Ras emerged from behind the Tower – the moment was over. The light was piercing in the clear morning air, so she lowered the blind partway, and, as she did, felt the dull ache of her collarbone. She rubbed at the bruise, remembering. The Major’s breath had been rank with drink and he’d been asleep in minutes. Later, he’d woken, fingers grasping and insistent.
She patted the fillets dry with a cloth so the oil in the pan wouldn’t spit and wake him. She noticed a red light blinking on the rice steamer and knew the power had come on. This was a good thing: with fewer pans to wash she wouldn’t have to rush to work.
And, said a small voice at the back of her head, you might have a few more moments with him.
Her heart hammered in her breast and she wrestled the thought away – too dangerous even to think about it here, she couldn’t risk so much as the hint of a smile or a blush, so she distracted herself by adding rice and water to the grey cylinder and set it to steam, then rubbed salt into the fish, spreading it with her fingers. When it was time, she opened the top of the steamer and laid the fillets over the top, setting the timer, then busied herself with scrubbing down the countertop and hunting the floor for the last few rogue scales. Her breathing slowed and the panic flowed away.
Just thoughts, she told herself. No one could know. She noticed the chipboard door of one of the cupboards had started to warp with age and moisture, then the steamer drew her attention with its soft buzz. Under the hood the fish had lost its translucency and become firm. She tipped the whole lot, rice and fish, into a large, glazed serving bowl and mixed it together, the fish flaking just as she’d hoped it would.
She heard him move as he rose and though she’d heard the same sound every day for six years it made her breath catch in her throat. She forced herself not to pause, adding a pinch of smoked spice, some salt and a few drops of dark sauce to the mixture. He was in the shower now; she could hear the water splashing and the rasp of him clearing his nostrils into the drain.
She filled two bowls with rice and fish and touched the panel to turn on the strip lights in the living area, glad she’d had the presence of mind to set the table last night. She set both steaming bowls out and took one of the chairs to wait for him, her gaze lowered.
The Major came striding into the room and she pulled her robe tighter. He was clean-shaven and dressed in his uniform, save for his boots and hat, which she’d already placed by the door. He joined her at the table and set about his food without a word. He didn’t bother to look at her, shovelling rice into his mouth, smacking as he chewed. A snort, then he went quiet. Kelbee’s shoulders froze. Looking up, she saw him chewing slowly, his brow creased. He spat the mouthful out onto the floor.
‘This is terrible.’ He went to put the bowl down but missed, catching the edge of the table. Kelbee watched it as if in slow motion, tipping, spinning, finally hitting the floor with a crash that spilled the white-grey mixture over the tiles.
He rose. She inhaled.
He walked past her and began pulling on his boots. While his back was turned she took a spoonful from her own bowl and sampled it with care. There it was – a few bullet-like grains that clustered around the chunks of soft fish – the steamer must have another leak. She’d have to find it and repair it before she left and clean up the mess. There would be no early walk today.
She heard him straighten behind her and rose to face him. He’d put on his peaked officer’s hat.
‘No more damn fish,’ he grunted. ‘Get some meat in.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Kelbee bowed her head.
For the first time that morning, for only an instant, their eyes met. He was not much older than her, still in his thirties. His face was young, severe but unmarked except for dark shadows under his eyes. His body was trim in the uniform, fit and lean. His hands were slim and strong. His eyes were bleary today, but ordinarily were piercing, as if seeking out threats; he looked like a tree branch held back by brambles, ready to snap forwards with terrifying swiftness.
He would have been handsome, she thought, if it weren’t for the wide mouth, too big for his face. She’d fallen in love when she’d been given to him: the tall soldier in his crisp uniform whose name she’d heard once when the Teller read it out and vows were exchanged, then never again. It had been so long that she could no longer recall it; he was the Major, always, and she’d not had the strength or the will to climb over that wall.
He broke the contact, looking away.
‘I’ll be home late again,’ he said, adjusting his cap. He looked at the mess on the floor, then back at her. He looked for a moment like he might apologise, but it passed. ‘Work hard,’ he mumbled. He keyed the door and it slid open with the squeak of rubber on rubber, then he was gone.
A strand of her blue-black hair came loose over her eyes and she brushed it back behind her ear. She noticed four small red crescents in the meat of her palm where her nails had dug into the flesh.
Gloves today, she decided, and maybe a scarf.
* * *
Her morning commute took her through a tight warren of alleys at the base of the apartment block and out onto a thoroughfare. A few other women were making their way to work; at this time of the morning, with their eyes downcast and with purposeful strides, they could be going nowhere else. She must look the same to them, with her hat pulled low over her eyes and her collar turned up against the wind that blew down the long street, ruffling the gaudy red and blue Quincentennial banners. In this middle-ranked district there was little street traffic at this time of day, apart from the occasional skimmer making a delivery. One was backing out of an alley, beeping as it reversed, a shopkeeper waving the driver out as a boy in trousers too short for him stacked the boxes that had been delivered. One split in his hands, sending dark berries scurrying over the pavement. Kelbee crossed to the other side to avoid the mess as voices rose.
The words of the Seeker droned from the screens mounted on high posts spaced evenly along the street, as they did every day. The muffled utterances echoed off the shop fronts and windows, following her steps. The city was stretching, coming to life as she passed. At the end of the street she came to a checkpoint where her pass was scanned. She felt the usual jab of fear in her heart as the policeman looked her over, then kept her relief hidden as he waved her through, turning to the next person in line.
Beyond the barrier lay the park. Kelbee followed the white gravel path that cut through the grass, heading towards a row of skeletal trees on the far side. In the centre of the park was a wide gravel circle. She joined others who milled about the feet of a Teller, the morning ritual already begun. The platform on which he stood, red-robed and straight-backed, was at head-height to the assembled crowd and set before the gleaming statue of the Seeker, gazing with beatific eyes over the sweep of the park and the city blocks that fenced it. The Teller was mid-flow when she edged in.
‘…cast down the ignominy of the old world, the corrupt, the decadent, the vile. He built the Walls that keep us, wrote the Principles that bind us and set us on the path to the exalted Inner Victory. For who was saved when the waves came? Who emerged from the broken world, ready to sow anew? For this, we give everlasting thanks to Him, our Eternal Leader.’
A speckling of mutters replied, tired voices repeating their daily catechism. The Teller’s eyes flashed, and the words of thanks were repeated, this time with greater gusto. By his side a Factor stood mute, eyes attentive, one hand on the pistol at his hip.
‘Bow, for Temperance,’ the Teller intoned. ‘For Vigilance, Modesty, Abstinence, Fortitude, Restraint, Obeisance, Fear and Love. They shape the lives we lead in His name.’
For each Principle of Inner Victory, they bowed to the likeness of the Seeker, the group rippling like grass, the timing ingrained. Kelbee, though a country child, knew the rituals well enough after six years in the capital. She also knew every bow was watched for appropriate veneration.
She waited her turn, then stepped forward to press her fingertips against the g
olden foot, the metal polished by thousands of daily caresses. The great eyes, high above, ignored them all.
Respects paid, she continued on her way. She was behind, and work was to start soon, so she picked up the pace though her bag rubbed against the bruise on her collarbone, restricting her. She passed through the border of trees, noticing that a few were beginning to bud even though the air still bit at her cheeks. As the Death faded into the Wake the mornings were brightening, the skies clearing; she hoped the birds would return soon to rustle at the branches, filling the grey air with their songs. No branch had been spared decoration for the upcoming celebrations, blue and red garlands strung between them like the web of a great colourful raknud. The time away from work she was looking forward to, but the parades… The parades were exhausting, mandatory affairs for a military wife.
Fortitude, she thought to herself. It’s your duty.
The wind cut across her face as she emerged onto the park-girdling street, making her hunch her shoulders against the chill. When she reached the charcoal-grey lump where she worked, her heart sank: the queue stretched almost to the far corner of the building. Several floors above, the klaxon would be about to sound the start of the working day and if she was seen to be missing there would be consequences.
She made her way past blank morning faces until she reached the tail, and there he was, waiting. He saw her and a brief smile flashed over his lips – a mere flicker of clouds parting to anyone but her. She didn’t dare return it as she joined the queue behind him and a little to his left, so she could see the nape of his neck where it dipped beneath his collar.
Nebn’s head turned a fraction. ‘Morning,’ he murmured. A simple greeting between acquaintances. A pounding of drums.
‘Yes,’ she replied, her ears thick with hot air. She turned her head, embarrassed she couldn’t think of anything better. When she looked back he’d turned away again.
The minutes dragged on, and for all the closeness to him stole her thoughts away there was a nagging in the back of her skull that every person in the queue in front of her was making her tardier. After what felt like an age, they shuffled into the foyer and waited to pile into one of the big elevators. When the car came, they managed to stand side by side as it rose through the building, watching the glowing floor numbers count up. Her fingers were a breath away from his, the air between them. Behind them, a man snorted. A woman was chatting to a friend about the upcoming parades and the feast days. Kelbee felt, more than saw, Nebn’s face turn towards her a fraction.
‘How was the park this morning?’ he asked. ‘Pretty, eh?’
She nodded back and smiled. He smelled of woodsmoke and soap. He was tall, the tallest in the elevator, though he stooped. She allowed herself a glance: liquid-bright eyes, a sharp chin and cheekbones softened by crow’s feet and crescent dimples around his mouth that formed deep pits when he smiled, which was often. His lips were thin and firm – just that darting look brought a flash of memory, of softness and the taste of mint on her tongue. His hands, held by his side, were strong and soft. Before she could allow herself to remember how they’d felt on her skin she forced herself to look away, anywhere else.
He’d been working on a faulty heating unit on the day she’d first seen him. The elements often broke and turned the chilly factory floor unbearable – the number of accidents from fumbled shears were always worse during the Death. Contracted workmen were transient visitors and didn’t talk to the women in the factory unless it was to order them out of the way.
Kelbee had been carrying a heavy bobbin from the storeroom down a narrow side corridor when it spilled from her numbed hands and hit the floor with a metal clunk, spinning into an overalled, helmeted workman, unspooling as it went. She’d expected at the very least jeering, or even a call to the monitors to reprimand her for her clumsiness. Instead, he’d been there with his kind face and gentle words. He’d not said much but had helped her gather up the thread before giving her a parting smile and returning to his task. It was only later that she realised they were the first words she’d had from a man in years that hadn’t been an order or a grunt of disapproval.
She’d spied him coming from another side of the park the following day, converging on the Seeker’s idol for morning worship just as she was. As she’d mouthed along with the Teller, she’d shocked herself by imagining what it would be like to walk alongside him, running the conversation over and over in her head, playing both parts. After, she’d even sped up to catch him, but when she was almost in earshot her nerve went and she ended up hanging back.
The next day, he’d waited for her at the edge of the park and greeted her with deference, even reserve, but behind the words were smiles that licked her like a shock of lightning. Then, later, in a place hidden away from prying eyes, the outlines of his body had melded with hers as they broke every rule she’d ever known.
The elevator continued up, dropping off people until it was empty but for the two of them and an older man leaning against the back wall, looking for all the world like he was still asleep. Kelbee felt the silence like a thick blanket.
‘I love the Wake. It’s like everything’s… swept clean,’ she murmured, wishing she had a better way of saying it.
Nebn nodded back with a small smile, and she cursed her awkwardness. Then it was his floor and he said goodbye before stepping out. The older man started awake and rushed past the closing doors, bumping into Nebn as he turned back. He mouthed the word, ‘Goodbye,’ at her; their eyes met and she felt a flutter just above her stomach.
When the doors closed she realised her cheeks were burning and her smile reached the corners of her face.
* * *
The factory floor was already filled with clicking and whirring as the garment-makers began their day. A few were still drifting back from the commons area and heading for their workstations. A glance at the chrono told Kelbee she’d missed the pre-work salutation and exercises, but there were no monitors nearby so she slipped in behind a shuffling group of women and did her best to blend in. At her station, keeping her face down to hide her rapid breathing, she shrugged off her coat but left her scarf on – she didn’t much feel like being the subject of gossip this morning.
Like the other workers she wore a light blue shirt and trousers, and she’d pulled her hair back into a tight bun that slipped easily under the hairnet. She pulled on a white cloth facemask and climbed onto the high chair bolted to the floor behind a clunky, rust-stained sewing engine. Strands of black and brown cotton hung from the ceiling, joining the machine to a narrow metal frame suspended overhead. This ran along to a cluster of bobbins dangling in the centre of the six sewing stations, supplying them all with thread like puppets in an oversized koktu show. There were four sewing clusters like this one on the floor, and the air was alive with the dull rattle of chattering industry.
From a stacked trolley by her side Kelbee pulled the topmost garment, a pair of rough-stitched trousers. Setting her head down and her feet on the pedals, she began to hem with smooth, practised passes. The needle before her whirred up and down, leaving a neat line of stitching across the rough brown fabric.
The other five women in her cluster were doing the same, heads bent and eyes intent on their work. As Kelbee worked, the pile on her right shrank and the one on her left grew. When it became ungainly, she stopped and hefted it over to a wheeled cage at the edge of the circle of machines; when that was full, a porter in red overalls appeared to push it to the next stage in the production line. There was no talking, only the chatter of the machines, the rumble of the bobbins and, faint under everything else, the tinny echo of State music. It was there to inspire them, they’d been told.
On most days Kelbee could go into a trance-like state where her hands and eyes and feet all worked in unison without the need for much guidance, but not today. Little things kept distracting her, like a fly darting past her eyeline, or a particular note in the music that grated on her. Her collarbone rubbed raw against the rough
material of her shirt and she could not get comfortable on the stool.
The memory of that morning in the elevator kept repeating like a broken film in her mind, flashing over and over as she imagined all the ways the conversation could have gone, but hadn’t. She saw where his eyebrows met at the bridge of his nose and drew further down, passing over the tip and to where his lips lay, slightly parted and flecked with moisture, white teeth peeking out from behind. She tried to shake it away, but still the memory of that mouth came back to her again and again. She’d seen more than smiles from it, greetings of a different kind as it had played over the rise and fall of her body; the recollection was a tingle that excruciated, making the room seem hot and close around her. Sweat ran down the curve of her neck. She tried to keep her mind on her work, desperate not to move her mind’s eye any lower on his body, to those other places of him, but it was no good. Even thinking about his eyes fogged her head, remembering herself looking at him looking at her in the afterglow of that dangerous, beautiful thing they’d done, feeling like he could see past her skin – what she was thinking, feeling. It terrified her; she craved more and more. No one else had ever looked at her, touched her like that. Certainly not the Major.
The thought of her husband was an icy slap of reality. His face, fleshy and flushed, caught in the half-light from a crack in the blinds. It was her duty, she knew, to submit to him, but his fingers had been cold and his grip painful. She’d known better than to cry out – he was drunk and didn’t know he was hurting her. Then, after, she’d been discarded, her function fulfilled. Despite herself, she shuddered.
Someone was there. Glancing up, she saw a floor monitor standing on the other side of the desk, his head poking over the top of her machine. Ganada, who liked to watch her. His tiny eyes were even narrower than usual.
‘You were late,’ he said, his voice nasal.
Ruin's Wake Page 3