he confirmed. "And you look as if the walk's nearly killed you. What were you going to do after you got the petrol?"
"Well, I was going to rest a bit first," said Cohen, unsure of why he was bothering to defend his sanity when he wasn't sure of it himself. "I dunno..."
"Did you wear the charm I gave you, at least?" asked Niall as another customer entered the shop, and he looked relieved when Cohen pulled out the pendant from the long string around his neck. "That's good."
The customer gave Niall a sharp, unfriendly look and strode up to the counter. Niall glanced at Cohen with a long-suffering expression and hurried after him.
Cohen drifted over to a rack of crisps near the counter to observe the transaction. The customer was a middle-aged man dressed in dirty, unkempt clothes, and Cohen couldn't tell if he was just a rude person, or if he was being particularly short with Niall. He barely spoke to Niall as he grabbed the debit machine from him in a distinctly unfriendly manner and shoved his card in. Niall glanced at Cohen, and the man turned and seemed to notice Cohen for the first time.
"Who are you?" he barked.
Cohen nearly stepped backwards in surprise. "I—I'm new in town. Cohen Brandwein."
The man pulled his card from the machine and leaned on the counter to look at Cohen. "Oh, you're the one who gave the alibi for him , aren't you?" he jerked his head in Niall's direction. "Chief Garda mentioned you, only she said you were a boy."
Cohen gritted his teeth. "I am," he said, and his voice came out much weaker than he wanted it to. His voice was changing, slowly, and he could usually produce quite a deep pitch when he wanted to, but of course he utterly failed this time. "I inherited the Coughton from my aunt."
"The old Jewish witch," confirmed the man. "I know. And," he leered, "I know she only had nieces." He stepped forward, advancing on Cohen. "Listen here, girl ," he said. "There's been a lot of strange things going on in this town lately, and we don't take kindly to strangers anyhow, especially not ones who are strange to begin with." He turned to look pointedly at Niall, whose jaw was set in a tight line of anger. "Tell you what, you don't try to stand out, and don't go socialising with people who aren't liked, and you'll keep out of trouble. Otherwise..."
"Excuse me," said Cohen, finding his proper voice at last. "Thank you for the advice, but I'm not here to impress anyone. And furthermore, I'll socialise with who I like."
There was a loud noise of paper ripping and then Niall cut in. "Here's your receipt," he said, holding out a slip of paper. "I'd like you to leave now."
The man turned slowly to Niall and snatched the receipt from his hand. "I'll be speaking to your manager about this," he said. "We don't need any murder suspects working here anyway." He turned to Cohen and tipped his hat in a way that was not at all polite. "Miss," he said, and strode out of the shop.
The doorbell chimed, and Cohen nearly fell back into the rack of crisps. He was furious, his whole body shaking. "Oh my god, what an arsewipe. "
"I am so sorry," said Niall, staring at Cohen over the counter. "It's—he was only so rude because you were talking to me. It's all my fault."
"It's not your fault," said Cohen, reaching over to pick up a pack of crisps. He saw what he had been looking for suddenly, a shelf of petrol cans across the shop and he made for them. Niall followed him.
"That was incredibly brave, what you said to him," Niall said. Cohen felt himself glowing a little from the praise, the warmth slowly reducing the shivers and clutch of dysphoria.
"Thanks," he said. "I'm used to standing up to people, I suppose." When he glanced up, Niall still had a look of unabashed admiration on his face. "Oh, stop it," he admonished, but he couldn't help but feel proud of himself as well. "Why was he so rude to you?"
"Oh," Niall shrugged. "Everyone in town is, really. They all think I'm the murderer."
"But I gave you an
"Well, I was going to rest a bit first," said Cohen, unsure of why he was bothering to defend his sanity when he wasn't sure of it himself. "I dunno..."
"Did you wear the charm I gave you, at least?" asked Niall as another customer entered the shop, and he looked relieved when Cohen pulled out the pendant from the long string around his neck. "That's good."
The customer gave Niall a sharp, unfriendly look and strode up to the counter. Niall glanced at Cohen with a long-suffering expression and hurried after him.
Cohen drifted over to a rack of crisps near the counter to observe the transaction. The customer was a middle-aged man dressed in dirty, unkempt clothes, and Cohen couldn't tell if he was just a rude person, or if he was being particularly short with Niall. He barely spoke to Niall as he grabbed the debit machine from him in a distinctly unfriendly manner and shoved his card in. Niall glanced at Cohen, and the man turned and seemed to notice Cohen for the first time.
"Who are you?" he barked.
Cohen nearly stepped backwards in surprise. "I—I'm new in town. Cohen Brandwein."
The man pulled his card from the machine and leaned on the counter to look at Cohen. "Oh, you're the one who gave the alibi for him , aren't you?" he jerked his head in Niall's direction. "Chief Garda mentioned you, only she said you were a boy."
Cohen gritted his teeth. "I am," he said, and his voice came out much weaker than he wanted it to. His voice was changing, slowly, and he could usually produce quite a deep pitch when he wanted to, but of course he utterly failed this time. "I inherited the Coughton from my aunt."
"The old Jewish witch," confirmed the man. "I know. And," he leered, "I know she only had nieces." He stepped forward, advancing on Cohen. "Listen here, girl ," he said. "There's been a lot of strange things going on in this town lately, and we don't take kindly to strangers anyhow, especially not ones who are strange to begin with." He turned to look pointedly at Niall, whose jaw was set in a tight line of anger. "Tell you what, you don't try to stand out, and don't go socialising with people who aren't liked, and you'll keep out of trouble. Otherwise..."
"Excuse me," said Cohen, finding his proper voice at last. "Thank you for the advice, but I'm not here to impress anyone. And furthermore, I'll socialise with who I like."
There was a loud noise of paper ripping and then Niall cut in. "Here's your receipt," he said, holding out a slip of paper. "I'd like you to leave now."
The man turned slowly to Niall and snatched the receipt from his hand. "I'll be speaking to your manager about this," he said. "We don't need any murder suspects working here anyway." He turned to Cohen and tipped his hat in a way that was not at all polite. "Miss," he said, and strode out of the shop.
The doorbell chimed, and Cohen nearly fell back into the rack of crisps. He was furious, his whole body shaking. "Oh my god, what an arsewipe. "
"I am so sorry," said Niall, staring at Cohen over the counter. "It's—he was only so rude because you were talking to me. It's all my fault."
"It's not your fault," said Cohen, reaching over to pick up a pack of crisps. He saw what he had been looking for suddenly, a shelf of petrol cans across the shop and he made for them. Niall followed him.
"That was incredibly brave, what you said to him," Niall said. Cohen felt himself glowing a little from the praise, the warmth slowly reducing the shivers and clutch of dysphoria.
"Thanks," he said. "I'm used to standing up to people, I suppose." When he glanced up, Niall still had a look of unabashed admiration on his face. "Oh, stop it," he admonished, but he couldn't help but feel proud of himself as well. "Why was he so rude to you?"
"Oh," Niall shrugged. "Everyone in town is, really. They all think I'm the murderer."
"But I gave you an
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