“Ah. You’re from DORLA?”
“Yep.” Becca is silent, not looking at me.
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll see that everything turns out just fine.” And out he swans. It’s no kind of an answer, really. Sonograms have shown the baby often enough, feet tucked together, poised for the descent, and from the way he’s laid, there should be no question of a problem. Things can go wrong at the last minute, though. The baby jams, the neck bends, or not enough oxygen goes to his brain at the wrong moment, or too much happens before he’s ready. Being laid wrong is the indicator, not the cause. I was born headfirst like every other non I know, but even with an ultrasound photograph nestling in her wallet, Becca isn’t going to stop fretting until she sees her lyco baby in the flesh and blood. The doctor hasn’t reassured her.
“There you go.” I pat Becca’s hand. “No need to worry.”
She speaks without looking at me. “That isn’t fair, May. You know I never said anything about not wanting it to be…to…”
This is true. She didn’t.
I have a choice here. I can lie, and say it was just me who was worried, and I only brought you into it to give my worries weight; or I can tell the truth and say, yes, but I know that’s what you were thinking. I’m quite relieved when another contraction starts up and takes away the need to answer.
My sister toils on the bed. I sit and watch. No doubt she is in great pain, but she was probably right. I can’t get into the spirit of things.
The doctor returns at intervals. I wonder how she’s affording him: money drips off him instead of sweat. I sit on my plastic chair and let him ignore me.
Becca lies on the bed and speaks to me once or twice every hour.
Finally we come to it. I tilt my head around and find that the desired end is coming to pass. Tiny feet appear, then tiny knees, by which time it’s perfectly clear that the infant is going to be a lyco.
The doctor produces him with a subdued flourish, and there he is: a little baby boy, smeared with fluid and trying his best to move his brand-new limbs in the scalding light. His face is funny-looking, folded over and pressed bright red; he looks like a skinned rabbit. He’s terrified.
Parkinson picks him up, examines him, puts him through a few moments of tests. Becca’s hands fidget on her chest; I sit very still. “Perfectly sound in every way,” Parkinson finally pronounces, and he hands the little mite over for the nurses to excoriate. The boy’s puckered face contorts as they set to work swabbing him.
Becca’s face is running with sweat; she’s almost sobbing. “Oh thank God. Oh thank God, oh thank—”
Then she remembers that her bareback sister is listening.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, and shrug. “At least you get to keep him.”
Another contraction comes along, this one for the afterbirth. I give her my hand and squeeze back as hard as I can. This is to stop her from crushing it altogether. Perhaps it feels like fellowship from the outside.
By the time I get home, I have three separate backaches. I swipe-card my way through the door, get in the elevator, and go all the way up to the seventh floor. The building is a little scuzzy. There are dust mice under the radiators and peeling paint on the windows; when I take a bath, I’ve been known to get bits of plaster in my hair. All of this means that it’s cheap, which means I can afford it. And also, lycos don’t live here, not adult ones anyway. It started out with nons moving in because of the low rent. The apartments are undersize anyway, and lycos prefer to have at least one biggish room for a lock-up. After a while, the lycos moved out because there were too many damn barebacks around, and now it’s pretty much lyco-free. We tend to have lyco children, as the condition’s not inherited, and some of us, a very few of us, marry lycos, but there’s a non in every apartment. This has its advantages, the biggest being that no one acts like I’m about to arrest them.
I get to my apartment. I’ve painted the rooms red and blue, trying for cozy, but really they’re just small. The bedroom consists of a double bed where I sleep alone, and about an inch of space on each side. The kitchen is narrow, and has some food in it, enough for dinner. I haven’t thought about food for a few hours, so I’m not yet hungry, but I will be in a while; I need to work myself up to it. What I’ve been looking forward to is a hot bath, the first major consolation of the evening.
My feet hurt. I kick off my scary-lady shoes, and hobble toward this goal. When I open the door, I find that there’s a big wet patch on the ceiling, pouring a narrow stream of gray water down into a minor flood on my bathroom floor.
This is a disappointment I do not want to have to deal with, but I cannot have a bath with the room in this state. I make my way upstairs, shoeless, and knock on the door of the Cherry family, the people responsible for this misfortune. The kids, I discover—lycos both—are babysitting themselves tonight and have forgotten to turn off the tap.
“Could you turn it off now?” I say. “My bathroom is full of water.”
The boy giggles; the girl says, “We’re sorry, Miss Galley, really we are.” She looks so worried I’m half inclined to apologize—except that she has a giggling brother who flooded my ceiling, so I don’t. They take off to stop the deluge, and I head back downstairs, wondering if my ceiling might dry by itself.
I’m at my door when I’m caught by my neighbor opposite, Mrs. Kitney. Mrs. Kitney is an old biddy from personnel who somehow manages to make everything she says sound like she’s sympathizing about some intimate medical complaint.
“You’re back late, Lola,” she says.
“No, I’m fine,” I say. This is not the most apt of answers, but the way she talks, I can’t help myself.
“You don’t have any shoes on,” she confides.
“I was just going upstairs for a minute. The Cherry kids forgot to turn a tap off.”
“Ohh, but it’s terrible news about poor Johnny Marcos, isn’t it?” she says, shaking her head at me.
I don’t think she knew him well, but she’s bound to have heard. “Bad lune. I’m advising him, but he doesn’t have much of a case. The judge isn’t going to go easy on him.”
She frowns. It’s possible she’s surprised that I’m betraying client confidentiality like this, but only in the same way it’s possible I’ll win the lottery and be a millionaire.
“You’re advising him?”
“Yeah, the man who took his hand off. Someone’s got to do it. I always get the no-hopers.”
“Oh, you haven’t heard!” She claps her hands to her mouth, then leans toward me. “It’s not his hand, Lola. It’s him. Someone shot him tonight.”
Back in my apartment, I lock and bolt the door. I don’t know whether I’m frightened or whether I want to be alone. I don’t know anything. Closing my eyes, I try to bring up Johnny Marcos’s face, but all I can think of now are his brown eyes.
The sound of a slap makes me jump. I must be nervous. I go to find out what’s wrong, and see, through my bathroom window, a body of water fall through the air. It lands with a smack seven stories down, and another one follows it. It takes me a minute to put together that the Cherry children are throwing water out of their bathroom window.
I can’t stand this. Johnny Marcos is gone beyond hope of retrieval and I can’t listen to any sharp sounds. I go through to my living room. The walls cramp in on me, and I switch on the television to block them out with noise.
The news headlines fill my apartment. There’s a war in Africa. There are earthquake warnings in San Francisco. There’s a move to lower inflation rates. There’s an inquiry into the health service. There’s a new toy invented that sold out within an hour of stores opening.
Some of this is local, but there’s nothing about us. Johnny didn’t make the news.
TWO
I
remember the last time I saw Johnny. I was on my way from a legals’ meeting, one of the lottery affairs where they dole out who gets which lawbreaker. His arm was still in a bandage, layered over the stump at the wrist. In his remaining hand was a mop.
“Hi, Lo,” he said. His face, going on forty years, had always had a puppy-dog look, big old eyes and friendly-looking jowls. It wasn’t so long since the attack, but it seemed like he’d gained weight; his face was sinking. He looked more kicked than anyone I’d ever seen.
“Johnny. How are you?” I said.
He shrugged. “Guess we won’t be playing squash again.”
I tried to smile. “Where am I going to find another partner who’s such a good loser? You’ve just got to learn to play left-handed.”
“I’d be a better loser then,” he said. “But I didn’t always lose, did I?”
“No,” I said. “You were good.”
He looked at his mop; it had an old, battered handle. “Lo, I—” He stopped. “Listen—”
I thought I knew what he was trying to say. “Look, Johnny, you’ve probably heard I’m advising the guy who did this to you.”
He didn’t look at me. “That’s your job, Lola girl.”
“I’ve—” I wanted to tell him that I’d seen Ellaway’s record and it would set any judge dead against him, but Johnny was one of those types who actually cared if you told him things you shouldn’t. The grapevine in DORLA has leaves in every room and we all know everything, but it bothered Johnny. I shrugged instead. “As his adviser, I’ll do the best I can for him. As your friend, I hope they make him into a rug nonetheless.”
“Lo.” He looked up at me. His eyelashes were going gray. “Can we meet sometime?”
“Sure, Johnny,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said, and nodded. “I’d like to see you.”
I thought at the time he was forgiving me for representing Ellaway. It’s only now it occurs to me he might have wanted to tell me something.
As soon as I get to work next morning, I’m stopped at reception by Josie. “Ellaway’s yours, isn’t he?” she says. I open my mouth to say that if he was actually mine I’d dispose of him humanely; she goes on before I can. “He’s in the cells. He keeps saying he wants a lawyer.”
“We’ve arrested him?” He had an appointment with me this morning; they must have pounced on him and locked him up the second he walked in. That will have given him a shock.
“Yes. Gus Greenham and Ally are down there with him.”
“Ah.” I’m not sure how much they can have put the screws on him so early in the day, but it’s as well to have a good cop down there, too. “I’ll be right down.”
Ellaway is in one of the lock-ups, with only straw and a water bowl. He’s sitting on a chair they’ve moved in, his suit mussed, his hair tangled. Greenham and Ally are in there with him. I don’t go in to join them. I can’t do what they’re doing. I’ve no love for this bad lune, though. Let him sweat a little more if his own lawyer’s out of reach.
“Galley,” he says. “Where the hell have you been? Tell these bastards I want a lawyer.”
There’s a chair by the bars, and I sit in it. “You’ve got one. Me.”
“I want a real lawyer. I’ve got a right to a real lawyer.”
Greenham cuffs him, not too hard. “Watch how you speak to the lady, boy.”
“I’ve got my fucking rights. Why can’t I have a lawyer, Galley, why aren’t you doing anything?”
I cross my legs. “As I’ve been trying to tell you for two days, Mr. Ellaway, you’re in DORLA now.”
Greenham wrenches his head back, and Ally paces in front of him. “Let us hear your alibi, Ellaway. It’s going hard with you if you don’t have an alibi.”
Ellaway makes a choking sound. “Lower his head a bit, Gus, you’re compressing his voice box,” I say. Greenham is a thug, but we can get on when we have to and what I’ve said is practical. He lets Ellaway’s head down an inch.
“Galley! Why aren’t you stopping them?”
“Stopping what, Ellaway? We haven’t done anything to you yet,” says Ally. The murder has hit Ally badly, I think; his voice is hard.
I find I’m rocking to and fro in my chair. This yuppie shooting Johnny Marcos when he was already facing trial for maiming him does not, in cold daylight, seem that likely. There could be other reasons, though, and with Johnny lying dead because some piece of fur took a gun to him, I’m not feeling sympathetic. “Mr. Ellaway. As you probably have heard, your victim, Johnny Marcos, was shot last night. If God loves you, you’ve got an alibi, and if you have, I must advise you to produce it now.”
“I was at home.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“I live alone. I’ve got a right to a lawyer, I can’t just be left here.”
“I’m your lawyer, Mr. Ellaway.”
He starts struggling, and I see he’s been handcuffed to the chair. “I don’t want a fucking bareback lawyer, you’ll string me up, I’ve got to get out into the real fucking world.”
“This is the real world,” says Ally. “And you, Ellaway, are not getting out of it.”
My professional conscience gets to me, and I have him shown up to my office. He wasn’t down there long enough to get really scared—instead, he is furious with me: it has begun to dawn on him that he’s not going to be handed over to mainstream justice. I could get him a lyco lawyer, in theory, but I did that a few times when I was a rookie, and I grew out of it pretty fast. Lawyers are fine on their own turf with their own people. On our turf, dealing with us, they’re something else. They don’t come out and say, Fucking skins. Not quite. It’s remarkable how close someone can get to saying it without using vulgar language—and most lawyers practically build their cases on it. Ally promised a few years back that he’d shave his head every time a lyco lawyer managed not to mention “public opinion” or “the majority of citizens” within ten minutes of arriving. His hair’s halfway down his back and still growing.
“Mr. Ellaway,” I say. “You’d better start talking to me, because I’m more on your side than anyone else in this building.”
“Fuck you, Galley. I saw how on my side you are.” He isn’t just angry. I think his feelings are actually hurt. The world isn’t his in here, and no one’s helping.
“Look,” I tell him. “You’re a big suspect, and you’re a big suspect in a serious crime. A DORLA official has been killed, do you understand the seriousness of that?”
He glares at me.
“Whatever you think of DORLA, Mr. Ellaway, it’s not going away. And every man and woman in this building is part of it. That wasn’t just Marcos, that was a shot at all of us. So if you expect me to sit and hold your hand while my people interrogate you, then you’re going to be disappointed. But you are my client, and I will represent you. And since no lyco lawyer is coming to help you, I’m the best you’ll get. So, for your own good, I suggest you try to get along with me, because there is no one else who will help you.”
It’s important that I get as much out of him as I can now. I don’t like the sight of blood, and everyone here hates Ellaway. Me included, of course. But soon as we release him, he’ll go straight to a lyco firm and then he will have a lawyer. Hell, he’s probably got one already, all his offenses and all his money make this a good bet. This is a DORLA case, the first crime was a moon-night offense and that puts him in our territory, but he’s allowed to bring in his own lawyer to work with me if he wants to. And once we’ve got a lawyer on the scene, then that’s it. Ninety-nine point six percent of the population at the last count will rise to protect him, and Johnny can go to hell because God is a lyco.
“Mr. Ellaway. You’re not making this easy on yourself. You can be held here a long time. It’s not me who decides that, it’s my job to put you up for bail. Tell me something that gives you an alibi and I can apply for your release.”
“I told you, I was at home.”
“What were you doing?”
“Watching TV.”
“What was on?”
“Some old black-and-white movie about airmen.”
“What channel?”
“Two.” His answers fire right back at me, but this doesn’t mean they’re true; he could have just looked at a paper.
“Did anyone visit you at that time?”
“No.”
“Any phone calls?”
“Yes. Yes, I made a call.” He leans forward.
“Who to?”
He chews his lip a moment, then opens his mouth. I’ve never seen anyone before whose lips can shrug, but that’s what they’re doing. “Lewis Albin. A man I know named Lewis Albin.” He writes down a number and address.
“What time was this?”
“About nine o’clock.”
Johnny was shot between eight thirty and ten, the doc says. I don’t think we’ve told Ellaway that, but then he’d know it if he shot him. “Right, well, we can check your telephone bill; what company are you with?”
“It’s a mobile. It won’t be on the bill, it’s pay-as-you-go.”
The bastard is an idiot. “Mr. Ellaway, that’s not much of an alibi, then, is it? You could have called from anywhere.”
“I called from home.” There’s tenacity here. It isn’t just stupidity, or not ordinary stupidity. He’s not even trying: he’s just waiting for us to let him out, because he’s certain that nothing can really happen to him.
“This Lewis Albin, who is he, a workmate?”
“No.”
“An acquaintance?”
He shrugs.
“Tell me, do your employers know you’re facing criminal charges?”
He shrugs. “Kind of. Some of the people at work know, but it’s not a big deal, I mean, we didn’t talk about it much. I don’t know if my boss knows or not.”
For a moment I stare at him while he toys with my cigarette. He doesn’t even know what he’s said. He actually looks surprised when I put a stop to the interview there and send him back to the cells.
Lewis Albin is not a name I’m familiar with. I check his address: it’s a classy area on the other side of town, bordered by a shabby area. Artistic. It’s in the Five Wounds district—his house is near enough to the park itself to send the price up. The next thing to do is check with him; maybe he heard the TV in the background or something, which would clear Ellaway and leave us free to find someone else to swing.
An answering machine clicks on after two rings. “Hello, this is Lewis. Let me know, and I’ll call you back…” The voice is young, healthy, with good lungs behind it, almost like an actor’s. He doesn’t have a non accent, which I could have guessed straight off: it’s a bit more regional than Ellaway’s, but still middle-class lyco. I think I’ll pay a call on this Mr. Albin.
Jerry is hauled up from downstairs, and I have to deal with him before I can leave. They’ve put the hoses on him; he stinks less, and he’s quieted down. Moon loitering is an awkward one, because of course he’s guilty as hell, and what are you supposed to do about it? Imprison him for a few months, and he’ll only be that much more of a nuisance.
“Jerry,” I say. “You know you could do six months for this.”
Even sobered up, he leans on his consonants like they were a bar table. It’s something he’s done more and more over the years; most people pressure him less when he acts drunk. He knows I don’t fall for it, but habits are hard to break. He’s got to stop if he wants to help himself now, though. “I don want to go to jail, Lola. What’d I do in there?”
“Time, Jerry. I don’t see you liking it.”
“You’re a hard woman. I tell you that before?”
“Every time, Jerry. What, you want me to be nice to you and let you fall around town and get dogcaught every month? You’re slipping, you need to hear that.”
He slumps in his chair. His clothes hang off him, his hair straggles in greasy sheets. I can see why he prefers himself in his cups.
“Look, Jerry. You go back on your AA program, and I can maybe, and I mean maybe, get the judge to go easy on you.”
“I don’t wanna go to jail,” he mumbles. “Why do I have to get hauled in?”
“Are you listening? You stick with your rehab, and you’ve got a chance. You break it, and you’re counting bars, ones that don’t serve you whisky. Prison or the pledge, Jerry. It’s your choice.” With Jerry, it’s usually worth saying things several times: your chances of at least part of it sinking in are better.
“I been on the wagon.”
“You’ve been out in the moon twelve times.”
“Twelve times.” He blinks at me. “Why’d they haul me in on this one?”
“Probably because you pissed on the catcher. That kind of thing gets on people’s nerves, you know? And cute though your face is, Jerry, we’re getting sick of the sight of it.”
“Don’t remember pissing on anyone.”
“You wouldn’t, would you? You were luning at the time. Between your drinking and your furring up, it’s a wonder you remember anything.”
He stays scowling, which is a relief of sorts. Anyone else would probably tell me to keep my bareback insults to myself: Jerry’s still half a minute behind. “Don’t remember pissing on anyone. Would I do that?”
“Yes. You would. Jerry, I’ve got good news for you.”
He looks up at me, hopeful despite his hangover.
“You are going back through the system. AA, your social worker, the works. As of now, you’re on the dry.”
His face falls, but I harden my heart. I don’t want him in jail. He’s one of my less ungrateful clients, but right now he’s the least of my worries.
“Hard woman,” he mutters, quiet enough so I can pretend not to hear.
I almost like him, but I don’t care to be blamed for speaking the truth. “Jerry, a few short centuries ago you would have gone to the stake. I’m an angel of mercy.”
I had two years to learn it all, how to be a legal adviser for the Department for the Ongoing Regulation of Lycanthropic Activity. That’s our name nowadays, in this country; it changes from time to time, according to the era. Two years to learn the laws. It didn’t seem long at the time.
They’re old, our laws, they’ve bent and twisted under the weight of history, and nobody but us studies them much. Everyone’s used to the curfew, most citizens are willing to lock themselves up. It’s less trouble than thinking up an alternative. Every now and again someone mutters that if we hate lunes so much, maybe we should just lock ourselves up and let normal people get on with it. I can’t disagree with that; it would be better for us, if not for them. Mostly.