He was immortal.
Which pretty much summed things up.
Trust the Murderer to be unkillable at the one moment he was better off dead.
* * *
—
For the longest time, then, ten minutes at least, he stood at the mouth of Archer Street, relieved to have finally made it, terrified to be there. The street didn’t seem much to care; its breeze was close but casual, its smoky scent was touchable. Cars were stubbed out rather than parked, and the power lines drooped from the weight of mute, hot and bothered pigeons. Around it, a city climbed and called:
Welcome back, Murderer.
The voice so warm, beside him.
You’re in a bit of strife here, I’d say….In fact, a bit of strife doesn’t even come close—you’re in desperate trouble.
And he knew it.
And soon the heat came nearer.
Archer Street began rising to the task now, almost rubbing its hands together, and the Murderer fairly caught alight. He could feel it escalating, somewhere inside his jacket, and with it came the questions:
Could he walk on and finish the beginning?
Could he really see it through?
For a last moment he took the luxury—the thrill of stillness—then swallowed, massaged his crown of thorny hair, and with grim decision, made his way up to number eighteen.
A man in a burning suit.
* * *
—
Of course, he was walking that day at five brothers.
Us Dunbar boys.
From oldest to youngest:
Me, Rory, Henry, Clayton, Thomas.
We would never be the same.
To be fair, though, neither would he—and to give you at least a small taste of what the Murderer was entering into, I should tell you what we were like:
Many considered us tearaways.
Barbarians.
Mostly they were right:
Our mother was dead.
Our father had fled.
We swore like bastards, fought like contenders, and punished each other at pool, at table tennis (always on third- or fourth-hand tables, and often set up on the lumpy grass of the backyard), at Monopoly, darts, football, cards, at everything we could get our hands on.