“You shouldn’t have. Paul can do that.”
“They were just camouflage, in case anyone was watching.” Her eyebrows rose. “Morgan’s old gang has turned up, they’ve moved into Bézier. Mike, that’s the leader, seems very keen to find Morgan. I said he hadn’t got a snowmobile, so don’t tell anyone, will you, if they come sniffing round? That’s what I came over for. Morgan wasn’t going to tell any of us, so I thought I’d better play dumb.”
“Is it a secret?” said Gemma. She’d gone back to doing her jigsaw.
“Yes. Act shy if they ask any questions, and don’t say anything. They may be nice, but we don’t know yet.”
I said goodbye and headed for the Gherkin, to tell Morgan Mike had arrived.
I crossed over one of the sled tracks, a distinctive double ribbon, its centre churned and lumpy. Halfway I heard a buzzing like furious wasps and caught sight of the snowmobiles in the distance kicking up spray, making deep scars on the fresh surface of the snow. I was careful to keep against the buildings to stop their riders noticing me. Were they letting off steam or hunting Morgan? I made a wearisome detour behind the neighbouring office blocks west of the Gherkin on the off chance someone in Bézier was watching me through binoculars. Paranoid maybe, but you can see a person for miles on the snow, standing out like a spider walking up a white wall.
The surface outside the triangular window was smooth and undisturbed apart from my earlier footprints. I stepped inside, pulling my trailer after me, and left it between the inner and outer façade. Morgan was crouched beside the snowmobile, stripped down to his sweater in the comparative warmth of the building’s energy-efficient ventilation system, hair tied back, working on the engine.
He glanced up. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi to you too. I came to tell you Mike’s arrived.”
“Yeah.” His concentration went back to what he was doing. “I saw the sleds racing around. D’you know how many people were with him?”
“No, don’t you? You said there were seven. I only met Big Mac and Eddie.” He didn’t answer, just reached for a spanner. “I want to talk to you about Mike.” I came closer to get his attention. He had taken the engine casing off; bits of engine lay on the floor around him. He was unscrewing something, swearing under his breath, intent. “What are you doing?”
“It won’t start. It’s not the spark plugs or the fuel line, the wiring or the crank seals. I’m checking the fuel pump …” He eased a component free. “Oh shit.”
“What?”
“There’s a puncture in the fuel pump diaphragm. I don’t have a spare.” He stared at it. “Fuck.”
“Can you mend it? Or find a spare somewhere?”
“No and no. The nearest spare parts are in Mike’s baggage. Second nearest, Scotland under a load of snow. You didn’t tell Mike you’d seen the sled?”
“No.”
“Or get followed here?”
“I came via Claire’s and round the back.”
“That’s something. Don’t come here again unless you have to.” He started work on the engine once more, putting it back together fast, his expression blank. He was thinking. I didn’t interrupt. I don’t know why I felt I had to help him – possibly just because he’d been staying with me for a week, and I’d got to know him a bit. And I’d saved his life, so had an interest in keeping him alive; I didn’t want my initial effort to be for nothing. When he had finished, he stood and wiped black grease off his hands on to a tee shirt. “You can help me hide it. We’ll have to bury it round the other side of the building. Go and find a curtain or something big enough to cover it. And a broom.”
“Bury it? Is that really necessary?”
“Yes. Because else Mike will find it and take it. Then I’ll be stuck here with you lot.”
“I can see you wouldn’t want that.”
Ignoring my sarcasm he gripped the handles on the front of the sled’s skis and pulled it over the threshold. Catching his sense of urgency, I dumped my jacket and ran to the lobby and up a flight of stairs. The next floor had been occupied and was full of partitions and work stations. One could believe that, come Monday morning, phones would be ringing, computers glowing and office personnel busy at their desks. The only clue no workers would be back, ever, were large dead plants in steel planters, their leaves brown and brittle. The executives’ offices all had blinds. I tried the next floor, with the same lack of success, and the next; there seemed a consensus curtains were out of place in this futuristic building. I was just beginning to think he could maybe use his trailer instead when I came across an office abandoned in the middle of redecorations. I folded a couple of groundsheets, grabbed the dustpan and brush lying on the floor, and went to find Morgan.
At the south-facing side of the building, close to the windows, he had already dug a deep hole and was standing in it, his shovel moving like a machine, snow flying on to a growing heap. I threw a dustsheet over the sled which was glittering in the sun – no point letting our activities be too eye-catching from a distance if the sleds came round this side. The cans of petrol were there, too, waiting to be interred.
“Where did you get the shovel?”
He kept working as he said, “Folding one I carry on the sled. Essential kit. Dig a ramp that end.”
I started to scoop snow. I’d get him to talk later. The top layer was easy, but it got harder lower down, and the dustpan was bendy, being plastic not metal. Morgan did most of the work. As soon as the hole was deep enough, he dragged the ACE into it, arranged the petrol cans around the sled and spread the dustsheets over, tucking them in underneath. We shovelled back the snow, stamping it down and artistically spreading the excess about so there was no trace of a bump. Morgan levelled the tracks and our footprints with his shovel, and I backed out, sweeping the surface. It looked pretty smooth from a few feet away, if you weren’t looking for it.
Back inside, he wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve, and said, “Let’s hope it snows.”
I thought of something. “Did you mark where it is?”
“No. I counted how many windows from here.”
“How many?”
I could see him debating whether to tell me.
“Thirty-three.”
“Is that the real number?”
He laughed and chucked his supplies into his roof box trailer, then asked me to take one end. The backpack with the gold wasn’t there. Even without it the trailer was heavy. We headed up the stairs.
“You’re going to stay here, then?”
“I can’t stay with you now Mike’s living next door. And this place only gets really cold at night, and I’ve got a sleeping bag and a tent.”
We went up the next flight, and the next. My legs were getting tired and the edge of the trailer was digging into my hands. “How far are you going?”
“High enough to get a good view. High enough for anyone searching the place to give up before they get there and go away.”
“How high is that?”
“A few more.”
He stopped eight floors above snow level, not even breathing hard, in a smart coffee-making area tucked behind a wall; all grey, white and steel, with upholstered banquettes and a clear view of Bézier to the north. I’d started to worry he was going all the way to the top. I flopped on to a bench to get my breath, rubbing my sore fingers and gazing at the panorama. Morgan rummaged among his stuff, looking for something.
“Mike wasn’t how I expected. From what you told me, I imagined his knuckles dragging along the ground. But he wouldn’t be out of place in a boardroom.”
“That figures.” Morgan spoke without looking up. “He’s a smooth operator. He’s got a lot of confidence, he carries people along with him. The family business was motorbikes – they dealt in snowmobiles too, but he wanted something of his own.”
“How did you meet him?”
“In a Manchester nightclub. Some drunks were hassling him because he was with a white girl. I told them to get
lost and he bought me a drink. I wasn’t doing much at the time, casual manual work while I concentrated on getting my Jiu-Jitsu black belt, and he said I could do better than that. He’d pay me more to work for him. That was two years ago.”
Morgan had found what he was looking for. He took the lens caps off binoculars and leaned on the double rail, focusing on Bézier.
“Mike had issues with his parents, maybe because he was adopted. His father was a self-made man, very successful, and didn’t let anyone forget it. Mike wanted to prove himself, he was determined to make more money than his dad. He started by setting up events after he left uni, fights, illegally at first in empty properties. He made a packet running a book on the side. Then he went legit, got licenses, hired venues. Finally he made enough to rent his own building and do it up; ritzy bars and restaurants and dance floors on different levels, and in the middle the cage fighting arena. Somewhere different for the rich kids to go. He’d have set up a chain of FreeFights if civilization hadn’t crashed on him.”
I leaned on the rail next to Morgan and got out my own binoculars. I focused them on the windows of my flat, then swung along to Mike’s, easily identifiable by the row of sleds. There weren’t any people about. “Were you with him from the start?”
“Yup. I helped him break into empty buildings and sort out the space, fly-post the area, act as bouncer when I wasn’t fighting. I needed the money at the time.”
So Mike had started with an acknowledged debt of gratitude to Morgan, and they’d worked together for two years, then had a blood row of some sort.
“What did you argue about when he threw you out?”
Morgan gave me a sidelong look. “A logistical matter.” He raised the binoculars again.
“What does that mean?” Silence. It was clear he had said all he intended to. I abandoned that line of enquiry for the matter in hand. In the current circumstances it was in both their interests to settle, surely. “Why don’t you strike a bargain with him, hand over the gold – their share of the gold – in exchange for the spare part? He struck me as quite civilized and reasonable.”
“Civilized and reasonable. Yeah, I can remember when I thought that.”
“But he has everything to gain by coming to an agreement with you. Aren’t you going to at least try?”
“Maybe. But he wants the ACE, and the gold, and I got the better of him in front of the others. He doesn’t like me, and he’ll want to show the gang you don’t mess with him and get away with it.”
He lowered the binoculars and turned to face me. His voice was matter-of-fact.
“I think I’ll have to kill him.”
“You can’t just kill people!”
“You’re right – I’ll send him a solicitor’s letter. Oh wait – can’t do that, no solicitors. I’ll have to kill him. Tori, you aren’t being realistic. I could go round tomorrow morning and give Mike all of the gold, the whole lot, keeping not even a half sovereign for myself, dig out the ACE for him and fix the fuel pump diaphragm, then make a grovelling apology for the nuisance I’ve caused. He’d still want to drag me behind his sled till I was dead, or push me off the top of the Shard, or break my legs and leave me in the snow.”
Ice Diaries ~ Lexi Revellian
CHAPTER 10
Hidden depths
I walked back home, disturbed. Morgan’s reaction was so extreme. You couldn’t just kill someone because you thought you would not be able to come to an agreement with him, and he didn’t seem to see this, there was no convincing him – he refused to discuss it.
I’ve disagreed with a lot of people in my life, and if it weren’t for SIRCS and the snow they’d still be around. Nina still was, case in point, and we failed to agree on a daily basis. Again the thought occurred to me that he lived in a tougher, harder world than I did, where they did things differently. Then there was the fact that for the first time in many centuries, it was possible to murder without legal consequences; the police no longer existed, and nor did the criminal justice system. Morgan could kill Mike and go on his way, the only penalty a guilty conscience. Had he been misleading me, and he rather than Mike was the psychopath? Perhaps I ought to warn Mike, put him on guard. But doing that would betray Morgan, and anyway, Mike had three strong men to protect him.
Uneasily, I decided to do nothing. I realized I was starving – I still hadn’t had lunch. I got out some tins.
In the afternoon I lay on the sofa, reading. The sun went in and the sky became a luminous light grey. Thick flakes of snow began to fall. By teatime, several inches had settled. Had his sled been working, it would have covered Morgan’s tracks as he made his escape. Every so often I stared out of the window, but could barely see the Gherkin in the white-out.
Archie called, which reminded me it was Sunday (Nina Time). I made him a cup of tea. He had just been round to call on Mike. Apparently Mike is a Christian and told him he was sorry to have missed the service that morning.
“He said he’ll come next Sunday if he’s still here. Nina bumped into Mike this morning and was very taken with him, they had quite a chat. One of his friends is a male nurse, which is a stroke of good fortune. Perhaps Claire would like him to take a look at Toby – not that there’s anything wrong with him, but she might find it reassuring.”
A nurse passing through – it seemed a waste we were all quite healthy.
Archie got an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. “We’re going to have a dinner party for Mike and his friends, Tuesday evening. You’ll come, won’t you, Tori?”
I opened the envelope. An invitation card with a picture of deep red roses, a silver bow on the corner, and my name inside. It said the theme was crimson and silver, and would guests dress to match. Nina seemed to be going all out to impress the newcomers.
“Let me see,” I said. “I’m going to the opera tomorrow, then there’s the private view at Tate Modern Tuesday, and Thursday I’m seeing a film … but yes, I’ve a window on Wednesday. Who else is going?”
“Everyone, I hope. It’ll be quite a big party. Mike’s got four friends and his young lady with him.”
“So six of them …” One fewer than Morgan had said there were. I wondered what had happened to the seventh man, and what Mike’s girlfriend was like.
Archie said, “It’s a pity Morgan’s no longer here.”
“He wasn’t very sociable when he was.”
“No, I think perhaps he was a little shy. I’d have liked to get to know him better. I feel he had hidden depths.”
I didn’t tell Archie I was currently worrying over Morgan’s hidden depths, anxious about what sort of predator might emerge, covered in mud and slime, from their murky waters.
I’d just settled down with a book after Archie’s departure when there was a rap on the window. A woman slid the door open and came in.
“Hi. I’m Serena.” Her gaze darted over me, taking in every detail. I became aware my sweater was stained and my fingernails grimy and my fringe could do with a trim. By contrast, she was immaculately groomed; shiny hair, discreet makeup, manicured nails. She smiled. “You must be Tori. Mike said he’d met you.”
“Hello.” I offered her tea (“Ooh, tea, lovely,”) and put the water to boil. I waited to find out why she’d come. Serena perched on a stool, opened her jacket and looked around her. Improbably, she had the air of a wholesome English rose in Val d’Isere after a good day on the slopes.
“This is nice. You’re very well organized. I love your tulips! And the stove … we have boring old generators and electric kettles and fan heaters as we’re travelling around.” She slipped off her jacket. The soft pink sweater underneath had the expensive sheen of cashmere. “So who else is there I haven’t met?”
I ran through the list. “But you’ll meet them all at Nina’s party the day after tomorrow.”
“You’ve got a nice balance of numbers. The last place we stopped was all men.”
I laughed. “Charlie and Sam are women. Paul and Archie and Greg are
outnumbered.”
“Oh.” Her face clouded and she didn’t say anything for a moment. “How old are they?”
“Not sure exactly. Sam’s a bit younger than me, Charlie a bit older I’d guess.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll see them soon. Mike said Morgan stayed with you while he was here.”
“That’s right.”
“But you didn’t go with him when he left.”
I laughed. “No. Why should I?”
“No reason really, I just assumed … he’s terribly attractive, and I thought maybe …”
Why did everyone think Morgan was so attractive? “I only knew him a week,” I said, coolly, getting out the tin of biscuits.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … it’s just most people want to go south. How was he?”
“How do you mean?”
“Was he okay? He was bleeding from a cut when he left. I was a bit worried about him.”
“He was fine. The cut wasn’t much.” I was not sure why my instinct was to play this down. I put teabags into mugs and got out a tin of biscuits.
“Oh good. I’m fond of Morgan, in spite of everything.”
“Everything … ?”
“I don’t suppose he told you. He stole from all of us when he left. Mike’s team had spent a year stockpiling stuff, collecting valuables on the way south so we wouldn’t arrive poor – and after all, none of it belongs to anyone anymore – and he took the lot. All except for this because I was wearing it.” She felt below the neckline of her sweater and lifted a heavy gold chain round her neck. I leaned closer to see; like Sam she wore perfume, a subtle floral scent with hints of jasmine, roses and lilies. Set at the front of the necklace was an ancient Greek coin with a warrior’s helmeted head. “Nice, isn’t it? It’s Bulgari.”
Ice Diaries Page 8