Fucking French and Rutherfords. Divya was chasing them around and around in her mind, naming names and trying to figure out where things had begun and where they might end. Plans and plots and schemes, and some of them requiring finesse, because heavy handedness was not always going to be effective, however much she might wish it were. And now there were Russians in the mix, and she was biting her tongue on any complaints because she was still on thin ice, so far as she knew. But seriously? Fucking Russians? She didn’t care that they had a reputation for being cutthroat and more, but the fact that they’d brought them in – that someone with a higher paygrade than her had cut a deal to let them take the city – didn’t that just announce to the entire fucking city what their state was? Fear us, we have Russians. More like look here, we need help badly enough to deal for it.
She eyed the surface before her contemplatively, wondering what pounding her head against it would do to benefit her. Probably just give her a headache, or a bruise, or have someone questioning her sanity, or –
WHO: Divya Koshal
WHERE: Small town west of London
WHEN: Late night, a month ago
There was a bite to the air, bringing both an ache and a soothing balm to the record of suffering stamped across Divya’s body. She focused on it, the sharp pinch in her spine, pulling herself slowly upwards onto her toes, and then lowering herself just as slowly. She clutched the railing before her, wrapped around a front porch and made of smooth iron. The metal had absorbed the frost in the air, and the coldness of it attracts attention as Divya shifted her hands along the rail to feel the coldest parts.
“You’re going back, aren’t you.”
It wasn’t a question. Divya did not shift her gaze from the ramshackle little house across the way as she responded anyway. “And what, help you get reintegrated into society? Fuck that. I only drove you out to this dump ‘cause mum didn’t want to come to Bronzefield and get you herself.”
Fatima’s release came with complications: her practice wasn’t going to hire her back, so it’d be an end to veterinary nursing for her, at least until she found someone willing to take the risk. That meant no way for the brat to funnel money to their mother, to let her keep on deluding herself that London could be afforded on whatever income she had from her pension – and considering Divya was fairly sure it was a truth universally acknowledged that only worse crooks than her went into government, she was sure that would be a pittance. So Divya had been reluctantly bullied into volunteering her shitty old Corolla, except Fatima had missed her license renewal of fucking course, and she was stuck playing chauffeur. Worse, she was stuck out here for more than one day, listening to her surviving relatives moan about their problems.
At least, she thought bitterly, Mohasha had the decency to move only a couple hours away. She could get back to London by sunrise, could miss the worst of the traffic on the bloody M25 if she was lucky for once. She could lose the fucking number, burn the phone and the contacts list and go back to pretending she’d never had a family to speak of.
Speaking of the thing. Ding. She glanced down, eyes to the screen:
- Dieter’s fckn good as dead
- Broken spine
- Eventful wake
“Ugh,” Divya groaned, and knocked the damn thing off the railing, precariously balanced already. It hit the ground at her side, and her thoughts drifted away from reasonableness to bitterness. Another fucking funeral. Another commitment missed.
“What’ve you got to be crabby about?” came her sisters voice. For a brief moment, Divya entertained the mental image of Fatima begging her to stop, of her hands around her throat, of her skin marked black and blue. A glance at the younger Koshal killed the dream: she was too thin, having been too proud to ask for extra food when required in Bronzefield. Even in the thick shawl she’d draped over her jumper, she was too cold out here, her arms wrapped protectively around herself.
But just because she couldn’t quite bring herself to raise bruises on that skin, didn’t mean she wasn’t willing to go for a cut. Fatima had always, all their lives, been prone to ill advised crushes, and relationships that had Divya threatening murder and scaring off old men and young men alike. “I’m missing Jai’s funeral ‘cause you couldn’t keep your fucking hands to yourself three years ago – or at least figure out how to plead anything other than guilty.”
Dieter was a fucking moron, for all the mention of a broken spine hit a little close to home. He deserved what he was getting, especially for letting Jai get got (a bodyguard shouldn’t outlive their charge, and he should be punished, and a lieutenant shouldn’t get to live when they lose an entire fucking district, but god forbid she look a gift horse in the mouth), and Fatima deserved the discomfort, the way the colour leached from her face and her shoulders stiffened.
“Jai’s dead?”
“That’s generally why people have funerals.”
“What the hell, Divya? Does his mum know?”
Fatima got the look she deserved for that comment, Divya thought, putting an end to her slow, easy physiotherapy and releasing the railing at last. She spun on a foot, steps still slightly too heavy, and got in Fatima’s face. It wasn’t difficult, considering how close they were in height, with Divya taller. “I’m going back to London, since I actually have my shit together to afford living somewhere worthwhile. Don’t bother calling.” She kicked the phone as she passed it; reclaimed it from the cold, filthy floor. “Have fun playing nursemaid to mum. I can’t wait until she starts on you for being anything other than the perfect daughter.”
It took less than a minute to shout a goodbye to Mohasha, starting the woman from her nap and earning a scowl for her trouble. Divya opted not to care, choosing instead to grab her bag and get out.
She figured she’d be better off figuring out what she’d missed in London than dealing with the problems of her family.
There are times when the simplest of actions can lead to the worst of moments, and other times that can nearly lead to the worst of moments. It was a rather deep thought, deeper than Jack was accustomed to while on a casual stroll to get some coffee in the morning. It would seem that his morning was another man’s night, still, but Jack couldn’t tell that from seeing the man up the street. All he could tell, when he tripped slightly, was that his shoe was undone. So he stepped off to the side of the path, bent down, and went about retying his shoes.
It was early enough that the streets weren’t super busy yet, and there should’ve been enough room for others to maneuver around Jack. Everyone managed to figure this out, except one man who stumbled and slumped against the wall barely a meter from where Jack crouched and reproduced the contents of his last few drinks onto the pavement between them. The stench his Jack like a freight train, but he was frozen with fear that if he moved, the other man would move, and the stream of twice-again liquid would veer close enough to Jack to touch him. Fucking Mondays.
Divya, frustrated with the idiot she’d followed from Alexanders’ bar - and then another bar, and then another, until the sun was rising and she was crabby with lack of sleep as well as goddamn extroverts constantly hanging around people without interacting with them - didn’t think to be shy of the vomit she’d borne witness to. No, she elected to kick the man in the back of the leg, right behind the knee, and leaned down, hissing a warning in his ear as she, as it might seem to others, caressed the back of his head: if he returned to any other place on this fucking street and harassed the women who did not want anything to do with him again, he’d be left with worse than a broken nose.
“Don’t got a broken nose,” he slurred.
She tightened her grip on his hair until he made a noise of protest, and slammed him downwards. His nose crunched satisfyingly, and she rolled her eyes at his response as she straightened. “Whoops. You should be more careful, mate. Next time an airway might get blocked.”
Of course that was about when she actually registered the audience had not, in fact, moved on as she had initially expected. She wiped her hands on her jeans, pulled an appropriate that, Watson, is vomit expression, and neatly stepped away from the physical mess, and into the next one. Let my frustration get the better of me. Rookie mistake, idiot. “I find the easiest way to deal with roaches is to crush them,” she said without preamble, lip curled in disgust.
“What,” Gabrielle commented as she put the dress she had been looking at back on the shelf and raised her brow at the woman. “What does missing things have to do with shopping? Like are you missing time? Missing a date? Just trying to have a good time? Missing a whole collection of your wardrobe because those shoes could use updating.”
What, Divya would’ve echoed, only a rant beyond what she expected started up. Apparently, the woman in front of her had many questions. Taking them for rhetorical, she waited for a pause, certain a moment would come when she needed to actually breathe. And, of course, she wasn’t disappointed, although the jab at her shoes begat a groan from Divya. “For Christ’s sake, how many people are there in London? Yet somehow everyone has it out for shoes.” She didn’t need to look down to note her sneakers, practical and well worn, though she could admit that maybe the well-worn status verged on falling apart at the seams. “I’m not gonna force myself into uncomfortable things for an extra few inches I don’t need.” Never mind what she was missing; scoffing at this cow was a more valuable use of her time.
On the rare occasion Val had time to cook, she always tried to use fresh ingredients and found herself rushing to get to a variety of different stalls in time to gather them together. She was just approaching the last, with her mesh bag full of produce over her shoulder, when she heard another woman nearby grumbling. “That’s why you always make a list,” Val said, waving her phone slightly as she offered her entirely unsolicited advice. “Before you even leave the house. Makes things much quicker and you tend not to forget anything.”
The woman who spoke was familiar, in a way, though Divya would have to admit she sounded less hostile this time. Val had been a conversation partner of hers at that godforsaken party, for better or worse, and now, here they were again. She kind of hoped there would be no recognition on Val’s part, though she would not make any bets. “Or I could google the curry I have in mind,” she stated drily, not bothering with producing her own phone, “and get all fresh ingredients anyway.” Divya didn’t generally bother with grocery lists, which was probably poor planning on her part; she had found that selecting whatever she felt like tended to end better for her in the long run. Clothes and weapons, though? She’d write a list of those. A touch mocking, she went on: “D’you list your meals for the week ahead of time as well?”
“I didn’t expect to hear Hamilton across the pond.” Jessica lilted, half anxious her sudden presence might startle the woman. The last thing she needed this morning was to be throat punched for sneaking up on a Rutherford. Truthfully, she’d been trying to rearrange her purse on the bench when Divya had blindly stumbled by. Though she liked to keep a proud distance from those who worked with John, the woman had been pleasant enough. Perhaps disarmingly so. “Last I checked the whole declaration of independence thing, didn’t go over well here,” She joked.
“Hamilton?” she echoed, at once uncertain and, to some degree, relieved. “Is that what it is?” Fucking finally, Divya thought to herself, privately assigning blame to Cassidy, the American tourist who’d taken up the flat across from the old woman she lived near. Cassidy was going to get a talking to, for better or for worse, and one way or another, Divya would ensure the music wasn’t keeping her up at unnecessary hours.
“You ask me, good on them for actually going after what they want. And not, y’know, coming after the monarchy later to ‘fix’ the way those Americans made it.” She scoffed, and met Jessica’s gaze amiably enough. “You often bring up the declaration of independence in conversation?”
She shouldn’t have called. That much was obvious based on Divya’s reaction. It was her fault things were tense between them. She’d been a coward. At this point in her life Divya was one of her only friends. She couldn’t afford to ice her out like she had. Still, it’d been fear that’d created the divide. Nevra wasn’t proud of her actions. She wasn’t proud about anything about herself these days.
“I don’t know,” Nevra admitted. “You’re right. You’re right,” she agreed taking a breath. There was a pregnant pause. “I’m an asshole. You’ve been a good friend and I’m an asshole.” She let out another long breath. “I’m sorry.”
Divya lingered idly, rocking on her toes. There was something in Nevra’s voice, she was fairly certain; something behind the apologies and the attempts at - at what, satisfying Divya? Whatever the reason, she listened to the comments. “I’ve been a good friend?” she echoed sceptically. It wasn’t that Divya didn’t consider Nevra a friend - they were something, she was sure. It was just that she was hardly certain what brand of friendship involved no interaction whatsoever, not since however many weeks into her internment on that godforsaken ward. Or, not ward; at least it had been a private room.
“What exactly are you apologising for? Feeling off about asking for help with a creature you’ve never had to deal with before?” She turned away from the couple with their dog and resumed her walk, switching the ear she’d pressed her phone to. “Or is there something else I ought to be acknowledging?”
Divya had been humming off and on all day. It was - she wasn’t sure who was to blame. She’d been woken several times the night before by a neighbour blaring music multiple times, though each time it was a different man singing. She’d eventually found headphones to sleep in, uncomfortable though they were, and now the damn song that had played most often was stuck in her head. So what’d I miss? What’d I miss? repeated over and over again, and eventually, she groaned aloud, spinning away from the look she earned from the woman behind the market stall.
“If I knew what I’d missed,” she muttered to no one - or so she thought, “I wouldn’t be here shopping, would I?”
It's lovely to see how much history and headcanons and layers you have given Divya. Thank you for showing us her past as well as hinting at the future.
This was sent before my hiatus but I wanted to thank whoever sent this! I’ve been having a great time developing Divya, and I’m honestly delighted to know it’s going appreciated. Thank you.
