by L. Lee Lowe
And more, endlessly. Laura listened for a few minutes longer, but she had begun to shiver. Why didn't the idiot heat his flat? She switched off the TV, then switched it back on again. Kicking aside her discarded jumper, she opened Zach's wardrobe and hauled out one of his cashmere polo necks, the black one. Though he was scrupulous about keeping his gear clean, she held it up to her face and inhaled. Better than chocolate, she thought, her eyes straying to the screen.
A cognoscens research assistant may be one of the victims, a Fulgur spokeswoman admits. Suicide bombing cannot be ruled out at this time.
'Are you going to wear it or eat it?'
Laura spun round at the sound of Zach's amused voice. Arms crossed, he was leaning against the doorjamb.
'What?' she said.
'My jumper.'
'Your jumper?' She snatched a breath. 'That's all you can think about? A bloody jumper?' Her voice was beginning to rise. 'Who cares about a stinking lot of goat hair when I just thought when they just said when you—' How dare he grin at her like that! 'What the fuck do you mean by scaring me to to to—' she stopped, her tongue stuttering like an angry woodpecker. 'Bastard,' she added, when he plucked his jumper from her hands and slipped it over her head as if she were three years old. Once she'd managed to thrust her arms through the sleeves, she fingered the damp spot on the collar—had she really been sucking it?
His body felt so good that, unaccountably, she was even more enraged by his embrace.
'Take your bloody paws off me!' she yelled.
Zach's hands dropped to his sides. Slowly he backed away, his face shutting down.
Four fatalities are now confirmed. Amid widespread speculation about the perpetrators, the authorities are refusing to comment.
They both turned towards the TV.
'Did you kill them?' she whispered.
In the concussed silence after Zach switched off the TV, the question burgeoned to engulf them both. Momentary blindness can have many causes, including the detonation of a stun grenade; an intense flash of light even at the corner of your vision. Or, if you listened to visitation-mad religionists like Laura’s grandfather, the brush of wingtips.
Zach was the first to recover. 'You know the answer to that.'
'Bastard,' she said. 'Murdering auger bastards.' Then shuddered as Zach lunged towards her the way her mother would have done. He stopped just short of a blow, however.
'Go on,' she said, 'hit me. Hurt me. It's what you want to do.'
'No, it's what you want me to do.'
Laura was seated in the bus before she realised that she'd left both her jacket and her backpack in Zach's flat. Despite his beautiful warm jumper, she was shivering.
*****
In the lobby of the aquatics centre Owen handed Laura his anorak. 'Here, put it on. You'll catch pneumonia without a jacket. It feels like snow.' He looked closer at Zach's jumper. 'Very posh.'
'My dad's. Last year's Christmas gift from my aunt.'
'I'm surprised he lets you wear it. Looks like real cashmere—the expensive kind.'
'It is. But he hates polo necks, won't touch them, and it's too big for Max.' She rubbed her fingers over the soft wool. 'I like it.'
They turned at the sound of footsteps.
'Laura, I'm glad I've caught you.' Janey smiled at Owen. 'I won't be a minute.'
Always well bred, Owen murmured the right words and went to examine the notices on the pinboard.
'Look, Janey, I'm sorry I've been missing so much training.'
'True, I haven't been too happy about your progress lately.' She held up a hand as Laura started to explain. 'I see what's been keeping you busy.' A flash of those dazzling white teeth as she glanced towards Owen. 'Nice lad.'
Laura never knew what to say when adults made such remarks, which happened with dreary inevitability where Owen was concerned. At least she'd stopped blushing. Tucking her hands inside Owen's anorak, she began counting the cornrows along Janey's scalp.
'Anyway, if you continue to swim like you did today,' Janey said, 'I'll have nothing to complain about. You were vicious in the water. Like a blood-crazed shark. Nobody could get near you.'
'Thanks.' Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.
'But that's not what I want to talk to you about.'
Laura lost count. 'It isn't?'
Janey glanced once more towards Owen, then placed a hand on Laura's shoulder and steered her through the inner glass doors towards the showcase where the team's plaques and trophies were displayed. The doors slid shut automatically, sealing Laura and Janey off from curious ears.
'What's wrong?' Laura asked.
Janey pointed ostentatiously towards one of the plaques.
'I had a disturbing visit yesterday,' she said.
Laura pretended to study the list of names engraved on the metal while she waited for Janey to explain.
'Are you in any serious trouble?' Janey asked.
'Christ, don't tell me my mum's been in to see you again! She's always complaining about something.'
'Not your mum. Serious as in Internal Security serious.'
Her fingers clutching Zach's jumper, Laura stared at Janey.
'Police?' Laura finally asked.
'Not quite. A man and woman with all the right IDs and lots of questions about your attendance and friends and attitude. Especially friends. I covered for you this time, but there are too many kids who know you've been skipping out regularly.'
'Bugger.'
'Yeah, it's not good. Is there anything you need to talk about?'
Laura shook her head.
'Laura, I understand that things can be difficult with parents. Believe me, mine were no role models.' Janey rolled her eyes expressively. 'But you don't want the Insecs on your number. You swim like a shark, but they smile like one.'
'I bet it's that stupid motorbike accident.'
'What accident?'
'One of the simu kids from school gave me a lift, and we skidded, that's all. I ended up getting bitten by a snake at the roadside. Bad allergic reaction, ambulance, hospital. A real drama.'
'I see.'
'But thanks for fending off the sharks,' Laura said. 'I'll get my dad to sort it out.'
Janey gave her the look she usually reserved for swimmers who protested that they couldn't possibly manage another ten laps (and who soon found out they'd survive twenty with Janey's teeth flashing behind them).
'OK. Your call,' Janey said. But as the inner doors slid back, she added, 'If you change your mind, you know where to find me.'
*****
There's something about the first snowfall which, like the icing sugar it can resemble, always lures the locals from their warm nests, even for a while sweetening their dispositions. The neighbourhood misanthrope, a nasty piece of goods who never failed to ring up about 'insufferably loud music' at precisely one minute past nine, summer or winter, stopped his shovelling to mutter a greeting as Laura and Owen walked past. Because of its seclusion, Laura's mates preferred Pringle Hill for sledging after dark. Tonight, whenever they huddled for a drink—its northern slope was very exposed—the poisonous talk would inevitably start up again: the terrs, the bloody terrs. There'd be lots to drink. Lots of talk.
Turn back now, and Laura would only have to face Olivia tomorrow. Saturdays everyone favours a good lie-in, but when racked—and probably hungover—Livs was perfectly capable of storming over at nine, tongue whetted; earlier. In school plays she was often given the most flamboyant roles, like Blanche Du Bois in A Streetcar Named Desire till the head put a stop to the production. Still, she was far too smart not to think of the consequences of a public row, and too good a friend: gossip, like snowflakes, settles everywhere. And an icy wind cools tempers.
Laura and Owen detoured to collect Max together with Mike and George from a hill near the golf course where all the younger kids congregated, as well as some parents with tiny offspring suited up like astronauts and lurching fatly from one spill to the next. They reminded Laura of a set o
f cartoonish weebles Max used to have, pesky little ovoid creatures that would wobble and pitch but always pop right back up again. Max was staying the night with George, with whom he'd become matey since the night of the recital. Owen's mother insisted on plying everyone with biscuits and hot chocolate, and afterwards Laura and Owen went upstairs to check out some new music he'd downloaded. Owen didn't understand why Laura was so impressed with his parents. 'They're just too damned busy to bother much about what their kids get up to.' He'd already shed his jeans. 'Not that I'm complaining.'
Come to think of it, when Owen bobbed up and down like that, he reminded her of one of those weebles. Hadn't Max taken a hammer to the blandest one, a pearly pink hippo-like ballerina, to see what made it work? 'I like the trolls best,' he'd said. 'They're scary.'
It had begun snowing again by the time Laura and Owen reached Pringle Hill. Above her cupped cigarette Olivia gave her a look which, if poured into a car radiator, would have required antifreeze. Laura usually didn't drink much—training always made a good excuse, since Janey would undoubtedly maul any of her swimmers caught with alcohol—but by now Laura was cold and tired and just a bit edgy. She kept turning towards the stand of fir trees on the spine of the hill, visible only as a memory. Under the cloak of darkness the swirling snow hurled black-winged phantoms through the corners of her vision, though none with a sardonic smile and spice-filled laugh. After two downhill runs with Owen, she found herself sharing a flask of hot whisky punch, which burned straight through the single biscuit she'd nibbled in Owen's kitchen. Cheeks bright red and eyes glittering, Olivia spoke to her at last.
'Let the lads have a run on their own.' Olivia's message couldn't be plainer: you'd best listen to me if you value our friendship.
They stamped their feet to keep warm, the snow too thick and soft and fresh to squeak. Olivia jammed her torch upright into a drift and offered Laura another round from the flask, then asked, 'Lost your mobie?'
'Left it home.'
'This morning too?'
'No.' Laura took a swig of punch. 'Look, I don't want to lie to you. The truth is, I was ashamed to admit what I had to do after lunch.'
'Which was?'
'My mum's making me see this bloody therapist. Big Family Secret. Daughter who's going off the rails.'
'Sounds like something she'd do.'
'Yeah, well.'
'You could have told me instead of leaving me to wait in the cold.'
'Livs, I'm sorry, I really am.'
'Once upon a time we were friends who told each other everything.'
Were we really? Laura asked herself. Or was it only a fairytale we needed to believe? Aloud she said, 'I despise the bloke. A horrible little man with yellow pointy teeth and a goatee. Can you believe it? A real shrink's goatee.'
'Keep away from little men, I always say. They never think they measure up.' Olivia helped herself to more punch, then giggled. 'I hear Zach's got a good long one.'
Any guilt that Laura was feeling vanished. 'Don't be daft. I wouldn't go near him for a starring role in Kor's next film. Especially after everything that's happened.' She wondered how long the others would be. The snow was falling more heavily now, sledging would soon be impossible. She wanted to get out of the cold, she wanted her bed, she wanted . . .
'Why do you keep looking behind us?' Olivia asked. 'Is something out there?'
'Not bloody likely, at midnight in a snowstorm. I need to pee.'
They could hear Damien and Tim exchanging friendly insults in the distance, muffled by the snow. They must still be at the bottom of the hill. Having a snowball fight, from the sound of it. Olivia held out the flask, but Laura shook her head. Her stomach was beginning to slosh unpleasantly, and when she bent to scoop up a handful of snow to suck on, she lost her balance and pitched onto one knee. Olivia merely laughed, blast her, and upended the flask.
'What was it you wanted to talk about?' Laura asked, brushing off her ski trousers. 'The guys are going to come looking for us before long.'
'It's about Max.' Olivia suddenly sounded sober.
'My brother?'
'Know another Max?'
'I thought you said it was about Zach.'
'I did, and it is.'
Laura imagined a nice fat snowball—roughly the size of a football—landing on Olivia's over-endowed chest, and Olivia landing arsefirst on the ground. When they started eavesdropping on thoughts, Laura would ask for a lobotomy. Or something.
'Max has been going off with Zach on his motorbike,' Olivia said.
'What?'
'You heard me. A couple of times this week.'
'Rubbish. Somebody's spreading tales.'
'Nobody's spreading anything, at least not yet. But they will be, if you don't put a stop to it.'
'I don't believe it,' Laura said flatly.
Olivia gave her a withering look. 'Have it your own way. I tried.' She pulled off her cap, shook it free of snow, and jammed it back on her head again. Then she picked up her torch and set off, rather unsteadily, towards the level patch of trampled snow where they'd left the backpacks on a red plastic snow disc.
'Wait!' Laura stumbled after Olivia, clutched her arm. 'How did you find out?'
'You know that stupid dog-walking job I've got after school?'
'The old Newfoundlander who can hardly move any more? I thought you were going to quit.'
'Yeah, well they begged me to stay on.' Olivia mimed crossing her palm with silver. 'Upped my maos. This week she's been worse than usual, they really ought to put her down. I can only manage to drag her through the churchyard, where she usually collapses against one of the gravestones.'
'And?'
'And that's where they meet. There's a lot of shrubs and trees, and it's obvious they don't want to be seen.'
'You're sure it's Max? Absolutely sure?'
'For fucksake, I've known your brother since he was in nappies. Of course it's him.'
'What are they up to?'
'Good question. Ask Max.' Olivia laughed, but her eyes flared code orange. 'Or Zach. Maybe he's training the next generation of terrs.'
The wind flung a fistful of snow into Laura's face, momentarily blinding her. She ducked her head and hugged herself, her mobile a small hard lump in the zipped pocket of her anorak.
'This cold is killing me,' Laura said. 'I've really got to pee.'
'Can't you wait? You're going to freeze your arse.'
'Can't. I'll wet my pants.'
'Frozen arse or frozen pants. OK, let's walk up towards the trees a bit.'
'Wait here and keep a lookout. You know what Tim's like.'
'Want the torch? You might get lost.'
'On Pringle Hill?'
Laura fought her way uphill against the wind. Within a few steps first Olivia and the backpacks, then the glow from the torch vanished like socks, one of a pair always missing through decidedly supernatural means. Abruptly Laura stopped, uneasy. Which of them would be lost, her or Olivia? The walls of Laura's hideout thrashed around her, and for a moment she was tempted to part the snowy white sheets and run from under the dining room table to her mum. Who even back then would have scoffed at Laura's fears.
After lurching up against a clump of wild holly, Laura hunched her back against the gusting snow, removed her mobile from her pocket, and peeled off a glove. She knew she shouldn't be doing this, their calls were certainly being monitored. But she could no more stop herself than drown in the club pool.
Pls cn i cu l8r? she texted.
Within a few seconds she had Zach's reply: no.
She tried again with pls urgent, but there was no further message. Their intermittent voices a beacon, she plunged back downhill to the others, who by now were downing a bottle of absinthe that Damien had nicked from his parents.
Chapter 18
While the dogs feed in the open, Zach and Lev set about unpacking their gear and securing the sledge. Lev cuts some blocks of snow to melt for water, and though not the usual Arctic practice, the hus
kies are allowed to join them inside the tent. After thwacking the snow from their boots and outer clothing, Lev installs a shivering Zach inside a down sleeping bag on top of several insulating pads, then hangs their clothing to dry from a line strung for that purpose. The temperature rises rapidly once Lev powers up the cunning little device on which their supper is now simmering, a stove which also provides heat and light and appears to work on a type of fuel cell. The tent is snug if a touch overcrowded; the dogs radiate considerable warmth of their own, having consumed a good meal of frozen caribou and fish. With one husky fewer, there are more than enough supplies, including two large sacks of dry nuggets, to last till they reach their destination, a hunters' settlement. Zach has been keen to curtail their rest since learning that a 'white seal' has recently been sighted there—a visitor, sacred in some way, and very beautiful—a piece of information which Lev hadn't scrupled to conceal earlier, and all he claims to know.
'I thought you're worried about being followed,' Zach says.
'We're well hidden here.'
They've pitched camp in the lee of a pressure ridge, a wind-sheltered site which a she-bear herself might have chosen as a maternity den. The snow is still falling heavily, and already their tracks have been obscured. Whereas the glow from their stove is sure to be visible at close range, it's unlikely that anyone will happen their way in near-blizzard conditions. There's no coaxing further information about unwanted visitors from Lev; no coercing, no tricking.
'Here,' Lev says, passing Zach a mug of a thick hot soup which smells similar to fresh-ground almonds. And though Zach doesn't recognise its ingredients, it tastes wonderful, with a gingery afterbite. He finishes it quickly, hungrily, wrapped in his sleeping bag.
'What is it?' Zach asks, holding out his mug for a refill.
'Quarsh. A particularly nutritious grain.'
They drink in silence, companionably enough, while the dogs shift and snuffle, the stove hisses, the wind mutters. While Zach mulls Lev's words.
'Where's it from?' Zach eventually asks.