London Twist: A Delilah Novella

at the Hideaway protruding from her knuckles. “But maybe you are already okay.”
    Delilah eased the knife back into its sheath. “Maybe. Thank you for your help.”
    The other man glanced around nervously. “You should go. Police come. Police no good.”
    Fatima seemed stunned. Delilah put a hand on her elbow and said, “Yes. We’re going. Thank you again.”
    They headed quickly southeast, the general direction of Paddington Station. Delilah was intuiting a lot from the encounter and she wanted to process it more fully, but she needed to stay in character. There would be time later.
    “Was that a knife?” Fatima asked, glancing back as they walked. Her tone was incredulous.
    “Yes.”
    “Show me.”
    “Later. I think we should get out of here. Do you go to that shisha shop a lot? Do they know you?” This was a little more tactical acumen than she would have preferred to reveal, but she thought the risk was less than the opportunity to learn more.
    “I go there sometimes. And yes, they know who I am.”
    “Well, that’s not good.”
    “Why? We didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t do anything.”
    “No, but do you want to have to persuade the police of that? I mean, did you see that guy’s face? I think he might have been dead.”
    “Oh my God, I know, I mean, he went flying!”
    She was talking faster than usual, her demeanor giddy. Normal, in the aftermath of violence. “Do you know who those guys were?” Delilah said, being careful to inject some agitation into her own tone, lest Fatima wonder how she could be so cool after what had just happened.
    “Just two assholes.”
    “Not the two assholes. The other two.”
    “No.”
    Delilah would have expected something more—“Thank God they came along when they did,” something like that—and the brevity of the answer struck her as a false note. Fatima would know if she had bodyguards, and the deception Delilah sensed in her response suggested she did. And yet, while they were being accosted, she didn’t act like someone who was counting on a bodyguard. She acted like someone bluffing foolishly, reflexively, who was then genuinely frightened when the bluff got called.
    They kept walking. Delilah periodically checked behind them as they moved, but this would have been normal behavior for a civilian who had just been spooked the way they had, not something likely to be read as anything else.
    When they reached the streetlights and cabs and relative crowds of Paddington Station, they paused. Fatima said, “I can’t believe you pulled a knife on that guy!”
    “Well, what was I supposed to do?”
    “Did you really say, ‘I’ll slice you open and watch your guts spill onto the sidewalk’?”
    “I’m not sure what I said. I was scared.”
    “You didn’t sound scared! You sounded completely badass.”
    “I didn’t feel badass, I can tell you that.”
    Fatima held up a fist and made a face of exaggerated rage. “‘I’ll slice you open,’” she said, her tone faux ominous, and then she dissolved into a fit of laughter. “Oh my God, did you see the look on that asshole’s face?”
    And then Delilah was laughing, too—really laughing, not just playing a role. They remained like that for a few moments, doubled over, leaning against each other, wiping tears from their eyes.
    “Seriously, girl,” Fatima said, wiping her eyes, “I can’t believe the balls on you. You’re my new hero.”
    Delilah was aware of a changed dynamic. It made sense. They had just shared danger, and now the catharsis of laughter once the danger had passed. And she was intrigued, and pleased, at the changes she’d detected in Fatima’s speech patterns. This was the first time the woman had permitted herself to use vulgarities, for one thing. And calling Delilah “girl” was new, too. Those two assholes outside Momtaz might have been a blessing in disguise.
    “Me?” she said. “What about you? ‘Whores don’t look for cock, they look for money. Although I doubt the two of you could help with either’? That was brilliant!”
    And then they were cracking up again. When the second bout had subsided, Fatima said, “Oh man, I’m completely wired. I’m never going to sleep tonight.”
    “I know. Me, too.”
    “Do you want to get a drink?”
    “Want one? Hell, I need one.”
    They laughed again. Fatima led the way to a nearby place called The Union Bar & Grill. It was a nice enough spot—a lot of wood, leather couches, windows overlooking the