Derrick Sligo: Not Exactly Fleet Street || Self
There is a certain time every day where the mind of a man is at its strongest, his thoughts are at their clearest, and his resolve is at its firmest. Not all men take advantage of this time. Not all know it even exists. But for those who do and are prepared to drop everything in that moment to just think, those are the men who go places. Those are the men who truly see the world through their own eyes.
For Derrick Sligo that precious time of day is in the evening at 6:57 and 12 seconds. Ever since he discovered it as a young man, Derrick has never done anything at that time other than think. Sometimes he thinks for a few moments, reaches a profound conclusion, then carries on with his evening. Sometimes he sits in his old, green cushioned armchair until nearly morning, still deep in thought and very well ignoring his empty stomach and tired eyes. This night, or rather the early morn of April the 24th in the year 1922, had been one of those nights.
Derrick brushed a soft hand over his face from the top down then allowed his fingers to stroke his chin idly. He had hardly moved since he had begun thinking. Even his scotch had been left untouched and was now a lukewarm, watered down glass of hardly drinkable shit. He had been deep in thought this time, almost possessed by the ideas and the visions that played reels in his brain. The music was all chaotic rhythm that held reason to only him alone. That suited Derrick well enough. He was no artist. He rarely felt inclined to share any part of himself with the world and when he did it was not for the mere pleasure of sharing. No, Derrick was perfectly content to keep to himself. It made him seem right odd sometimes. Like when he smiled to himself at an off time in a conversation, amused by a joke only he could understand. Many people said Derrick Sligo was a few pints short of a barrel. To which Derrick would reply after catching the boys talking behind his back, “S' a good thing too. Jus' means I got room fer moor, dunnit?” And that was simply how he was.
The thinker arose from his armchair, setting down the glass of wasted scotch as he made his way across his smallish living room towards his bedroom. Not much for décor, Derrick had a few pieces of simple furniture, a couple of candles snug in brass handles, and one large painting of the Irish countryside. The painting was a reminder of the home he left behind him. Reasons, be they fair or unfair alike, for his departure he had taken to forget. Derrick was about the now and only reminisces about the high times: his first encounter with explosives, that time on Wall Street in New York that the coppers were still scratching their heads over, the day he met Connor McReary. Everything else was unimportant and tiring.
Enter the bedroom. Nearly as bland and uninviting as the living room and twice as dark. Being it was the room intended for sleeping Derrick never replaced the lights after they went out the first time. He had a window next to his bed but the curtains were heavy and drawn, blocking out every last sliver of light. Derrick found his way in the darkness without any visual aid, making for his wardrobe to change for work. A barber. In all his years he had never once considered the trade or imagined himself preforming such a mundane task for the public. Nevertheless it kept him busy enough that he hadn't the time to become bored. When a Sligo found himself bored, the world around them found itself in a mess of trouble. Connor McReary had been gracious enough to set him up with the job and Derrick could not complain. If it made McReary happy then Derrick was more than willing to continue doing it. So he behaved himself. He did not run amuck in the evenings or spend his morning setting explosives in the basement of corner stores for the heck of it. No, Derrick kept his head low and his mind vigilant awaiting for the next time Connor did need him to blow up a corner store. Or maybe a bank. A bank would be nice. All that cash flying. Partial screams before a stunning silence. The confusion of the aftermath and the sight and smell of...
...well. Derrick would enjoy a job like that. For now he kept the daydreams to a minimum and allowed technical notes to play in his head. Improving and theorizing but never speaking a word about it. After all, he was just Derrick Sligo, a humble barber and that was all he would ever be until Connor McReary said otherwise.
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