Always

by Nicola Griffith

  “Rusen’s directing?”

  “Yep.”

  “He’s done it before?”

  “In film school. The real director walked out. Said he couldn’t work under this kind of pressure.”

  We looked beyond Rusen, who no longer looked like a chess prodigy but like a teacher on a field trip with twenty psychopathic schoolchildren, to Kick.

  “Who’s that standing with her?”

  “Bernard. The stunt guy.”

  “He’s not the same one who was here the other day.”

  “No. He left with the director. Bernard’s a beginner. Kick says that if she doesn’t babysit him, he’ll bolt. It’s a something-and-nothing scene: jump over a table, roll, pretend to hit someone. But he’s pretty inexperienced.”

  Kick was talking intently to Bernard, who was nodding. He was only an inch or two bigger than Kick. I wondered why she didn’t do it. Dornan probably knew; he always seemed to know these things. Without her white coat, the deep V-shape of her torso and the wide shoulders and narrow waist were clear: a high-diver’s body, or a trapeze artist’s. Her hair was clipped up, and tiny muscles in her neck moved under the skin.

  She looked different. Better. “She seems . . . less tired.”

  “Yes,” Dornan said.

  He sounded almost smug, and I started to feel prickly and restless. “It’s hot in here.”

  “The air-conditioning is so noisy we have to keep shutting it down. People keep forgetting to turn it back on again between takes.”

  As I watched, Kick mimed a ducking turn for the stuntman, who was looking dubious. She moved easily, a quarter horse to the racehorses: powerful, nimble, responsive, intelligent, present. The thing around her neck swung out and banged back against her breastbone.

  “So what’s with the rent-a-cop?” Dornan said.

  “Um? No idea. But he won’t be around long. What’s that thing around her neck?”

  “A fan. She doesn’t do well with heat. I wish she’d use it.”

  I hadn’t known her long but I couldn’t imagine Kick buying something like that for herself. “So is it going well, the filming?”

  “Well, yes. I think. People are focused, and Rusen seems to know what he wants. Though they haven’t actually done any filming yet today.”

  “No?”

  “No. Rusen’s been running everyone through the rehearsals. It’s complicated. The second-biggest sequence of the whole pilot.”

  I nodded, not really listening. Kick was now turning her chin into her chest, gesturing to the stuntman, watching him do the same.

  “You still don’t know the plot, do you?” Dornan said.

  “No.”

  “Have you even read the treatment?”

  “Whose treatment?”

  “The treatment. The story outline.”

  “Why don’t you tell me it?”

  “And you’ll listen?”

  I turned to face him. “You have my undivided attention.”

  “Okay.” He seemed mollified. “There’s this woman, Vivienne—that’s Sîan, of course—who wakes up one night and she’s naked, and alone in the middle of a big city.”

  I nodded. Wisps of strategic steam.

  “She has no idea who she is or how she got there. And she’s just recovering from the shock when she sees the dawn, and as the sun rises, phhttt, she turns into a fox.”

  “A fox.”

  “It’s pretty cool—metaphor made concrete: foxy woman and all that. Anyhow, the fox, naturally, has no clue about anything. I mean, it’s a fox. So then night comes again, and, phhtt, the fox turns into the naked woman, Vivienne, who once again has no clue, et cetera. Only this time, she remembers, after about an hour of shivering naked behind a Dumpster, that she woke up the day before in the same position and then somehow lost time.”

  It was interesting how he assumed a vaguely American accent to tell me all this.

  “So she spends the rest of the night thinking and planning, stealing some clothes, scrabbling for food in the Dumpster, et cetera. Day comes, phhtt, she turns into a fox—”

  “You don’t have to keep saying phhtt.”

  He blinked. “Oh. Well, so she turns into a fox. Fox runs around, eats a bird, all that fox-type stuff. We can use stock nature footage for that. Did you know that foxes live all over the city?”

  “Yes. Go on with the story.”

  “So night comes”—he made a flicking phhtt gesture with his right hand—“she turns back into Vivienne—that’s easy, apparently; you just do a shimmering dissolve—”

  “Dornan.”

  “Right. So, anyway, she’s Vivienne again, she doesn’t know anything, but this time she remembers in about ten minutes that she’s done this a couple of times before and trots off immediately to her Dumpster, where she finds the clothes. Which she puts on. And this goes on for a while, with the cycle getting shorter. Eventually she makes friends with other people— street people, to begin with, of course, all of whom, for budget reasons no doubt, seem to live in the warehouse district—which is complicated by the night-as-woman, day-as-fox shapeshifting.”

  “The Ladyhawke part.”

  “Right. Eventually, through a series of events that, frankly, seem a bit muddled to me, but Kick says will get cleared up in the editing, she gains allies, learns about the fox transformation, makes sure she’s protected while she’s an animal, and starts trying to work out who she is, where she came from, and what happened. With me so far?”

  I nodded.

  “And it turns out, there’s this bad guy—I don’t know if he’s an evil corporate research scientist or an evil government agent, but he’s evil—”

  “And lives in a florist’s shop.”

  “What? No. That’s one of the friends. Lots of friends. It’s an ensemble show—that’s the Dark Angel part, that and the government thing, and that it’s in Seattle. Where was I?”

  “Lots of friends.”

  “Well, there will be, if we ever get to do a series and not just this backdoor pilot. Anyhow, this guy does something to Vivienne, only that, it turns out, is not her real name . . .”

  Kick was . . . not frowning, exactly, but getting tight around her cheeks and eyes. The stuntman was looking young and frightened.

  “. . . this afternoon’s sequence comes just before the end, where the bad guy has followed her to her friend’s place, the florist, and is sending in the hard lads.” Now the American accent was slipping and he sounded very working-class Dublin, the way he did when he was ebullient. “Lots of action. Viv and her friends fighting for their lives. But all surrounded by greenery, d’you see, instead of the usual shite blowing up. It’s cheaper. And what that means is it’s all internal work for the actor.”

  “In addition to the stunts,” I said.

  “Well, yeah. The stunts. No one’s exactly sanguine about that. Rusen asked Kick to give Bernard some unofficial coaching.”

  Now Kick was pushing the sleeves of her shirt up in frustration. “As well as doing the food?”

  “No one’s exactly eating the food. Partly, you know, because of what happened. Partly because, well, who could eat in this kind of atmosphere?”

  He was right. The tension was building again. Kick slapped the stuntman on the arm, and he clenched his jaw and walked forward into even more intense light towards what I assumed was his mark. The tweakers left Branwell, who now drew herself up to her full five feet five inches.

  “Okay, everyone. Going hot in thirty. Let’s go.”

  The building hushed. “Twenty-five,” a voice said. Branwell looked like a brown-furred fox: sleek, well fed, bright-eyed. The stuntman looked like a moron. “Twenty.”

  The countdown continued. Joel listened intently to his headphones, then gave a thumbs-up to Rusen, who looked at the camera operators, who appeared to ignore him, the way heavy machinery operators always ignore lesser mortals.

  “Ten.”

  Branwell had her eyes closed. Rusen smiled at the stuntman encouragingly. H
e looked as though he needed it.

  “Five. Four.” Rusen pointed to the cameras, and to the clapper operator, and nodded to Branwell. “Go now.”

  The lights seemed suddenly brighter, the greenery more green, Branwell’s face more alert. She took a great, shocked breath, swung around, flinched—and, “Cut!” shouted Rusen, and the entire set burst into applause.

  “Fantastic,” Dornan said, “bloody fantastic.”

  “That’s it?” Bernard hadn’t even done anything.

  “No, that’s just the beginning. But she nailed it. First time. That’s great. That’s a good omen.”

  All around me the termite mound was heaving again: swinging of lights, the rushing of hair and makeup, the nervous pacing of the stuntman, the furious note-taking of two different people. I started for the craft-services table, but Kick was no longer there.

  “Okay,” Rusen said, “ready again in thirty.”

  And everyone hushed, and this time the scene lasted almost seven seconds, and again Dornan’s face brimmed with delight, and again everyone clapped. Bernard still hadn’t done anything. I watched the intent, focused bustle.

  I didn’t understand a bit of it, but it was mesmerizing, as urgent as a trauma team working at the scene of an accident. In the middle of the fourth scene, Branwell’s key light went out with a pop.

  “Hold!” Rusen called, and everyone froze to the spot. Branwell closed her eyes and went even paler. Rusen looked at Joel.

  “I can have it changed out in about five minutes,” Joel said.

  “I need it in two, Joel,” Rusen said.

  “The engines willnae take it, Cap’n,” someone said—Peg—and everyone smiled.

  “Aye, aye, two it is,” Joel said, and I understood that for two minutes you could hold together the mass delusion that this was possible, that one could make a sellable, watchable film from two bobby pins and a roll of sticky tape. Five minutes would leave time to question the miracle. Every person in the room was willing the impossible to become real with every fiber of his or her being. Magic wouldn’t wait. Technicians worked frantically, stripping gels, repositioning, rechecking light levels.

  Kick appeared at my shoulder. She looked supple and alive. She nodded at the stuntman. “He’s in a flop sweat.”

  She wasn’t sweating at all, I saw. And her breath smelled of strawberries. On my other side, Dornan shifted.

  “Makeup,” Rusen said conversationally, and pointed his chin at Bernard. They rushed up and started powdering his face and neck.

  Without the surrounding dark rings, Kick’s eyes seemed brighter and softer. Every individual cell seemed to be humming.

  “Places,” Rusen said. “In thirty.”

  And again, Bernard did nothing. Again, Branwell nailed it. Everyone was grinning. There were high-fives.

  “Don’t get cocky now,” Kick murmured to herself, leaning forward so far I thought she might topple over. The black plastic fan on its black cord hung down like a plumb line. Her waist was tiny. My hands could span it easily. “Not yet. Not yet.”

  “Just this one, then we’ll break for a half hour,” Rusen said. “Places.”

  The whole room was focused on Bernard, but my focus was split between the actors and Kick, who was practically quivering.

  “Going hot. In five, four, three, two. Now.”

  And Bernard ran under the lights, tripped over his own feet, rolled with a crash into a stand of greenery, and got up again, looking dazed. No one yelled cut, no one made a sound, but Kick twitched. Bernard leapt over a chair and rolled again.

  “And cut.”

  No applause.

  “Bernard, are you good to go again?” Rusen said.

  He nodded.

  This time he ran, leapt, rolled, and by Kick’s gush of relieved breath I understood it had gone well. Everyone was grinning. I was, too.

  “Thirty minutes, people,” Rusen shouted. “Thirty minutes.”

  “Excuse me,” Dornan said, and headed to the bathroom. The huge main doors rolled open, and the brilliance of the lights dimmed for a moment until my eyes adjusted to the different spectrum of the sun. A roar started near the ceiling. Someone had remembered the AC. People flowed out into the sunshine.

  Kick and I turned to each other. We stood close enough for me to see the loose weave in the stripe that ran over her hipbone.

  “I got your flowers,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. You’re looking well.”

  “You’ve lost weight.”

  “It’s hard to eat when food tastes like something shoveled out of a crematorium. ”

  Her face sharpened with professional interest. “Still?”

  “Worse, if anything.”

  “And I thought it was just people not wanting to get drugged again— not eating my food. Jesus. Okay.” She nodded to herself. “Okay. What tastes the worst?”

  “Scrambled eggs.”

  “Other eggs?”

  “Any eggs. Especially boiled. And milk smells terrible. I’ve been drinking my tea without.”

  “Butter?”

  “Not good.”

  “In what way?”

  “Sulfur and smoke.”

  “Fish?”

  “Some are fine. Some aren’t.”

  “But fruit is good.”

  “Yes. Not all vegetables.”

  She was nodding again. A wisp of hair slid gracefully from its clip. “Like broccoli.”

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  She brushed aside the question, briskly, impersonally, like a doctor. This isn’t about me, it’s about you. “I have some ideas about what might taste good. Though, hmmm, is it the taste or the smell?” She was talking mostly to herself.

  “Everything would taste better if I could find whoever did this and bang their head on the wall.”

  She laughed. “That sounds like you mean it.”

  I shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

  “I thought you owned things.”

  “That, too.”

  The stripes in her trousers flared and stretched from waist to hip, ran in muscled lines down her thighs. Someone brushed by me. I turned, glad of the distraction. Peg and Joel, carrying milkshakes, laughing for a change. Behind them was Bri, the bony-faced teenager, and his friend, with greasy paper sacks. His brother was dying, and he could still eat.

  “Fast food,” Kick said, misinterpreting my look. “No one even drinks my coffee anymore.”

  “Then why do you stay?”

  “Because I’m stubborn. They won’t be willing to eat fast food forever. And the minute they change their mind, I’ll be ready.”

  “All right. How about now?”

  She looked me up and down, raised her eyebrows. I nodded. “Okay, then.” She took off the fan, dropped it on the counter, and busied herself with the urn. “It’ll take a minute to make fresh.”

  “No cream.”

  “No cream.”

  People were flowing back in. Cool air eddied from the door and the ceiling. Once she had the coffee on, she got a can of soda from the fridge. Instead of popping it open, she ran it across her forehead and the inside of her wrists.

  I laid my hand on hers. “Not the wrist.” Her hand was so small. “Lots of nerves in the wrist and the side of the neck. If you put something cold there for long enough, those nerves will send a message to the rest of the body saying, Hey, it’s cold out here, and all the peripheral blood vessels will close to preserve heat. Those blood vessels are what dissipate heat. So if they close, you won’t cool down. Here.” She let me take the can. I ran it slowly down the outside of her arms, smearing condensation over her smooth skin. I took her hands, one by one, rubbed the can over the backs then palms, tilted her chin, followed the curve and hollow of her face, slid the can to the back of her neck.

  She looked up at me. “It was good, what you did with that rent-a-cop. Just leading him out without fuss. Maybe you just act nicer when you wear a dress.” I didn’t say anything. “Yo
u said last week that you wanted my help.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s trade. I talk to you, I get you as my food guinea pig.”

  “All right.”

  “Then come to my house for dinner. Supper. Nine o’clock. You know where it is.”

  “Yes.” I brought the can back to her cheek. Moisture from the can trickled down her neck, as far as her collarbones, which rose and fell, rose and fell. I wondered if the water would still be cool or whether it would have warmed running down her skin. “If you really want to stay cool, you should wet your hair. The heat generated by your head will dry it, and the evaporation will cool you down.”

  “What are you doing?”

  We turned. Dornan. Holding a red-cardboard-bound script.

  Kick stepped away and took the can from me in one smooth move. “She’s telling me to go soak my head, in the nicest possible way.” She put the soda back in the fridge, got herself a bottle of water.

  “You should use the fan I got you.” Kick pretended not to hear him.

  “Is that the script?” I said.

  “What? Oh, yes. Here.” He held it out. “You should read it.”

  The air conditioner fell silent.

  I hefted the script in one hand. Nine o’clock. “I’m going back to the hotel,” I said to him. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll stay awhile,” he said. “But thanks.”

  LESSON 7

  OUTSIDE, IT WAS STILL OVER SEVENTY DEGREES. INSIDE, THE BASEMENT AIR-CONDITIONING unit set in the wall rattled like a garbage disposal with a spoon stuck in it. I turned it off. It would get hot. Tough.

  I handed out the five polystyrene weapons and lined the women up opposite their unarmed partners.

  “A lot of us are scared when we face an edged weapon—a big knife, a broken bottle, a razor. If and when that ever happens to you, the first thing you do is breathe, the way we learnt two weeks ago. Do it now.” They did. In. Out. “Now that you’re sure you won’t pass out, the next step is to demystify the weapon. Look at the weapon—Tonya’s bottle, Kim’s bread knife, Sandra’s razor, Suze’s ice pick, Jennifer’s KA-BAR—and ask yourself: Why is your attacker carrying a weapon in the first place? To boost their confidence? To instill fear in you, his victim? To hide behind it in some way? Then you ask yourself what the potential power of the weapon is. How sharp at the tip? Is it edged? How long is it? What kind of damage can it do? So, for example, an ice pick isn’t very long, and it’s not much use for slashing or bludgeoning, but it’s great for stabbing.”