He thrashes in my grip, but I don’t let go. It’s only when the fight has gone out of him, when ululation thins to a whimpering moan, when I feel the cigarette connect with vertebrae, that I lean down to hiss: “You going to behave?”
He nods and gasps air through the hole in his neck.
“You going to stop pretending you’re some kind of hard-ass? You going to cooperate?”
He bobs his head again. The eyes at his neck foam with tears and blood.
“Good.” I pull away, still holding the sodden cigarette. “Now, tell me everything about McKinsey.”
The foreman stutters through his exposition, a beaten dog, hand closed over the weeping injury I’d left him with. Nothing he says surprises me. McKinsey was your typical working-class lug. Liked drinking with the lads, liked meat, football, and especially fresh skirts, the kind of girls barely on the right side of legal. Real Alpha Joe. Up till a few years ago, at least, when the London riots burned through the city.
He apparently started getting real revolutionary then. Head in the clouds. Started talking about transcending boundaries, being more than just meat perambulating through life. The boys thought it was hysterical at first, but then more and more people began paying attention to what he said. McKinsey went from mascot to blue-collar messiah, summoning his mates to a future electric with 4K televisions and upper-class eating.
“He ever talk about his kids?”
The foreman, voice and appearance mostly restored to normal, doesn’t quite flinch. “Sometimes.”
“What he say?”
“Typical shit. Loves them. Thinks they’re gorgeous. Says he’s lucky they’re not girls, or he’d have to share one day.” And he laughs, a rat-ta-ta-ta kind of noise this time around, like knuckles banging on a locked door.
“He ever said anything weird about them?”
“No.” Yes, says the cock of his head, his sideway stare, his halfway grin. The foreman drops his hand from his neck and begins swiping his fingers along his trousers. Already, the wound is closing.
I roll the options in my head. “Can you get him to come into the office?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Here, I see his eyes light up. Satisfaction laps at the twist of his scowl, even as he thins his gaze. “Because he just finished his shift.”
I’m not even surprised. “Next time you see him, tell him Mr. Persons is looking for him. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll come calling at my door.”
I leave the address to my office, scribbled on a blue square of cardboard. The foreman says nothing, just keeps his stare pointed forward, face mangled by hate, some of it his, some of it borrowed. I start toward the door, then hesitate at the threshold. Under my rage and my disgust, there’s an urge to put this horror right. No one deserves this slow dissolution of muscle and self. I’ve seen his affliction. I know where it’s going. I know how it ends.
“Hey. You.”
“What?” The foreman’s a lump of coal at his desk. Already, he’s whipping out a bottle of cheap hooch. No glass. Just a half-emptied reservoir of liquid numbness.
“You really think McKinsey’s a good guy?”
“Yeah.”
“Even knowing what you do about the moron?”
“Listen, buddy.” A cork is popped and the room floods with a cleaning-fluid aroma. He takes a loud swig. “Every man’s got a little bad in him. If we spend all our time judging people for one wrong, we wouldn’t have enough left over to get on with it. Besides, there are worse people out there.”
“I see.”
It’s all I need to hear. I set my last cigarette between my teeth, light it up, and turn the corner. The foreman and his new pal, they deserve each other, could eat each other up for all I care. When the smoke settles, I’ll come back and set fire to whatever’s still writhing on the floor.
* * *
I find my way into the old Caribbean joint. It’s smaller than I remember. Half of it’s been transformed into a bare-bones grocery, all essentials, no luxuries. What remains is fragrant with allspice and roast chicken, a heady chiaroscuro of flavors and memories, enough to make a dead man’s mouth water.
“What can I get you?”
I look up through wet hair, still dusting my coat off, rain sluicing off my fingers. The server’s a pretty brown girl with a halo of dreadlocks and a Star Wars varsity jacket over her uniform, her smile precociously savvy. She—Sasha, declares the nameplate pinned to her breast—slants a look at me over a battered copy of Dune.
“Jerk chicken, steamed vegetables, rice and peas?”
“Sure.”
She struts into the kitchen, confident, cocky, humming a tune I almost recognize, leaving me alone in the empty restaurant. I slide into a booth and breathe out, the memory of the foreman’s debasement sitting heavy on my gut. I probably should have done something, should have slit his throat, quarantined the factory. Something. Anything.
“You want some soup while you wait, monsieur?”
“Sorry. What?”
I jolt. Somehow, the girl had managed to sneak up on me while I was contemplating my navel. Sasha wipes long pianist fingers on her apron as I gather myself, a smile hanging off one corner of her mouth. The body reacts to her proximity, not unpleasantly. An almost imperceptible quickening of the pulse, an increase in temperature. Who knew pretty dames could still give the old man a rise? “I asked if you wanted some soup.”
“No. Thank you. I—”
“It’s free.”
That brings me up short. “Pardon?”
“It’s free,” she repeats, a laugh gilding the rich, smooth contralto of her voice. “On the house. No extra charge. We had some left over from last night, and you look cold.”
“I—”
“Don’t worry.” Something jagged touches her eyes, but it stays for only a fraction of a breath before she smooths it under a practiced smile. “I’m not hitting on you. Don’t even swing that way.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her self-assurance untangles a laugh from my chest. It turns into a cough partway through, but it doesn’t matter. Sasha answers in kind, expression bright, like she knew from the start where it’d all end. “So, soup? Yes? No?”
“Yes.”
She nods, firm, a bull passing judgment. Having acquired consent, the girl leaves again. She’s not gone long. When she returns, her arms are laden with food. I try to stand up, try to take the tray from her, but she tuts me back into my seat.
The spread is divine, voluminous, a king’s ransom in meat and crisp, crackling skin, in sauce and spice and spring greens. The soup is the lightest offering, delicately sweetened, a composition of pumpkin and onions, roast marrow left to steep. As I devour my meal, the girl folds into a seat.
“You look like a man who hasn’t eaten in years.”
I flick a glance up, suckling my fingers clean. “You could say that.”
The answering smile is distracted, distant. I watch as she scrutinizes the bare wall opposite our table, one arm slouched over the back of her chair, the other flat on the table, fingers drumming an irregular beat. Then, without warning, her attention swings back and her smile broadens into mischief.
“What are you doing in Croydon, mister? You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
“I’m here about a case.”
“A case? That’s exciting.” Her eyes gleam, feline, impish. “What kind of case?”
“The details, as they say in the business, are confidential. But I could use any help I can get. I need the dirt on a guy.” It’s barely been five minutes, but I’ve bulldozed through half the food already. Her question barely invites a pause. “A man named McKinsey. He lives about a block, two blocks from here. You might have seen him.”
“Don’t know the name. But I might know the face?”
I shake my head. “Haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the guy, so I can’t tell you what his mug looks like.”
“How do you not have a picture of him?”
“Long story, sister.” I put my cutlery down and steeple my fingers. “Anyway. McKinsey’s a family man, if that helps. Got a skirt that’s about five feet, real skinny. Blond. Blue eyes. At least one boy. About ten, maybe? Mediterranean-looking.”
Her expression alters. She recognizes the description. There’s no mistaking it. Not in the flash in her big, brown eyes, or the way the muscles in her neck gather and tense, her jaw closing with an audible clack. When she finally speaks, it’s with intense suspicion. “Yeah. I know him.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Nothing. He’s bad business. That’s all you need to know.”
“Does he come in here regularly? Does he have friends? A favorite order—”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
She breathes out, and I catch it then: the ghost of its scent, winnowed down into something fleeting, barely there, but still unmistakable, camphor and burnt pine wood, leavened with dried gore.
I make a leap. “Did he hurt you?”
And land on the money. Sasha’s eyes grow round, glacial. “I think we’re done talking, monsieur.”
“He did, didn’t he?”
“I don’t—”
I snake a hand out and trap her wrist.
—a simian jaw, cheeks too wide and face too ugly, a lizard stare, heavy, hanging with sins. He won’t let her go, holds her elbow with a dog’s death grip on its favorite bone.
“What are you doing?” Her blood thumps against my skin, hummingbird shivers.
She pushes him. He slaps her. Her head ricochets backward. Impact. A crack of pain blurs her vision to red. She looks up as he wrenches her forward. Up into eyes—there are so many of them, like constellations, like unclean galaxies—and more eyes, a nightmare of sclera and blue.
“Get out of my head.” The images break against Sasha’s voice, the sound filled with an indisputable authority. Her memories contract to a pinpoint smear of light. I’m flung out even as she pitches back in her seat, half-rearing, a snake enraged, chair screeching. Sasha’s eyes flare wide. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Someone who wants to help.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“You want him to do that again? To someone else?”
Sasha shudders like a frog someone had rigged up to electrodes, limbs spasming without direction. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t fucking presume anything about me. You—” She swings her head, left, right, left, an animal prepared to charge. “God. You think you’re better than him? Than them? Just because you’re trying to help?”
“I’m not just trying to help. I told you. I’m on a—”
“Case.” She finishes for me. In her anger, her t’s disintegrate, her sentences accelerate, frenzied, halfway to local creole. “And that makes it better? Because you’re doing it for money?”
“I—”
“You want something, bruv? You ask. You ask me like I’m a person. When I say no, you fuck off. What you do to someone’s head and what you do to their meat, it isn’t much different, you hear? You don’t take what you’re not given. Get me?”
“Yes.”
Her rebuke knocks the wind from me. I remember when somebody else said that to me. You don’t take what you’re not given. I had laughed, then. But I’d asked. And he laid open every room of his mind, every chamber of his being, and it was better, better than anything else I’d experienced and any body I’d ever inhabited.
I scan Sasha’s features, distorted by rage. Briefly, I flirt with the idea of an explanation, of telling her that this transference of thought, this neural osmosis, is as intrinsic to my being as breathing is to hers, that it wasn’t an attack, just circumstance, that I’m better than this accidental violation, and this form is proof.
But it would have sounded like an excuse, because that’s exactly what it was. She was right. I shouldn’t have done that. So, I hold my tongue instead, watch her as she sits with the bridge of her nose crushed between fingertips.
After a long while, she breathes out sharp and slumps, arms tucked under her breasts.
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” she says at last, slow, guarded.
“Them?”
“Those.” Sasha repeats, picking through the words like a minefield. “Immortals. Dead Ones. Star-spawn. Elder Things. Great Old Ones.”
The last name dries my mouth. “I’m not an Old One. Not even close.”
Sasha holds my stare before she drops her chin in a surly nod. “Okay.”
“But you’re not completely wrong.”
Our eyes clinch. I can practically hear the question, lying subcutaneous beneath the silence, held in check by propriety. The scholastic longing in her gaze almost tempts me into exposition, penance for my misdemeanor. But I don’t. Some stories, you keep in the deep.
“How . . . how did you know I was different?”
A shoulder ripples upward. “How do you know the sky’s blue? It’s like that. Like the knowledge that comes with breathing, with knowing when you’re hungry, when you’re cold. Exactly like that.”
The words slip from her, one after another, and when they’re gone, Sasha simply stops. A beat. And she breathes: “You really want to know about the guy?”
“If you’re willing.”
Her mouth crooks a rueful smile. “He isn’t that special. Lots of people like him these days.”
“What?”
Sasha drags a nervous eye over the restaurant before she speaks again, a finger scratching at her collarbone. “Been like that since the riots a few years ago. When I was little, I’d see them once every few years or so, tall and too thin. Always smelling like saltwater. Like my Nan. But since the riots? They’ve been everywhere, brother.”
“De—” I catch myself. “The ones like your Nan?”
“Sometimes,” she replies, too lost in memory to pounce on my slip. “Usually, they’re a bunch of chavs. Loud, crazy-like. Their skin”—Sasha half-clenches a fist in the air, fingers twitching, features contorted, as though she were considering the elasticity of something repulsive—“always look diseased. Psoriasis, I want to say? One of those. I don’t know. But yeah. Real ugly, you know?”
“Like McKinsey.”
She makes a face. “Like McKinsey.”
I push to my feet, palming the back of my neck, Sasha’s memories a mouthful of bile, souring my tongue. “I—about earlier. I’m sorry.”
“I want to say I forgive you. But I can’t. When you were in my head, I was in yours. I know about the man you’re wearing. I know what you are.” She shutters an eye, her smile tense. “Sorry. I know you don’t mean harm, so there’s that.”
The bell above the door chimes silver as the street disgorges a Chinese family—a mom in a pinstripe suit, a patriarch in tweed, two and a half kids, all solemn as a funeral—into the restaurant. Sasha turns, hand smoothing through her hair, a professional smile, nuclear in its brilliance, already reattached to her face. “Be with you in a second!”
She looks back at me. “You want to make it up to me? You don’t stop where the money ends. You find out where they’re all coming from and you take them out. You hear?”
Under the weight of her ferocity, I can only nod.
3: RAW DEAL
We have to.
“Why?” I demanded, when his cries were too loud to ignore.
Because we are the only ones that can.
* * *
You know how they say you never forget how to ride a bike? Magic’s like that. Deeper, even. The knowledge of it inks itself on the inside of your bones, as does the practice, the methodology of execution. You can’t unlearn it any more than you can unlearn the symbiosis of ventricle and aorta.
I stroke the razor across my arm. Three deep welts: one for every god devoured, every world forgotten. Blood wells, bruise-green, runnelling off my skin and onto the
city map, branching into a thousand smaller tributaries, a million cilia to puncture the strands of hair I’d pinched from Sasha and the foreman.
I breathe.
In my head, a ghost squirms and shivers.
A hissing noise froths and builds, builds and froths. The follicles thrash like something alive, even as the blood continues to creep, mapping itself to the blueprint of the city, hue altering, shading to orange.
“Oh, kid. What did you get yourself into?”
There were entire streets outlined in ochre, neighborhoods throbbing lymph-yellow. I fumble for the cigar in my drawer and ignite the bulbous tip with a flick of my fingers. As a rule, I don’t like spending power, but the body, the body wouldn’t let me rest until I did something. Anything, rattled the man that once lived in this skull, rags and bones and memory, but somehow still stubborn as capitalism.
So, I did my voodoo and he kept his part of the bargain, settling to uneasy dreams once more, even as the flesh frayed and stuttered. That’s the other problem with power. It likes things its own way, and very often, that doesn’t include maintaining the cohesion of genetic structure.
The flame shimmers blue and oily, oozing over my knuckles, before I dismiss it with another snap. The map’s not done transforming yet. I breathe out smoke rings as it continues to change, darkening to pus, to abattoir colors teeming with rot and warning. I was wrong. There isn’t just one kid to save. There’s an entire city waiting to be pulled out of the fire.
I drum my fingers against the desk. I hate being wrong.
The blood begins to congeal, hardening into reams of rusty cornelian. A good man would have started planning for a counterassault, a one-person crusade against the encroaching dark. That man wouldn’t be me. I do what I’m paid to do, and no one’s cut me a check to save the Big Smoke.
Or the girl from the restaurant.
Please.
Another breath of too-expensive tobacco. I can feel her presence, saltwater and old libraries, glowing like a miniature sun. Her existence is a protest, a rebellion, a clarion demand to bend the world into a better place. People like her either ride the space elevator to the constellations or get cut down in dark alleyways.
Hammers on Bone Page 2