Dangerous Thoughts

Chapter 3

Charles led the girl deeper into the city, where the buildings kissed each other and the gaslights flickered.

They walked in silence. Charles tried not to stare at the her—he didn't want to be rude—but his curiosity got the best of him and he snuck a few looks at her as she walked under each gaslight. She was tall—only an inch or two shorter than he was—yet so skinny. Is she eating enough? he thought, remembering the nights he'd go to bed so hungry that it felt like his stomach was eating itself.

She caught him staring at one point and she looked down bashfully. "I'm sorry, Mister Abbot," she said, rubbing a dirty cheek. "I know I'm not... decent."

"It's alright," Charles said, embarrassed that he had been caught. "It's nothing to be ashamed of." He resolved himself to staring straight ahead for the remainder of their walk.

They finally stopped in front of one of the few establishments teeming with life at this time of the evening: a pub called The Rusty Nail.

"What are we doing here?" the girl asked, staring at the creaking sign overhead.

"I need a place to work," Charles explained. "Somewhere private. Somewhere safe."

The girl looked at him questioningly, but didn't object as Charles held the door open and together they walked inside.

Charles came to The Rusted Nail fairly often when he wanted a drink—or when he needed to collect a memory from someone who wanted the safety that a pub could provide. Memories were like secrets. Some people only let those go when they felt safe. The relative anonymity in a dark bar, plus the additional jolt of courage provided by a good ale, made some of Charles' clients feel a little more comfortable.

The bar wasn't too packed this early in the evening, but there were a few men here and there seated at various tables playing cards or chatting with colleagues. A fire blazed merrily in the back, beating back the chill of an early spring evening.

The barkeep nodded at Charles as they walked in, although his eyes narrowed when they fell to the girl. Charles didn't know if his reaction was because of her haggard appearance or her gender.

Charles pointed to the rear of the pub. "Need to use your back room, Tom," he explained.

The barkeep nodded and looked away; he knew the routine. Then, without gathering too many stares from the patrons inside, Charles escorted the girl to the back.

The back room was a cramped space that Charles had worked in before. Barrels of beer were stacked along the wall. A few dustpans and brooms were propped against a corner. And there was a small desk cluttered with invoices.

Charles sat down at the desk and gestured for the girl to take a seat. She sat atop a barrel, fiddling with her fingers nervously. In the light of a flickering candle, more of her features came to light: black hair with tight curls, sharp cheekbones, and long fingers. Piano playing fingers, his mother used to say.

He shook his head, ridding himself of the memory of his mother, and dug into his pocket for a vial. He always carried spares with him for moments like these.

"I've never taken a memory away before," he repeated, setting the bottle down on the desk with a nervous hand. "I don't even know if it can be done. And I don't know what the possible side effects are. You could... I could... things may end up badly."

"I'd rather be an empty shell than live with this memory," the girl said. Her voice was strong and sure, and for a moment, she didn't look so helpless.

Charles nodded. "Okay. You'll need to focus on the memory, so I know which one to take. I know it must be painful for you to think about what you saw but... I'll be as quick as I can."