by Martin Kee
“Tom!” Victoria said, gasping dramatically and placing a hand on his chest. “You just have to give the toast!”
“Do I?”
“You’re her fiancé!” Victoria said. “You can’t leave without gracing us with your dry wit! You just can’t! I won’t allow it!”
Dona could see the bewilderment in his face now, and stepped in, placing a hand on Victoria’s shoulder. “I’m not sure either of us is quite over the incident just yet. Maybe it’s too soon.”
“Well,” said Victoria, “I’m not going to give up. You’ve given enough speeches for the mayor; I’d simply hate myself if I let you get away.”
“Oh, I’m sure you won’t,” said Tom. Then, tucking his thumb into his vest he exclaimed in his best Perlandine impression. “Why this city deserves a girl with your tenacity and perk, Miss!”
Victoria squealed again. She turned to Dona. “I’ll leave the lovebirds alone.” She gave a not-so-subtle wink.
Tom watched her leave, turned to Dona and let out an exhausted sigh, rolling his eyes in exasperation. It was a flamboyant gesture even for Tom, and it made Dona giggle, covering her mouth.
“That giggle suits you about as well as it does me,” he said smiling.
“Oh, it definitely suits you better.”
Tom glanced around the party. “Well with all this excitement, it’s easy to be overcome with the vapors.” He fanned his face and Dona slapped his hand down.
“Your inner debutant is showing,” she said, glancing around nervously.
He stiffened, squaring his shoulders and back. He flexed his jaw and cocked his head to the side, loosening a strand of blond. He grinned that grin that could be seen on every newspaper in Bollingbrook:
MAYORAL ASSISTANT BY DAY - HERO BY NIGHT
“How’s your back?” she asked, still amused.
“You know, they say that Clerics give up half of themselves to become better surgeons. They apparently meant the half that feels any sympathy.”
Dona pouted. “You poor thing.” She patted him on the arm. Between the wine and Tom’s presence it was much easier to relax. “I appreciate what you did. So does my father.”
“Well at least I’m leaving an impression,” he said, glancing at Dona’s father. “Does he still believe his eyes?”
“For the most part,” she said, but her smile had evaporated. “He sees what he wants to see, like most of this city. They’re still saying that woman killed herself?”
He nodded and took a drink from his glass, swirling it in front of him. “Constable’s office found nothing, no motives, no footprints, door was locked from the inside… Maybe she was just tired of being alone. She isn’t the first.”
“Not even the twelfth.” Dona took a drink. “It’s an epidemic… twenty, Tom. And in the last month alone.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I talked to Hillary Inglewood. She lived downstairs from the woman. She said she never would have expected that.”
“Speculation doesn’t mean anything,” said Tom, but his voice trailed off as he thought about it. “Twenty is an awful lot...”
A silence fell between them, filled by the clang of utensils and the pop of corks. They watched guests mill about, and for a moment the two of them were shipwrecked strangers on some primitive island with strange customs and uncomfortable clothes.
“I can’t believe I wanted to like these sorts of things,” she said. “Now it just seems like a ritual.” She sipped from her glass. “A very empty ritual.”
“It is,” said Tom, emptying his. “And it’s because you aren’t really connected to any of them. None of them know you. Trust me, I get it.”
She smiled and took his hand. From the corner of her eye she could see her father gazing heavily in their direction. He held his sixth scotch in one hand.
“You smell nice,” she said leaning in. “Jules is lucky.”
“Well I am very well taken care of. It’s a mutual preference.” He leaned over and kissed her, a perfectly operatic kiss. Glasses clanged in approval from around the room as cheers went up from the crowd. They pulled away and smiled.
“And for my next act,” Tom announced with a flourish. “I shall make the birthday girl vanish!”
Laughter and applause followed them as he took her by the hand and led her outdoors into the backyard, around the fountain and behind a hedge. He looked both ways before relaxing again, hand on his hip.
“So how are you with everything?” His eyes were serious, a stunning blue.
“Define everything,” she said, hiding her expression behind her glass.
He rolled his eyes. “Everything being this—us. Everything being the woman you watched fall to her death the other night. Have you talked to anyone? I mean, Dona, nobody comes away from something like that without being a little shaken.”
“Well you know me, shaken not stirred.” She gave him a weak smile.
“That’s your mother.”
They laughed, but it faded quickly. Dona looked up at the city skyline. “It must be nice to have someone who gets you,” she said.
“I get you.”
“And Jules gets you,” she said with a sideways glance. “Not that I mind... It’s just that…”
“What else happened?” Tom asked. His voice was direct and precise. “Something’s eating at you. You haven’t been the same since that night. If it wasn’t the jumper, then what? Did your father say something?”
“Yes… but…”
“But what?” he asked.
“You’d think I was crazy.”
“I think this city is crazy,” he said. “Now tell me.”
No, she thought. I mean you’ll really think I am crazy. You’d lock me up and throw away the key if you knew. I know I would.
She had just begun to open her mouth when a crunch from behind the hedge stopped her. Victoria emerged, a glass of champagne in one hand. Upon seeing them she grinned with small teeth, the false incisors yellow in the light.
“There she is!” Victoria squealed. “They are just about to cut your cake, Dona. You don’t want to miss that do you?”
“No, not at all,” said Dona. “I’ll be right in, Vicky.”
When she looked back at Tom he was still staring at her, his face concerned in the half-light. Victoria spun on her heel and flounced back into the house, leaving them alone.
“That was convenient,” said Tom.
“I’ll tell you, I will,” she said. “But I can’t keep my subjects waiting.” She tried to smile but it felt just too exhausting.
“Come by some night this week,” he said. “Jules’ parents are out of town and I’ll be there all week. Talk to us, Dona. Let us help.”
She looked at him and finally managed a waning smile. Pressing both hands on his chest she pushed him back gently. “I will. I promise.” As soon as I know I’m not going mad.
They embraced in a warm, platonic hug and she sighed. He held her for a while, neither of them paying the world any attention. Dona thought then and there how nice it would have been to have an older brother just like Tom.
Julian was a lucky boy.
Chapter 14
Rhinewall
SCRIBBLE GLANCED AROUND the new surroundings of the second floor. Shiny brass fixtures lit a map along one wall, key sections of the city outlined and marked in black ink. The room smelled of stale food and alcohol, a dramatic improvement from the sweat and feces of the fifth floor. He made his bed with provided linen, stretching it over a down mattress, a cloud compared to the burlap and straw of his last bed.
From what he had understood, a second level hauler had stumbled into rival territory after breaking into a jewelry store. His body was found with the throat slit, floating in the canal. Another boy had simply disappeared. There were rumors of kidnappings, but it was a risk they all ignored. The vacant bunks had then been offered to Scribble and Gary.
Gary hummed behind him, making his own bed. “We got us a good thing goin’ don’t we?” Gary said,
stretching a sheet over his bed.
If it could be said there was a downside, it was that they now shared sleeping quarters with Emil and a number of other boys, who now regarded them from the shadows. Knuckles cracked, rumors were whispered, and territory was established.
“Hey Simp,” said a short boy named Hardy. “You keep to wherever it is you get your stash, and we’ll stick to ours. Got it? I see you around my grounds and I’ll break those fingers you like drawing with so much.”
“Yeah,” said another boy in pigeon. “Yo brah ain’t no foolin’ wit da knuckles, eh? He gonna mess ya if do.”
“His name is Scribble, you dummy!” Gary said. “And I’ll—”
Scribble put his hand on Gary’s arm. It’s okay.
Footsteps brought the other boys hopping out of their bunks, perching on the edge of their beds as Hetch emerged from the hatch upstairs. He was wearing the looted Holy Guard armor, the black bracers rolling loosely around his wrists. A bandoleer slung low around his waist as he sauntered into the sleeping quarters.
He looked across the room, his sunken eyes falling on Scribble and Gary. His face was smooth again, red and raw from the razor. He smiled.
“The boys making you feel at home?” he asked.
They nodded. Hetch turned to the other boys in the room. “Hazing stops now, you hear me? We just got a new order in, a big order. I got a buyer who wants a few very specific items and I have a feeling a few of you idiots can probably manage to get them for me.”
He handed out a list to each of the boys. Scribble looked at his and frowned. The list was neatly typed, all the items in perfectly clear nonsense to him. Fear welled up in his chest as the other boys all read theirs silently, even Gary.
After Hetch left, Scribble did his best not to cry, not to show his frustration, but it was obvious enough to Gary, who sat beside him on the bed.
“Can’t read, huh?” he said in a hushed tone. Scribble shook his head and Gary smiled. “It’s okay. Most of the boys here came from a little school. You must have been dirt poor.”
Scribble nodded again and Gary nudged him. “Don’t get weepy in here, brah. This ain’t the place for no poopoonanies and crybabies.”
Gary had been trying to pick up on the pigeon slang, and doing a terrible job at it. Scribble smiled in spite of himself. They waited for the other boys to leave before Gary read off the list for Scribble in a low voice, even drawing little pictures of what the words meant.
“I’m going to hit that tinkerer’s warehouse from last week. You should try this vial here.”
He pointed to the jumbled word. Scribble looked at it, memorizing the symbols with no meaning, then nodded. Gary patted him on the back.
“Look at us,” he said. “Even if I get sent back down to the fifth, I’ll just be happy to get some sleep without listening to Benny farting all night.”
Scribble smiled and nodded agreement, then sat back in his bunk and began drawing while Gary grabbed his rucksack and set out into the night.
*
A few hours later, Scribble waited in the alley for the nice man to answer his request. Sometimes it was exactly what he asked for. Other times it was a close facsimile. But Hetch had been very specific this time as to what he wanted.
The door opened. A box appeared. The door closed.
Scribble emerged from between the bins. Standing over the box, a grin stretched across his face. It was exactly what he had asked for.
He held up the glass vial, an eight-inch long tube with markings etched in the side to delineate volume. It had a stopper at the top with a funny connector and several screws. It clearly belonged to some larger contraption, but Scribble didn’t care. It wasn’t his job to care, and caring wasn’t what put food in one’s belly. He tucked it into his coat and dashed off.
The streets had grown busy with foot traffic and he ducked and dodged between the towering adults, hoping he wouldn’t draw attention or break the vial. He could feel its cold hard weight jostle in his pocket and tucked an arm in to keep it still.
Had he been paying better attention, Scribble would have seen the other boys moving in to intercept him. He probably even would have seen them watching him from the alley across the street from the curio shop. If he had been paying attention, he might have stayed in the busy streets, in plain view instead of taking a shortcut down a nearly deserted alley. But in his excitement, Scribble had been more interested in getting his treasure home as fast as possible.
A hand grabbed the back of his collar, nearly lifting Scribble off the ground. Emil’s grimy face, his uneven teeth, and crooked nose filled Scribble’s world, peering at Scribble with cold curious eyes, holding him by the scruff of his neck as Hardy and another boy moved around to surround him.
“So this is the simp’s little secret,” he said. “What’s in the pocket?”
Scribble pulled his arms in, trying to curl into a ball. He could feel hands searching him, rifling through his pockets. He squirmed, kicking, but found himself unable to break free of the grasp, his toes barely touching the ground.
“He don’t talk, Emil,” said the other boy.
A cruel grin widened on Emil’s face. “Everyone talks when they have to.”
Scribble felt a hand snake into his inside pocket, felt his notepad slip out. He twisted like a gallows corpse as Hardy held it open, revealing the pages of pictures, flipped through the book, gazing at each image with suppressed awe.
“Hey look at these,” Hardy said. “They weren’t kidding; the kid can draw. Hey, these are all junk from the tinkerer stores and whatnot. I remember when he brought this in last week.” He held up a rough sketch.
Halfway through the book, Emil looked back at Scribble, still squirming in his grip.
“So I guess you ain’t the great burglar Hetch thinks you is,” he said. “You’re just some sorta weirdo.” A cruel grin crossed his face. “Can you draw me?”
Scribble nodded, his dirty hair flapping in his eyes. The boys laughed.
“Make him draw me too,” said Hardy.
Emil took the notepad from the shortest boy and slapped it against Scribble’s chest where he gripped it in shaking fingers. Another hand snaked into his outside pocket and Scribble felt the vial come out.
“Hey, this don’t look like a pencil,” said Emil. “This something you gonna give to Hetch?”
Scribble glanced from boy to boy before giving a resigned nod.
“Oh man, that’s too bad because it looks broken. Don’t it look broken to you Hardy?”
Hardy peered at it. “Nope, it looks okay to me.”
“Really?” said Emil, lifting it into the air. “It looks really broken to me. I bet the picture you drew of this don’t look nothing like it.”
Scribble shot his arms forward and uttered a cry, a weak, pathetic sigh, a loathsome animal sound. It was shameful, an idiot noise, and Scribble hated himself for making it. The boys erupted in laughter, genuine laughter, cruel and pure.
“Well look at that! He makes sounds after all!” Emil held the vial just beyond Scribble’s grasping hands. He grunted back at Scribble—monkey sounds. “You need this, don’t you, retard?” He grunted again, pursing his lips out—Ook! Ook! “Simp, we should call you Chimp.”
Scribble nodded again and could feel the tears welling up.
“Because you know what Hetch’ll do if you don’t haul. You need to eat like the rest of us. It’s hard to eat on the fifth isn’t it, Chimp?”
Tears and spit ran down Scribble’s lip as he nodded fervently, his eyes fixed now on the vial just out of his reach.
“Yeah, that’s right. So tell you what—” Another hand snaked into a different pocket, procuring the pencil. He placed it in Scribble’s hand. “You draw a picture of me right now, a good picture and if I like it, you can have your haul back. Deal?”
Scribble paused, looking from one boy to the next. Snot had begun to run onto his upper lip and his hands felt wet. After a moment too long, he nodded.
&nb
sp; He didn’t want to look at them, didn’t want to feel their eyes as he drew. The pencil flew over lines and curves, carving Emil’s face from nothing. He put in every detail, every hair, every wrinkle, every mole. A long burn ran along one cheek from being too close to the cataclysm, a scar that even now bulged slightly, as if something might be nesting there.
Finished, he flipped the notepad around and showed the image to Emil. For an instant there was genuine appreciation in the boy’s face, a moment of awe. He snatched the pencil from Scribble’s hand.
“I’m older than this, aren’t I, Hardy?” Emil said, holding the pencil up to his lip.
“You sure are. This makes you look like a kid.”
Emil began raking the pencil over the image in thick crude lines. He stuck his tongue out to the side as he worked, sketching a crooked mustache across the upper lip.
“There, see? That looks way more like me, don’t it, Chimp?”
“Yeah it really does,” Hardy agreed. “’Cept you don’t want Hetch to see that hair. You betta shave it, brah.”
Emil drew glasses as the two other boys chortled. He drew moles, scars, fangs, blacked out one eye. Then after a moment he stopped, a fleeting expression of regret on his face.
“You know, this picture is shit,” he spat. “The picture is shit and you’re a shitty artist.”
“Show him what happens to shitty artists, Emil!”
Emil reached out faster than Scribble could react, gripping the middle finger on his left hand. In a jarring, sudden jerk, he bent it backwards. There was a pop from somewhere deep in his wrist. Scribble gasped, the pain so raw and sudden that he couldn’t have reacted in any way other than a sharp, screaming intake of air.
“You lucky this ain’t your drawing hand,” said Emil.
He released the finger, then snatched the pencil, snapping it in two and tossing it into a gutter. He then reached up and tore the page from the notepad.
“Here,” he said, shoving the mutilated picture of himself into Scribble’s pocket. “You keep this to remember who is the artist and who actually earns around here.”