by Jo Clayton
“Just a minute.” It was a whisper from inside. The door pushed almost closed, she heard the greased slide of metal against metal, then the door was open, though the boy was canny enough to stand behind it so no one outside could see him. She shuffled in, irritated that the boy was there because she didn’t have the energy to cope with company, to bestir herself and put on her company face. She dropped onto the couch with a sigh and a groan, pulled off the dark glasses that had begun to be too small to conceal the bruises round her eyes.
The boy stood hesitantly in the middle of the small shabby room, then went out into the kitchen. He came back almost immediately with a tray. Her teapot and a cup of tea poured out. He set the tray on the couch beside her and stepped back. “There wasn’t any coffee so I figured you wouldn’t want that, but I don’t know if you use sugar or lemon or milk or what. If you’re like Hank… was… you drink it straight. You use loose tea like him and there wasn’t any of the other things.” He looked down at his hands. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve made a casserole out of the chicken in your refrigerator. Something I could reheat without ruining it.” He knew he was chattering but he looked as uneasy as she felt.
She smiled, took up the cup, sipped at the hot liquid, holding each mouthful a second then letting it flood down her throat. The heat spread through her, washing away some of her tension and uncertainty. She sighed, held the cup with both hands curled about it. “Feels marvelous,” she said and watched the boy relax even though she winced at the phoniness she heard in her voice. “And I’m half-starved.” That was true, she hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. “Smells good.” At least that was real, the truth of her sudden enjoyment firm in her voice. She sniffed again and smiled.
“It should be done in another fifteen minutes.” He moved to a straight-backed chair next to the phone. The lamp beside him, picking out fine lines about his eyes and mouth. He’s older than I thought, maybe even late twenties. He looked gravely at her. “You were right,” he said. “Police came about a half hour after you left, took him away, started pounding on doors. Most everybody was out working, I suppose, so they didn’t get many answers.”
“Half hour. Long enough for the blackshirts to fix up their respectable alibis.” She poured more tea, gulped at it. “I didn’t see anyone hanging about.” She lifted the cup and held it against her cheek, her eyes closed. “But I wasn’t in any shape to notice much.”
His long mobile mouth curled up in an ugly grin. “If one pervert kills another,” he said in the round mellifluous tones of a TV preacher, “that is God’s judgment on them for their evil, sinful ways, God’s way to protect the righteous from their corruption.” His face looked drawn and miserable, the effect exaggerated by the light shining down on him.
“What are you going to do? Do you have family you can get back to?”
That painful travesty of a smile again. “I grew up in a small town a few hundred miles east and south of here. If they’ve got a local branch of the blackshirts, my dad’s more likely than not the head man.”
“Ah. Sorry.”
“Been living with it more than long enough to be used to it. He kicked me out when I was sixteen. That’s a while back.”
She sat up, sore still all over. “I forgot. They were in here. The blackshirts.”
“Uh-huh.” This time he showed his teeth in the familiar broad grin. “I swept the place. Not to worry. They left a passive bug in the phone. No imagination. It’s down the garbage chute. That’s all.”
“You’re sure?”
“Uh-huh. Been playing with gadgets, games, computers long as I can remember. I’m good, if I can brag a bit. And I work in this hobby shop that’s more than half a comp-security source, so I keep up. Besides, you know from what you said, the kind of shit I get rained on me, so I like to keep my nose sharp. And it’s not like these batbrains are government, not yet anyway; they get their stuff from shops like Dettingers.”
She refilled her cup, sat back holding it, the warmth in her middle spreading outward, loosening up stiffness, making the soreness more bearable. “I’m not used to all this ducking and swerving.”
“Better get used.” He shrugged. “There was a time.” He lifted his head, sniffed. “I better check. You want to eat in here or in the kitchen, or what?”
“Kitchen,” she said. “Give me a hand.”
She looked down at her plate. “You could make a living at this, young Michael.
He shook his head. “Hank was a lot better, but he taught me a few useful tricks. What about you? You going to stay here or what?”
“Not here. I’m going to see about getting myself across the border. Pain’s no turn-on for me-that I can swear to-and those vultures will be around when they get their nerve back.” She arranged the fork and knife in neat diagonals across the plate. “Besides, I’m going broke too fast. She watched as he put what was left of the casserole in a small bowl and topped it with foil, then began filling the kettle with water. She was amused as she watched him run cold water in the sink and frown at it, then set the pots and plates in it. He was so much more domesticated than she’d ever been.
He looked over his shoulder. “You don’t have any hot water. Cold baths all the time?”
“No. Just lots of hauling.”
“Stinking landlords. Won’t fix it or let you?”
“Not a hope.” She rubbed at her eyes. “I tried.” She put her hands flat on the table and stared at them. “Happens I need a mastectomy in the next few months and I haven’t a hope of money for that either which worries me a trifle more than a niggling little inconvenience like a hot water heater that won’t heat water. Sorry, didn’t mean to dump that on you, it’s just… hell.”
“Hey, Julia, no sweat, hey. I thought I had problems.” He tried to smile but his mouth quivered helplessly before he could control it and he turned hastily away, began scrubbing hard at one of the plates.
“Forget it,” she said briskly. Her parents had died within six months of each other not long after she married Hrald. She remembered how her mother kept looking about her for that six months, almost as if she expected to see the old man walking in or standing about, then breaking down when she realized he was gone; it was the same now, Michael suddenly remembering that his lover was dead. “Look,” she said. “You have to get out of here sometime. Try going out any window and you’ll have alarms going off, the police here before you could sneeze. Well, you know that.” She watched the taut slim back, muscles bunching and shifting about under the skin-tight tee-shirt as he used the scrubber on the casserole dish; he said nothing, making no response to her words. “Garbage truck isn’t due till the end of the week, so the chute’s out. You’ll have to get past the guard and he knows you.” She chuckled. “I wrote a thriller once, so I’ve got the patter down and can pull a plot together with the best.” He looked over his shoulder at her as he rinsed the dish, a slight but genuine smile denting his cheek. He said nothing, just started on the frying pan. She chuckled again, feeling infinitely better for no reason she could think of. “There’s a gaggle of secretaries on the second floor who usually leave in a bunch, seven-thirty most mornings. I’ve seen them several times since I gave up being a nightowl and sleeping through the mornings. So-you’re small-boned and about my height, a little shorter maybe but not enough to hurt. I’ve got clothes left over from the days of my servitude. And a rather nice wig I haven’t worn since… well, never mind that. Shoes could be a problem, but if you’ve got a pair of boots, they might do. What you can’t carry out in a shoulderbag, I could smuggle out if you’ll give me somewhere to send it. If our landlords keep on form, I’ll be getting an eviction notice before the week is over. That will give me excuse enough for taking boxes out. No need to leave your things for the vultures to inherit. Me, I’d take the paint off the walls if I could.” She looked around, sighed again. “Dammit, Michael, I earned this place. I’ve lived here ten years, It’s been home.”
He made an attractive woman in the
blond wig that one of her more absurd miscalculations had bought for her, a spare pair of dark glasses, a close shave and makeup. Add to that a long brown skirt, a loose russet blouse, a wide soft black belt to match the soft black leather of his boots, black leather gloves of his own. She shuddered when she saw those. A black leather shoulderbag. Some basic instruction in sitting, standing and walking.
She followed him down, though he wanted her to keep well away in case he was stopped, afraid that she’d be connected with him and pulled into his danger. He didn’t stop arguing with her until he stepped into the hall, then he sighed and started away toward the stairs. He had a swimmer’s sleek body, a resurgent vitality powering the tiger-walk that looked female enough to pass. In many ways he was far more graceful than she’d ever been even when she had the energy and transient charm of youth. Watching him vanish into the stairwell, she felt an odd combination of chagrin, nostalgia and amusement as she started after him.
She went slowly down the steps, listening for the brisk clatter of his bootheels on the metal treads. The tape around her torso was beginning to itch. She was sweating too much. Below her, young women were talking, their words too distorted by the echoes to make sense. A burst of laughter. The hiss and clank of the exit door. The boots still clattering. She groaned. Catch up closer, Michael, closer so you’ll seem to be one of them, closer so he won’t look too hard at you. She turned the last corner and saw the flicker of the full brown skirt as he went out. She closed her eyes, held tight to the rail, then took one step down, another…
He was already out on the street and sauntering away when she came through the grill and passed onto the sidewalk. She glanced after him, making the look as casual as she could. He wasn’t hurrying and he’d forgotten what she’d told him about carrying his hips. Maybe I should have stuffed his feet into heels, she thought. She sighed and went the other way, heading for a breakfast she was really beginning to want.
* * *
She sat at her writing table, the typewriter pushed to one side, the credit cards and ident cards in neat lines before her. Five different idents, a scratched worn image that might be her likeness on each of them, three credit cards for each ident. She looked at them without moving; sighed. Once she started there was no turning back. Bash the Kite following with the van, Julia into the store because her face wasn’t known. It will be, after this, she thought. Can’t be helped. Hit the stores quick. Know what you want. Don’t hurry when you’re inside but don’t waste time either. Large stores, you can touch several departments. As long as you got good numbers and names no one’s going to question you. Quit before you think you should. That’s important. Bash’s rules. She smiled when she thought of the round-faced brown man who could vanish in a crowd of two. With a half-angry sweep of her hands, she collected the cards in a heap before her. “I hate this,” she said aloud; the words fell dead and meaningless into the silence.
That silence began to oppress her. She took the five leather folders from the wire basket and began fitting the idents and the credit cards into the slots inside the folders, working slowly and neatly though she wanted to throw them in anyhow and get them out of sight. She rose from the table, put her hand on the phone, took it away, swore softly, went into the bedroom, got her coat, some change for the public phone, bills for the cab, her teargas cylinder and the keys. It was foolish to the point of insanity to be going out now, but she couldn’t stay here any longer, not tonight.
She went down the stairs too fast, had to catch the siderail to keep from plunging headfirst, but didn’t modify her reckless flight until her hand touched the pressbar of the ground floor exitdoor, pausing to consider the situation before pressing the button for the outer-doors to be opened. “Ma’am,” the speaker said suddenly.
“What?” She turned, startled. The guard was looking at her oddly, she thought. She was frightened, but kept her face quiet.
“It’s after nine, Ma’am. Don’t leave much time. The curfew, remember. Or maybe you didn’t hear. You get back after twelve, I hafta report you.”
It was a minute before she could speak. “Thank you,” she said. “If I’m not back before then I will be staying with friends.”
“Just so you remember, Ma’am. Don’t want no fuss.”
“No,” she said. “Better no fuss.” She went, out the door a bit surprised that he’d bothered and cheered by the unexpected touch of caring.
She swung into the all-nite drugstore, saw the new sign, crudely lettered, CLOSE AT TWELVE, sighed and edged her way through the cluttered aisles to the public phone at the back of the store.
“Simon? Julia. Look, I need to talk. You free tonight?”
“Jule.” A hesitation, then a heartiness nothing like his usual dry tones. “Why not. Come over. But… um… be discreet, will you? Always a lot of attention on a bachelor professor.” He hung up before she could respond.
She wondered if it was worth the trouble. If she went now, she’d have to spend the night there. Irritated and miserable, but unable to stay alone this particular night, she dropped a coin in the phone and called a cab.
She left the cab at the edge of the faculty housing and walked briskly through the open gate, half expecting a guard to step out of the shadows and stop her. Not yet. But she could see the time coming. She walked along the curving street with its snug neat houses, neatly clipped lawns, strains of music drifting into the perfumed night air. Lilacs bloomed in some front yards, roses in others, a spindly jacaranda dropped purple petals that looked black in the sodium light and lay like drops of ink on grass and sidewalk. I’m too old to relish paranoia, she thought. Passwords and eavesdroppers, bugs in the phone, bugs in the mattress, censorship and thought police in the end, I suppose. She looked around. How absurd in this serenity, this remnant of a saner age.
There were cars dotted here and there along the streets as she wound her way deeper into the maze of curves, most with men sitting in them. One or two smoking cigarettes, all with small earphones and wires coiling away from them. Well, that’s it, she thought. The sickness is here too, my mistake. She recollected the phonecall and nodded. Nothing strange about the way he spoke, not now.
When she reached Simon’s house, she went round to the side door, and knocked there, hoping that this was what he meant, a gesture toward propriety meant more to mislead the watchers than any attempt to hide her presence from them. Watchers and listeners. He had to be at least a little frightened by the listeners like fleas infesting the streets.
The door opened before she had time to bring her hand down. Simon pulled her inside into a passionate embrace that made her grind her teeth as her not-quite-healed rib protested with a stabbing ache like cold air on a sore tooth. His hand went down her back, cupped a buttock, then reached out and pulled the door shut. “Hope the bastard got an eyeful,” he said with the dry burr more akin to his usual tones than the prissy caution over the phone. “What the hell, Jule, you look like something you find stretched out on a freeway.”
“So kind of you to notice. I need a drink, Simon.”
He led her through the kitchen and into the living room. “What’s it been? Six months? I tried calling a couple times but you were either not in or not answering your phone.” He slid open the door to the liquor cabinet. “Gin or what?”
“Gin’ll do,” she said absently, staring around her with blank dismay. Vast holes gaped on the shelves that covered the walls. “You’ve had…” Her eyes swept over the phone sitting with silent innocence on the table beside the TV and his sleek, expensive entertainment center. She swallowed and stopped talking. Passive receptor, pick up a whisper and pass it out over the phone line. Michael’s voice calm and competent. The one they use, loud noises scramble it like an egg so if you can’t stomp it or flush it, turn the radio on. “I see you’ve still got your records. I’m down tonight, feel like hearing the Bolero loud. Would your neighbors howl?” Paranoia, she thought. Do the futile little tricks, jump through hoops for the bastards.
He brought her the drink, the ice cubes clinking, his bare feet whispering over the plush of the rug, the intractable cowlick a pewter gray comma in the lamplight. “What…” he began, but went quiet as she laid her finger across her lips. “Let them complain. Not that they will.”
Once the driving rhythms of the music were filling the room, she relaxed a little. Simon settled on the couch beside her. “What’s all that about?”
“You’ve had visitors.” She waved a hand at the bookshelves. “They leave droppings behind.” In quick spare language she told him about the visit of the blackshirts, about the dead man down the hall, about the bug in her phone, about the men sitting in the cars outside. “We don’t know how to deal with a police state, our kind,” she finished. “We can’t take it quite seriously. I’ve got a cracked rib, my books are being burned, my publishers won’t touch me any longer, that’s real, all of it, but when I hear them talking on the TV, when I stand in the middle of my own living room and listen to that vulture rant, I just can’t believe in him or any of them. This kind of thing belongs in a bad thriller, don’t you think?” She looked around at the plundered room, shook her head. “When did they clean out your books?”
“A month ago.”
“How bad is it getting? Are they burning professors yet?”
“Not funny, Jule. The apes are in charge of the men. No. That’s insulting apes.” He looked at the phone, passed his hand over his hair, ruffling the cowlick further. “I’ve been told I have to revise my texts. Correct them, if you will. Some of the things I said happened didn’t, at least in the new official version of history.”
“Ah. I always thought some of ours envied some of theirs their control over what gets printed or put out on the air.” She laughed unhappily, raised her glass. “Here’s to one world. Their bastards and ours, brothers under the skin.”