“I didn’t say anything,” Carla says. “I felt sorry for you. I didn’t think you’d get another job if people caught you stealing drugs. I don’t know, though, I think I should have told. Now I’ve got to know you a little. I think I should tell them, when I get out.”
“I’d talk to a lawyer when you get out.” Paul doesn’t move, doesn’t look up when he speaks. “See if you can justify it to him. If you ever get out. You’ll never get a lawyer in here. You could be here for years.”
“Why did you take them?” Albin picks up the rhythm, it goes from one to another like a game of catch. “Couldn’t you handle the furring up?”
“You should be able to, you should handle it.” Sarah’s rocking in a corner, talking more to herself than to Steven. “You think it’s worth it, running around outside, you think you’re worth it? You don’t get any of it, you’re not worth it, you’re just too stupid to think of anything else.” The others look at her as she starts to cry. “You could have left people out of it, you could have just kept to yourself and not dragged people down with you but we’re all in here and we’ll never get out and you’re going to die down here, you’re going to be here for the rest of your life and they’ll kill you in the end and throw you out of the window…” Her voice rises and rises; she faces him in a crouch, her hands clawing her knees, and she stares at him like he was a locked door. She should be in a hospital. She’s come loose. “You wait here long enough and you’ll see if it’s worth it,” she cries, and then she wraps her arms around herself and starts chanting in a whisper. “You wait for them and they’ll cut you with a silver knife and leave you to rot on the floor, they’ll cut your eyelids off and wait for you to go blind, they’ll break your fingers and give you a key you can’t turn in the lock…”
As Steven stares at her, it happens, so quickly I don’t see till it’s too late. Paul’s hand comes through the partition, grabs Steven’s leg and yanks it from under him so he falls. He falls forward, his face knocks against the steel bars and he falls backward, his head cracks the floor as he lands. Paul’s face is still the same, it’s intent and pale but there’s nothing alien in the features as he says, “You could end up like your brother.”
And just like that, they stop. Sarah huddles into herself and weeps silently, and the others turn their faces to the wall, lie down as if to sleep, and they don’t say another word.
THIRTY-FIVE
T
here’s a bar looping out from the wall, and that’s where they chain him. Two guards bring him up from below, cuff one of his hands to the wall, and leave him standing there. His hand is tethered too low down and he has to stoop, bent over to one side.
“You needn’t stay.” I sit on the only chair. There’s a desk in front of me, not a solid wooden block with drawers and status, just four legs and a Formica surface like something out of a schoolroom. It doesn’t hide any of me.
“We’re just down the hall if you need anything,” one of them says.
“That won’t be necessary.”
He gives me a suspicious look, wondering whether to be amused. Chain her ex-boyfriend to the wall and lock the door behind her. There’s another fillip my reputation can do without.
“This won’t be an interrogation,” I say, and I succeed in sounding sharp. “You can escort him back when I call you, but until then, you needn’t waste your time unless you have nothing better to do. Do you have anything better to do?” I don’t sound defensive, I sound biting. I hear in my voice that I outrank them both.
“Yes, Miss Galley,” he says. He isn’t happy, but he’s not obliging me unhappily, he’s obeying me unhappily. There’s a difference.
They go out and close the door. It’s only when I hear it click that I look at Paul.
He looks tired. Pulled down by his chained hand, he’s clumsy and off balance, as if he’d been knocked into that position. His gaze flickers over me, watchful. An inmate’s look.
“Well.” I sit still in my chair. “You’re quite an interrogator.”
Metal clinks against metal as he tries to stand straighter. “Will you take these off?”
“I don’t have the keys.”
“You could get them.” His eyes are bloodshot, the blue I loved so much enmeshed in red filaments.
“Someone else would have to stay in the room. I’m not rated to handle prisoners solo. I want to talk to you.”
Paul jerks his arm. Metal digs into his wrist. “Have you got me where you want me now?”
“No.”
“Why not? I can’t run now, you always know where I’ll be. I can’t even stand up straight unless you let me. Doesn’t that make you feel better?”
“No.”
“I wasn’t going anywhere, you know. You could have trusted me.”
“I did.”
“Yeah, up until the moment they arrested me for knocking on a friend’s door.”
“I’ve just seen you and your friends work over a man you’ve got nothing against. You don’t know anything about him except that I think he’s guilty of something. And you knocked him to the ground. I heard what you were saying to him, and there are words for that. It’s called psychological torture. Or bullying, if you want to speak social worker. So don’t tell me that when push comes to shove you won’t fight for yourself tooth and nail like everyone else.”
“I never did. You always say you expect people to fight it out, then act betrayed when they do. I never said anything. If he did it and I didn’t, I’m not going down for him.” He’s right. It’s normal to fight for your life and rip apart anything that gets in your way. It’s only trees that live off air and sunlight, we have to kill every time we want to eat. Animal or vegetable, we live off each other’s flesh. I think this every day. I ought to be used to it by now.
I don’t move. “I guess I thought you were a nicer person than me.”
“Well, I’m not.” He covers his cuffed wrist with his free hand, his arm covering him.
“I can’t get you released, not yet.” Because he was wondering, he was worried that he might be destroying his chances, that if he said the right thing I might let him go. I should put him out of that misery, at least.
“You could if you wanted.”
“We can help each other.”
Paul leans his head back, stares at the ceiling. “Fuck you,” he says. “Thanks a lot.”
It hurts, badly, but it isn’t the end, he still cares enough to curse me. “You’ve got the makings of an interrogator, you know, Paul. You’re good at knowing how people work. You’re just used to using it to be nice. But we need information out of that man, or more of us are going to die, and I think you might be able to get it.”
He shakes his head a little, mutters something.
“If he confesses, you go free. They can’t hold you anymore.”
“You can’t.” He stares at me. “You’d really keep me here to do your dirty work for you, wouldn’t you?”
My hands twitch, and I press them between my knees. “I would.” It’s raining outside. Water clatters against the window. “I’m not asking you to do anything I wouldn’t do myself.”
“Then you’re a bitch.”
The word from Paul is a slap, but I can’t be weak. “If you like. I’ve spoken to my boss. He agreed with me, after I showed him the tape. They’re not going to interrogate you again.”
“What?” Paul’s head comes up with a jolt.
“I’ve called off the dogs. No more question sessions, no more beatings. And I was able to do that because of what you did to Harper. My boss agreed with me. He thinks you should be left alone. If you keep trying to get things out of him.”
Paul blinks. I hear him inhale and his breath is shaky. He’s too smart not to know what this is, an exchange, a sell-your-soul deal. Take on the job of the torturers, do it to others and they’ll leave you alone. Be a devil instead of a damned soul. But I’ve just told him no one’s going to beat him anymore, that he can sleep at night knowing no one will come in and wake him and bang his head against the wall. After everything he’s been through, he’s going to be left alone.
He turns his head away. He doesn’t want me to see tears in his eyes. It’s a measure of how much I’ve lost him.
I wanted something normal. It’s out of my reach now, and all I can get is something crooked and dark, and finite. Once he’s out of here, he won’t accept these terms anymore. What I make him do to get him out will drive him away from me as soon as he steps out the door. I should give him up now, get used to being without him.
I cross the room, lay my hand against his face to turn it toward me. “Hey—hey,” I whisper. His skin is pitted and fragile from too long without sunlight. He leans back against the wall, raises a hand to push me away, and I catch it, hold on.
“Stop it.” His eyes are closed, he won’t look at me, but we’re pressed together and he doesn’t struggle. He’s had too many moments of sleep on bare tiles and hard-fisted interrogators and cold, floodlit nights, he’s too weakened to turn away comfort.
“It’s okay.” I stroke my thumb across his face, wiping away the tear.
“What have you done?” he says into my hair.
“I’m sorry.” My eyes close, I lean against him, he’s gaunt and filthy and familiar. Our clasped hands fall to our sides and hang there, a pendulum pulling us down.
I raise my mouth to his, and he flinches. “No.” His head turns aside. “Not that easy.”
“How easy do you want it to be?” We’re so close, less than an inch away from a kiss.
He untangles his hand from mine and takes my shoulder, holds me away. “I don’t want to kiss you.”
“Don’t you?” His hand is warm through my shirt. He could always hold back when I couldn’t. It was one of many advantages he had over me. The handcuffs chink against the bar.
He pushes me back farther. “Not like this.”
I open my mouth to say, you didn’t used to be conservative, but I stop myself. This isn’t a game. I’m asking him to destroy a man, and if he doesn’t want to seal the bargain with a kiss, we’ll have to find some other way. I turn around, walk quietly to my desk, sit down.
“If you want to get anything out of this man, you’ll have to know what you’re looking for.” My voice has calmed. “If I give you the information, it’ll help you, you and the others.”
Paul leans against the wall, trying to get his breath. I’m steadier than him. “You can’t bring them up here,” he says. It sounds almost like a plea.
“No, you’ll have to pass it on to them. He’ll be there, too, but you can get around it. I’ve seen his records, he didn’t get much schooling when he was a kid. If you tell the others in, I don’t know, French, German, some other language, he won’t be able to understand you.” I don’t say it would match perfectly well with the way they’ve been treating him. “You do speak some other language, don’t you?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Spanish. A little Albanian and Turkish, too, but the others don’t speak those. Or Croatian. I know some Croatian, Lewis knows some Russian, I might be able to get something across.”
“I’m sure Spanish will do.”
“Yeah.” He stands awkwardly, his manacled hand holding him down.
“Okay.” The sound of my voice makes him shift a little, but there’s no good position he can stand in. “Cheer up,” I say. “You’re gonna get to hear all the stuff I never told you.”
He doesn’t respond, and I lay my hands on the table. There’s a slight tremor in them, a seasickness.
“You were arrested for the murder of Nate Jensen, weren’t you?”
“Whoever that is.” It seems to cost him some effort to put it so mildly.
“It’s complicated. This man, Steven Harper, he’s a prowler. You know what a prowler is?”
He nods. His long back is hunched against the wall.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I mutter. “I’ll be right back.” I leave the room, leave the prisoner unguarded long enough to get another chair. He’s turned away from the door when I return. “Here.” I set the chair down beside the bar. It’s only once I’ve done it that I notice I’ve taken hold of his shoulder and steered him down into it. His arm hangs out to the side, dangling from its cuff, but he sits better, upright. His eyes close for a moment, and I realize it’s the first time since his arrest he’s had a chair to sit on. The thought gets to me, and I turn and seat myself back at the desk before I weaken.
“This man, Steven Harper. He’s one of three. There’s him, and his brother, and there’s a third man called Darryl Seligmann who’s still out there. We—” I stop, rub my forehead. This isn’t a procedure briefing, I can’t tell it like this. “Do you remember the night we met?”
Paul looks at me, doesn’t answer.
“You remember I was drinking because something had happened. What happened was that me and my trainee, Marty, the boy in the hospital, got set on by a pack of three prowlers. Marty shot one of them in the leg before they ripped his throat open. I tranquilized one and the other two got away. David Harper, the one Marty shot, he got away, and the third one, I think that was Steven, the one in your cells.”
“You think that?” Paul’s voice is flat.
“I think so.”
“So the man who lost his arm, that was because your boy shot him.”
“And because he wouldn’t go to a hospital.” I don’t look away. If I apologize, everything’s lost. “The one we caught was Seligmann. We interrogated him, but all we got was threats and curses. Don’t shrug. There was something—wrong about that man.”
“You interrogated him.” Paul looks at his dangling arm.
“Yes. The night we first went out, there was a bruise on my hand you noticed. I got it hitting him.”
Paul lowers his head, shuts his eyes tight.
“You didn’t have a problem with it at the time. You asked me, I told you how I got it. You still went to bed with me the same night.”
“I wanted you.” He doesn’t say it with spite, he doesn’t emphasize the past tense. It’s just resigned.
I take a breath. “Would you feel the same way now? Now you’ve been through an interrogation, and a woman you wanted told you what I did, would you still sleep with her?”
He doesn’t look at me, he looks into space, trying to find an answer.
I wait it out.
“Yes,” he says.
I look down a moment. We go after what we want and push aside whatever’s in our way. “It was my first and last serious interrogation. I was terrible at it, I was more scared of him than he was of me. Later on, he injured himself so that we had to take him to the hospital.”
Paul almost laughs. “He injured himself.” He mouths the words, hardly speaks them.
“Believe me, if we’d injured him it wouldn’t have been an injury that meant taking him out of the building.”
He looks at me and I flatten my hands on the table. “Do I know you at all?” he says.
I stop myself from rubbing my eyes. “You probably know me better than anyone.”
There’s almost a look of wonder on his face. “I’m glad I’m not you.”
There are too many answers to that, and all of them stray from the point. “He went to the hospital, and they didn’t guard him properly, and he just got up and walked out of there. And not long after that, the boy I interrogated him with, the boy who did a much more thorough job than me, was shot in the head when he was walking home. That’s who Nate Jensen was.”
He keeps looking at me.
“Two months before that, another man was killed in the same way. Johnny Marcos, the man your friend Ellaway mauled.”
“He’s not my friend,” Paul says. “I hate him.”
We have to keep moving forward. If we stop, we won’t start again. “They were both shot with silver bullets.”
“Why?” Paul frowns. He isn’t looking away now, he’s paying attention.
“I don’t know. Symbolism, maybe. Seligmann really hates DORLA. Now, you were arrested partly because of Ellaway and partly because of the Oromorph, but there were only three on that night. We have two. Seligmann’s missing, and we need to find him before someone else gets hurt. Steven probably knows where he is.”
“That’s what you want me to find out? Where this Seligmann is?”
I look back at him. “You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”
There’s only a second’s pause, but in that time we both know what’s happened. Later, perhaps, when we’re free, we’ll blame each other, we’ll throw accusations or say them silently. But neither of us can claim innocence, ever again.
Down in the cells, the guards lock him in. They check him over, his friends, looking to see what was done to him, and there’s nothing to see, no bruises or cuts, he’s still wearing the same worn clothes, and no one speaks till the guards leave. They’ve become very quiet in the presence of DORLA workers, playing invisible by going still, like birds hiding from a hawk overhead.
The door closes and leaves them alone, and they start moving again, press toward him as best they can. There’s a tangle of “What happened?” and “Are you all right?” and “What’s going on?”; as they hear their voices clash, they all subside at once. Paul sits against the wall, looking straight ahead.