‘We are here to celebrate, not to mourn! It would be easy to be sad at a time like this, but this is not the way things were done aboard the Gambler’s Den. Appropriately it is not what will be done today,’ he called loudly.
The unkempt man between the women rolled his eyes, reaching for an absent hip flask.
‘What occurred here was a tragedy on a grand scale. When the wheels of the Gambler’s Den stopped spinning, the shock pierced many a breast. No one could have fathomed such a disaster to occur on the outskirts of our home. Those on board were innocent victims caught up in the blight of criminality that rots away and troubles our virtuous people, at the very soul of our fine city. Yes, it was a tragedy! The papers spreading discord with their falsities, but I can tell you now with the word of the law beside me, those on the Gambler’s Den did no wrong. Those among us, the family of this fine performance piece, have lost two of our own.’
Among them the city sheriff, Alex Juniper, swelled beneath his deep navy tunic. His reasons for attending were his own, for he was not a fan of the ruckus the Gambler’s Den brought to the city – far from it in fact. Upon its arrival he sought to have it impounded, given that some on board were fraternizing with criminals, but this obligation bore quite a different outcome. The catastrophe resulted in ensnaring a much grander prize – with help of one of the Den’s own.
Juniper made occasional observations of the faces within the crowd, looking for any sign of someone attempting to disturb the proceedings out of malice. In particular he stole glances at the haphazardly dressed man nestled within the envelope of women. He in turn noticed and stopped frisking his jacket for a drink.
The announcer spoke the names with utmost esteem, his booming voice proud and weighty.
‘Misu Pontain. Manager. Performer. Described by those who knew her as a kind individual, a mother to those desiring compassion, a sister to those needing a sibling.’
The rough-looking man scoffed beneath his breath, finding an elbow dug into his hip for silence.
‘And Franco Del Monaire. Entertainer. Showman. The beating heart of the Gambler’s Den itself, its founder no less! I am sure that Franco himself would have preferred to be buried along with his love, the grand old train that brought such delight to so many, evident today with the presence of you all.’
A smattering of sobs broke out from within the mass. They were allowed to sputter out, the culprits consoled with embraces.
‘We celebrate these momentous individuals with the lives we lead. They will hear us in the embrace of the Holy Sorceress, hearing our celebrations in their stead, warmed at the notion that what they brought us will continue in kind. Revelry exists in the hearts of each and every one of you. Share what you have been shown with the world.’
When it fell quiet once more, the announcer held his arms wide.
‘I, and those who have lost their loved ones, invite you all to share your tokens of appreciation for the departed.’
Now the bodies moved of their own accord, each patiently taking their turn to approach the Gambler’s Den with the greatest reverence. For a number of them, the grief was too overwhelming, with sporadic bursts of sobs emanating from inside the mass. When at the wreckage, some prayed and some touched the contorted metalwork.
Small strips of paper were passed around, as was ink and pens, with sentiments being constructed into words and folded in half. These were placed delicately, or stuck to the Gambler’s Den, until it resembled a moulting bird, its feathers goldenrod mentions of love and promises that gently flapped in the dry desert breeze.
One of those searching for the right words finally wrote them down, reviewing each one in turn and rereading them over and over. The handwriting was crooked in places but still quite legible, on account of a troublesome injury. The message was simple and direct. It was a modest truth that the woman had found upon reflecting, and stuck it to the metal before fading away into the crowd, her place quickly taken by another. The note simply stated:
‘Death will not stop the show.’
The admittance of debt
Sunway Boarding House was spacious, open-plan, and finely furnished, with the lower floor separated between lounge, dining area, and kitchen. Each of these was partitioned with sparse chestnut wood dividers, with most of the house’s support being undertaken by rows of bulky timber. Deep maroon carpet coated the floor and details had been erected with stone, framing seating areas, chimneys, and open fireplaces.
A cacophony of decorations filled almost every scrap of wall space. Maps of the region, both outdated and modern, were pinned here and there. There were pastel pictures of prominent local figures with their names declared in brass plaques beneath their stony faces, though their importance was lost on the current occupants. Animal skulls were presented in a display cabinet, some large, some small, almost all parading sharp teeth. Oil lamps were affixed to walls with frosted glass shades sporting fabulous decorations.
The kitchen was dominated by an iron behemoth of a cooker, enclosed by an embracing stone fireplace that also included recesses for cutlery and utensils. The fire inside was still at an adequate heat, its fuel glowing and giving. Upstairs were the bedrooms, six in total, compact rooms in truth but still significantly more generous than the space allocated in a train bunk car. It was a delightful abode, spacious and comfortable. For the survivors of the Gambler’s Den, it was the closest thing they had to home.
With their residence destroyed, the women had found themselves homeless. Thankfully the local press had caused quite the uproar in their favour, describing how these pure, innocent victims of criminality were soon to be living on the streets. It would be in Windberg’s best interests to offer these women charity and shelter, for the time being at least. The paper columns argued that the showgirls would be a fine addition to the city’s elite.
Sunway Boarding House – all of it – was offered immediately, seeing that securing the survivors of the Gambler’s Den was sure to raise the landlord’s profile. The bragging rights alone would secure passage to prominent dinner parties and social functions for its owner, something excitedly speculated about, which indeed came to fruition. The actual cost of their lodgings was never brought into consideration. The women insisted they paid their way of course, but this was for naught and any expenses were covered by a number of generous, anonymous benefactors.
The door front clattered open allowing the previous employees of the Gambler’s Den to trickle inside. They flowed from space to space, finding seat and sofa to rest weary feet that noisily dragged over floorboard, rug, and carpet. Kitty brought up the rear, holding the door ajar, the shortest of all those in attendance though her contagious spark more than made up for her lack of stature. With it she may as well be seven foot tall. Her glittering blue eyes narrowed at the causes of the daily noise in Windberg’s streets and the immediate surroundings:
The legion of horses pulling goods to the docks, carts rattling with every turn of the wheels.
The busker on the street corner playing a guitar, strumming vigorously for coin.
The gaggle of children who chased one another into patches of alleyway shade, manoeuvring around someone who had stepped out for a late morning smoke.
At last coming inside, she drew the door to a close.
‘I need something to drink.’ The small blonde woman shuffled off into the kitchen and set about rummaging through the cupboards for something to cure her headache.
‘I need plenty more than just the one. I was not ready for that, none of it. Kitty, dear, fetch the coffee would you? The good coffee,’ Corinne clarified. ‘The northern stuff.’
‘It’s costly, that.’
‘Can you think of a better occasion?’
‘Incredibly