"I'll drop one by later,” I said, holding my hand out. “Haven't had them copied yet."
"My brother-in-law give you a good price.” He gave me back the picture, feeding it between his fingers one glossy centimetre at a time.
* * * *
Perhaps six months had been enough for the elfin face in the picture to be forgotten. I studied it as I walked along, finding my way by instinct. If I saw the child now, would I recognise her? Would that long blond hair have been left, or cut short, curled, bobbed, dyed, streaked, shaved? Would life on the streets have worn down the planes of her face even further, burrowing hollows into her cheeks?
Would I walk straight past her, just because her mother had left it so long? At least she'd had the sense not to pay Lyons up front. Up front because it was a hopeless case, and once they had the money, they only had to pretend to try.
I worked my way back to the hospital and cased its cardboard city, which seemed to be populated by die-hard Anglo-centrics. They didn't like me (too tanned). Perhaps their dead blue eyes penetrated to the not-dead sparrow in my pocket, and led them to conclude I was weird.
I wondered what the official line would be about Chris. Resting comfortably? Critical but stable? It was hard to find anyone to ask. The corridors were crowded only with patients.
Since I was on the premises, I filched a few loose items. Mostly plastic tubing, but I also got a disposable scalpel set someone had failed to throw away. It didn't even look used. I started coiling the plastic tube into the pocket that still held the sparrow, remembered, and carefully withdrew it. When I touched the bird with one finger, it was alive. How could it live?
* * * *
In back of the cathedral, I came across a market that hadn't been there before. A few stalls in a semi-circle, guarded mostly by kids. I got a good deal on the tubing, ten cents for thirty centimetres, and sold the scalpel set for a couple of euros. Less than it was worth.
With the proceeds, I went to buy a jacket potato from one of the stalls, the cleaner-looking one. The small boy serving—blond hair, grey eyes—seemed familiar. He piled cheese onto my potato without looking at it or at me, served it with his gaze still cast down, and hardly even glanced at my money.
His fingers rubbed the coins together as if he could tell their value by that. He was dirty behind the clean apron and cap. A runaway? Considering this possibility, I went to sit under a tree to eat. The tree wasn't yet in leaf, but cast a tiny amount of shade. At intervals, growths shaped like scallop shells grew out from its trunk, pushing thin shreds of bark aside.
As casually as I could, I dug into my shirt pocket and pulled out my collection of flyers. Some people papered the streets with photos of their missing loved ones, hoping a deserving member of the public would turn them in for money. It rarely worked, if only because we tracers pulled the flyers down.
I sorted through them until I found the boy. He hadn't been missing long. And someone was offering a lot of money for his safe return. Note that word, safe. If I'd found him half-dead, was I supposed not to tell? I got out my phone and called the number on the flyer. It was snatched up after half a ring.
"Yes?” a man's voice said.
"You looking for a kid? Name of.... “I had to consult the flyer again. “Kevin?"
"Yes."
"What's the reward on him?"
"Twelve thousand."
"Says fourteen, here."
I took a massive bite.
"Have you found him?"
The potato was gritty, or my mouth was. Chewing, I glanced over at the stall. The boy was dozing, leaning against the oven. Hard to believe the day wasn't hot enough for him.
"Looking at him right now,” I said.
"All right, fourteen.” He sounded indifferent to the sum. “But I want him unhurt."
"I won't hurt him,” I said. “Can't speak for others."
"Unhurt,” he said.
"I can't speak for others.” Another massive bite. The potato was surprisingly good, cooked right through. One of the new varieties, maybe; it had no eyes. “Do I have your authority to grab him, or not?"
"Go ahead. But try to pull a fast one—"
"Yeah, yeah.” I'd heard all that before. “I'll call you back with a pick-up address. You just be sure to bring the money. Cash. Blue notes. And don't you try to pull anything."
"I just want him back."
"So ice the champagne.” I disconnected, and placed the phone on the ground at my feet. Its battery was almost drained; I'd forgotten to leave it in the sun.
Once I'd finished the potato, I licked my fingers, and only then remembered I hadn't washed after picking up the sparrow. Too late. And why worry, anyway? We were all on the road to death. I put my flyers away again. Some were years old. Why carry them?
Having wiped my fingers on my shirt, I leant back against the tree, pretending to be asleep. The market was too crowded a place, too public, to grab the boy up. Sooner or later, he'd be somewhere more quiet.
For the time being, I contented myself with watching him. Customers took from his stall with hardly any effort. Not that there was much to take, but the paper serviettes disappeared in short order, and soon he was left with no forks. Like the man on the phone, he appeared indifferent. Just getting through the day.
* * * *
About two o'clock, the stallholder came back. A brief dispute was settled when the boy was presented with some money and a large potato dripping with soya in gravy. The stallholder began packing up.
The boy wandered away; I followed. He seemed a strangely dreamy kid, unaware of his surroundings. We went round to the front of the cathedral, then inside, where he tried and failed to steal from the tiny shop. Then round the side streets, here, there, and everywhere, until he made the mistake of going into the park.
Perfect. I quickened my pace, grabbed him from behind, and flung him down onto the parched grass. The remains of his potato scattered. Kneeling on his back, I searched him, finding the money he'd been paid and little else. No knife. He was staring sideways all this time, just staring and trying to breathe. When I pulled him to his feet, he continued staring, not even staring at me.
"Hi, Kevin,” I said. That got a response. He kicked me, and twisted. I hit him, once, twice, across the face, not hard enough to leave a mark. He struggled, warm and sweaty in my sliding grip. I threw him down and sat on him. That was usually convincing.
"You haven't got a chance, against me,” I told him, leaning more of my weight on him. He gasped, and stretched his arms out, scrabbling his fingers through the grass. I thought, too late again, of the sparrow in my pocket, crushed against this boy.
"Don't.... “he said, then gasped for breath.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
"Don't take me back.” He twisted his head round to look up at me. “Take the money. Don't take me back."
I dragged him to his feet.
"Don't give me any trouble.” I tucked his money back into his pocket, ignoring his attempts to get away. “This isn't the movies, I am not the tracer with the heart of gold, you are going to be handed over, and no one is going to help you.” I shook him. “Got that?"
"I'll be your boy."
"Don't want one."
"Keep your place clean, then?"
"Already covered."
"Run errands?"
"Forget it, okay?” Again, I shook him.
"Water your plants?” He attempted a smile. “You've got plants, I can tell."
"Yeah?” I said, and laughed. “Going to tell my fortune?"
"You're going to undergo a religious conversion,” he said.
"Realise the futility of getting money and let me go."
"Don't give up the day job.” I set off, dragging him with me.
* * * *
I had to sit on him again to make the phone call. I arranged the pick-up at a place I'd used before that had an abandoned meat locker. Simple to stuff the kid in there and lock it. Simple for the recently impoverished relative t
o release him again.
The man on the phone seemed to be in a hurry, especially compared to his indifference of earlier. We made the date for that evening, leaving me only a couple of hours to waste at the office. I had to drag Kevin all the way. For such a dreamy, careless child, he was persistent.
Back at the office, I flung him to the floor and made a big show of locking the door with him watching. Rubbing his knees, he got up and went to inspect my plants.
I took the sparrow out of my pocket and laid it on my desk. It looked much the same as ever. Perhaps somehow smaller. I poked it, getting, again, no response. But I knew, as I'd known all along, that it was, if barely, alive.
Kevin picked up one of my spider plants and inspected it.
"Needs repotting,” he said.
"Yeah?"
"Got roots poking through the bottom.” He put it down, and checked another. “And this one."
"Imagine that.” I took the sparrow over to the small sink and washed it. I wasn't worried it would drown. Its feathers darkened and became slicker under the dribble from the tap. Its head lolled.
"What's that?” Kevin said, coming closer.
"Nothing."
"What?” He pressed against me, determined to see. I spread the sparrow's wings, trying to get it as clean as possible, to rid it of parasites. It grew even colder in my hands as the water soaked into it.
"Ew.” Frowning, he looked up at me. “What you want a dead bird for?” A grin spread across his face, dispelling the frown. “Going to eat it?"
"It's not dead,” I said.
"Looks dead."
"I'll give you that.” I reduced the dribble to a drop, and carefully cleaned dust from the bird's eyes. Clean, they had once again that bright, lively look I'd noticed before.
I wrapped the bird in some paper towels and carried it back to my desk. It didn't move. It didn't breathe. Its heart didn't beat. And yet ... it was alive.
"You're strange,” Kevin said. He went back to my plants. Perhaps they were safer, a known quantity. He began pruning a begonia that had a number of yellowing leaves.
Pressing the towels against the sparrow with my fingertips, I dried it off, trying not to watch the boy. He was delicate underneath the dirt, with the pale, almost translucent skin of the true blond. His veins were clearly visible. He was scrawny, his skin drawn tight over prominent bones. Turning my attention back to the sparrow, I spread its wings and then released them. They flopped back into the nest of towels.
Perhaps the bird, too, was puzzled by the non-occurrence of the event for which it was waiting. I smoothed its still-damp feathers. What was there to convince anyone it was alive? Only an elusive quality. I took hold of one foot and pulled it. The body moved in the direction I was pulling. No resistance. No fight.
Kevin's hair had grown out of a professional cut into tufts and lengths that brushed his cheek and neck. His clothes were of the best, with designer labels carefully tucked into places they wouldn't normally be seen. Someone had spent a lot of money on him, once. I could see that when he grew up, he would be handsome. I couldn't see anything attractive about him now.
Be your boy, he'd said. I shook myself. Not my problem.
"What're these red and green ones?” he said.
"They're gene-mods. Leave them alone.” I prodded the sparrow, wishing it would show some reliable sign of life.
"I didn't touch them."
"Continue with that policy."
He laughed. “You're strange."
"They take CO out of the air, and break it down into carbon and oxygen, and.... “I prodded the sparrow again. “We have more breathable air."
"What do they do with the carbon?"
"Build it into themselves. So they grow bigger."
"Oh."
He seemed impressed by the mox-eating plants. So had I been, when they'd arrived on the doorstep. Quite apart from their environmental benefits, they were beautiful plants. And they grew. Very fast, very big, outgrowing their pots within weeks, growing relentlessly taller and wider and more solid. I'd tried planting cuttings, but they never took. Once removed from the plant, leaves and branches shrivelled, shedding all their water and becoming brittle skeletons. Perhaps that had been designed in, too. I had three plants, and the letter that had come with them had suggested, very strongly, that by the end of the trial I had better still have those same three plants.
"And no, you can't have one."
"Do they flower?"
"Not so far.” I looked back down at the sparrow. Had it moved? Hard to tell. It still lay limp and damp. It might just have fluttered a wing. Half-seriously, I took my own pulse, feeling it beat steady and strong in my wrist.
I looked back over at Kevin. He was playing with one of the spider plants, coiling a long, thin leaf around and around his finger. He's worth a lot of money, I told the conscience that was struggling to come back to life in me. And what happens after that is not my concern.
* * * *
"Please,” he said, when we set off for the warehouse. “Please. Please. Please."
"Shut up!” I shook him, using the tight grip I had on his shoulder.
"You don't know what they're like."
"Shut up."
"Please."
"Shut up!"
"I don't like you.” He started crying. “You care about a stupid bird! A stupid bird that's dead."
"It's not dead,” I said. “That's the point."
"It is too dead."
"It's not.” I shook him again. “Shut up."
"I hope your plants die."
Such weak weapons he had. A child's weapons. I shook him a third time, harder than before.
"Everything dies. Get used to it."
"I'll die,” he said. “If you take me back."
"Good."
"I hate you!” He squirmed in my grip, trying to kick me, but I was ready for him. I lifted him off the ground, and stared him in the eye.
"Behave. Or you'll wish you had."
"I hate you."
"Shut up."
When I threw him in the locker, he spat at me, and missed.
* * * *
"Where's the kid?” Obviously no relation of Kevin's, being black, he also wasn't the man I'd spoken to on the phone. Muscle, probably, hired to facilitate the handover. He had a small bag at his feet.
I showed him the photograph I'd taken back at the office.
"He's safe. Nearby.” I watched him make a point of checking out the photograph. Kevin had that day's paper clutched to his chest and a puzzled expression. His eyes were screwed up tight against the flash.
"So?"
"So, you hand over the cash, I tell you where he is."
"It's here.” He shoved the bag over to me with the side of his foot. “Any funny business, you're dead."
"Yeah, yeah.” I gave the bag a massive kick over towards the exit I'd picked, and then followed it, scooped it up, and held it against my chest. There wasn't time to count the money. But I did dig down deep into the bag, select a bundle of notes at random, and riffle through it. All blue notes, all genuine, so far as I could see. Maybe these guys were on the level.
"The kid?” the man said.
"Go up there.” I pointed. “There's a meat locker. He's inside."
"You stay right there."
"Yeah.” As soon as he turned his back on me, I turned mine on him, and bolted.
I took the exit I'd already selected, and from there climbed onto the roof. I had no intention of going far, as in my experience they never expected me to stick around. Taking a bundle of notes out of the bag, I gave it the go-over. The notes were genuine. Maybe I even had the right amount.
From the roof, I could see a car parked, a shiny diesel-powered Mercedes. There might have been someone sitting in the passenger seat, but I couldn't be sure. After a while, the black man came out, alone, and leant in at that side of the car. He was apparently talking to the someone whose outline I'd tried to puzzle into a human shape.
; Hadn't he found Kevin? My instructions hadn't been complicated. The conversation went on for some time. Then the black man walked round to the driver's side of the car and got in. With a whine from its engine, the car drove away.
A sick feeling started in the bottom of my stomach. Not your concern, my conscience reminded me. I zipped up the bag and went back down to the locker. The door was open. Inside, Kevin lay curled in on himself, as if sleeping. I bit my lip, and forced myself to kneel down next to him, to touch his bloodied cheek. He was alive.
* * * *
When the hospital stonewalled my enquiries about Kevin, I went to see Chris instead. He hadn't yet graduated from the corridor. He lay still, giving the ceiling his patient stare, but when I touched his arm he was smiling.
"Feeling any better?” I thought I saw his eyes flicker, but there was no other response. I took his hand in both of mine. “Chris?” Blood had soaked through his dressings, then dried.
I wasn't at all sure he was going to make it. I didn't think Kevin was going to make it, either. And if I had to choose? Which of them would get the bed, if it were up to me? Supposing there were a bed.
Chris and I hadn't parted on friendly terms. I'd reminded him of our agreement—that I would train him in tracing, in return for which he'd work with me for a further two years. He'd said the agreement no longer applied, as he hadn't the stomach for it. He wasn't a cold-hearted bastard like me, he'd said.
He'd have said I should have let the boy go.
I found a chair and sat down beside Chris's trolley, holding his hand. I held on for a long time, while the corridor got darker and one or two lights flickered into life, and one just flickered. While people went this way or that and a woman with a smelly bucket mopped the floor around us and someone somewhere screamed in pain.
Finally a nurse arrived, and took a cursory look at him.
"When did he die?” she said, checking her watch.
"He's not dead."
"Obviously he's dead.” Using her palm, she closed Chris's eyes. “If you don't let go his hand, you'll be going down to the morgue with him."
"He's not dead.” I raised my head and looked at her, and saw she was exasperated.
GUD Magazine Issue 0 :: Spring 2007 Page 2