Whiskered Worry, Pt 2
Whiskered Worry Part 2
Two tiny hands gripped Billy's index fingers tightly. "That's right 'Lyta-lass, Pull. Pull like y'ur tearin' down the Pillars o' the Temple." With her father's encouragement the tiny arms attached to the tiny hands pulled in one mighty heave.
With that heave, and at not quite 5 months of age, Hippolyta Boudica Butcher succeeded in pulling herself to her feet unaided for the first time in her life. This victory, though perhaps minor in the Grand Scheme of Events, still made both child and parent inordinately proud and they both laughed in joy, though perhaps one of those laughs might have been a bit more bloodcurdling than the other.
However, and in similar fashion to her father, Hippolyta Boudica Butcher had not quite decided what to do upon achieving what to that point had been a life's goal. Unlike her father, though, she had no other pressing concerns and was content to listen to his voice while hanging from his fingers.
Billy could feel his daughter's knees start to give out so he lifted her just a bit so that her hands were holding her entire weight. "Got a grip like iron, you do." He lowered his head so that he was face to face with her. "Like your mum. Did'ye know your mum used to throttle wolves with her bare hands back in Russia? An important lesson there, love. Never let go of something important. Never. Even if Beowulf come calling."
Just then, someone began knocking at the door. Insistently.
One of the advantages of Billy's current station in life was that he now had a door along with the sort of reputation that informed anyone who cared to know that it was extremely unwise to knock insistently upon said door during the late evening without running the risk of finding out whether certain rumours about where Billy's shop got its meat where true.
Those who were especially well informed would know that Tuesday and Thursday nights were particularly bad nights to knock as Mrs. Svetlana Butcher often went abroad on those nights and while she was undoubtedly the more dangerous of the Butchers she was also the more polite, generally.
Because of their rather fearsome reputation, the Butcher family rarely received insistent knocks on the door at any time of day, much less at quarter past ten at night on a Thursday.
Nonetheless, at quarter past ten on this particular Thursday evening someone began knocking at the door. Insistently.
Billy growled and attempted to retrieve his fingers, but found an iron grip still held them fast. His daughter stared at him with her mother's determination. He nodded. "Learned your lesson well," he said. "A'right."
He rotated his hands so that he had hold of her forearms and with one smooth motion lifted, flipped, and placed his daughter lightly on his shoulders. He also used Lyta's momentary disorientation to free his right hand.
He did not walk towards the door but instead yelled at it. "Oy! He bellowed " 'Oo's there?"
The knocking stopped, but Billy's rather sensitive nose detected the distinct odor of fresh urine. Someone's pissing on my door? Who's stupid enough to do that?
Billy threw the door open to see one of the small rat-kids that he and Pop used as runners. "Simon?! For Fuck's sake lad what the 'ell are ya doin' 'ere?"
The boy stood petrified and stammering incoherently. Billy harrumphed and reached for the flask at his belt. " 'ere now lad," he said in calming tones as he handed the flask to the shaking runner. "Drink up. Dutch Courage."
The boy took a long pull from the flask and dropped it trying to hand it back. Billy retrieved the bottle before too much spilled.
"Now, wha' brings you 'ere at this 'our?"
Reading the note was not as straightforward as it might seem. Pop had learned to write from Svetlana which meant the note was dotted with backwards Rs, inappropriate P's and those odd letters that looked like lower case b's with that extra line on top. However, Billy was familiar enough with it and not too proud to sound out the whole thing as he went along. It helped tremendously.
When he finished the note he turned to the boy "Simon, go fetch Svetlana an' tell 'er to meet me at the Shop and that I've got Lyta with me."
"Wh-where is she?" Simon stammered.
"Check 'round Ten Bells. If there's a fight goin' on she's in it. If she ain't there ask at the Club and if she ain't there she'll be at the Cavalry barracks grooming 'er 'orse. Good Lad. There's a Guinea in it for you when you get back."
With Lyta still on his shoulders Billy re-read the note and began grabbing weapons and his daughter's carrying basket.
"Poppy, Poppy, Poppy," Billy muttered to himself "What 'ave you gotten us into this time?"
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