The Weight of Secrets

The Weight of Secrets.

The bar was a typical rough 1970s bar on the docks of London; it was a dark bar, cigarette smoke and stale beer in the air. A neon sign buzzed at the top of the room, casting an almost ghostly red light on the scene. It was a type of bar where secrets were told, debts were paid — a type of bar where men like Marcus knew not to linger.

But tonight, he had no other options.

He was seated in the last booth, facing the wall, a glass of whiskey half empty in front of him. The ice long melted; the drink as watered down as his nerves. His fingers tapped nervously against the table, and his eyes flicked to the door every few minutes.

She was late. Of course, she was.

Claire had never done anything on time. It was a power move, a thing she had mastered when they were just kids pulling jobs together before the messy world got messier, before trust became a precious commodity neither could afford.

When she actually did walk into the room, it shrunk around her. She wasn’t loud; she wasn’t flashy, but she had an energy that turned heads. She moved like she knew things other people didn’t, like she could see the strings behind the curtain, the mechanism, and knew exactly how to pull them.

She spotted him immediately, sliding into the booth across from him, a cocky little smile on her face.

“I didn’t actually think you’d come,” Marcus muttered, taking a slow sip of his glass.

Claire reclined in a cross-legged position. "You called. I was curious."

That was what you could say about Claire. She didn’t waste words. It was as if every sentence was measured, weighed, and heavy.

Marcus rubbed his jaw, suddenly unsure how to begin. He had rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in his head, tortured himself with each word. But now, suddenly, all that preparation unravelled as he looked at her.

“You don’t belong here,” he replied instead.

Claire raised an eyebrow. "And yet, here I am." She motioned to his drink. “You gonna tell me why you called me out of the blue, or are we just reminiscing?”

Marcus exhaled slowly. He glanced around the bar. Nobody was watching, but that didn’t mean there weren’t watchers. Risked a trip out here was what he’d done. Hell, even whispering Claire’s name when he did what he did was a risk.

But he needed a trusted person to help. Or at least not rip his head off on sight.

“We gotta problem. I found something,” he said. "About the shipment."

Claire’s expression did not budge, nor her posture. Here she was, now listening, really listening.

"Go on," she said.

Marcus hesitated. This was the moment. The point of no return. He could always backpedal, feign some excuse, play like this was “whatever.”

But he didn’t.

“The shipment is not what they say it is,” he said in a low voice. “It’s not weapons.”

Claire tilted her head slightly. “Then what is it?”

Marcus swallowed. His heart was in his throat. He had already said too much.

“It’s not good, Claire,” he had the breath to say. “Worse than anything we’ve ever had before.”

She bent forward with her elbows on the table. “Marcus,” her voice a silky, low drawl, steady but brittle, she said, “what’s in the shipment?”

His mouth felt dry. He glanced back at the barkeep, at the old guy behind the counter with a beer, a couple huddled away in the back. That one could be eavesdropping on us.

“I can’t,” he said finally. “I’ve said too much.”

Claire sighed. “You do this every time. Look at you,” she said, shaking her head. “You first attach, and then in the next breath, you detach without explanation. If you tell me nothing — you explain to me what the hell’s going on here or you waste my time.”

Marcus clenched his jaw. “I’m only trying to keep you alive.”

Claire eyed him up and down, piercing him with her gaze. “And who says I need saving?”

“You don’t understand,” Marcus said, stepping closer. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “This isn’t just a job, Claire. This is something else. Something bigger.”

She didn’t blink. “Then explain it to me.”

He hesitated again. And that’s when he saw it.

A man in the bar, observing them from below the brim of a dark hat. He wasn’t drinking; he wasn’t talking.

“He’s literally just sitting there waiting for us,” he said.

Marcus’s stomach dropped. They weren’t alone.

He reclined in his seat, trying to remain calm. He drained the remainder of his whiskey, then resolutely put the glass up on the table.

“We’re leaving,” he said, almost to himself.

Claire didn’t argue. She just looked back and spotted the gentleman, and nodded. She was up and moving before he was, gliding like a shadow while he scurried toward the door.

The cool night air hit them like a slap as soon as they were outside. The streets were vacant, the city throbbing with the sort of silence that can only descend when there’s danger close at hand.

“Well, talk,” Claire said, as soon as they were out of his sight.

Marcus was running a hand through his hair, thinking, thinking. “I should not have called you,” he admitted.

Claire grabbed his arm, halting him. "Marcus."

He was looking at her, truly looking at her, seeing something he hadn’t allowed himself to see until now. This was more than just another job for her. It wasn’t just any payday.

She wanted answers.

And she wasn’t going to let him off the hook without having him give them to her.

Marcus exhaled. "The shipment," he said. "It’s not weapons. It’s people."

Claire’s mask broke for the first time. "What?"

“They are actually smuggling people, Claire. And not just any people — “He lowered his voice. "They’re selling them. Like cargo."

Silence.

Then, "Who?"

“You know the answer to that already.”

Claire stared at him. "You’re sure?"

Marcus nodded.

She fell quiet for a long beat. Then at last she took a long breath out. "Shit," she muttered.

Marcus nodded again. "Yeah."

She shook her head, ran a hand through her hair. "This is bad, Marcus. This is a real shit show."

"I know."

Claire raised her head to look at him, a sharp, calculating look in her eyes. "What’s your plan?"

He hesitated. He hadn’t gotten that far.

But Claire had always been faster than him.

“I’m able,” she straightened up. “First thing we do is we disappear. You and me. Because if they know you know, you are dead already.”

Marcus swallowed. "And then what?"

A smile broke across her face, an old flame bursting into life in her eyes. "And then we burn them down."

And at that moment, Marcus knew it was too late to go back. He had said too much.

But perhaps, just perhaps, it was what needed to be said.