The table moved. It jolted, spilling Spike’s pens and tipping his coke can over. He was so busy swearing and mopping up the mess, it took him a minute or two before he thought to look under the table for the source of the bump. There was nothing there. The old Victorian rug was as flat as it had ever been. Spike felt along the floor until he felt daft crouched under table and got up to get another drink.
When he came back from the kitchen, his homework was gone. There was no point looking around the table for it, because the table was gone too. Where it had been, there was a jagged hole. As Spike watched in amazement, the last of the rug slipped over the edge. Spike inched forward and peered into the hole. There was nothing to see, but he got a better view than he expected when the lip of the hole broke away and he was tumbled down a rough rocky slope into the darkness.
“I knew I should’ve left the homework til tomorrow.” Spike thought as he fell.
The slope gave way to a wide pavement. Spike noticed that the slabs were regular and even as he rolled across them. A little light filtered down from the jagged hole far above. Spike stared up at it for a minute, wondering how much more of his dining room might be joining him shortly.
“Harumph.” said a gruff voice behind Spike, “Are you responsible for all this rubbish?”
Spike turned warily and looked round. Then up. And up. Above him, standing quietly on the pavement, was an elephant. It wore a Sherrif’s star and a disapproving expression.
“Er, rubbish?” asked Spike, playing for time.
“This rubble, might be a more accurate description. Is it yours? It arrived at the same time you did.”
“Well, I hardly think that makes it mine. It used to be a floor in my house, but Dad always said it was his house. So I suppose this rubbish,” Spike nudged it with his foot, “is his, if it’s anybody’s.”
The elephant looked solemnly at him.
“I think you’d better come with me.”
Spike watched as the huge beast moved out of the faint circle of light. He looked up again but saw no way to climb back up to his home.
“Only have to finish my homework if I went back there anyway.” He decided and slouched after the elephant. Behind him, half buried under a former floor, a crumpled exercise book lay forgotten.
The elephant was not easy to follow. As Spike stepped uncertainly into the darkness he heard no sound of its footfalls. Nervously he edged forward, hands outstretched.
“If you close your eyes and count to ten,” said the elephant’s voice very close to his ear, “Your night vision will improve.”
Spike tried hard not to show his surprise and did as he was told. When he opened his eyes after ten seconds, the darkness had resolved into shades of dark grey. The elephant loomed large in the corner of his eye.
“For a large guy, you’re pretty light on your feet.”
“I did tap lessons when I was a lad.”
“I can picture that.”
It was difficult to tell in the half-light, but the elephant seemed to be looking at Spike with disapproval. After a moment it turned away.
“Follow me.”
It lumbered silently away and Spike shuffled after it.
“I think you meant ‘Follow me, please.’ he muttered. Elephants, no manners at all.
The walk was easy, now that his eyes had accustomed themselves to the gloom. The paved slabs were flat and well laid and aside from the fact there was no road it was just like the pavements Spike knew from his morning trudge to school. He had been watching his scuffed trainers mooch along for five minutes before he could read the mud spattered logo on them. He looked up and held in a gasp of surprise. The was a street ahead of him, and on either side of the street, houses lurked. Yes, they lurked, huddled back from the paved street as if avoiding contact. They were gently curved buildings with huge arched doorways and deep set windows, giving the appearance of a startled face.
“Great big elephant houses.” Spike said to himself. There was no sign of the elephant who had been leading the way, so Spike took a moment to look back. The street led back into the darkness. Walking into the gloom was an unappealing prospect, especially since he would have to attempt to climb a near-vertical rocky slope to explain to his father what had happened to the dining room floor. With a sigh he turned back to the street.
The elephant was there, still as a statue and with a similar unreadable expression. There had been, as before, no noise to warn of its presence.
“You stopped.” it said, in an accusing tone.
“That I did.” said Spike, unwilling to explain his momentary desire to take stock, but fighting the urge to apologise for it. “I was admiring the view.” he managed at last.
The elephant’s eyes flicked left and right, taking in the street scene.
“It’s the cheap end of town.” His eyes returned to Spike. “It’ll be even cheaper now.” The pachyderm turned slowly and lumbered away.
“Mum always said I lowered the tone of the place.” Spike’s remark went unheard and he hurried after the elephant who had turned the corner at the far end of the street.
The houses here did look a little less startled, but Spike didn’t get much of a chance to look, because the elephant was far ahead and seemed to be accelerating. Spike hurried on, grateful the streets were deserted. He was prepared to believe that the inhabitants of this peculiar underground city were elephants, bizarre as that may be, but it was easier to get along without having to push past a mother elephant burdened with shopping bags. The police elephant, as Spike was now thinking of him, came to a halt outside another rounded building with a star over the door.
“Thanks for the tour.” huffed Spike, when he had recovered his breath.
“There’s no time for that. We need your help.”
“We?” asked Spike, but the doors were swinging behind the elephant.
There are times in your life when you have to stand and take stock : when things have happened so fast that you can’t take them all in. Spike stood and looked at the doors, running over the events of the night so far.
“I was doing my physics homework when I suddenly fell through the dining room floor and was met by an elephant who needs my help.”
The door had stopped swinging.
“Homework, floor, elephant, help. Hmm.”
Nope. Still made no sense. Spike sighed and pushed through the doors.
The hall he entered was larger than he had expected, and the roof was gently curved. It reminded Spike of a big cellar he had seen once. At the far end of the hall the elephant was waiting for him. Spike looked around the rest of the hall, but saw no sign of the “we” the elephant had referred to. The dusty flagstones grated beneath his trainers and the noise echoed vaguely back to him.
“Tell me this is the end of the road.” Spike said, when he was closer to the elephant.
“It could be the beginning, for you.” said a new voice. Expecting another sudden appearance, Spike whirled around. There was no one behind him.
“I don’t know how you do things up top,” the elephant huffed, “ but down here we generally bow when we meet Royalty.”
“Royalty?” Spike peered round the elephant to see a raised dais holding, not a throne, but an ornate, golden…Dog bed. Regarding him from atop a tartan cushion in the bed was a scruffy Jack Russell terrier.
“A dog? Your King is a dog?”
“Of course I’m not the King,” snapped the dog.
“Right, ok, I thought not.” Spike muttered in confusion. Why should a talking dog seem ridiculous in a day he’d met a secret agent elephant?
“I’m just the Prince.”
The elephant shuffled its feet and turned a haughty eye on Spike.
“May I present his Royal Highness, Sydney, Prince of Dogness.”
Determined not to be caught out, Spike gave the dog an elaborate bow.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, your majesty.”
The elephant turned back to the Prince.
“This is some kid who fell through the roof in West Road four alpha, boss.”
“Thank you Sergeant. As usual your lack of due respect is noted.”
“Always a pleasure, chief.”
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
The Expediter
I really wanted to look him in the eyes. I wanted to stare him down, remind him that this is my office, thank you very much, and I wouldn’t be pushed around. I wanted to tell him that I had some screenwork that really needed my attention and he was going to have to leave. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do either of these things. For one thing, his partner had a hand around my throat and was squeezing so tight I couldn’t breathe, much less talk. For another, my screen was nailed to my desk by some damn huge knife he waved under my nose about three seconds after he barged into my office. Out here on the space lanes these things happen to smuggler captains and enforcers three or four times a day. I’m not either of those, and it never happened to me.
My name is Adnan, and I’m an expediter. On a big station like Zephon there’s usually a bunch of us, but out here there’s just me. I control the movement of cargo on and offstation. Well, the official movement. The actual humping and dumping was done by more physical types, who could have made mincemeat of the little guy who was threatening me again.
“You have two choices here. Well, three, I guess.”
He jerked his head at the large one, who looked confused.
“Let him down, Jaks. He’s no good to us dead.”
Jaks let go and I slumped to the floor. It was hard work just to get air down my bruised throat, but I worked at it anyway. I could just hear the little guy over the whistling noise I was making.
“Choice number one is the good one. We send you our shipping files and you give them the ok. Everyone is happy. Choice two, we send you our shipping files, you investigate them, or flag them as suspect, and we kill you.”
I opened my eyes and looked up at him. He was smiling. Grinning really. Jaks, the big lug, was grinning back at him. Little guy looked down at me and I frowned at him.
“What?” he said, looking puzzled. I couldn’t answer yet, so I held up three fingers.
“Oh yeah, the third choice.” He yanked the knife out of my screen with a grunt and waved it at me again. “We kill ya now.”
“I’m no good to you dead.” I could barely understand what I’ve said, much less believe I said it, but little weaselly guy looks like I slapped him. He rallied quickly.
“Good. Glad you were listening to me. So, you take your pick of options one or two. And don’t keep me waiting, I’m done being nice.”
“I’ll take…” I had to break off for a brief coughing fit. “I’ll take option one. Thank you.”
Jaks rumbled with laughter, but I didn’t see anything funny. Neither did the weasel.
“Knock it off. Man can’t help it he’s got manners. And a brain, lucky for him. Now, you memorise this ident code, and when our shipping files come in with this ident on ‘em, you run ‘em straight through, understand?”
I blinked at the ident code, trying furiously to fix the string of numbers and letters in my brain. It was tricky, but I wouldn’t be a good expediter if I didn’t have a good memory. Just as well, considering what happened next.
“Got it?” The weasel grinned as he asked the question and I couldn’t help feeling that’s bad news for me.
“I got it.”
“Tell me.”
He screwed the paper up into a little ball as I reeled off the code. He asked again and I repeated it.
“Good. Now open your mouth.”
Oh boy. I thought this was coming. As soon as my mouth was open, he jammed the wadded paper inside and slammed my chin up with the palm of his hand, hard enough to rattle my teeth.
“Chew and swallow, there’s a good boy.”
Jaks laughed again, but this time there’s no rebuke, because hey, this is comedy, right? It didn’t feel like much of a joke trying to swallow a wad of paper with a dry throat, but once I’d choked it down we were all friends again. Jaks thumped a huge hand down on my shoulder and the Weasel gave me a parting shot too.
“We’ll be keeping tabs on you for a little while, just to make sure you don’t go telling any wild tales to the Security drones, right?”
“Perish the thought.”
They left, Jaks muttering “Perish duh fought. Huh huh huh!” as he went. Once they were gone I lunged for my ‘spenser and dialled a cup of water. I half expected it to break down at such an unusual request, but it whirred and clunked and down dropped the cup. Once it was full I snatched it up and drained it, hoping to ease the feeling that my throat had been scraped with sandpaper. Then I used the wall com to request a new screen from Stores.
“Requests for new equipment have to be sent by screen.”
Yeah. I’d forgotten what Stores could be like.
“Can’t do that. It’s a new screen I need.”
There was silence. I wondered if he was going through his rules folder.
“All requests for new equipment have to be sent by screen.”
Ah. We’d reached a default answer, and in the face of any new argument he’d just keep repeating this one line. I sighed and clicked off the connection. It wasn’t worth getting angry with the stores clerk, or marching down there with my shattered screen and dumping it on his desk. For one thing, producing a broken screen only proves I have a broken screen, it doesn’t provide him with the data he needs to release a new screen from stores. It helped that I had worked in stores a while back and knew how insane the stock database could be when it came to issuing new equipment. I’d have to use a public screen, and I’d have to do it soon. I really did have a lot of work to get through, and the Weasel wasn’t kidding when he said they’d be sending me some shipping files. They’d have to be cleared asap or I’d be staring at that knife again.
Ok, this is your chance to ask if I’m a man or a mouse. Go on, tell me I should be brave and go straight to the Security office and tell them I’m being threatened into co-operating with smugglers. Here’s how that would go:
“Captain, you have to help me! I’m being threatened by smugglers!”
“Really, Expediter Adnan? Have you any proof of this?”
“Look, here’s my screen. They stabbed it with a knife, then they threatened me with the same weapon!”
“All I see here is damaged Company property. Have you requested a new one from stores?”
“Look, Captain, there’s a direct Security feed in my office. Scroll back twenty minutes and you’ll see those hoods roughing me up.”
“Well, ok, if it’ll make you feel any better. Accessing security feed for your office….Scrolling back twenty minutes….How odd, there seems to have been some form of malfunction in the security feed there. I see you working away hard, then there’s a break in the recording, and then you’re gulping down a cup of water. Nothing to corroborate your wild story, I’m afraid.”
Yeah, tough life out here. Sometimes it seemed that everybody’s on the take, and the sad truth was the more useful you could be, the more you’d be worth to the bad guys. And in case you’re wondering, of course they’d come to me with money before, but I turned them down. I liked to believe I was a man with principals. But the first of those principals was to stay alive, and threatening my life was going to get them some results.
I wasn’t proud to be knuckling under to the bad guys, but until I got a new screen and some time to think there wasn’t anything else I could do. I left the office, trying to walk casually and made my way to the public lounge on the next level down There was a screen there where I could put through my request and get a new screen priority routed to my office. I didn’t look round when I heard the heavy feet falling into step behind me. It made sense that the hoods wouldn’t just threaten me and catch the next shuttle out – I might have been stupid enough to go to Security or even direct to the Station Commander. Or they might have known that I didn’t have that kind of access. There was less than no chance that I could get five minutes with the Station Commander, let alone convince him of stationwide corruption. Whatever I was going to do about this situation would have to be subtle, and subtle takes time. So I ignored the thug behind me and caught the vator down one. That caused him some trouble, as he had no choice but to squeeze in alongside me and try to act like he wasn’t following me. I avoided catching his eye, having had my fill of threats for one day.
The public screen I was aiming for had the advantage of being in the bar. The water had done nothing but wash down the wad of paper and I had a powerful need for something stronger. I rattled off the screen request at the public screen, along with a rider that would have the response patched through to the bar. Hefting the damaged screen under my arm, I grabbed the last stool at the bar, forcing my minder to take a table.
“Order?”
“Double rum.”
The barkeep didn’t comment, though his eyes flicked to the clock on the bar wall. He brought the drink over and waited just a beat too long.
“I get it, it’s early to be drinking.”
“No, just early to be drinking doubles, sir.”
“Thanks for the advice. I promise I won’t drink more than one at a time.”
He didn’t smile, but he did walk away and I took a healthy swig of the rum in celebration. My abused throat burned and my eyes watered, but the churning knot in my stomach stayed put.
My name is Adnan, and I’m an expediter. On a big station like Zephon there’s usually a bunch of us, but out here there’s just me. I control the movement of cargo on and offstation. Well, the official movement. The actual humping and dumping was done by more physical types, who could have made mincemeat of the little guy who was threatening me again.
“You have two choices here. Well, three, I guess.”
He jerked his head at the large one, who looked confused.
“Let him down, Jaks. He’s no good to us dead.”
Jaks let go and I slumped to the floor. It was hard work just to get air down my bruised throat, but I worked at it anyway. I could just hear the little guy over the whistling noise I was making.
“Choice number one is the good one. We send you our shipping files and you give them the ok. Everyone is happy. Choice two, we send you our shipping files, you investigate them, or flag them as suspect, and we kill you.”
I opened my eyes and looked up at him. He was smiling. Grinning really. Jaks, the big lug, was grinning back at him. Little guy looked down at me and I frowned at him.
“What?” he said, looking puzzled. I couldn’t answer yet, so I held up three fingers.
“Oh yeah, the third choice.” He yanked the knife out of my screen with a grunt and waved it at me again. “We kill ya now.”
“I’m no good to you dead.” I could barely understand what I’ve said, much less believe I said it, but little weaselly guy looks like I slapped him. He rallied quickly.
“Good. Glad you were listening to me. So, you take your pick of options one or two. And don’t keep me waiting, I’m done being nice.”
“I’ll take…” I had to break off for a brief coughing fit. “I’ll take option one. Thank you.”
Jaks rumbled with laughter, but I didn’t see anything funny. Neither did the weasel.
“Knock it off. Man can’t help it he’s got manners. And a brain, lucky for him. Now, you memorise this ident code, and when our shipping files come in with this ident on ‘em, you run ‘em straight through, understand?”
I blinked at the ident code, trying furiously to fix the string of numbers and letters in my brain. It was tricky, but I wouldn’t be a good expediter if I didn’t have a good memory. Just as well, considering what happened next.
“Got it?” The weasel grinned as he asked the question and I couldn’t help feeling that’s bad news for me.
“I got it.”
“Tell me.”
He screwed the paper up into a little ball as I reeled off the code. He asked again and I repeated it.
“Good. Now open your mouth.”
Oh boy. I thought this was coming. As soon as my mouth was open, he jammed the wadded paper inside and slammed my chin up with the palm of his hand, hard enough to rattle my teeth.
“Chew and swallow, there’s a good boy.”
Jaks laughed again, but this time there’s no rebuke, because hey, this is comedy, right? It didn’t feel like much of a joke trying to swallow a wad of paper with a dry throat, but once I’d choked it down we were all friends again. Jaks thumped a huge hand down on my shoulder and the Weasel gave me a parting shot too.
“We’ll be keeping tabs on you for a little while, just to make sure you don’t go telling any wild tales to the Security drones, right?”
“Perish the thought.”
They left, Jaks muttering “Perish duh fought. Huh huh huh!” as he went. Once they were gone I lunged for my ‘spenser and dialled a cup of water. I half expected it to break down at such an unusual request, but it whirred and clunked and down dropped the cup. Once it was full I snatched it up and drained it, hoping to ease the feeling that my throat had been scraped with sandpaper. Then I used the wall com to request a new screen from Stores.
“Requests for new equipment have to be sent by screen.”
Yeah. I’d forgotten what Stores could be like.
“Can’t do that. It’s a new screen I need.”
There was silence. I wondered if he was going through his rules folder.
“All requests for new equipment have to be sent by screen.”
Ah. We’d reached a default answer, and in the face of any new argument he’d just keep repeating this one line. I sighed and clicked off the connection. It wasn’t worth getting angry with the stores clerk, or marching down there with my shattered screen and dumping it on his desk. For one thing, producing a broken screen only proves I have a broken screen, it doesn’t provide him with the data he needs to release a new screen from stores. It helped that I had worked in stores a while back and knew how insane the stock database could be when it came to issuing new equipment. I’d have to use a public screen, and I’d have to do it soon. I really did have a lot of work to get through, and the Weasel wasn’t kidding when he said they’d be sending me some shipping files. They’d have to be cleared asap or I’d be staring at that knife again.
Ok, this is your chance to ask if I’m a man or a mouse. Go on, tell me I should be brave and go straight to the Security office and tell them I’m being threatened into co-operating with smugglers. Here’s how that would go:
“Captain, you have to help me! I’m being threatened by smugglers!”
“Really, Expediter Adnan? Have you any proof of this?”
“Look, here’s my screen. They stabbed it with a knife, then they threatened me with the same weapon!”
“All I see here is damaged Company property. Have you requested a new one from stores?”
“Look, Captain, there’s a direct Security feed in my office. Scroll back twenty minutes and you’ll see those hoods roughing me up.”
“Well, ok, if it’ll make you feel any better. Accessing security feed for your office….Scrolling back twenty minutes….How odd, there seems to have been some form of malfunction in the security feed there. I see you working away hard, then there’s a break in the recording, and then you’re gulping down a cup of water. Nothing to corroborate your wild story, I’m afraid.”
Yeah, tough life out here. Sometimes it seemed that everybody’s on the take, and the sad truth was the more useful you could be, the more you’d be worth to the bad guys. And in case you’re wondering, of course they’d come to me with money before, but I turned them down. I liked to believe I was a man with principals. But the first of those principals was to stay alive, and threatening my life was going to get them some results.
I wasn’t proud to be knuckling under to the bad guys, but until I got a new screen and some time to think there wasn’t anything else I could do. I left the office, trying to walk casually and made my way to the public lounge on the next level down There was a screen there where I could put through my request and get a new screen priority routed to my office. I didn’t look round when I heard the heavy feet falling into step behind me. It made sense that the hoods wouldn’t just threaten me and catch the next shuttle out – I might have been stupid enough to go to Security or even direct to the Station Commander. Or they might have known that I didn’t have that kind of access. There was less than no chance that I could get five minutes with the Station Commander, let alone convince him of stationwide corruption. Whatever I was going to do about this situation would have to be subtle, and subtle takes time. So I ignored the thug behind me and caught the vator down one. That caused him some trouble, as he had no choice but to squeeze in alongside me and try to act like he wasn’t following me. I avoided catching his eye, having had my fill of threats for one day.
The public screen I was aiming for had the advantage of being in the bar. The water had done nothing but wash down the wad of paper and I had a powerful need for something stronger. I rattled off the screen request at the public screen, along with a rider that would have the response patched through to the bar. Hefting the damaged screen under my arm, I grabbed the last stool at the bar, forcing my minder to take a table.
“Order?”
“Double rum.”
The barkeep didn’t comment, though his eyes flicked to the clock on the bar wall. He brought the drink over and waited just a beat too long.
“I get it, it’s early to be drinking.”
“No, just early to be drinking doubles, sir.”
“Thanks for the advice. I promise I won’t drink more than one at a time.”
He didn’t smile, but he did walk away and I took a healthy swig of the rum in celebration. My abused throat burned and my eyes watered, but the churning knot in my stomach stayed put.
The Reluctant Emperor
Jonah was dreaming of the sea again, when a kick in the back caught him by surprise. He went sprawling on the packed earth floor of the corridor, his precious slate flying out ahead of him, the scrolls he was holding crushed against his body. He lay tense on the floor for a moment, waiting for another blow. When none came, he hopped to his feet and went after his slate, smoothing out the scrolls as best he could. He didn’t bother turning to see who had kicked him. There was only one person who picked on Jonah so relentlessly – Fabricius. He heard the laughter of the black-haired bully and his friends, but he scurried away round the corner. He paused for a moment to catch his breath and then hurried on. He wouldn’t allow himself to be late for old Grammaticus’ class, the man was a stickler for punctuality and manners.
Jonah paused again outside the door to the classroom. It wouldn’t do to rush in looking out of breath and dusty. He brushed ineffectually at the grey smears that marked his white student’s toga. Wishing he had a better excuse for his condition, Jonah ran his fingers through his tousled straw thatch of hair and prepared to enter. He glanced down at the slate in his hands and groaned aloud – there was a huge crack running across it. This would cost him dearly, both in money for a replacement and a harsh telling off for not looking after his property. A hand dropped onto his shoulder and he whirled, ready to dodge past Fabricius and run again, but it was only Finch.
“Here” Finch was grinning all over his urchin face and pressing something into Jonah’s hand. It was a replacement slate, one that looked almost brand new. Jonah gasped.
“Where did you get this?”
“I found it in Fabricius’ pack while he was kicking some poor student to the floor a minute ago. I saw the fellow had flung his slate away and thought he might need a new one.”
“Thanks, Finch. Mine broke when it landed and…”
Finch waved away the thanks and pointed to the door.
“You’d better get to class and so had I. See you at lunch, shipmate!”
Late as he was, Jonah watched his friend run lightly down the corridor to his own lessons and thanked the gods that he had such bold companion. Then he took a deep breath and entered the classroom at last.
Grammaticus looked up as Jonah arrived. Jonah knew from the position of the shadows in the class that he wasn’t late for the lesson, but he was the last student to arrive. He bowed formally to his teacher.
“My apologies teacher, for keeping you and the class waiting. My own clumsiness has made me late. I fell in the corridor.”
“More haste, less speed.” intoned Grammaticus and indicated that Jonah should take his seat.
Jonah sank down onto his bench, weak with relief that he had been spared a harsher dressing-down. Grammaticus turned to the board on which he had outlined the day’s lesson.
“Today we resume our studies of the early military career of Emperor Virinius…”
Grammaticus droned on and Jonah let the images form in the back of his mind He was there, on the battlefield on that cold, wet afternoon, with the proud legions of Tessus. They were now tired, mud-soiled and bloodied after the first part of the battle. It seemed that the enemy would be routed and the exhausted legions roused themselves for a final assault, when suddenly they were under attack. Allies of the Fordae had come upon the legions from the rear and there was pandemonium. Generals, gathered behind the troops for the best view over the field, were slaughtered in the initial rush. Command fell to the company commanders, but with no one giving them orders they were slow to react. The Legions fell back in the face of the savage attack, and the Fordae took heart from their enemy’s turn in fortune. In moments the legions would be fighting a chaotic battle on two fronts and all would be lost.
Virinius called his own company to order, and such was his commanding presence that two other companies joined his. He formed the three into an arrowhead formation and drove against the attackers. The savages fought as individuals and had succeeded against demoralised, fleeing foes. Against a solid shield wall and flickering short swords they fell back or fell dead. Virinius drove his men so far into the enemy that the attacking force was divided in half. The remaining legions turned on the men caught between them and Virinius and the other half fled for their lives. Few escaped. Down the battlefield, the Fordae came charging to meet the enemy they thought surprised and on the retreat, only to find enraged and victorious legions who tore them to pieces. It was said that the men carried Virinius all the way back to Tessun on their shoulders and never stopped crying his name.
On his return to the capitol he was honoured for his victory and found himself to be a person of influence in city society. When the grain tax was raised for the fourth time that year, the people cried out for Justice and approached Virinius as a man of honour and courage. He took the floor of the Populix, denouncing it for the corrupt, self-serving body that it was, and even went as far as to denounce the Emperor himself. He called for a return to the origins of the Populix, when representatives of each area were chosen to speak for their fellows, not elected with bought votes. To speak in such a way was treason and the Imperial Guard stepped forward to arrest Virinius. His soldiers flooded into the Populix, killing the whole Imperial Guard and the Emperor himself. To prevent the collapse of the Empire, Virinius took control, vowing that one day soon the people would rule themselves again.
Grammaticus’s cane crashed down on Jonah’s desk, jerking him out of his reverie.
“Jonah! Pay attention boy! What was I saying just now?”
Jonah stood with his head down.
“Sir, forgive me, I was inattentive. I was remembering the words of Virinius as he stood, sword in hand on the floor of the Populix.”
Grammaticus stood back, eyeing Jonah shrewdly.
“What were his words boy?”
“ ‘No country’s freedom should be bought with blood, even the blood of a tyrant. There will be no more Emperors, no more succession. The Populix will be reformed when the corruption has been cut away, and I promise the people will once again govern their own destiny through the voice of the Populix. I give you my word.’ Then he flung down his sword, and there it has stayed, bloodstained to this day, point down in the floor of the Populix chamber. A symbol of Virinius’s promise to the people.”
Jonah paused again outside the door to the classroom. It wouldn’t do to rush in looking out of breath and dusty. He brushed ineffectually at the grey smears that marked his white student’s toga. Wishing he had a better excuse for his condition, Jonah ran his fingers through his tousled straw thatch of hair and prepared to enter. He glanced down at the slate in his hands and groaned aloud – there was a huge crack running across it. This would cost him dearly, both in money for a replacement and a harsh telling off for not looking after his property. A hand dropped onto his shoulder and he whirled, ready to dodge past Fabricius and run again, but it was only Finch.
“Here” Finch was grinning all over his urchin face and pressing something into Jonah’s hand. It was a replacement slate, one that looked almost brand new. Jonah gasped.
“Where did you get this?”
“I found it in Fabricius’ pack while he was kicking some poor student to the floor a minute ago. I saw the fellow had flung his slate away and thought he might need a new one.”
“Thanks, Finch. Mine broke when it landed and…”
Finch waved away the thanks and pointed to the door.
“You’d better get to class and so had I. See you at lunch, shipmate!”
Late as he was, Jonah watched his friend run lightly down the corridor to his own lessons and thanked the gods that he had such bold companion. Then he took a deep breath and entered the classroom at last.
Grammaticus looked up as Jonah arrived. Jonah knew from the position of the shadows in the class that he wasn’t late for the lesson, but he was the last student to arrive. He bowed formally to his teacher.
“My apologies teacher, for keeping you and the class waiting. My own clumsiness has made me late. I fell in the corridor.”
“More haste, less speed.” intoned Grammaticus and indicated that Jonah should take his seat.
Jonah sank down onto his bench, weak with relief that he had been spared a harsher dressing-down. Grammaticus turned to the board on which he had outlined the day’s lesson.
“Today we resume our studies of the early military career of Emperor Virinius…”
Grammaticus droned on and Jonah let the images form in the back of his mind He was there, on the battlefield on that cold, wet afternoon, with the proud legions of Tessus. They were now tired, mud-soiled and bloodied after the first part of the battle. It seemed that the enemy would be routed and the exhausted legions roused themselves for a final assault, when suddenly they were under attack. Allies of the Fordae had come upon the legions from the rear and there was pandemonium. Generals, gathered behind the troops for the best view over the field, were slaughtered in the initial rush. Command fell to the company commanders, but with no one giving them orders they were slow to react. The Legions fell back in the face of the savage attack, and the Fordae took heart from their enemy’s turn in fortune. In moments the legions would be fighting a chaotic battle on two fronts and all would be lost.
Virinius called his own company to order, and such was his commanding presence that two other companies joined his. He formed the three into an arrowhead formation and drove against the attackers. The savages fought as individuals and had succeeded against demoralised, fleeing foes. Against a solid shield wall and flickering short swords they fell back or fell dead. Virinius drove his men so far into the enemy that the attacking force was divided in half. The remaining legions turned on the men caught between them and Virinius and the other half fled for their lives. Few escaped. Down the battlefield, the Fordae came charging to meet the enemy they thought surprised and on the retreat, only to find enraged and victorious legions who tore them to pieces. It was said that the men carried Virinius all the way back to Tessun on their shoulders and never stopped crying his name.
On his return to the capitol he was honoured for his victory and found himself to be a person of influence in city society. When the grain tax was raised for the fourth time that year, the people cried out for Justice and approached Virinius as a man of honour and courage. He took the floor of the Populix, denouncing it for the corrupt, self-serving body that it was, and even went as far as to denounce the Emperor himself. He called for a return to the origins of the Populix, when representatives of each area were chosen to speak for their fellows, not elected with bought votes. To speak in such a way was treason and the Imperial Guard stepped forward to arrest Virinius. His soldiers flooded into the Populix, killing the whole Imperial Guard and the Emperor himself. To prevent the collapse of the Empire, Virinius took control, vowing that one day soon the people would rule themselves again.
Grammaticus’s cane crashed down on Jonah’s desk, jerking him out of his reverie.
“Jonah! Pay attention boy! What was I saying just now?”
Jonah stood with his head down.
“Sir, forgive me, I was inattentive. I was remembering the words of Virinius as he stood, sword in hand on the floor of the Populix.”
Grammaticus stood back, eyeing Jonah shrewdly.
“What were his words boy?”
“ ‘No country’s freedom should be bought with blood, even the blood of a tyrant. There will be no more Emperors, no more succession. The Populix will be reformed when the corruption has been cut away, and I promise the people will once again govern their own destiny through the voice of the Populix. I give you my word.’ Then he flung down his sword, and there it has stayed, bloodstained to this day, point down in the floor of the Populix chamber. A symbol of Virinius’s promise to the people.”
Dali's Rhino screenplay
FADE IN:Black and white film of Salvador Dali. He is gesticulating to a painting "The Lacemaker" by Vermeer.
Voice over
It's March 1955. Dali goes to the French government, right, and he says 'Here, I've always liked this painting, The Lacemaker, right, and I want to paint a copy of it.
The film changes to show Dali entering a room and guards taking up positions outside.
Voice over
So they let him borrow this picture, but he's under guard because it's so valuable. For four days he's inside the room with this painting, and then out he comes.
Dali emerges with a stack of canvasses. Each one has a crude painting of a rhino horn on it. None show the lacemaker. The waiting crowd are confused and angry.
Voice over
All he's done is paint rhino horns. Dozens of 'em. He said the needle in the Lacemaker picture had the power of a rhino horn to him. Said the geometric composition of the picture matched the mathematical curve of a rhino's horn too. Then he went to the zoo.
Dali is in the rhino enclosure at Paris zoo. The rhino is uninterested in Dali and the enormous reproduction of the Lacemaker he has brought with him. Dali taunts the rhino, trying to get it to charge the painting but it won't budge. Finally Dali charges through the picture himself, wielding a lance.
INT. Dali's Rhino café, london. Day.
Dali's paintings line the walls of the café and the phone on the end of the counter has a lobster for a receiver.
STEVE is leaning on a portable television which is showing the black and white film of Dali. He would be handsome if he made the effort, but running the café is sucking the life from him. Only his eyes reflect his interest in talking about Dali, his obsession. The customer in front of him is confused by the film and a little afraid of Steve's enthusiasm.
The customer
So he was a nutcase. I thought everyone knew that. Barking mad, painted dreams and all that. What's the big deal about this rhino stuff?
Steve
No, he wasn't mad, that's the mistake everyone makes. Just 'cos there's no logic to a lot of his work doesn't make him mad. My point is, why the sudden insistence on copying the Vermeer? He could have reproduced it from any number of prints, and if he was only going to use it for taunting a poor rhino, what did it matter?
The customer shrugs. He's losing interest rapidly and keeps glancing at the door.
The customer
A publicity stunt then. I mean, you're still talking about it fifty years later, so it did some good didn't it?
This is meant to be a departure line, and he gets to his feet, but Steve follows him back to the door, still talking.
Steve
But it doesn't make sense. He was already famous, he could have done any kind of stunt and no one would have batted an eyelid. Why did he want the painting?
The customer has reached the door and is trying to close it in Steve's face.
The customer
I guess we'll never know, eh? Thanks for the meal, bye now.
He slams the door. Steve shakes his head and slouches back behind the counter, dragging the man's empty plate across and dumping it on the serving hatch behind him. DON, a regular at the café who is wolfing down a huge fried breakfast, stops shoveling long enough to grin at Steve.
Don
No one understands the man like you do, right Steve?
Steve
You know it doesn't make sense, don't you Don?
Don
You've told me often enough, mate. He borrows the picture but doesn't produce the copy. When he comes out he makes a big song and dance so everyone is looking at the stupid rhino stunt, and no one thinks 'What did he really do in there?'
Steve interrupts and Don takes the opportunity to stuff another forkload into his mouth.
Steve
And what he did was paint a knock-off of the real painting and pulled a switch. That's why he needed four days, to let the fake dry. Then with all the fuss about the rhino horns, no one's looking to see if the painting's a fake because he never bloody painted it, right?
Don nods, still chewing like a camel in a toffee factory. Steve nods his head slowly, staring off into the past.
Steve
I tell you mate, if it wasn't for this place I'd go and find out for sure. Off to Spain and hunt round the Dali museum, look for clues.
After swallowing heroically, Don gets to chip in.
Don
Like he'd have left a note saying 'I faked the Van Dyke.'
Steve
Vermeer.
Don
Whoever.
Steve
He liked clever people Don, and he didn't care if they liked him or not. I reckon if he made a fake he'd leave a way for people to find out. He'd want someone to know how clever he'd been.
The bell over the door jangles as the door is thrown back. Steve's wife stalks in, swaying slightly on her high heels. She is a looker, but only because she's trying so hard. Her hair is thick with hairspray, her face could be peeled off complete and her clothes are tighter than cling film. Even Don stops eating as she walks in. She slaps a sheaf of papers in front of Steve and hands him a pen.
Steve's wife
Sign these. Here, here, here and here. These two are your copies.
Taking the top two copies she saunters out without a backward glance. Steve is still in his Dali daydream so Don pulls the papers around so he can read them.
Don
Steve, do you know what you just signed, mate?
Steve
(Distantly)
Ah, she's always bringing me stuff to sign. Brains of the business, my wife is.
Don flips the papers back to Steve
Don
Not any more, she isn't. These are divorce papers.
Steve looks down, startled.
EXT. Dali's Rhino cafe, Spain
Caption 'Figueres, Spain, birthplace of Salvador Dali'
Steve exits the café and walks across the town square. He is tanned and casual, less stressed than when we last saw him.
As he walks he pulls out a battered book on Dali from his hip pocket. Engrossed in the book he crashes into the stall of a dark haired young female artist. Her name is RIGA and she is furious with him, unloading a torrent of vicious Spanish.
Steve
Oh shit, God, I'm sorry.
He scrabbles around trying to help her collect her scattered paintings. He treads on one, picks up the one she was working on, smearing the wet paint and finally trips on her easel bringing the rest of the pictures down too. Steve sits dazed amongst the debris. Riga looks down at him, then extends a shapely hand. Once Steve is on his feet, she picks up a hefty piece of the easel and thwacks him in the testicles. He raises his face while doubled over, just in time for her to land the perfect punch on his nose. He goes down again.
EXT. The Steps of St Peter’s church, figueres
PEDRO dumps some water on Steve's face to bring him round. He's the manager of the Spanish Dali's Rhino café and is still wearing his 'Dali's Rhino' T-shirt.
pedro
Hey, Boss, are you ok?
Steve groans and raises a cautious hand to his nose. It's already swelling and he moans again.
Steve
Did you get the licence number?
Pedro
What?
Steve
I was hit by a truck, wasn't I? Oh my sodding nose.
Pedro
(offering a dishcloth)
Here. Use this. Get the water on it, eh? Ok, is better.
Clutching the cloth to his face, Steve struggles to sit up. He scans the square, moving his head gently. Riga is just visible, her stall restored and she is painting frantically.
Steve
Who's that?
Pedro
Who?
Steve
The psycho with the paintpots and the swift right hand. The girl.
Pedro
What girl, Boss?
Steve
Shit, Pedro, how many girls do you see? The girl doing the bloody painting.
He pulls the cloth away gingerly and gently presses his nose, winces and replaces the cloth.
Pedro
Ah. Senorita Riga. Yes, all day she paints. Sells pictures to tourists. Very nice.
Steve
The pictures?
Pedro
No, the…..
He can't think of the words, so holds his hands in front of his chest and jiggles them in the universal sign for 'breasts'.
Steve
I'll have to take your word for that, mate. I didn't get much of a look before she flattened my goolies and broke my nose.
Pedro
You knocked over her paintings, boss.
Steve turns to look at him.
Steve
You were watching?
Pedro
Everyone saw.
He waves at the café. Some faces are still visible at the windows.
Pedro
Very funny.
Steve sighs for his lost esteem.
Steve
Pedro, get me some fresh flowers from the café. The ones for the tables.
Pedro
Flowers boss?
Steve
I have to go and apologise to a lady. Say it with flowers and all that.
Pedro
Ok, is your funeral.
Voice over
It's March 1955. Dali goes to the French government, right, and he says 'Here, I've always liked this painting, The Lacemaker, right, and I want to paint a copy of it.
The film changes to show Dali entering a room and guards taking up positions outside.
Voice over
So they let him borrow this picture, but he's under guard because it's so valuable. For four days he's inside the room with this painting, and then out he comes.
Dali emerges with a stack of canvasses. Each one has a crude painting of a rhino horn on it. None show the lacemaker. The waiting crowd are confused and angry.
Voice over
All he's done is paint rhino horns. Dozens of 'em. He said the needle in the Lacemaker picture had the power of a rhino horn to him. Said the geometric composition of the picture matched the mathematical curve of a rhino's horn too. Then he went to the zoo.
Dali is in the rhino enclosure at Paris zoo. The rhino is uninterested in Dali and the enormous reproduction of the Lacemaker he has brought with him. Dali taunts the rhino, trying to get it to charge the painting but it won't budge. Finally Dali charges through the picture himself, wielding a lance.
INT. Dali's Rhino café, london. Day.
Dali's paintings line the walls of the café and the phone on the end of the counter has a lobster for a receiver.
STEVE is leaning on a portable television which is showing the black and white film of Dali. He would be handsome if he made the effort, but running the café is sucking the life from him. Only his eyes reflect his interest in talking about Dali, his obsession. The customer in front of him is confused by the film and a little afraid of Steve's enthusiasm.
The customer
So he was a nutcase. I thought everyone knew that. Barking mad, painted dreams and all that. What's the big deal about this rhino stuff?
Steve
No, he wasn't mad, that's the mistake everyone makes. Just 'cos there's no logic to a lot of his work doesn't make him mad. My point is, why the sudden insistence on copying the Vermeer? He could have reproduced it from any number of prints, and if he was only going to use it for taunting a poor rhino, what did it matter?
The customer shrugs. He's losing interest rapidly and keeps glancing at the door.
The customer
A publicity stunt then. I mean, you're still talking about it fifty years later, so it did some good didn't it?
This is meant to be a departure line, and he gets to his feet, but Steve follows him back to the door, still talking.
Steve
But it doesn't make sense. He was already famous, he could have done any kind of stunt and no one would have batted an eyelid. Why did he want the painting?
The customer has reached the door and is trying to close it in Steve's face.
The customer
I guess we'll never know, eh? Thanks for the meal, bye now.
He slams the door. Steve shakes his head and slouches back behind the counter, dragging the man's empty plate across and dumping it on the serving hatch behind him. DON, a regular at the café who is wolfing down a huge fried breakfast, stops shoveling long enough to grin at Steve.
Don
No one understands the man like you do, right Steve?
Steve
You know it doesn't make sense, don't you Don?
Don
You've told me often enough, mate. He borrows the picture but doesn't produce the copy. When he comes out he makes a big song and dance so everyone is looking at the stupid rhino stunt, and no one thinks 'What did he really do in there?'
Steve interrupts and Don takes the opportunity to stuff another forkload into his mouth.
Steve
And what he did was paint a knock-off of the real painting and pulled a switch. That's why he needed four days, to let the fake dry. Then with all the fuss about the rhino horns, no one's looking to see if the painting's a fake because he never bloody painted it, right?
Don nods, still chewing like a camel in a toffee factory. Steve nods his head slowly, staring off into the past.
Steve
I tell you mate, if it wasn't for this place I'd go and find out for sure. Off to Spain and hunt round the Dali museum, look for clues.
After swallowing heroically, Don gets to chip in.
Don
Like he'd have left a note saying 'I faked the Van Dyke.'
Steve
Vermeer.
Don
Whoever.
Steve
He liked clever people Don, and he didn't care if they liked him or not. I reckon if he made a fake he'd leave a way for people to find out. He'd want someone to know how clever he'd been.
The bell over the door jangles as the door is thrown back. Steve's wife stalks in, swaying slightly on her high heels. She is a looker, but only because she's trying so hard. Her hair is thick with hairspray, her face could be peeled off complete and her clothes are tighter than cling film. Even Don stops eating as she walks in. She slaps a sheaf of papers in front of Steve and hands him a pen.
Steve's wife
Sign these. Here, here, here and here. These two are your copies.
Taking the top two copies she saunters out without a backward glance. Steve is still in his Dali daydream so Don pulls the papers around so he can read them.
Don
Steve, do you know what you just signed, mate?
Steve
(Distantly)
Ah, she's always bringing me stuff to sign. Brains of the business, my wife is.
Don flips the papers back to Steve
Don
Not any more, she isn't. These are divorce papers.
Steve looks down, startled.
EXT. Dali's Rhino cafe, Spain
Caption 'Figueres, Spain, birthplace of Salvador Dali'
Steve exits the café and walks across the town square. He is tanned and casual, less stressed than when we last saw him.
As he walks he pulls out a battered book on Dali from his hip pocket. Engrossed in the book he crashes into the stall of a dark haired young female artist. Her name is RIGA and she is furious with him, unloading a torrent of vicious Spanish.
Steve
Oh shit, God, I'm sorry.
He scrabbles around trying to help her collect her scattered paintings. He treads on one, picks up the one she was working on, smearing the wet paint and finally trips on her easel bringing the rest of the pictures down too. Steve sits dazed amongst the debris. Riga looks down at him, then extends a shapely hand. Once Steve is on his feet, she picks up a hefty piece of the easel and thwacks him in the testicles. He raises his face while doubled over, just in time for her to land the perfect punch on his nose. He goes down again.
EXT. The Steps of St Peter’s church, figueres
PEDRO dumps some water on Steve's face to bring him round. He's the manager of the Spanish Dali's Rhino café and is still wearing his 'Dali's Rhino' T-shirt.
pedro
Hey, Boss, are you ok?
Steve groans and raises a cautious hand to his nose. It's already swelling and he moans again.
Steve
Did you get the licence number?
Pedro
What?
Steve
I was hit by a truck, wasn't I? Oh my sodding nose.
Pedro
(offering a dishcloth)
Here. Use this. Get the water on it, eh? Ok, is better.
Clutching the cloth to his face, Steve struggles to sit up. He scans the square, moving his head gently. Riga is just visible, her stall restored and she is painting frantically.
Steve
Who's that?
Pedro
Who?
Steve
The psycho with the paintpots and the swift right hand. The girl.
Pedro
What girl, Boss?
Steve
Shit, Pedro, how many girls do you see? The girl doing the bloody painting.
He pulls the cloth away gingerly and gently presses his nose, winces and replaces the cloth.
Pedro
Ah. Senorita Riga. Yes, all day she paints. Sells pictures to tourists. Very nice.
Steve
The pictures?
Pedro
No, the…..
He can't think of the words, so holds his hands in front of his chest and jiggles them in the universal sign for 'breasts'.
Steve
I'll have to take your word for that, mate. I didn't get much of a look before she flattened my goolies and broke my nose.
Pedro
You knocked over her paintings, boss.
Steve turns to look at him.
Steve
You were watching?
Pedro
Everyone saw.
He waves at the café. Some faces are still visible at the windows.
Pedro
Very funny.
Steve sighs for his lost esteem.
Steve
Pedro, get me some fresh flowers from the café. The ones for the tables.
Pedro
Flowers boss?
Steve
I have to go and apologise to a lady. Say it with flowers and all that.
Pedro
Ok, is your funeral.
Mindreader
Thursday 8 am
The rain hammered down. Smashing into windowsills, rattling the carcasses of crisp packets, filling the dead eyes of the lifeless corpse. Constable Marsh dragged his gaze from the miserable shape at his feet and tried to press himself further into the doorway, scant protection from the freezing torrent. He looked up at the sound of cursing. Sgt Corder was sloshing through the floating debris to reach the crime scene. He stumbled to a halt, the water pushing up over his shoes. The tiny wave broke against the body, unable to soak the already sodden clothing. March looked at the sergeant expectantly. Corders’ tired face was set grim in the presence of the dead body and inclement weather, and March fervently prayed that the Scene of Crime Photographer had given good news, perhaps that he was already on his way.
“Half an hour, son.” grunted the sergeant.
“Bollocks!” exploded March, earning a sharp look.
“Watch it Pete.”
“Sorry, Bollocks, Sergeant.” March was in no mood to be civil, the driving rain having washed away his patience hours since.
“That’s better.” The sergeant seemed even gloomier than usual, and March didn’t much fancy the idea of keeping watch over the stiff until the photographer arrived. It wasn’t as if there’d be much physical evidence to preserve after a night of heavy rain, and the outcome of any inquest seemed clear enough even to him. Conclusion of the investigation? One less addict, case closed. Unexpectedly, the sergeant spoke up, a rare moment of compassion for a junior.
“There’s a cafe round the corner son. Get yourself a coffee and warm up. You’ll be no good to me next week if you catch the bleeding flu. Oh balls!”
March, already preparing himself for the dash out into the rain, looked up. He saw the unmarked police car which had drawn up at the end of the alleyway and the tall man getting out of it. He wore a heavy raincoat, but it flapped open as he made his way towards them, hopping from side to side to avoid the worst of the flooding. The rain had already plastered his wiry hair to his forehead when he reached them, but his only concession to the weather was to remove his round glasses and wipe them clear. Vision restored, he peered short-sightedly at the two policemen, who hastily scrambled out of their meagre shelter.
“Ah, Sgt Corder. What’s the situation?”
Corder tried to drag his body to some form of attention.
“Body found early this morning, Inspector. Road sweepers called it in; PC March here was first on the scene. Various drug related items found up there sir,” Corder indicated the steel fire escape staircase, whose mesh design had denied the pair a more substantial shelter from the rain, “No sign of violence other than the obvious bruising. I.., that is we..” Corder floundered, finally settling for closing his jaw and staring ahead again. The Inspector had been gazing around the scene, glancing up at the escape when the Sgt indicated it, and now he swung back to face Corder.
“Go on. You were about to say?”
Corder shifted uncomfortably, but he had already committed himself.
“PC March and myself sir, we’ve been discussing the case while waiting for the photographer and the Coroner.” There was more than a hint of the irritation Corder felt evident in his tone. “We think the sti..deceased was a user, got loaded and fell down the stairs sir.” The Sgt punctuated his theory with a shrug. March stared straight ahead, inwardly cursing that the Inspector hadn’t waited a couple more minutes. He’d have been snug and warm in the cafe, not going over pointless ground in the pouring bloody buggering rain.
“Any ID?” The inspector was asking. Corder looked across at March.
“Didn’t look, sir. Orders. Can’t touch the deceased until the photographer has finished. If they ever start.” That snipe earned another burning glare from the Sergeant, but the Inspector was nodding absently. Suddenly he straightened and stared at the two of them as if seeing them for the first time.
“Good God, men, you’re soaked! Get yourselves round to that cafe. I’ll wait here. You’re under orders to have coffee and something hot to eat. Retain the receipts and forward them to my office and I’ll see you’re refunded. Make sure you send me a written report of this morning along with them.”
The shocked pair stammered their thanks and were waved away. Despite his weight, Corder stayed ahead of March as they splashed back to the alley mouth.
“Bugger me!” March heard him muttering. “Bugger me!”
The Inspector didn’t spare the retreating pair another glance. He squatted next to the corpse, unmindful of his coat dragging in the water, examining the livid bruises on the lifeless face. He rose and stalked to the stairs, looking back at the body from time to time. He stood between the two for five minutes, until the sounds from the far end of the alley alerted him to the arrival of the photographer and coroner. Coat tails flapping wetly, he strode down the alleyway towards his car and knocked at the driver’s window.
“Drop into that cafe and tell Corder and March they’re back on duty. They’ve had time for coffee and a bite, it’ll have to do. Then get back here, I need to be back at the office.”
With a resigned nod, the officer heaved open the door and climbed out into the rain. Inspector Lennox swung himself into his seat, and looked back down the rain-soaked alley to the cluster of figures round the dead man.
Thursday 9.30 p.m.
Three people were watching Alex Templeman that night. The clientele of the club may have been watching him as well, but they were more interested in their drinks and each other, barely bothering to applaud his act when the cues came. Three people watched, taking in every detail of his show, listening to his patter, drinking in every word. Angela Marten watched, entranced. The fear that had driven her from her flat was forgotten, pushed away by the dark man on the tiny stage of the club, performing his minor miracles with a tired familiarity. She wanted to look around her, to encourage the others in the club to give the man the respect he deserved, but she could not drag her eyes away from him. As he completed another display of his ability, she applauded loudly.
Barry Glasspool frowned in annoyance. It was hard enough to see through this joker’s fakery thanks to the low lights and smoke-fogged air of the club, but that idiot who clapped every time the guy sneezed was really getting on his nerves. Barry took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. So far things were going well, with a selection of tricks Paul Daniels would have been ashamed of. Proving Alex Templeman a fraud would be no problem, and he would be one step nearer his goal. Glancing around the club, he caught Curran’s eye, and nodded.
Simon Curran acknowledged Barry with a casual wave and turned his attention back to Templeman. He finally felt that things were going his way. This was his story in every way: he was behind it, pushing the major characters together, and he was on the ground for the first clash. He knew Glasspool was a fanatic, and Templeman’s claim of genuine psychic power was irresistible to him. By bringing Templeman to Glasspool’s attention, Curran had set events in motion, events he hoped would lift him out of the local newspaper scene and back to the dailies. He grinned savagely, visualising the scene : Glasspool and Templeman squaring off, the glaring headlines “FRAUD EXPOSED”. No one would care that Templeman was hardly Uri Geller.
For his part, Alex Templeman was sweating. This was far from an ordinary night at the club. He was used to indifference, in fact he relied on it. It was easy to run through his repertoire and fill the time if no one took any notice. Alex got his money, and Trautmann, the club’s owner, got to pretend his club was more upmarket than the other seedy nightspots he used to run. But tonight, tonight there were undercurrents, an atmosphere that was making him stumble over routines he’d done a million times. Finding the source of the hostility was no great effort: there were only the three people paying any attention to his act. The first of the two men was a mystery. His face was grim and set, and he was staring intently at Alex, his cynicism clear. The other man seemed more than a little familiar. Running through his final card trick on autopilot, Alex wondered where he had seen the man before. That thin face, the prominent nose that gave the appearance of a ferret.. That was it. He’d been snooping around the club two nights ago, asking Alex about his act, pretending to be a fan. Alex had seen through him easily enough: acts like his didn’t generate fans. It barely generated enough cash to pay his rent, which was why he relied so heavily on the winter cruise ship work, telling horoscopes and performing tabletop magic for elderly sunseekers. Alex had the man pegged as a reporter, possibly for a tabloid, but more likely a local rag. Was he going for an expose? Alex worried briefly that they might produce some old girlfriend to dredge up some dirt, but he realised that have to dredge pretty deep and find a very old girlfriend indeed. Which brought him to the third watcher. She was the one who was doing the clapping, which was almost as disconcerting as the scrutiny of the two men. He had seen her come in, the red lights of the club tinting her blond hair as she scurried inside. She had moved as far from the door as possible, hurriedly getting a drink from the bar and burying herself at a far table. For the first five minutes she glanced at the door two or three times a minute, but gradually she transferred her attention to the stage. From Alex’s point of view she seemed to unfold like a flower in the sun. Her drink was forgotten, and she hadn’t looked back at the door in ten minutes. Now his act was drawing to a close, and more than anything else he wanted to find out more about this mysterious girl. She seemed to be young, maybe twenty-five or so, and in the harsh atmosphere of the club she seemed vulnerable and lost. Her interest in him was a spur to his naturally chivalrous nature. On an impulse he ditched the last part of his act and called for a volunteer from the audience. This was a section of his act that he had abandoned while he worked in the clubs because of the high level of apathy he encountered, but he had a feeling he could get the girl to respond. The snooper had come alert, sitting straight up in his chair. He had seen the show two nights previously, and knew this was a change. The other watcher was still following the show, but seemed unaware of the change of pace. Putting the two men from his mind, Alex concentrated on the girl. He reached out to her, fingers spread in an uncharacteristically theatrical gesture. She had pushed herself back in her chair, eyes wide. Her hands gripped the sides of the table, as if she were using it to keep herself in place. Alex slowly closed his fingers into a fist and drew his hand back. Dreamlike, the girl rose from her seat and stepped around the table, her eyes never left his, even to negotiate the small step to the stage. She reached out and took both his hands in hers. A moment passed, then Alex reasserted himself.
The rain hammered down. Smashing into windowsills, rattling the carcasses of crisp packets, filling the dead eyes of the lifeless corpse. Constable Marsh dragged his gaze from the miserable shape at his feet and tried to press himself further into the doorway, scant protection from the freezing torrent. He looked up at the sound of cursing. Sgt Corder was sloshing through the floating debris to reach the crime scene. He stumbled to a halt, the water pushing up over his shoes. The tiny wave broke against the body, unable to soak the already sodden clothing. March looked at the sergeant expectantly. Corders’ tired face was set grim in the presence of the dead body and inclement weather, and March fervently prayed that the Scene of Crime Photographer had given good news, perhaps that he was already on his way.
“Half an hour, son.” grunted the sergeant.
“Bollocks!” exploded March, earning a sharp look.
“Watch it Pete.”
“Sorry, Bollocks, Sergeant.” March was in no mood to be civil, the driving rain having washed away his patience hours since.
“That’s better.” The sergeant seemed even gloomier than usual, and March didn’t much fancy the idea of keeping watch over the stiff until the photographer arrived. It wasn’t as if there’d be much physical evidence to preserve after a night of heavy rain, and the outcome of any inquest seemed clear enough even to him. Conclusion of the investigation? One less addict, case closed. Unexpectedly, the sergeant spoke up, a rare moment of compassion for a junior.
“There’s a cafe round the corner son. Get yourself a coffee and warm up. You’ll be no good to me next week if you catch the bleeding flu. Oh balls!”
March, already preparing himself for the dash out into the rain, looked up. He saw the unmarked police car which had drawn up at the end of the alleyway and the tall man getting out of it. He wore a heavy raincoat, but it flapped open as he made his way towards them, hopping from side to side to avoid the worst of the flooding. The rain had already plastered his wiry hair to his forehead when he reached them, but his only concession to the weather was to remove his round glasses and wipe them clear. Vision restored, he peered short-sightedly at the two policemen, who hastily scrambled out of their meagre shelter.
“Ah, Sgt Corder. What’s the situation?”
Corder tried to drag his body to some form of attention.
“Body found early this morning, Inspector. Road sweepers called it in; PC March here was first on the scene. Various drug related items found up there sir,” Corder indicated the steel fire escape staircase, whose mesh design had denied the pair a more substantial shelter from the rain, “No sign of violence other than the obvious bruising. I.., that is we..” Corder floundered, finally settling for closing his jaw and staring ahead again. The Inspector had been gazing around the scene, glancing up at the escape when the Sgt indicated it, and now he swung back to face Corder.
“Go on. You were about to say?”
Corder shifted uncomfortably, but he had already committed himself.
“PC March and myself sir, we’ve been discussing the case while waiting for the photographer and the Coroner.” There was more than a hint of the irritation Corder felt evident in his tone. “We think the sti..deceased was a user, got loaded and fell down the stairs sir.” The Sgt punctuated his theory with a shrug. March stared straight ahead, inwardly cursing that the Inspector hadn’t waited a couple more minutes. He’d have been snug and warm in the cafe, not going over pointless ground in the pouring bloody buggering rain.
“Any ID?” The inspector was asking. Corder looked across at March.
“Didn’t look, sir. Orders. Can’t touch the deceased until the photographer has finished. If they ever start.” That snipe earned another burning glare from the Sergeant, but the Inspector was nodding absently. Suddenly he straightened and stared at the two of them as if seeing them for the first time.
“Good God, men, you’re soaked! Get yourselves round to that cafe. I’ll wait here. You’re under orders to have coffee and something hot to eat. Retain the receipts and forward them to my office and I’ll see you’re refunded. Make sure you send me a written report of this morning along with them.”
The shocked pair stammered their thanks and were waved away. Despite his weight, Corder stayed ahead of March as they splashed back to the alley mouth.
“Bugger me!” March heard him muttering. “Bugger me!”
The Inspector didn’t spare the retreating pair another glance. He squatted next to the corpse, unmindful of his coat dragging in the water, examining the livid bruises on the lifeless face. He rose and stalked to the stairs, looking back at the body from time to time. He stood between the two for five minutes, until the sounds from the far end of the alley alerted him to the arrival of the photographer and coroner. Coat tails flapping wetly, he strode down the alleyway towards his car and knocked at the driver’s window.
“Drop into that cafe and tell Corder and March they’re back on duty. They’ve had time for coffee and a bite, it’ll have to do. Then get back here, I need to be back at the office.”
With a resigned nod, the officer heaved open the door and climbed out into the rain. Inspector Lennox swung himself into his seat, and looked back down the rain-soaked alley to the cluster of figures round the dead man.
Thursday 9.30 p.m.
Three people were watching Alex Templeman that night. The clientele of the club may have been watching him as well, but they were more interested in their drinks and each other, barely bothering to applaud his act when the cues came. Three people watched, taking in every detail of his show, listening to his patter, drinking in every word. Angela Marten watched, entranced. The fear that had driven her from her flat was forgotten, pushed away by the dark man on the tiny stage of the club, performing his minor miracles with a tired familiarity. She wanted to look around her, to encourage the others in the club to give the man the respect he deserved, but she could not drag her eyes away from him. As he completed another display of his ability, she applauded loudly.
Barry Glasspool frowned in annoyance. It was hard enough to see through this joker’s fakery thanks to the low lights and smoke-fogged air of the club, but that idiot who clapped every time the guy sneezed was really getting on his nerves. Barry took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. So far things were going well, with a selection of tricks Paul Daniels would have been ashamed of. Proving Alex Templeman a fraud would be no problem, and he would be one step nearer his goal. Glancing around the club, he caught Curran’s eye, and nodded.
Simon Curran acknowledged Barry with a casual wave and turned his attention back to Templeman. He finally felt that things were going his way. This was his story in every way: he was behind it, pushing the major characters together, and he was on the ground for the first clash. He knew Glasspool was a fanatic, and Templeman’s claim of genuine psychic power was irresistible to him. By bringing Templeman to Glasspool’s attention, Curran had set events in motion, events he hoped would lift him out of the local newspaper scene and back to the dailies. He grinned savagely, visualising the scene : Glasspool and Templeman squaring off, the glaring headlines “FRAUD EXPOSED”. No one would care that Templeman was hardly Uri Geller.
For his part, Alex Templeman was sweating. This was far from an ordinary night at the club. He was used to indifference, in fact he relied on it. It was easy to run through his repertoire and fill the time if no one took any notice. Alex got his money, and Trautmann, the club’s owner, got to pretend his club was more upmarket than the other seedy nightspots he used to run. But tonight, tonight there were undercurrents, an atmosphere that was making him stumble over routines he’d done a million times. Finding the source of the hostility was no great effort: there were only the three people paying any attention to his act. The first of the two men was a mystery. His face was grim and set, and he was staring intently at Alex, his cynicism clear. The other man seemed more than a little familiar. Running through his final card trick on autopilot, Alex wondered where he had seen the man before. That thin face, the prominent nose that gave the appearance of a ferret.. That was it. He’d been snooping around the club two nights ago, asking Alex about his act, pretending to be a fan. Alex had seen through him easily enough: acts like his didn’t generate fans. It barely generated enough cash to pay his rent, which was why he relied so heavily on the winter cruise ship work, telling horoscopes and performing tabletop magic for elderly sunseekers. Alex had the man pegged as a reporter, possibly for a tabloid, but more likely a local rag. Was he going for an expose? Alex worried briefly that they might produce some old girlfriend to dredge up some dirt, but he realised that have to dredge pretty deep and find a very old girlfriend indeed. Which brought him to the third watcher. She was the one who was doing the clapping, which was almost as disconcerting as the scrutiny of the two men. He had seen her come in, the red lights of the club tinting her blond hair as she scurried inside. She had moved as far from the door as possible, hurriedly getting a drink from the bar and burying herself at a far table. For the first five minutes she glanced at the door two or three times a minute, but gradually she transferred her attention to the stage. From Alex’s point of view she seemed to unfold like a flower in the sun. Her drink was forgotten, and she hadn’t looked back at the door in ten minutes. Now his act was drawing to a close, and more than anything else he wanted to find out more about this mysterious girl. She seemed to be young, maybe twenty-five or so, and in the harsh atmosphere of the club she seemed vulnerable and lost. Her interest in him was a spur to his naturally chivalrous nature. On an impulse he ditched the last part of his act and called for a volunteer from the audience. This was a section of his act that he had abandoned while he worked in the clubs because of the high level of apathy he encountered, but he had a feeling he could get the girl to respond. The snooper had come alert, sitting straight up in his chair. He had seen the show two nights previously, and knew this was a change. The other watcher was still following the show, but seemed unaware of the change of pace. Putting the two men from his mind, Alex concentrated on the girl. He reached out to her, fingers spread in an uncharacteristically theatrical gesture. She had pushed herself back in her chair, eyes wide. Her hands gripped the sides of the table, as if she were using it to keep herself in place. Alex slowly closed his fingers into a fist and drew his hand back. Dreamlike, the girl rose from her seat and stepped around the table, her eyes never left his, even to negotiate the small step to the stage. She reached out and took both his hands in hers. A moment passed, then Alex reasserted himself.
Smoke
And then he woke up and found it had all been a dream. The sunlight yellowed the aging curtains and flung arms of shadow across the cluttered floor. Lying unmoving, he struggled to retain the fractured, fleeing images. A bad way to begin the day, losing memories of joy.
By the time the back door thudded shut behind him the sunlight had already slunk away. Grey skies stretched overhead now, promising rain. Nice to have a promise kept, he thought. His pace lengthened, though he had no real destination in mind. Since she’d gone his days had become time to be filled, an unwelcome interruption in his sleep pattern. The rain fell and he let it come down, wishing someone would see how it fell on him in particular, soaking into his clothes, washing down his face. But what’s the point of suffering in silence? Lights beckoned in the grey distance and he hastened on.
It was a café. Plastic seats, badly written menus scrawled on painted blackboards advertising unremarkable specials. He bought a cup of coffee for the heat it offered, which was just as well since it seemed to have lost all flavour on the short walk to a seat. He watched the steam rise from the orange brown liquid and felt a similar steam lifting from his sodden trousers. The steam rose like the cigarette smoke from the next table and he felt a sudden unreasoning desire to smoke. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a cigarette, couldn’t remember why he’d quit or even if he’d liked smoking, but he wanted one now. Wanted the occupation of unwrapping the pack, the anticipation of sliding out that smooth cylinder from nineteen identical brothers. A wonder of design, the brown filter actually a patchwork of tans, ochres, stone, taupe. He stared at the stream of smoke, licking his lips and remembering the lightheadedness that accompanied his first drag in days. What would that be like now? A year or more, surely, since his last one. His heart quickened with a junkie’s desire and he felt a rush of heat at the knowledge that he was going to give in to this need, whatever else he did that day, he was going to buy the cigarettes and smoke the whole damn pack. Maybe he would do just that, buy a pack in the shop round the corner, come back here for another coffee and smoke all twenty, one after another. So what if the buzz is gone after the first, hell, what else did he have to do today?
“You look like a man who’s given up.”
The voice was low, amused. It took him a second to come out of his fugue and locate it. The woman who was smoking regarded him with dark eyes. He felt them on his face, felt their passage, heard the vibrant cry of her carmine lipstick, lost himself in the maze of lazy looping black hair that tumbled out of sight behind her shoulders.
“Huh?”
She waved the lit cigarette and he was entranced by her smooth wrist, the tension of the tendons in her hand. The glow of the cigarette’s tip shone in her eyes.
“It’s a hard habit to break - you’re never a non-smoker, you’re a smoker who isn’t smoking. Right?”
“It’s been a while.”
They traded stares, his open and unguarded, beguiled and frank. Hers was curious, suspicious and a touch defiant. She nodded, as if agreeing with something he hadn’t said. Her cuticles were a translucent white, the nails uncoloured, and he followed their path as she raised the cigarette to her lips. Her eyes, those fabulous eyes, squinted half shut against the smoke curling up and he was so distracted he didn’t see what she was doing until she held the new, untouched cigarette out to him. He looked at it, the effort of refocusing causing him to lean back a little. She laughed at him, the cigarette shaking in her outstretched fingers and he suddenly snatched at it. Fearful, lest it should fall, angry that she found him laughable. He examined the gift, hoping he had not creased the perfect tube in his haste. Some tobacco was protruding from the end and he pushed at it with his fingertip. It loosened further and he left it, not wanting to lose any. Looking up, he found the eyes of his donor.
“It has been a while, hasn’t it, Quitter?”
“Can I have a light?”
She pulled her chair round to join him at his table, reaching back for a bag and coffee cup, then one more time for a silver lighter. The bag went on the floor. The coffee cup, already half empty, was pushed to the edge of the table. She slid the lighter across to him and it arrived spinning. He watched the lights glinting on it, catching in the design etched on the surface. A skull and crossbones? No, some other thing, a skull with a dagger through it, a military emblem of some sort. He flicked his eyes up, tapping the design.
“Should I salute? Or run for cover?”
She shrugged.
“Stole it off an old boyfriend. Only thing he had I wanted.”
A million replies sprang to mind, funny quips, sharp questions, worldly wise throwaways, but he left them ashes in the pit of his mind. He’d used them all once, when he was someone else, with someone else. He picked up the lighter, opening the cover and thumbing the wheel. The flame was orange and flushed the scent of paraffin before it.
“Do you want me to hold that for you?”
She was sounding amused again. He raised the cigarette to his lips, felt the heat from the lighter as he brought it close. The cigarette was fresh, he heard no crackle as the flame kissed the tip. A deep breath, his eyes on hers as the smoke rushed down. A second’s hesitation, heighten the anticipation, wait, wait. Now breathing out, through the nose, an old friend’s wisdom recalled in the moment
“You pass the smoke out through your nose, the nicotine reaches your brain quicker.”
And there it was, like a punch to the back of his head. The room retreats a pace, the vision of dark-haired beauty before him wavers slightly and his eyes water.
“Oh yeah.”
He can smell the smoke on his breath as he speaks. He’s taking another drag, adding another layer to the fog he’s in and she’s reaching for his hand, her fingers cool on his wrist.
“Steady, Quitter, they’re strong enough.”
Was it the touch making him giddy now? He couldn’t move the wrist she held and he watched the cigarette burning down. The waste, after all this time, the drug he suddenly wanted being released into the uncaring air!
“You didn’t come out today looking for cigarettes.”
“But I found them.”
“Maybe I found you.”
“Was I what you were looking for?”
He was answering by rote, watching the dissolution of the cigarette he held, feeling the electricity of her fingertips. One finger slowly moved, tracing a circle on his wrist bone. In a sudden movement he swept his left hand over the table. He let the cigarette drop from his right, scooping it out of the air and into his mouth. Her grip tightened and her mouth dropped open. He heard her gasp, surprise rushing out of her, carrying the tang of smoke to him. Gently now he took the cigarette from his mouth with his left hand, moved his captive right to her chin and drew her forward across the table to him. Their lips met and he filled her mouth with his smoke. She pressed her lips to his, never releasing his wrist but pressing with her fingers too. He felt a circuit being completed, the flow from her fingertips down his arm, through his mouth and back into her, the smoke his returning of her gift.
They broke apart and she smiled, exhaling smoke through her nose and sliding her fingers up his hand to his fingertips. He caught her hand before she could withdraw it completely. She muttered something he didn’t catch.
“What?”
“My heart will be the bridge that you walk over.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll use me to get over her, whoever she was.”
“Maybe I just did.”
She pulled her hand free and reached into the bag. Dropping the pack of cigarettes, two remaining, onto the table, she met his gaze.
“I have another pack at home.”
By the time the back door thudded shut behind him the sunlight had already slunk away. Grey skies stretched overhead now, promising rain. Nice to have a promise kept, he thought. His pace lengthened, though he had no real destination in mind. Since she’d gone his days had become time to be filled, an unwelcome interruption in his sleep pattern. The rain fell and he let it come down, wishing someone would see how it fell on him in particular, soaking into his clothes, washing down his face. But what’s the point of suffering in silence? Lights beckoned in the grey distance and he hastened on.
It was a café. Plastic seats, badly written menus scrawled on painted blackboards advertising unremarkable specials. He bought a cup of coffee for the heat it offered, which was just as well since it seemed to have lost all flavour on the short walk to a seat. He watched the steam rise from the orange brown liquid and felt a similar steam lifting from his sodden trousers. The steam rose like the cigarette smoke from the next table and he felt a sudden unreasoning desire to smoke. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a cigarette, couldn’t remember why he’d quit or even if he’d liked smoking, but he wanted one now. Wanted the occupation of unwrapping the pack, the anticipation of sliding out that smooth cylinder from nineteen identical brothers. A wonder of design, the brown filter actually a patchwork of tans, ochres, stone, taupe. He stared at the stream of smoke, licking his lips and remembering the lightheadedness that accompanied his first drag in days. What would that be like now? A year or more, surely, since his last one. His heart quickened with a junkie’s desire and he felt a rush of heat at the knowledge that he was going to give in to this need, whatever else he did that day, he was going to buy the cigarettes and smoke the whole damn pack. Maybe he would do just that, buy a pack in the shop round the corner, come back here for another coffee and smoke all twenty, one after another. So what if the buzz is gone after the first, hell, what else did he have to do today?
“You look like a man who’s given up.”
The voice was low, amused. It took him a second to come out of his fugue and locate it. The woman who was smoking regarded him with dark eyes. He felt them on his face, felt their passage, heard the vibrant cry of her carmine lipstick, lost himself in the maze of lazy looping black hair that tumbled out of sight behind her shoulders.
“Huh?”
She waved the lit cigarette and he was entranced by her smooth wrist, the tension of the tendons in her hand. The glow of the cigarette’s tip shone in her eyes.
“It’s a hard habit to break - you’re never a non-smoker, you’re a smoker who isn’t smoking. Right?”
“It’s been a while.”
They traded stares, his open and unguarded, beguiled and frank. Hers was curious, suspicious and a touch defiant. She nodded, as if agreeing with something he hadn’t said. Her cuticles were a translucent white, the nails uncoloured, and he followed their path as she raised the cigarette to her lips. Her eyes, those fabulous eyes, squinted half shut against the smoke curling up and he was so distracted he didn’t see what she was doing until she held the new, untouched cigarette out to him. He looked at it, the effort of refocusing causing him to lean back a little. She laughed at him, the cigarette shaking in her outstretched fingers and he suddenly snatched at it. Fearful, lest it should fall, angry that she found him laughable. He examined the gift, hoping he had not creased the perfect tube in his haste. Some tobacco was protruding from the end and he pushed at it with his fingertip. It loosened further and he left it, not wanting to lose any. Looking up, he found the eyes of his donor.
“It has been a while, hasn’t it, Quitter?”
“Can I have a light?”
She pulled her chair round to join him at his table, reaching back for a bag and coffee cup, then one more time for a silver lighter. The bag went on the floor. The coffee cup, already half empty, was pushed to the edge of the table. She slid the lighter across to him and it arrived spinning. He watched the lights glinting on it, catching in the design etched on the surface. A skull and crossbones? No, some other thing, a skull with a dagger through it, a military emblem of some sort. He flicked his eyes up, tapping the design.
“Should I salute? Or run for cover?”
She shrugged.
“Stole it off an old boyfriend. Only thing he had I wanted.”
A million replies sprang to mind, funny quips, sharp questions, worldly wise throwaways, but he left them ashes in the pit of his mind. He’d used them all once, when he was someone else, with someone else. He picked up the lighter, opening the cover and thumbing the wheel. The flame was orange and flushed the scent of paraffin before it.
“Do you want me to hold that for you?”
She was sounding amused again. He raised the cigarette to his lips, felt the heat from the lighter as he brought it close. The cigarette was fresh, he heard no crackle as the flame kissed the tip. A deep breath, his eyes on hers as the smoke rushed down. A second’s hesitation, heighten the anticipation, wait, wait. Now breathing out, through the nose, an old friend’s wisdom recalled in the moment
“You pass the smoke out through your nose, the nicotine reaches your brain quicker.”
And there it was, like a punch to the back of his head. The room retreats a pace, the vision of dark-haired beauty before him wavers slightly and his eyes water.
“Oh yeah.”
He can smell the smoke on his breath as he speaks. He’s taking another drag, adding another layer to the fog he’s in and she’s reaching for his hand, her fingers cool on his wrist.
“Steady, Quitter, they’re strong enough.”
Was it the touch making him giddy now? He couldn’t move the wrist she held and he watched the cigarette burning down. The waste, after all this time, the drug he suddenly wanted being released into the uncaring air!
“You didn’t come out today looking for cigarettes.”
“But I found them.”
“Maybe I found you.”
“Was I what you were looking for?”
He was answering by rote, watching the dissolution of the cigarette he held, feeling the electricity of her fingertips. One finger slowly moved, tracing a circle on his wrist bone. In a sudden movement he swept his left hand over the table. He let the cigarette drop from his right, scooping it out of the air and into his mouth. Her grip tightened and her mouth dropped open. He heard her gasp, surprise rushing out of her, carrying the tang of smoke to him. Gently now he took the cigarette from his mouth with his left hand, moved his captive right to her chin and drew her forward across the table to him. Their lips met and he filled her mouth with his smoke. She pressed her lips to his, never releasing his wrist but pressing with her fingers too. He felt a circuit being completed, the flow from her fingertips down his arm, through his mouth and back into her, the smoke his returning of her gift.
They broke apart and she smiled, exhaling smoke through her nose and sliding her fingers up his hand to his fingertips. He caught her hand before she could withdraw it completely. She muttered something he didn’t catch.
“What?”
“My heart will be the bridge that you walk over.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll use me to get over her, whoever she was.”
“Maybe I just did.”
She pulled her hand free and reached into the bag. Dropping the pack of cigarettes, two remaining, onto the table, she met his gaze.
“I have another pack at home.”
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