The Under Broker: Part five

Portia took one last glance around the warehouse through the slit in the door, then slid into the shadows of crates and cargo—her eyes set on the men holding Spoon. She passed open wood boxes, and inside saw brown paper-wrapped parcels. Plunging her dagger into one, it popped with a small cloud of brown powder; Portia tasted the faintest amount.

Opium.

Portia moved closer to the men, overhearing them discuss some conflict with a rival gang—she ignored them. Creeping closer, she drew the blade best suited for the job ahead.

Freida, Portia’s sharpest dagger, dispatched two of the workers without raising any kind of alarm. Portia felt marginally bad for killing them, but her conscience reconciled it with the men having been working for a drug and child trafficker, so they couldn’t be all that good people anyway, she thought.

Portia’s plan was simple, if only in theory.

Take down as many of the men on the periphery of where Spoon and the man in the black jacket stood, then hopefully create some sort of diversion where she could go and grab Spoon. The boy looked like he had been beaten badly. Portia wasn’t sure he could walk out on his own, and she knew herself to be strong, but carrying anybody was going to slow her down.

Portia crept up behind a third man when she saw the man in the black coat, the one holding Spoon, pull a knife on the boy.

“Shit,” she cursed inwardly; if she didn’t act soon, Spoon’s life would be forfeit.

Portia grabbed a crowbar from a nearby crate and swung it directly into the back of the third man’s skull with full force.

Crack.

The sound made the heads of everyone left in the warehouse turn toward her.

Portia stood, staring back at them; she hadn’t really thought much past this point of the plan.

The dull thump of the man’s body hitting the ground acted as if it were a starting pistol at a race; all sprang into action.

Several pistol shots rocketed into crates around Portia as she dove for cover.

There was shouting and commotion; Portia had to think fast. She ran, hunched over to get away from her last known location, trying to stall for time until she could think of a better plan to not get killed, and get Spoon to safety.

Portia didn’t see the man who punched her with the force of a small donkey in the kidney.

Portia’s eyes filled with stars, but she had enough wherewithal to whirl around at the attacker, crowbar slicing through the air. She half-fell, half-shoved her way past the man who had hit her. The crowbar had made good contact.

More pistol shots, these, luckily caught by the body of the attacker she had just incapacitated.

Portia felt a searing pain in her left shoulder as a bullet ripped through her flesh.

She stumbled in the shadows, seeing three, four, then five figures moving in the light.

The light.

Portia looked behind her and saw it. The thing that would give her a fighting, or at least a fleeing chance in this fight.

Portia ducked behind another stack of crates, getting out of the line of sight of two men emptying their pistols at her. Another man was between her and her target. Portia didn’t think; she threw the crowbar overhand at the man, missing his skull, but sticking a vicious blow to his wrist as it whizzed through the air end-over-end. The man dropped the gun. Portia barreled past and reached for the light.

She grabbed the oil lamp and heaved it headlong into a stack of several closely stacked crates.

The shattering glass distracted a few, but the fire rippling over their precious cargo of drugs distracted the rest.

Portia swooped in, grabbing Spoon while the other men were occupied with saving their highly valuable cargo.

She shook him, “Spoon?”

The boy was unconscious.

Thankfully, whether because he was an orphan or just a frail child, Portia was able to heave him over her good shoulder after a small amount of effort.

Straining under the boy’s weight, Portia saw that the way she had entered was not going to be a viable exit. The flames and the armed men were clustered between her and the warehouse office.

Grunting, she shambled to the front entrance, praying that anyone standing guard had been distracted and left their post.

Her prayers were answered.

As she half-stepped, half-fell through the front door, she was greeted by nothing save the cool, damp night air.

Portia hobbled as quick as she could with Spoon weighing her down. She then, none too gently, dropped his body into the canal boat.

Wincing in pain, Portia lowered herself down, unmooring the tether.

With enough effort to spur tears into her eyes, Portia began rowing the boat downstream, letting the current do most of the work.

Checking back periodically that no one had followed them, Portia first tended to her shoulder, making sure that it wasn’t bleeding too much. She thought she wouldn’t be much help to Spoon if she bled out.

Portia paused as she tore a strip of fabric from her tunic. Why was she more concerned with this boy’s life than her own? She shook her head, merely a debt. The boy had saved her, and she would do the same in return. She hated being indebted to someone, even if fulfilling that promise came with mortal risk.

She looked back at her wound before wrapping it. The bullet had been a pass-through, a fortunate thing since a lodged bullet would more likely than not lead to infection, an unfortunate thing since it meant she was bleeding from two holes.

Quickly tying her makeshift bandage around her shoulder, Portia then bent down to evaluate Spoon.

She put her head down next to his face.

Good, he’s still breathing, she thought, even though she felt growing concern that his breath was shallow, far too shallow.

Then, taking an overall look, Portia’s stomach tightened.

Whoever had caught Spoon had really worked him over. Both his eyes were swollen shut, he had a bloody mouth, and his face was beginning to swell and bruise.

“Fucking monsters,” Portia wiped the blood from Spoon’s face.

Sitting back up, she looked at their surroundings. It looked like they were in Nechells, one borough over from the warehouse in Digbeth.

Portia thought frantically for a moment about where to go and whom to seek aid from, then a sense of relief came over her; she knew a doctor in this area. Portia paddled on for a time until she thought the boat was approaching the right area, and looked for a place to tether. She hoped silently to herself that Spoon would get treatment before it was too late.

A hand closed around Portia’s arm.

The sudden fright of being grabbed nearly sent Portia and the small, dirt-covered girl toppling overboard.

Heightened as Portia’s adrenaline was, she was thankful she hadn’t fully drawn Frieda out of her sheath.

The girl who stood before her couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. She had tears in her eyes and was now clutching onto the fabric of Portia’s shirt.

Taking a single breath to compose herself and to make sure she talked in at least a half-calm voice, Portia simply eyed the girl for a moment.

“How did you get on my boat, and for that matter, who are you?”

The little girl’s chin was trembling as she pointed to a tarp that lay half open at the far end of the canal boat.

“A stowaway then, and your name, girl, what’s your name?”

The girl looked up at Portia, confusion in her eyes, as the small ruffian seemed to think about something.

The little girl pointed at Spoon, her eyes welling again with tears, then pointed to herself.

Portia looked at Spoon, then back at the girl.

“Spoon’s sister, are you his sister?”

The girl nodded, wiping away her tears.

Portia let out a sigh, not one of exasperation, but one of relief and now-subsiding fear, “Okay, don’t worry, we’re going to get him help.”

“He’s not in a good way,” the doctor lifted his ear from Spoon’s chest, “he needs absolute stillness in a dark, quiet room. How far did you move him to bring him here?”

“As far as necessary.” Portia glowered at the doctor.

“I fear he has a concussion of the brain, and there is no way to know if he has compression yet.”

“Compression?” Portia echoed.

“A—A sort of swelling of the brain in the skull,” the doctor began, trying to explain the problem with his hands.

“Is there no faster treatment?”

The doctor thought for a moment, twiddling his fingers, “Do—do you happen to have any leeches?”

“No.”

“I’m afraid rest it will have to be then,” the doctor replied meekly.

“Okay, treat him as best you can, though, I’ll need to take him back with me as soon as he’s stable, understand?”

The doctor muttered something unintelligible while giving Portia a disdainful glare. She followed him upstairs.

Portia began pacing in the office, the doctor growing somewhat irritated at the distraction.

The doctor hadn’t been too thrilled about Portia slamming on the door in the dead of night, but his manner softened when he saw the state of the poor boy in her arms.

“What about the girl, is she well?” The doctor looked over at the tiny girl, her eyes still puffy from crying.

Portia glanced at the stowaway. “I—I don’t know, she won’t speak to me.”

The doctor moved over to the little girl, “Hello, I’m Dr. Elston. Can you understand me?”

The girl nodded.

“Do you mind if I check you over, to make sure you’re healthy, that you’re not hurt?”

The girl seemed nervous, but looked at Spoon, whom the doctor had provided excellent care to, and reluctantly shook her head.

After a few minutes, the doctor gave the girl a small candy from his pocket and shuffled over back to Portia.

“She’s healthy,” he said as he folded his spectacles, “though I don’t suspect she’ll be speaking to you very soon.”

“Why?”

“She’s got a severe tongue tie.”

“What’s that? Can you fix it?”

“There’s a small piece of skin below your tongue, in some people it’s attached with too much tissue, causing them to be unable to move their tongue.”

“How do you fix it?”

“It’s a simple procedure, really, we just cut the tissue, and sew it back. Once the swelling goes down, she should be able to speak, erm—well, she’s been like this since birth, so it’s likely she doesn’t know how.”

“I see,” Portia looked over at the girl, who was standing on her toes next to Spoon on the exam table.

Portia called the girl over, “Have you ever seen a doctor before?”

The girl shook her head.

“This man,” Portia pointed to the old, frail doctor, who had a warm air about him, “is a good man. You can trust him. I’m telling you this because he says he can fix your voice—you will be able to speak.”

The little girl’s eyes grew to the size of saucers.

“He would have to give you a needle first, something to numb the pain.”

The girl clutched her hands to her chest, clearly scared now.

“You have something they call being tongue-tied.”

Seeing that the girl was following along, Portia continued, “See this thing?” She opened her mouth and pointed under her tongue.

The girl nodded.

“Well, yours is keeping your tongue held down; the doctor can cut it, and it will take a week or two to recover, but afterwards you’ll be able to speak.”

One of the girl’s hands went to her throat, and she started crying again.

“Are you okay—”

Portia stopped as the brightest smile she had ever seen beamed up at her.

Portia waited at the doctor’s for the runner she had sent to get word to Amos. She needed a safe place for her and these two children to stay while she figured out what to do about Damien, Mother Tabitha, and the drug ring. She still didn’t know the details of how they were all connected. Yet her gut sang to her loud and clear; they were absolutely connected, she just needed to find the thread that spun the weave.

Portia had paid the doctor handsomely to remain closed for the day and tend to Spoon. His sister’s procedure had gone well. But Portia still paced anxiously, periodically checking out the front window to make sure Damien or his men hadn’t found where they were holed up.

“Mrs. Tegeré, it’s important you wear the sling,” the doctor approached gingerly, the sling in hand.

“Yeah, sure thing,” Portia eyed the doctor and resumed her pacing.

The doctor gave out a small huff and sulked back to his office to check on the children.

A few hours later, two men came knocking on the doctor’s office door.

Portia waited in the shadows, looking out through a slit in the blinds while the doctor answered the door.

One of the men handed the doctor something, which he seemed to puzzle over for a moment. He lifted the item to the side so Portia could see it.

A small, glass goose figurine, holding a marigold under one wing.

“They’re good,” she said to the doctor, who exhaled such a great volume of air and slumped so severely that Portia readied herself to catch him.

“I’m—I’m really not cut out for this sort of thing, I don’t have the temperament for it,” Dr. Elston turned to Portia, “I was trained to identify diseases, not malicious-or-not visitors.”

Portia grinned, patting the doctor on the back, to which he responded by jumping slightly, then scurrying back upstairs.

The girl’s procedure had gone well, and the doctor said there had been minimal swelling. The two men Amos had sent told Portia the butler had arranged alternate accommodations for them. They waited until night fell to provide cover while transporting Spoon, as the men had to carry the boy, still in an unconscious state. Portia worried about the boy’s well-being, but the doctor had said that the swelling in his brain was most likely not going to be fatal. He would probably wake up with little to no long-term damage in a few days to a week. The doctor had been in the middle of warning the men to be careful with the poor boy when Portia’s glare had suggested he best not proceed with his admonishment.

“This is it, this is the alternate arrangement Amos put together?” Portia looked at the dilapidated bakery with cobwebs covering the sign.

BETTY BAKED GOOD

Both the “s” from “goods” and presumably, “Betty’s” had fallen off, adding to the run-down appearance. Portia grimaced. Having grown up in a wealthy family, she did not do the whole downtrodden and destitute thing, but for the sake of taking Damien and his little drug operation down, this, too, she would endure.

Memories of the graveyard came unbidden back into her mind.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

The gunshots ringing out into the night.

Just like when she lost Emmet.

Just like when Damien took him from her.

One of the men Amos had sent, the one not holding Spoon in his arms, tapped rhythmically on the door. Three taps, a pause, then one tap, a longer pause, then two more taps.

After a moment, a light appeared through the dust-caked windows. Amos shuffled towards the door, looking for all the world like he had run the whole way here from the law office.

“Hells, Amos, took your bloody time, didn’t you?” Portia ushered the girl in through the door.

“Sincerest apologies, my lady,” Amos bowed his head, “I needed to gather your confidential files and other important items.”

Portia quirked an eyebrow, “Other important items?”

“I will not abandon my flock. I might add this would all be unnecessary if the lady had taken a bit more caution in her endeavors. Also, I needn’t remind the lady that covert, vigilante activity falls a touch outside this humble butler’s purview.”

The geese. Amos packed up and brought all his fucking geese, Portia thought, ignoring his quippy remark. Eyeing her butler with a slightly dubious expression, Portia decided against chastising him, knowing full well the man would sooner abandon his own mother than his prized flock.

“I’m sorry, Amos.” Portia put a hand on his shoulder, looking at him with regret in her eyes.

“Thank you, my lady. I also brought your favorite whiskey,” Amos motioned to a glass bottle on the counter, then his eye caught the two children.

The girl, clinging to Portia’s side as if she let go, she would fall off the face of the world, looked up at Amos.

Amos waved. “Hello there, young lady.”

The girl looked scared for a second, then waved sheepishly at the butler.

“And what may I ask is your name?”

“She doesn’t talk, Amos. Well, not yet anyway.”

Amos quirked an eyebrow, but didn’t inquire any further. “Very well then.”

Portia looked around the dust-caked interior of the former bakery, “Do we have beds, at least?”

“After a fashion. There are bed rolls upstairs,” Amos motioned to the staircase in the back of the shop.

The man carrying the Spoon was already headed up. The boy needed to lie down and be fed water and broth while he recovered, as per the doctor’s orders.

“Is young Mr. Spoon well?” Amos was wringing his hands.

“He may be, with time.” Portia felt a worry rising up in her gut, but managed to stifle the feeling back down. She walked over to the whiskey, poured herself two measures, slammed it back, then repeated the process once more.

“Take care of the girl, Amos. She had a small procedure done, something about her tongue.” Portia turned to head back out the door as her face contorted from the burning of downing two double-whiskeys.

“Will you not be staying with us?”

“No, Amos. I have to go see the devil herself first, maybe I can get away with only bartering my soul for a favor this time.”

Portia unlocked the door and was halfway out when she turned back to her butler, “Oh, and Amos?”

“Yes, my lady?” Amos had turned a bit paler, more a shade of grey than his usual bed-sheet color.

“If you could teach the girl to speak, that would be smashing,” Portia gave Amos a wan smile.

“To speak?” Amos sounded confused as he called after her, but Portia was already out the door.