it at his heart.
“Damn.” Sam Sampson shakes his head, then slides an envelope onto Red’s thigh, before moving towards the boy. “Stop by when yer back in town. We’ll continue our talk.”
“Sure,” Red says, with no intention of stopping.
As the marshalls clean up, the boy mumbling the whole way through, Red tears through the envelope, counts all the bills. Twenty short, but he expected that. For all their big houses and bigger egos, these folks are always pinching. Sign of the times.
“Josiah!” he hears the boy. “Josiah!”
Red’s already spurred Lou on, making his way back down the hill.
“Red!” The slave stops, for a moment, before he suddenly shouts, much louder. “LOOK AT ME!”
The saddle creaks. It echoes on the wind. The old cowboy turns.
Jeremiah’s face is scratched, dry from the desert and dirt. Red can see the blood on his lip. The furrow in his brows. And deeper, beyond all that, his eyes. Dark eyes that swirl with rage and despair and fear.
The boy practically growls. “Ya don’t get ta walk away!”
But Red can. And does. For now.
Yet he'll remember those words for a long time. Long after the job. Long after the war. Long after Lou and Sam Sampson and Jeremiah are gone.
Those words will live, when all the rest is forgotten.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
London
October 15th, 2004
She’s gotten used to the rain. The shape of its currents, the way it blows in her eyes, the grey, low-hanging clouds. For a bird in London, or anywhere the Sun fights to be seen, one either travels the winds, or gets swept by them. Aisling Finnerty doesn’t get swept.
Not usually.
She moves fast. Too fast for a normal raven, an ornithologist would know, but normal ravens aren’t fuelled by aether, have no greater purpose but shinies and mates and next meals. With a destination in mind - Clapham, the far north - she can move faster than the cars below her.
She’s exhausted. Why? She’s no longer sure. She hasn’t slept. But she doesn’t need sleep, right? She only feels it between spurts, when the Adderall fizzles out and she can’t find the primary schoolers that serve as her supply. A month. A month since they stole her, a fucking month, and no progress made, no storming, no intel, no FUCKING PLAN AT ALL. The Poisoned One they scampered, she’s trying, always trying, she says, but the runes are too tough, she just needs more time!
Maybe Finnerty should stick those pigs she loves so fucking much. Show her what she fucking thinks of fucking time.
Anger. Yes, anger rolls through her thoughts, as seamless as breath. Her birds keep watch, A dozen eyes, every level, and she’s hacked half a hundred CCTV’s, all watching that building. Polyphron. Polyfuck. But does she ever see a Noct? Of the thousands that walk in and out, are any Soteris or his frolicking magical fop? No! Just some dhaoine rosín bitch with so little dirt that her file’s barely half a fucking page! And the other front fails, too. The supply front, the support front, because everything’s a ‘front’ to Red, likes he’s a fucking Maoist halfway to Chengdu, eating the fucking leaves! Harriet had seven caches. Her men cracked five. But what’s the FUCKING POINT when there’s no FUCKING HANDS to hold them!?
Keaton’s out, since he signed that pissboy treaty, and the Unbound, what’s left of it, aren't gonna risk crossing him. Good. Like she wanted that sack of failures, anyway! No, they worked through her turf, the clubs and ashrams and skate parks. The Freeholds that still keep to their own. The Freeholds that still remember their names.
Except she learned the hard way that they hadn't remembered their spines.
Ilford? No shot. ‘Weren’t gonna risk lives for crackheads,’ the fuckers. Edgware? La shukran, habibi! '‘Ey’ll call us terrorists!’ Dench in Peckham had kickbacks. Javi in Elephant joined a cult. And Sri in Southall? Oh, he’d love to join, really, really! But they went to Ilford first, didn’t they? Why would a cow-fucker like him wanna sully himself with the Pakistanis?
Some said it upfront, others pretended, and dawdled about an answer. It always ended the same. She loathed it all - every minute she wastes here is a minute she’s not there. A minute she’s not surveilling. A minute she can’t see. And so she catches up - by micro-dosing and macro-dosing and mega-dosing. The girl won’t leave her thoughts. Red hair. Dimpled smile. It’s a pull Finnerty can’t describe, a pull she burns into rage and indignation and KEEPING HER EYES FUCKING OPEN. There will be a sign. There will be a weakness. You think she wants to close her eyes and hear Harriet’s screams!? Fuck you! FUCK YOU!
They pulled her out of the talks when she came to one, eyes twitching, and called the whole lot ‘Provo fags.’ But why not? If no one will ever say 'yes', why not take them for the fucking laugh?
...
The Jewish Council of London is now much closer to Wembley. It wasn’t always; she remembers when she was younger, still a child, and played tag, or hide-and-seek, or beat-you-with-sticks in the tight alleys where its hall once stood, so close to the Great Synagogue that formed the border of Harav’s kingdom. That building is gone. Lost to the Blitz, like the Synagogue, half of Whitechapel, and the whole kingdom itself, though it took them all years to know it. This new building is large. Extravagant, at least to her. Clean brick and tall windows, the Star of David displayed proudly from a nearby sign. It takes her only two laps to spot, and even less time to descend.
If Red’s asking her to come back, he’s desperate.
If he wants to talk with 'her mortals', he’s desperater.
Eight feet from the ground, she spins. Her aether ignites. She lands on the pavement with clawed feet, caked in scratches and flesh-scales. It’s quiet, quiet in that Wembley way, where there's only the thrum of cars. She splays out her red flannel, borrowed blue jeans, as fancy as Red could make her. Feathers peek out through the buttons, wettened by rain, while Pumblechook and Artful Dodger caw and circle ahead.
Cautious. Protecting.
She hears his boots first, squelching in the puddles, and next his low voice. “No Nance?”
Finnerty chuckles, turns back. “Spyin’. You’se said you wouldn’t remember the names.”
Red sours. He’s dressed a bit like her: jeans, leather jacket, a checkered button-down. “Hard ta forget the one always peckin’ ya.”
“Slander. Nancy's me fookin' gem."
"Yeah. Ya keep sayin'."
Another figure steps forward. His eyes heavy, dark curly hair over a face both pronounced and lean. Finnerty brightens, despite herself. He’s laughing. Holding out her arms.
“Foygl!” He calls out in the old tongue. “Iz eh-”
She slams into him. A tight, squeezing hug, and a slap on his back, to remind him who’s in charge. “Moshe Schrecher. Moshe Schrecher! Iz shoin yoren!”
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He laughs again, and pulls them apart. “Ikh bin keynmol nisht avec! Du-”
“English, please.” Red clears his throat. “Some of us are visitors.”
Schrecher grins at him. He’s old, older than his twenty-something looks, older than any of Aisling’s Lost Boys. He climbed out of Ratcatcher’s nest in the 60's, made a name for himself in Barnet just before it all went to shit. “I'm glad foygl's 'ere! Could have come sooner..."
“It's awkward, seein’ you so ‘igh an’ mighty, when I once fed you dog scraps.”
“Scraps I remember well! Better than half the food ‘ey’s let 'ese fahkin' English eat!” He chuckles to himself, then notes Red’s confusion. “Goyim, goyim, you don’t know ‘is girl. She could make a schverbiter rich as the Koh-i-Noor, but if you’se too slow…” The boy chuckles, clicks his tongue. “Beat 'arder than any hammer I've seen."
She smiles. “You loved the beatin’s.”
“No, no, Goldman loved the fahkin' beatin’s, the poor fahkin' sod. It meant a girl was talkin' to ''im! I ‘ad ovver ways."
He gives Finnerty a wink, and the girl rolls her eyes.
“That’s, uh…” Red shifts. “Glad that’s a happy memory fer ya.”
Finnerty gets serious. “Zenen zey greyt?”
“Neyn,” Schrecher shakes his head. “Zey habn a farshfetigung. Es ken nemen dreysik.”
“Thirty!?” She bares her teeth. “Fookin’ elders! ‘Ow long does it take to get dressed?! ‘Ey wear the same fookin’ clothes every day!"
“‘Ey’s playin’ the game,” he shrugs. “Don’t want you struttin’ ‘round like the old days.”
She looks at him. “When ‘ave I ever strut?”
Schrecher puts his hands in his pockets. Makes a face.
“It ain’t trouble,” Red says. “We can wait.”
“No trouble for you.” Schrecher folds his arms. “But from what I 'ear, it ain't pleasin' her."
Finnerty squints. “‘Ear?”
Schrecher sighs. “[Jayden’s worried],” he says in their tongue.
She growls. “Jayden’s a kvetch!”
“[He says you’se didn’t leave your ‘ouse for ten days.]”
“[Oi, I’m buildin’ a fookin’ database, dumbarse. You fink shit don’t take time?]”
“[‘At’s why you has birds.]”
“[The birds are stupid!]”
“[Aisling, I know ‘is is important, but 'e's bein' real. We know what you looked like when Harav died.]” Her mind gets small. “[An’ it took ten years -]”
“[Shut up! Shut up!]” She gets in his face. “[You two’se wanna get bare on me arse!? You’se can ‘ave your own fookin’ kids!]”
“Alright. Alllright.” Red holds out his hands. “Let’s-”
“Naw, naw. I’m done. Just…” Schrecher steps back. Breathes. “... take care of yourself, foygl. Please. I wish ‘em Slough folks weren’t fahkin’ me. I wanna ‘elp more."
Finnerty lets it slide. “Get us ‘is deal, an’ you’ll be more help ‘an anyone.”
“Mmm,” Red growls. “Sure."
Finnerty turns. Eyebrow cocked. “Really? You too?”
He frowns. “Ain’t gonna feel comfortable takin’ cash from Israel-”
“Israel? ISRAEL!? It’s a lobby group an’ a few Mossad agents! Piss off wiff fookin' Israel. Don’t be pullin’ out the fookin’ Protocols!”
“They’re not our friends, Aislin’.”
“You was quite chummy wiff ‘em forty years ago!”
“'Cause we thought-” Red sighs. A hand over his face. “... If Keaton finds out-”
“-we tell ‘im we took 'eir money so 'ey can’t use it ‘gainst Hezbollah." Her smile's worthless. "He oughta be fookin’ chipper!”
“There’s gotta be less risky options.”
“Yes! An’ ‘ey’re poor! We need the money.”
“We would have had the money if ya had kept yer damn mouth shut!” Red points. “If ya hadn’t walked over every deal we-”
“Every deal? Wiffout me, you’d be chow for Ombras!”
“I’m fully aware! But ya’ve gotta-”
“No! You’ve gotta trust me!”
“How can I do that, when yer not trustworthy!?”
“You can take your hat outta your FOOKIN’ ARSE an’-”
“It’s not good form to shout in front of the stakeholders, you know.”
When Finnerty turns, her face collapses. Another approaches with quiet steps. A soft smile. An umbrella over a red-scarfed head.
“Fi amanillah, Aisling,” Aisha bows. Her eyes glowing, like any Poisoned One’s.
Finnerty’s shoulders have sagged. “Oh, fook.”
“Don’t try,” Red starts. “We already have.”
“No,” Finnerty frowns. “Aisha, you can’t-”
“Why not?”
Finnerty’s eyes flick aggressively to the hijab.
“I've always been fascinated with the faiths of the world.” Rain reverberates from her umbrella. “Inshallah, if there is something to learn, a fear of judgement won't hide it from me.”
“Oh, you’ll learn, alright.” Aisling nods. “A real quick fookin’ lesson. Schrecher, ‘is gonna cause problems?”
He shrugs. “‘Ey don’t has a good reason to kick ‘er out.”
“‘Ey need one?”
Suddenly, the doors of the facility open, revealing a surge of yellowed lights, a colourful carpet, children with yarmulkes painted on brutalist bricks.
Finnerty stares at it, listening to Schrecher’s quick prayer. “Barukh-ata-Adonai, melekh-ha'olam, shekoho ug'vurato maleh-”
“Oh, piss off.” She growls. “We won’t need Him.”
As she takes her first few steps, Aisha sputters. “W-wait! You’re just going in like that? No disguise?”
Finnerty laughs. A sharp, cackling laugh. “Aisha, it’s the Jewish Council of London.”
A handful of guards storm out. Blue uniforms. Holstered sidearms.
“You fink ‘ey ain’t figured it out?"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“-abusrd!”
"Unbelievable!"
“Three-point-four MILLION!?”
It’s a wall of sound, one that Aisha can barely pierce. Her head spins, her ears ring, and she wishes, beyond wishing, that they would remember that they already have mics.
“Your abba took the loans, Lavi!” Finnerty points, screaming into her's so forcefully that the sound cracks. “You didn’t fink we’d send some fookin’ collectors!?”
Another new eruption rises from that, a cacophony that makes Aisha cover her ears.
Red’s face in his hands. “This is awful.”
“Really? I fink she’s doin’ fine!” Schrecher’s on the edge of his seat, grinning. “Hasn’t even started to throw fings yet.”
“Sheket! Kulekhem, sheket!” The oldest of the councillors, a small-framed woman with a shawl and whitened hair, stands and snarls at all those who’d talk her down. The room at last falls quiet, and dark eyes burn deep into the raven girl.
“Foygl,” she starts. “You are here as a guest. Even if you speak the truth-”
“Don’t gotta speak shit! ‘Paperwork’, ‘contracts,’ BULL FOOKIN’ FOOK! I was ‘ere, you c***s! You fookin’ saw me! I’m the only fookin’ reason ‘is buildin' even built!"
“You’re askin’ for three million pounds!” Lavi asks, a chorus joining. “Wiff no advance? No warnin’!?”
“It’s called a fookin’ wiffdrawal, bitch!” Finnerty points. “Thought you’se was a FOOKIN’ LENDER!”
Violent shouting. Aisha smoulders, bits of aether flickering around her face, before she lowers herself, scanning the others in the hall. Her fellow Nocturni are on the same wooden bench - cracked, creaking, with cushions that are nearly solid and paint as aged as her. The rest of the room is more luxurious - bright chandeliers, walls of bold colours, portraits upon portraits of names. Disraeli. Jack Cohen. Marks and Sorrell and Reuter.
Six bailiffs cover the exits, black yarmulkes soaking in light. The other six, the councillors bearing down on them, dress as differently as six people can. One wears a dust-lined frock, a tall black hat, a gartel, while another dons a fur cap so large that Aisha worries it might crush his head. Two of them, both men, wear the same garb you’d see in any office, while the youngest, a woman, has a black ribbon tied in her hair.
“SHEKET!” The old woman shouts again, unfurling her shawl. “We of course appreciate the contributions both you and your Keeper made to our community-”
“Appreciate?!” The frocked man stands. “They were monsters!”
The old woman sighs. “We do not judge children-”
“My saba told us stories of the dyubbiks!” He spits. “Bloodsuckers! Child-snatchers! You fink she’s not one of them!? Look at her! LOOK AT HER!”
“Still better lookin’ than you, schvantz!” Finnerty shouts. “Your face was made for a fookin' bigot's poster!"
Another pandemonium, and this time, the old woman stays quiet. Red’s rubbing his temples, so Aisha looks at Schrecher instead. Making clear her concerns.
His laughter fades as he hears Finnerty’s screams. “I’ll, uh…” He suddenly stands. “I’ll calm her down.”
‘Calming down’ eventually turns into dragging her to the break room. She's still shouting as she leaves.
“Er volt aoykh geven gerekht!”
The moment she’s gone, the councillors talk amongst themselves, in what sounds to Aisha’s ears like Hebrew. Red slowly climbs out of his rut, slides across the booth to get closer.
“Ya wizards know lots ‘bout the Court, right?”
“More than most,” she replies.
“Great.” He turns. “How fucked are we?"
Her brows furrow. Sensing. Something caught by the aether. Nose curling, Aisha searches for its source, and finds it again with the youngest councillor. The ribbon girl. Only now does she seem to notice them, and only now does Aisha see the Israeli flag on her clothes.
The hatred in her eyes.
+++
“[Aisling, I’m bein’ bare.]” Shrecher whispers in their tongue. [‘Is isn’t ‘ow you’se talk to ‘ese people.]”
“[I’ll talk how I fookin’ like!]”
“[And get nuffin’! ‘Ese aren’t pew rats], foygl, [and you’se not the big girl wavin’ ‘er stick ‘round anymore! ‘Ey ‘ave suits! ‘Ey ‘ave class!]”
“[You know ‘ow many shits I give ‘bout ‘ey’se fookin’ suits?]”
“[I do. I really do.]” Schrecher runs a hand through his curly hair. “[But if ‘ey see ‘at, ‘ey won’t see you. Right?]”
She puffs up, shaking her head. Tempted to spit on their shitty, forty-year-old, dust-smelling carpet. [“Maybe it’s a waste of time. Maybe I should back to me actual fookin’-]”
“Foygl, [I once saw you suck cock for an 8 ball.]” Schrecher makes a face. “[But you won't dine six c***s for three mil, when you'se don't even 'ave to take off 'eir trousers?]”
+++
Aisha’s holding her arm, wrapping more skin beneath her jilbaab. The breakroom doors open again. She turns away, hoping to avert the Israeli’s gaze, but this only reveals how many bailiffs are also staring at her.
Schrecher moves back to his spot without fuss, while Finnerty climbs the podium slowly. Shoves a hand in her pocket, and withdraws a folded loose-leaf.
“Sorry,” she says, in a stilted way. “I’ve been informed ‘at ‘is place keeps a bit more… decorum.”
That makes the old woman smile, and no one else.
Finnerty turns to the Hasidic one. “Your face looks fine.”
As Schrecher slides into his seat, Red clambours over Aisha, mouth open in shock. “How the fuck d’ya get her ta do that?”
“Pretty easy.” The Freeholder shrugs. “Just gotta know the right words for her."
+++
“In 1895, the Free'old of Whitechapel offered a loan of 150.000 pounds to the J.C.L for the commission of artwork, quote, “protecting the culture and 'eritage of the future Jewish nation.’” Finnerty pauses, sneering at the tiny words. This feels unnatural. Immensely wrong. Her feathers are crawling against her skin, and to make matters worse, Schrecher keeps writing these big fucking words. She has to sound them out with her lips to not look like a dumbass non-Reader.
“‘Is loan was expanded to 815.000 pounds cover to construction of ‘is buildin', along wiff additional bonds of 125.000 in 1937 and 500.000 in 1946, for the repaym-”Another squint. She tries again. “Repatriation of Jews to Britain, or what was 'en called the Mandate of Palestine.” Great. It’s done. She tosses the paper. “Now, it’s been fifteen years-”
“Ratcatcher is dead!” One of the councillors interrupts.
Finnerty stalls, hiding her frustration beneath a blink. “I’m aware.”
The councillor smirks, scratching his beard. “So ‘is loans are void. ‘Less you can prove the inheritance.”
“Prove? Ask 'at one's saba, you fookin’-” Finnerty suddenly stops. Sees Schrecher’s glare. Squeezes the podium, until the bad thoughts go away. “... Moshe?”
Schrecher stands. “Ratcatcher ‘ad three lieutenants, any East Ender could tell you. Aisling's one. Rathe an’ Padraig died wiff him.”
"'At 'ardly settles-"
“Ever been in war, Pooki?” Finnerty smirks. “Inheritance goes to whoever opens the fookin’ vault first.”
“But was it wrong to fink the debts forgiven?” Lavi stands, interrupting. “We used ‘ose funds to help people. To save men from the Shoah, to reclaim our homes! An’ for doin’ the right fing, you would rob us?”
“Rob?” Finnerty scoffs. “You work at Barclays! Whatchu fookin' doin' there? Robbin’ the fookin’ mortgagers!?”
Another explosion of shouts, each councillor louder than the last.
“-even afford-”
“-’er fahkin’ lawyers?”
“Why would Schrecher-”
More thoughts enter her mind. Red hair. Freckled face. Screams and pain and-
Finnerty slams her fist on the table. “ENUFF! We can kvetch ‘bout the details later! What matters is I need the cash. I need it now. An’ every minute we fookin’ bicker-”
“What for?”
Everyone turns. It’s the girl with the ribbon, the young one. Maybe thirty years old.
She looks at the others. Noting their silence. Then tilts her head. “I’m willing to believe you loaned the money. I’m willing to believe, papers or no, that you’ve earned some part of it. And... mmm, slicha if I mis-speak here, I’ve only been recently informed of your... species…”
Finnerty lifts a brow at that.
“... but it seems natural to me that you’d want to avoid banks and lawyers also. Even so…” Ribbon girl hesitates, then grips her stand. “... you are in a criminal enterprise. By our standards. Yes?”
Finnerty squints. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes.” The woman digests it. Nods. “And - again, not insinuating anything, but - is it… fair… to say that the funds we give you... will…?”
Finnerty’s voice sounds like gravel. “Will what?”
The woman smiles. “The Council you lent to in 1895 is not the Council of 2004. We have contacts. Corporations. Politicians. Community organizations that might be opposed to your elements-”
“It’s my money!” Finnerty shouts. “Me ‘elements’ ‘ave nuffin’ to fookin’ do wiff ‘at!”
“So we should just tie our names to whatever you do?” The girl stands a little taller. “While the homeland is in danger!? While Blair’s socialists watch over us!?”
“Homeland!? It’s the Council of London, dumbarse!”
“Rina, ha-chaerish!” The old woman adds. “Foygl is our ally-”
“Ally?!” Finnerty retorts.
“- she’s smuggled our people! She stood at Cable Street! She’s fought our foes!”
“Our foes?” Rina flares up and screams in Hebrew. “Ani ro'a kan rek oyev ach!”
She points a finger at Aisha, before pointing at Finnerty.
"And this is the one who invited her!"
“Eich ata?!” Schrecher immediately springs to his feet. “Eich ata me’ez!? Lech lazazel! LECH LAZEZEL!”
“Ani dover AMET!”
The Council erupts again. Voices slamming against voices, like waves on the shore. Finnerty looks around, the words lost to her. Schrecher keeps shouting, putting himself in front of Aisha. As the words get more hostile, the girl looks terrified.
“- such filth in this house-”
“-funding Hezbollah-”
“-Keaton’s Soviets-”
“Bushaa! Bushaa!”
Finnerty’s gripping the table. Too many noises. Too many thoughts. Red hair. Soft smile. Screams and gnashing and-
“-EVEN A JEW?!”
The sound is loud. Vibrating. Finnerty’s fists have made a considerable indent on the podium, her microphone briefly screeching before it cuts out. She can feel the Council’s eyes. The Council's silence. Directs her gaze to the Hasidic man, the one who called her 'dyubbik.'
“What.”
The word is slow and heavy. Dripping out from a drain.
"What the fook did you just fookin' say!?"
"Am I wrong?" He steps forward. Straightens his black frock. "You come here, demanding our cash, while real Jews are suffering! You come here and start tearing us apart!”
"Real Jews?!"
"You 'ave no blood! You 'ave no mitzvah!"
"I fookin' bled for you, c**t!" Wood creaks as she slides forward. Skin glowing. Cracks and splinters. "I chased off 'eir priests! I wore the yellow star!"
“Dancin’ in our clothes don’t make you us!” The Hasidic man growls. “Aisling Finnerty. Sound it out! 'Ear the words! Which of our children would bear 'at name!?”
“Ratcatcher’s, bitch!”
“The man who dragged our name through the mud?! Who terrorised our flock!?" He shouts. “You weren't Ratcatcher's daughter! You were Ratcatcher's DOG!”
Finnerty exhales. An icy sensation that travels through her spine. She can feel her eyes twitch. Her fingers shake. No one speaks in her defense. When she looks at them, they all avert their eyes.
“... And it's always a shame when a bad dog..." The man looks at the old woman. Nods. “... outlives its bad owner."
“A vote is called for an immediate repayment plan on all loans accredited by Zalman Rabinowitz, to Aisling Finnerty, his closest relation. Those who do not approve, say nay. Those who approve, say aye.”
Rina speaks first. “Nay.”
“Bullshit.” Finnerty looks across the Council. Finds nothing but icy glares.
“Nay.”
“Nay.”
“Nay!” The Hasidic man calls.
“We fed your saba, you prick! Clothed ‘er! Roofed ‘er!” Finnerty seizes when she sees Lavi. “Lavi! Lavi Peres! ‘At shop your grandpa owned! The one the fascists burned! Would it be standin’ wiffout our help?! Would you even be ‘ere-”
He says it with clear nervousness. “N-nay-”
“COWARD!” She swivels to the bench. “Schrecher, tell ‘em! Tell ‘em what I’ve done! Tell ‘em-”
She stalls.
Schrecher’s face is long, and grey, and silent. He’s making himself small, and never meets her eyes.
She barely hears the final ‘nay.’
“'Nay' takes the vote. Our legal team will review the claims and make an informed decision based on the needs of all stakeholders.”
Aisha still seems scared. The Israeli woman smiles.
“Ms. Finnerty, thank you for bringing this matter to our attention.”
Finnerty sees Red's eyes. Those bright eyes bearing down. Disappointment. Shame.
“You’re hereby dismissed-”
But it’s the Hasidic man that pulls the last knife. He laughs. A mouth-covered, barely-heard laugh, but a laughing all the same. Laughing at her.
Laughing while Harriet suffers.
“- but we will inform you-”
Laughing while Harriet screams.
“-of any-”
“IZ DOS VOS EYD ZENEN!?”
The old woman stops. Finnerty’s gripped the podium. Eyes bright. Seething.
“ZENT EYNER FUNK EYDN?”
The Councillors watch. Some still smug, but most, in awe.
+++
Aisha blinks. Three seconds pass. Then five. Ten. The bailiffs keep looking between the councillors for directions, while Finnerty stands there, strangely breathing.
Schrecher's by her side. Watching just as raptly, and so she sidles up to him, whispers: “What did she say?”
Schrecher’s eyes flick. He swallows. Clearly intends to stay silent, until he feels Red lean in, too.
“She asked if this was Jewish.” His voice is strained. “If any of them were Jews.”
+++
Finnerty prowls, slowly. Looking for movement. Resistance. A single bailiff seems antsy, before she gives him a murderous glare, and he retreats back.
The wood continues to creak beneath her grip.
“Der nisht-gevashener-”
+++
“‘You call me dyubbik?’” Schrecher translates. “‘Is that what I am? A wraith? A little ghost in a girl’s body, possessin’ ‘er to thieve, an’ bite, an’ kill, an’ spread the world's fahkin’ evil while walkin’ your streets, bearin’ your names, wearin’ your clothes?’”
Finnerty pauses for a breath. Grins like a serpent. Levels her eyes at the man in the frock.
“How many dyubbiks are there, sir? Just the goyim like me? Or issit every Jewish rapist? Every Jewish fraud? Every fahkin’ Jew ‘at answer’s our people’s call-’”
There’s a creak from the bench. Red leaning back. Studying.
+++
“[... to piss off 'Good Jews' like YOU'SE!]"
+++
The words are so loud, that the Council reels back.
"Ikh hab-"
“‘I’ve stolen. I’ve killed. And I’d do it all again! I’d do it a thousand times! Do you know why, you little…’” Schrecher pales again, even as Finnerty keeps shouting. “... ‘c***s?’”
Aisha sees Rina, peering down from her desk. Apparently, they’re not the only ones who don’t know Aisling's language.
“‘... I'll tell you why. In big, bold letter. I-’”
+++
“[-AM A FOOKIN’ JEW!]” The podium finally cracks in half. “[I’m the shit on your street! The hand in your pockets! The rat in your walls! Because ‘at is ‘ow we survived! ‘At is ‘ow we FOUGHT! Not wiff fookin' smiles and corporate fundraisers! Don’t wanna be a cockroach!? BE GLAD YOU FOOKIN' ARE! Be glad your parents, your fookin' grandparents, 'ad the sense you fookin' lack! 'Cause WE saw the pitch! WE 'eard the hooves! WE smelled the gas! An' if we was nice, an' polite, an' monstrous then, you'd all 'ave FOOKIN' BURNED!]"
The Hasidic man's mouth hangs open. The old woman is deathly pale. The others just seem confused.
"[DO YOU WANNA KNOW THE FOOKIN’ DYUBBIKS!?]”
She levels a finger at the portraits, tears in her eyes.
“[IT’S HIM! AN’ HIM! AN’ HIM AN’ HIM-]”
+++
“‘And him.’” Shrecher keeps going. “‘Those are your sellouts. Those are your blue slips. Those are the ones-’”
Finnerty holds up two fingers. Middle and index. Half a closed fist.
“- who revelled in our crimes...'”
Now Aisha looks stunned.
+++
“[... And raise 'eir kids like FOOKIN' CHRISTIANS!]”
Her breathing is heavy, but she doesn’t stop. Can’t if she tried.
“[Keep 'em!]” She spits. “[Keep your money! Keep your lawyers! Keep every fookin' fing at makes you feel rich an’ strong! You’re all RATS IN SUITS! Playin’ the roles ‘ey make for us! You fink ‘ey’ve forgotten ‘cause ‘ey gave you a state!? You fink dey don’t hate us ‘cause ‘ey whisper Happy Hanukkahs!?]” She laughs. Laughs like a hyena, sprawled over the podium. “Rufn mir a-”
+++
“‘Call me a devil, but I’ll still be here,’” Shrecher says. “‘Still thieving. Still killing. Still protecting our people, or what parts you dyubbiks haven’t killed, when the goyim wake up.’”
She sees Red,, his face fallen.
“‘When your greed’s come and gone. When you’ve driven us off a cliff, like our ‘leaders’ always have.’”
Finnerty makes the two-fingered symbol again, but flips it, makes a ‘V’, and thrusts it upwards. “Fun teyk-”
“‘From the ri-’” Shrecher stops, suddenly, his pupils shrinking. “Oh, no.”
Aisha leans closer. “Moshe? Moshe, what-”
He turns, and she can see the terror on his face, just as the elder, one of only three councillors who seem aghast, rises to her feet. “GET OUT!”
Finnerty’s screaming. “Eynvoayner, ir vet lern! Durkh di milyanz-”
“GET OUT GET OUT GET-”
After that, it becomes hard to hear. Bailiffs storm the hall, the bench. The podium. There’s punches and screams. Swearing and gestures. Aisha, like Red, like Finnerty, is dragged out by her arms. More guards taking her than are probably needed.
“Ir zayt nisht keyn eydn!" Finnerty shouts over it all. "An ekhter eyd volt mir gekukt di aoygn!”
Outside of the building, Aisha will ask Schrecher what those words mean. He’ll reply that the words are hard to translate, like trying to cut Arabic's beauty from the Qur'an. She'll ask why Finnerty chose to speak in a language so few of the Councillors knew, and he'll say that it wasn't for them. That Yiddish was the first language she learned, the language their Harav spoke.
"You're not Jews," she told them. "Jews look into my eyes."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
She isn’t crying. Her eyes feel wet, and there’s salt on her cheeks, but crying is weak. Crying is for bitches. She isn't crying.
She sits in a roofed-over stairwell. Rain continues to pour, displayed by flickering yellow lights, and around her, the joys of Britain. Broken bottles. Barking dogs. A half-eaten falafel wrap. Daily Telegraph's sailing by.
It plays little tricks on her skin. The light, that is. She can see each gap in the feathers, every crack of her mottled skin. Sometimes, she tries to remember what it looked like. Before the blood, before her Nance, before her world became night and this city knew her name.
She can’t. It’s not a matter of thought. It's all hollow. A hollowness that can't be pierced, a hollowness, that in some way, proves that asshole's words. She isn't them. She isn't anything.
She's always... something else.
A pause. Hitch in her breath. Finnerty wipes her face and stands the moment she sees him. “Hey.” She watches the ground.
“Hey.” Red Eddards is wearing old boots.
She sniffles. Blinks a few times. Sours. “Stupid. I know, I know. Moshe’s prolly gonna kill me, but I-I can get three mill anovver way. Me mortals lookin’ fat, right? We can make a couple visits. Make a few-"
Finnerty’s stopped in her tracks. Red’s hand cups her shoulder, holding her in place. She looks up, confused, and sees nothing but a stoic face. Eyes slit-like, solid, and silent.
“Red?” She tries to squirm out. The grip tightens. “Red, can you get the fook-”
He grunts. She quiets. A few seconds pass.
“He would’ve liked that, ya know," Red says.
She squints. “Who? Ratcatcher?”
“No.”
Silence, punctuated only by rain. Until, slowly, the cowboy breathes in, squeezes her again, and turns.
“Ya need ta learn how ta say ya did the right thing, Aislin’.”
Then he walks south. Back to London, and their homes.
think of herself as Jewish because those were the first true immigrant communities of London, and were thus the first to be swept into the maelstrom of anti-immigrant bigotry that our societies' are still struggling to climb out of. While both Irish and Jewish people have ‘whitened’ over the last century, especially in the United States, that doesn’t mean Finnerty entirely knows it or feels it. Like all our cast, I wanted Finnerty to struggle between the modern and the remembered, and I think this scene, for how controversial it might be written, finally gives her that chance.
Lehi, an extremist (and VERY controversial) Jewish paramilitary that existed before Israel's statehood, and the 'blue slips' is a reference to the most privileged work orders distributed by the that governed the Jewish ghettos created by Nazi Germany.
uh... well, touching one of the hottest stoves I can think of today ^^'. Also worth pointing out that there are probably more Hasidic Jews in the JCL than would probably be representative of London, but I really liked the diversity it felt like it was adding to the whole experience.
