9th Bridge

Acknowledgements

Most of the people who helped support this book are already mentioned in the dedication, but to the guys at Words Matter Publishing I want to say a big thank you for taking a chance on me. To the dedicated work drones at Sitel, thank you for taking an interest because it was more inspiring than you could know.

Happy Hour

Fortunately for Marian Winters, there are few things he's better at than talking his way out of a fight; all it takes is a quick round of drinks here, a few flattered egos there and he's out of the door before anyone can quite understand what has happened. Unfortunately for Marian Winters one of the few things he can do better than talking his way out of fights is talking his way into them.

The evening had started out so innocently, he'd visited his local for a quick drink at the end of a hard day of doing not very much at all. He'd seen young Leyton Tongsley sitting at the bar deep in his cups and made it the evening's mission to try and cheer him up and so one quick drink had become several rounds. This on its own might not have caused that much trouble, a couple of lads getting rowdy in The Lucky Shoe wasn't uncommon after all, but Marian had stepped over that almost indistinguishable line between drunk and absolutely sozzled and made a stupid mistake. During one of many manly hugs with Leyton, defined as manly by a large amount of backslapping and minimal eye contact, Marian had planted a quick kiss on his friend's cheek before his brain could fight through the alcohol to stop him. It had not gone down well.

Oi, what the heck you think you're doing Mary, don't want none of that knob sucking bollocks in here!

Leyton, who was just as drunk as Marian, roared his indignation loud enough to draw the attention of the entire bar and rattle a few of the loosest window panes. The attention of every man in the bar turned towards him, and these were proud men of the town of Smelton who would kick a person in the head just for insinuating that he was looking at another man. Their attention turned from Leyton, whose belligerent vocal ability marked him as one of their own, then towards Marian, whose carefully maintained clothing and clean hands marked him out as 'not one of their own.' The situation was volatile, and Marian knew all too well that one wrong step could rouse an angry mob to chase him down the street until he reached the safety of his brother's house.

Are you sure Leyton? That wasn't the barmaid's hand I felt squeezing my backside.

Marian looked across the bar, saw several miserable drunken faces turn dark with anger, and thought to himself, well I suppose I could have handled that better. Leyton, whose anger was bogged down by incredible amounts of alcohol and an awful need to piss, looked at Marian for a moment in stunned silence. Then he took a deep breath to yell his favourite obscenities but found his target gone before he could even remember the first syllable.

Get back here you dandy runt.

Rule one of drinking in The Lucky Shoe was always drink by the door (a rule that's doubly true if your name's Marian) and even in his drunken state, it had only taken him a quick nip across the room to get out into the cool evening air. Home was the rough centre of the town, and he ran towards it like the hounds of the pits were after him. The forges which made up the main bulk of the business were all arranged around the very edge of the town to make it easier for the near constant stream of coal deliveries to get where they were needed. The owner and proprietor of the Lucky Shoe, Gertrude Stout, had been smart enough to build her inn right up close to the molten circle so that when folks put down their tools after a long day's toil, they never had far to go for a pint. Marian had found this explanation tediously boring when his Pa had explained it to him, and now that he was older all this logical arrangement and impeccable business sense meant was that he had even further to run to get to the residential circle.

There he is!

He didn't dare risk a glance over his shoulder as he knew most of the pub would be after him by now. Instead, he broke into a run that took him into the twists and turns of the outer ring of the town residential buildings. The broken-up route favoured him as he was light on his feet and wasn't carrying the years of solid drinking around his belly like most of his pursuers, whereas this angry mob kept having to stop and totter round every bend. If his Pa was to be believed this arrangement had been chosen back in the good old days when cavalry charges were the height of military power and giving the buggers a straight charge into the heart of your town wasn't the best of ideas. It couldn't be denied that his Pa liked to tell tall tales, but Marian reckoned this one might be true as he heard the sweet sound of someone tripping followed by a slurred string of curses.

Hah, catch you later boys! he threw, cackling, over his shoulder. No sooner had he turned his head than his foot caught some unseen snag and his own bulk and weight of alcohol in his stomach slammed him into the ground. The force drove breath from his lungs and as he inhaled he caught a whiff of the Smelton Pong; a mixture of raw sewage from the residents and slurry from the forges in the molten circle. The worn cobblestone roads that wove their way through the buildings were cold and layered with a patina of grime that smeared across his face. He could feel the slow vibrations as his mob caught up to him and then added the rank odour of stale sweat to the Pong.

Right you little gobbler, we're going to make sure you remember not to pull this crap in our town again.

Marian resigned himself to a considerable amount of pain in short order; he wasn't a fighter and if situations like this ever came to violence his only course of action was to curl up in a ball and hope they got bored before he died. The worst part was the way they talked about him, he'd heard of a place like Bridgetown where a man could drop his trousers with another man, and nobody would bat an eyelid, even in public. But he'd been born in Smelton. He felt a calloused hand reach down and grab him by the collar, felt hot, clammy breath on the back of his neck and then a single voice spoke out from the crowd.

Anyone care to explain what you boys are doing to my little brother?

Marian's eyes snapped open and instantly found his brother's face in the crowd. Duncan Winters was a big man, his frame earned by a lifetime hammering steel and iron in front of a forge and had more scars and burns than any other man alive. As he stepped into the small area of open space around Marian, trademark bowler hat tipped forwards, he radiated an aura of such towering rage that even the most stalwart men blanched at the sight. If it wasn't bad enough that he stood a full head taller than any of them, or that the whole town had seen him split a man's skull with a hammer, he was also the one that paid all their wages.

We was teaching the dirty gobbler not to go kissing other blokes, not natural it isn't.

Duncan's eyes turned towards Leyton whose alcohol was doing an admirable impression of courage, and whose brain was doing a passable impression of intelligence. Marian watched his brother size up the young lad, who made up for his shortage of brainpower with muscle and then shook his head, an amused chuckle on his lips.

Lad, if you want to take issue with my brother kissing other blokes in a calm and rational manner then that's fine. Because that's what we are here, calm and rational men. That being said...

Nobody saw the punch coming, least of all Leyton, but it struck with enough force to lift the lad clean off his feet and deposit him, boots and all, in the drain running on one side of the road. Everyone except Duncan looked towards the drains, and then back towards their boss. Then they took a prudent step backwards.

Someone take Leyton home and get something cold on his jaw.

Two men Marian recognised from the crowd leaped into the drain to rescue Leyton, desperate for a chance to escape their boss.

The rest of you, enjoy your evening. And if I see another lynch mob coming after Marian, I will take it personal, and cease to be a calm and rational man. Am I clear? There was a great deal of nodding and muttered affirmations from the crowd, but as Duncan peeled him away from the floor, Marian could see the violence in the eyes of the men around him. Alcohol might have let it off the leash for the night, but it was always there, and one day his brother wouldn't be around to hold it at bay. He caught Duncan's eye and knew his brother was probably reading his mind, judging by the sympathy on his face.

Come on Marian, let's see if the wife has left us some supper.

Emily Winters, formerly Emily Stout, was a solid woman who alongside her ability to tend to the needs of the house and its occupants, had also developed the enviable ability to bounce drunks out of the front door. Her former position as a barmaid at The Lucky Shoe had forced her to learn the skills, but in a house, with five young boys, there was no denying that she found them useful.

As Marian stepped through the door and received the icy glare she reserved especially for him there was also no denying that she hated his guts. She maintained her glare for a full minute, and neither Winters man was brave enough to speak before she was done scrutinising, then huffed out a breath and went rifling through the cupboards. She reappeared moments later with a medicine box that had been passed down through her side of the family. It was old, and the wood was scarred with grooves, scuffs and what might have been claw marks. This might have been enough to deter anyone from using it, those intending to use it for healing at any rate, but embossed in faded gold on the lid was the seal of the Bridgetown Alchemists.

Emily's mother never did explain how she had gotten it, or perhaps more importantly, why she had passed it down to her daughter after Emily's marriage. The only thing she made clear was that the remedies inside could treat everything from winter colds to certain death. Marian was fairly certain that the last claim was a tall tale but as the lid opened and he caught the first whiff of leeches and bloodroot cordial even his cynicism started to have doubts. She pulled up two chairs at the kitchen table, sat herself down in one, and motioned for her husband to join her in the other. Marian took the oh-so-subtle hint and remained standing by the door until she had had an appropriate amount of time to express her disdain.

She took her husband’s hands in her own, clasping them gently to assess the damage, then laid them over her lap heedless of the drops of blood that fell onto her spotless white apron. As she began her ministrations, Marian paid attention to his brother's hands for the first time that night and felt a wince run through his body. A forge-master's hands were never a pretty sight, burns, scars, and missing digits were common injuries and most wore them as a badge of honour. Duncan had managed to keep all his fingers over the years and avoid all but the lightest burns, but there were still dozens of scars crisscrossing those knuckles. Each one marked a fight, and Marian knew that all but a few of those fights had been protecting him. Duncan accepted his care with stoic calm, and when Emily pronounced him fit for dinner, she turned her glare towards Marian again. This time he wasn't sure it was undeserved.

He sat down on the chair next and felt Emily’s rough hands prowl around his head and his chest, poking and prodding to tease out all possible injuries, and more than likely trying to inflict a few of their own. Marian winced a few times when her hands touched his ribs, but after lifting his shirt to assess the bruises, she declared them unworthy of treatment. He was confident she meant that his ribs would heal on their own, but a little wheedling voice in the back of his head wondered if she was leaving him to die of a punctured lung. However, even burdened by alcohol he knew threatening his sister-in-law with attempted murder would be discourteous, even if she did deserve it, so he sucked up his pain until she was done.

Dinner’s on the stove. Enough for the pair of you. And Duncan, make sure you say night to the boys, they were worried about you.

A pale face poked his head around the banister, Duncan's youngest Elias, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes before beaming a smile at his father. He was shooed back up the stairs by his mother, complaining the whole way, but there was relaxed nature to his words. The boys had their dad back and could finally stop worrying. Marian could almost hear the contentment spread from one boy to the next and finally into the timbers of the old house until all was relaxed again.

Duncan got up and opened the stove, filling the kitchen with leftover warmth and the beefy tang of lukewarm pie. Marian watched his brother fumble his way through the various cupboards and drawers, swearing under his breath until he found a pair of serviceable plates and couple of forks. Marian noticed how the forks were gleaming, perfectly balanced and engraved with Duncan's initials, whereas the plates looked like they'd been taken to with a mallet. Trust the smith to care more for metal than he does for anything else he thought with a smile. Duncan finished dishing up the food and dropped the plate in front of Marian along with cutlery and a mug of water from the kettle. He sat down opposite with his food and, once he'd sneaked a glance to make sure his wife was upstairs, poured a shot of whiskey into his own glass. They ate in uncomfortable silence for a minute before Marian gave in and spoke.

I'm sorry you had to come to my rescue again.

Duncan looked up and, although the lines around his eyes didn't lessen, his lips did show his teeth in a grin. You know as well as I do how mum, gods bless her soul, would have reacted if she knew I'd let you get into mischief on your own.

They both looked up at the portrait hung up on the kitchen wall, a portrait of a woman who looked as though she might leap out of the frame to hug them both, probably before marching into town and giving Marian's lynch mob a piece of her mind. The artist could brag all he wanted about his skills in bringing her to life, everyone knew it was his subject that deserved the credit.

Doesn't mean I'm not angry Marian. Every week it seems to be the same thing, you getting the town riled up and me risking my neck to rescue you. His brother paused to take a drink, and a bite of his wife's cooking and Marian used the distraction to plead his case.

I know Duncan, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get them up in arms, I was just a bit drunk and...

His brother's fist came down on the table, and Marian jumped pulling at all his aches and pains with the movement. Duncan's eyes, usually calm and patient, were hard as steel and Marian had a moment to appreciate just why nobody in town would willingly pick a fight with him.

"That's the problem, isn't it? You spend your days doing nothing, and then your evenings getting drunk to cope with the boredom. I know you don't mean to get into scraps and cause me and the missus all this grief, but when you choose to go out and drink you do it all the same."

Marian felt the first prickles of guilt picking at his spine and had to look away from those angry grey eyes. He'd been soothing his conscience by focusing on the narrow-minded sots of the town who would attack him just because of his attractions, but it was his loose lips that struck the match, and his lips were never looser than when he was drinking.

Look, Marian, you might look a lot like mum, but there's more of Pa in you than you're willing to admit. He turned to drink when mum died, lost his purpose and let it consume him. That's you right now, you've got no purpose, and without it, you're going to slip away just like him.

As a rule, the Winters boys never talked about the way their dad died, especially not Duncan. Marian knew how much his brother idolised Samuel Winters, a pioneer who built up the family steel business through hard graft and determination. He also knew how much it had hurt Duncan when their old man had simply given up. If Duncan was talking about their Pa, then he must be deadly serious.

I'm fixing you a job at one of the forges, simple job, hard work, but one even you can't screw up so long as you apply yourself. You need a purpose again, and I'm going to give it to you whether you like it or not.

Marian stared at his brother wide-eyed and gape-mouthed. He looked from his brother to his hands, soft hands that had never done a day’s work in their life and let loose something that might have been a chuckle but was probably a sob.

Duncan, look at me, I'm no forge hand. The lads will push me into the fire before the end of my first day. Besides, it won't give me any time to work on Mum's old theatre.

Mary Winters had left her mark on Smelton, and there was no denying it. In a town of practicality and hard work, she had introduced an element of frivolity and style that had drawn everyone in week after week. Her plays were legendary, and it wasn't uncommon for her to take to the stage herself, garbed in all manner of colourful and elegant costumes. I was to be her star, to carry on the legacy...but things didn't quite work out.

Bull, Marian! As I recall you were going to invest, all the money dad left us in that place, rejuvenate it. Years on and the place is a bigger wreck than ever, do you even have any of the money left?

Marian felt the small sum of golden coins press against his ribs from within his coat pocket. Not nearly as much as I should have. Duncan seemed to read his mind and snorted with displeasure. Marian knew that his brother's fortune had gone back into the town, the forges, growing the trade bigger and more profitable than ever. His brother was right, Marian knew he looked like their mother, but when it came to wasting his life, he was his father's son.

I'm sorry to be rough with you little brother, but I'm not having you go the way of Pa. Report to your job first thing in the morning, the forge-master is a good bloke, won't tolerate the boys causing you grief while you're on his time. Work hard, show you're a real man and they'll accept you.

As his brother left the table to go up and see his boys, Marian concentrated on the gentle support in his brother's voice and knew that Duncan was doing what he always did, keeping his little brother out of trouble. But the idea of toiling away in the forges was like poison to his brain; why hammer in the heat when he could soar in the theatre? With a sigh, he emptied his pockets and counted all the coin to his name, before thrusting it back into his pockets in disgust. Wouldn't be enough to hire a single actor for a single performance, let alone rebuilding the theatre. If he wanted to escape the dreary fate his brother had set out for him, then he needed money, and he needed it quickly.

As if summoned by the brooding thoughts in his mind, or perhaps drawn in by the clink of empty gold in his pockets, Emily Winters returned to the kitchen. She looked down on Marian who sat forlornly in the chair, and he looked up at her, trying to penetrate her masked expression but finding himself unable. She pulled out the chair her husband vacated and slid into it, maintaining the impenetrable mask. They sat in silence and Marian was just considering going to bed himself and resigning his hand to hard toil in the morning, when she spoke.

I used to love your mother's theatre.

He paused halfway out of his chair and looked her dead in the eye, glimpsing sincerity there, and sat back down with a huff of expelled air. It would be an understatement to say he was surprised; the only words Emily Winters spoke to him were barked orders or barely veiled threats. She had never, not once, said something nice to him. Yet in the kitchen, right before his eyes, it sounded as if she were trying to comfort him.

I attended nearly every week when my mother could spare me from the pub, and I fell in love with the drama and the romance. It was there that I met Duncan, shoehorned into a suit by his mother, and with hair combed by his Pa.

Marian stayed quiet, knowing through knack and intuition that interrupting Emily's stroll down memory lane could break whatever strange spell they were both under, and lose him whatever opportunity fate was providing.

I was devastated when your mother's illness forced her to close the theatre. Only thing that hurt more was the brief glimmer of hope you gave me that it might reopen before you ripped that out too.

Marian managed to restrain himself from rolling his eyes, but only just. Taking a shot at my conscience to make yourself feel better and using my mother's memory to do it. Hag. He was about to leave in sullen silence when her tone changed, becoming something gentle and quiet.

I know you've squandered your money, just like Duncan knows. I can't give you what you need to work on the theatre, we don't have that much. But I can give you some advice.

She leaned forwards like they were part of some grand conspiracy and Marian found himself drawn to her like a moth to a flame. There was something entrancing about this new side to Emily, and if Marian had known anything about the fairer sex, then he would have known just how much trouble he was about to get into.

In the Lucky Shoe, there was this older gentleman always spinning crazy tales about the town on the River. Bridgetown, he would say, a place where a man can make his fortune if he's got the stomach to do what's needed. She pulled her stool that little bit closer and Marian would have worried about rumours of impropriety if the whole town didn't know he was a gobbler. I suspect most of what he said was just ravings, but some of the stuff he said about walking in a beggar and leaving with a king's ransom made sense. Gold flows like water across the bridges of that town every day, and it's got to go somewhere doesn't it?

Marian nodded, already caught up in her tale. As a lad, he had watched a nearly endless stream of wagons flowing away from Smelton. They carried a lot of different supplies, most of them replacement heads for the pickaxes which neighbouring Ashton made constant use of. They all came across the river Jax, a wide stretch of water with fickle currents that was almost impossible to pass. Impossible except for Bridgetown where nine strong bridges spanned the river and let people across day or night. Marian had never been himself, and both his mother and father forbade it, but he had listened to some of the wagon drivers and knew that all it cost to cross the river was three gold coins. The sum was a trifle compared to the profit made each day, but the stream of wagons was almost endless, and every time one load got back a second was sent right back out again.

Marian tried to count in his head. Three little gold coins, paid over and over again by hundreds of wagons every day. That would be...that would be... That would be more money than this family has ever seen in their lives. Money enough to rejuvenate his mother's theatre, money enough to repay his brother for years of hospitality with nothing in return, and money enough for Marian to drink all day if he wished to. He looked over to Emily who had a similar flicker of greed in her eyes and gulped, just what was she proposing.

Emily, I think I know what you're tipping me towards, but I can't go there. Mother and Father forbade it on their deathbeds, made me swear never to enter that town.

He could still feel his mother's skin, clammy and hot with fever under his hand, still, remember the near-manic intensity as she clasped his hand. He was a boy, and his mother was dying so he promised and promised and said everything else she asked of him, just hoping that one of the words he said might be enough to help her recover. His father had been calmer, no energy left in his tired old bones, but he made both his boys promise, telling them that nothing good ever came from that town.

True, but they didn't know everything about that place, Marian. I found this hidden inside the lid of my mother's medicine cabinet. It's a deed to a patch of land, and not a small patch either, within the limits of Bridgetown.

Marian took the yellowing paper in his hands and turned it over gently, marvelling at the luxury and detail that had gone into such a simple thing. The writing shone like gold, and the penmanship flowed in beautiful lines. Even the wax seal was elegant in its own way, warped by time but still holding the shape of a scroll. Or perhaps a contract. At the bottom of the paper was a name, a name that Marian knew well. Elias Winters, his great-grandfather.

I don't know how it got into my hands, perhaps it was destiny. But this is exactly what you need if you can find someone in Bridgetown to sell this land too, then you can make all the money you need. There's got to be someone willing to buy it from you.

Marian carefully rolled the paper back up and slipped it into his pocket, mind reeling with possibilities as he imagined returning to Smelton a triumphant champion. He imagined the look on Leyton's face as he toiled in the heat while Marian soared across the stage.

But what of your husband. I suggested Bridgetown to him once, a place where people wouldn't look down on me for who I feel like being close to. Do you know what he said?

Emily shook her head, and it was his turn to pull closer, dropping his voice into a passable imitation of his older brother.

I warn you now Marian. That place is a cesspit, it will pull you in and never let you go. If you ever go in there, I will leave you to rot, because I am not going to risk leaving my boys without a father.

At the time Marian had been shocked. Duncan Winters, a man who was willing to get into a fist-fight with the whole town to protect his little brother, was afraid. He had wondered if his brother was just trying to frighten him, but Duncan had never been one for hiding how he felt, and there was real terror in his eyes when he mentioned Bridgetown.

I didn't know he'd spoken to you, she fretted with her sleeves for a moment and looked towards the kitchen door before standing up to pull it closed. When she returned to her seat her face was deadly serious.

Marian, he didn't want you to know this, but his business is in bad shape. You've made him right unpopular with the town, and they're trying to stiff him at every turn. He needs money, quickly, or we might lose everything. She turned her head towards the stairs and Marian could just about hear his brother's deep voice as he spoke with one of his boys. Emily's eyes turned soft with affection as she listened. "He'd never ask this of