AI Rory slammed the delivery bag onto the scarred oak counter, the zipper's rasp cutting through the low hum of conversation. Spilled sauce from the last order—sweet and sour chicken, no doubt—stained the leather like a fresh bruise. She wiped her hands on her jeans, ignoring the sticky residue, and scanned the bar for Silas. The Raven's Nest pulsed with its usual Friday crowd: suits loosening ties, laughter sharp as broken glass.
He wasn't behind the bar. That was odd. Usually, his grey-streaked head bobbed like a lighthouse amid the chaos, pouring pints with that deliberate twist of his wrist. Rory signalled to the temp bartender—a kid with tattoos snaking up his neck—and ordered a gin and tonic. The ice cracked as it hit the glass, a sound that always made her flinch.
She carried her drink to a corner booth, the one tucked under the faded map of Istanbul on the wall. Maps everywhere in this place, like Silas couldn't let go of borders he'd crossed and burned. Rory sank into the vinyl seat, the springs groaning under her weight . Her shift had dragged; Yu-Fei's kitchen had been a furnace, woks hissing steam that clung to her skin like regret. She sipped the gin, the juniper bite chasing away the day's grease.
Footsteps approached, uneven. A slight hitch on the left. Rory looked up.
Silas.
But not the Silas she remembered from those grainy photos her father had shown her, the ones from his "consulting" days. This man stood taller somehow, shoulders squared against the years, but his hazel eyes held a shadow she'd never seen. He leaned on the edge of the table, silver signet ring glinting under the low lamp. His beard, neatly trimmed, framed a smile that didn't reach those eyes.
"Rory Carter," he said, voice low, like gravel under boots. "Fancy finding you haunting my doorstep."
She froze, glass halfway to her lips. Last time they'd spoken—really spoken—had been what, five years? Her father’s funeral, Brendan Carter laid out in that Cardiff chapel, rain lashing the windows. Silas had shown up unannounced, clapped her on the shoulder with that ring pressing cold into her skin. "Your old man was a good bloke," he'd muttered, then vanished into the crowd. No calls after. No visits. Just this flat above his bar, offered through Eva like some distant favour.
"Silas." She set the glass down, harder than intended. Ice shifted, clinking. "Didn't think you'd remember the name."
He slid into the booth opposite, wincing as his left knee protested. The limp. She'd heard rumours—Prague, a knee shattered in some shadow op. MI6 whispers her father had let slip over late-night whiskies. Silas waved off the temp bartender's approach, then fixed her with that steady gaze. "Brendan’s daughter? Hard to forget. You were all knees and elbows back then, trailing him to those boring legal dos."
Rory's fingers traced the crescent scar on her wrist, hidden under her sleeve. Childhood accident, climbing that oak in the garden while Dad argued cases on the phone. Silas had been there once, early days, before he went full ghost. "That was ages ago. You've... upgraded." She nodded at the bar, the green neon sign flickering outside like a faulty heartbeat. "Own the place now?"
"Retired life." He signalled for two more drinks, his own a neat whisky. The bartender nodded, vanishing into the throng. "Keeps the hands busy. You? Eva mentioned you were crashing upstairs. Delivery gig?"
She shrugged, but the motion felt tight, like wires pulling. Eva had played bridge-builder, phoning Silas on Rory's behalf after Evan’s fists turned her flat into a war zone. "Pays the rent. Beats law school." The words tasted bitter, like the dregs in her glass. Pre-Law at Cardiff, Dad's dream. She'd bolted after the last beating, Evan's ringed hand mirroring Silas's but without the silver polish.
Silas's whisky arrived, amber liquid swirling as he lifted it. "Your father always said you'd make a barrister yet. Sharp as a tack, he reckoned."
The mention hit like a slap. Rory's jaw clenched . Brendan, with his pipe smoke and endless briefs, pushing her towards courtrooms while Silas lurked in the background—friend of the family, shadowy ally from Ireland days. They'd bonded over her once, she remembered: Silas teaching her card tricks in the garden, his fingers deft, while Dad watched with approval. "He said a lot of things." She picked at the label on her glass, peeling it in strips. "Like how you two went way back. MI6 bollocks."
A chuckle rumbled from him, dry as autumn leaves. "Bollocks, indeed. Brendan exaggerated." But his eyes flicked to the map on the wall, tracing old routes. Rory caught the tell— the slight tightening of his grip on the glass. Lies layered like varnish.
The bar noise swelled: a group at the dartboard erupted in cheers, arrows thunking into cork. Rory leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Eva said you pulled strings for this flat. Why?"
Silas swirled his whisky, ice whispering against crystal . "Owed your dad. Old debts." He paused, studying her. "You've changed, Rory. Harder edges."
She met his stare, bright blue against hazel. "Life does that. You should know." The limp again, unspoken . Prague. Whispers of a partner left bleeding out, operation in flames. Dad had never confirmed, but the regret in Silas's letters after—brief, typed—had screamed it.
He nodded, slow. "Fair point." The conversation lulled, bar hum filling the gap. A jazz record scratched to life on the old turntable behind the counter, trumpet wailing low and mournful. Rory's mind wandered to the flat upstairs: bare walls, her single bed pushed against the window overlooking Soho's bustle. Safe, but empty. Evan’s ghost still lingered in nightmares, his apologies turning to slaps.
"You ever think about going back?" Silas asked, voice cutting the melody . "Cardiff. The family patch."
Rory's laugh came sharp, unintended. "Back to what? Mum's lectures? Evan's parole hearing next month?" She hadn't meant to say that. The gin loosened tongues.
Silas's brow furrowed , just a fraction. "Evan. The ex?"
"Fiancé, once." She drained her glass, the lime's tang sour on her tongue. "Broke three ribs before I scarpered. Eva dragged me here." Dragged. Like luggage, heavy and unwanted.
He set his whisky down, ring tapping wood. "Brendan would've sorted him. One call."
"Yeah, well, Brendan's gone." The words hung, accusatory . Dad's heart attack, sudden as a blackout. No goodbyes, just Rory sorting his study, finding Silas's old letters tucked in a drawer. Coded, half-redacted. "You could've called. After the funeral."
Silas shifted, knee creaking. "I did. Left messages."
"With Eva. Not me." She folded her arms, leather jacket creaking. The scar itched under fabric, memory of falls and foolish climbs.
He rubbed his beard, gaze distant. "Thought you needed space. After... everything."
"Everything." Rory echoed , tasting the evasion. Prague's shadow loomed between them, unspoken . Dad had hinted once, drunk on stout: Silas lost a man, came back hollow. "You disappeared too, you know. After that op. Dad said you were a ghost."
The trumpet solo peaked, then faded. Silas's face hardened, lines etching deeper. "Ghosts haunt, Rory. They don't vanish clean."
A new round arrived unbidden, the temp sliding glasses across without a word. Rory ignored hers, heat rising in her chest. "Is that why the bar? Hiding in plain sight?"
He leaned back, surveying the room: patrons nursing drinks, shadows pooling under photographs—black-and-white shots of Prague spires, Istanbul alleys. "Something like that." His voice dropped. "Your dad pulled me out once. Belfast, '98. Owed him my neck."
Rory's pulse quickened . Dad, the barrister, tangled in spook games? "He never said."
"Compartmentalised." Silas's eyes locked on hers, probing. "Like you, maybe. Keeping Evan close too long."
The jab landed. Rory's fingers curled into fists under the table. "Don't psychoanalyse me. You weren't there."
"Wasn't I?" He tapped the ring, a rhythmic click. "Heard stories. Eva's chatty."
She shoved back from the table, vinyl squeaking. "Stories. Right." The bar spun a touch—gin, anger. Upstairs waited, but confrontation glued her boots to the floor. Silas, the mentor she'd half-invented from Dad's tales, now flesh and flawed, limp and all.
He reached across, hand steadying her glass. "Sit. We haven't finished."
Rory hovered, torn. The weight pressed: years of silence , regrets coiled like smoke. Dad's grave , Evan's threats in voicemails she deleted. Silas's secrets, mirroring her own.
"Why now?" she demanded, sinking back but on edge. "Why show up after all this?"
His smile returned, wry. "Because debts compound, Rory. And yours... it's time I settled."
The door to the bar swung open then, admitting a gust of Soho chill and a figure Rory hadn't seen since Cardiff—Eva, breathless, coat askew. But her eyes darted, not to Rory, but to Silas . Panic flickered there, brief as a struck match.
"Silas," Eva gasped, clutching her bag like a shield. "He's here. Evan's outside."
The air thickened, jazz forgotten. Rory's heart hammered. Silas's hand went to his pocket, ring catching light. The booth felt smaller, the maps closing in.