He stalked into the bedroom, next. It contained his old king bed, circular and deep, though he hadn’t much shared it with anyone for ages, even before the fall. He’d been too busy with his career. A few prints adorned the wall, and his bedside table had a selection of books on it. The wardrobe was full of his clothes—every thread of it apparently: including Benedick’s old uniforms, wrapped in their suit bags. Not much need for those anymore. He’d get rid of them. Later. Benedick shoved them to the furthest point of the wardrobe and closed the door firmly.
The new flat wasn’t much different to an ordinary home. He hadn’t needed much in the way of special equipment, after all. He couldn’t fly but he still had the wing and he had learned how to maintain his balance.
Why did he keep feeling that this place should be smaller? Did he think that he took up less space, just because he couldn’t fly?
His wings juddered and spread reflexively—the good wing stretching to its proper span, the other drooping and stiff.
Right.
Useless bloody thing.
I’m a useless bloody thing, now.
Benedick returned to the kitchen, wrenching open cupboards until he found the bottle of whisky Peri had shifted over from his old place and poured a generous measure. He gulped it down, poured another and took it with him to the windows where he could watch the park: watch other people flying.
He wondered briefly what it would be like to fall; to fly one last time before everything ended. Then he slammed the second whisky back and coughed as it burned all the way down his throat and into his belly.
His therapist, Liam, had told Benedick he could have bad moments when he moved into the Towers. Benedick had left the worst of the bad days behind him. This suicide ideation, as Liam called it, snuck up from time to time, out of nowhere it seemed.
Benedick brought to mind the affirmations Liam had taught him.
I can’t change the direction of the wind, but I can adjust my sails to always reach my destination.
The potential for success and happiness reside in me.
Do what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and one day I may achieve what seemed impossible.
He put the empty glass down and counted deep breaths in and out.
I’m not giving up, he thought. I’ll find a place in the world again. I’ll find out who Captain Benedick Sasaki is when he’s not a cop, and I’ll be that.
He stood for a long time, holding the empty glass, staring out at the life that was no longer his own.
***
Clementine Torres strode up to the Dell-inquent Gallery in so black a mood it was a miracle she wasn’t surrounded by a broody cloud of ink. Her dark hair did its best to compensate, the angular bob cut swinging about her face with every sharp motion of her head as it turned to take in her surroundings. Police were all around the main entrance on the first floor platform, a couple here on the ground at the entrance for goods and the flightless. She headed towards the policeman there.
The burly fellow spread his large brown wings to bar her way. ‘Please move along, ma’am,’ he said, eyes hardly registering her at all.
‘I’m Clementine Torres,’ she said, as calmly as possible, which wasn’t very calm.
‘The artist?’ His gaze raked over her, more quickly past her shoulders and the awkwardness of no wings, sun have mercy! He schooled his expression back to blandness. ‘Sorry, I thought you’d have a carer … ah … someone with you. D.I. Larsen’s inside. Come on.’
He led the way into the downstairs entrance, called over a colleague and pointed at Clementine without looking at her. ‘This is the wingless artist concerned. The gallery manager arranged for her to come in. Take her up to the chief, yeah?’ He walked out without another glance.
The policeman’s colleague was a discomfited pale-skinned constable with soft grey wings. ‘Ms Torres, thank you for coming in. I think they were expecting you upstairs.’
Clementine folded her arms, her shoulders pulling in tight, which made the absence of wings even more stark.
The constable blushed. ‘Of course. I’m very sorry. I’ll take you up.’
They bypassed the lower gallery, empty of the usual punters viewing art or using the platforms to launch into or land from the other seven levels of the art gallery. Instead, they went to the lift used to move exhibits between floors. Clementine maintained a stony silence as the lift ascended.
‘I’m sorry about your work,’ said the constable into the uneasy hush. ‘It’s beautiful. The person who did this has no idea about art.’
‘But they know what they like?’
The constable flinched. Clementine rubbed her hand ruefully over her forehead, trying to scrub the anger away. ‘I’m sorry. All my buttons have defaulted to Hyper Bitch since Dell called. It’s not your fault.’
‘Not yours either,’ said the Constable generously. ‘It’d be upsetting for anyone, and this is particularly nasty.’
‘This level of hate is new, I admit,’ said Clementine wearily.
‘We’ll catch the little grub who did it, Ms Torres.’
Clementine bit her tongue. The woman was trying to be kind, and a lot of people used ‘grub’ who wouldn’t dream of saying ‘crawler’. Focus on the good, thought Clementine, choosing patience, she means well.
‘I’d appreciate that Constable …’ Clementine checked the badge, ‘Anders. I’d appreciate it very much.’
The first thing Clementine saw when the lift opened was not the gallery director, Dell MacGovern, nor the police officer talking to her, nor even the forensics team working with blue plastic coveralls and capes encasing their bodies, wings and hair.
What she first saw was the paint, a slash of red sprayed across the wall and five of her pictures. Crudely outlined scarlet wings sprawled over them all. And under the wings: Die Crawlers. The bulk of the letters splashed over the beautiful piece she’d worked on by the river last year. The one into which she’d worked the rosella feathers—the blue wing feather and the blush-tipped curl of the down feather. Wings pulled down to earth, lending the piece flight, connecting earth and air. A metaphor, she supposed, though she tried to avoid labelling things. Words were too limiting for this. Hers was a language of colour and shape.
These crude and ugly letters defacing the work told their own story, of course. She didn’t really see the words. Just the paint. The red scrawls and squiggles of spray-paint, the blood-coloured bile ruining months and months of creative effort. She saw her art disfigured; her art into which she had poured her mind, her insight, her heart. Her paintings that captured the ground’s hidden beauties to share with eyes that never saw the remarkable realm at a world-walker’s feet; with people who never bothered to look until she showed it to them. All the optimism of that day by the lake, spat on and despoiled. Ruined.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ said Dell gently. Her speckled white wings were ruffled with agitation.
‘It looks pretty bloody awful.’
A tall, reserved woman with perfectly groomed black wings interrupted. ‘Ms Torres, I’m Detective Larsen, senior investigator for the case. I know you’re upset, but if you could answer a few questions …’
‘Upset?’ Clementine pressed her lips together. Where her face had been pale moments before, now it was high with colour. ‘I’m absolutely furious. How dare they? All that time and effort, treated like garbage, and why? Because I can’t fly. Well I bet the vicious little sun-blighted beggar who did this can’t paint. Big fat feathery deal.’
‘Quite, Ms Torres,’ said Larsen soothingly. ‘Perhaps you have some idea of who might do this?’
Clementine took a settling breath. ‘I’ve been getting letters. I didn’t take them seriously. I get letters all the time. People who like my work, people who hate it, those who like to tell me how well I’m doing for someone with so many difficulties. Patronising prats.’
‘But these were different?’
‘More consistent, I suppose. They started angry a
nd built up to lunatic, about how I was taking up space that should be for better artists. Ones that paint the sky, I guess. They called me a dirt-grubber. You know the kind of thing.’
Clementine caught Anders’s tiny flinch at the word ‘grubber’.
‘Do you have any of these letters? A name?’ prompted Larsen.
From her bag, Clementine drew a folder which she opened to display several letters. ‘I didn’t keep the first few—I couldn’t see the point—but these ones all came this week. This top one came in yesterday’s mail.’
The most recent was written in a scrawling hand in bright red ink:
Art is for the Winged.
Clementine Torres can’t fly
but she can bleed.
Larsen waved for one of her forensics people to take the letters in gloved hands. ‘Did you report this?’ Larsen asked.
‘Yes. The station said someone would come around to my place today, but I got Dell’s call this morning, so here we all are.’ Clementine turned towards her defaced work, and for the first time felt the fury ebb and the despair come rising up again.
‘It’s not so bad,’ said Dell again, taking Clementine by the elbow. ‘New glass for the three big pieces, and that little flower study can be cleaned; you know Verani is a genius for that. The insurance will cover the costs. We don’t even have to close the exhibition—the rest is all untouched. I’ll hire extra guards. We can fix all of this.’
Can you fix the bastards who think I don’t deserve space? I don’t take up much as it is.
Clementine sucked in a breath and held it, tamping down the tears. She had no time for that self-pitying bullshit. She exhaled slowly.
‘All right. Fine. We can do this. I’ll work with you today on the repairs.’ She turned back to Larsen, ‘Do you want to interview me here or at the station?’
‘Here is fine, Ms Torres,’ said Larsen, briskly but not unkindly. ‘Though we might need you at the station later to look through some photos.’
‘Right,’ Clementine nodded once, sharply. ‘Good. Let’s get started. I want to catch this cretin.’
***
Benedick unpacked the few things he’d brought with him from the rehabilitation hospital—clothes and books, mainly. The medal was in its box, the box wrapped in his old police-issue cowl; the whole wrapped in a paper bag. This he tucked into the back of a drawer to think about some other time.
That done, he finished exploring the rooms and cupboards. Peri had done an excellent job of moving everything across, which made Benedick feel oddly resentful instead of grateful, which in turn made him ill-tempered.
Benedick flicked on the television, hoping for distraction.
He watched the midday news bulletin with mild curiosity. The story of the assassination attempt was back in the news, with Adelphium Jones facing the trial preliminaries and the Minister for Foreign Affairs saying that he had faith in the justice system. Well, he would. The representatives of the justice system had kept him alive.
Benedick’s name was mentioned in passing, as an example of the fighting courage of the Service, though also with a sense that he was collateral damage. The policeman who took a bullet meant for the Cabinet Minister Bennelong and crashed to earth.
Benedick didn’t resent the way the newscasters worded it. He hoped it meant they’d stop trying to interview him at last—about the failed assassination and the medal he’d received for his efforts. He had no interest in being the Brave Hero for the media. He’d been too busy undergoing surgery after surgery and intensive therapy for the bullet-ravaged and broken wing. The doctors had done their best to restore the limb. It wasn’t their fault that their best hadn’t been good enough.
Benedick was about to change channels when an unexpected familiar face appeared on the screen; it was that of his disagreeable neighbour.
Over the image of the wingless woman arriving at one of the city’s premier galleries, a voiceover reported: This morning at the Dell-inquent Gallery, an unidentified vandal defaced artworks by internationally regarded, wingless artist Clementine Torres—just one week before her latest exhibition is due to open.
A series of beautiful, delicate paintings appeared next, and then a shot of a wall sprayed with bloody-looking ugliness.
‘An unnamed gallery worker said that the disabled artist, known for her forthright opinions, has also received death threats in recent days. The gallery also reports that access to the floor where the artworks were being prepared for the exhibition had not been restricted, allowing any number of contract workers, gallery staff and the general public to use the landing platforms. Police are pursuing several avenues of inquiry.’
The images cut to footage of Torres leaving the gallery, expression thunderous. Benedick had seen victims of crime before, though, and could see the distress behind the anger: the way her already slight body huddled protectively in on herself. A close-up followed as the news team intercepted her departure. A flash of fear in her eyes was immediately quelled.
‘How does this attack make you feel, Ms Torres?’ demanded the reporter.
Torres opened her mouth then shut it again on an impulsive retort.
‘Defiant,’ she said at last, jaw set, eyes bright with challenge. ‘It takes more than a little red paint to shut me down. It’s just paint. It’s my medium. Nobody can make it my enemy.’
‘Do you think your outspoken views in the past have made you a target?’
Torres’s jaw worked again, obviously grinding down on another hot reply. The challenge in her eyes grew more pronounced.
‘If they have, it’s worth it. This person is the reason people like me are called crawlers, grubs and worse, and treated like the lack of functioning wings equates to the lack of a right to be a part of our society. Well, bring it on.’ Here, Torres glared directly into the camera: ‘I haven’t spent my whole life demanding to be heard only to shut up now. I’ll keep on painting, and I’ll keep fighting for the rights of the flightless, and when I’m dead and gone, there will be others standing up for what’s right in a civilised society.’
The rest of the news was a lot less interesting. Reports on funding shortfalls in the new ocean-crossing dirigible services, and another bout of people promoting a chain of platforms across the sea so people could self-fly with sufficient breaks, despite the storms of ’94 proving how dangerous that could be. A domestic murder, the busting of a drug ring, sports results, then the weather. The usual Cute News Finale, today about a hydroponic florist growing roses all up the side of a rejuvenated downtown apartment block, was interrupted when someone knocked on his door.
Benedick wasn’t much in the mood for company, but he’d had enough of feeling stupidly sorry for himself. He flicked off the TV and answered the knock.
In the hall stood Clementine Torres with a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said with an awkward smile. ‘I’m Clementine Torres. On behalf of the Avalon Towers community, I’d like to welcome you to the fourth floor.’ When he didn’t reply, her smile slipped. More sincerely, she continued. ‘Actually, I came to apologise for being horrible and to make these peace offerings. A Devil’s Eyrie sparkling Syrah, ‘96 vintage, and hand-made Clarouche champagne truffles.’
She waggled the items hopefully, her lips pressed tight like she was trapping less considered words. Her shoulders were slightly hunched as though she was unsure of her welcome.
Benedick’s mouth pulled up in a forgiving half-smile. ‘Benedick Sasaki. Benedick. I saw the news about your exhibition. Hardly a wonder you were in a mood.’
‘No excuse,’ she said.
‘Some excuse. It’s nasty, what they did to your art,’ Benedick allowed. ‘Anyway, come in. Must be well after midday by now, let’s crack the sparkly.’ He relieved her of the wine and stood aside to let her enter.
Clementine stepped easily past him and glanced around his living room while he fetched glasses.
‘You’re a reade
r,’ she observed as he handed her a glass.
‘Yeah. Haven’t had much else to do for a few months, so it’s good I like it.’ He heard how bitter that sounded and frowned. ‘So. Have they got a lead?’
‘Detective Larsen says they’ve got a fuzzy image from the security cameras. If there’s a good fingerprint from the letters I received it’ll help.’
‘Larsen’s a good officer,’ said Benedick. His bad wing twitched and he jerked it hard against his body.
Clementine affected not to notice, instead raising her glass. ‘To better, second, impressions?’ she suggested.
Benedick clinked glasses with her and they sipped. His nose wrinkled at the bubbles tickling them. Clementine’s gaze slid away from his, self-conscious about not having much to say. Benedick got the feeling she was scrutinising every book and knick-knack on the shelf.
‘Third impressions really,’ Benedick admitted, and she looked at him questioningly. Her eyes are gorgeous, he thought. Dark brown flecked with gold. Intelligent and lively; seeing everything. ‘My cousin Octavia loves your work. She has some of your earliest pieces, from that Groundpunk Watercolour exhibition eight years back.’
Her surprise showed. ‘That was my first proper showing,’ she said. ‘My first proper sales. Beetle Party …’
‘… and The Mushroom Hall. I know. She’s got them side by side in her living room and she shows them off to everyone who visits, from her mum to the pizza delivery guy. Octavia says it was the first time she felt like the world she knew had worth. Oh, hey. Hey! I’m sorry …’
Clementine shook her head mutely, brushing at the tears that spilled over. Benedick offered her tissues and she pressed a handful of them against her eyes.
‘Sorry,’ she said at last. ‘Sorry. Sorry. I’ve had such a gruesome day and then you tell me … such a beautiful thing. When you see your cousin next, tell her thank you from me. Tell her she absolutely made my whole month worthwhile.’ Clementine raised her glass. ‘Here’s to your lovely cousin.’
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