Shadow Of Grace

Chapter 4: One More Day

Edward had barely set foot in his home. He was greeted with the deafening gurgle of the icebox. Yes, his one companion had truly missed him. He hardened himself on the prickly mattress. Home, sweet home.

He had not slept much last night. At any rate, the noise of mulling Mr. Angelo’s words at the entrance of the circus was terrifying—it would not let him sleep. Through the act Edward had performed on the night of the annual bash, he had lost his wages. How would he now ever repay Angelo’s debt?

Just as he settled on this thought, there came a knock—forceful, insistent, deliberate. He stood stock-still. Who knocked at this hour of the night? Then he remembered Angelo. The longer he delayed, the louder the pounding grew.

Before he had time to reach the door, it swung open. There stood three men in the doorway, broad-shouldered men with their faces expressionless and solemn. They stepped inside the apartment as if it belonged to them.

Edward required no introduction. Angelo’s men had come.

“Edward,” declared the biggest of them. He spoke with a rock-hewn deep voice.

Edward stammered, “I—I need more time.” He spoke with a thin voice, left behind in the small space.

"You have time," said the man coldly. "One more day. Angelo's patience wears thin." He poked the air with a thick finger.

Edward protested with an open mouth, but he received a blow on the side of his head. He winced.

"Perhaps the whipping will do it for you."

Another groan of hurt escaped him as the fists made contact. Edward lifted his arms, but the men pressed in. A huge blow slammed him on the side. He stumbled, but did not fall. A second punch for the jaw threatened; he dodged, and the knuckles grazed his temple. A blur of stars materialized in his eyesight.

They didn’t mean to kill him—just to keep him mindful of death drawing near.

Then the large man grabbed him and dragged him down the corridor.

“Hey!” a voice shouted.

The man turned around. It was a girl.

She was petite, not more than nineteen, with her hair drawn back, and plain clothes on. She had a big tote bag with her, and before any of the men could stand up, she swung it.

The bag knocked one of them straight across the shoulder with a tremendous crash. She stumbled backward but shouted, “Run!”

Edward did not wait. He ran for the opening she had created. The girl seized his wrist and tugged him further and they went—boots thundering behind them. She yanked him down a long corridor, past crates, her grip hard and unyielding.

Edward's ribs ached from the blows, but the adrenaline propelled him further.

“Left!” she yelled, pulling him into a narrow street, no wider than his shoulders.

Footsteps thundered after them, but the men were larger, heavier. The two of them burst out onto a wider road. Clara moved as if she knew every bend of the city. Edward stumbled after her, gasping, his body demanding rest.

They came to a stop with screeching tires before an old rusty gate that opened onto a courtyard of weeds. She shoved it open, dragged him through, and slammed it afterwards. She tipped over a broken barrel in front of it.

Sounds of feet died away.

Edward fell against a wall and landed on the ground with his face down. He hurt with pain on his ribs. He slowly gazed at the rescuing girl.

“Who—who are you?"

"Clara," she said flatly, her breathing steadier than his. "We're lucky I just so happened to be around."

Edward coughed, and pain ran its course through him. Clara sat beside him, eyes focused and watchful.

“Those are Angelo’s men, aren’t they?”

He nodded. “I owe him. More than I can pay.” He sounded resentful. “And now I've got only one day.”

"Well, then you have to pay him off. Angelo doesn't bluff." Clara spoke matter-of-factly as she looked at his bruises.

Edward looked away. The weight of failure pressed down more strongly. He believed he would have enough, but the circus night had shattered everything. Marcus’s savagery, Angelo’s threatening air, and now the deadline—they all pressed down on him with a vise around his chest.

Clara's tone softened. “He's haunted you before, I can tell. But you're not the type that goes down without a struggle.”

Edward scowled at her. “Why are you assisting me? You barely know me.”

"Just state that you do not enjoy bullies. And you." She hesitates, and concludes with, "You look like someone worthwhile to help."

They caught him completely off guard. He never was fond of praise. He did not trust very many people—he never did have people he trusted.

Clara moved nearer. “What do you plan on doing?” she finally said.

He shook his head. “I have none. All I have is that if I do not pay, I am finished.”

"Then maybe you need more than money," she said decisively. "Maybe you need someone who knows where to look for it."

He looked at her, skeptical yet interested. In her eyes, he saw resolve he had never observed—not in Marcus, not in the actors, not even in himself. He felt less alone for the first time in quite some time.

It was the sound of distant footsteps which made Clara tense. “We can’t stay here any longer,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “They’ll double back. Come on.”

She grasped his hand and led him through yet another corridor, taking them deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of streets until the pursuit had disappeared.

They found themselves at a remote stretch by the river, the evening light falling on the moving waves. Edward sat on the railing, elbows oscillating, observing the current. Clara sat beside him, observing the horizon.

"One day," he said bitterly.

“Pleenty of days,” said she softly. “In plenty.”

For the first time, Edward felt something shift inside of him. The hopelessness that had crushed his spirit abated for a bit, and there swelled up instead a tender, living thread of hope. He wasn’t alone anymore.