by Lee Stone
The barista eyed him suspiciously.
‘And I put it through the mother of all car washes,’ Lockhart added proudly, nodding toward the window. He held out the keys on the end of his finger, and the barista snatched them from him, her chastising look betrayed by her twinkling eyes.
‘You want a coffee?’ she offered Matilda.
‘I’ll make them,’ Lockhart said. ‘You’ve been making them all day.’
By the time Lockhart had found his way around the kitchen, the barista and Matilda were old friends. Her husband had woken up and all three of them were talking in calm night-time voices in the candle-lit room, like sailors huddled in a cabin after cheating a cruel sea. Lockhart joined them, pouring the coffee and letting the gentle conversation wash over him. Matilda had taken the baby from the basket and was rocking her slowly back and forth, the light playing across her features as she swayed.
They talked about the storm, and the café, and the Albanian. The barista talked about her kids. Matilda asked questions, glancing up from her baby from time to time. The guy in the corner went back to his newspaper and eventually fell asleep again, the sound of his slow deep breath radiating calmness around the room.
‘Have you got room for two more babies?’ Lockhart asked the barista, nodding towards Matilda. ‘Just for a night? They’re starting a new life tomorrow.’
‘I got room for three,’ she said. ‘It’s ain’t the Ritz, but I got eggs for the morning and I don’t know anyone who cooks them better than Mr. J.’
She nodded at her husband. His hand had fallen over the edge of the sofa, still gripping the newspaper.
‘I’m sure you don’t,’ Lockhart said, and for a moment he thought about a night on the other sofa, listening to Matilda’s soft breath as she slept. It was tempting. Seductive. But he knew that he had to break the spell. He had brought Matilda Braganza to sanctuary. She was home, and she was safe, and she had a new life in front of her. And that was enough.
‘I have to be somewhere else,’ he told the barista. ‘Thank you, though.’
He collected up the cups, careful not to clink them and wake the man of the house, and headed out to the kitchen. He left the barista blowing out the candles, slowly and gently, mourning each one she extinguished.
He was halfway though rising when he heard Matilda behind him.
‘Charlie?’
He left the cups in the water and turned to look at her.
He turned, and she stepped into him. She put a palm on his chest and tiptoed up to him. She kissed him. Intense Intimate Sensual. And, for a moment, uncomplicated. It was what it was. Nothing more. Eventually she sank back, and he didn’t follow. She hadn’t expected him to.
‘Thanks for coming for me, Charlie,’ she said. ‘I’ll never really understand why.’
In that moment he remembered the first time they’d talked on the Red Eye from Frankfurt. Remembered her on the beach and scared in the beach hut. For a moment he remembered her sister, strangled and bruised on the bed and The Happy. Remembered her in Kampot Prison, half drowned by Ta Penh.
‘You’ll work it out,’ he said. ‘You will be fine, you know that, right?’
She would settle down and make sense of whatever place she eventually landed and Jessie would grow up with a great mum. Lockhart knew that. All it took was time. She watched his eyes for a minute, waiting for him to give something away.
‘Sure,’ she nodded, brave and numb. ‘I’ll be fine.’
She smiled, and suddenly Lockhart saw Trista in the corners of her lips and playing around her features. Pride and determination swam in her tired eyes, the same determination he hoped Trista had found, wherever she was. Lockhart had imagined her with children. His children. But now she was lost in a world far beyond his reach.
‘How do you do it?’ Matilda asked.
‘Stick a pin in a map. Go somewhere you don’t know. Make new friends and don’t tell them about any of this.’
‘What about us?’ she said. ‘We could run away together, like Bonnie and Clyde. You wouldn’t have to be on your own anymore.’
Lockhart slowly pulled away. It was an unspoken answer. Matilda nodded, but she shrank back from him.
‘It gets easier, I promise,’ Lockhart said softly.
She defiantly thumbed back a tear and eyed him suspiciously.
‘Does it?’
He said nothing for a long while. Thought about Trista. She had been perfect. It didn’t really get easier at all. He felt the familiar sting more keenly than usual. He cursed under his breath. And despite all of her own problems, Matilda felt his pain.
‘Hey,’ she said.
He listened to the rhythm of her breathing, committing her to memory. She was smart and sassy. Loyal. Good company. Adventurous. She looked good in a bikini, he remembered. But it was simple: she wasn’t Trista.
The barista’s husband appeared in the doorway with a tray full of empty mugs, clearing his throat so Lockhart and Matilda would know he was there.
‘I’m sorry to…’ he began in hushed tones.
‘You’re not,’ Lockhart said. ‘This is your place, so please don’t apologize.’
‘Well, you’re welcome to stay,’ he said. ‘My wife’s made the sofas as comfortable as she can.’
He looked at Lockhart.
‘She made them both up,’ he said, ‘because she doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.’
‘She’s a good woman,’ Lockhart said.
The man in the doorway flushed proud.
‘She’s a force of nature,’ he said, and he stepped into the kitchen and set down the tray next to the sink. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
When he was gone, Lockhart reached a hand around the back of Matilda’s neck, pulled her close, and kissed her forehead.
‘Find somewhere new,’ he told her. ‘Somewhere Jessie can grow up safe. A place you won’t be looking over your shoulder every two minutes. And don’t look back. Embrace the future and forget the past.’
‘I’ll miss you Charlie.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll miss you too.’
Thing is, he thought, that’s another thing you get used to.
50
The storm was gone by first light, blown into submission by its own ferocity. Whatever the Gods had decided, it was done. Fires still burned across Manhattan, but their black smoke ascended into calmer oil-smudged skies. Stricken cars lined the streets, tilted at strange angles by the force of the water and stained black by the high tide of city sludge. Streetlamps were bent and huge piles debris had jammed high into corners and alleyways.
The city was unnaturally quiet, and Jake Leisler’s footsteps scuffed loud in the storm-grit from the swollen gutters. He heard distant sirens, but he knew they wouldn’t be for him. Not yet. He pulled the black shrouded package a little closer to his stomach and fastened his coat tight around it as he walked. He could feel it though, rigid through the black cloth. The Kun Krak dug into him - all elbows and sharp bony angles - but as he walked Leisler felt it becoming pliant and slowly warming to his own flesh like it was coming to life under his coat.
Long live Jake Leisler, he thought as he walked.
He had killed Jimmy Penh. The king was dead. Now Leisler was king, and the empire was his. He had woken up early full of dread. Jimmy owned a row of containers along the dock wall, far from The Elbow, rammed full of treasure. The way Leisler looked at it was simple. To the victor go the spoils. He had killed Jimmy fair and square, so what had been Jimmy’s was now his. Unless the violent storm had washed Jimmy’s containers right into the sea. His containers, he corrected himself. Not Jimmy’s. He would add the Smoke Child to the hoard and then wait to negotiate a new price with the Cambodians. They believed in the magical power of the revolting roasted kid he was clutching to his stomach. They were afraid of it. Once they knew he had it, they would be afraid of him too.
He reached the subway and headed down into the tunnels, moving fast through the milling crowd of commuters. They wer
e fewer than usual, but the numbers were growing as the city began to get on its feet. Leisler smiled, wondering what they would think if they saw the grim trophy wrapped under his coat. Then he shrugged to himself. He didn’t give a fuck what they thought. He was Jake Leisler. He was the king of New York City.
*
From the other side of the street, Lim watched the American disappear down the concrete and steel stairway and then set off behind him. He would enjoy the next few minutes. The previous night, at the height of the storm, he had watched Jimmy’s apartment burn on top of the Elbow. He’d watched the loyal ones spill out onto the pavement and the brave ones drag Jimmy Penh’s smoldering body out into the street. And long before that, he had watched Leisler leaving alone, walking too quickly and breathing too hard. Once Lim knew Leisler had killed Jimmy, the rest fell into place in his mind. It must have been Leisler who stole the Smoke Child. Now, as he headed deeper into the subway, Lim could see the shape of the Kun Krak underneath the American’s jacket.
Leisler’s lack of understanding made Lim angry. There was no respect in the way he was carrying the Kun Krak, bundled under his coat like swag. Still, it would not be that way much longer. Lim closed the gap as they descended further. The tunnels were still warm and sticky like the Cardamom Mountains at home. Lim could see the black cotton shroud hanging from Leisler’s coat and felt another sharp pang of anger at the indignity. As he walked, Lim reached into his pocket, his thin fingers closing around the jar of acid he had taken from the car battery in the Rat’s hole. He twisted the lid as he pushed through the growing crowd.
Leisler turned and saw him. Fear broke across his pale, unshaven face. He was caught red-handed with the Kun Krak, and he knew it. Lim pushed through the crowd of commuters toward him. There would be no need for pretense now. Stranded office workers and storm survivors, tired and careworn, were pushing towards the platform. They were dressed for the weather up above, and they rustled and complained as Lim moved lithely between them.
Leisler carved his own path. His strides lengthened, and he left murmurs of complaint in his wake as he tried to lose Lim in the labyrinth of tunnels. But Lim was focused, and he matched Leisler’s pace. By the time they arrived on the platform, there was only a meter between them. As Lim reached for his shoulder, Leisler bolted, pitching into a middle-aged man in a green jacket who fell backwards into the crowd. Lim stepped over him and bowled after Leisler, plunging through the crowd and grabbing hold of his elbow.
Leisler turned and mustered half a smile, but Lim threw the acid before the first excuse could tumble from his lips. The smile blistered and Leisler screwed his eyes up in pain. He yelled out and fell to his knees as the first of the commuters turned to see what was wrong. Lim watched long enough to see the skin begin to steam. Then he took a step back and let the crowd swallow him up. That was the amazing thing about acid. The victim looks so hideous and makes so much noise that they create the perfect diversion. And nobody knows how to help a man whose face is burning. Everyone panics. Lim stepped back a little more, drifting away from the ring of onlookers and dropping the jar on the floor. Clean as you like. Then he slipped off his jacket in case anyone recognized him in the mêlée, and ambled back into the concerned crowd.
Lim’s plan was to lean over, pretend to offer help, and reclaim the Kun Krak for Ta Penh. But Leisler had more fight than Lim had expected, and he pulled himself to his feet, one arm clutching the Smoke Child and the other reaching out blindly through the crowd. The rails began to vibrate and screech, and the back of the crowd began to push forward anticipating the arrival of the train. Those gathered around Leisler were buffered forward, and the Kun Krak’s black shroud slipped further. A baby’s arm, jaundiced and emaciated, slipped from Leisler’s coat. A woman saw it and screamed. Leisler spun around, skin flailing from his burning face. One of his eyes had sealed closed, black, and burned. The other was wide open, bleached and damaged, twitching wildly from side to side, desperate to find an escape route. The crowd backed away, falling over each other in their haste. At the far end of the platform, the flat metal nose of the subway train emerged shrieking from the dark.
Leisler ran, blind and off balance. The commuters parted in fear and horror. He made five clumsy steps before tripping and falling headlong in front of the train, still clutching the murdered child. He never hit the floor, smashing full into the front of the train with a heavy thud. Later, the accident report would say the emergency brakes jammed and filled the platform with dense acrid smoke, but Lim knew better. The black cloud exploded across the tracks at the exact moment the train hit Leisler and the Kun Krak. He was sure the black smoke was from the fires that had burned the baby, released as its soul was emancipated. He watched the dark clouds swirl for a few seconds certain he had witnessed the will of the Smoke Child itself. Lim had intended to return the Kun Krak to his boss, but the child had dictated otherwise. He knew Ta Penh would understand. He turned, satisfied that his work was done, and joined the crush of panicking commuters making their way back to the surface.
51
It was still early morning when Charlie Lockhart checked out of the Times Square hotel, packing his few possessions and paying for the room in cash. He had slept well in the hotel’s comfortable bed after a five-mile walk from Siberia the previous night. His mind had been full of Matilda Braganza, wondered what first light would bring for her as she began a new life. Jimmy Penh was gone. She’d be safe now, he was sure. And eventually, she’d be happy. Lockhart envied her that.
Matilda was a natural survivor. Trista had been the same. He wondered for the millionth time where she was. He looked up at the stars and hoped she was watching them too. And suddenly Matilda Braganza was forgotten. Lockhart tumbled into the past, to a time before Mykola Evanko had been poisoned, before the Ukrainians had come for him. A time when life had been simple, and he had been happy. The stars watched him all the way back to the hotel where he had slept, washed in melancholy and too tired to undress.
Next morning, he found Marie Saunders where he had left her, more or less. She was walking the floor of the bear pit, taking stock of her staff and her stories. Times Tower had stood resolute against the storm, the metal grill defending the glass windows like a shield of armor. Even the Silver Birches in the moss-covered atrium had straightened up as if nothing had happened. The place thrived on caffeine and ambition, and rows of reporters were jacking up interviews with people keen to talk about their storm damaged lives.
Marie was cracking the whip.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ she called across the floor, clapping her hands for attention. ‘No more storm analogies, people. I hate that I can’t un-read the words tsunami of crime. We are better than that, okay? Please try very hard not to be lame.’
Lockhart noticed a couple of young journalists adjusting their scripts and suppressed a smile. He and Marie climbed the stairs out of the pit, and from the mezzanine he could see Harry Glinka back at his desk, slouching in his chair like Siberia had never happened.
Marie took her time getting to the top of the stairs. Lockhart guessed she hadn’t slept. You can’t sleep through a storm. Not when you’re running a newspaper. You’d miss all the fun. They met Ruslen Elm on the walkway. His shirt still looked sharp, and he was disciplined enough to still have his top button fastened. A part of Lockhart measured a man by that kind of detail. Behind his glasses though, Elm’s eyes looked bloodshot and tired.
‘You have the bridge, Mr. Elm,’ Marie muttered as they met.
Elm looked at her blankly.
‘It’s a Star Trek reference,’ she said.
‘I know,’ Elm said, and Lockhart wasn’t sure if he was bluffing.
Marie sighed in mock incredulity.
‘I’m saying, you’re in charge of the newsroom, Ruslen. Try not to break it before I get back.’
‘Right,’ Elm said. ‘No problem.’
He rubbed a hand across his chin, trying to hide a stifled yawn.
‘And try not to fal
l asleep while you’re in charge,’ Marie told him, and she gave him a thump on the shoulder. ‘It sets a bad example to the staff.’
Elm smiled and sharpened up.
‘Heading anywhere exciting?’ he asked, and he held Lockhart’s gaze for a moment.
‘Charlie’s buying me lunch,’ Marie cut in. ‘He owes me.’
Lockhart looked sideways at her.
‘I do?’
‘The Don,’ she said impatiently. ‘Off Fleet Street.’
Lockhart remembered.
‘The lobster risotto place?’
Marie raised her hands.
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘The lobster risotto place. I didn’t get where I am today by forgetting who owes me lunch.’
Lockhart caught Ruslen Elm’s eye, shook his head, and smiled. Elm was slow to react. He looked blankly at Lockhart for a second and then forced his features into something close to a grin.
‘Listen,’ Lockhart said once he realized what was bugging Elm. ‘I’ll be getting away after lunch. You won’t see me. So good luck with everything. It’s been nice to meet you.’
He stepped forward and held out a hand.
‘Right,’ Elm said, and he looked slightly relieved. ‘Well, live long and prosper, Charlie.’
He held up his right hand in a decent attempt at a Vulcan salute, and Marie laughed. Then he reached out and shook Lockhart’s hand warmly.
‘Good cultural reference, Mr. Elm,’ Marie said. ‘We’ll make a socially rounded individual of you yet… or a news editor at least.’
Elm headed down into the pit and Marie hit the button to call the elevator to take them to the canteen on the thirteenth floor. They waited in silence. As soon as they were inside the elevator and the doors had closed, she turned to him and said, ‘You know, don’t you?’
He glanced at the bump she was still trying to conceal, smiling. Marie let out an exasperated groan.
‘Ruslan’s the daddy?’
She nodded.
‘God,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten how damn annoying it is to try to keep a secret from you, Lockhart.’
