by L. Lee Lowe
'Follow me. We'll walk.'
She'd seen what she thought might be a ginkgo tree near the canal. Its leaves would already be yellowing this late in October, but she'd collect a few anyway and slip them into an envelope.
Owen was fit, but she was fitter. She set a punishing pace, then increased it in deliberate increments, remembering how she'd had to stride to keep up with Zach. By the time they reached the old cannery, Owen was panting slightly, with a thin film of sweat above his upper lip and on his forehead. Though the nights had turned cool, the midday sun could still insist on homage like an ageing rock star. Owen stopped to catch his breath.
'Hold on a sec, I don't think we ought to be heading this way,' he said, trying to disguise his physical discomfort by turning aside and pointing towards the canal. 'Not a good area to hang around. And no place where there's anything decent to eat, unless you fancy weird spices or rancid grease. Or cockroaches.'
'Come on, we can sit down for a bit on that wall,' she said, sweetly solicitous.
He gave her a look that reminded her of one of Max's strays. The ever-present threat of humiliation seemed to sharpen their wits. She took his hand, abashed. It wasn't his fault, was it?
He followed her with obvious reluctance. The cannery fronted the canal and was infamous for its contingent of streeters whose numbers only declined—temporarily—after periodic police raids. When she'd been driven away from Zach's flat that night, she'd seen the glow of paraffin lamps and cooking fires through its smeared and partly boarded-up windows.
'Fulgur's thinking of knocking it down and building a new production unit on this site,' Owen said. 'It's prime property.'
Owen's dad was much further up in the corporate hierarchy than Laura's—so much further, in fact, that family assets included an indoor swimming pool, a full-time housekeeper, and a custom-built Jaguar. Another reason Laura's mum fawned over Owen. And to his credit, Laura had to admit that he didn't fit the stereotype of spoilt rich kid. Six siblings might have had something to do with it, plus a mum who was known for her down-to-earth style, which included Household Responsibilities for the kids—and her husband, Laura suspected.
She studied the brick wall of the cannery, which was covered by graffiti. Most of it the usual stuff, lots of tags and dubs and lav epithets, but there was one painting that she wanted to get a closer look at. 'Be right back,' she told Owen, and sprang down from the wall. 'Wait here,' she added at his protest. 'There's nobody around. You can come to the rescue when the kankers show up.' She saw that he intended to join her. 'I mean it,' she said rather sharply. 'I want to go by myself.'
A nice dilemma for him, she thought, irritated once more. Her mum was right, he was perfect boyfriend material. If only perfect weren't a synonym for boring.
It took her a while to navigate the rubbish-strewn ground. Up close, the creature was even more disturbing: an enormous black figure, half man and half crow, with glittering eyes, talons like scimitars, and a wild disarray of long hair. His torso and part of his limbs were human, his face nearly so. Laura stared at his features for a long time, then walked a few metres to the left, stopped, and regarded him again. After retracing her steps, she repeated the manoeuvre to the right. No matter where she stood, the crowman seemed to be looking straight at her, something she remembered from certain museum portraits. Almost as if he had a desperate message to impart.
Her stomach growled, a reminder that Owen was waiting for her. She turned, waved, and began to pick her way back across the overgrown tract. After a few steps she cast one last glance over her shoulder at the painting. It was then that she heard a sound from inside the building—moaning, or perhaps low sobbing. She stopped and listened. There. Ignoring Owen's surprised shout, she went in search of a door.
Once her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she was able to see quite well. She had to skirt rubble, puddles of water, and the odd piece of broken equipment, but there was no sign of habitation till she reached a small series of interconnected rooms which, to judge from the overturned filing cabinets, a single shattered monitor, and decaying furniture, must have formed an office block. Several stained mattresses were piled in a corner of the second room, along with newish-looking bin liners, cardboard boxes, and a paraffin cooker. Two battered enamel pans rested near the cooker, some candles and a tablespoon on an upturned metal drawer. The bin liners looked full, but Laura didn't stop to check their contents. Not that she believed they'd contain body parts . . . not really. But the whimpering was nearby now, and her courage beginning to wane. She'd noted the empty bottles, the smell. Only the momentum of her search—or perhaps the memory of the crowman—kept her going.
In the third office she found the child.
Her—no, his—wrists and ankles were bound with rope. He lay in a foetal position on a piece of cardboard, his long hair covering most of his face. As soon as he saw her, he ceased moaning and watched with over-bright eyes. He was nearly naked. He was shivering. He was filthy. He stank. And he was an auger.
With a hiss his eyes darted behind her—warning or fear. She spun round.
'What do you think you're doing?' Owen said. 'This place is dangerous.'
Then he too caught sight of the child.
'Shit,' he said. 'What's that?'
That began to shudder at the sound of Owen's voice.
Chapter 8
By the time Zach reaches him, Lev has sliced open the seal's belly and removed part of its liver.
'Here,' Lev says, 'your share.'
Zach stares from the glistening piece of meat to Lev's face and back to the blood dripping onto the snow, dripping and freezing near mitts discarded for the heat of the animal's open cavity.
'Where's the polar bear?' Zach asks.
Lev chews, swallows, licks his fingers clean. 'Eat.'
'Seal liver's toxic.'
'Only in large quantities. Go on, it's good for you.'
'I'm not going to touch raw meat.'
'This is the Arctic. Stop obsessing, I've apportioned the right amount.'
The small slab of liver is still steaming. Zach hesitates for another moment, then pulls off a mitt and cautiously takes a bite. It's strong-tasting, but not nearly as slimy as it looks. He discovers that he's hungry, and eats it all, even to licking off his fingers. Lev, however, has consumed a much larger quantity.
A throaty rumble halfway between burp and purr, then Lev plunges his knife into the snow and wipes it on his trousers before sheathing it. With a large bone needle he sews up the cut in the seal's belly. 'To keep the blood and organs inside while we drag her back to the cabin.'
'Inuit fashion,' Zach says.
'Some things even Fulgur's scientists can't improve on.'
'Right, that axes it.' Zach draws on his mitts. 'Who are you? How did you catch the seal? And where the hell is the polar bear?'
'Do you really think they tell you everything?' Lev gives that chuff of his. 'Frozenhell, they don't know everything.'
*****
Zach helps himself to what he hopes is a marmite sandwich and some steaming coffee from the flask on the table. He stirs in several teaspoons of sugar, takes a cautious sip, and grimaces; it tastes of seal liver, heavy as rolled copper on his tongue.
'Ethan's looking much better,' he says.
'Still a bit feverish, but nothing will keep him from a kill,' Chloe says, grinning in a way that makes Zach want to look over his shoulder.
'It's a big animal, Lev will be glad for the help.'
'Who?'
A burning wedge of wood tumbles from the fireplace in a fortuitous shower of sparks, occupying Zach while he considers how not to react. Chloe comes over with her mug, but when she lays her fingers on his arm, he realises that last night hasn't been a bad dream, or a glitch in the program. Only in his program, he reflects grimly—a release of nothing other than a teaspoon of ejaculate. Self-disgust makes him inept.
'You know, Lev. The tall, fair bloke with the scar and the blue eyes. The third member of your party.'
B
ut Chloe regards him with a sympathetic expression, as if he's admitted to an endearing secret like stealing library books or masturbating with his teddy bear.
'Lev,' he insists. 'The hunter. The macho, you called him. He's out in the lean-to butchering the seal.'
'Ethan's by himself. I've just brought him some coffee.'
'There's no way I could have speared a seal on my own.'
'You can't remember? I'm not surprised, the cold does weird stuff to you.'
Her hand on his arm. All he does is remember.
Shivering slightly, he stepped back into the alcove and removed a book from the shelf. It was hard enough to believe that Bach or Mozart or Coltrane weren't simus—and then these books, these magnificent books, all written by monkeys. She crowded in close to read over his arm, their hips touching. Customers were rare: most people bought online, and those who came to the tiny, dusty, draughty shop had eyes only for their own obsessions.
'I'd like to buy this for you,' he said. 'But it's a signed first edition, your mum might ask where it's come from.'
'Then I'll keep it at your flat,' Laura said, laying a hand on his arm, and after a moment's hesitation, standing on tiptoe to kiss the corner of his mouth—so lightly that he might have imagined
her hand on his arm, and all he ever does is try not to remember.
'Don't touch me,' he says.
Chloe snatches away her hand, then mutters angrily, 'You liked it well enough last night.'
No good, he's just making his job more difficult. Though why he should bother about what happens to her . . . shorten her stay, she just gets to cheat on the next bloke a bit sooner. He doesn't need to know her to know what she'll do. They're all alike, those girls who sleep with his kind.
'Look, I'm sorry,' he says. 'It's not you.'
'Who's to know?' she asks, moving closer again.
'I was tired. It was—you know.'
'It gets lonely here. What's wrong with a little companionship? Not everyone thinks like the Purists.'
'I'm not a very good companion.'
She glances up at him quickly, avoiding his eyes—no surprise there. But her next words startle him. 'OK, if that's the way it is. I didn't know simus have partners.'
She must have seen something on his face. Uncomfortable now, he goes to replenish his coffee. With his back to her, he says, 'It's not easy, but sometimes we do. Have long-term relationships, I mean.'
'One of your own sort?'
But he won't talk about Laura.
Chloe adds another log to the fire, straightens his mitts and balaclava, which are drying on the mantelpiece, then joins him by the table.
'What was your offence?' he asks.
'Defacement of public property.'
'That must have been one hell of an axe job. Or did you use an explosive?'
'Graffiti.'
'Now you're axing me. No way they'll send you here for a bit of spray paint.'
They must learn it early on, like their lying—that trick with the eyebrow. He frowns at her, not bothering to disguise his distaste, then crosses the room to the larger of the two windows and twitches aside the curtain. The building faces south: a thin bruising low on the horizon, dark violet and cobalt, is the most anyone will see of the sun for many weeks. Laura has to be out there somewhere, perhaps at another camp, perhaps trekking in the open.
'Maybe I ought to help Ethan.' Zach says. 'Butchering a seal sounds like a time-consuming task.'
'He likes to butcher, and he likes to do it alone.' She laughs softly. 'I expect he'll be in this place for a very long time.'
'You mean—'
'He doesn't talk much about it, but it's pretty obvious.'
'You're not afraid?'
'You'll just have to keep bringing us fresh kill. I do like my meat.'
Zach can't tell whether the glint in her eyes is mere amusement—the teasing which is as much a secondary sexual characteristic as functional mammary glands—or a taunt to repay him for his rejection.
Chloe begins gathering together the coffee things. After a moment she stops, walks around the table to one of the bookshelves, and turns her back to him with all the appearance of searching for a title. Zach spends a few minutes trying to piece together the events of the morning. He can recall the journey to the ice, he can recall the wait, recall the advent of the polar bear, recall the return trek with Lev, seal in tow; but he's not sure if recall is the right word for the jarring sense of disjointedness, of double exposure, of slippage when he pictures Lev and the bear on the ice. Which had been which? And that memory of raw liver: would he even eat raw liver?
There's no point eroding a client's confidence in him any further. 'Chloe—' he begins.
She turns to face him, a half-smile on her face and one hand behind her. After a moment her smile broadens, then she reaches up and slowly unzips her fleecy top. She isn't wearing a bra.
Shit, he thinks. Not again.
'Lovely as buttered crumpets, the last bloke said. Want a taste?'
'I thought you understand.'
'Last chance.'
'No.' And maybe because they are quite lovely, and his imagination has begun to work, and there are all kinds of loneliness, he snaps, 'No bloody way. Get it?'
'Oh yeah, I get it.'
With no more than a slight tightening of the skin around her eyes, as if she's just applied a cooling astringent, she brings her other hand out from behind her.
'I forgot to mention that I've always painted my graffiti in fresh blood.'
And then she throws the knife.
A sound like a seal's harsh bark. A puzzling sensation, as though a fishhook has snared his gut and tugged sharply. No pain. Some burning deep inside. He moves sideways, but slowly, very slowly. The ice is thin, he has to slide one foot forward, then the other, till he can reach her. Laura is clinging with both hands to the jagged edge, her knuckles white. It's too cold for her to pull herself up. At this temperature you freeze before you drown. Her eyes are wide and dark, fixed on his face. I'll always hear you, Zach. He can see her forearms trembling. Not long now. Another step. Another. And then the ominous ping of cracking ice, a live wire in his midriff, sudden pressure, the smell of blood, and the world begins to tilt. Her fingers loosen. As he falls, his last thought before losing consciousness: she swims like a sleek seal of ice across her lips.
*****
Watchdog duty—routine, necessary, boring. Andy drums his fingers on the console, working out a pull that's been giving him trouble. Gradually switching up the tempo till his muscles begin to tense, he breaks off, shakes out his hand, begins again. Like any dead-tired mother who sleeps soundly along with her infant but can jolt awake at the first snuffle, he suddenly leans forward to study the code riffing past. That's odd. After watching for long enough to recognise a break in the usual pattern, he fires off an instruction, then a second. An instant later he swears and keys in the manual override. It takes him only a few fingerstrokes to realise that there's no change in the data stream. He swears even louder and reaches for the phone. Litchfield, however, is in the midst of a synapse procedure and can't be interrupted. After another attempt to modify the code, Andy rings the division head. Reluctantly. Russell F.—he always insists on the F, too blinkered to cotton on to the wisecracks—is a total arsehole.
'Russell,' Andy says, 'can you come down?'
'I've got a conference in a few minutes.'
'Postpone it. We've got a problem.'
'What kind?'
'An anomaly in the stream.'
'Where's Charles? That's his domain.'
'In neurosurgery.'
A sigh. 'Which simu is it?'
'Zach.'
'Well, correct it.'
Unfuckingbelievable. 'First thing I tried, of course. No response. We may have to abort the run.'
'Nonsense,' Slade says. 'The system's got more backup than a space probe.'
'And I'm telling you that I know this baby. Better than my vintage Ibanez. Way better. This
isn't a hardware issue.'
'Then what?'
'I don't know.' He stares at the display, sweat gradually soaking through his shirt despite the room's carefully regulated temperature. 'I've never seen anything like this before.'
'You know how much each run costs. They'll have our heads if we pull him too early.'
'Fuck that. I'm not going stand by and let you kill him for a better balance sheet.'
Andy can just about hear Slade wince. 'I've warned you before, watch your language. And nobody's said anything about killing.'
'Oh yeah? The way this looks, something's degrading fast. I'm not even sure we can still get him out. Call it, Russell. Now.'
There's a short silence.
'You're overreacting, son,' Slade says. 'I'll send word for Charles to pop down as soon as he's finished. A few hours won't make any difference.'
'No way, Russell, I'm warning you, I'm begging—' Andy breaks off, suddenly aware that he's speaking to the trilling dialtone Fulgur prefers for its phone system. The bastard has rung off.
Chapter 9
Laura crouched at the child's side. Up close she could see the cracks in his lips, traces of blood and spit caked at the corners of his mouth. Cheeks rouged by fever. Bruises—livid, horrifying bruises. And from the stench and the state of his pants, it was clear that he'd been left trussed like an animal for a very long time.
Laura glanced back at Owen. 'Have you got a pocket knife?'
As Owen advanced into the room, the boy seemed to shrink further inside the loose husk of his skin, while his shudders became more pronounced. Soon Laura could detect a new smell, though she wondered how his body managed to spare enough moisture to sweat. At least I've still got some of my apple juice left for him, she thought. Usually she drank all of it right after swimming.
'I don't own a knife,' Owen said, dropping a hand to her shoulder. 'Come away, this is none of our business.'
Laura twitched aside. 'He's scared of you. Go and try to find something sharp. A piece of metal, some broken glass, whatever.'
'What for?'
'For godsake, isn't that obvious?'