by L. Lee Lowe
'I hope we're not killing ourselves for nothing,' Zach says.
Lev secures the last webbing strap across their supplies box—lighter than aluminium, some kind of alloy. Normally clean shaven, he hasn't bothered in the last few days, and his whiskers have frozen to his face mask. He grimaces as he pulls it free to speak.
'There's no other hunting camp within reach. Bella is doing her best, but going back to base would take us far too long, even if we retrieved the rest of the supplies. In the Arctic, hunger is as much a killer as the cold. Because of the cold.' He casts a look behind him, then gazes out towards the ice with all the appearance of a man with time on his hands.
'Maybe you ought to play a round of Pace,' Zach mutters sullenly under his breath as he bends to attach Bella's harness.
Lev too has moments when he needs to prove something. 'Be a good boy scout, and I might just whip you up a cosy iglu and an even cosier supply of seal.'
'Fuck your—'
'Take it easy, lad, your learning curve is flattening by the second.' He goes to the sledge, burrows deep into one of the packs, and returns with the clarinet case. 'But I'm glad you've reminded me of my little toys. Here, it's best you keep this on you, alongside that nifty pocket knife of yours.' He hands Zach the clarinet. 'And though you may not feel inclined to believe me right now, you can trust me. No matter what happens, just remember to keep practising.'
'Yeah, blowing my guts out is a great way to end it all.'
All trace of levity vanishes from Lev's face. 'They call you Corvus. How about trying to live up to it?' He sees that Zach is about to protest. 'No, be quiet and listen to me. I may not get another chance. You should pay attention to your own myths. Like the one in which, at the beginning of time, Raven made the world.'
In exasperation Zach swings round to Bella, who is a much more companionable companion, and who probably would talk much more sense too. As he squats to fondle her head, he can't help thinking of Max. Is he OK? Knowing that you're needed, desperately needed, by someone who has come to feel like your squirrelly kid brother is daunting—humbling—but it's a reason (on good days) to keep breathing, not any of that Corvus crap. Christ, he thought that at least here he'd
The blow knocks him sprawling on top of the dog.
Bella yelps and manages to scramble out from under, but Zach is pinned facedown in the snow by an enormous weight. Then he hears a groan and rough breathing, realises that it's a body lying on top of him. An injured body, by the sound of it.
'Lev?' he tries to say, but his face is mashed into a drift, and his goggles have been pushed askew. He works his face from side to side, small paddling movements, until he's able to suck in some air. 'Lev,' he mumbles frozenly.
The weight on Zach shunts sideways just enough for him to scull his arms beneath him, looking for purchase. He hears Bella's whimper in the background, then a low voice which raises his adrenaline level sharply. Bracing himself on his elbows, he tenses. The smell of urine is strong now, and he wonders what damage he'll do by heaving Lev off him—if it's Lev. But he's not about to wait passively for what's coming.
The choice is taken from him. A grunt, and the body is rolled away. With a movement like a fish flipping on dry land, he's over and ready to spring. For the first time today he's grateful for the gruelling terrain, which has kept them from using their stubby skis.
A figure is leaning over Lev. Zach has only time to make it to his feet before the man straightens and aims an outstretched arm at Lev's head. There's a burst of light. A sound like a balloon bursting. In one rush the air escapes—then nothing, nothing left to breathe.
With a howl Bella springs.
'Don't kill her!' Zach hurtles across the intervening distance, raising a fine shrapnel of frozen powder. Her sharp yelp is lost in the carnival roar of mortality. Is that a laugh he hears from the croaker who's done this?
Wildly he spins round. 'Lev—'
Snow, whitewashed clean.
He drops to his knees at her side, pulls off a mitt, feels for a pulse in her throat. She's not breathing. Oh god, she's not breathing. Shakes her, too roughly. 'Breathe, damn you, just breathe!' Dips a finger in the blood seeping from an ear. Puts it to his lips.
'You needn't have swallowed,' he told Laura.
'I wanted to,' she said. 'I wanted you to know how I feel.'
Nothing left to breathe.
The instant before blackness descends, Zach sees other figures like golden specks at the edge of his vision, a shower of chevrons drifting downwards from the sky, parachutes—no, wings—fluttering and folding gracefully behind them.
And in the middle distance, an indigo-tinted shadow, barely perceptible, which quivers like milk set to boil. Seismic stress. Then the image sharpens into a small hummock, canted to the leeward—a hummock that is stealing forward soundlessly with its nose in the snow and its hindquarters slightly elevated.
Chapter 27
His head next to hers at the window, Zach murmured something inconsequential about her hair. He noticed such things—a pair of new earrings, the smell of the lemon juice she'd used as a hair rinse. There were so many questions Laura wanted to ask—needed to ask—but none found its way past the ticking of his heart, the minutes slipping into memory. She couldn't tell if he were afraid, or resigned, or planning some impossible simu stunt; nor did it seem to matter much, though one part of her whispered, do something, you're mad wasting these last moments to escape, or at least draft a convincing story. But the room was so still, his breathing so soothing, so moth-winged that if she were given the chance to choose a single moment of her life to last for all time, she'd be content to stop the clock at this one.
'Your skin is singing,' she said.
He said nothing, but his arms tightened around her, pinioning the melody between them.
'How close are they?'
'Not long now.'
She felt a shiver go through him, which always frightened her; it reminded her of that first evening at his flat, and how terribly vulnerable he could be. With a shiver of her own, she glanced behind them, and her pulse jumped. Near the corner bookshelf stood a tall, thin man clothed in light. In another century she might have thought, angel, but there was nothing remotely angelic about his appearance, and his blue eyes gleamed with intelligence, amusement too. A scar like a cubist smile accented the corner of his mouth, and a chunk of something an art collector would covet winked in his hands, splattering miniature rainbows across the walls and floor as he tipped it towards her.
'Zach,' she cried, tugging him round and pointing.
'What?'
Nothing there. The doors were closed, the room sunny, all the shadows accounted for. A few dust motes, not even a cobweb.
'Do you believe in ghosts?' she asked.
Zach's laugh startled even the dust motes.
'I'm serious! I saw someone—OK, maybe something—standing in the corner.'
'Unless you dad's been messing with holography, it must have been your imagination.' His eyes returned to the window, lashes briefly trembling like mothy wings. 'The mind does odd things when you're nervous.'
Now she too could hear the sound of approaching vehicles. 'Zach—'
'Don't worry, it'll be OK. They'll take you home.' He lowered his voice so that Laura found herself straining to hear him, and still she had to repeat his words to herself like a cryptic joke before they made sense. 'And I deserve what's coming.'
*****
Three policemen; the fat one kept fingering Zach's hair.
Outside, the sun had become an over-friendly tourist whose bright smile and hectic chatter would arouse any immigration officer's suspicion—a smuggler, maybe an asylum seeker, by all means a foreigner who had no bloody right to their corner of the universe.
Three policemen: one fat, one jumpy, one avuncular. The nervy bloke reminded Laura of a hairdresser, and in fact his hair was raked and sheeny, scented too. Without being asked, all three had unzipped their jackets and tossed them onto the sofa.
They were armed.
Only three policemen: Laura kept telling herself that this was a good sign, they would have sent a much larger squad if she and Zach were reckoned dangerous. She wanted to slap the fat bloke's sluggy fingers away from Zach, who seemed oblivious of all but the pattern of sun and shadow on the floor, though he answered each question politely. Remotely, as if he'd prepared his answers long since and needed only to reel them off by rote.
'I asked you for the names of your mates,' the fat one said.
'I don't have any mates.'
'Your cell, fuckhead.' He yanked at Zach's hair.
'Take it soft, Gordon,' the eldest man cautioned. He'd stationed himself next to Laura and smelled of fried onions when he opened his mouth. He was the only one with a wedding band, which he liked to slide back and forth over the lower knuckle of his ring finger. After a while Laura noticed a pattern to the movement: it speeded up whenever Gordon spoke.
'Hey, I'm good, Dave.' Gordon leaned forward and whispered something into Zach's ear. Laura was watching Zach closely. How did he manage to stay so calm?
'I think I'd best ring my parents,' Laura said.
'They've already been informed,' Dave said. 'I'll be taking you home as soon as we finish here.' He smiled. 'Early start, long drive. Why don't you make us some coffee? A couple of sandwiches?'
Laura glanced quickly at Zach, but he didn't meet her gaze. It came as no surprise when Dave followed her to the kitchen, but his apology seemed genuine, and he helped to butter bread and lay the tray. 'I've got kids of my own,' he said, 'a bit younger than you, what are you doing with this terr?'
A tight grip on the scoop, she spooned ground coffee into the filter and poured on the boiling water. The brown sludge rose above the brim, cambering in defiance of logic and gravity. She daren't jar it.
'You've got it wrong. He's a decent person.'
'You can still sort it for yourself. All you have to do is say this mulac forced you, held you prisoner. Nobody will blame you, Laura. A typical case of the Stockholm Syndrome.'
'What's that?'
'And if . . . I mean it's easy enough to claim he . . . you know . . . molested you. I can call for a woman officer and a doctor to meet you at your parents' house. You wouldn't even have to go into headquarters.'
'You mean say he raped me?'
'It happens a lot with these augers.' Dave indicated the bruise on her chin, the one she'd got when twisting her ankle. 'There'll be a quick trial, afterwards the court will order involuntary castration. It's the best solution. I'm all in favour of the Striker plan to fix every one of them at puberty, makes them docile.' He hurried for the dishcloth. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, but you've got to think about your own future. Everyone's future.' He mopped up the spilled coffee while Laura went to the kitchen window and hugged herself to keep from shivering. This time he made the coffee himself.
'Ready?' he asked.
'He did not kidnap me. And he most certainly didn't rape me. He hasn't touched me at all, not at all, do you hear? He's a friend from school. I held on to him while we rode here, nothing more. I'm not going to lie to make your job easier.'
'If you were my daughter, you'd have learned more sense by now.'
*****
The three of them drank their coffee while Zach sat on a chair and counted sunbeams. Laura tried unsuccessfully to catch his eye. The jittery bloke reminded Laura of a little kid who needed the toilet. He sat down, crossed his legs, took a bite from his sandwich, sprang up, walked to the window, blew his nose on a monogrammed handkerchief, picked up a stray bit of charred wood and chucked it into the fireplace.
'For godsake, Lyle,' Dave said, 'sit down already. Your coffee's getting cold.'
Lyle and Gordon exchanged glances. With a complicit nod and a smile Laura found difficult to interpret, Lyle perched on the arm of the sofa till he'd drained his mug in a few hasty gulps. Laura was surprised: he was the sort who would eat fastidiously, never slurp or smack his lips or belch. She transferred her attention to Gordon, who winked when he noticed her scrutiny. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one with a novelty lighter which must have come straight from a lap club, and exhaled through his nostrils, entirely at ease. Sandwich forgotten, Lyle had gone back to pacing. What were they waiting for?
Zach raised his head. 'I want to ring a solicitor.'
To conceal her relief, Laura finally poured herself some coffee, but she needn't have bothered. The policemen were paying no heed to her.
'What did you say?' Gordon asked.
'A solicitor,' Zach repeated calmly.
Ignoring the plates, Gordon balanced his smouldering cigarette over the edge of the tabletop, then stood and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, hitched up his trousers, and refilled his mug, but this time added no milk or sugar. For a fatso he was light on his feet. He stepped behind Zach, and with a smirk in Lyle's direction, emptied the steaming coffee over Zach's head. Zach jerked sideways with a gasp.
'You said something, crossfuck?' Gordon asked.
So much for relief.
Lyle left off pacing but couldn't keep his feet still. Dave's ring must be eroding the top layer of his skin. On a rackety impulse, without thought or reason, Laura glanced at the corner of the room where she'd glimpsed that odd figure. The air felt grainy, as if the harsh sunlight had fused the dust motes to glass. It hurt to breathe.
Zach straightened his shoulders. With the heel of his hand he brushed his hair from his forehead, then lifted the hem of his jumper to wipe his face. Each movement was slow, graceful, choreographed. And utterly provocative.
Don't, Laura pleaded silently. She'd seen Zach when he got this way. Please don't.
'I have the right to a solicitor. I expect you have a mobile phone between you.'
The blow knocked Zach to the floor. Laura cried out, and Dave grasped her arm to keep her from rushing to Zach's side.
'Let go of me,' she hissed.
Dave ignored her. 'I'll take the girl to the kitchen.'
Lyle's eyes were glittering, feverish almost, and there were two spots of high colour under his cheekbones. 'Why? Maybe she'd like to watch.' He danced forward and yanked Zach upright while Gordon picked up his cigarette to take a deep drag. He might have been at a party, except that at a party you don't jab a burning fag into your mate's cheek. This time Zach wasn't able to suppress a cry of pain.
'You bastards.' Laura twisted and swung for Dave, momentarily forgetting his firearm. 'You're policemen. You can't do this. I'm going to—'
Dave slapped her face, hard. She fell back, tasting blood, while tears spurted into her eyes—pain, rage. And that sliver of fear making its way towards her heart.
'Don't you dare touch her!' Zach said, lunging forward. 'I'll kill you if you touch her again.'
Gordon's lard evidently concealed a layer of muscle: cigarette dangling from his lips, he restrained Zach easily, as though dealing with a childish tantrum.
'Threatening the police, are you now?' Dave asked in a pleasant fatherly tone, a pleased tone. Kids needed to learn, it went with the job, like changing nappies or assigning chores or checking homework.
Why did they always say you went cold? The palms of Laura's hands began to itch, and her aorta had become a blow hose distending the mass of hot glass now lodged in her chest. She said nothing, however. These men would pay for an excuse to use their fists on Zach. For weeks afterwards she wouldn't be able to smell tobacco or hair gel without gagging. She never touched fried onions again.
Lyle clapped his hands together, breaking the silence. 'Moth,' he giggled, wiping his palms on his trousers. Laura stared at him.
After one last drag on his cigarette Gordon crushed it underfoot. Releasing Zach, the wanker indicated the pistol under his armpit. 'Take off your jeans.'
'Let's go, Laura,' Dave said. 'No struggling, it'll go harder on you—on him—if you act like those nutters who resist arrest.' He clamped one hand to her upper arm, pressed the other to the flat of her back, and be
gan marching her towards the door.
'Hold on,' Gordon said. 'She's staying. Let her see what happens to cunts like this. Maybe next time she'll think twice before shagging one of them.' To Zach, 'What are you waiting for? You want Lyle to cut them off?' From somewhere a knife had appeared.
Dave seemed to hesitate, but at a gesture from Gordon he sighed and propelled Laura into a chair. In the meantime Zach hadn't moved, though Laura could see him beginning to shiver, and his face had paled. The burn mark on his cheek must hurt; it had already blistered into an angry statement.
Gordon pulled out his shirt tails, hoisted his vest, and scratched his white belly, almost hairless except for a few straggling reddish curls. 'Take them off.'
Now Zach looked at Laura, his eyes the colour of sewage. 'Never.'
'You want to change places with her?' Gordon asked. 'Fine by me.' He removed his gun and balanced it like a toy on his palm, then with his thumb toyed with what must be the safety catch. Off on off . . .
Zach closed his eyes. 'Please,' he whispered, 'not in front of her.'
'Move it,' Gordon said.
Zach's hands were trembling so much that he could barely manage his zip.
'See that she keeps her eyes wide open,' Gordon said to Dave once Zach's jeans finally lay at his feet. 'Now your pants, cunt.'
'No! NO!' The words tore like a salvo from her throat when she saw Gordon holster his gun, open his belt buckle, and begin to undo his trousers. 'Oh god no, please no.'
'Shut up,' Lyle said, 'or there might be an accident. We wouldn't like to be accused of police brutality.' Again that giggle.