They built the castle on a crag near the beach. In the 1100s,
the bricks that pieced together the fortress were one color with the sand, but
oil deposits in the stone had darkened some and age had weathered others. The
tide, like chalk, had scratched markings into the backside. It successfully
defended attacks from the Scottish who fought to reclaim their lands, but
perhaps it was better they didn’t. It was lived in and repaired till the late
1800s when it was left alone among ever taller buildings meant for business and
finance and that cut-throat world that a portcullis could do little to defend,
and now it was their major source of tourism. It was at the end of High Street
and the shops at the other end sold their post cards for eighty pence while
those nearest the castle went all the way to one-fifty.
Fat Germans tramped the courtyard and squeezed through
spiral staircases as they held onto the rope-railing in the center that, when
pulled taut, was too close to the iron ring it looped around to fit their
sausage fingers behind so there were a few uneven steps between the
rope-railings that a person was most likely to fall down. People walked into
barren, damp rooms without glass on the window; they wondered, “How did they
live like this?” because most rooms had no furniture it had rotted or been
chucked and the only modern additions were glowing exit signs and cartoon
warnings to watch your head.
Nickel flicked his two liter of Cola. It made a deeper
sound at the base than at the label where it was empty.
“Can you wait to get drunk?” I asked. We were sitting at
a café. The pigeons were tame and some inconsiderate child, or drunk
Australian, might punt one with a bit of encouragement. Last time he did, he cried all night till the
booze in the plastic bottle comforted him and he woke up tipsy and contemplated
doing it again as I spread peanut butter on my scone. The teashop owner had
come out to clean up our table and shoo us for the coming rush and she ended up
in a tizzy because some stupid American was bastardizing her creation and where
had I even gotten peanut butter? I only had empty packets of butter on the
plate.
“Fine.” He drummed the sides more, in tune with a local
bagpiper, done up in a kilt and hat with a fuzzy ball at the top and he
probably wore no underwear. He seemed the traditional sort. “But I didn’t put
more than a beer’s worth in it. Even you could’ve stomached it.”
“I can’t even handle mouthwash.” I peered up the castle
wall. It was dwarfed by skyscrapers built on the lower ground. The National
Bank of Scotland could probably survive a ballista better than the castle.
They’d ward off the attackers by chucking quid and two-quid pieces at
them. But for the average man like myself,
there was no easy assault available, once the portcullis closed. “How are we
getting in today?”
“Same as always.” We
walked about the walls to where it was dim and hard to see our small figures.
He flicked the stones, wet from the sea spray, and took a swig from his cola.
It fizzed like a new bottle. A door in the stone opened for us and we walked
through and looked about then Nickel closed the door. We were in.
He got to tapping a fairy ring on the ground, but I
interrupted him. “It’ll be faster to go through the front.”
The wooden door was left to rot a little for tourism.
When this door gave way, a new one, already a bit rotten, replaced it and no
one knew the difference. It was heavy and soggy and the rusty hinges squeaked
as I pushed it open. It was light inside the great hall. We strolled in. Men
surrounded us.
“Welcome, boys,” called out a fit old man in a suit that
shimmered in the floodlights.
“I hate your idea of ‘faster,’” Nickel muttered. He put
his hands up. The men around us weren't the usual pansy Brits that prefer a good
debate or footie riot. They were proper paramilitary with machine guns and body
armor and just a hint of incest in their ancestry. They were probably all
princes or dukes.
“We've been expecting you ever since those break-ins
around the Iron Ring went unsolved. The papers don’t report the happenings, but
we get our news just the same. No one else could quite figure how you lot done
it, but this is Castle Stirling. James the Fourth reigned here and he was quite
intrigued in your arts. Every scholar in this place knows a hint of alchemy,
but really, yours is rather impressive. No markings. No degradation of
materials. Is this the American school? It’s no wonder the rest were baffled by
your sly entries. So young and so bright. It’d be only proper to teach me a bit
of—”
“Oy!” I put on my best British accent. “You bobbies gonna
get us in the irons or we gonna have to listen to him gob till the Queen kicks
it?”
The quiet room filled with the scraping of helmets
against shoulder pads as one soldier turned to the next with unseen raised
eyebrows and baffled expressions. Even the windy geezer was silent for a
minute. Nickel sighed.
“Is that how you Americans think we sound?” the suited-up
blowhard asked. “You don’t even sound a bit like your friend.”
“I’m Australian.” Nickel shook his head. “I've told him
it’s not an accurate impression.”
“It’s spot on! Now get me a spot of tea, you mingy old
blokes.”
“We’re Scottish, you buffoon.”
A soldier started to cuff me. Up close I could see
through her visor. She was a handsome woman and I winked at her. I tossed her
off me and pounded my fist into everyone who got near. I took a few raps on the
head and had a tooth knocked out but I loosened more than I lost and had there
been a thousand men, I would've felled them all—but there weren't a thousand so
I only took out two with crotch shots. I felt pretty bad about those but they
were wearing cups. Finally that handsome woman grabbed me and clocked me across
the skull with the butt of her gun. I remember smelling her vanilla perfume
before slumping.
~
I was sat at a café table, alone, when she came up. Dark
skin, darker hair, darker still eyes, pink lips. Her leather jacket seemed
unnecessary for the summer heat. It wasn't much compared to humid Illinois but
I’d spent a few months adjusting to Wales weather and even this felt boiling.
But she was fine in her leather.
She just sat and sipped the hot coffee. “Alone?” she
asked. The coffee made her jittery but I didn't know and she seemed so cool and
clever and creative and funny and maybe a little stubborn, but all I really
knew about her was that she was beautiful. The accent helped sell my
assumptions. I loved her right away.
I just nodded.
“It’s pretty late. Can you make it back to wherever you’re
from?”
I nodded some more. I was a bobble head before her.
“Why’s an American in Germany alone?”
“My friends found an Australian and he’s the first person
we can understand so they went clubbing with him.”
“Just about everyone here speaks English.”
“We’re not used to accents,” I admitted. “We’re college kids out of the country for the first time.”
“Is mine fine?” she asked, speaking a bit slower.
“Of course. I've been in Britain for a few months now. I
hardly notice your accents anymore. Though a few of your words give me a laugh.
Digestives.” I smiled and then covered my teeth then said screw it because she
wasn't American so what did she care if they weren't perfect? Though hers were.
Everything about her was.
She looked confused. What had I done? What had I said? I
couldn't remember in my panic. “I don’t sound anything like a Brit.”
