‘Not much. No.’
‘You look . . . bad as me.’
He finally noticed the dark circles around her eyes.
‘Doesn’t your sleeper help? I thought Nocturna had a program?’
‘I doze . . . Few hours . . . Cough wakes me.’
He winced, remembering. Of course, how would she sleep each night with a wracking pain in her chest, the pressure, that feeling of suffocation, like she might die? Like he did all those years ago, sleeper vibrating beneath him, the low hum of mechanics and electrics. His brother opposite, a mirror image.
‘I don’t really like sleepers. Most nights I lie awake for hours.’ Markriss eyed dust again. He hadn’t said that to anyone.
‘I might . . . be stress . . . about . . . you know. I try to stop worrying. But sometimes I can’t, think too much. At school . . . What will happen . . . if I can’t take . . . exams . . .? I wonder if someone will like me . . . like this . . . I like people, and I don’t know . . . if they like me back. Mum and Dad. They always try to do things. Lift this. Take that. Help me down . . . stairs. Don’t sit in the shop. How am I supposed to run the business? If they won’t let me? How am I supposed to take care of them when they’re old? Or be independent like they keep telling me? How can I—’
She caught his eye, saw the smile. Her lips rose slightly.
‘What?’
‘You stopped breathing like you normally do.’
‘Oh!’ Yi-Kei wheezed laughter, coughing three sharp bursts. A fist clutched at her throat. The other held the counter. Markriss stepped towards her.
‘Can I get you—?’
A rapid shake of the head, a raised palm. He waited. Above, a thump against ceiling. The creak of furniture, imaginary old bones.
‘What you . . . stressed about?’
His arms moved, but he pushed the wooden broom handle without strength, not sweeping. A pretence. Bristles scraped floor.
‘Nesta?’ Yi-Kei’s eyes were unflinching, in spite of his obvious surprise. ‘He’s . . . funny. Looks . . . and smiles . . . in school . . . Doesn’t . . . look like . . . smiling . . . to me.’
Sharp pain. No way he could tell her, or anyone.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t make you talk like this. I gotta go.’
Yi-Kei nodded finality.
‘Go. I’ll . . . finish.’
She reached out. Markriss crossed the shop floor, placing the broomstick into her waiting hand.
‘Thanks. Sure you can manage?’
‘You . . . owe me . . . a . . . shake.’
They laughed quietly.
‘I do.’
He kissed her on both cheeks before going into the basement to say goodbye to Yi-Kei’s father. After rising from the lower level, his bike lifted onto a shoulder, Markriss unlocked the shop door and wheeled into the night, Lee Tsoi’s wind chimes singing random melodies around him.
Once his legs grew warm, Markriss knew which direction he was pedalling. Riding gave him clarity of mind, a type of mental focus where, if left alone with his problems for long enough, he’d find a solution by cruising through Outer City roads and traffic. Rush hour was on, a perfect time for unconscious cycling, e-cars and their smokier ancestors jammed one behind another while bicycles, scooters and motorbikes weaved between. It had been a dark, moody day, made even more so by lumped brown clouds hovering over Dinium, threatening rain though never quite bursting. Streetlamps glowed soft illumination. Night was yet to fall.
He followed a similar route to Nesta’s fourteen days previously—east, towards prosperity. Soon the streetlights were numerous, and he began to see police officers. Staying off pavements in case he was arrested, Markriss followed the main streets until he noticed a sign for Rochester Drive, the well-to-do suburb of West Marvey. He angled his bike and rode on.
Misty’s bruises had shocked everyone, even though she didn’t seem to realise the full extent of her injuries until Raymeda screamed, her trembling voice and rapid steps creating a widening space between herself and the boys. She had grabbed Misty’s hand and talked to her in urgent tones, seeming not to know what to make of Markriss, looking at him distrustfully, as if his outburst by the lake made him complicit, before she launched herself at Nesta, a clawing, lashing blur. It took most of Markriss’s strength to keep them from each other. After an initial outpouring of tears and refusal of comfort from anyone, even her cousin, Misty collapsed into Raymeda’s embrace, having to be practically dragged along the path. They walked to Nesta’s car two by two, still arguing, Markriss trying to keep Nesta away from the girls. Although his friend’s stare burnt Markriss’s cheek, daring him to condemn or condone him, he could do neither. He’d been rendered comatose by his vision. His hands shook. His skin was sticky and cold. The teenagers maintained their two-by-two formation during the ride home, Markriss taking the passenger seat, the young women in the rear.
Wordless, Nesta let them out at Rochester Drive. At Watkiss Town, Markriss expected the same, Nesta waiting until he’d left the car to stand on the sloping pavement and slammed the groaning passenger door.
‘Now you see my aura. Now you see me for real.’
His foot was down before Markriss could say anything. By the time he reached his front door, Nesta’s battered car was just another pair of firefly tail-lights.
In the two weeks since, Misty, Raymeda and Nesta had been routinely absent from Regent’s and E-Lul Secondary: no rarity for Nesta, anathema for each cousin. Faced with empty desks and silence as names were called, the lingering pauses and glances of classmates stayed with Markriss until the home bell, causing Burbank Park to replace his brother’s aura as he lay awake and sleepless, consumed by the dark in his silent pod. Night visions plagued him. Even as he tossed from his left side onto his back, to right and left again, eyes red, prickling, jaw aching, eventually succumbing to fatigue and seeping into unconsciousness, he dreamt of tumbling into Misty’s eyes, those twin dark voids, and he would wake, jolting, the covers squeezed into a fist, skin damp from chilled perspiration, gasping wordless pleas at the bumped ceiling.
He found the street he was looking for, leaning his bike into the turn, pulling brakes. The whistle of air fell into silence. A lean, muscular e-car growled by, sea-shell pearlescent, presumably having just exited the open black gates yards away. He glided to a stop, climbing from his seat to take hesitant steps towards the grand detached house, pushing his forgotten bike by his side. Number 175 Rochester Drive was like a house from the movies. A modest, carefully kept driveway, ornate candle-lit lamps as front-door sentries, garish yellow paint, those large black gates, and a looming hedge that walled the house from jealous eyes. Markriss followed the driveway, feeling hemmed in. The gates whined to a close.
After a long pause in which he glanced across to the neighbouring buildings and took close note that yes, all the houses on this street were more or less the same, he rang the bell. High-pitched, shrill, a no-nonsense tone that seemed uninviting, all business, echoing from interior walls as if the house was vacant and had been for some time. No one answered. It felt like for ever. He tried again. After further pause, footsteps approached, clipping against a hard floor with quick precision.
The door opened with a progression of tumblers and locks. A tall skinny Nubian, dressed in a well-worn butler’s uniform, appeared on the other side. His face was mapped with ridges, and he seemed unsteady, barely able to stand. Loose jowls hung from his cheekbones below old-man eyes, jaundiced, sunken, red-rimmed and heavy-lidded. Only great effort seemed to keep them open. He wore a creased suit, the shirt beneath yellow and stiff from thousands of hot washes. His lower jaw rocked right to left, as if about to speak, before Markriss realised it was involuntary. He took a gulp of air, unprepared for this apparition of a man.
‘I believe . . . the gate . . . locked.’ The spectre trembled, voice wavering.
‘Not when I came in. I walked right up.’
Lips pursed. Clearly, he wasn’t believed. The man peered behind him.
> ‘Um . . . My name’s Markriss. I’m here to see Misty, please . . .’
The old butler’s limbs performed an irregular dance for a time, before, with what looked like giant’s strength, a single word escaped. This minor event took so long Markriss only just resisted the urge to thump him, in an attempt to knock the full sentence from his lips.
‘The . . . Ahmet household . . . receives no . . . visitors.’
‘Well it’s important. Very. It’s about those marks . . . on Misty’s neck.’
Drooped eyes grew wide before the butler collected himself, Markriss in no doubt that he’d seen them. Both men, one at the inner concentric circle of life, the other at its furthest edge, regarded each other, released from subterfuge. They spoke the same tongue, peeked into the other’s soul with grudging respect, no less real despite their reluctance, or the gulf age tore between them.
‘We understand your concern . . . Nevertheless . . . Mr Ahmet is confident that everything is under control. Miss Ahmet is well rested and taking studies at home. So you must not worry yourself, Master Denny. Go home. I’ll reopen the gate and do my level best to pass your good wishes to Miss Ahmet.’
Being addressed formally was far more disconcerting than the knowledge that he hadn’t told this old man his surname. How much did the Ahmets know? Probably a lot, as even their rag-tag butler knew Misty’s injuries had nothing to do with him. An out-of-depth feeling lapped at Markriss’s chin. He grabbed for the cold metal handlebars of his bike.
‘OK . . . OK then . . .’
‘Goodbye, Markriss. Be secure in the knowledge that the Ahmets’ appreciation is sincere . . .’
He ignored that last, crunching along the gravel path, eyes on the swinging gate, which opened as he approached, pulling a face screwed up in confusion. Either the butler had undergone a major change of character since he mentioned Misty’s injuries, or Markriss was suffering from latent yet acute paranoia—though he never smoked the ‘sleeping drug’ piahro like some kids at school, or even drank the liquor they raided from parents’ cabinets. Not since he’d been sick outside the school gates that one time.
A quick look over his shoulder hardly settled the unease. The front door was half closed, the right side of the old man’s face shielded by the wooden barricade so that only one glassy, bulb-yellow eye was visible. As he contemplated whether to complete his turn, or perhaps go back, the door opened wider again. Markriss stopped. A thin arm protruded, flailing, waving him down the path. He sighed, turning his back on the house, hearing the brief thunder of a closing door. He’d almost reached the gates, swinging open-armed to greet him, when he heard a frantic tapping come from above and behind.
He swivelled again, on one foot this time, more fluid. Misty’s face pressed against a high window, signalling from beside an arrangement of red poppies, his mother’s favourite. Her viewpoint seemed precarious, as though she was struggling to keep balance. An eager smile made her look well rested, as the butler had described, her gleaming eyes and bright teeth lifting her usual shield of nonchalance with the obvious joy of seeing an outside, familiar face. A sturdy off-white bandage was wrapped around her neck many times over. His joy at seeing her in good spirits faltered. Hurt raced through him. He felt warm night air, saw the veil of leaves and branches, and knew. What he’d seen wasn’t a nightmare, or hallucination. It was reality.
Misty stilled. She placed a sheet of paper against the window, just beneath her nose. Her forehead pressed pale. A small white cloud appeared, expanding and contracting lungs on glass. She pointed at the paper. He tried to focus on the dark printed words. They were difficult to make out, something about . . .
‘Go?’ he murmured, frowning, bike dropping to a clattered heap by his feet. A few steps closer. Misty’s fingers were bleached white with pressure, the paper flattened on the window as Markriss squinted, straining his eyes from the shadow cast by the house. ‘Go . . . see . . . Oh, “Ray”! Go see Raymeda, right? Alright, Misty, thanks—’
He’d whispered, and yet he still jumped when the old butler appeared by Misty’s side, transforming her joyful grin to shock. He grabbed her shoulders and she was gone, leaving the collection of poppies nodding. Markriss stood open-mouthed, unsure.
‘Hey—’
His feet crackled, spitting stones up the gravel path until he heard barking dogs. The clamour was enough to make him turn and reach for his bike, jumping on to pedal through the gates before her mother was called.
Unlike her immediate family, Misty’s divorced aunt opted for metropolitan life over the suburban comforts of Rochester Drive. Maple Court was one of seven tinted-glass, dark-metal, high-rise blocks that overlooked the banks of the Azilé, or as it was known to old-timers, ‘The Western River’. The Courts were built as homage to the fabled Inner City dwellings everyone heard so much about, their design drawn up by Inner City’s lone architect, Massell Khnemu himself. Lattice-steel balconies threw far-reaching silhouettes across early-dusk sky. Bare windows exposed spacious open-plan homes, pastel colours and ambient lighting.
Markriss cycled at speed, forehead damp, legs a little sore, panting slightly, past security guards lined against the backdrop of the first three blocks. It would be next to impossible to get inside, though he kept sprinting. Closer to the egg-speckled concrete steps of Maple Court he slowed, smiling as Raymeda got to her feet, wiping dust from her jeans and moving towards him as though it had been hours since they last saw each other, nothing between them but the breeze.
‘Hi.’
He wiped sweat from his brow and dismounted. Raymeda stood back, her arms crossed.
‘Hi. Guess who got a major squeeze when Senef called my house while Mum’s out playing oware?’
He grinned, laying the bike down to walk over and enfold her in his arms. ‘You?’
‘Correct . . .’
She grasped him tight, so Markriss was forced to speak into her hair, the light brown path of her centre-parting dotted with freckles. Four security guards stared with open hostility. They wore black jumpsuits, their relevant blocks printed on the shoulders, metallic face-masks strapped around their ears, covering noses and mouths. The E-Lul manufactured products made the guards seem part reptilian and were often worn as luxury items by residents on this side of the city.
Sharp memory of Yi-Kei’s coughs, the girl bent over, holding the sweet counter with clawed fingers. Markriss had never been that close to an E-Lul Metro face-mask, and he couldn’t return the guards’ stares. He carried too much hate for them to risk it.
‘Is Senef that old butler then? What did he say?’
Her expression drew tight, almost ugly.
‘I didn’t talk to the “old butler” as you call him. I think he’d prefer housekeeper. I let him tell it to the answerphone and came downstairs. You ride fast for a skinny guy.’
‘Cheers.’ She squirmed against him, seeming uncomfortable, so he let her go, shooting another glance at the uneasy guards. ‘I just hope your cousin’s all right alone. He’s kinda weird.’
‘Senef’s a sweetheart, Markriss. He loves Misty. You don’t have to worry, he would’ve told her off and left it.’
The guards had formed a tight group, heads low, their masks and helmets a series of dark, glistening globes like Dinium CCVS cameras. Clearly, they were talking about Markriss and Raymeda. A quartet of guns strapped to their waists bore silent threat.
‘Uh, maybe we should . . .’
She grabbed Markriss without looking back, leading him away from the concrete steps.
‘Let’s go by the river; everyone’s gone. We can talk.’
‘OK.’
She led him along the main road until they reached a grimy set of narrow steps. Moss-clad brickwork, mottled handrails on either side, ancient etched graffiti. Going up, they emerged onto the man-made bank of the river, wide enough for a parade that contained a mini-mart, a glowing pizzeria and a taxi rank. Only the pizzeria was open, spilling stark light and the smell of baking dough. She walked him alo
ng the parade and on until it was far behind, a walk that took them to the sleeping business sector where E-Lul Corporation reigned. The company HQ was on the opposite side of Dinium’s corporate belt, the stretch of banks and stock-exchange buildings collectively known as Southern Circle; here, on the Western Circle, the computer giant still made its presence certain, with billboards high on glass tower blocks, sponsored buildings with glowing E-Lul logos and parks adorned with corporation-funded statues of lesser gods and ancestors—generals, philanthropists and inventors, mostly. Rival companies fought for space and attention, next to lost amongst the bright sea of E-Lul Corporation vid-ads. Immune to propaganda, or perhaps subconsciously absorbing what they saw, the friends kept going until they reached an empty bench that gave a lover’s view of the Azilé and the twin cities.
Along the river to the west, a glitter of luxury apartment buildings spread that, if he’d known no better, gave an illusion of everlasting wealth, fairly distributed from the financial nucleus to the furthest corners of the city. Due south, as the river turned and travelled, a twinkle of lights emanated from scattered buildings, a world of steel, spot-lit logos and glass. Beyond that, nothing. Gaps between corporate buildings awarded glimpses of a glow on the horizon, fuzzed light exposing the grim fact that only the Ark existed in that direction, not buildings nor people. E-Lul, with the aid of the government, had grown their glittering circular business centre to block the view of bare earth from sight and mind. Even the river had been made to disappear by the time it flowed into the Blin, forced underground by years of planning and engineering to pump through a network of Inner City veins.
Markriss often found himself thinking about the river, and whether others in the city imagined its plight as he sometimes did—diverted beneath the earth against its will, straining against demands, powerful yet robbed of strength, mighty though fallen. Whether it lamented the days when it had reached hundreds of yards from shore to shore, a width now split by arched tunnels and concrete dams into canals and underground ponds, streams and, in some places, no more than a faint trickle of lank, bacteria-concentrated water. Life under immense pressure, even then. There was no doubt the river had fought, bellowing, twisting and biting until its strength gave. He imagined it asleep, devoid of anger or thoughts of revenge, a self-inflicted slumber in order to rebuild the energy of old, eternally dreaming of the day when it would rise.
A River Called Time Page 4
