“Vee, what the—were you on the ice? Did someone dump a body?”
“Mr. Shepard, please.” Graves begins to set his papers down on the desk.
“Don’t,” says Verity quickly, and his hands pause.
“Ms. Richards?”
“The files.” Jacob’s voice is still tight, stretching from somewhere behind Verity’s shoulder. “Printouts give her a headache.”
Graves’s eyebrow writhes once more, holding still for a beat before he obligingly slides the papers back into his case. He keeps a small yellow pad and a pen.
“No one dumped a body,” says Verity; the assurance is as clear as a drink of water. “No one I was with.” She realizes she’s thirsty. She shakes her head. “I didn’t know. Nothing I tell you—no truth I tell you—will make sense to you. May I have something to drink?”
“Probably not right now. I don’t say that for lack of sympathy: the emergency room is flooded with people trying to take advantage of the hospital’s generator. I’m hoping we can get you released because no one has time to deal with you. Did you know there was a power outage?”
“I—” Verity swallows, processing anew the dimness of the room and the severity of Graves’s cheekbones in the flashlight beam. She picks her words slowly, trying to avoid any taste of grey bile. “I know. The man with the dog—I sat with him. I didn’t want him to freeze.”
“Why didn’t you call someone? Why won’t you just carry your phone?” There’s a crack in Jacob’s voice now. His frustration is turning brittle. “Why were you even there?”
“I, um ... I don’t know how to tell you. Not with words you’ll believe, or understand.”
“Try.” There’s so much texture in Jacob’s single word.
Verity hesitates. “Dust soaked in starlight. Blood. Hydrokinesis?”
The pause in the room carries the scent of the winter storm outside.
“Ah,” says the lawyer. “I see. Well then, our best approach is to point out to the police that the hospital staff are currently too busy for any non-emergencies, Ms. Richards is not in immediate distress, and of course, she has done nothing wrong.”
The word ‘wrong’ reverberates in Verity’s skull, molasses and angry bees. She swallows. She forces herself to sit still.
The lawyer’s fingers rifle through the pages of the file. “I think we’re fine here. At most, they have the suggestion of a nearby crime scene, but no indication that Ms. Richards was involved or even a witness. She was found saving a man’s life. While I’m sure they would like to interview her, even if she did see anything, her status as your ward—and her medical history—would make any potential testimony highly suspect.” Somehow, he has shifted to address his comments to Jacob.
His dismissal is familiar to her; Verity hunches in her seat. She would wrap herself in invisibility if she could, but she has only the shadows playing in the flashlit room. She smells disinfectant and sweat.
“So all they know is she was there?” Jacob wanted to be a lawyer once. Verity is grateful he isn’t taking the opportunity to practice.
“Exactly. And presence is not guilt, particularly in a case where no clear crime has occurred. Her safety is an issue, though, if she’s out alone so late. Ms. Richards.” This time Graves speaks slowly and clearly, with deliberate care. Verity is familiar with that, too. He is saying, “I am fairly certain I can arrange for you to go home now, but there will be followup—by the police, or a hospital psychologist, or both. People are concerned about you. It’s not safe for you to go out without telling Mr. Shepard. There was blood on the ice. Do you understand?”
When Verity is silent, Jacob says, “She understands.”
Graves sighs slightly. He opens the folder and runs a finger down the pages of his file. “Given that Ms. Richards was near catatonic until a few minutes ago, I might also see if there is space available for admission to the psychiatric wa—”
“No.”
They speak at the same time. Verity closes her eyes and ducks her head, savouring the skitter of Jacob’s voice cutting in with her own. She is sorry for the tin flavour of his impotent frustration. She is incredibly grateful. She takes a breath and tries to unclench her fingers.
Jacob says, “Not in the hospital. She can’t stay here. They can’t make her.” He is wrong, though; Verity knows because the assertion drips in the air, splattering on the floor and leaving behind the lingering sheen of dirty oil. Still, she is warm with it, until he continues, “She’ll see a shrink, though. I’ll sign a contract if they need it. She’ll take medication.”
Verity shakes her head—more wildly than she intends, and she makes a sound she didn’t expect, a trapped-animal whimper she didn’t make in the police car or the dark interrogation. She knows she isn’t impressing the lawyer.
“Don’t even.” Jacob hasn’t left his station in the corner. His arms are still folded tightly over his chest. “I don’t know what’s going on with you anymore. You’re going to see the doctor. A real doctor. A good one. I promise.” He turns his attention to the lawyer. His voice is tired now. “If she said she didn’t ... dump a body or whatever the fuck, though, she didn’t. She was trying to help that guy. If the cops do find a crime scene, just play her up as a victim. Fell in with a bad crowd. Didn’t know any better. So easy for her to not understand what’s happening.”
Verity says, “That’s not true.” She isn’t sure. It’s cotton in her mouth.
“Just don’t, okay? I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”
Graves is still addressing Jacob. “Yes, certainly, that’s our best strategy. I assume you are willing to maintain responsibility for Ms. Richards? If you prefer, I can handle any non-urgent paperwork later this week; my day rate is significantly lower.”
“Do it now. The money doesn’t matter.” Jacob’s voice comes muffled this time. He’s rubbing his hands over his face. “Just get her out of here. Vee, you could have frozen out there, or gotten hurt, or ... what were you even doing?”
“I’ll see about getting everything taken care of,” Graves says, setting his folder back in the briefcase. “The power outage is likely to create some delay.”
“Do whatever you can. Just do it now. Vee, look at me.”
It’s hard. The tension in the room smears the air in front of her, glittering blue as the angel’s eyes; it takes her a moment to turn her head and focus past, on Jacob’s strained face and the stubble lining his chin.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to do. Do you understand how freaked I am? You’re going to go to a shrink,” he repeats. “It won’t be like before. We’ll be careful. We’ll find someone nice. But you’re going to go, and you’re going to take pills again. You promise?”
His anger is impure. It’s the weight of his worry that presses against her shoulders.
She looks at him—at his slumped posture and his narrow fingers and the old coat that he threw on over his pyjamas because he got a call in the middle of the night. He stares at her, and she can only feel the crush of his need.
She says, “I promise.”
It tastes like cleaning fluid or a smoker’s lungs. Verity doesn’t flinch, and the pretending compounds the lie, burning her from within, starting somewhere just beneath her collarbone and spreading to her fingertips, fire running down to her toes. She fights to stay motionless.
“Don’t cry.”
Jacob has moved. His hands brush back her hair; he touches the back of her neck. Her skin feels as though it is sloughing, leaving only the nerves embedded in her raw flesh. Her throat is full of bile.
She whispers, “I want to go home.” Truth, cold and clear, to wash the deception away.
“Sure,” he says. “We’re on it.”
She tastes rancid metal, but she lets him hold her hand.
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” -Oscar Wilde
16
OTTAWA (January 25, 2014)—Crime rates are up 23% in the city’s downtown core since the blackout be
gan, say local police. Violent crime has increased 14% in the past four weeks.
“We’ve seen nine muggings in the last week,” said Sgt. Melanie Reynolds of the Ottawa City Police. “People are stealing wallets, but they’re also looking for winter clothing and blankets. The Mission shelter downtown was held up on Monday. We are encouraging anyone with extra winter supplies to bring them by the station, where we have volunteers who can organize donations. Anyone who can relocate is urged to do so; we’re offering free shuttles out to the suburbs.” Sgt. Reynolds refused comment on the ongoing investigation of the blackout, saying only, “We are working hard to pursue credible leads.”
Technicians from Ontario Hydro have been working around the clock at the Chaudière Falls power station, gradually restoring electricity to portions of downtown Ottawa and Gatineau. So far, they have been unable to identify the originating problem. Sources have speculated that an unknown electromagnetic pulse may have destroyed the plant technology, and multiple pieces of equipment are currently being replaced.
“We’ve had success rewiring or replacing the systems,” said Regina Souchard, one of the head electrical engineers on site. “We know people need power. We’ll have the full grid online again as soon as we’re able to complete and test our repairs.” She declined to give a precise deadline, and denied media speculation that key equipment malfunctioned and Ontario Hydro is seeking to avoid a lawsuit.
Shelters are overflowing, and the Canadian military has established additional temporary living quarters in Confederation Park, as well as Orléans and Kanata. The federal government has promised aid as long as is required—indeed, House of Commons MPs are similarly affected by the city’s current hardship.
In the meantime, residents refuse to let Ottawa come to a standstill. The annual Winterlude festival, though delayed, will launch on Friday. The Senators have rescheduled their hockey season to away games until further notice, but are continuing to hold practice at the Palladium. And ticket sales have resumed for the upcoming concert from The Between, to be held at Lansdowne Park.
FEBRUARY
Cold has different tastes, Verity discovers, and different textures. When she sleeps at night, huddled under blankets with three layers of socks on her feet and her breath frosting, the cold is edged and brittle, like sugar glass spun against her skin. When she rises in the morning and puts on flannel long johns and two sweaters and ventures into the kitchen to find a bottle of prescription pills next to a granola bar and a glass of ice water, the cold is a hollow in her gut that creeps up the back of her throat like heartburn. She can hear the cilantro sound of Jacob’s guitar wafting up the stairs, plunked off-key with stiff, angry hands. She thinks he’s improving.
She eats the granola bar. She can’t flush the pills down the toilet since the pipes froze, but she grinds them to a fine white powder and throws them out the window, where the remnants are invisible against the drifts. That cold is transient, the breezy touch of regret across her face before she twitches it away with her fingers.
When she goes downstairs, Jacob is in the front room, which is now mostly empty except for a wooden stool and a music stand. There are three broken generators by the back wall, which he has tried and failed to keep working. Jacob keeps his gaze on the sheet music, which she knows he can’t read, and says, “You take your meds?”
“Yes.” She lies to him, smoothly, acridly, as brutally easy as a knife in the gut. She knows now what such a knife would feel like, and the comparison is nearly exact: her deception sliding into the meat of his remaining trust. It is the coldest moment of all. He doesn’t question her further. She steps into the room just far enough to get to the desk and open the drawer full of crumpled bills—it’s only half full now, but she pulls out some cash and folds it into her pocket. Jacob keeps plucking at his guitar. Verity puts on her coat and boots and slinks outside.
Once there was a reporter there, asking questions, shoving his phone at her face. She stared at his snowy boots until he gave up and went away. She knows she is lucky there aren’t more.
Now the day is grey and quiet, though she sees a figure shift on a covered porch across the street; she freezes, then recognizes Shauna’s stout silhouette. She moves to cross, but is only one foot off the curb when the other woman gives her a flat look, pulling two steps back.
Verity pulls her hood up against the frigid winter instead; her breath frosts in the air, and she walks down the block, past the old house with the hidden space in the walls. Shauna doesn’t follow. Verity turns onto Bank and sees Brian, long limbs folded like a mantis as he leans next to a shop window. She thinks he nods to her as she passes, but she’s watching the cracked pattern of the ice on the sidewalk.
The corner store has a handmade sign on the door saying ‘CASH ONLY.’ The sign tastes like copper, a bright penny tang against the oily sludge of the coloured logos plastered in the window. Verity bites her lip and ducks inside, bracing herself against the onslaught of branding.
It’s as cold inside the store as anywhere else, though the glass cuts the cruelty of the breeze. The sun filtering in gives Verity enough vision to sort through half-empty shelves. There are only three packages of toilet paper. She takes them to the counter, where a man in a down coat is standing with his arms folded. He has a trucker hat pulled over his toque.
The toilet paper costs her most of Jacob’s cash, but not all, so she adds five cans of soup and then emerges into the street with rivulets of duplicity and greed still running into her eyes. She clutches her purchase, the plastic-wrapped packages awkward but not heavy, one bag dangling from her arm. It’s difficult not to touch the acid rainbow of the slogans on the sides.
She’s half-tempted to walk back half a block and get Brian to help her, but a quick glance shows that he’s not there anymore. Instead, Verity hefts the paper and turns toward the theatre.
She tastes flowered coal and says, “Hello,” before Ouro’s canine head nudges under her elbow. “My hands are busy,” she says. “I, um, don’t suppose you’re good with carrying.” Apparently, she is correct. Pointedly, she notes, “Santiago could help,” but the dog sits on the sidewalk and laughs at her silently as she walks by.
A moment later, unexpected hands whisk the bulky packages away from her. Verity blinks, her fingers tightening too late, but before she can protest, Santiago says, “He could, actually. You can even let Ouro take the bag. Are these more supplies?”
It takes Verity a beat, not only to sort through falling syllables, but also to check the clouded sky, then stare bemusedly from dog to magician. Both are smiling at her—Ouro’s tilted grin matching Santiago’s crooked pleasure. On the sidewalk, she can see the faint impression of an additional shadow at Santiago’s feet; to her eyes, it wriggles like an excited puppy before settling into a mundane patch of grey on the ice.
Santiago hefts the toilet paper, cellophane crinkling against his leather jacket. “Yeah. If the sun comes out, you’ll see me duck inside pretty quick, but we’re liking this new trick. Don’t know if it’s the power being out, the Chalice getting closer, or what, but no complaints.”
Verity averts her eyes from the discordant screech of the packaging and feels Ouroboros’s nose nudge her hand. The dog takes the handle of the soup bag delicately between its jaws and waits for Verity to relinquish the weight.
Santiago says, “For the theatre?” When Verity nods, he adds, “Great,” and begins walking, the dog flowing past with inky grace. “We really appreciate this stuff. Is it not turning into a lot of money for you?”
“For Jacob. He doesn’t care. I mean—he wants to know what I’m doing, and he doesn’t understand, but he thinks it’s for the homeless. The cash isn’t important.”
Santiago grunts. “Must be nice. Boyfriend still making you see a shrink?”
“Yes.” Verity does not let herself recoil, though she can feel the weight of the magician’s casual amusement at her throat. She follows Santiago, careful of the ice-crusted sidewalk.
“Do
n’t worry about it. A lot of us have had people think we were insane. Most of us assumed it was true.”
Verity doesn’t answer; she isn’t sure how to explain the lie that still lingers like tar on the back of her tongue. Ouro winds back, bag dangling from its teeth, and presses lightly against her leg. When the virulent drip of the cellophane in Santiago’s arms nearly obscures a garbage can in front of her, the dog nudges her to the left, guiding her through the cumin-gasoline scent of the city. She drops a hand to touch the shadow’s fur and feel the vagueness of the texture that isn’t there.
When they reach McLuhan’s, she is expecting the distant swell of voices when she steps into the between of the old theatre. To the left, the light in the old hall is much the same, endless candles burning, their glow cast upward into the gloom of a ceiling so far distant that it’s invisible.
To the right, a shape stirs in the depths of a worn old recliner, and Verity starts—but Ouroboros is unalarmed at her side, and the shape leans forward to reveal stooped shoulders and Alan’s friendly, wizened face. “Oh,” he says. “Hello, there.”
Verity feels Ouroboros press at her thigh until she steps forward, raising a palm to the opposite wall as the door opens behind her and Santiago slips through, muttering a curse as he nearly fumbles a package.
“And you too, Stefan. Brought us more of the necessaries?” Alan smiles at the magician, too, who nods back.
“These ones are on Vee. Entertain her for a minute and we’ll add them to the stash.”
“Hello, Vee,” says Alan, obligingly, as Santiago and Ouro take the parcels away into the distance of the hall. “Thank you for that kindness. It’s getting tight in here—more trickling in, and not many folks inclined to throw money to Stefan these days. Gather he was the big earner. Now it’s a few doing odd jobs. Cold out there, too. How are you, dear?”
“Um.”
“Sorry.” Alan’s blue eyes are keen. “I’m going too quickly?” He pauses then, waiting patiently until Verity has had a chance to parse through the rainbow of his conversation. Eventually, he says again, “How are you?”
In Veritas Page 24
