“Sure,” Nina smiled.
Speaking in a hushed tone, Miss April revealed her thoughts to Nina. “Looks really, really old, like… ancient… old, you think?”
“Aye,” Nina answered softly as she sank to her haunches to examine the scabbard while Brian answered his teacher’s questions.
“It has been in my family for centuries, Miss. My grandpa would kill me if he knew I took it today, because it is very valuable,” he declared with a stout nod.
“You took it without permission?” Miss April gasped.
“Aye, Miss, he would never let me bring it. It was used in real battles and defended kings,” he assured both ladies. Of course, his boast was met with cynical mocking from his classmates.
“Bullshit,” Percy Klein coughed.
“Hey, watch your language or it is detention for you, Klein!” Miss April threatened in her shrill shriek. “Now listen, you can all leave your items here in class until tomorrow if we do not get everyone’s orals done today, alright?”
Nina could not believe the intricate designs on the scabbard, even though its etched patterns were erratic and crude. This actually had Nina more convinced that it was a raw and genuine article. Usually, the more esthetic items of such antiquity denoted less practical uses, but this item was fashioned by hand and carried traces of immense wear. Even if the boy was embellishing its origins, there were things about the scabbard that Nina could not dismiss. There was something mesmerizing about it.
She ran her slender finger along the inconsistent patterns and marveled softly. “It is positively engaging.” Nina looked up at Brian and cast a look at Miss April. “Almost… magical.”
8
Fencing
Court Callany could not concentrate on his work — again. His boss and friend, Tony Hamish noticed that the old mechanic was absent minded. He stared at Court through the plate glass window to the workshop. In the office from where he spied, his sister Bekka sat shaking her head. She was Hamish Auto’s administration clerk.
“What are you finding so bloody interesting about Court, hey?” she asked.
Tony did not move, but he answered her. “There is something not right at his home, Bekka. I can see it in his ways, you know? Known him long. Known his manner long and I tell ya, there is something very heavy on that old lad that he don’t tell me.”
“People go through shite, Tone. Deal with it. He does. Past few years, you saw what all happened in his household. That fucking deadbeat son of his and all the pressure with all the mouths to feed. I know you cannae pay him more, but jaysus, I think they cut the line thin every month,” she rambled.
Tony kept staring, as if looking long enough would reveal Court’s hefty yoke to him. “Whatever it is,” he mentioned under his breath, “it is weighing heavier today than last week when he had to stay late. Something that was already bothering him has gotten worse.” He turned to his sister. “Can you find out what it is? He would rather trust telling a woman.”
“Tone, I broke his hand the first night I saw him, remember? When I thought he was an intruder? How will he trust me over you?” she protested. “Just go and ask him. You are his employer, you know. He has to tell you.”
A knock at the other exit rocked the wooden door, finally prompting Tony to pry his eyes from the workshop.
“Come in, Len!” Bekka hollered. It was the owner of the scrap yard next door, looking for Tony. The mild mannered Len came in, nodding his greeting.
“And to what do we owe the pleasure, son?” Tony jested.
“Hello hello. Just dropping by quick. Looking for new help, Tone. If you know anyone reliable, will you shoot me a note?” Len asked.
“Sure, of course,” Tony replied. “Did Paul resign or have you still not heard from him?”
“Paul?” Bekka asked, looking surprised.
“Aye, Paul has not been coming in for work,” Len told her, shrugging. “No calls. Nobody at his shack. I guess employing cons don’t profit much, hey? Next time, I will rather take a rookie fresh from high school and teach him, than to trust a bloody thief or fraudster again. Fuck that.”
“Makes sense. We will keep an eye out for you, Len,” Tony promised.
“Ta, mate,” Len smiled. “I have to go. Nobody at the yard, apart from Jack. See you’s around, okay?”
“Alright, Len. See ya,” Bekka said as the junkyard boss left. She gawked at her brother. “Who the hell is Jack?”
“His Pitbull,” Tony chuckled. “A bitch.” Now he laughed. “He wanted a male, but she was the last of the litter and he could not afford another one, so he just called her Jack anyway.”
“Oh God, what a spastic,” she grunted, trying not to smile. “So where do you think that deadbeat Paul took off to this time?”
“I have no idea, but if you ask me, Len is better off without that git anyway,” her brother said, once again looking into the workshop. “I am going to ask Court what is hounding him like this.”
Before his sister could protest, Tony was bolting out the office door like a bloodhound. She chewed her purple grape chewing gum as she watched the two men in conversation, trying to ascertain what the verdict was by body language and failed lip reading. Court shook his head in a nugatory fashion a lot, obviously denying any guesses Tony threw at him. Ultimately, Tony seemed to accept the short answers from his employee and returned to the office. Bekka saw Court stare at Tony’s back as he walked away, displaying a sorrowful disappointment in his face.
“What did he say?” she pried when Tony came back.
He shrugged and sat down behind his desk. “Apparently Sue is sick again, but he refuses to tell me what exactly is wrong with her. Typical of Court. Martyr. Makes me sick when people walk around sulking, but will they accept help? No, they have to keep up the pity party.”
“Shut it,” she reprimanded her brother. “You know Court has a lot of troubles and you know that his wife has been sick before. Cancer sick.”
“I know,” he replied hopelessly. “Just wish he would cut the pouting and just come out and tell us what is wrong. By the way, sis, have you seen Alan lately?”
“Alan from the pawn shop?” she asked, surprised. “Are you selling stuff again?”
“Not me. Court. He asked me for Alan’s number. I am thinking the bloke needs to get some extra money for the coming holidays or whatever sickness his wife has this time round,” Tony speculated. “I mean, is the bonus he is due not enough?”
“That bonus you pay him buys him a carton of fags and a shot of morphine on the street market, love,” she told her brother outright. “Hardly anything more than what he takes home after his deductions every month. Think about it. Would you be able to live off what you pay Court? People who are not adequately remunerated tend to do shoddy work.” She gestured with her head toward the mechanics slouching around the workshop, looking positively lackluster. “See? If you got paid what they do, you would also have to pawn your stuff to stay alive.”
“Oh bollocks!” he scowled irately at her. “They should drink less and spend less time betting on the horses.”
“Oh really?” she chuckled. “Peter goes to the track once in three months and most of them need to blow of some steam to remind them that they get to spend something of their pathetic salaries on themselves, you know.”
“Whose side are you on?” he barked, beginning to feel as if his sister was trying to tell him something sincere in the shiny wrapping of casual conversation. “I cannot pay them too much, or else they will take liberties.”