Within Each Other's Shadow

by Jan Turk Petrie

  There’s a booth with high sides to his right. The lighting is so low he has to squint to be certain it’s empty. His cold face begins to sting from the sudden heat as he sinks into the tired upholstery.

  Within a few minutes, a young fair-haired woman appears. He must have triggered a sensor or else a well-disguised cam had picked him up. On top of her all-black outfit, she’s wearing a white frilly apron tied tight at the waist. The apron looks like something his nonna might have worn.

  ‘Welcome to the Nordic Cross,’ she says. ‘My name’s Anna. What can I get you?’ When he hesitates, she offers him a card. ‘This afternoon’s shot and cocktail menu.’ Nero waves it away. He orders straight-up vodka with ice.

  Left alone, he turns up his stud’s audio record range to maximum hoping to eavesdrop on the conversation. The tech guys should be able to strip out the music later. Feeling the heat, he pulls off his gloves and unbuttons his coat. Above the music, the hum of general chatter is broken by laughter and the hollow chink of shot glasses colliding. What is it they’re offering toasts to up there? Though he knows in his gut his quarry is in here, unless he breaks cover, he won’t be certain unless his voice is on that recording. That leaves option B – stay here long enough and he’ll witness the man and his companions leaving.

  The waitress returns with his drink and he pays her. There’s no denying Anna’s a pretty girl; her unmarked skin glows under the warm light. He catches the curiosity in her eyes. She lingers, leaning up against the side of the booth with the empty tray in her hand. ‘Haven’t seen you in here before,’ she says. ‘This your first time?’ Her short skirt and slim figure put him in mind of a cheerleader holding a tambourine at her side.

  ‘Like they say, there’s a first time for everything,’ he tells her, hating himself for using the line. ‘Thought I’d just pop in and warm up for a minute,’ he says, ‘before I meet a friend.’

  ‘I’m loving the accent,’ she says. Still with that quizzical look, she saunters off like she’s practiced that sway to her hips.

  Nero toys with his drink while straining to hear what’s being said. Frustrated, he hopes for a break in the music but one tune always fades seamlessly into the next.

  This isn’t how he’d imagined spending the afternoon. He’d set out with every intention of marching into Dr Arthur’s office and accusing him to his face of unethical practices contrary to every agreed international protocol. For Chan’s sake, he wouldn’t have revealed too much more, he’d have let the bastard join the dots himself. He needed to stare the man straight in the eyes and suggest early retirement as the only means to avoid a police investigation and possible criminal charges.

  Nero peers down into the clear liquid then holds the glass nearer to hear the gentle snap of slowly melting ice. Of course the threat was bullshit and the bastard would have smelt it; probably laughed right into his face. One quick call and Laskaris would have been on him like a shot and he’d have blown any chance of linking the good doctor with anything.

  He weighs the glass in his hand. Swirling the contents around, he stares as the cubes collide and then separate. His mind dredges up the principles of chaos theory – how the tiniest change can affect even well-ordered systems making eventual outcomes impossible to predict. This detour has been fortuitous – not only has it saved him from himself and his impulses, if he can decipher any part of the discussion going on up there, who knows what it might reveal?

  The girl is soon back to ask if he wants a top-up. Had they sent her over? Nero swallows the vodka and orders another. He can feel its warmth running down into his chest. ‘Tell me, Anna,’ he says, withholding the glass from her grasp, ‘do you get mostly regulars in here?’

  She shrugs. ‘This time of day we normally get the same handful of men.’ She’s young, can’t be much older than Bruno. Reaching for the empty glass, her cool fingers slide in between his; he feels the connection before he lets go his grip.

  It wasn’t long enough to glean much more than the fact she’s a final year student and this job represents easy money.

  ‘Later on, the place gets a bit livelier.’ Anna inclines her head. ‘This lot will have cleared off home to their wives long before then.’

  He nods towards the voices. ‘Something tells me they’re all older gentlemen.’

  ‘Yeah. I mean don’t get me wrong, I like my men mature – but not that mature.’

  Nero can’t suppress a smile. ‘Still, I expect they tip well.’

  ‘You’re not wrong on that count,’ she says, leaning in. ‘Especially after they’ve put away a few. Why else would I work these hours?’

  The girl is a potential witness. It seems she’s actually attracted to him – has some crazy idea he looks like Emanuele De Luca, the actor. Nero does his best to look brooding. ‘Tell me,’ he says, ‘What time do you get off duty?’

  Anna treats him to her widest smile. ‘I thought you were already meeting somebody?’

  He thinks about the fabled butterfly wings in a forest – the effect of that tiny current of air. ‘Can’t a man change his plans?’

  She looks at him through half-lowered lids. ‘As it happens, I’ll be free as a bird after six o’clock.’

  Thirty

  The two of them tramp up the gravel driveway; lights pop on every few metres up ahead, marking their progress. The foliage thins out and Bruno sees the house itself. The place is massive and extraordinary – an architect’s wet dream in steel and glass. He gives a short cough. ‘Nice little place you have here.’

  ‘My dad doesn’t do things by half.’ The boy’s tone is ambivalent – a mix of pride and embarrassment.

  The entry system must have recognised Baltasar because without any discernable device or keypad, the heavy front door swings open before them. Once they’re inside, it closes with a dull thud.

  In the hallway, Baltasar begins to take off his outdoor kit. ‘House rules,’ he says noticing his reluctance to do the same. Bruno has no choice but to comply. If there are cams, there can be no hiding from them.

  Heat rising from the bleached wood floor warms the soles of his feet through his socks. He follows his friend into an echoing kitchen where someone has laid out a selection of snacks. Baltasar grabs a handful of something orange before going over to an enormous fridge. He extracts a couple of beers, flips off the caps and hands him one. Their fingers touch as they clink bottles.

  Bruno reels from the connection. ‘You okay, man?’ Baltasar asks.

  ‘Yeah – I’ve got this low blood sugar thing; can be a problem if I haven’t eaten for a while.’

  The boy nods towards the snacks. ‘Help yourself, grab a bowl and get stuck in. I recommend the corn chips with that dip. Bit of a weird colour but it usually tastes great.’

  Baltasar stuffs a handful of nuts into his mouth. Bruno munches away, though he’s not especially hungry. His new friend can’t seem to stand still – he’s got way too much energy in his limbs. ‘Let’s go,’ the boy says, losing patience. ‘My room’s up on the second floor.’

  Bruno wants to be certain. ‘So how many floors you got here?’

  ‘Four; that’s if you don’t count the basement.’

  Baltasar leads the way up a wide, cantilevered staircase. On the second floor, the boy turns left. ‘You’ll have to excuse all the signage,’ he says, ‘It may look a bit peculiar but we find it stops people getting lost.’ By people he means outsiders.

  They pass a door labelled TROPHY ROOM. Bruno points to it with his beer bottle. ‘Seriously, man – I know you’re quite the jock but do you really have a whole room for your trophies?’

  ‘In actual fact, they’re mostly my father’s.’ Baltasar rubs his face to hide the smile on his lips. ‘The old man’s always been a sports fanatic – into anything competitive.’ His companion’s voice and vocabulary have undergone a subtle change now he’s on home territory; the boy’s reverting to an earlier self. ‘These days Pa only plays golf and card games – mostly bridge although he’s partial t
o a few hands of poker.’ Baltasar looks at the floor. ‘I must confess, I’m quite proud of my latest victory. Can I show you?’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  They disgorge all the stuff they’re carrying onto the nearest table. Bruno dumps his backpack onto the thick carpet.

  As Baltasar approaches the trophy room, its reinforced door swings open. Lights flicker on, each new ray bouncing off gleaming cups and statues arranged according to height in their glass cabinets. They could be walking into one of those old-fashioned bank vaults. He breathes in the stale aroma of the Avraham family shrine and some kind of polish. The walls are lined with framed pictures of men and boys smiling alongside their teammates. They should pump eau de jockstrap in with the air.

  ‘That’s me there.’

  Bruno recognises a slightly spottier version of Baltasar in the centre of a line-up of muddy players. He’s holding aloft an ornate gold cup.

  ‘That one just above is Pa at about the same age.’ Bruno squints at the image. ‘So which one’s your dad?’ When the boy points to the central figure, it’s easy to see the resemblance. Bruno looks along the line of Avraham Senior’s teammates. He recognises a younger, hard-body version of Governor Hagalín. There’s something familiar about the person sitting right behind Hagalín. It comes to him that this is the juvenile doppelganger of Dr Arthur back when the bastard still had lots of hair.

  Baltasar points to another player. ‘That’s Uncle Viktor next to Pa – well, I call him uncle, but in actual fact he’s my godfather.’ The boy in question is a head taller than Avraham’s dad with blond hair shaved close at the sides Viking style. His eyebrows and lashes are pale enough to be almost invisible. ‘According to Ma, my father only chose him to be my godfather because he’s rich as Croesus.’

  ‘Croesus is said to be the first King to mint gold and silver coins,’ Bruno tells him without thinking. It often worries him that all the stuff he’d gleaned from Magnus Jónsson is still stubbornly stuck inside his brain.

  ‘Is that right?’ The boy looks impressed. ‘You obviously know a lot of history.’

  Surrounded by all these accomplishments, Bruno can’t resist showing off. ‘According to some accounts, Croesus acquired his wealth from King Midas.’

  ‘What that dude with the golden touch?’ Baltasar is amused. ‘Then that would definitely be Viktor; Dad always says the man is uncannily good at sniffing out the most lucrative deals. Far be it from me to complain; he’s always been generous when it comes to my birthday. Of course my mother disapproves. Over-indulgence she calls it. Between you and me, she’s never been particularly fond of Uncle Viktor.’

  Looking again at the image of the pale-haired boy, something stirs in Bruno’s memory.

  ‘This is the one I wanted to show you. It’s probably my all-time favourite.’ Baltasar opens a nearby cabinet and hands Bruno a gleaming trophy. Near the base the urn is decorated in relief with naked male swimmers. Looks like a replica of something ancient – possibly Roman – and is undeniably homoerotic.

  The thing’s way heavier than it looks. ‘I managed the fastest time for The Ice Mile this year,’ Baltasar tells him. ‘Well – it’s an ice kilometre really. Anyway, the world record is around eleven and a half minutes; I did it in just under thirteen – my personal best.’ His name is engraved above the list of previous winners.

  ‘Wow! I’m impressed,’ Bruno tells him, pleased to be handing the trophy back. His AVR stud has advanced visual capture but needs that two-stage activation. While his friend is reliving his Ice Mile triumph – and it’s quite a story – Bruno adjusts his stance and turns his head a fraction.

  ‘I guess it’s the training that enables – or should I say would help you to win.’

  ‘The right preparation’s absolutely crucial,’ Baltasar says, nodding. ‘I was out there in all weathers, I can tell you.’ He takes great care returning the trophy to its plinth and then begins to readjust the ones around it, cocking his head this way and that to check the positioning is perfect.

  A phrase comes into Bruno’s mind – the inscription he’d seen along that wine opener he’d picked up in Naglfar: To the Viktor belong the spoils. He pictures the opener still inside Dr Arthur’s flooded cabin – his so-called Citadel; all of it now resting on the seabed.

  While Baltasar is distracted, he scans the full line-up of the young Commander Avraham standing shoulder to shoulder with his erstwhile teammates.

  As soon as they step outside the trophy room, the door closes with a dull thud behind them. Bruno strains to hear its locking mechanism being activated. It occurs to him that if someone got trapped in there, no one would hear their cries.

  Once they’ve retrieved their gear, they head for Baltasar’s room. The atmosphere between them is more awkward than before; he can sense how the boy is more self-conscious, worried that he’s inadvertently revealed too much about himself to a near stranger. Bruno’s more concerned about how to retrieve the Browning hidden under the boy’s bed. As always, when the mansion’s staff are bored they get nosey; he needs get that gun back before someone else finds it.

  Compared to the rest of the house, Baltasar’s bedroom is of modest proportions – he’d chosen it for that very reason. Once they’re inside, the door closes automatically. It feels like they’ve entered some prison cell.

  Bruno’s impressed by all the state-of-the-art gaming equipment. ‘Wow – you’ve got an Asimov 8,’ he says to break the ice.

  ‘Yeah –it’s GOAT.’ The invitation to play doesn’t follow.

  After swallowing a handful of corn crisps, Bruno gets down to it. ‘You still got that Browning I lent you?’

  ‘Course I have, man.’ Baltasar’s almost back to his usual self. In fact, he’s fooling around, throwing nuts from arm’s length at his open mouth and catching them every time. ‘No probs,’ he says, running out of nutty ammunition, ‘it’s tucked away safely where no one will find it.’

  Bruno waits for him to take more swigs of his beer. ‘This is awkward,’ he says at last. ‘I hate to do this, but, well, thing is I’m getting some serious heat from its previous owner, if you follow my drift.’ He lets that idea sink in for a minute, then he adds, ‘He’s not a stable sort of bloke – far from it.’

  Caught mid-throw, Baltasar stops; the nut falls to the floor. Colour drains from his cheeks like he might be actually going to puke. ‘Sjitt! I never thought– ’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Bruno says, squeezing his impressive shoulder. ‘I mean I’ve kept you well out of it so far at least.’ He pulls a pained face. ‘Trouble is, this guy – he’s not the type to let things rest.’ Bruno points the neck of the bottle towards him. ‘However, if I hand it back there’s a good chance my kneecaps will remain intact and the whole thing will melt away like it never happened.’

  ‘Take it!’ Baltasar is already on his knees fishing around underneath his bed. He hauls out the metal chest. Judging by its travel stickers and straps, it must be antique. He springs the padlock and opens the lid and Bruno can see straight away it’s full of old toys and books he should have discarded a long time ago. Still wrapped in a cloth, the Browning is incongruously sticking out from beneath a raft of plastic soldiers; they share a similar vintage.

  Still in its cloth, Baltasar hands the weapon over like it’s red hot. Fishing around he finds the magazine and puts it on the floor between them. ‘Before you ask, I haven’t fired it.’

  Bruno stuffs both deep inside his backpack covering them up with his uni stuff. Baltasar is relieved to be rid of something so tainted. For a moment, the boy’s actually tempted to go and wash his hands. In spite of his radical politics, he regrets their hasty alliance – their whole would-be friendship. For him, the student demonstrations had been a theoretical and pretty vague protest aimed at the more repressive aspects of state control. Baltasar’s never once envisaged any serious rebellion against the regime his father represents. By coming into his home – this virtual fortress – with his talk of a world where a person’s
kneecaps might be deliberately shot away, Bruno has just shaken the boy to the core.

  When he looks at him now, Baltasar see a conduit to the seamier elements of Eldísvík city – that other community living their parallel lives elsewhere; the people his wealth has shielded him from his whole life.

  The boy’s regret becomes resentment and Bruno knows he’s already outstayed his welcome. ‘Listen, this was fun,’ he says, ‘I guess I’d better be– ’

  He’s interrupted by a series of taps. ‘Tasar, let me in.’ The door must be programmed to open only for the boy.

  ‘It’s my sister, Silla,’ Baltasar says. ‘Ma must have picked her up from school.’

  ‘Pleeease Tasar; open the door. I won’t touch anything, I promise.’

  The boy intended to open it just a fraction in order to get rid of her but the little girl’s too quick and dodges underneath his arm. Pigtails flying, she runs in squealing with delight but stops dead when she sees Bruno.

  ‘Who are you?’ She takes a step back to appraise him from head to toe. Her wide blue eyes challenge him. There’s hardly any space between all her freckles. She pulls one plait over her shoulder and points the brush end at him like a sensor.

  ‘He’s just a friend from uni,’ Baltasar says.

  He must have passed scrutiny. Dropping the plait, she holds out her podgy hand. ‘How d’you do?’ Before he can take it, she collapses into giggles.

  ‘Silla, are you up there?’ a woman calls out.

  ‘Don’t tell her I’m here.’ Silla scrambles to flatten herself behind the bed.

  Bruno walks towards the door; it opens and a woman comes into the room. She’s forty plus – fifty even, but must have been some looker back in the day. Her blonde hair gets whiter not darker at the roots. ‘Hello, young man,’ she says. Like her daughter, she’s not subtle about the way she looks him up and down. ‘You’ll have guessed I’m Baltasar’s mother, Elspeth.’