“You’re not that hard work,” he says. “What went wrong?”
I close my eyes, open them. Still in one piece. “Someone’s injured, and it’s my fault. I should have kept a better eye out for him, and I didn’t, and now he’s in the hospital.”
“That’s hard,” he says.
I look up at him. “Aren’t you going to say you’re sure it wasn’t my fault?”
He has a nice look on his face, sympathetic but not deadweight. “I wasn’t there. It might even have been. But so what, we all make mistakes.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, “but your mistakes make you late for appointments. Mine put people in intensive care.”
“I’m sorry.” He pushes my drink toward me, and then makes a little gesture with his fingers. I look toward where he’s pointing, and see that I must really be drunk. I’ve left my sleeve rolled up, and the scar is uncovered for the world to see.
“Oh God,” I say. My hand flies to cover it, and he reaches out to pull my sleeve down. I let him. His fingers skim my wrist. He stops with the sleeve pulled halfway down, and then runs his fingers over the scar.
“Poor girl,” he says. “That must have hurt.”
I clench my fist. “You’re wasting your time, lover boy,” I say. “It’s scar tissue. It’s dead flesh. I can’t feel it.”
His hand opens, and cups around my wrist.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Are you all right?”
“No. I’m not all right. Look, whatever your name is. I think you’re trying to pick me up. I’d like to. But you’d start hating me two minutes afterward, and I don’t want to have to watch your face when you try to work out a way to get rid of me. So if you’re looking to get laid, I really think you should try someone else.”
He gives half a laugh, then stops. “I’m just talking to you,” he says, and his hand comes gently off my arm. “Anyway, my name’s Paul, Paul Kelsey.”
I jolt in my chair, just manage to stop myself spitting out my whisky. The amount I’ve drunk suddenly becomes a problem. “Since when?” is what I come out with.
“Since I was baptized…What’s the matter?”
“I know you.” My voice is tripping over its words. “You’re the guy sent me that e-mail about my wino, you’re a social worker. What you doing in my bar?”
He leans his head around to get a look at me. “Are you—are you Lola Galley?”
“Yeah. Oh God.” I put my head on my arms, letting the mess on the bar stain my sleeves. “We’re s’posed to work together.”
“You sent me that funny e-mail, didn’t you?” he says, removing my drink to a safe distance where I can’t knock it over.
“Funny? It was dreadful. It was—unprofessional.” I get the word out. “Why didn’t you write back and put me in my place, eh?”
“Are you kidding? It’s the first time I’ve ever heard of anyone getting a message from anyone in DORLA who assumed they were on the same side.”
“Oh.” I can’t figure that out. “Well, we’re not.”
He drinks some of his wine. “Why not?”
“Dunno. Just not. Probably.”
“Can I suggest that you drink some water?”
“No. I’m researching our case. Looking at it from our client’s point of view. Please let me be drunk, I don’t want to be sober just now.”
“Really, I couldn’t tell. What’s the matter?” He’s stopped smiling. The look on his face ought to be disapproval or something, but it’s not, it’s just—interest.
“My pupil got hurt because of me. And before that, my friend got killed and left behind three kids and a pregnant wife, and we don’t know who killed him. And my job’s on the line. And I miss my sister, and I know if I see her it won’t make things any better.” I’m speaking to the bar. “Aren’t you sorry you started talking to me?”
He grins. “No. Not really.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Can we meet socially some time? I mean, maybe without the whisky,” he says.
“We’re working together. You can reach me through DORLA,” I succeed in saying.
“Like that, is it?”
“Yeah. Look. Oh, God—” I put my face in my hands. “Kelsey, I’m drunk. I’m tired. I’ve had an awful, awful day. I’m not making any sense. I think I’d better go.” I stand up. The room takes a slow spin to the right, and I put a hand to my head as I stumble toward the door.
Outside the bar, I look back through the window. The bartender shrugs, and pours Paul Kelsey another drink.
SIX
I
spend the next evening with the Marcos family. It’s Debbie who lets me in and shows me into the living room. It’s not in much of a state. Susan sits in the same chair as before, and Debbie comes up behind her and puts her arms around her mother. Susan puts a hand on Debbie’s arm without turning her head. There’s a vacancy about Sue’s expression that frightens me. Little Debbie nestles her head against her mother’s, and her eyes are continually flitting to Susan’s face. It’s as if she’s trying to nudge her into life.
The two boys, Peter and Julio, tumble into the room. Debbie jumps at the noise, and turns around. “Have you set the table?” she says. Her voice is edgy. I’d forgotten how quickly children get angry.
“No,” says Peter, the youngest, and gives Julio a shove.
“You’ve got to set the table. I cooked the dinner, you’ve got to set the table, it’s your turn to do it.”
Peter gives her a glare, and stamps at her. Debbie stands between her brothers and her mother and half shouts, “You’ve got to do your share!”
Peter shouts back, “Go to hell, you’re not my mother!”
“Hey, hey, hey.” I get between them. “It’s okay, take it easy.”
Debbie talks to me in an aside, not quietly enough. “I’m sorry you should see this.”
“Suppose I set the table?” I say.
“Peter should do it.”
I check on Peter, who’s only just this side of smashing something. “Yeah, but let’s let him off, eh? I bet I can do it faster.”
She gives me an angry look as I steer her into the kitchen. Together, we find plates and lay them out, pull chairs in line. Sausages are sitting in the pan, potatoes and frozen peas have been cooked. I’m impressed: for a girl Debbie’s age, this is a pretty good meal. There’s a mug in the middle of the table, with thin, bare branches in it that’s she’s picked from somewhere. I watch her bend her head over the table, frowning as she lays the forks in line. All this, and her family is still lying in pieces around her.
“This looks terrific, Debbie,” I say.
“Mm.” She doesn’t look at me.
I go back to the living room. The boys are simmering: Peter is kicking things, and Julio is brooding on the sofa. I sit beside him and give his arm a light punch. “You okay, kid?” I say.
He glowers at his feet.
“Debbie’s cooked a great dinner.”
“I’m sick of her cooking.”
“Well, she’s trying to be nice.”
He kicks the sofa. “You going to try to talk me around? Do the shrink bit like my school nurse? You going to do that?”
“Me? Hardly. I wouldn’t know a shrink if he came up and bit me,” I say. He fidgets, his face twitches. He shuffles to and fro, opens his mouth, closes it. “I remember my school nurse. All she ever did was give us aspirin. You came in with a broken leg, she’d ask if you wanted one or two aspirins. ’Course, my school was pretty poor.”
Julio’s face works and he doesn’t look at me. “She just makes me so mad,” he says.
“Debbie? Why?”
“She thinks if she does all this stuff and bosses us around, it’s like it’ll all be okay.”
I pat his leg and he moves away. “I’m really sorry,” I say. He rolls his eyes and frowns to get the misery out of his features; even to me, it sounds like a pathetic thing to say. “That doesn’t help, does it?” I add.
He shrugs.
“Debbie is trying to help, though,” I go on. “After all, can you cook?” He scowls, he thinks I’m mocking him. I manage a grin. “I’m not much of a cook myself,” I tell him. “Come on, kiddo, let’s go and eat dinner.”
During the meal, Debbie makes efforts at conversation that founder, Julio is terse, Peter bad-mannered, and Sue silent. A dispute arises about who’s going to clear the table, which ends with me doing all the washing up while the children retreat to their various bedrooms. Debbie hasn’t learned yet about cleaning up after yourself as you go, and the kitchen is a mess. I rummage around, looking for cleaning agents: nobody has bought any for some time, and there are only a few containers with dregs in them under the sink. These I water down as best I can, and scrub respect for Johnny into every corner.
Back in the living room, Sue sits inert. I come in, say, “How are you doing?”
She turns her head away. There has got to be some better way to help a grieving widow. I’d give a great deal to know it.
“Have you thought of asking the neighbors for help?”
“For what?” she mutters into her lap.
I pause. This is a non building, bigger flats but otherwise much like mine. With Johnny dead, their staple is gone: they’re a lyco family in the midst of a nest of nons. She’s cut off. Her best bet would be to rely on Johnny’s memory—there can’t be a man or woman in this building who doesn’t know what happened to him. She could put herself in the way of a lot of casseroles and babysitting if she could just get herself together to ask. “Lots of people would be happy to do things for you, Sue. Cook meals for you, help out with the kids—look, I don’t know everyone here, but I bet they would.”
“I don’t know.”
“Listen.” I feel desperate, I want to shake her and shake her until she’s happy. “Look, would you like me to ask around? I’m sure I could find some people willing to help, just to tide you over until you’re—feeling up to it. Shall I do that?”
She sighs, puts a hand over her face. “I don’t know what’s going on anymore, Lola,” she says, and her shoulders shake.
I go over to her, lay my hand on hers. “It’s okay, Sue.”
Her face contorts. “I don’t know what’s going on, I just can’t take it, I—” No sound comes out of her as she sobs.
I don’t know what’s going on either. I squeeze her hand and crouch by her, mute. She keeps on shaking, and I tell her that I’ll call people, I’ll phone around and get people to help her out. I’m still bent double over her unresponding hand when Peter comes in.
He flies at me, shoves me backward, stands between me and his mother like a tiger. “What are you doing? You made her cry, don’t you make her cry!” he wails at me.
“It’s okay, Peter—” I start toward him, and he knocks away my outstretched hand.
“Get out of here!”
“Peter—”
Debbie comes into the room. She runs to her mother and wraps her arms around her, glaring at me. “It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay,” she says in a tone of accusation. I look to the doorway and see Julio is standing there, too, watching the scene with smoldering eyes. What part of it is putting that look on his eleven-year-old face I can’t tell; it may very probably be me.
“It’s okay,” I say, and my voice echoes off the walls.
Peter looks from me to his mother and back again, then gathers all his strength into a shriek. “Go
away
!”
A better woman would have handled this better, a better woman would know what to do now. All I can do is listen to Peter. It’s advice of a sort, and I take it. I gather my coat, my bag, myself, and leave without a word.
I go into work the next morning, and I fix it. I need a backup man, I need authorization, I need strength of will, and my bare hands. I get clearance without even a question. My first thought is to ask Bride to back me up; she’s busy and gives me Nate instead, her little trainee. I brace myself. Downstairs is my man, the man I want some answers from. Today, if there is to be justice, I am to be a dangerous woman.
“I’ll lead the interrogation,” I tell Nate. We walk down the steps to the cells as I brief him; our feet clatter and the stairs get dimmer and narrower the deeper we go. “You hang back. Don’t say too much. Back me up.” The thought of bright, damaged Marty comes over me as I’m saying this, it leans on me so hard that I actually stop for a second to rest my hand against the wall. Nate rattles on ahead and I shout. He turns, surprised. I wouldn’t have to shout at Marty; I only needed to say things to him once. He listened to me, God damn it, he listened so well it put him in the hospital from ignoring his common sense. I wouldn’t have to brief him to hang back. Marty was smart. Marty was smart. This sentence claws at me as I stand facing Nate’s blank stare, and I shake myself. Marty is smart. And they may yet mend his voice. And I’m about to have some words with the lune who drank his blood.
“Which part of ‘hang back’ did you not understand?” I say to Nate, and walk on past him, pulling rank to override his offended start.
Darryl Seligmann crouches in a corner of his cell. There’s a bench at the back he could sit on, and a couple of chairs bolted to the floor; instead, he’s back on his heels. Both his thumbs are pressed up against his mouth. His hair hangs down around his face, screening it. He doesn’t look up as I turn the key in the lock. It’s only when I stalk in and bang the door behind me that he raises his head with a jerk.
I stop in midstride. I recognize this man. I’ve seen him before, just a few weeks ago. It was—that’s right, it was the day Leo was born. This man spat at me as I was leaving the building. The spiked hair is trailing down, matted, the fierce eyebrows straggle, but it’s the same man.
“What do you want?” he rasps, and it’s the same voice I heard before saying “fucking skins.”
I pocket the keys, and take a seat. Here, in my power, is the man who tore up Marty. And me. I remember feet on my chest, teeth over my face. My fist clenches. “My friend, you are in so much trouble.”
“What the fuck you got on me?”
He speaks through his teeth; his voice is low. I lower my voice to match it. He’s incommunicado, he’s spoken to no one on the outside, not even the police. I can do anything to him, anything. “Why don’t we start where it starts. What were you doing out in the moon that night?”
His eyes are black. He hunches under the bench and glares at me. There’s something adolescent about his posture, the strained wolfishness of it, knees folded up around his ribs, elbows drawn back, lips in a half-snarl. Other children, lyco children, used to make similar stances at me. His mouth is lackluster, a stage-growl pulled over crooked teeth, but the lines around his eyes burn. I don’t know what he’s saying, I just know that by God he means it.
I speak slowly, softly, my back straightens out like a dancer’s as I lean toward him. “What were you doing out on a moon night?”
His lips barely move. “Fuck you.”
Nate twitches behind me, and I snap my fingers at him to make him stand still. I mustn’t look away.
“No. Not me, my friend. You. You are not getting out of here. You want a phone call?” He looks up. “You can’t have one. You want a lawyer? You can’t have one. Not till we know what we want to know. And you can stay here for your whole life, if we want you to. So fuck me? I don’t think so. You are staying with us, and we are going back to the beginning. Why were you out on a moon night?”
“That’s your song, isn’t it? Sing another,” he mutters.
“Nate, help me get him into that chair.”
I have my hands on him. Seligmann struggles and kicks, but he’s thin, his muscles aren’t bulked up like a luning man’s, and there’s two of us. He isn’t luning now, and he can’t outfight us both. I cover him with a sleeper gun as Nate cuffs his hands to the chair. “This’ll give you a hell of a headache,” I tell Seligmann. “Don’t make me dope you. You’ll fall asleep and we’ll just have to do this again sometime. And I’d rather have you awake.” He lashes against the cuffs. “Hold still. You see over there?” I point. There’s a dogcatcher pole hanging on the wall just outside the cell. “We can keep you still with a collar if you prefer. What would you prefer?”
His eyes stay on me and he doesn’t answer.
I stand up. There’s something black inside me, something coiled. The thought that I can hurt him makes me shake. Do I want to? So much of me does. I draw my hand back. I can feel the cold prison air stroking it, feel every hair on my arm, my hand is bright with life as I swing it hard and slap him.
Cold judders up my arm. Even as my palm touches his face, I freeze in horror at what I’m doing. His head jolts to one side. I did that to him. My palm stings, itches, tingles, what I’ve done is being branded into it.
Seligmann turns his face back to me and bares his teeth. “Weak, pussy,” he says. “You hit like a girl.”
I hit him again before I realize what I’m doing, hook him with a closed fist. Bones in my knuckles knock bones in his jaw, there’s so little skin between our bones to protect him. His head snaps back a little way, only a little, as if a rubber band held it in place. “Better?” I say. I don’t recognize this shaking voice as my own.
The eyes blaze, his voice is steadier, stronger than mine. “Go on,” he says.
I’m shivering, I’ve never been warm in my life. There’s a place on the hand, under the thumb, that never heals if you damage it, an area of almost unprotected nerve. I lean down, half-crouched, almost straddling him. I’m very close to his face as I dig my nail into his hand.
His face clenches, little pants escape him. I lean forward, press my shoulder forward, but I can’t make myself dig hard enough to damage him. Seligmann rolls his head like an animal, trying to move himself out of the path of the pain, and it hits me again what I’m doing. I snatch my hand away, grip it, leaving a white dent in him, white dent that floods with red. Healing blood. The bruise I’ve given him will fade in a day.
I hear him again, a hoarse half-whisper that’s lowered for menace. It should be theatrical, I should be able to see through it. “That’s all you can do, kitten,” he says.
My stomach twists; I’m dizzy. Through an effort of will that almost collapses me, I hit him again, flat-handed, three times, left right left. My arm as it jerks around is stiff, awkward, graceless, the fall of his head as it reels from my blows looks assured and steady in comparison.
Seligmann looks at me again. My hand is raised, and I can’t hit him, I can’t, I physically can’t. I have to do something with my hand, so I place it on his head to turn his face toward me. My fingers twitch at the texture of his greasy hair, I can feel the heat of his scalp through it. All I can see is a human being that I’m hurting, and what I want to do is cradle his head, leave my hand there, stroke him, make him better. I hate him. I push his head back a little, and speak into his face. “Tell me,” I say. “Tell me what you’re doing.”