Benighted (20 page)

No one here.

I stand still, taut, and wait. I’ve only stood for a few moments when I hear a noise, a scuffle, coming from in front of me.

What’s in front of me is a garden wall, a high and solid one with metal bars at the top. Looking to the side, I can see a house, a biggish one of red brick, and the garden must be tremendous because the wall around it runs on and on. I can hear movements inside it.

Possibly someone’s luning in his garden. I’ve heard of it happening: people fail to lock their windows properly or have faulty bars, and then at night they leap out. If that’s happened here, maybe we should caution them tomorrow, but it’s not worth a scene because this wall is sturdy. A lune could leap it, but probably wouldn’t, not unless he was a real roamer. It’s not quite legal, but it’s contained enough. Or maybe someone’s just keeping goats in his garden, or has locked the dogs out.

I can’t see. The wall towers over me, and something’s behind it and I can’t see. I’m leaning against the van in frustration, hand tight around my gun, when I hear something else.

Someone’s howling. It’s low-pitched, not loud but penetrating as the ring of struck glass.

Without saying anything to Nate, I go around to the back of the van. There’s a step above the bumper. Tucking my gun into my waist, I set my foot up. I reach above me and grip the frame that protects us from a rooftop attack, and place my other foot onto the door handle. It digs through my shoe and I grit my teeth, catch hold of the roof frame with both hands and pull myself up. And balanced on the grid like a battery hen, I’m so close to the wall that I can reach across and grip the bars to look through.

It’s dark in the garden; the high fences beyond cast shadows across the ground. There’s only a little gray light from above, and for a moment I can’t take in what I see. Then there’s a flash of light across from me. Two tiny green circles.

The lune turns its head and the reflection from his eyes goes away. Another one comes up to him, and they sniff each others’ faces, noses touching, parting, touching, like a lover’s kiss.

There’s a strange vividness to the scene below me. My eyes take in the darkness, expand, adjust, and the silver-haired lunes before me almost glow. Five of them, maybe six. Two stand and touch noses, others lie under a tree on the far side. As I watch, one of them lifts his head, ruffed neck flexible as a swan’s, and rises to his feet. He swings long-legged across the garden, raises his head and inhales.

A sound comes out of his throat, a low-pitched whine, neither plaintive nor painful. It sounds cautious. He looks around, and one of the standing lunes comes over from the corner. The two of them stand, facing forward.

They can’t see me. Surely they can’t see me.

The second lune makes a noise, a choking bark, and they all stand. It’s a big garden, the size of a small field, and when they run toward me, I have plenty of time to clutch the bars and watch how they move together like a shoal of fish.

First one then another lifts its head and intones. They wail against each other like a choir, each howls and draws breath and howls again, with no moment of silence, nothing but pure, eerie sound. Their voices ring together, modal, cold. Loten.

One of them comes up to the fence, then bares his teeth. His face creases and snarls, a mask of savagery. I see the weight of his teeth, the length of his glistening pink gums.

He looks up.

I let go of the bars, flatten myself down and bruise my back and chest as I roll over the hard metal frame on the roof. Pushing myself off, I fall, hang alone in the air for a weightless, sickening instant and then land hard on my feet on the stone pavement. My knees fold under the impact. I land in a crouch, slapping my palms down, jolting my head. Then I’m up, wrestling with the door and back inside the van.

“What’s going on?” Nate speaks, and hearing words, a voice using actual words, is almost more than I can take in. “Lola? What was that about?”

And I’ve no idea what to say.

SEVENTEEN

M
y report is still not done when Hugo calls me in to tell him how things went. He sits behind his desk, upright in his chair. He’s not a catcher; well into middle age, he’s more likely to do coordination, shelter management, central message boards, the higher-end stuff. His solid face shows more lines than usual, there’s a pallid tinge around his eyes, but that’s all the fatigue he shows. He’s alert and weary at once, like a soldier.

“So, what can you tell me this month?” he says. There’s an air of resignation in the room. The short-straw party happens soon. We both know that after this month, I may be sent elsewhere.

I draw breath, let it go without speaking, draw breath again. “It was pretty quiet last night. Quieter than it’s been for months. We just had one collar.”

“You and Nathan Jensen?”

“Yes. Bride Reilly suggested I take him, since my own trainee was off sick. Though if it’s all the same to you, sir, I don’t think Nate and I work together that well. He wouldn’t be my first choice if I’m sent on another catch.”

“Hm.” Hugo meets this with a neutral face. “So what were the events of the night?”

I swallow. “Just one collar. A man named Peter Seadon. Not a big offender.”

“And may I ask, was this collar done—in a manner that would not call your methods into question?” There’s no suggestion of criticism or confidence in his tone. Hugo must be one of the only men in the world who can remind me of my faults without suggesting insult.

“We tranked him.” His eyebrows move just a fraction. “Sub-Kendalling, perhaps, but he was a runner. We’d never have caught up with him, and he was heading for the woods. He was big and strong, healthy-looking. There was very little medical risk in it.”

“I see.” Hugo rests his hands together and leans back. “And was your trainee involved in this?”

Can I be trusted to look after a kid who’s relying on me. That’s what he’s asking, that’s what the committee will want to know. “I left Nate in the vehicle. He followed me in it and helped me to load this Seadon once he was doped, but no, I tranked him on my own. It was a one-man job.”

“Which you performed.”

“Yes. Seadon was going fast, I had to make an instant decision. It was all too rapid to make a good practice ground. Nate could learn by watching, but I hadn’t seen him in action enough to be sure he was ready to do the job. I thought it safer if I did.”

Hugo looks at me for a long moment. I stop myself speaking to fill the quiet. “Hm,” he says at last. “Well, that may be to your credit. It seems you took the appropriate action. For which we must be thankful.”

I say nothing, plait my hands in my lap. Hugo told me about the strawing a month ago. He seldom repeats himself.

“Was there anything else of note on the patrol?”

This is it. “There—there was an incident later on in the night, but it wasn’t an offense. Just a security breach in someone’s house, I think.”

“You think?” There’s nothing in his tone to suggest a threat.

“Yes. Truthfully, Hugo, I don’t want to drag someone through the courts if it was just a broken window or something.”

“Sympathy?” There’s mild disbelief in his face. I try for my professional voice and ignore the disbelief at the idea of me sympathizing with someone.

“A waste of our time and resources. It was a bit of a curious one, but—” This is close to the edge. If I lie to my boss, if I’m caught lying to him, I’ll still be mopping floors when I’m seventy. “To be honest, I’d like to request a little slack on this one. It struck me as odd, but I couldn’t really put my finger on why. It might be a hunch, or—well, I’ve been under some pressure lately.” Hugo’s face barely changes, only his eyebrows settle a little. “I don’t want to end up spending resources on something that’s just me getting worked up because I’m—sleep deprived. It might make more sense if I can have a think, check it out on my own time, and come back if need be.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off my face. “What was this—curious thing?”

I hold my knees together. I don’t know why I shouldn’t be calm. “A few people in a garden. Most likely a family that broke through a window that’s being fixed this afternoon. That’s why I don’t want to waste anyone’s time but my own on it.”

“Well. Lola—” He leans forward. I stop my arms coming up to cover me. “You’ve always been a dependable worker. I know a lot has happened to you recently. I wouldn’t like to see you compromising your work because the pressure has got to you.” He sighs. “Investigate this event if you like. I can put in a request for you to be spared full-moon duties for a couple of months. That should give your real trainee time to get back to his job.”

“Thank you.” This is a serious gift. If I’m under threat of strawing, the last thing I can afford to do is ask for favors. With Hugo asking for them for me, I’ll be safe.

“All I can suggest is that you be cautious. You’ve been a reliable operative, Lola. I’d like to keep it that way.”

So I can write my report and make no mention of the detour. I haven’t lied to Hugo. I can work unobserved on this, and not have to come up with a reason why. Say what you like about understaffing, I tell myself as I leave Hugo’s office and pick my way through the rushing crowds, but it does get you some slack if you want to work alone.

I’m quiet when I go around to Paul’s in the evening, hoping to relax. I wear my gloves on the way in to the building, in case any of his neighbors see me. He’s never asked me to do it, but people get curious if a non is dating a lyco, even in DORLA. Lycos, from the little experience I’ve had of it, are worse. He’d say it was none of their business, but I don’t feel like going through the effort of telling them that. I wear my gloves and spare him the trouble. I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.

I’m really looking forward to seeing him. When he lets me in, though, he’s pale and looks at me slanted. “Hey.” His voice is husky, tired.

I follow him through to his living room. “Are you okay?”

He touches my waist briefly, and then lies down on the sofa. “Migraine. I get them sometimes. I can feel this one coming on.”

I sit down beside him, turn his head toward me. “Are you all right?”

He half smiles, unhappy. “Not really. Right now I’ve just got buzzing lights all over the place, but in about half an hour my head’s going to feel like it’s being hit with a hammer.”

“How—how often do you get them?” I touch his head, trying to block the hammer blows. “Is it a moon-night thing?”

“No. I just get them sometimes. I’ve been a bit stressed. Work.” His eyes close. Against his bloodless skin, his eyebrows stand out black, as if drawn on with charcoal.

“Well, well what do I do?”

He squints up at me. “Nothing. It’ll pass.”

“Nothing, hell.” I sit down on the floor, so my head’s level with his. I can’t have Paul’s head hurting. “Want me to speak to some medic friends of mine? I can get you real doctors’ supplies stolen from the stores. We could get you some morphine…”

“No thanks.” His hand flops onto mine, rests there, limp. “I don’t much like medication.”

“But your head’s going to hurt.” Paul can’t get sick. I have to stop him getting sick.

“I’ll be okay.” He’s too sick to even open his eyes and look at me.

My voice comes out very small. “Should I go away?”

“No…I don’t know.” Oh God, now I’m confusing him. I’m making it worse.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Could you—could you—” He opens one eye, shades it. “God, I hate the flashing bits.”

“Me too…” I don’t know what to say.

“Could you just—give me a hand into the bedroom and then stay here? I mean, in another room, not making any noise?”

“Okay…” I’m sitting back on my heels, nodding my head like a kid.

“Fun date…” He covers his eyes, bites his lip.

“Come on, don’t be silly.” My voice has become high-pitched, quavering. “Let’s get into the bedroom.”

I help him up, lead him to his bed, close the windows, draw the curtains, pulling them tight to shut out any glimmer of light that might come in and scald him. I take off his shoes, arrange the covers, close the door behind me and put cushions against it so no light can creep in under it. I take off my own shoes, put them down by the door. Then I think he might trip on them coming out, so I move them across the room by the bookshelf, where they look untidy, so I move them again, leaving them by the front door. If someone else came in, the shoes might be crushed by the opening door, so I move them back just a little, just ahead of where the door would be if it opened.

The boards make tiny creaks as I stalk back on tiptoe. I wave my hands, trying to shush them, but every step makes a sound. The kitchen has a solid floor, so I stand there, look around. I’m hungry, but I know the fridge door creaks as it opens. There’s food on the sideboard. Cereals, a crunch with every bite like gravel in my mouth. Apples, the noise of cracking chalk. A pack of plain biscuits, if I ate them there’d be a sound like breaking plastic. Why can’t they sell food that doesn’t hurt him?

There’s a banana. Maybe I can have a banana. I peel it fast, the outside coming off with a sound like tearing cloth, and take it into the living room. I stand balanced in front of the bookshelf, trying to find something I want, making no stir as my eyes go over the shelves. Paul is the one who reads. I don’t know how to pick something.

I pick one book because it’s got a long title. Another I take because there’s a picture of a paper doll on the cover. I pick a third because I’ve read it before; it’ll be something to do with my eyes if I don’t like the others. I want to fold paper, make something, a crane or a frog, but I don’t know if he’ll hear the sound of it creasing.

Three books and a peeled banana. I sit myself on the sofa, my island, where I’ll stay and keep quiet and not venture off until Paul’s head is better. I curl up, pressing my knees into my chest until I’m tiny. The banana is starchy and soft as I bite into it, and the pages make almost no noise turning.

It’s hours later when I hear him speak. Time has gone dead, minutes have lasted longer than I could count, the second hand on my watch has lingered at every stop. It’s gone so quiet the room beyond my little patch on the sofa seems two-dimensional, painted onto the great body of silence around me.

Paul’s voice calls from the bedroom, unsteady, hoarse, but I hear it. “Lola?” It has the fragility that comes from hours without speech. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.” I sound strange in my own ears, almost like a cry. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Would you come in here?”

I pad through, shoeless, walking on the balls of my feet. Paul’s lying just where I left him. Even in the dark, I can see how wan he looks.

I sit on the bed and rest my hand on his chest. “How’s your head?”

He takes hold of my hand. “Better. Still pretty horrible, but better. Are you all bored out there?”

“Only boring people get bored.” It’s something he’s said to me. I couldn’t answer the question. “Would you like a glass of water or something?”

“Yes please.”

I soft-foot through the apartment, fill a glass, return. He drinks it with his head propped on his hand, then lies down again, setting his head on the pillow as if a sudden impact might dent it.

I’d like to lie down with him, but the migraine’s taken up all the space in the bed. “Are—are you hungry?”

He makes a pained face.

“Okay, no.”

“I’m sorry to flake out on you like this.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I say, my voice as close to gentle as I can bring it. “You get blinding headaches so you don’t have to take me out. If I had a penny for every man who’d tried that one…”

“It’s nice of you to stick around.”

This was where I wanted to be. If he didn’t send me away when his head hurt, if it made him feel better to have me in the next room, it means he wants me around. I don’t know how to explain this to him. As I move lower to bring my head level with his, I think how it’s been this way from the start. He’s always assumed things are okay that I wouldn’t have risked suggesting. They don’t even seem to bother him.

“I didn’t want you dying when my back was turned,” I say. It’s the closest I can get to telling him I love him.

I stay the night. I lie very still beside him, waiting till I’m sure he’s asleep before I let myself drift off.

I don’t know when the mists clear, but somehow I’ve come to earth and this is what I see. The sky above me is bronzen with light, a gold beacon burning and casting everything into perfect, gilded beauty. It isn’t the sun. It’s a cold night, I can feel the wind in my eyes, but nothing can touch me. Under my coat of thick gray hair, tinted silver by the blazing moon, no chill can penetrate and I’m warm. As darts whistle past me, I know I’m running, my feet are shod with hard, tough skin and the ground is dewy between my toes, but I’m safe, nothing will cut my feet, and I’m not tired. I run, the ground slips under me faster than I knew it could, and there’s nothing but the rhythm of my feet beneath me and the light, the smell of fresh clean earth, damp leaves, woodsmoke, cold, pure air.