by Tim Scott
It was as though time hadn’t quite made it down this alley, and wave after wave of the years had only lapped at the end of the street.
Had it really been so long ago that Gabe, Marcy, Abigail, and myself had all stood here convulsed with laughter as we watched the Trivia Machine run off because it couldn’t think of any more questions?
A couple of coffee tables slipped out of the shadows and began hassling me with insurance deals before I ushered them off into the night. I should have turned and walked away as well, but instead I headed into the bar—knowing I wasn’t opening a Pandora’s Box of the past, but probably a whole set of Pandora’s Suitcases and matching luggage as well.
The familiar sweet smell of the place greeted me as I let the door flop shut behind me.
Inside it was confusing. It looked the same with its nooks and crannies, bookshelves, and wide beaten-up sofas, but the faces had changed.
And I was struck with the thought that this place didn’t actually belong to me anymore. I had only been passing through.
I was slightly alarmed to see that a country singer had just begun playing up on a little stage—country music is just about all right as long as you don’t give it your full attention. If you do, its credibility collapses like an elk shot between the antlers and you see it for what it is.
Utter maudlin nonsense.
This whip of a girl was cradling a guitar and had her head tilted over to one side so her long hair hung in a wide curtain. She was singing a song that seemed to have the refrain “That’s why Susan became an ostler.” I instructed myself not to listen to it too closely or I would get insanely irritated.
I headed through the wide sofas and battered tables that had been imported from improbably far-off places. The memories came at me thick and fast, but I did my best to dodge them.
Finally I stood dripping at the bar with a scorching headache and ordered fourteen mojitos.
The bar girl had small, pretty features and looked as if she was in that period of life where she believed she understood clearly what things were about. But my order made her hesitate and she seemed about to say something, but she finally changed her mind and just nodded.
Evidently, I looked like I needed them.
Standing here, I felt shoulder to shoulder with so many memories that I might have passed out with the strain of keeping them at bay, so I found a small table and sat down.
Then I took out the envelope the cop had given me and opened it. Inside were five hundred New Seattle dollars, in ten-dollar bills. I mentally raised a glass to the New Seattle P.D.
There were also two VIP tickets to the fireworks at the opening ceremony of the city wall the next night.
The girl singing country music brought her song to a close and smattering clumps of applause broke out around the bar. Someone shouted: “More songs about ostlers!”
“Hell, I only know one other,” said the girl into the microphone. “But I’ll play that later, if you like.”
Eventually the bar girl ferried the mojitos over to my table. I drank one and finally allowed myself to let the memory of that last day wash over me, and I felt it catch at the back of my throat.
The gap Abigail had left hung in the air so palpably I could feel its shape, like a void still alive with its own emptiness.
The image of her came again so vividly I could touch it.
chapter
TWENTY-ONE
She had come home one day, carrying a brown paper bag full of shopping, placed it on the table, and said, “Have you seen the sky out there? It’s like someone has taken the lid off the world.” And then she collapsed and lay in a weird tangle—limbs folded over at strange, unsleeping angles, and the air around her stark with shock.
I had tried to bring her back—frantically—but she was already gone. She was falling through that deep blue sky even as I tried to blow life back into her cooling lips.
We had been married less than a year. That was all.
I could still feel that empty house. And how we had the funeral, and the endless aching tears. How I had tried to carry on with my life, but there was a heavy stupor of death covering everything, squashing away all sense of joy.
How I had left that place and gotten out on the road where there was room to breathe.
I had worked in endless dead-end jobs until I couldn’t stand it anymore and moved on. Always moving on, when the pain got too much to bear.
I had wallowed in self-pity because I was furious at the world for having taken her from me. But more than that, I was furious that I had been unable to protect her. It was childish and stupid, but I was angry.
And then, after much too long, I began to realize that sometimes bad things happen. They just do.
But by then I had become a refugee in my own life, unsure how to go forward.
I had become a stopped clock.
chapter
TWENTY-TWO
Mendes coughed.
He listened while the girl from admin explained.
“Sometimes it stops moving and then insists it’s in Kazakhstan, three thousand miles from any grass,” she said, raising her voice to such a high octave that it was approaching a frequency only dogs could hear. “And that, frankly, it isn’t happy about it. But if we turn it off and then back on again, it carries on fine.”
“Thank you, Sara,” he said. “And if this was a lawnmower and not one of the most powerful computers on the western seaboard, we would have the solution right there. Now, I’d like you to go out and get me some medication.”
“Herbs?”
“No, not herbs. Some drugs. Pills. I have a fever coming, and I need to stop it.”
She put her hand on his arm. “It’ll all be all right. But if it’s not, you just have to laugh, don’t you?” She laughed like a seal that was being machine-gunned.
“Please, be as quick as you can.”
“I’ll get them now.” She left the office and he sat down. Security here didn’t seem tight enough to him. The whole project was supposed to be only known to a few people in the Pentagon.
But there had been rumors in the press. Some journalist or other who’d gotten wind of it had already been complaining loudly that the government should not be allowed to meddle with free will. If people wanted to do something stupid, as long as it wasn’t against the law then it was their right.
He’d gone on about how, throughout history, Americans had always been allowed to do stupid things. Even presidents had been free to be stupid if they wished. In fact, they had been pretty much left alone to be as stupid as they wanted to be, and it was partly that which had made the country great. So this government had no right to start stopping people from being stupid. Having the right to be stupid was all but in the constitution.
But he’d been told the economy just couldn’t handle that sort of idealistic attitude.
There was a knock on the door.
“What?” Mendes said.
It was Kahill.
chapter
TWENTY-THREE
I downed another mojito, feeling the bittersweet kick at the back of my throat and the familiar warm after-burn. But the memories wouldn’t leave me alone.
So I drank most of the night, until it was nothing but a blur.
And when I had run the bar dry of lime and rum and glasses, for all I knew, I stumbled outside.
I sure as hell wasn’t going to run from this city a second time. In the morning I’d track down Nena and see if she knew where I could find that goddamn switch to start my life again. But right now I was going to find her fridges.
I had been to the Cold Compound once as a cop, following up a case that no doubt had a sad ending, and I headed off down the alley with purpose. But the mojitos had blurred my mind so that the layout of the streets made no sense. They veered around corners that shouldn’t have been there, and new buildings sauntered up to greet me, annihilating the New Seattle I had known. I passed a Health and Safety sign that declared: “Don’t fall over. It
can hurt.” The thing was lit up in a gaudy green that spilled onto the surrounding buildings and across the sidewalk. I walked on, feeling the alcohol fuel my steps with a superficial, shivering energy, but my mind was missing one moment in three.
I kept on through the driving rain, becoming more desperate to find somewhere I recognized, and after a while I stumbled out down by the wharfs. The warehouse clock showed 4 a.m. Above it, the huge bulk of an advertising balloon bobbed in the night sky with its light ablaze.
I walked down and watched the rain fall across the water in a spluttering sheet as the drops tumbled from the windless sky and shattered the calm of Salmon Bay.
Most of the moored boats were abandoned to the darkness, but on one, some women were unloading a catch, the harsh lamps throwing pools of fierce, unearthly light around the cold, squat vessel. Rust streamed from the rivets of the panels on the hull, and I could see where the metal of the massive cogs and jib arms had been rubbed raw. It was a savage kind of machinery, speaking of crushed fingers and sailors swept away screaming in the cold, roaring darkness. A shiver ran through me.
Farther along the wharf, blue flashing lights washed past and I knew the police drongles would be trawling the cheap motels and dark corners of the city for me.
Another cop drongle came into view and I dodged down an alley and into the first bar I came to. The place was full of fishermen, some still in wet-weather gear, boisterous and excited about fish.
A group near me shed their yellow coats, which were crudely printed with the name of their boat, the Mighty Fish Finder, and then shouldered up to the bar like it was all their birthdays at once.
These people knew how to live, and it felt like a little oasis of reality in the midst of all this Health and Safety crap. Maybe it was because they had all stared into the face of death more times than an average man could shake a stick at.
I watched them plow into their drinks with fervor. Their weather-beaten eyes seemed to be burning bright with stories, and it occurred to me that perhaps each of the lines that formed rivulets on their face could be traced back to one specific time when their souls had been bared to the real possibility of death.
Their expressions were ablaze with an unbounded sense of life. And in that moment, I loved them for it. In this messed-up city, there were still people who were actually living with a sense of spirit and were not just passing through, filling in time until their lives were over.
Another police drongle scurried past outside.
Sooner or later, they would check this place out. I approached the nearest fisherman and offered him fifty New Seattle dollars for his yellow coat, saying I’d had enough of being drenched for one day. He laughed and handed it to me, telling me I was insane. I partly agreed with him. The pungent smell of fish from it was overpowering.
I pushed my way out through the doors again and onto the street, putting on the coat and pulling up the hood, which muffled the sound of the city.
I looked like a walking yellow beacon, but sometimes it’s better to stand out when you’re trying to hide.
I headed on past the wharf, feeling snug in the coat and still insulated from the harsh cold and rain by the cozy effects of the mojitos. Another police drongle rumbled by, its lights casting long shadows that stretched like witch’s fingers.
But the rain had begun to relent, and the wharf was mostly silent now but for the slap-slapping of the water on the harbor walls and the wind tapping the shrouds against the masts, sending out a long, unanswered cry.
chapter
TWENTY-FOUR
Dawn was still holding off.
The only clue that I had found the right place was a small sign near the door: New Seattle Secure Holding Area for Fridges, Coffee Tables, and Other Feral Electrical Goods.
I walked around looking for a side entrance, circling the rusted, barbed-wire walls. There was one in a side alley. “Four trees have been planted in Australia to offset the poor design aesthetic of this building,” said a small sign. The lock was old and it gave with a grouchy murmur on my third attempt to force it. Inside was gloomy and damp, and somewhere I heard a police radio. A pool of yellow light shone at the end of the corridor. The radio crackled with static and I stopped to listen, but all I heard was my own heartbeat through a thick gauze of alcohol and adrenaline.
I edged in farther, trying to soften my steps over the hard floor. Each second stretched out in my mind until it was the size of Kansas.
I came to the corner, steadied myself, and peeked around. A figure was sitting with his feet up at a desk, his cap tilted forward, and a red gun lying lazily in his hands.
The police radio crackled into life. “Drongle 34, you are cleared to deal with the suspect, but please ensure you have appropriate footwear.”
The guy was asleep.
I moved closer until I could hear the rasp of his breath as his chest slowly rose and fell, filling out a faded uniform that once, as a younger man, he had probably worn with pride.
Now it was his ticket to a retirement pension.
A huge bunch of keys were lying next to him.
“Drongle 34, if you are at all nervous about which kind of footwear to use, call for a risk assessment,” said the radio. “There’s a fifteen-minute wait on Health and Safety at the moment in your area.”
The cop shifted, then settled. When he was still again, I picked up the keys. They jangled softly and, as I moved away, the radio picked up a rogue frequency and a voice with a heavy accent began talking excitedly before fading away.
The Cold Compound was visible through a window to my left and I slipped outside. Most of the cages were empty, although in one a coffee table crashed up to the bars as I passed.
“You want to buy a hedge fund?” it chirped.
“Maybe later,” I said and moved on. For a moment, the next cage appeared empty as well, but then I saw the fridges from the motel room huddled sadly in the far corner, trying to escape the rain.
“Hey!” I whispered, as I tried to find the right key. “We’re getting out of here, okay?”
“Hey,” said one, waddling over. “It’s you! Did you come back for some processed cheese? It’s such a great snack straight from the tube.”
“No, thanks. Get ready to move.”
“Oh, boy, can we keep some beer cold for you?”
“Sure,” I said, still fiddling with the lock.
“One cold beer coming right up!”
“Sh!” I said. “Less noise.”
“Just so we’re clear, I definitely don’t have any pizza,” said the Cold Moose. “Only a carrot so bendy you could tie a knot in it.”
“That’s no problem. This way.” I got the door to the cage open.
“There is some pesto sauce, so you could have that with it. I hear they serve that at some top restaurants now.”
“Let’s move.”
“Shall I make my owl noise again if there’s danger?” said the Ice Jumper, opening its door.
“No,” I said. “No owl noises. Just be quiet.”
“Sure. We’re good at being quiet,” said the Frost Fox, and waddled out. “And we’re very good at quiet singing.”
“Right now, not even humming. This way.” I fumbled with the key to the main gate.
“Okay, but we’ve been working on some harmonies. It’s pretty special.”
“Save it,” I said, getting it open.
“Do you have a plan?” said the Frost Fox.
“I never make plans,” I said, and saw that the small motel-size fridge was still trying to hide in the corner. “This way, little fellow,” I called. “Come on.”
chapter
TWENTY-FIVE
Frankly, walking down the street in a yellow coat with four refrigerators and a spin dryer for company is not the easiest way to keep a low profile. They shuffled along as quickly as they could manage, hugging the edge of the sidewalk, their little feet waddling from side to side, but they were really designed for just getting about the kitchen. Thei
r banter grew more breathless as the cold dawn light chased over the city.
Finally their chatter stopped altogether. The longer we were out in the open, the more chance there was of someone seeing us and deciding to call in a Fridge Detail. But at least it wasn’t raining now, and the dawn sun meandered through the stack of buildings, its white rays diffused by the sweet-smelling clouds of drifting smoke that rose from the remains of small nighttime fires from the poor back streets. Someone had been burning cherry wood, and the odor hung in the air unmistakably. We passed a run-down anchovy emporium, which had a lot of anchovy-related offers in the window, and also some negative press about gherkins. There had always been some hostility between the two food groups.
Next to it was a musical mood stand that had been vandalized and was now playing a Motown track happily to itself. And next to that was a head hack stand that also looked broken. The street booths were pretty basic, and only gave grainy pictures from the last few hours. I watched the rest of the fridges patter past when I realized one of them was missing. I told the others to keep going and went back. Eventually I saw it hunkered in a doorway
It was the Frost Fox.
“I’m not as fit as the old days,” it said. “Back then, I could get to the liquor store, fill up with beer, and get back without even getting tired.”
“You need to keep moving.” I said. “We mustn’t get split up.”
It began to waddle down the sidewalk.
“In those days, I was friends with this washing machine. We once talked about escaping up to Canada,” it said, puffing slowly along. “So one day when everyone was out, we ran around the kitchen to get fit. Made a real mess of the breakfast bar and they had to call a carpenter.”
I cajoled it along until we finally caught up with the others. I could see they were all old models, apart from the Tiny Eiger, and they were struggling more and more over the uneven slabs. Eventually, we made it six blocks, and I began to seriously wonder what the hell I was doing.
This had seemed a decent enough idea through the haze of mojitos back in Mending Things with Fire. But now, as the world struggled to cough itself back into life in the heartless dawn, the whole thing felt strange and desperate.