She held up a thermos—he didn't need to know it was empty—and pulled a toque over her head. “I have plenty of time, and you have—” she checked her watch again—"oh, eighteen, maybe twenty minutes—"
Then he started screaming for help.
"Seventeen minutes."
Then he started wheedling. Remembering sex, promising gifts, finally even offering divorce.
She sighed. “Sixteen minutes."
He choked, “Mo, for the love of God—"
"Tell me about Amy."
He started to cry. “Then will you let me in the boat?"
She lifted the recorder. “And speak up."
He jerked around, all the feral grace of him gone, bawling occasionally, swallowing water, choking it up, finally telling the story. How he had watched Amy fall into the lake, holding himself back, fascinated, bringing her up, drowned, on board, laying her off on Steve Beck—
He stopped, shrinking into the water, looking at her pleading, but she needed all of it, so “Fifteen minutes,” was what she said. And he told her then about Polly Talbot, who saw it all there on the path. “She must have.” He thrashed with sudden energy, his eyes ranging over the surface of the water, as if he could see it all right in front of him, maddeningly, when all he wanted was a hand up into the boat, a hand up into some understanding of his own motives that were now sunk among the rocks, forever out of reach. And Mo listened as he told her with quivering lips—could it be thirteen minutes already?—how he had come to her cottage later and smothered Polly Talbot in her wheelchair.
While he spoke, Mo watched a dragonfly land on the oar she had used to pull Amy's things out of the water. It twitched one of its wings and waited steadily for some admiration there at the end of the old season, when mosquitoes were scarce, and life was just a little harder. The man in the water was sobbing, huge shivering sobs, babbling about consolidating his position, and Mo recorded it all, her arm lifted, as she watched the cold October clouds slip sideways from the sun.
The dragonfly took off, past the crying man.
The sunlight caught it over the water, shining through the black and silver dragonfly darting over the whitecaps, to the overturned blue boat on an island nearby. Mo watched the man struggling in the water. He couldn't seem to open his eyelids wide enough, startling his eyes open again and again, as though he couldn't take in enough light.
She remembered Amy tapping at the picture of the baby jaguar, prowling after a Blue Morpho butterfly. Amy tapping. And for a bright moment Mo clutched her fleece jacket to her chest as though it held the child. Then she looked past the struggling man, reached into her pocket, and slowly pulled out her phone to call the police.
Copyright © 2007 Shelley Costa
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THE NIGHT OF THE GREAT WIND by Mick Scully
* * * *
* * * *
Mick Scully currently lives and works in Birmingham. Much of his writing centres around the Little Moscow, a notorious bar frequented by the city's criminal fraternity. A collection of his stories, Tales from the Little Moscow, is being published by Tindal Street Press in May 2007.
* * * *
In Chinese mythology the wind is Xian, the stealer of souls, who resides in the Black Valley beyond the great oceans. He is the greatest fear of sailors for they are easily taken. There are times when he rages ashore scouring the land for souls. The old, the sick and infants are easy prey. Those he takes have no hope of resurrection or peace, they will toss forever in turmoil among the waves of the Black Valley. He is the bringer of fear. No one can be easy when he is abroad.
In some stories he assumes the form of the dragon and travels inland breathing hot winds and fire.
* * * *
The seventh of January 2005 was the night of the big storm. It was at its worst in the North of England. By mid-afternoon of the following day the streets of Carlisle were under eight feet of water; nine died, three thousand people were evacuated from their homes and the whole town was without electricity.
In Birmingham, which is without a major river, so it is only the drains and sewers that ever flood, there was not much rain, but the wind was ferocious.
In her flat on the sixteenth floor on the Druids Heath Estate Jean Boyce was in bed dying. Two floors below, in an empty flat he had just broken in to, Jimmy Slim sat hunched in the darkness, waiting to die too. Both heard the wind as it raged between the tower blocks hurtling the debris of the estate high into the air, smacking it against walls and windows, bouncing it off car roofs. Satellite dishes broke away from balcony rails and flags of St George, intact since last summer's European Championship, were taken and sailed away.
Dot Adams sat beside the bed of her sister, Jean, listening to the rasp of air moving in and out of her diseased lungs. Alf, Dot's husband, was away for a few days in Rotterdam on business, not an unusual event by any means. She was used to his trips away—usually to Holland. Trips away. Dot smiled at the phrase; in the old days there had been stretches in prison but he hadn't done time for years now. Too shrewd.
Dot had turned off the television at the end of the bed half an hour ago and now sat beside her sister in the darkness, listening to the wind outside and the ghastly shunt of air within Jean's chest that preceded each gasp for breath. Dot wondered if this was a gale, officially. She wasn't sure of the difference between high winds and gales, the two terms they used on the forecasts, but this, tonight, was strong enough to frighten her. For a fortnight now she had nightly watched pictures on television of the devastation caused in Thailand, India, Indonesia, by the Boxing Day tsunami and comforted herself that here in England we are safe from the vicious whims of nature. Now she was doubtful: perhaps it is true, you're not safe anywhere.
When she had called round this afternoon she had wanted to fetch an ambulance, but Jean had begged her not to. She didn't want to go to hospital, she wanted to stay here, in her own home. The District Nurse would be round in the morning. She would be all right till then.
So Dot had persuaded Jean to go to bed where she had made her comfortable. “I'll stay the night with you,” she told her sister. “Alf's away. It makes no difference."
* * * *
To the Chinese wind has a special significance. They distinguish between types of wind: cold; damp; hot; dry. But all are destructive forces, malign influences. In Chinese medicine, wind is regarded as one of the external causes of disease. Therefore, the execution squad, on its way to Druids Heath to seek out Jimmy Slim, were naturally uneasy.
* * * *
Dot switched on the lamp beside Jean's bed. The pink light was useless for checking her sister's colour, yet there was no point using the overhead that filled the room with sickly yellow. She switched the lamp off, returning the room to darkness. Beyond the window bundles of black and purple clouds the colour of the worst kind of bruising scudded though the sky.
They both married villains, she and Jean. But there the similarity ends. Alf did all right. He concentrated on jewellery—became an expert, developed contacts. He joked that he was a more accurate valuer than any lah-di-dah who worked for expensive jewellers or antique dealers. And he was right. He traded in the raw materials too, gold, silver, uncut diamond.
Jean on the other hand had landed herself with Ray. He looked like a film star in the early days, could have had any woman he wanted, and he didn't turn many down. A good talker. Full of plans and dreams, a charmer.
But it all went down the pan. He was small time. Robberies, mostly on teams, but he did a bit of solo work. Mostly commercial, but a spot of house-breaking. One prison stretch after another. Alf wouldn't have anything to do with him work-wise, said he was a loser, that he was bad luck, and he was probably right.
His looks didn't last long. His health went. He died at fifty-four, without two pennies to rub together, of the same cancer that was now finishing his wife off.
Yes, Dot reflected, it was she who had got the better deal. A beautiful house, cars, holidays a
broad three or four times a year, an amount of jewellery minor members of the Royal Family wouldn't turn their noses up at. While for Jean it was this shabby council flat stuck up in a hole through the ozone layer, barmaiding until her coughing got so bad they sacked her, then cleaning for a year until she couldn't go on. She's got bottle all right, Dot thought.
She looked at the luminous face of her gold wristwatch. Nearly midnight. She wondered what Alf was doing in Rotterdam. He'd take her anywhere she wanted for holidays except where he did business; so if she ever wanted to see the tulip fields she'd have to go alone, not that she was a great one for flowers.
She was going to miss Jean, she was a good sort, always cheerful and optimistic though God knows she had no reason to be.
* * * *
In the big red room above the casino Hsinshu sat alone, his phone on the table before him. He was deaf to the sounds of the gambling below which drowned the noise of the wind attacking the city. His ears would only awake when the phone rang. This was his first test.
In this room, just a few hours before, the trial of Jimmy Slim had taken place. Hsinshu was still in his first year as Emperor of the Seventh Dragon. All twelve Barons assembled round the table, six each side, should see him for the man he was. His element was Metal. They must see and understand this. Hsinshu had sat at the head of the table listening carefully to all that had to be said about Jimmy Slim. Then he had risen, turned his back on the table and with his chin cupped in his hand paced a little, deep in thought. Considering. Coming to a judgement. All waited. He took his time. Then, when he was ready, he moved back to the top of the table, looked Jimmy Slim in the eyes, called him by his rightful name, Hsiaohai, and pronounced his death sentence.
Now in the empty room he was worried. He hadn't put a foot wrong since his take-over. He had run the Seventh with martial efficiency, adhered to and upheld the rightful codes, imbued his men with pride again and with ambition. Their domain had enlarged—considerably, their interests increased, their profits soared.
Jimmy Slim's treachery had given Hsinshu the opportunity to solidify his reputation—proving his metal. He heard again the silence, loud as a collective intake of breath, when he pronounced the sentence. Jimmy Slim held his head high, sullen and defiant, but Hsinshu saw the fear trickling in his black eyes.
They had stood over Jimmy Slim while Yangku went to alert the squad on stand-by downstairs. When they arrived Jimmy Slim jumped to his feet and marched away with them as if eager to have this over with. As if he were ready to meet his end honourably. Hsinshu had been pleased. It was as it should be in the Seventh. Now the little bastard had escaped, and he had three squads running round looking for him. This was wrong. It was not as it should be. It showed the rottenness that had been allowed to set in. The word of the Emperor should never be questioned, even by one for whom that word meant death, it was part of the Code.
* * * *
Tonight the world around Dot had compressed into layers of sound like geological strata. The wind, louder and more powerful than anything else, formed the thickest layer, the noise of the objects it flung around formed a separate layer of discordant, erratic syncopation, Jean's breathing, harsh now and not unlike the barking of a dog, a further layer, and there were other sounds squeezed, trapped almost, between these layers: the screech of car brakes from far below; alarms sounding; the lift squeaking and clunking its way up and down the spine of the building; snatches of music from here and there.
She stretched out her hand and touched the turned sheet beneath Jean's chin. It was slimy with phlegm. She withdrew quickly, pulled a tissue from the box beside the bed and wiped her fingers. With another tissue she wiped Jean's mouth. Perhaps she should change the sheet. But it seemed cruel to disturb her. Not that her sleep was peaceful, the breathing was becoming louder, more desperate, her mouth gaping wide in its quest for air.
This was dreadful. She couldn't let her carry on like this all night. But what could the hospital do? Stick her on a trolley with a mask over her face pumping oxygen into her. For what? To extend her life by a few more hours, a day or two. Then through the raucous gasps there was a cry, near enough a scream, the body spasmed. Dot reached out for her sister's hand. “It's all right, love. I'm here with you. Dot.” The body settled, the gasping continued as before. Gently Dot laid her hand on her sister's forehead. It was wet with cold sweat.
* * * *
His name was Shuko which means bonebinder and he had no fear of the wind for his Element was Wood which is supple and can bend and sway with the vicissitudes of the wind. So the wind held no fear for Shuko. He knew that it is Metal that controls Wood which is why he had become a loyal and true servant to Hsinshu. We should know the powers of our energies but also their limits.
Shuko stood beneath a swaying fir tree listening with pleasure to its struggle with the wind. The needles of the fir branches whipped his face, but he would not move. He was like the tigress that for a thousand years stood guard at the South Gate. An opposing army fired a hundred arrows into her hide yet still she stood, her eyes blazing black and gold. If we cannot kill the tigress, cannot even make her fall, the army concluded, what hope have we of defeating her master, the Emperor. And so they retreated. Other forces disbelieving the story came as far as the South Gate, but seeing the tiger standing patiently, hearing the hundred old arrows clicking together in the breeze they took not one step further.
Shuko's eyes were fixed on the brightly lit doorway of the tower block a hundred yards away. Jimmy Slim was somewhere in that building. Shuko had followed him here. You are not the only Dragon with a powerful bike, Jimmy Slim. If you come through that door Shuko's gun is ready. Despite the words in his head Shuko hoped Jimmy Slim would not come through the doors. To use the gun, especially tonight in such a wind, would be unlucky. Water controls fire. Far better he stays there. When the squads arrive we will find him.
When Jimmy Slim had gone into the tower block Shuko had disabled his bike with Hokusai's Great Wave emblazoned on it. He had done this carefully without causing the beautiful bike any damage, It would be within the Code for Hsinshu to award this spoil to Shuko. If he did Shuko would change the colour from blue to green as is right for one whose element is Wood.
Shuko had phoned the squads with Jimmy Slim's location. Then he had phoned Hsinshu. One ring and he answered. His ears were waiting. Shuko had detected relief in Hsinshu's voice. It is not right for the Emperor to express gratitude for he has the right to expect service from Dragons, but Shuko heard, despite the roar of the wind around him, the sound of a relief so great that he knew it was gratitude Hsinshu was feeling towards him right then. Great things would follow this night's work, Shuko knew this.
* * * *
Dot was in the kitchen having a cigarette and making herself a cup of tea. There was no drink in the flat. She wished now she had slipped a bottle of vodka into her bag before leaving home, but she had not known then she would be away so long.
Looking out from the kitchen window it seemed the wind itself was visible. The stripped winter trees twisted and contorted as if under torture, bent this way and in a second the other in the wind's force. Suddenly she laughed out loud for the story of The Three Little Pigs had entered her mind. I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down. She saw pictures in her mind that must have come from childhood picture books, or had there been a film, Disney perhaps, of the wolf forcing clouds of breath from his mouth? Then the pictures were superseded by those of tornadoes, twisters they called them, didn't they? In America. On television programmes about disasters. They destroyed everything in their wake. She had seen cars lifted and flung around. Then beneath the roar of her own English wind she heard the steam from the kettle, the switch click off, the mad scratch against the kitchen window of the little pine trees in Jean's window-box, like the fingernail clawing of someone trying to get in. She popped a tea bag into a cup. Perhaps she should give Jean something to drink, but the task seemed impossible. She poured boiling water i
nto the cup.
* * * *
Crouched in a corner of an empty flat on the fourteenth floor Jimmy Slim could hear the wind too, but it was consumed for him by a greater noise, the repeating echo in his ear of Hsinshu telling him that the Code of the Dragons demands the death of traitors.
But he had got away, defeating not only the squad but also this evil wind that had fought him continuously as he rode his motorbike south from the centre of the city. It had taken all his strength and concentration to keep the bike stable, but he had done it. If he could defeat the wind then he could defeat Hsinshu. He repeated this to himself several times as if trying to engrave it on his consciousness so that it would become incontrovertible fact, a belief he could hold on to.
He knew they were out there looking for him. They had followed him as far as this estate but then he had woven in and out of the labyrinth of short streets and cul-de-sacs, whizzed like the wind itself round the tower block. His element was Water. Water is controlled by wind. He must not forget that. He must use this water energy tonight of all nights, then he might save himself. Now he repeated to himself: My energy is the power of water. It has immense flexibility. It can move round, over, under, objects. It can absorb, wear away. It is the awesome strength of the great wave. On Jimmy Slim's chest is a blue tattoo of Hokusai's Great Wave. His fingers reach in through his shirt and he touches it as he repeats the words. He thinks about the white man with the blue arm who did this tattoo, he died by fire. As a rule Jimmy Slim does not like white people, although he will fuck white girls if he wants, but he did like the strange young white man who made his tattoo. He did the small flame on his wrist too: the flame, sign of The Dragon. All members carry this sign. Black people Jimmy Slim did like. This is where his current problems arose. He got talking to Strombo last year at the dog track. It wasn't long before he knew most of the Doberman Crew. He liked those guys, the way they looked, the way they talked, very free spirits. It wasn't long before they were offering him little jobs, paying well and then offering even more for information about the Dragon's drug runs. It was how he got his bike. But was also how he got here.
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