by Lee Winter
Requiem had nothing but contempt for men like this who could not control themselves. And wearing the badge that he did meant Moore was a hypocrite to boot. His mother must be so proud.
He strode off as if he was god’s gift to policing, and she wondered, not for the first time, how such an individual with so many anger issues had been put in charge of an entire police unit.
As Moore passed, he tilted his bulbous face in Requiem’s direction, giving her a view of a spider’s web of broken capillaries. He was a walking advertisement on the merits of sobriety. Moore spat on the footpath and plodded off down a side street. Requiem’s lip curled in disgust.
She glanced at her watch again and wondered what was keeping her target. After a week of following her, Requiem now knew Ryan was a creature of habit. Exceedingly dull habit.
Leave home at 8am. Reach her government office at 8:52am. Emerge from the tower at 12:03pm, buy the same salad on whole-wheat sandwich, bottled water or coffee (white, two sugars)—depending on the weather—and apple (Granny Smith) each day at the same sandwich bar, Toast Amazeballs. Return to work at 12:27pm. Exit the building at 5:03pm. Home by 5:55pm.
The only variation was whether she took a train or drove. That decision seemed random. Though Requiem was sure, given enough time, she would figure that pattern out, too.
She appeared to have no friends. She also never left the building with anyone, as others often did.
Ryan’s home life, Requiem had discovered, was as uninspiring as her work existence. Ryan cracked the door to her seventies suburban home at 5:30am, peered up at the weather pensively, and crept outside in old house shoes and a robe— worn over her pyjamas—to collect her newspaper.
It usually rolled into the agave patch, which the neighbour’s feral cat liberally fertilised during the night. Ryan always frowned and gingerly pulled the paper out and wiped it down on the dewy, half-dead grass eking out an existence on the tiny front lawn. Then she’d sigh, look resigned, and pad back inside.
Like clockwork, every single day.
Half an hour later, her mother, Elsie, bellowed for her tea and her meds and complained loudly about everything else.
Ryan’s family appeared, so far, to be comprised of just this abusive, acid-tongued mother, and Requiem’s surreptitious poking through the letterbox contents over a week had confirmed it. All mail went to Elsie/E. Ryan, and it was as though her daughter had been rendered invisible.
Elsie was by turns furious, bitter, or, when a visitor called during the day, sweet as a peach. After a week, Requiem knew precisely how the elder Ryan liked her tea, food, meds, and life—the polar opposite of however her daughter did it.
Not that Alison ever complained. God forbid. The tortured woman never said much of anything to her mother. She just took it. Requiem was starting to wonder if killing her would be a mercy.
At 5:09pm the reason for the target’s delay was clear. Requiem edged forward to the office building, her phone now pocketed, and watched the security guard attempting to hit on Ryan.
The muscled ape seemed to be making an artform out of stroking her arm while trying to simultaneously flex his biceps. This was not an achievable feat as it turned out. She edged closer. For god’s sake, the woman wasn’t in a petting zoo.
Ryan shook her head at him, her mouth pulled down in a grimace. As Ryan firmly and politely yanked her arm back, she said sorry repeatedly. Requiem didn’t even need her lip-reading skills to follow what was happening.
Requiem’s nostrils flared. Sorry? If it had been her, the man would be the one apologising. And then probably pissing his pants.
Finally free, Ryan exited the building with a tight expression and surprising speed.
Requiem forced herself back into the zone, watching which direction the quarry was headed, noting her body language, pace, and turn of her head.
This was Requiem’s forte.
The art of surveillance was to know the nature of man. All humans, from cleaners to CEOs, from spies to drug couriers, were creatures of routine and habit, making them hopelessly flawed. Even the most formidable opponent, skilled in the art of defence, would still have cracks.
So, the key to getting close to this prey was all about knowing her rhythms, profiling her well, and walking in her shoes until you virtually share the same blisters.
All Requiem needed to know was who she was at a cellular level, not her lists of crimes or infractions. And, of course, she had to stay unseen while gathering this information.
Requiem had once tailed a legendary former agent for a week without him knowing. He was an ASIO asset turned underworld figure so skilled in the spy game he’d been dubbed The Master. So, when she finally cornered him, it was immensely gratifying to see the man staring at her from the doorstep of his safe house, one hand still frozen on the key in the lock he’d been turning.
“How?” was all he asked, his voice cracking.
She merely smiled. How? He was arrogant and flawed. He had looked right at her dozens of times in the previous week and never seen her. She’d just been some housewife out shopping that he’d dismissed as a no one.
This was the art, and at this particular game of cat and mouse, Requiem was unmatched. She quickened her pace behind her target and mused at how galling it was to use her gift on a quarry so far beneath Requiem’s skillset.
Ryan was clearly clueless to the point of oblivious. Requiem suspected she could walk right beside the woman for ten blocks and she wouldn’t even notice.
There was a faint leakage from Ryan’s headphones, and she tried to stitch together the musical strains she could hear to work out the composition’s name.
She identified the piece after a few more blocks of trailing her. Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel. So the little mouse had a decent musical palate, Requiem would give her that. They neared the parking building entrance Ryan used when she wasn’t catching the train. But instead of going inside, the woman kept walking.
This was new. A few quick lefts, then rights, and a left again and the unthinkable happened.
Alison Ryan disappeared.
Requiem stopped cold, eyeing the inner-city alley in front of her. Her neck snapped around. She should have been right here. What the hell? She was about to retrace her steps when her prey stepped out from behind a large green industrial bin and folded her arms, glaring.
“Are you following me?” she asked furiously. She plucked her ear buds out and shoved them and her MP3 player into her bag.
Requiem started and glanced over her shoulder.
“Yes, you. Lady with the fuck-’em-all attitude. Are. You. Following. Me?”
Requiem scowled. So the mouse had teeth. “Why would I be following you?”
Ryan tilted her head. “That’s what I was asking myself. You’ve been following me since I left work.”
“Or going in the same direction.” Requiem gave a slow smile. “You really should see someone about that paranoia.”
Ryan glared at her. “I notice you didn’t answer my question. So here’s an easier one—if you aren’t following me, where are you going? There’s nothing much of anything around here.”
Requiem didn’t respond. She didn’t answer to anyone and certainly not to her quarry. She pushed aside the small part of her brain impressed at having been spotted at all, let alone so quickly. She’d never had the tables turned like this. And by an amateur?
Requiem stared her down, unmoving, unflinching, and damned sure she wasn’t about to start answering questions.
Ryan’s expression became more suspicious. “Who are you?” She shifted her weight from foot to foot, as if deciding whether to run.
Up this close, it became apparent that Ryan wore no make-up at all. The woman appeared fit and fine-boned. In her own way, she had an arresting, sincere look, veering towards pleasing. But it was obvious she wasn’t aware of that.
Her hair had been pulled back from her face in a short, brown ponytail highlighting her high cheekbones and pale skin. No freck
les. No lines. She was unblemished, which made her highly unusual in the circles Requiem moved in.
Ryan suddenly plunged her hand into her bag and wrenched it out again. She held a small canister in her fist.
Requiem was startled. Irritation for her slow reaction flared. Stopping to admire a prey’s flawless skin-care regime could get her ass in a hole in the ground.
“I have capsicum spray, in case you think I’m worth robbing,” Ryan warned. “Trust me, it’s not worth it. Your eyes will feel like they’re on fire.” She pointed the canister menacingly at Requiem.
She looked so earnest, so ferocious—like a puppy that thinks it’s a pitbull—that for a moment, Requiem was derailed. She stared at her in surprise before she regained her equilibrium.
Then she suddenly laughed. It was absurd. All of it. Requiem took a step forward, daring the little mouse to react. “Well go on then,” she goaded her. “I’d mace me, too, if you really think I’m some threat.”
Ryan’s hand twitched as though she really was contemplating a pre-emptive strike.
Honestly, it was adorable. Requiem had to chuckle at her ballsiness. She shook her head and ambled over, closing her hand around the small fist and its cargo.
Requiem lowered her voice.
“I really don’t think though your fresh mint breath spray will have quite the same impact as capsicum. Do you?”
She prised it from her hand, studied the label to confirm her guess, and then gave her a knowing smile as she handed it back.
“Oh,” Ryan said. “I didn’t think you could read the label from that far away.”
“I have excellent vision.”
Ryan rammed the small canister back in her handbag and studied her. “I really don’t have any cash on me.”
“I’m not robbing you,” Requiem sighed. “Do I look like some two-bit, back-alley thug? She pushed her dark sunglasses to the top of her head and gave her an exasperated eye roll.
Ryan suddenly blinked in surprise as she met her eyes.
“Oh,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I know who you are!”
Requiem’s eyebrow cocked. “How exciting for you.”
“You…you’re that cellist. With the VPO. Right?”
“I’m well aware of who I play for.” That came out more annoyed than she’d intended so Requiem smiled her best public smile, the reassuring one that contained a few teeth but didn’t look as terrifying as it usually did.
“Guilty,” she added in her most charming tone.
“And now I know why you’re here, too. God, why didn’t you just say?”
Ryan seemed so cross, Requiem wanted to laugh again. She resisted the urge as Ryan continued.
“Okay, well, since we’re both almost here, we may as well see what the fuss is about, right?”
Requiem nodded, unwilling to ask the obvious. Ryan grinned suddenly.
“I only got emailed the new password an hour ago. I hope it’s worth it. Been looking forward to this all month.”
She took off down the alley.
In spite of every howl of protest her brain shouted at her—she was supposed to be following her target, not engaging with her—her legs were propelled along in the slipstream of this diminutive woman, completely without Requiem’s permission.
After a block more, Ryan stopped outside a worn red door. She glanced up at Requiem, excitement in her eyes. “I’ll do the honours.”
She rapped three times and, when a small window was shoved open, said: “Yo-Yo Ma.”
The window closed again. A few seconds later the door opened.
Beyond it was the interior of a small, dark club. The smell of spirits and the thick, dull clang of ice bouncing into glasses hit Requiem at the same time. To the right of the bar, which ran down the left wall, was a spot-lit stage, with instruments being set up. She was too far away to determine much more.
“Coming?” Ryan asked, cocking an eyebrow. “I’ll even buy the first round to make up for accusing you of being a ‘two-bit, back-alley thief.’ Fair?”
She headed into the dark bowels of the musical club, leaving Requiem standing on the threshold.
She should just go. Disappear back home. Feed her goldfish…to her cone snail. Put her frozen lasagne on to heat. Work out how to kill Viktor Raven without his new bodyguard blowing her head off.
Besides, it’s not like she could continue watching Ryan any more. Incognito was no longer possible. She still wasn’t sure how the other woman had noticed her. That spelled danger in its own way.
So, really, the safest and most logical course of action would be to just disappear back into the alley. Leave her prey to her night out. She started to pivot away from the club.
Ryan, now at the bar, shot her wide, guileless smile and waved her over.
So innocent. Requiem contemplated her. Innocence was like catnip to assassins, she was sure of it. Against all her better judgment, she took a step forward. Then another. And a third.
Natalya left Requiem outside, cooling her heels, while she stepped forward, drawn into the warmth.
Chapter 4
They were seated at a small round table to the side of the stage. Ryan was nursing some sparkling concoction that smelled like lemon, lime, and bitters. Natalya had acquired a sealed bottle of water—the closest thing to a biosecure drink she could find.
On stage were eight musicians, to use the term loosely, banging away at an array of experimental instruments she’d not seen since she first studied music in Vienna. String Theory, they called themselves.
Their cult leader was, clearly, the revolutionary American composer Harry Partch. He was revolutionary because he wanted a classical music revolution, not because Natalya actually liked the caterwauling of the quadrangularis reversum, eucal blossom, and lord knows what other of Partch’s invented instruments had been squeezed onto the stage. The players appeared to be posed, trance-like, as their implements produced sounds the human ear was never meant to be exposed to.
Ryan sipped her sugar-rush drink, and her bright, excited eyes took their fill.
“Well?” she asked enthusiastically, when the musicians paused to wheel in a new creation of musical torture.
“Cats in heat are only slightly less atonal,” Natalya noted. “Although the gourd tree and cone gongs are very pleasing. To look at.”
Ryan’s expression fell. “Oh. I thought you’d really like it. It’s like rebel music. Breaks all the rules.”
“You think I break the rules?” Natalya asked, wondering what the hell had given her away.
“No,” Ryan grinned and slurped her drink again. “I think you believe the rules don’t apply to you.”
“Based on?”
Ryan shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s the way your eyes weigh up everything around you and dismiss it as inferior.”
Natalya started. That was an eerily accurate assessment. Her lips twitched in amusement.
“So, based on this theory, you thought I’d like a wailing wall of sound that disregards the golden rules of twelve notes per octave and squeezes in forty-three?” she asked.
“Yes. I thought you’d believe arbitrary rules are meant to be broken.” Ryan ran her finger down the condensation of her glass, drawing abstract patterns.
“Some rules should never be broken,” Natalya said with certainty, leaning back, regarding her with hooded eyes. “Some rules are so perfect, they should never be challenged. Twelve notes per octave gives us a purity of sound that is so balanced, it’s like the building blocks of life. It’s as clean as pure mathematics. Would you argue that zero should not exist?”
“Zero?” Ryan shook her head, looking baffled. “What on earth has zero got to do with anything?”
“Maths didn’t make sense without it,” Natalya said, and took another sip from her bottle of water. She was starting to wish she’d gone for vodka now she’d heard the on-stage entertainment. “Even so, its invention led to raging philosophical and even religious debates. But its inherent beauty could
not be denied in the end.”
“So you’re saying that ‘nothing’ is beautiful?” Ryan laughed. “Right.”
“Adding silence to a song can be important. It can empower the notes around it. So yes, zero can be beautiful.”
Ryan paused. “Okay, sure, I’ll give you that.”
“And once something is accepted as so perfect, so logical, so pure that it makes such universal sense, why would you ever go back and try and change it? This xylophones-on-acid cacophony,” she waved at the stage, “is an insult to every purist.”
“You’re a purist?” Ryan considered her. “I guess I just assumed most musicians would like to be daring and try new things.”
Natalya gave her a small smile. “I can be very creative when I wish. But the rules, the building blocks of music, are immutable. The foundation should not be shaken.”
“Or else?”
Natalya pointed at the stage. “Chaos.”
“You really don’t think anything that plays with the basics of music is worth a listen?”
“No,” Natalya said, no doubt at all in her mind. “Never.”
Ryan said nothing, and Natalya studied her. She was clearly trying not to say something.
“Well?” Natalya taunted. “Don’t hold back now. You’re on a roll.”
“You’re wrong. You’re rigid and you’re wrong,” Ryan said defiantly. “I bet I could find you some experimental music that you’d like without your purist world ending.”
“That’s a bet you would lose.”
“I don’t think so. In fact, I know I could do it.”
A challenge. Natalya’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. This was new.
“Tell you what—send me a traditional piece of music you think is so perfect that it can’t be improved upon,” Ryan said, rifling through her handbag, pulling out a notepad and pen, “and I’ll send you music that breaks every rule—and yet you will love it.”
She wrote down a mobile number, then passed her pen and pad to Natalya, looking at her expectantly. “Sorry, I left my phone at home or I’d just, you know…”