Fire Lines

by Cara Thurlbourn

  Falk’s eyes flicker as his mind flashes back to Jennyfer. He is still pleased with himself. Perhaps this is why he suddenly stands, abandons the stool in the centre of the room and announces, “Very well. I accept your apology.”

  I half-curtsy and dip my head. “Thank you, sir.”

  Falk motions for his lamp-holding colleague to leave, and we descend into an eerie half-light. My ears begin to throb. I want to scrape my fingernails down his pockmarked face and kick him like he kicked Jennyfer. I’m using every fibre of willpower in my body to keep my breath steady and my hands still but the swirl in my gut is pulling harder and harder. Falk is so close now that I can feel his acrid breath on my cheek.

  “I’ll be watching you, Émi,” he whispers. “I know who your father is. I know what he did. And I don’t trust you.”

  Two

  Falk and his Cadets charge back downstairs. I don’t need to watch to know they’re heading for the nearest tavern. In the living room, my mother is no longer pacing. Despite the heat, I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. My insides are returning to normal and I’m starting to wonder whether maybe it was the lamp that caused the sparks. But it wasn’t. I know it wasn’t.

  I find Ma sitting on the edge of our hand-me-down sofa, rubbing the back of her neck and twisting an unlit cigarette between her fingers. She looks at me as though she has forgotten I live here. “Émi? What happened? What did they want?”

  I sit down next to her. “It was nothing, Ma. I’m sorry. The lantern exploded.” I try to laugh, to make her see it’s funny really, something so silly causing such a fuss. “I explained. It’s fine.”

  She looks down, taps her hand nervously on her thigh and nods. “The lantern, I see, the lantern.”

  “Did you see what happened to the woman opposite?” I ask.

  She ignores my question.“We can’t afford a new lantern.”

  I tell her it’s alright, I’m sure Nor can find us one, and ask if she’d like a cup of tea. We don’t have a stove, so our water is heated in a little metal bucket, suspended over a hot flame. It only ever reaches tepid, never hot. I pour us two cups of black tea, each with half a teaspoon of sugar. When I return to the sofa, my mother is staring at the trinity of copper-coloured bands that encircle her ring finger. She looks up at me and begins to slide them off, one by one. “I need you to take these down to the shop.”

  “Pa gave you those.”

  “I’ll get them back at the end of the month," she says, forcing a smile.

  “Are you sure?”

  Her forehead sharpens into a frown. “Just do as you’re told, Émi. We owe Junas two weeks’ rent, and the lantern…”

  She’s right. The Quarter tax went up again last month so, even with the cafe and the posters, my wages simply aren’t enough any more. But pawning her wedding rings? I swallow the urge to tell her that sooner or later we’ll run out of things to pawn and she’ll have to consider taking one of those tavern jobs she despises. I want to say this, but I don’t. Whenever I lose my temper her porcelain fingers start to tremble, and her lips quiver, and I regret it. So, I say nothing and take the rings.

  We sip our tea in silence for a few minutes, but when she goes back to fiddling with the picture frames on the sideboard I take my mug and return to my room. Really, it’s our room. In the beginning, we shared the bed. Despite the heat, we lay next to one another and I tried not to notice when the pillow became wet with her tears. Then, slowly, night by night she spent more time in the living room. Now, I think of it as my room.

  I rest my mug on top of the pictures Falk mauled with his ugly fingers. I despise those pictures. It was a job I never imagined I would take – creating dastardly images for the Council to use on their posters and flyers. In Green, they’re more discreet, but here they are plastered on every spare piece of wall and forced through doors on a daily basis. I didn’t think they would give me the job. When Nor saw my sketches and suggested I apply, I told her there was no way the Council would allow the daughter of a traitor to work for them. But I was wrong. They say I have an ‘uncanny talent’ for visualising the horrors beyond the wall. They say it’s unusual in someone so young. Nor thinks they are using it as a way to keep a closer watch on me but I don’t much care why, the important thing is that they pay me ten crowns for each new drawing I take them. Usually I produce two each week, but with the tax increase I may have to raise my output to three or four.

  I don’t want to confront the blackened mark on the windowsill, but I can’t leave the splinters of glass; Ma might come in here and cut her feet. Carefully, I pick the fragments from the floor. I move the broken lamp back to the bedside table and fold the blanket so I can return it to its place under the bed… The blanket! Did Falk see the blanket? It was here, out in the open, the entire time. Tiny splinters of glass have fixed themselves between its scratchy fibres. Did he see them? A shudder runs from my stomach to my knees and I sit down, hard, on the edge of the bed. I’m trying to remember his eyes, where did he look? Did he see? Did he know I was lying? I glance out of the window. Above the rooftops of the tenements, the dawn sky is glowing pink. There is no time to worry about the blanket, or think about the sparks of light that burst from my fingers. I shove the blanket back and gather my things. As I leave, I call goodbye but Ma doesn’t reply.

  Because we have no bathroom, every morning I take our wooden, urine-filled bucket down to the shed in Junas’s back yard. Inside, there is a trough full of grainy-looking water that we are supposed to wash with. When I’m finished washing, I ladle some of the water into the pee bucket to dilute it a little, then empty it into the street behind the back gate. Thankfully our street is on a slope, so the sewage creeps off towards the corrugated huts down near the river.

  When I’ve emptied the bucket, I use the reflection in the trough to pin my unruly hair into a bun at the base of my neck and make sure my red sash is tied neatly and prominently around my upper arm. The sticky heat of the shed is making my face damp and my cheeks flushed, so I exit quickly and pad down the gated alleyway that leads past Junas’s living room and out onto the street. My sandals sit waiting by the gate and I have barely finished lacing them up my calves when Junas unbolts his back door and bellows, “Émi!”

  I force a smile. “Morning, Junas.”

  “What in The Four Cities was all that commotion?”

  “The tenements were inspected,” I say.

  Junas waddles forward, rests a hand on his stomach and leans against the door frame. “Don’t get cocky with me, Émi.”

  “Sorry, Junas. I had an accident with one of the lanterns. They came to see what happened, that’s all.”

  Junas narrows his podgy eyes at me then waggles his finger. “Now listen, I don’t want any trouble. I’ve been good to you, and your Ma. There’s folk in this Quarter who’d give their last crown to live in a nice place like this.”

  I am nodding, I have heard this speech before.

  “Even when I found out about your Pa, what he done. Even then, I let you stay because Nor said you’re a good’un. But I don’t want any trouble!”

  I shake my head. “Of course not. I’m sorry, Junas, it won’t happen again.”

  “It better not, Émi… and if I don't get the money I'm owed by the end of the week, well I’m sorry, but you're out. I need paying tenants.” Junas’s voice is stern but his eyes say that he really would be sorry if he was forced to evict us. I promise him I’ll have the rent by the end of the day and he makes a tutting sound and closes the door.

  When I step outside, Rygour Street, which cuts a jagged line through the centre of the Red Quarter, is already swarming with people. Now it’s daylight, and everyone is going about their business, I wonder whether Jennyfer’s arrest and my tiny fireworks were nothing more than a vivid nightmare. But when I see a boy of eight or nine retrieving the remains of the rat that I pulled from the guttering and shoving it into his pocket, I know I wasn’t dreaming.

  The sun is already creeping higher in the
sky, so I merge with the crowd and weave down towards the market. I pass Nor’s house and the turning that leads to the ferry but, instead of following it, I exit down a narrow alleyway on the opposite side of the road. At the far end, a couple of emaciated stray dogs and a scraggy black crow are fighting over a sack of rubbish. I wave my arms but they ignore me. Midway down the alley, Garvey's pawn shop is shuttered closed and I’m the first in the queue so I must stand and wait.

  Like the main street, the alley is lined with posters. The smaller ones are mainly text – reminders that we should be watchful of our friends and neighbours, rewards for those who report suspicious behaviour. They carry the Council’s slogan: Strive, Thrive, Survive. The larger ones, however, are designed to remind us what lies beyond the wall. The biggest is one of mine – an enormous reconstruction of Mahg The Dissenter, his face twisted with rage, his soulless eyes staring straight ahead. Watching, waiting. In the background, his immense, coal-black wings block out the sun and the land below is decimated with shadow. When I handed this one in, the clerk behind the desk looked like he was afraid to even touch it. His supervisor was more discerning, examining it over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses and asking me to add some mangled corpses to the ground below Mahg. “Remember,” he said, waggling the drawing at me, “these posters must convey the danger beyond the wall. They must show people what Mahg’s evil magick did to The Four Cities. They must…” I nodded and quickly sketched in some bodies, tongues hanging out, blood on the floor. The clerk looked away. The supervisor smiled. “Better. Much better.”

  As it approaches six o'clock, others join the queue to trade their goods for cash. Immediately behind me, an old man holds tight to a paper bag that rattles as he shuffles forwards. Behind him, a couple with pale greasy skin and dark cropped hair complain loudly about the potholes near the market, agreeing that the Council would be quicker to fix them in any other Quarter but ours. And the line continues to grow. Eventually, one of Garvey's dishevelled employees flips the sign on the door to ‘open’ and ushers us inside. I tell the old man he can go first and he nods appreciatively, emptying a bag of knick-knacks onto the counter. He receives a few crowns in exchange for his goods and swiftly secures the money in a purse attached to his belt. He nods goodbye to me as he leaves.

  The employee who opened the shop is called Duke. He often does the early shifts. When the old man has gone, he asks me how my mother is, glancing over my head as though he expects to see her there.

  “She's well, thank you," I reply, hand still in my pocket. Duke straightens some paperwork and raises his thick, wiry eyebrows. “I..." The words catch in my throat. The chatting couple from outside sigh impatiently. Finally, I pass Duke the rings. “I'd like to leave these with you, to buy back at the end of the month.”

  Duke hums and turns the three bands over in his hand. They clatter sharply as he drops them onto a scale next to the cash register. He hums again and gives them back to me. “I'm afraid I can't take these from you, Émi. They're not worth anything.”

  My face reddens and I feel the couple inch closer to the counter, eager for me to finish my turn and leave. “Is there anyone else who could take a look?” I ask.

  Duke drums his fingers on the counter. “I'll call the boss down. Wait over there.”

  When Garvey appears from the back room, he is tall and angular, with a pair of dark brown glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose. He shifts the glasses a little higher and pinches his eyes at me. “Are you seventeen?”

  “Yes,” I lie. “Duke knows me.”

  Duke, who I suspect has a soft spot for my mother, nods and calls, “It's fine, Guv.”

  Garvey folds his arms. “My colleague tells me you're not happy with his valuation?”

  “He said they're not worth anything,” I reply, handing over the rings.

  Garvey glances at the jewellery, weighing the rings in his palm. “Sorry, Duke's right. There’s nothing of value here. Anything else with you?”

  I shake my head and I’m about to turn around when Garvey points to my throat. “What about that?”

  He’s seen my necklace. The chain is copper but the pendant is made of four intertwined squares of metal that are coated in gold, silver, green and red: one for each of the Quarters. I was given it as a prize when I was eleven years old because I recited the entire history of Nhatu, word perfect, at the Autumn Parade. A Council official in golden robes presented me with the coveted Quarter necklace at the end of my reading. He shook my hand and my mother was so proud that she whooped, and waved, and didn't care whether her behaviour was inappropriate. I don’t remember my father whooping.

  I remove my necklace and hand it over. Garvey slides the squares off their chain and rests them on the countertop, then takes a magnifying glass from inside his jacket. The corner of his mouth twitches and he mutters something under his breath. He looks up at me and smiles. His voice is now silky smooth. “I could stretch to one hundred and fifty crowns for the necklace.” When I don't answer he repeats himself, more firmly. “One-fifty. You can buy it back at the end of the month for two hundred.” The empty spot on my chest where the pendant usually rests already feels cold. But Junas’s warning rings in my ears. One hundred and fifty crowns is enough for six weeks’ rent. I can’t afford to turn them down. So I sign the paperwork, stuff the crowns into my pocket and push past the couple, leaving before I change my mind.

  Three

  The queue outside Garvey’s now stretches to the end of the alley. The morning ferry to the Green Quarter leaves in fifteen minutes and, by now, the line at the check point will be more than twenty Reds long, so I quicken my pace and rejoin Rygour Street. When I reach the check point, there are at least thirty people ahead of me and the Cadets seem to be working particularly slowly this morning. The crowd is becoming restless. A woman who has an infant swaddled against her chest is turning her permit over and over in her hands. I tap her gently on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

  She turns around sharply, clutching the child closer, her eyes wide. “What do you want?”

  I gesture to her permit. “Are you late for something?”

  She nods and a swathe of dirty blonde hair falls across her face. “The baby. He's sick. My sister cleans for a medic in the Silver Quarter. He told her if I brought the baby before opening time he'd take a look. He's going in early – special – as a favour. If I miss this ferry…”

  Up ahead, I can see Nor's stocky frame standing about three people away from the check point. She looks around at just the right moment and I motion towards the baby. Nor rolls her eyes but waves for us to join her so I take the woman’s hand and hurry her past the waiting Reds. The line grumbles and swears under its breath but a Cadet shouts, “Settle down!”

  Nor pulls us into the line in front of her and smiles at the Cadet checking the permits. Avery, a Green who was a couple of years above me at school, takes the woman's permit and nods, ushering her and the baby onto the ferry. Then he turns to me.

  “Well, hello, Red,” he chuckles. He used to call me Red because of my fiery auburn hair, but now I have the armband to match he enjoys it even more. “You know I’m not supposed to allow queue jumping – even for my favourites.” I can smell last night's ale on his breath. I wonder whether he was among the Cadets who raided Jennyfer’s building and force myself to stand a little straighter.

  I tuck a loose wave of hair behind my ear. “You can make an exception, just this once, can't you?”

  Behind me, Nor stifles a coughing sound and my freckles blush. I hope Avery assumes it’s because of him. “Oh, go on then. As you asked so nicely,” he drawls, offering a cursory glance to my permit and turning to watch me climb on board the ferry. I expect Avery to chastise Nor for encouraging disorder but he simply waves her past, too.

  “You always fall for a sob story,” she says, joining me to sit on deck.

  “I know,” I sigh. The mother has disappeared.

  “Not like you to be late. What happened?”


  “Had to go to Garvey’s,” I say, resting my fingers on the spot where my necklace usually sits.

  “Oh, you didn’t?” Nor folds her arms across her protruding chest. “What’s Patti been up to? Sitting on her sorry behind as usual, letting you work yourself into the ground.” I feel as though I should come to my mother's defence, but I can't think of one so I turn away, leaning against the side of the ferry to watch the spray that spits from beneath as we chug away from the Red Quarter. Nor pats my leg. “You’re a good girl, Émi.”

  As the boat trundles forward, we pass under the bridge that connects the Green Quarter with the Red Quarter. Corrugated roofs and gnarly flats turn to houses and, eventually, the canal is lined by grass instead of dirt. Usually, the ferry is close to silent at this point of the journey but this morning hushed chatter fills the deck. From the corner of her mouth, Nor whispers, “Is it true? They arrested someone?”

  “A woman. About my mother’s age, I think.”

  “Hard to tell with some of them.”

  “Mm.”

  “They find something? Or was it…” She tails off, glancing at Avery, who is watching us closely.

  “She said it wasn’t hers, but they all say that.” I roll my eyes, but Nor knows my disdain is for the benefit of our audience.

  “Silly, silly woman,” she sighs.

  I wonder whether any of the people on the ferry are talking about the girl whose window lit up. I desperately want to tell Nor what happened, but it’s too dangerous, especially here. I am transfixed by the spray beneath the boat, lost in my thoughts, when Avery’s whistle cuts through the chatter and the ferry falls silent. I sit up straighter and place my hands palm down in my lap.

  “Good morning, Red Quarter citizens,” says Avery, disarmingly upbeat. “Another glorious day is upon us here in the city of Nhatu and it is time for the daily lesson.” It’s always the same greeting, no matter the weather: another glorious day.