Predictably, the journey was tense, filled with a silence too thick to penetrate. Nesta was stiff-jawed. His lips moved in mute conversation, none aimed towards his friends. For the first five minutes Misty was concerned and unblinking. After ten she gave the occasional sympathetic glance, until she began nodding along to the radio. From that point she paid Nesta little attention, head moving and fingers absently tapping her thigh.
Raymeda’s expression betrayed that she’d possibly overheard their argument. She gave Markriss lingering glances. Unlike her cousin, Nesta’s music selection, machine-like drums and lithe bass, wasn’t enough of a distraction. Midway, she slipped a hand into Markriss’s. He jumped as though woken, feigning a closed-mouthed smile that bore no resemblance to his former grin. Soon he was looking out of his window again, thoughts churning as Regent’s Town slid by. Raymeda eventually retrieved her hand, although it was difficult to tell whether Markriss noticed or not.
They rode a mostly straight route to Burbank Park. Regent’s and E-Lul Secondary, half state-funded, half owned by the corporation, was located on the furthest edge of Outer City, a forgotten star in a faded galaxy. Watkiss and Regent’s was one of sixteen boroughs surrounding the inner enclave of the prosperous, and seven of those were poverty-stricken hellholes. In the previous year Regent’s had won the title ‘Worst Place to Live’, according to a headline in a local daily. The article, spanning ten pages of community testimonial, police and government official accounts and ‘off the record’ stories of road-team leaders, detailed the drug and gun culture, rapes and teenage murders that prompted Nesta to come to school with his pistol.
Boarded, graffiti-laden shops went by, clouded by an idle, carbon-monoxide-spewing cruise. The only bright spot came when they drove along the high street and past the bustling Ark Station: there, things managed to look almost normal until they left the main road, back where the real people lived. Beyond that point they witnessed the usual Outer City transactions; road teams, party-goers, drunks and dealers all emerging while the sun, a grubby copper coin in a matching sky, disappeared behind the buildings.
The brown above turned black, lined with streaks of red that seeped across the darkening sky like dilated veins. It was strange to see the contrast between that temporary beauty and the degradation of their city below. Then the scenery changed again. They entered a world of comparative prosperity, fashion boutiques and wine bars where they heard laughter and the musical tinkling of glasses. An array of masked people, mouths and noses covered by the protruding metal snouts of face-masks, walking with hurried purpose, never a pause. This was Marvey, richest borough of Outer City. Eastward from the elite region lay a section of Dinium’s sprawling business district, Central Circle, the corporate hub that enclosed the Blin city-wide. Within the circle of trading blocks, nothing other than wasteland, and the Ark. Marvey’s proximity wasn’t simple geography. Everyone knew 90 per cent of Inner City immigrants moved inside from that borough.
Markriss only ventured as far as the River Azilé on rare occasions, mostly travelling to Central Circle with his friends by car after dark. Each time he’d been stung by the stark office blocks, water fountains, smooth concourses and needle-thin skyscrapers populating the sleeping business sector. Glass and bright lights, glittering diamonds of ambience and wealth. The serene emptiness of locked buildings, desolate streets. Lip curled, breath clouding glass as the car turned its back on the borough, Markriss watched Marvey’s financial district perform a graceful slide across his passenger window into dusk. Jealousy wasn’t good aura, though he couldn’t help feeling confused by the disparity between their lives. Wasn’t he smart, didn’t he work just as hard? Why were they granted more? This district looked much like the world portrayed in his childhood picture books, of dreams he’d believed writers created to give kids like him an imaginary world of escape. Always, he told himself it wasn’t real. Nesta’s comments echoed in his thoughts, a taunt. Misty and Raymeda were Marvey born and bred.
Burbank Park stretched for close to a square mile, boasting a lido, a man-made forest area, six football fields and a host of other attractions that made it a summertime paradise for all. Open-air plays and concerts took place in warmer months. The entrance had walls and gates, but long ago someone had decided the concrete jungle needed some form of oasis, and the gates stood forever unlocked. At night, the more exotic animals (like the almost extinct peacock and the aptly named ray bird) were kept in a vast underground menagerie, just in case any local Iseldown degenerates attempted a sting. In these darkened hours, the park was also an obvious choice for courting couples.
Nesta found a parking spot near an open gate. They got out in silence, standing in an awkward group on the pavement until he beckoned at Markriss. Markriss followed him to the back of the vehicle, watching him raise the boot. After some shuffling, Nesta emerged.
‘Got a bleeda?’
Markriss shook his head. Something cold touched his hand. A scuffed knife. Stifling disquiet, his fingers closed.
‘Ra.’
‘In case of nutters, you know?’ Nesta cast his eyes at the wrought-iron gate. Thin lengths of metal formed a ten-metre arch. Two words, ‘Western Forest’, were chiselled into the wall beside it.
Markriss grunted thanks. ‘You got one?’
‘What do you reckon?’
Nesta returned to the boot. This time he emerged with a thick woollen blanket. ‘There you go. Gets chilly at night, trust . . .’
‘Thanks . . .’
‘Better have your own doms!’
They slapped palms, mates again. Nesta waved a hand beyond the car.
‘Come we go.’
In their absence, neither date was looking pleased. Misty’s mouth exploded like a pop gun while Raymeda wouldn’t look at anyone, anger making her face glow. The boys honed in on their respective partners, escorting them through the gates. Nesta must have known his roads well, for he’d parked next to an entrance that led directly to the outskirts of the forest. They followed an upward path lined with white sodium lamps. When they reached the peak, Markriss couldn’t help but notice Misty’s hand firmly within Nesta’s own.
He glanced over at Raymeda. She had a stubborn, chin-held-high look of pure attitude that surely meant she was still angry. Markriss found himself cursing Nesta’s ability to shrug off a mood when it suited him. He had no such talent and was now suffering.
In silence, he absorbed forest sights and sounds. The sky was clear. Night birds called. A rustle of small animals came from darkened bushes. Less frequent was the murmur of deep voices. Men sometimes met in this park. Markriss wasn’t sure if Raymeda had known—the first time they heard whispered conversation she stopped in the centre of the path. He eventually managed to cajole her into moving, her eyes wide, staring at the bushes in fear. She jumped when a squirrel ran across their path, hooking an arm into his, pushing close. They settled into friendly conversation, talking quietly, trying to put each other at ease.
Misty and Nesta had left the path some way back, while Markriss and Raymeda decided to continue. The forest of trees grew thin. The mirror surface of a pond reflected the quarter moon that had risen during their walk. A massive hut to their right housed the boats and deck-chairs that came out during summer months. Grassy earth gave way to tarmac, and the trees fell back as if in awe.
Raymeda let go of Markriss’s hand and ran to the water’s edge, looked up at the sky, then skimmed pebbles over the pond. He laid their blanket near the edge of the forest.
‘This is romantic!’ She strolled back, happily swinging her arms. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, it looks good. The way the moon hangs over the pond and everything.’
Raymeda frowned into thick night.
‘Not that bit. I think the moon looks kind of sick. All skinny and brown like it’s gonna fall. It scares me, especially when it’s full.’
‘I like it. It used to scare me as a kid, but now I don’t mind. My mum likes it on the hot nights when it goes
kind of beige.’
‘My mum doesn’t like it at all. She reckons the darker the moon gets the crazier people seem.’
‘She might have a point.’
‘Yeah . . . Mummy’s clever like that,’ Raymeda said, as though surprised.
When they ran out of conversation there was nothing left to do besides sit on the blanket and kiss. They continued for some time, passions developing until the cool spring breeze caressed their naked bodies with a feathered touch. Neither was new to the experience, all too common in a place where the young were forced to ripen sooner than they should. Afterwards, they ate.
Markriss had only brought sandwiches, fruits, fizzy drinks and small cakes, yet Raymeda was pleased and they feasted as though it were a banquet. They blew cigarette smoke over the pond and attempted to break open the hut in order to row a boat, though the locks were too strong and they ended up back on the blanket. They talked for an hour or so about school and all its social ties, until Raymeda started to doze, fell asleep. He eased her onto the blanket, smoking and watching the quarter moon. He didn’t expect to sleep until there was a forceful tug from somewhere; before he knew it, he was gone.
A split second later he found himself high in the air, surrounded by gloom that meant he was deep in the trees, far from the path. He didn’t know which way was up or down, although he could hear grunts and sighs that meant he wasn’t alone. Markriss tried to move his body towards the sound; kept trying, even though he got nowhere. When he flapped a hand in front of his face he could see nothing, presumably due to the intense dark. Curiosity invaded him. He wanted to know where he was, and what was making those noises. Those thoughts had only just become a voice in his mind when he found himself falling so fast he thought he’d die. He saw branches and leaves slap where his eyes should be, though strangely, he couldn’t feel them. All he felt was his heart, rattling in his chest. Fright had frozen him solid. He wanted to scream, and opened his mouth to try, only for nothing to come out. He wanted to stop . . .
And he did. Halted beneath the lowest branches of the trees, Markriss hung above a scene that was near insanity. Directly beneath him, in a clearing surrounded by dense forest, were Misty and Nesta. They were making love, writhing, his friend on top, pinning her to the ragged blanket. Nesta’s sheen of colour was more vivid, and had changed again, glowing a bright, angry green. Alarm went through Markriss when he saw what was happening.
Nesta wrapped his hands around Misty’s neck, starting to squeeze. Her eyes opened. He continued to choke the girl, his movements growing rigid, more frenzied. She tried to fight, but the youth was bigger and stronger, her panic seeming to make his fury worse. Her arms flailed. Colour seeped from her features. Markriss tried to yell at Nesta; instead, he dropped.
It was the strangest experience of all. Rather than plunging onto their bodies, injuring everyone, he had time to witness Nesta roll over in shock before his world turned into complete night.
It lasted for some moments—five seconds at the most—until he found himself back by the pond, yelling Nesta’s name. Raymeda jumped to her feet, poised to run, thinking they were being attacked. Markriss wasn’t even sure what he had seen: surely it couldn’t have actually happened? His own fear was reflected raw in Raymeda’s eyes, and he wanted to make her feel better about being in his company. All he could tell her was something about a bad dream.
They packed the blanket and food into his school bag, deciding to look for the others. Markriss kept much of his terror to himself, making sure Nesta’s ratchet was secure in his palm. Halfway down the path, Nesta and Misty emerged, saying they’d been disturbed. Both seemed keen to leave, and as Nesta was driving, no one was about to disagree.
Raymeda told them what had happened, including Markriss screaming his best friend’s name. He walked, mouth closed tight, not looking at anyone, wishing she hadn’t. Prickles of cold ran up his back, and he noticed Nesta watching him from the corner of his eye with thoughtful, wary speculation. Though that was disturbing enough, a more unsettling discovery came with the walk towards the western entrance, along the path lined with lamps. There, they all saw the rise of growing bruises, ten imprints, on either side of Misty’s throat—a sombre flesh necklace. Fattened and pale in the dark.
3
He stands against the open door, latch protruding into his chest, their podroom a place that Markriss locks in every conceivable manner. He’d take the machine apart—nuts, bolts and panels—had he known how to safely. They’ve discussed this over many hours. Somehow, without voicing why, Willow and Markriss know they can’t.
On a tiny side road beyond Watkiss High Street, just past the greasy spoon café and ever-popular One Tic shop, stood Mr and Mrs Lee Tsoi’s Great and Wonderful Confectionery Store. The fact that Mr and Mrs Lee Tsoi owned the store was without question. Whether it was indeed Great and Wonderful was a little more tricky to answer if you were an adult, though was Neter’s truth to the thousands of children who had flocked through its open doors over the years. Mr and Mrs Tsoi were purveyors of fine elixirs that, when boiled, left to set, or baked until they hardened, formed sweetened narcotics delicious enough to please even the most critical young taste buds. The couple had emigrated from Shanxi province to Dinium over fifty years before and had been creating sweet delicacies for most of their lives.
Markriss’d joined the Tsois’ paperboy taskforce when he was twelve, a job inherited from a neighbourhood friend whose family paid an extortionate sum—the equivalent of a lifetime’s earnings—to move inside. He’d spent many longing afternoons in the store before that, mostly waiting on his mother as she bought the daily paper and made idle chat with Mrs Tsoi. As they talked, he’d gaze all the while at the hundreds of jars containing jellies and sherbets and gum and chews and bite-sized fairy cakes, all glistening like cave minerals, unable to stop his mouth watering. Huge digital scales sat on the counter just to the right of Willow, dusty with frosted caster sugar coating not only sweets, but everything in sight.
Poster-sized adverts for E-Lul Corporation products, including the Ark, were on every wall. An unobtrusive stand to the left of the shop counter housed a register for the Ark prospectus. Though the Tsois sold newspapers, magazines and tobacco of all kinds, it was homemade confectionery that made their name in Watkiss Town. Markriss couldn’t have been more than six in those early days of wanting, and in later years the store became a place symbolising happier days of childhood. A place where he remembered everything as good.
That day, almost a man and not quite a child, Markriss felt anything but well. He’d been helping out in the sweet shop after school for the last year, riding in on his bike and taking a few hours to sweep, serve customers on occasion, sometimes even stock-take in the damp basement if things were quiet upstairs. It didn’t bring in much money, still he turned half over to Willow on a weekly basis, and because she agreed to take it, he continued. Over time, he’d grown close to the Tsois, staying behind after work to eat with their daughter and son on a number of evenings, for, at fifteen and eleven respectively, they attended the same school. Markriss was glad of the money and the chance to help his mother put food into their cupboards and fridge, something he knew often wasn’t easy for Willow. Inadvertently, he also knew she worried less when he was busy at work in the Great and Wonderful Store.
That late in the afternoon, the sign bearing twinkling bells and wind chimes that so amused Watkiss Town children was reversed, so ‘Closed’ faced the darkened street. Markriss swept the wooden floor, soothed by the swish of the broom, mindlessly herding dust into a corner to be disposed of later. The shop floor was silent and empty of customers. Lee was in the basement stock-taking, while Wai Chee, Mrs Tsoi, was upstairs in their four-podroom flat, either sleeping or watching VS—her two favourite pastimes. Unaware of his immediate surroundings, Markriss worked. The bristles automatically gathered dust and minuscule portions of outside world as he swept, head down, his mind lost in that windless night at Burbank Park, trying to decipher wha
t he’d witnessed. He had yet to learn what had happened on that strange evening two weeks ago. Whether he’d seen reality or a dream.
A rattle of clogged breath, familiar and abrupt, made him jump, holding the broom to his chest in defence. Yi-Kei Tsoi’s slim figure stood beside the shop counter. He relaxed, feeling stupid.
‘Why . . . so jumpy?’
Still, hardly blinking, her jaw fell a little, forming a snatched gasp every time she inhaled, exhaled. Fluid rattled in her chest, loud then softer as she breathed. Her lungs sounded submerged in low water. He put the broom down.
‘You scared me. I didn’t hear you come in.’
Yi-Kei beamed, success.
‘Mum’s napping . . . We have to be quiet . . . on those stairs. She’s . . . a light sleeper.’
Something lived in her eyes, so wide and dark and fathomless he drifted away right there, to Burbank and the Western Forest, to Raymeda’s warm body and the steady lap of water. Birds disturbed leaves above. The skin of his neck rose, an army of pinprick bumps.
‘Are . . . you OK?’
‘Huh?’
He was on the shop floor with her again. Yi-Kei’s clear unblemished face stood unchanged, apart from the tremor of a wrinkle flitting across her forehead.
‘You look . . . like . . . something . . . bothering . . . you.’
‘Oh.’ He stared at the broom. Yi-Kei was often the subject of hushed school conversations about her sickness and lack of availability, despite an unconscious beauty that belonged to her as much as her husked voice, or hip-length black hair. He didn’t like to think of her that way, because all he could see was Nesta squeezing and moving, Misty’s eyes looking blind into his. It made him queasy.
‘Well, I’ve got things on my mind.’
‘I . . . tell.’ A dwarf-star smile, gone before fully formed. ‘Are you . . . sleeping?’
A River Called Time Page 3
