AI Rory’s knuckles scraped congealed lager grime off a glass bottle as she hauled the crate out from behind the bar’s scuffed pool table. It was the slowest Tuesday of the month, only three regulars tucked in the back booths, nursing pints that had gone flat an hour prior. Silas had begged her to fill in after his part-time bartender bailed to go to a festival in Leeds, and she’d agreed, if only to avoid the stack of unpaid bills that sat on her kitchen table back in the flat above. The Raven’s Nest smelled of cedar polish and old smoke, the walls lined with frayed 1970s maps of Eastern Europe and grainy black and white photos of men Rory never asked about. The green neon sign above the door hummed loud enough to vibrate the fogged glass, casting streaks of lime over the scuffed oak bar.
Silas polished a pint glass with a frayed cloth, his grey-streaked auburn beard catching the low light as he tapped his silver signet ring against the wood. You break that bottle, you’re paying for it out of your next tip.
Rory laughed, wiping her damp palm on the thigh of her worn jeans, and opened her mouth to toss back a quip about his stingy tip policy when the front door slammed open. Wind gusted in, carrying the smell of rain and exhaust from Soho’s crowded streets, and the brass bell above the lintel jangled so hard it tore free from its hook, clattering to the tile floor. A woman stepped in, shaking rain off the collar of a plain heavy black wool coat, her face half hidden. She was five and a half feet tall, the same height as Rory, her hair cut into a blunt mousy brown bob that skimmed her jaw. Back in Cardiff, that same hair had been neon pink, chopped into choppy layers that fell in her eyes when she skated down the steep hill near their university. She’d had a tiny silver star tattoo inked behind her left ear the night of their 18th birthday, when they’d snuck into a back-alley parlor and lied about their ages to the artist. Right now, that spot was covered with a crumpled flesh-toned band-aid, her hands stuffed deep in her coat pockets, no chipped black nail polish, no scuffed platform boots, just plain black trainers worn thin at the toes.
Rory froze. The lager bottle slipped from her grip, hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud that turned every head in the bar. She rubbed the small crescent scar on her left wrist, the childhood injury she picked at when fear coiled tight in her chest, a habit she never managed to break. Silas set his polishing cloth down slow, his hazel eyes sharp. He knew every detail of Evan, the abusive ex who’d driven Rory from Cardiff three years prior, the night she’d showed up on his bar’s doorstep with a split lip and a single garbage bag of clothes. He’d given her the flat above the Nest, lined up her delivery job at Yu-Fei’s Golden Empress restaurant, and kept her hidden from anyone who might pass her location along. He pushed off the bar, his left leg dragging just a little, the old Prague knee injury flaring when he tensed, ready to step between Rory and whatever stranger had just tracked her down.
The woman lifted her head, and her dark eyes locked on Rory’s. She crossed the bar in three quick strides, her boots tapping the tile, and stopped a foot away, her chest heaving like she’d run miles to get there.
I didn’t think you’d still be here.
I thought you were dead. Rory’s voice came out rough, raw. I sent you a hundred texts. Called every number I had for you. You never replied.
Eva laughed, but the sound was hollow, nothing like the loud braying laugh that used to echo through their student flat, the one that had gotten them thrown out of three libraries and a cinema. I couldn’t reply. He was watching me. Every number I used, every email, every social media account. He knew everything.
Silas leaned against the bar, his signet ring still tapping a steady rhythm against the oak. You’re the friend who called her that night. Eva, right.
Eva nodded, her gaze darting to the door like she expected someone to burst through it any second. That’s me.
Silas jerked his head at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that lined the back wall of the bar, the one hiding the hidden meeting room he used for quiet network business. Take this somewhere private. I’ll shoo the regulars out in ten, keep watch for anyone loitering. No one bothers you back there. He slipped a small folding knife into Rory’s palm as she walked past, his hand closing tight around hers for half a second. Be careful.
Rory pulled the worn spine of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, the trigger that unlocked the bookshelf’s hinge, and swung the door open. The back room was small, lit by a single flickering brass lamp, its threadbare grey couch dotted with old cigarette burns, a stack of Silas’s old case files stacked on the coffee table. She shut the bookshelf behind them, and the hum of the neon sign dimmed to a low thrum. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, and Rory’s gaze caught on the dark purple bruise peeking out from under Eva’s bob, wrapping around her jawline. She didn’t say it out loud, didn’t need to; the pain hung thick between them, heavy as the dust on the case files.
He found me a week after you left Cardiff, Eva said, her voice flat, like she was reciting a grocery list instead of the worst years of her life. Showed up at my flat at two in the morning, kicked the door in. Beat me until I couldn’t stand, said if I didn’t tell him where you went, he’d burn my parents’ cottage in the Brecon Beacons to the ground. I lied, said I didn’t know, but he didn’t believe me. He made me work for him. Move his drug packages, clean his flats, answer his phones. Kept me locked in a spare room when I wasn’t working . I couldn’t run, couldn’t call anyone. He had people watching me every second.
Rory’s throat burned. She’d been so scared of Evan finding her that she’d cut off everyone from Cardiff, changed her number, deleted all her old social media, even told the few friends she made in London never to mention her real name online. She’d left Eva to face him alone, had spent three years building a new life while her oldest friend was trapped with the monster she’d run from. I should have come back for you. I was so scared I just ran. I forgot you were there, that you’d ever needed me to fight for you.
You did what you had to. Eva’s voice cracked, and she wiped a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand, sharp and angry at herself for crying. He would have killed you if he found you. I knew that. I didn’t blame you, not at first. But after the first year, after I spent twelve months sleeping with a kitchen knife under my pillow, wondering if you even remembered I existed? It got hard. Hard not to resent you for getting out, while I was still stuck. That’s the weight of it, isn’t it? We were 17, sneaking into clubs and planning to move to Paris together, and then life split us apart and neither of us knew how to put it back together.
Rory nodded, the words sticking in her throat. She’d carried that same regret for years, the grief of losing the friend she’d been inseparable from since they were 11, the girl who’d taught her to steal crisps from the corner shop and skip class to go to the beach. She’d thought Eva had abandoned her, that Eva had chosen Evan over her, and the truth was far worse: she’d abandoned Eva.
Eva leaned forward, her voice dropping to a urgent hiss, the old fire in her eyes flaring for the first time all night. I didn’t just come here to apologize, or to catch up. He followed me to London. I saw his white van parked outside Paddington when I got off the train. I lost him, but he’s here. He’s looking for you. He told me, before I ran, that if he ever found you, he’d make you regret ever leaving him. He’s not just coming to yell, Rory. He’s coming to kill you.
The words hung in the small room, thick as smoke, and before Rory could process them, before she could reach for the knife Silas had slipped her, a loud bang echoed through the wood of the bookshelf. Silas’s voice cut through, sharp and cold, loud enough to hear through the solid oak.
Rory. There’s a bloke at the bar. Asked for you by name. Has a printed photo of you in his hand. He’s not alone.