All Aces

by Ellie Marney

  By Wednesday lunchtime, though, I’m starting to worry in earnest.

  I call Sorsha to fret. ‘There’s been no word about Zep since yesterday afternoon. Isn’t there some kind of rule about not detaining someone for longer than twenty four hours? Or is that just something I heard on television? I could google for information about the arrest and arraignment process–’

  ‘Ren, stop,’ Sorsha says. ‘Fleur and Marco are looking after Zep. You’ve done all you can. Now you owe it to yourself to make the exam your priority.’

  She’s right. I know she’s right. But it’s hard advice to take.

  At three in the afternoon, I step away, pull the furniture aside and roll up the rug. My body complains about being made to move, but I’m starting to get pains in my neck and lower back from sitting at my desk for so long. I need to stretch, even just a little. The re-open is this weekend–if I don’t do some training, study won’t be the only thing I’m behind on.

  Stretching gives me a chance to take stock of my body, after spending so many hours in my head. There are fresh bruises on my elbows and knees, probably from wriggling through the ventilation shaft. A wire-mesh pattern, from scaling the fence, is branded into the back of my left hand. It’s nothing I can’t cover up on opening night with a bit of makeup. Athletes get bruises. It’s part of the life.

  A quick shower after stretching, then I hit the books again.

  Sorsha delivers another dinner at six in the evening. I eat while bookmarking articles. At nine, I dash up to the mess to grab snacks and a thermos refill. The Parade Road is empty, the streetlamps humming in the dark, the moon a cool suspended sliver. It’s raining again, a light drizzle. The damp air is refreshing after so long spent indoors.

  When I get back to my room–flicking on the desk lamp, throwing my jacket over the back of my chair, setting my thermos on the desk–I’m focused on starting a new round of review. This is the home stretch. I’m finally getting a handle on the references.

  I’m not expecting to see a dark, hardwood shadow near my window, and I get a physical jolt. ‘Fuckity fucking fuck.’

  ‘It’s me!’ Zep holds out a hand. His eyes gleam behind the black slashes of his hair.

  ‘Oh my god–Zep?’ I rub my breastbone.

  ‘I didn’t mean to startle you!’ he says. ‘Dammit, I’m sorr–’

  I cut him off when I cover the few steps between us and grab him. Hug him tight. I don’t allow my brain a chance to think it through–I just do it. His skin is cool on the surface, his body warm deep inside.

  Words tumble out of my mouth without any filter. ‘Oh maigod, Aku kuatir banget–’

  ‘Hey, hey.’ He hugs me back, smelling of night air. His arms are fierce around me. ‘It’s all right. I’m okay. Dios, it’s so good to see you.’

  He’s a little damp, his shoulders and stomach taut. I get control of myself and pull back. ‘Fleur was supposed to call me when you got out–’

  ‘We literally just arrived back on the lot.’ He gives me a tired grin.

  ‘Fleur should have called. My brain has been on a loop. Are you okay? And don’t say ‘it’s not bad’.’

  ‘I’m okay. Truly.’ He wipes rain off his face with his sleeve. He’s not wearing the all-black outfit he was caught in; Marco took a fresh shirt to the police station for him. The red plaid is worn-looking. ‘I was only charged with unlawfully being on the property. That lawyer from Cadell’s is a force.’

  ‘What about the court case from the fire? Will you be able to stand as a witness? And what about your record? Will you have to–’

  ‘Hey, slow down. I’ll tell you about it.’ He tucks my hair back from my forehead with his thumb. His eyes are bright stars ringed by night sky. ‘We’re still working it out, but it’ll be okay.’

  My knees get shaky from relief. ‘It was all my fault. I was the one who thought it all up–stealing the ledgers, breaking into Lost Souls. I didn’t think of the court case or your criminal record at all. How could I have been so stupid? I’ve been sick to my stomach–’

  ‘Ren, Ren…’ He hugs me again, absorbing all my panic somehow, blotting it up like a sponge. ‘It’s okay now. Calm down, bella. Relax.’

  I shiver inside his hug, eventually quiet. Being tucked against him is addictive. It reminds me of the way we were pressed close inside the magic box. But I should be the one offering him comfort–he only just got out of jail.

  I pull away with an effort, examine him by the glow of the desk lamp. A brown bruise on his forehead, above his right eyebrow, makes him look thuggish. He has no other injuries that I can see. More than anything, he seems exhausted.

  I raise my hand, only barely restrain myself from touching his head, put my fingers to my mouth instead. ‘Are you really all right? Did Malcolm and Cecil do real damage? Your head–’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He still looks a little dazed. ‘Cecil lost his temper once. That got me some consideration from the judge. I can’t believe you got away from Lost Souls.’

  ‘I drove the car. It was stressful, because I don’t have any kind of license. I thought I’d be pulled over for sure.’

  ‘Then you went to Fleur…’

  ‘I had to tell her what we were doing. I didn’t tell her about the ledgers. I just said you needed to get something personal from Lost Souls, and that I’d helped you. Marco was the one who called Cadell’s. But we had to do something, there was no way we were going to let you sit in a cell somewhere–’

  I stop abruptly because Zep puts his hands on my biceps and presses his forehead against mine. His breathing is deep, as if he’s overcome.

  ‘Are really you okay?’ I whisper. It doesn’t seem comfortable for someone to contain so much emotion.

  ‘Nobody has ever done that for me before.’ He exhales, and all the silver points of rain on the tips of his hair shudder. ‘Nobody has ever come to my rescue.’

  I flatten my hands on his chest and push. ‘Of course we came to your rescue, of course. That’s foolish talk. And you wouldn’t have needed rescuing if it wasn’t for me.’

  ‘Hey, I agreed to break into Lost Souls. I wanted to do it. Taking action against my father made me feel strong, for the first time in years.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Zep. I thought you’d be angry, because I got you in such trouble.’

  ‘I thought you’d be angry, because I hid you in that box. I nearly got you caught and I nearly got you arrested.’

  We stare at each other for a long beat–then we both make matching snorts. Neither of us is angry, it seems; just deeply relieved. Now we are standing here, and Zep is still gripping my arms gently, and I have my hands on his chest…

  ‘Play cards with me,’ he says suddenly. He steps back, so we both have some distance.

  I blink at him. ‘You want to play cards now?’

  He makes a hoarse laugh. ‘I pretty much always want to play cards.’

  So I get my new pack of Bikes and we negotiate seating. I make him sit on my bed, high on the pillow, because he looks like he’s ready to fall down. I toe off my shoes and sit on the bed opposite him.

  He unboxes the deck, and makes a bridge and a waterfall. I watch as he forms and reforms the cards in his hands.

  ‘Can you believe I didn’t get a chance to play cards in the lockup?’ He shuffles fast, his movements loose and even. ‘If there was ever an opportunity to sharp, you’d think it’d be in jail. I mean, it’s a staple of every prison movie.’

  ‘No cards in jail?’

  ‘They empty your pockets.’

  ‘Huh. Bummer.’

  ‘Man, this is good.’ The hard lines on his face soften. His whole body relaxes as he shuffles.

  I grin. ‘I could write a paper, using you as a case study, entitled ‘Shuffling as Therapy’.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be writing that paper now?’ He spins cards into a
tidy pile in front of me, then for himself. ‘Don’t you have an exam soon?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I collect my cards. ‘Tomorrow.’

  His hands still. ‘Tomorrow? Then what are we doing playing cards? You should be studying.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But it’s okay.’

  ‘Really?’

  I’m pleased with my hand. ‘I’ve been diligent for nearly thirty-two hours, except when I was sleeping.’

  ‘So you’re on a break.’ His face changes when he says that. He looks almost speculative. Then he glances down and shrugs. ‘Okay, but we can stop anytime. I can go back to my dorm–’

  ‘Don’t,’ I say quickly. ‘Stay.’

  It would be nice if I could justify my tendency to blurt things out by blaming my mouth, and the way it often fails to work in unison with my brain. But that would be dishonest. I want Zep to stay. I want us to have some time to settle into each other’s company again.

  His eyes narrow. ‘Then can I help you study?’

  ‘No.’ I dither over which cards to discard. ‘You would just distract me.’

  He contemplates this idea. ‘Okay. Then we’ll play.’

  We sink into the tempo of swift play: flipping cards down, sorting suits, dumping whole hands as soon as we realise the game is won or lost or stalemated. It’s a little like dancing, playing cards with a good partner.

  He takes three cards and shakes his head at me. ‘I can’t believe you drove back to the lot without a license.’

  I re-cross my legs on the duvet. ‘I can’t believe it either. It was terrifying. But not as scary as nearly getting caught.’

  ‘That magic box was absolute luck. I was a fool to turn on the lamp. Soy un idiota estupido–’

  ‘How could you know?’ I add to my hand–two clubs. Nuts.

  ‘I should have considered it. It’s a classic scam, and I walked right into it.’

  ‘I’m just glad Malcolm and Cecil didn’t break your fingers.’ I consider the air between us. ‘What did Malcolm mean when he said ‘the ledgers are in the fridge.’?’

  ‘He means they’re in Vas Cavendish’s office.’ Zep chews his bottom lip, shows me his cards and folds. So much for that hand. He gathers for another deal. ‘Vas keeps a decommissioned padlocked refrigerator there, as a document safe. It’s not secure, but it’s in his office, so it doesn’t have to be–outside of emergencies, there’s always someone there.’

  ‘Hm.’ I think this over, save it for later.

  ‘I can’t believe I put you in so much danger.’

  ‘I think you’re the one responsible for me staying out of danger. I would’ve hidden in the armoire.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have had to hide anywhere if it wasn’t for me.’ He shakes his head as he skims up his pile

  ‘Stop beating yourself up about it. You’ve already got bruises.’ I examine my new hand, discard three. ‘Malcolm and Cecil are evil.’

  ‘They’re not evil–they’re just loyal. Arguably to the wrong side,’ he concedes.

  ‘I don’t care.’ I glare at my royals as I re-arrange suits. ‘I hate them.’

  He chuckles. ‘Lavar cerdos con jabon es perder tiempo y jabon.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Washing pigs with soap is a waste of time and soap.’ He grins at me. ‘In other words, don’t waste your energy on them.’

  We are settling into our usual rhythm. It’s amazing to me how relaxed we both become when we play. Zep seems quite at home on my bed. He has one foot off the side and his other leg drawn up, a hand dangling over his knee.

  I pluck two cards to toss out. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Adelante.’

  ‘How did you learn to speak Spanish? You said your mother’s Spanish?’

  He rearranges his hand. ‘Half Spanish. There is not really so much Spanish blood in my veins.’

  ‘It’s all the same blood.’ He squints at me, so I feel compelled to explain further. ‘One blood isn’t different from another blood. Except in blood type, which is purely a matter of the presence or absence of antigens on the surface of red blood cells, and has nothing to do with cultural heritage.’ I realise I’m being a study nerd, so I order my cards. ‘You do have that dark colouring.’

  ‘Your hair is blacker than mine,’ he retorts.

  ‘I don’t know any blonde Indonesians.’ I throw down. ‘So you spoke Spanish with your mother.’

  ‘Yes, until I was five.’

  ‘Did your father speak it?’

  ‘No.’ He discards three cards. ‘A few words.’

  ‘So you’re more like your mother than your father.’

  ‘I like to think so,’ he admits.

  ‘Why did your mother stop teaching you at five? Did your father object to you speaking a language he didn’t understand? Or did your parents separate?’

  ‘It wasn’t that.’ His expression turns blank. ‘She died. My mother, I mean.’

  ‘Oh!’ My mouth falls open. He must think I am a clod. An insensitive clod. ‘Oh, Zep, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. It was a long time ago.’ He finally looks at me. ‘She passed away after a long illness.’

  ‘That’s so sad.’ I hold my cards in my lap. How did I not know this about him?

  He touches the edges of his cards, his gaze turned inward. ‘I think the last year before her death ruined my father. He spent a year watching the woman he loved suffer. And Angus did love her. I know my mother cared for him just as much. But he was a very different man after her death.’

  My voice is quiet. ‘Is that when things began to go off the rails?’

  ‘Yes. The eight years after were some tough years.’ His mouth is tight at the corners. The muted gold from the desk lamp barely softens his expression. ‘We spent some time living out of our car. And then some time living rough, of course.’

  ‘Is that when you learned to play cards?’

  ‘No–I always played cards with my father, like you. I perfected a lot of things on the street, though.’ He blinks and looks at his hand, grimaces. ‘I’m talking a lot about myself tonight. What about you? Have you had any more news from home?’

  My chin lifts. ‘Ah. Well. My uncle has bought me a plane ticket to go to Bali.’

  ‘What?’ Zep’s head jerks up. ‘You agreed to go?’

  ‘No. That’s what makes it even more irritating.’ It’s so irritating I can hardly talk about it, but I persist. ‘I have not agreed to anything. But I am getting a lot of ‘hurry up’ messages, and now this plane ticket.’

  ‘Ren, do you want to go to Bali?’ He’s paused mid-play, sitting upright, as if he’s bracing himself. ‘Because if you did, it would be–’

  ‘It would not ‘be’ anything, because I don’t want to go.’ I slap cards down, like a sulky kid. I inhale, try to control my temper. ‘I just have no idea how to break the news to my mother and uncle without causing a family disaster.’

  Zep nods his head. ‘That’s a tight corner.’

  ‘Ya.’

  ‘But it’s your life.’ He tosses out one card. ‘Your mother won’t be performing in a hotel in Bali–you will be. You’re the one who has to live with the decision.’

  ‘This is true,’ I admit.

  ‘And if you make a choice just to please your family, you’ll end up resenting them. Trust me on this. That will be more of a disaster long-term.’

  ‘You’re right.’ I look at him. ‘Bener banget, that’s right.’

  ‘Then call them, and say no,’ he suggests quietly.

  I am momentarily dizzy at the thought. ‘I want to. But I can’t.’

  ‘You said one of us has to get free. That one of us has to have a victory.’ Zep’s stare is vehement. ‘After the mess I made at Lost Souls, I’m starting to think that victory is more within your grasp than w
ithin mine.’

  ‘Zep–’

  ‘Just think about it. Will you please think about it?’

  ‘I… I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Good.’ His seriousness cracks with a soft smile, his eyes chasing over my face, before he blinks and looks down and squints. ‘What’s that mark on your hand?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ I have given up on the card counting I was doing before this conversational thread started. ‘Just a scratch from Monday night. I think I did it on the wire fence.’

  He places his cards facedown and holds out a palm. ‘Give me your hand.’

  I jerk my cards towards my chest. ‘That’s cheating.’

  He doesn’t eye-roll, but I think it’s a close thing. ‘I don’t want your cards. Put them down and show me your hand.’

  I am weirdly nervous about it. But I fold my cards together and place them facedown, and hold out my left hand for his examination.

  He turns my hand in both of his. ‘This looks sore.’

  ‘Eh, I can cover it with makeup. It’s not bad.’

  His eyes spark. ‘When you say ‘it’s not bad’, I take it to mean–’

  ‘Oh, you are very funny.’ I have taken refuge in drollness. But he is rubbing my hand lightly, and it’s doing strange things to my insides. I look for a distraction. ‘How are your hands? How’s the tendon strain?’

  ‘Much improved, thanks to you.’

  ‘I’m happy to help.’

  He turns my hand over again, starts pressing into the flesh at the base of my thumb. His fingers are long and supple. ‘You don’t get the favour returned very often, do you?’

  ‘Pardon?’ As my left hand softens under his fingers, the rest of me goes limp.

  ‘I mean, you’re training to provide physical therapy, but you don’t often receive it,’ he says.

  I take a few deep breaths. ‘Not often, no.’

  ‘You should try it.’ His eyes glitter. ‘I hear it works wonders.’

  I laugh, but I’m thinking about what he’s said. My hands bear my weight, they grip and help me balance, and soon they’ll be employed in massage treatments for my degree–they’re hard used. I’m accustomed to my hands as tools, both in my profession and in my work. This light stroking that Zep’s doing now–so light it feels like the touch of feathers–disarms me. It reminds me that my own hands need and deserve care sometimes, too.