Osiris

by E. J. Swift

  “Fu-u-ck.” Jannike’s voice filtered down, strangely elongated. “Magda Linn’s here.”

  Adelaide opened her eyes underwater. Her hair swirled around her head. A girl’s legs scissored slowly in the neon blitzed water. Red lights. Green lights. White flashing lights that were not part of the club’s rigging but somehow lost in it.

  “How—she—get—?” Jannike burbled. Adelaide surfaced.

  Where there had been people there was space. The large pool bare and strip-lit, littered with the debris of the night—plastic glasses, stolen bikinis, deflated floats. Overhead, the multicoloured spotlights had swivelled to a halt, but the tower still rotated and lights from outside swept in bars over the pool. Jannike’s elbow hooked into Adelaide’s. The tug of Jan’s arm. Bouncers herded out the stragglers. Voices echoed in the open space.

  “Where to, Jan?”

  “The late lounge, Adie.”

  An ankle twisted. Not sure if it was hers or Jan’s but they almost fell. She felt the pain for both of them. Flashing lights, right in their faces. Look this way, girls! Lovely!

  The waterbeds engulfed them like a dream. A woman brought two pipes. The smoke made haloes of their heads. Jannike’s lips struggled through the crusts of their lipstick.

  “What’s the matter, Adie? I know something’s the matter.”

  Adelaide knew Jannike would forget this night. She would forget it too. Part of her already had.

  “My family are murderers,” she said. “A boat came and they killed everyone on it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And I biked into a ship. I don’t know what I was doing—I had this idea that Axel might be hiding there, and if he saw—he’d have to come find me—but he didn’t so he couldn’t be there, he’s got to be in the west, it’s the only place left—”

  “I’m old, Adie. I’m twenty-two. I’m ancient.”

  “That’s half a life, in the west.”

  “Stars, Adie.” Jannike drew deeply on the pipe and halfway through exhaling, yawned deeply. “I tell you I’m old, ancient old, and you come out with… you know what’s weird, I can’t work out… how Magda Linn managed to get in…”

  Her eyes turned upwards in her head. Adelaide did not understand at first that her friend was unconscious. Then Jannike’s pipe clattered to the floor and she knew she should pick it up, but she could only stare at it, the pipe lying useless on the crisscross matting, until the proprietress came to retrieve it and gave Jannike a glance, and then lay the pipe, extinguished, on a round wooden dish beside her. Adelaide inhaled and somewhere in that one breath time unfolded and dissolved.

  Hours later she walked home. She climbed over the barrier and walked along the double snail trails of the Pharaoh shuttle line, from the south quarter to the east quarter, where she walked twenty flights upstairs to jump the barrier to the Sphinx line. Her sandals made blisters on her feet. She took the shoes off and walked barefoot. The silver tracks were cool. Her fingers stretched out to touch the convex, translucent wall.

  Once a night shuttle streaked past, blind and pilotless, and she pressed her spine to the bufferglass and cringed her stomach inward in the slipstream blast.

  She passed a siding where a group of shuttle pods were lodged. Lights were on in the repair stations behind and she heard the sounds of machinery. A man in overalls carrying a tool kit came around a shuttle. He stared at her. Grease darkened patches of his face. She gazed back at him, clutching her shoes tightly. Neither of them spoke. He passed an arm over his face and then he got to the ground and slid under the shuttle and his hand shot out and grabbed a tool and disappeared again.

  Dawn began to crack the night’s rigid cocoon. The city was rousing. Maintenance men and cleaners collected behind the barriers of the stations, smoking a last cigarette before the day’s work began.

  “Hey! Hey, miss! What you doing down there?”

  She looked around, then up. A man stood on a platform. She squinted.

  “You’re on the shuttle line,” he said.

  Adelaide did not reply. He reached out a hand. She let him help her up onto the platform where he peered closer at her face but she turned her head away.

  “What scraper is this?”

  “S-one-nineteen,” came the reply, and Adelaide knew she was close, now, to her destination.

  She padded out of the platform to where a vendor was setting up his stand, laying out energy bars and fruit. The newsreel ran across a screen attached to the stand. His eyes followed her as she climbed the stairs to the footpath that ran over the line. Stumbling now, her feet guided her along the last few stops.

  The key was the wrong shape for the lock and it took her several tries to force it in. A shadow passed as the lift went up, past her floor to the meteorological facility. The door gave way at last. She fell forward into the hall of mirrors. Home.

  / / /

  Dream fragments chased one another through her head; Jannike, aged thirteen, arguing with Feodor. Lightning struck both of them and burned their faces but neither died, they kept arguing, and she realized it wasn’t Feodor but the man from the border with no face, the water parting to receive his body, and white horses were running on the sea, leaping one over the back of the other. Their hooves made a horrendous noise, drumming the ocean with a tattoo that called the world to arms.

  Adelaide woke suddenly. She was in bed, face down. She had forgotten to darken the window-wall and the room was full of lancing sunbeams. She screwed up her eyes. The noise of galloping hooves resolved into a persistent banging. There was someone at the door. Someone insistent.

  Turning her head, she saw how the night had ended. The decanter, empty, an arm’s length away. The glass knocked onto its side. A bottle of pills she hoped she hadn’t taken and the grey dune of the ashtray. The smell of stale ash was a physical assault.

  Adelaide groaned. She sat up just before she thought of Tyr and then she reeled forward, head to knees, and thought she might be sick there and then. Her mouth tasted of sour milk. She caught a glance of herself in the mirror; make-up blackening her eyes, her hair latticed. She pulled on her kimono, scrubbed her teeth and splashed water into her face before going to the door. Every bang drove another nail into her skull.

  Tyr? Vikram? Her heart squeezed.

  She slid the bolt across and opened the door a crack. Disappointment barbed her.

  “Linus?”

  He barged through the gap. In one white knuckled hand he clutched his briefcase.

  “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day.”

  “I’ve been sleeping.” She followed him back into the apartment, massaging her temples.

  “Your beeper’s off—”

  “I never use that thing.”

  “I’ve been calling since eight o’clock, you don’t answer, I only just managed to get out of the office. Father’s been fielding questions all afternoon. Even Mother came up here and knocked, nobody could get hold of you—”

  His voice was bringing on her headache in full force, and with it, everything that sleep had let her forget. She tried to concentrate. She had to get rid of him.

  “I was out, Linus. Then I was sleeping. My scarab’s probably run dry. What’s going on?”

  Linus glared at her. A wisp of morning shadow on his upper lip and jaw. Linus was always clean shaven.

  He propped his briefcase on the table and yanked it open. The contents spilled onto the floor. Linus grabbed a Surfboard and dangled it in front of her.

  “You haven’t seen this, I take it?”

  Adelaide peered at the screen. Her own face greeted her, eyes unfocused, mouth slurred. She looked a mess. Last night’s events reassembled themselves slowly. She remembered the pool. The pills.

  “What have I done now?” she asked wearily.

  Linus shoved the Surfboard towards her as if he was too disgusted to speak. She bent to pick it up. The words seemed jumbled; they did not make sense. They could not, because how could anyone pos
sibly know? Shakily, letter by letter, her finger followed the newreel headline.

  Adelaide Rechnov breaks investigation decree.

  “Oh shit,” she whispered.

  Below the initial hideous picture was a grainy but unmistakable image: herself and Vikram entering the penthouse.

  “I think you’ll find that’s one of the better headlines,” said Linus. His face was steady now, nastily so, a gull about to skewer a fish.

  Her legs stopped working. She had to sit down. She knelt where she was. Her kimono divided over her knees; mindlessly she smoothed out the silk. She flicked from one newsfeed to another. Adelaide and western lover Vikram flout committee… Adelaide uses criminal friend for break-in… Adelaide finds new vocation… Adelaide’s new love-shack?

  It didn’t end there. Selecting the Daily Flotsam feed, she found full-colour evidence of last night. There were photos of her and Jan, naked on a pink float, entwined with two girls that Adelaide did not remember. She had a dim memory of Jannike shouting that she had seen Magda Linn, although her friend had not known then that Adelaide had betrayed her.

  “How…” Her voice faltered. Linus’s shoes shifted angrily.

  “You idiot, you bribed someone to cut the camera, didn’t you? Apparently Hanif had a feeling you’d try it on. He promised to match any bribe you might offer. The camera was recording the whole time.”

  Words and pictures advanced and receded in front of her.

  “But why now? It doesn’t make sense… If they had this—why wait until now, why would Hanif...?”

  “Hanif’s in the middle of a Council-authorised investigation, it doesn’t help him to throw this information to the press. But you can guarantee that some lowlife scum in his team has just made a fat payload leaking this. And believe me, we will find out who it is.”

  She went hot and cold. So Sanjay Hanif had been hoarding this information all along, waiting for the optimum moment to pounce. Only his thunder had been stolen before he had the chance. Sweat trickled between her breasts.

  “Where’s Vikram?” He must have seen it already. She swallowed. “He’d better come over.”

  “He’s not coming.”

  “I have to speak to him.” The sunlight, skittering off polished surfaces, was blinding. She imagined reporters in the adjacent towers, their cameras trained on her windows whilst they scanned the feeds, rereading, joking amongst themselves, relishing her humiliation.

  “Vikram will be safest here,” she said. She spotted her scarab in the bowl on the table. “Then we can work out what to do.”

  “Has it not occurred to you that this fiasco ran first thing this morning? It’s fifteen o’clock. Vikram’s on his way to jail, if he isn’t there already. Father’s pulling strings like a marionette to keep the police away from you. Congratulations, Adelaide! Not content with wrecking your own life, you have to drag everyone else down with you.”

  Linus touched a finger to his earpiece. His expression changed: settled and ironed out, before he spoke again. “Father, hello.”

  “Jail,” she repeated. She remembered Vikram locking up the penthouse door. We’re in it together. Vikram had not said that, but it was true now. They would take him back underwater, to the green cell and the eye of the porthole, unless she stopped them. The kimono stuck to her clammy skin. Her muscles felt weak, useless. Ignore it.

  She needed a plan. She needed Linus gone so she could clear her head. Think, Adelaide, think.

  Linus took a few steps towards the window. He was nodding to himself. “Right, yes. Did you get onto the Flotsam? Yes, I understand. Ten minutes? No problem, I’ll hang on.” The conversation ended abruptly.

  “How’s Daddy?” she asked.

  Linus folded his arms. “This isn’t the time for flippancy. Father’s not happy. He’s putting you under house arrest.”

  “How old does he think I am, six?”

  “Judging by your actions, yes. He’s sending Goran.”

  Her mouth dropped in horror.

  “Goran? He can’t send Goran here…” She thought of the eye tattoo on the back of the bodyguard’s neck. His real eyes, dual toned, searching. Every nerve in her body twanged. “Linus, you cannot be serious!”

  “Apparently Father is. You’ve overstepped the line, Adelaide. He’s fed up with it. We all are. The more licence we give you the more you throw it back in our faces.”

  She lurched to her feet. Red and green dots speckled her vision.

  “Licence for what?” she shouted. “Not to be like you? Well, sorry if I’m not interested in your political machinations. I have my own life. We both do. Me and Axel. We’re nothing like you.” She jabbed a finger an inch from his chest. Linus surveyed her, unconcernedly. When he spoke, every word was crisp with contempt.

  “Spending our money getting high every night and flaunting yourself for the Daily Flotsam’s pornographic photographers? Fucking our father’s employees? Frankly, Adelaide, it’s boring. Father has tried just about everything with you. He’s asked you to tone down the parties and cut back on the milaine. He’s appealed to you as a Rechnov, but you have no sense of familial duty. I’ve even tried giving you an outlet to do something useful with the aid schemes. Nothing seems to make a difference. Nothing makes you see. There’s a whole line-up of people out there who would love to see our family eating surf, Adelaide. You’ve jeopardized our position one too many times. Now you’ve forced Father to take drastic measures. Goran’s coming to housesit.”

  “Like fuck he is! I won’t let him over the threshold.”

  “You’ll do what we decide is best for you. You’re so selfish you can only think about yourself right now. But if you looked beyond this narcissistic paradise, you might realize that this—” the Surfboard in Linus’s hand shook. His voice was rising opposite hers. “This has greater ramifications than you being grounded. This article questions the whole family’s integrity. You had a chance to prove yourself. You’ve thrown that away. You’ve pissed, Adelaide, on my fucking career.”

  Adelaide was trembling with shock and fury.

  “Selfish, Linus? Listen to yourself! You haven’t even asked what I was doing in the penthouse. Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know what happened to your brother?”

  Linus hurled the Surfboard at a plant. It hit the pot and landed beside it. The screen went blank.

  “I don’t give a shit what you were doing there,” he spat. “This is a containment issue. Bribing a member of a Council investigation—how the hell does that make Father look?”

  Adelaide could not remember ever seeing Linus lose control. It was like a rock cracking and gushing forth water.

  “Our father cares more about his reputation than he does about his own son.” She was shaking.

  “Don’t bring Axel into it!”

  “Why not? He’s what’s important!”

  “He’s dead. Wake up, Adelaide! Stars above, it’s hard enough trying to mourn him without you raking these insane theories over our heads day in, day out—”

  “How do you know unless Feodor had him murdered? Did Goran do it? Did he? And now he’s coming to sort me out?”

  “Don’t be fucking stupid.”

  “Then tell me the truth!”

  Linus’s hands went to his head, kneading and clenching. An animal noise came out of his throat. “You just—don’t—get it.”

  “I never did,” she said.

  On the table, her scarab was flashing. An inbound call. Lao, she thought numbly. I know that’s Lao. Her fingers itched.

  There was a knock at the door. Neither of them moved. A second knock. Finally Linus went. Goran strolled into the room, a holdall and a brown paper bag in one hand, a mango in the other. He wore the usual dark blue suit, specially tailored to fit his heavy, muscular frame. His head had been recently shaved. It was pale and shiny.

  “Hi AD,” he said. “Long time no see.”

  His neat white teeth bit into the mango, skin and all.

  “Don’t you dare call
me that,” she hissed. “Get him out of here, Linus, I’m not even dressed.”

  “It never seems to bother you anywhere else.” Linus extended his hand. Goran juggled mango and bags until he could press his wrist to Linus’s.

  Adelaide yanked the cord of her kimono taut. She could not miss anything they might say.

  “Never was too polite, was she?” commented Goran. He did not seem to care whether he received an answer. He ambled around the room, sucking gently on the flesh of the mango, touching things with his tattooed fingers. Perspiration collected on Adelaide’s scalp. Her own sweat felt unclean.

  “Don’t touch that,” she said, as his fingers hovered over a photograph of the twins. Goran paused, as if he might obey, then picked it up.

  “Interesting place.” He pulled back the red and orange curtain that hung from the mezzanine and peered into the space beneath. “Nice den. Guess I’ll be sleeping here.” He nudged the sofa with his leg. Adelaide froze.

  Goran let the curtain drop and wandered towards the kitchen.

  “Linus—” she said.

  Her brother closed his briefcase and patted the left breast of his jacket. “What, Adelaide?”

  “You can’t do this. That man—cannot stay in my apartment.” Linus shrugged and made for the hallway. She ran in front of the door. “You can’t leave him here! This is my home!”

  “It’s Rechnov property, Adelaide.” Linus smiled. “And as you keep reminding us, you’ve got a different name now. Mystik, isn’t it?”

  “You bastard.” Her voice shook. From the kitchen she heard the sounds of breaking glass and running water. “What the hell’s he doing?”

  “Getting rid of your alcohol, I think. Move away from the door. Or shall I get Goran to remove you?”

  Keep calm, Adelaide. She put her hands up. “Okay, okay. Joke’s over. Now let’s sit down and talk about this rationally.”