The Sad Demise of Mike Laughlin

Now the courtroom is quiet, but who will confess.

Is it true you betrayed us? The answer is yes.

A singer must die, L. Cohen

December 22 1970

Dung sat on the bed, leaning up against a heap of pillows while practising his guitar. Queenie sat by the table in the other end of the little room, desperately trying to finish the work she had taken home. After he had fumbled with the same cords for fifteen minutes she sighed and turned to him. "Dung, couldn't you take a ten-minute break? I need to finish this tonight, or else I'll be working late tomorrow- Please?"

With a slightly offended look he put the guitar down. "I gotta practise, you know," he muttered.

"Sure. But even Jimmy Page takes a break from time to time," she replied. "What were you playing? Some David Bowie?"

"Smoke on the water," he mumbled and looked unhappy. "Not very good, am I? My fingers are too short!" He stared angrily at his hands as he held them up in front of him.

She snorted. "Nothing wrong with your fingers. Thanks for giving me peace to work. I have to admit that working this Christmas was not what I had in mind."

She returned to the papers in front of her, while Dung lay back on the bed with his hands folded over his stomach. Staring into the ceiling, he sighed. A few minutes later he sighed again, and got an irritated glare from Queenie. He considered sighing again, but started humming instead; he stopped when Queenie coughed, and resumed staring into the ceiling. "I'm bored," he declared loudly.

"How nice for you," she replied with an icy voice. "Now, can you keep quiet for five minutes?"

"Sure." The guitar lay beside him on the bed, and he let his hand follow the curve. He loved the feeling of the instrument under his palm, the texture of the strings under his fingers. He let his finger trace one of the strings, and slipped it carefully. Plink.

Queenie turned in her chair, her eyes blazing with anger. "Is it really that bloody difficult for ya to shut up for five friggin' minutes? 'Ow the 'ell am I s'posed to work in this place?"

Her carefully modelled speech pattern broke down when she got angry, to Dung's constant amusement. "Watch your language, dear," he replied with a grin, but soon realised that was the most provoking thing he could have said.

"You only do this to torment me, dontya? Is it really that fun to fuck up my work, to...sabotage everything I work my arse off to 'ccomplish? P'rhaps I should just drop everything and flow wiv the tide like a dead fish, like some others I know?"

Dung frowned. "'Ey, that's not fair! Ain't my fault there's no jobs 'round 'ere! And 'oo gives ya the right to waltz 'round like some bloody Grindelwald? I live 'ere too, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, I remember, 'cos you never give me the chance to forget!"

They were cut short by a loud banging on the door. They kept staring at each other, neither wanting to be the first to break off, but the frantic knocking did not stop. After a while they simultaneously turned away, Dung to lean back on the bed again and Queenie to walk over to the door. After peering outside she opened the door and let her brother inside.

Geoff was deadly pale, looking sick, and sat down on Queenie's seat without speaking. Dung waved his hand at him, but the boy didn't seem to see him. "'Geoff, mate," Dung exclaimed cheerily, trying to get a response from him, and Queenie sent him a glare before turning to her sixteen year old brother.

"What's the matter, Geoff?" she asked. "You look upset, something wrong?"

"Annie didn't want to play?" Dung grinned, but the smile disappeared when he saw the ashen face. He sat up on the bed. "'S the matter...?"

"I'm going to Azkaban," the boy muttered, almost inaudible. "'E's dead -I killed 'im. I didn't mean to, I swear...it was an accident." He stared at his hands with an expression of repulsion, as if they had touched something filthy and contaminated. With a quick movement he wiped them off on his trousers, before looking up again. "I need your 'elp, Dung -I gotta go away from this place, now, tonight. Can you borrow me some Galleons? I gotta-"

"Wait a minute," Queenie cut him off. "Who's dead? What are you talking about?"

She reached out to him to pull him into a hug, but he pushed her away and rested his head in his hands. "E'd been drinking," he muttered between his fingers. "'E came up to me wiv this crazy expression on 'is face, said 'e was gonna kill me for fucking up 'is life or some'at -I got scared, all right?" He barked out the last line in self-defence, staring wildly at them as if he expected them to come after him.

"Who was it?" Queenie repeated, hunching down beside his chair trying to meet his eyes. When she laid her hand on his knee, he jumped up from the seat and walked over to the window.

"Mike. I pushed 'im, and 'e fell 'gainst the fireplace...'is 'ead-"

Dung let his breath out with a long sigh, and Queenie stared ahead of her before sitting down on the floor. "Mike," she said into the air. "How the Hell could you be so stupid...?"

He turned to her, anger flashing in his eyes. "Don't! You weren't there, you dunno what it was like!" He raised his finger at her before turning away again, looking out the window. "You just...shut your trap. Now, I need to get away from 'ere." He looked over to Dung. "You know people, Dung, you can tell me 'oo to talk to-"

"All right, all right, let's all calm down for a minute," Dung muttered. "Did anyone see you leaving? You were not s'posed to be 'ome yet, were you?" He left the bed and approached the boy by the window to lay a hand on his shoulder, turning the boy towards him. "'Oi! Earth calling Geoff... Talk to me, willya? Anybody see you?"

Geoff looked at him with a confused expression on his face, as if he had forgotten Dung was in the room. "No...no, I was s'posed to be at that concert tonight, but Josh didn't show up, so I went 'ome-"

Queenie watched them with disgust on her face. "I can't believe what I'm hearing," she said, shaking her head. "You're talking about running away from a crime."

None of them listened to her. "Do you know for a fact that 'e's dead?" Dung asked.

"'E was bleeding like a stuck pig-" Geoff's face once more took on the ashen colour and for a minute he looked like he was going to be sick.

"I'm going down there," Dung picked up his Muggle leather jacket.

"No, you're not!" Queenie got up from her place at the floor, and blocked the door. "And you-" she pointed at Geoff, "aren't going anywhere. We'll just relax and call the Hit-wizards, and tell them the whole truth. They'll believe you, Geoff, I'm sure."

They both looked at her with disbelief, and then Dung turned back to the younger boy. "Now, you stay 'ere and I'll take a look. At 'ome, yeah?"

"Yeah. And Dung...? Thanks." Geoff's eyes met Dung's for the first time this evening. With a short nod, Dung Apparated out of there, leaving the two siblings alone in the room.

Queenie walked slowly over to the chair and sat down, not looking at her brother as she picked the papers and scrolls from the table and put them inside her bag. "I reckon I won't get to do much more work," she muttered absentmindedly.

"Queenie..." Geoff started, but cut himself off. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared at her. "Do you 'ate me, Queenie...?" When she didn't respond, he leaned into the wall and slid down to sit on the floor with his head in his hands.

~*~*~*~*

With a crack Dung stood by the entrance to Knockturn Alley. Slowly he walked down in the darkness he knew so well, feeling safer in the shadows than he did on the brightly-lit Diagon. But the Alley was quiet this night. Not a creature was stirring, he thought as he approached the door to Geoff's house, a weather-beaten old building that had been split up into dozens of flats some hundred years earlier.

Still there was nothing to be heard, and when he tried to open the door it gave away and slid open without making so much as a creak. Geoff and Mike's flat was the first on the left, and within seconds he was inside. The small kitchen was completely disorganised, dirty dishes filled the counter and a sour smell of old beer hung over the whole mess. Dung moved through the kitchen, and found the door to the living room neatly closed.

It didn't look like the flat had been left in a hurry, he mused, uncertain of what to make of that notion. Probably Geoff had just knocked the man over and then freaked out; Mike had most likely come around by now. Uncertain of what to do, Dung stood outside the door, listening. He turned around but stopped halfway to the front door, hesitantly walking back. He had promised, after all; Geoff was as good as family, and you didn't leave your family in the rot.

Knocking firmly, he could swear he heard a sound from the inside, a faint sound of someone mumbling. Frowning, he opened the door. "'Ello? You in 'ere, Mike?"

He stopped dead when he saw a man lying in front of the fireplace. Mike lay in a pool of blood, his eyes meeting Dung's and his lips moved as if he was trying to talk. Dung closed up on him carefully, and sat down in the chair next to the man. For a minute he leaned back in the chair, not knowing how to react, what he should do. He ought to use the fireplace to floo to St. Mungo's, of course.

Dung didn't move, instead he kept the wizard's eyes locked with his own.

"Help me," the feeble voice whispered. "I'm dying-"

"Yeah..." Dung leaned forward in the chair and took a deep breath while staring into the wooden floor. Then he returned to the wizard on the floor. "Yeah, I think you are."

"Help me-"

"What was it you said when you stabbed my foster father in the back, Mike? 'Let 'im roast in 'is own fat', wasn't that your words? Yeah, Geoff told me," he added when Mike's eyes closed for a second. On the table beside Dung stood an opened bottle of beer; after glancing at it a couple of times he picked it up and emptied it. "Your beer's getting flat," he complained. "Got any more?"

He got up from his chair and walked out to the kitchen where he found a new bottle in the pantry. Walking back he opened it -the cap made a clinking sound as it fell to the floor and rolled under the chair. Once more he sat down, and after taking another sip he returned his attention to Mike. "What 'bout the first time you beat Geoff 'alf to death? 'Ow old was 'e? Five? 'Ow does it feel, beating up a small lad like that? Make 'im 'fraid of you -is it a boost, is it? Think I should try it?"

He felt the anger roll up in him again; he picked out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it, tapping the ashes into the empty bottle on the table. A motion on the floor made him look down again, and he watched the man with detached interest. "I've always wondered what it feel like, dying," he muttered with a calm voice. "Does it 'urt, does your pathetic little life flash before your eyes? What's it like, knowing your death'll only bring relief to those who were s'posed to love you? They did love you for a while, at least Geoff did -dunno 'bout Queenie."

"Fuck you." Mike mumbled with closed eyes. His voice was fading.

"Ya should be bloody grateful I don't kick in your face... You see," Dung coughed and sat back in the chair, closely examining the label on the bottle in his hand. "As children we're programmed by nature or by God or Merlin or whoever...to love those 'oo take care of us. It's only nat'ral, you know, we can't 'elp it. 'S just one of those things, and it's incredible what you can do to a kid before that love goes away. Or before 'e starts 'itting back."

He took the last puff of the cigarette before putting into the bottle where it went out with a soft hiss, then he got up and walked over to the fireplace, overly careful as he stepped over the man on the floor. On the shelf above the hearth there stood a tiny jar that Dung brought back to the chair. After taking a look inside it, he gave Mike a shocked gaze. "Oh, no! You're all outta Floopowder!" Then he snickered. "Just joking, just taking the Mikey..."

Letting the jar rest on his stomach, he let his fingers play with the powder. "The nicest thing I can say 'bout you is that you left Queenie alone. That's some'at to put on your tombstone, innit? ''E didn't abuse 'is stepdaughter'. Fifty years of living, and that's all that's left when you go... Damn, that's bloody sad."

A quick glance at the older man told Dung he'd passed out. He picked out a new cigarette, and watched the man while he smoked; there was blood everywhere -Mike would die soon if Dung didn't do something quickly. Still Dung remained in the chair, smoking and thinking. What awaited Queenie and Geoff with this man alive? For Queenie, not much except for humiliation and harsh words -for Geoff hard fists.

Children are programmed to love, he mused. And Dung had loved his foster father; a good man he had been, not deserving of the fate he had received or rather the one that had been thrust in his face. He took yet another deep drag of smoke and let the stub follow the first into the beer bottle. With the beer in his hand he watched as Mike died. The idea that he was probably supposed to feel guilt or fear struck him, but he could feel nothing.

The body lay with its head beside the fireplace. Geoff said he'd pushed the man, and the angle was right; if Mike had stood right there and then got pushed... In fact, he could have fallen; as drunk as Mike had been, judging from the amount of bottles standing on the living room table, no one would give it a second thought.

He put the lid back on the jar and once more walked over to the fireplace where he placed it back in its usual place. Turning back he caught a glimpse of something behind the old armchair in the corner. He stared at the object for a while, before he went into the bedroom and picked up a dirty sheet lying on the floor. Using the sheet, he picked up the bloodstained poker from behind the chair.

Geoff had lied to him. Not that it changed anything.

Quickly he wrapped the poker in the sheet and turned around to leave, but returned to pick up the beer bottle with the cigarette stumps; someone might ask questions. Mike didn't smoke and had never allowed Geoff to do it inside. He loosened the elastic band in his hair, put it inside his pocket and shook his head to let his hair cover his face, though deep down he knew it was futile. He was too well known in the Alley, any of the regulars could pick him out -even in the blackness of the night.

He would not Apparate, Apparition was easily traceable; he had to get out on foot. Back inside the bedroom he looked through the closet and found a brown cloak that belonged to Geoff. He tossed it aside -the boy was a head taller than he was, and sweeping around in a too-big cloak might catch someone's attention. A dark blue cloak of Mike's suited better, and he put it on over the leather jacket.

For a long time he stood by the entrance, watching, before he took the chance and entered the badly lit Knockturn Alley. To his vast relief he didn't meet anyone on the way out, and he kept his head low as he hurried out. Soon he entered the Diagon, and in the back alley behind Madam Malkin's he disposed of the poker after transfiguring it into a wooden stick. Then it struck him; he knew of the Priori Incantatem spell, but could they trace which objects he had transfigured? He didn't know. Without much ado he dug a shallow grave for his wand by the wall, and covered it with gravel and dirt. It was a sad feeling to see it go, it had been a gift; perhaps he could retrieve it when things calmed down.

With heavy steps he walked back to the room he shared with Queenie.

The room was dark when he came in, Queenie had gone to bed and the drapes around it were drawn shut. On the tattered sofa sat Geoff with the blanket thrown over his legs, smoking one of Dung's cigarettes. He looked up at Dung with a tired expression as the older wizard closed the door and sat down beside him. With a thud, Dung placed his feet on the table and they sat for a while without speaking.

"I got rid of the poker," Dung finally muttered. Geoff gave him a glance filled with fear and made a motion as to get up, but Dung grabbed his arm. "Now you stay 'ere, and in the morning we go down and find 'im, all right? And we're both shocked that some'at like this could 'appen, per'aps you'll even cry a bit if you can manage it."

"But it was all my fault!" The boy's voice was shrill and loud, and Dung cut him off.

"Keep your voice down! Now you listen to me, Geoff. You did not push 'im, okay? You left the concert and came straight 'ere and spent the night on the sofa." He stared intently into the boy's face, and Geoff's blue eyes blinked back. He still seemed dazed, and that worried Dung more than anything else, he needed him to keep cool; it was his head at stake here as well.

"But Queenie... She 'ates me now, Dung, I know she does-" Geoff turned his head away and once more Dung had to keep him from getting up.

"Rubbish; she loves you, you're 'er little bruvver. Just give 'er some time, I'll talk to 'er in the morning." He laid his hands around the boy's neck and pulled him closer, resting his forehead against Geoff's. "Now, what didya do last night...?"

"I went to the concert," Geoff swallowed hard. "But then I went 'ere to talk wiv you and Queenie, and you invited me to stay over. 'Cos...'cos you and I were gonna buy Christmas presents for Queenie in the morning."

Dung gave a little smile when he heard the boy's addition to the story. "Good. Don't change the story wiv'out talking to me first! Remember that."

"I will-"

"Good boy. 'S gonna be all right, Geoff, 's gonna be all right." They leaned back in the sofa, Dung with his arm around the boy's shoulder to calm him. He stared into the dark room, lost in his thoughts when Geoff said something to him. "What-?"

"We were gonna buy presents, right? Why didn't I go 'ome, then? It's just 'round the block."

"Cos I was teaching you to play the guitar and it got late," Dung said firmly.

Geoff snorted. "If I was gonna learn that, I wouldn't want you as a teacher."

"Well, that's a nice thing t'say, considering I just saved your arse." Dung's voice was cold as he got up from the sofa to take off the blue cloak he was still wearing. The cloak; he reminded himself to get rid of it in the morning.

Geoff sighed and covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Go to sleep."

Dung walked over to the bed while taking off his clothes, and with a final glance back at the boy on the sofa he pulled the curtains closed. Tired he lay down, and Queenie's uneven breath revealed that she had not yet fallen asleep. With serious eyes he looked at her for a minute. "I know you're not sleeping," he muttered. "We need to talk-"

She did not move.

"Damn it, Queenie! It's your kid brother!" he hissed at her, but still she refused to acknowledge his words. Or perhaps she couldn't bear talking right now, not with him anyway. Dung sighed and rolled over on his back, staring into the ceiling.