The Great Grey

Since the murder of one of the Black Powder boys, Aoife had been kept out of sight and out of pocket. Scrimping and saving instead, the wee knife hand had been aligned to the back rows in order to keep her from the limelight. Of course, Aoife had had no play in the taking of such a life, for her onslaught of violence was (more often than not) reserved for those who plagued her, or who genuinely got in the gang’s way — and yet, she would have happily claimed the kill as her own, for her own hatred for the English and the opposing Gang outshone all logic or reason. She would have happily killed such a stupid boy for dancing between their borders, and would have yelled it from the rooftops if only Donoghue hadn’t thought to keep her hidden — if anyone knew Aoife’s wild nature, it was him, she supposed.

By the time the heat had swelled to put a throb of tension between the two halves of the East End, Aoife began to roam once more. Though the Greenstreet Gang normally got their takes from more serious business that revolved around true danger and chance, Aoife liked to stretch her fingertips in order to rehash old talents. Having learned to pickpocket at just six years old (when she had been clear-faced with pink healthy cheeks), Aoife knew the art of such a dance along the road, and flickered between heavy pockets as she had done all those years ago. With gentle hands she plunged her haul of money, jewellery and other such trinkets back into the pockets of her coat, which wore around her shoulders more akin to a cape due to the largeness when compared to her slim, boney body. But she hadn’t just learned to pick a pocket! No Sir! No way! She had also mastered the art of mugging a stray soul, in provoking chaos and drama by the glint of her knife or the uneven, curious snarl of her lips.

Aoife O’Kelly rarely hurt such persons of interest, but if they continued to push against her good, patient nature, then it was only on their part that Aoife struck to bone.

She had been executing that merry dance when she decided upon her prey, and as such followed like a wisp of smoke — hurrying between bystanders, she traced each footstep, tucking her long blonde hair down beneath the collar of her dress in doing so as she made the few quick decisions that lead her around a row of terraced houses in order to cut the man off by the quick. If it had been questionable to be Irish in the past, in the present day it was downright dangerous — though Aoife was no innocent young girl, if she were caught by the wrong person then she’d easily find herself hanging from the rope without a fair trial. But she was who she was, and taking the chance, she showed her knife off as if she were handling a trophy instead, pointing it in his direction by the tip that had been modified to become serrated and eager to bite at untouched skin.

“Empty yer feckin’ pockets naw,” she snapped, her extended length haunting the exit — her persona somewhat questionable, since rarely did anyone find a girl of such a height! Or a man so tall that he thought to wear a white dress that hung just above her ankles due to its odd size. Well, Aoife didn’t care to play the part, as she jutted her knife closer between them, snarling like a stray. “Did yer feckin’ hear me or are ye deaf as well as blind!?”

The affair with Wilkes (an unfortunate, if accurate label) was a chancre on Tim's soul. The man was insatiable, incorrigible, and utterly depraved. That was all bad enough, but the damn ownership he seemed to believe himself entitled to was entirely too much. Tim had thought himself clear regarding those Black Powders that had been sent to tail him, and yet not even three days later he had seen them again – different men, better men, but a Black Powder tail all the same. He had yet to decide on how he would handle the matter; tipping his hand too far with the gang leader was far more dangerous than putting up with the tail, at least for now.

Wilkes was happy to fuck an Irishman, and a former Greenstreeter; somehow Tim didn't think that strange affection would extend to a detective inspector.

But the man was safest when he was put entirely out of mind, and while Tim had entertained his strange obsession, it had been for a singular purpose. He was here to investigate Irish terrorism, and it was to that end that he had made himself noticeable again on the streets that had once been his home, some decade and a half past. The days had become filled with Awright, Timmy? and Ah, that's MacCleary's boy, en't it? and endless pisstaking and handshakes and far too many pointed looks and openly questioning gazes.

It was exhausting, and reminded him of how much he had loved to hate this place, but it was progress of a kind. So, too, was the little waif following him. It was starting to be like a little parade, for those with the eyes to notice. The only real fear in Tim's mind was that his Black Powder follower would step in, or otherwise make himself known. That, more than anything, was something that could not be allowed to happen.

He wandered into the quieter, tighter alleyways, and finally she took the opportunity presented to her. She was a filthy, wretched thing, but that described a fair number of the East End's inhabitants. Her knife was met with an appraising glance, but no panic was to be found on Tim's face, nor anything but his native Belfast and a slight veneer of derision in his voice or body language when he spoke. "Put it away before ye get hurt, lass." He had the blackjack tucked into his belt at the small of his back, but he didn't fancy it'd even be needed for a slight girl like this.

A knife could bite no matter who wielded it, and Tim had the scars to show for it under his sweater and sack coat. He also hadn't ever been carved up to leave more than nicks and scratches. She might have been tall for a girl, but he still had some height on her, and probably three full stone, if not more weight than that. So, yes, Tim rather fancied his chances with her. "Yer the blind one, pickin' a fight ye ain't goin' t'win."

Aoife’s mother came from a gaggle of girls who all worked the Dublin streets in both the light of the moon and the glow of the day, her cousins came and went in waves — nameless ghosts who flickered and dissolved into the crowd as quickly as they had arrived. How many had there been? Then, if one was to look closer on the name of her father, would Aoife be honoured with unknown siblings, uncles, aunts and even more cousins? Aoife didn’t know, she never would, for in that world she was quite alone if not for the Donoghue family’s benevolence and affection for her late Ma.

If she had been born into a more close-knit household, perhaps she and Timothy would’ve noted the similarities and the shared blood that pumped through their individual systems. But as luck would have it, he was but another mark, a mark to be harassed and coaxed into emptying his pockets like a lousy fuck. Jutting her knife toward him, Aoife stared with absolute menace, her humanity and humility vanished into the pierce of her eyes.

She snorted at his retort, at the tone of his voice that seemed to tell her that she was but a girl mixed up in the wrong place. What a fool! What an idiot! Did he wish for a scar to be drawn from ear to ear? Aye, she’d do it, alright! Let him play the blind man he was, Aoife was hungry and hunger could easily turn a girl like her mad. Or rather, madder.

“Did I feckin’ stutter!? Empty yer pockets or…” Aoife barked, her face drawn into tense lines and furious rebuttal before she seemed to come to terms with who she had cornered. Was that an Irish accent? It wasn’t from Dublin, she thought, as she ran her tongue along the backs of her teeth. Well, she had promised herself — or made something akin to a flimsy note — not to cut the skin of those she called her countrymen. So, she halted her pursuit, and dropped her arm with a laugh so the blade bounced against her clothed thigh.

“Wait a feckin’ minute, where yer from?” She asked, throwing herself forward by a step or two so he may see her in the slither of light, though it was to be said that she continued to keep a keen grip around her dear Badb.