by Jack Parker
"Jack Harlton, leader of sector 4, LAFFAT." That sounded a bit better; jumbling the words about made it sound classier.
It had a nice ring to it.
* * *
The punching bag swung lightly, fluently even, cutting through the air like a pendulum swaying beneath a clock.
Harsh panting filtered through the underground gym. It was empty, save for one figure as she furiously attacked the bag. Her knuckles were hurting. Why were punching bags so hard? It was fun watching it swing, though. A good way to vent out her anger. All she needed to do now was focused as it swung towards her and let her imagination take control.
Whose face was in the bag? Swing. It catapulted into the air with an almighty force, swaying in the air then returning.
Whose face was in the bag? Thump. It swung again in one swift motion only, it swung harder this time; Jude's number one rule for anger management…
Above the harsh punches, she heard the sound of the door opening, a small creak resounding throughout the hollow gym. She hit harder.
"What did the poor punching bag ever do to you?"
She stopped and brought her hand forward, stilling the bag as it swung towards her. "It's not the punching bag. It's the face of the person it represents." She turned.
Cal leaned back, his arms folded, a towel slouched over his bare shoulders. "I pity who it represents, then." He was pretending he didn't get the hint.
She stepped back and leaned against the wall behind her, imitating his pose and pretending to stare him straight in the face. She wouldn't really; she was staring at the wall behind him. If she stared straight at him, her gaze would falter. She was a weakling and she had no problem with it.
"What brings you to our humble gym, your highness?"
"Wouldn't you like to know? Now move it, bitch. I've got a bag to punch."
Lia smirked. "Is that the best you can come out with?"
Cal ran a hand through his chestnut hair. "You're trying to be witty, aren't you?"
How did he manage to make her feel so low? There was something about him that radiated confidence, as if there was not just him, but two or three people and she was cornered. It was as if whatever she said, no matter how clever or well thought-out it was, he would always win. And anyways, it was only a punching bag…right? She knew that wasn't true even as it crossed her mind. It was not just a punching bag; it was her pride.
"Now move it and let me use the bag."
Lia sighed."How does no sound to you?"
"Do you want to hear a joke, Lia?" He was smirking again. This could not be anything good. Stop while you're ahead…
"Fire away." Was it just her, or had her legs began to tremble?
"What are the worst three years of a Cadlian's life?"
She did not want to hear this. "Enlighten me."
He was still smirking. Was her defiance amusing him, or was he just mocking her?
"First grade."
"Cal, get a life."
He dropped his hand and absently coiled the end of the towel over his finger. "You haven't even heard the good ones yet."
She glared. He was in control, and he knew it. Maybe it would just be better if she left, before he said something that would really unnerve her. She unfolded her arms and slung her bag over her shoulders. It was as if she were balancing on a chord, a thin chord just waiting to snap. She made her way to the door and rested her palm over the handle. Down.
"What's the difference between dog shit and a Lycani?" She stopped and turned. He was sitting on the bench beside the punching bag, flicking it gently with his thumb and forefinger. "When dog shit gets old, it turns white and quits stinking."
Then the chord snapped.
Lia dropped her bag to the floor and in one swift motion, she ran to where he was sitting and punched him in the face. Cal fell back from the sudden impact. Before he could get back up, she was on top of him. Her fists slammed into his face, all of her pent-up anger seeping through her knuckles.
Who's face was on the bag? Swing.
Who's face was on the bag?Thump.
Who's face was beneath her fist? Whack.
"Lia!" She had not noticed the door open, or the arms around her waist, pulling her off of him.
Jude was on the other side, helping Cal up as Carmon attempted to restrain her. "Lia, cool it!" hissed Carmon as he dragged her towards the door.
They exited. Carmon let her go. "Let's go outside."
She nodded.
* * *
Two figures leaned against the dirty brickwork, their shadows cascading over the murky floors. Lia put a hand into her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She opened the pack, tossed one to Carmon, pulled another one out, lit it, and then tossed him the lighter. Lia took a thick drag, allowing the smoke to encompass her lungs.
"What, no pot?"
Lia rolled her eyes. "Is that a pathetic attempt at a rhyme?"
He shrugged. She replied, "No weed, no booze, no pot. I'm in no mood to get drunk or high. Fags will do for now."
"Weed and Pot are both terms used to describe cannabis. They're the same thing." She rolled her eyes. He ignored her and continued, "Anyway, you don't need drugs to get high. You could always sniff nail varnish or scoff down salt."
"Don't you mean sugar?"
Carmon took a drag of his cigarette and let it out in a small puff of smoke. "That's salt in my case. Probably sugar for you. Everyone is different."
Lia raised eyebrows. "Nail varnish?"
He shrugged then grinned. "Trust me. It works." He turned to face her, then leaned back against the wall.
"What?"
"Do you remember when we used to do this? In the last year of school."
Lia smiled. "Behind the Drama block," she supplied. "We'd be safe as long as there were a few Elonsicans with us, for cover. The teachers would just stop, look, then walk past. But if there were just us, there would be trouble. After all, we stand out by the white paintwork."
Carmon frowned. "You're not that dark. You're tanned. Cadlians are tanned. Then there are the ones from Devinear-the chocolates. And the Lycani who are black." He took another drag of his cigarette, deliberately taking more time. "Then there's me and Jude. Only half-way there."
She shook her head. "Don't put yourself down."
"Look who's talking,Miss The-white-paintwork-contrasts-with-my-complexion." He grinned. "Do you remember English? And the songs? And the band?"
A smile lit her features. "How could I forget?"
Carmon dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath the sole of his trainers. Lia followed suit. The cleaners could sort it out later. She was no longer wearing the stilettos or that uncomfortable blouse. Trainers were just right.
"What was your favorite song?" he asked.
Lia shrugged. "I loved them all."
"You did write them. I liked 'Lost For Words."
Lia nodded and hummed the melody lightly. "I'm just watching you/Your hands so small/miniscule. That one's nice, but I liked the unnamed one."
Carmon laughed lightly. "That's because you're a morbid bitch."
"And proud of it." She dug her hands into the pockets of her tracksuit bottoms.
"Do you still remember the tune?" There was a hidden question in there.
"I'm not going to sing it, if that's what you mean."
"Why not? I'd do guitar if I had one." His eyes widened as he pouted, sticking out his lower lip.
"You look like a constipated poodle."
Carmon frowned and bit his bottom lip. She watched him.What was he thinking about? He dug through his pocket and pulled out another cigarette, lighting it quickly and taking a slow drag. He let it out in a small puff of smoke and gently fingered the lighter.
"What happened in between the mission?" he remembered. That was just perfect. And here she thought they could bury that certain aspect of the day.
Defiance and bitchiness would get her through this one. He would get over it. Short answers would irrita
te him and make him drop the point, hopefully. "Why?" That was redundant, or it could have been expanded.
"Why not?"
How immature of him. "What an immature response." It was good to voice thoughts. It saved a lot of thinking.
"As if 'why' is a mature response. Now stop trying to stray off of the subject. One word answers won't irritate me."
Damn, he was good. "I don't want to talk about it, okay?" She was feeling bitchy now. Of course, this was Carmon. A little bitchiness wouldn't work.
"You never want to talk about anything." It was an open statement, short but effective. Was she meant to reply? "Talking about stuff does help, you know." Okay…that meant no. "You can't expect me to believe that a few comments caused you to beat Cal up. There's got to be more to it than that."
He was good. Way too good. She didn't like it when a person hit the target. The best thing to do would be to tell him he was wrong…or make him drop it. Either way would work. She chose the latter.
"I told you, I don't want to talk about it." Repetition. It saved a lot of thinking to just repeat what you said and pray that it would have some effect the second time.
"You never want to talk about anything." So she wasn't the only one who didn't know what to say. "As I said before," he was justifying his repetition,"if you don't talk about stuff, it just makes it worse." He was not repeating, he was rephrasing. Clever. "After all, it didn't work with Dan."
She wasn't the only one feeling bitchy. Her face was heating up and her eyes felt clogged up and wet. It was funny how one name could trigger so much. One word could unravel memories hidden so deeply they were almost forgotten.
"That was low, and you know it."
He ignored her. "Do you remember what his favourite song was?"
Why did he persist on talking about it? Why couldn't he just drop it? How could he talk about it so freely, so painlessly? Or maybe there was pain, only he masked it better.
"Fire in a Matchbox." She whispered it, afraid that if she said it out loud she would break, that the wall would shatter, that the mask would fall.
Carmon hummed a tune beneath his breath. "Matches on soaked cardboard/Pictures on the dashboard…" He stopped. She joined in and sang the next line. Some memories were sweet.
"Flower petals in a breeze so light/ Music blaring in the distant light."
He joined in again, their voices in harmony. "And we can watch that tangent sunset/ Over frosty stars together/ Basked in colours, paint on a canvas/ Under stormy wea-ther."
She stopped. He beat out the next line. She joined in again. It was just like it used to be: Her, Carmon, Dan…the band.
He dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his foot. That was the second time in ten minutes. He had stopped singing. He pivoted, about to walk away. She stood still, watching his retreating back
He stopped. He turned. "He wouldn't have wanted you to forget. He would want for you to talk about it. He would never have forgotten."
That was all. He walked away, retreating until he was gone and she was alone again, alone to bask in her thoughts. She pulled out another cigarette. She would think about it later -no, never. She didn't want to think. It hurt too much. For now she would indulge, just indulge.
She leaned back once again. Fire In a Matchbox. That was humour, dark humour. Or was it irony? She wasn't sure. She hummed the tune beneath her breath.
"You're like fire in a matchbox/ You eat from the inside/ And scorch on the outside/ You burn/ And you sear/ And you spread/ And then you're gone/ Just like that you're gone."
* * *
He was late. Completely and totally late and it was his first day. Perfect start to your new job, Harlton.
His cases had been brought yesterday, so it hadn't taken too long to unpack and sort out his clothes. But he had had a late night due to all of the sorting out; after all, he had been given the job on an extremely short notice.
Jack pulled on his trousers, a folder clenched beneath his teeth. He spat it out and tossed it onto the bed, then eased on his jacket and picked up the bag. He tossed the folder into the bag.
Damian was gone, of that he was sure. But he didn't know as of yet what Damian actually did. He had to ask, but for now … he was far too late for the meeting.
Jack raced through the corridor and to the lift, the bag slung over his shoulder and hitting him as he ran. He reached the lift and was just about to enter when he spotted the sign "Out of Order."
It had been in perfect order yesterday. It was just his luck, but he had no time to dwell. Damian had said there was another lift on the floor below; all he had to do was race down a small flight of steps.
Jack pivoted on his heel, darting towards the stairs and racing down them. His breath came out in sharp pants as his hands slid over the smooth wooden banisters. Hard shoes clumped against the soft carpet
He reached the bottom of the stairs, not watching where he was going. Jack fell back as he collided with something hard. He stumbled then regained his balance. A sharp yelp resounded through the air as the figure fell to the floor.
"Sorry!" they both exclaimed in unison.
"Let me help you up." Jack outstretched his hand and the girl took it, a few wisps of golden brown hair spilling from her high pony. He recognized that hair…
"You!"
The girl looked up, her folders clutched to her chest. Her eyes widened. "You're that weird guy from yesterday!" That was blunt. Her eyes strayed to her watch. "Shit! I mean, sorry. I have to go. I'm late."
She pivoted on her heel and raced off. Jack stood there for a few moments before realizing that she was going to the lift. He had to hurry up before it closed otherwise he would never get there in time.
"Wait!" He sprinted after her and reached her just as the doors closed.
He frantically gasped for air. That had been a close one. The girl looked at him, then her eyes strayed to the badge on his jacket.
"Jack Harlton, leader of Sector 4, LAFFAT," she read, slowly. She gasped and bit her bottom lip.
"Yeah, that's me." That was a lame response. He would have been better off just keeping quiet. Jack grinned as her cheeks flushed a light shade of red.
"I am so sorry…I mean, I didn't know it was you. Yesterday, I mean…I would have helped you and… um… but I thought that you…I mean -yeah…" she gabbled, her eyes never leaving the badge. It was amusing. She ran a hand through her hair, her mouth half-open as if she were about to say something.
"Don't worry about it. Everyone makes mistakes." His eyes strayed over the numbers. A clenching feeling began to form in the pit of his stomach. He was so late. "This is my stop."
The lift opened and he stepped out, leaving the girl behind. It was only when the doors closed that he realized he had forgotten to ask her her name. That was thick… but for now… He glanced at his watch. It was his first day. Hopefully he would not get into too much trouble.
CHAPTER 5
The sun was a swirling red disk in the distance, surrounded by oranges and yellows and purples and pinks all seeping from its sides in thick blurred lines. A soft breeze ruffled through the park, escalating a few small leaves and making them rise and swirl, then drop to the ground. Red leaves mingled with a dull green, crinkling and soaring like hundreds of rose petals scattered in the wind.
A chipped, unstable fence surrounded a remotely small expanse of land. Thin clumps of wood lay over the wet grass and sank into the foundations of mud. The land was occupied by a few rusty swings and a tall slide in the far corner.
A girl sat on the swing, rising and falling as she kicked into the air, daring herself to go higher. Her face was flushed by the effort, her thick black hair in its elegant high pony bobbing to the wind and threatening to spill from the weak band supporting it.
The joints to her knees were aching from the effort. She wondered how it would be like to go so high you reached the bar supporting the swing. She kicked harder, the creak of the swing against its rusty hinges resounding through her ea
rs.
"Slow down, Li."
She turned her gaze slightly, the sudden voice causing her stomach to jump, then cartwheel. Her body was still balancing in the air, then falling, then balancing again for a split second and once again descending. She was flying, flying in the air. Flying away and if she let go she'd fall. The voice cut through the waves and sent her jolting back to the small expanse of land and back from the sky, from the balance.
A figure stood leaning beside the broken gate, his shadow sending ripples of deep grey cascading over the wet grass. A cap was placed over his unruly mess of dark hair, shadowing his eyes.
She arched an eyebrow and kicked harder. "This slow enough for you?"
"Don't be cheeky."
He made his way towards her and sat on the swing beside her, his legs dangling, his toes gently scuffing the grass, as he made no effort to swing, only sway lightly. She slowed down as he gazed out at the wide stretch of landscape.
"What brings you here?" she asked curiously.
He shrugged. "Jude said you'd be here."
She sighed. "Jude knows all."
He smiled lightly. "Not all. No one knows all."
She nodded. "True."
Lia let out a soft breath as the cool air encompassed her lungs, soaring through her throat and chilling her from the inside, then escaping in a small cloud of white.
"You could write a song about this, you know."
She turned her gaze to face him. "A song about what?"
He shrugged. "The sunset. Red. Fire. They would serve as interesting metaphors."
"Maybe." Lia snuffed some grass beneath her foot with the front of her trainer.
"Why did you want to see me? Seeing as you took the trouble to ask Jude."
He opened his mouth as if to say something, then decided against it and answered. "Carmon's god knows where. I'm in need of company."