Okay, aside from that short story comp. this is the only thing i will have posted here. All i can really say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time. ALL feedback/ideas/advice is HUGELY welcome! Thanks, enjoy......
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His hair still shines black from the heavy rain outside. It's just curly enough that, if he wore it long, there would be ringlets, pre-Raphaelite style, past his shoulders. It's short, but long enough to not yet be dry by his second beer.
Dark eyes look angry, tired and even a little afraid, if you look into them for long enough. He won't let you. Like sentries they watch the room; en-guard while the body rests, and dart toward the door every time it opens to admit another stranger in search of drink.
Those that are more familiar with him offer a nod as they enter and receive one in return but only the barmaid tries to engage him in conversation. He likes her so he'll reply but doesn't give much away and never asks any questions of his own. She doesn't mind; it's an old ritual and the other men at the bar clamour for her attention.
He's staring at the bottom of his glass, swirling the dregs when a plate of stew and dumplings appears in front of him. Dark haired head snaps up and the barmaid winks at him.
“You feelin' alright, Hun?” She asks. “Lookin' particularly peaky today.”
When he eats here, he always has the stew.
“Thanks.” She is graced with a rare, if small, smile and returns to serving the others.
The hot, wholesome stew is gone in minutes and the bowl spotlessly clean, he makes an effort to smile and appear grateful when she removes it a while later and he says just 'Thanks' again.
She likes him because he doesn't lech over her, doesn't bore her to tears with affected stories of his various criminal exploits, because she likes to think that his life is anything but boring. He is her tall dark handsome stranger with a hangover and a penchant for brooding. She likes him because, unlike all the other guys in here, she can believe that he is a good guy.
He has another two beers and smokes a quarter of a packet of cigarettes before calling it a night. The nice barmaid left half an hour ago, bidding him 'goodnight and take care'. He doesn't like it so much without her around; the other, older woman doesn't know his drink and gets huffy when he doesn't want to converse. The landlord treats him with a kind of wary respect; he's seen him elsewhere, but he's not as nice as nice to look at and doesn't make him want to smile the way his girl does.
He steps out onto the street, it's still raining and half the street lights are out. He turns up his collar against the wet and, hands in pockets, starts on his way homewards. Not thirty paces from the bar he hears the sound of a scuffle in a nearby darkened alley. Years of experience and bruises have taught him not to investigate strange noises in the dark. About to continue on his way, it is the sound of a woman crying that makes him turn back. One guy with a grudge beating down on another is no problem to him but a guy beating a woman makes him fume.
Moving silently he enters the darkness and forward toward the figures under a dim red light. There is a man, one he knows and recognises, pinning a woman to the wall. He can't see her face but her skirt is up around her waist and the guy is starting on his belt. The woman rallies herself and strikes him, nails leaving four red angry lines across his face. She is repayed with a vicious backhander that throws her head into view for a second.
It's the barmaid. His barmaid. Her make-up is smudged and running down her face like a drunken clowns. Her face is red from her attackers blows and her struggles.
Appearing behind the guy, he grabs him by the shoulder, spins him round and punches him in the face hard enough to feel cartilage buckle. Turning to the girl he picks her up by her arms and gives her a quick glance over. She's fine. He whips off his coat to wrap around her shoulders and the terror fades out of her face as she recognises him in the semi-darkness.
The other guy is getting up now, blood pouring from his nose on the wet ground, growling. He falls once more to a boot in the gut.
During the next four minutes he makes it to his feet twice, only to be smacked down again. After a while he stops trying to move. A while after this, his defeater stops kicking him. He turns his attention back to the girl, she has straightened her skirt and pulled his coat tight around herself but is still shivering. He approaches and gives a questioning look.
“You okay?” he asks. She nods and smiles weakly, sniffing. He lifts a hand near to her face to examine the cut on her head, he doesn't touch her and she doesn't flinch.
The rain has grown heavy, he turns up her collar and she asks him to walk her home. As they walk, he tries to stay close enough to reassure her but without making her feel threatened. He's not used to having to deal with this sort of situation. He lights a cigarette.
She tells him how she can normally take care of herself, how she grew up in The Dark Corner but that this guy had caught her off-guard. She had served him in the bar a few times and hadn't thought that he was the type to attack her, so when he approached her defence had been down.
“Good thing that you were there to live up to your reputation.” She tells him. He glances sideways at her and she puts a guilty hand up to her neck. “I mean, I mean I didn't mean.......Mr. Seward tells me you're dangerous.” He knows what the bar owner thinks of him. They walk in silence for a minute or two before she speaks again.
“Are you?” He slows to look at her. “Dangerous, I mean. You really laid into that guy. I'm glad you did but.....'dangerous' is an odd word to use.” He doesn't look like he's going to reply but she keeps looking at him expectantly. He hesitates, trying to gauge his answer.
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes depending on what?” He shrugs. He doesn't normally answer many of her questions. They get to her building and she turns to him, still hugging his coat to herself.
“Will you come up? Just for a bit?” He nods and holds the door open then follows her up the stairs. Her apartment is small and filled with old furniture of the type hoarded by grandmothers and old aunts. She lays the wet coat over a heater and, pulling a thick woollen blanket from the sofa, turns and holds it out to him. He looks at it blankly.
“Come on.” She orders brusquely, back into herself once in the safety of her own home. “Get those wet clothes off, you're soaked and it's my fault. Off with them.” Obediently, a little sheepishly, he peels of the black shirt and white vest. She stares for a second at the scars littering his torso; small round, painfully identifiable ones and long thin ones. He rubs the back of his arm and stares at the floor. She feels guilty and pulls herself together, taking the wet clothes from him and exchanging them for the towel which he wraps round his broad shoulders.
She tells him that she is going to put some on dry clothes and sort her face out and would he mind making some tea? She leads him into the kitchen and disappears, he puts a kettle of water on to the gas and finds tea bags to drop into two mugs from the draining board then stands awkwardly in the centre of the room. He is uncomfortable in someone else's space and feeling terribly exposed missing half of his clothes.
By the time she returns the water is boiling and he looks busy again. Two cups of tea on the table.
“You don't seem dangerous to me.” She decides as he wraps two hands around the hot mug. She looks at his knuckles, made of scar tissue and frowns. “Who shot you?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“I was unconscious.” This both surprises and unnerves her. She watches him closely as he sits staring at the steam rising from his tea, eyes flicking up occasionally only to see hers still on him and retreat again.
“Who are you?” She asks suddenly. “I don't even know your name. Nobody does.” He doesn't say anything, just frowns ever so slightly. “Come on.” She persists. “The man who just saved my life and I don't know his name.”
“Declan.” He says suddenly and, before she can react. “He wouldn't have killed you.”
“No, why not?” His eyes meet hers again, he is almost aware that scaring her out of asking questions is a poor idea.
“He likes to go back to the same girls.” She hugs her elbows close to herself as if cold again and takes a reassuring sip of her tea. He feels bad for telling her.
“He won't get near you again.” He promises, she looks at him with hope and fear in her eyes.
“How do you know?”
“I'll stop him.”
“What about the other girls?”
“I'll stop him.” He repeats.
“Will you kill him?” He sniffs and glances anxiously at his shirt and vest still steaming as they dry across the room. What does she want him to say?
“If I have to.” She already thinks that he's 'dangerous'. She drinks more of her tea and watches as he scowls at his own. The blanket over his shoulders is open and her eyes move to his chest. Even with the scarring it's a healthy, strong, nice to look at chest, they seem to add a sort of ruggedness that's not unattractive.
He wants to shut his eyes so that he can't feel her looking at him. He wants to pull on his damp vest, shirt and coat and go stand outside in the dark and the rain where he belongs.
“Perhaps I should just go to the police.” She suggests, not missing his sharpening at their mention. “I'll say that I was attacked, that a tall dark stranger rescued me and disappeared into the night.” She is smiling a little and he tries to return the gesture then stands up and picks up his clothes. They are still damp but at least they're warm, he pulls the vest over his head.
“Where are you going?”
“Disappearing into the night.” He replies dong up his shirt and going into the hall for his coat. “Got locks on your door?” She nods like this is a stupid question; everyone in The Dark Corner has locks on their doors.
“Two dead-bolts and a chain.”
“Use them.” He turns to go.
“Hey, Declan.” He pauses. “Thanks. You know, for saving me and stuff.” He nods and goes.“And you make sure that you get changed into some dry clothes the second you get home!” She calls after his back.
Heavy rain has by now reached downpour status but he doesn't even flinch. He waits outside until he hears her shoot the bolts home. Stepping once more onto the grimy stone street he trudges through the deluge, neither hurrying nor dallying. She is stuck in his mind. He sees her watching his knuckles, staring at the scars on his skin, paying special attention to his guns – something that almost everybody in The Dark Corner carries – and asking him if he's going to kill that man. Then he remembers the blanket she forced upon him, the relief in her face when he rescued her, her insistence that he change once more after being out in the rain again.
He stops and turns his face to the rain. He feels nothing but the many cold-water bullets hitting his skin and wonders why they seem to fall everywhere but his open mouth.

Wow Jenny this is so Original and fantastic and powerful and just wow. You pulled us into the world and its just fantastic. Wowness. Pure brilliance

Yes! I love the silent bruning hero! You characterized Declan very well! And I'm looking forward to more, if there is more to come, or was this a short-story? Hehe, I hope it isn't cos I'd like to see those two get together! And find out what happens to the asshole who tried to rape the Barmaid, who I've forgotten the name of at this moment. Oopt. Sowwie.

Loved it mucho! For some reason I can really picture Hugh Jackman or Viggo Mortensen playing this role ^_^

Aww, thanks you guys! Okay, the idea is that this will be a sort of series of short stories today about or by various characters from The Dark Corner that all inter-relate. Thanks for reading and please stick with it!
(I see Declan as more of a Tom Jane/Clive Owen guy!)

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Doug Seward[U]
There's not many folks come into my tavern that's not in or getting into some sort of trouble with someone. They all know not to kick up a fuss in here without expecting to regret it later and generally abide by the rule: If you don't bring it in, it won't follow you out.
I have that written above the door, just below the sign licensing me and my staff to sell 'intoxicating liqueur' on the premises. Not many of the drinking establishments in this corner of the city are licensed but I know better than to give the authorities some stupid red-tape excuse to come barging in here on one of my busy nights. The Feds could make an entire decades worth of arrest targets in one single surprise raid of this place and that sort of thing is very bad for business.
That said, I do like to have a certain amount of life around the place. We have the occasional band playing though since a certain incident a couple of months ago they are few and far between. There's always some drunk willing to start a song and if he's not completely out of tune, a fair amount of the others are likely to join in. Some days the atmosphere in here is better than others, depending on what's been going on in the rest of the world.
Indiscretions outside of this establishment not withstanding, when they're in here my patrons are nothing more than ordinary men having a drink with their mates. If they chose to knife each other in the back outside that's none of my business; for as long as their buying my drinks and keeping food on my table then I've nothing to care about their extra-curricular activities. The Black Dove is a sort of haven for those not wanting to be found when the police are 'cleaning' the streets each night. I was pretty pleased with the name when I came up with it ten years ago and still think it's pretty damn good. Just The Dove was too soft and this whole corner of the city's pretty dark so it fits in well.
Now, ignoring what I told you just a moment ago, I have to admit that there are always a few in here I wouldn't be sad to see drinking in The Plume or any of the other taverns in this area, despite the currency I'd loose as a result. The type that lurk in dark corners, scaring the other customers or just generally giving off an air of menace. There are even a few that I warn the barmaids away from; the dangerous ones that I wouldn't put past bruising their pretty faces.
The youngest girl working here, Gracie, seems to have gotten herself a fondness for one of these despite my warnings. Sure, I can see it from her point of view. I mean the guy never talks so she doesn't know anything about his past. He never takes off his coat in the winter or unbuttons his shirt in the summer so she doesn't see the scars and bruises from the pit fighting and all the folks with good reason to see him hurt. I've seen this guy fight, seen him beat seven shades of shit out of people fool enough to pick a fight with him. Family name is Falcon. I sort of knew his Pa back in the day, before the Feds took him and his Missus neigh on twenty years ago. That kid had to practically raise himself after that. I'm impressed that he lived through it but if I ever catch him near either of my daughters, I'll kill him myself.
Of course, you know what women are like, all she sees is this typical strong silent type from the movies and thinks that she can change him into some pathetic romantic.
A guy that I do like is Frankie Browning, he's a proper sound bloke. Working for one of the more influential figures in this corner last I heard. He comes in pretty often and I know that he has a particular soft spot for Gracie. I owe Frankie a lot right now on account of how he happened to be in just the right place at the right time to come to the rescue of the elder of my two daughters just a short while ago.
Deanna, my daughter, has an interest, bordering on obsession for fast cars and bikes and spends a frightening amount of time down by the docks, badgering the technicians into teaching her stuff about how they work. One time a couple of weeks ago she was on her way back from this place when, she says, she was grabbed from behind and dragged back into a warehouse of some description. Now my Deanna's no wimp, she lashed out at her phantom attacker and legged it. I was on my way down, having decided to meet her as she came home when I heard a scream. Any father can recognise his daughters scream over any other woman's and sure enough, a second later, I saw her come legging it round the corner.
No man attacks my daughter and gets away with it so I drew my gun and headed straight toward where she said he was when I saw Frankie come out of the warehouse. His nose was bleeding pretty bad, he said that he'd heard a woman yelling and run to help. He recognised Deanna as one of my two and tackled the other guy as soon as she legged it but the bastard scored a lucky hit and got away. He was really apologetic about it but as far as I'm concerned he stopped the guy catching her again.
I owe him big time for that.
I've warned all the bar girls as well as my two to be on their guard. Things can get particularly nasty in this corner on account of how we practically manage our own law. The cops are afraid the step to far in and it's folk like this guy that Frankie works for who run the place.
There isn't any marked border for the corner but you know as soon as your in it, a good sign is that half the street lights are out or completely gone. A lot of people here don't want to be too visible on the streets at night. I guess that's why they call this 'The Dark Corner'.
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Bloody hell, Jenny!!

I didn't know you were writing another one! I just stumbled upon it as I posted a new chappie to Raven and....Bloody hell!! I was like :eeeek: face literally glued to the screen!! It's so good! That creative writing course is really paying off lol.

Aw I'm al jealouse now :cry: You write so much better than me! It's amazing! It's like the whole Sin City thing you've got going there, love it. Very dark and comic book like. :yes: Nice one.

Damn you for being so good! :box: humph! Man Raven's so unbelievably CRAP :anger:

Well keep it up! I know you haven't posted for a couple o months but PLEEEEASE! WRITE MORE!!! :yay:

Love Nats x x x

Wow. That was amazing! Declan's pretty nifty, if you know what I mean! *winkwink nudge nudge saynomore etc.* :box:

Can't wait for more!