by Ciar Cullen
“You’ve never sent Barber before when there’s trouble on the Wall.”
“He’s my bodyguard.”
“Assassin.” She wrinkled her nose in a cute fashion that reminded me of our mom, and I forced myself not to smile. I was supposed to be angry at the subject of my nonexistent romantic life.
“Yeah, right, assassin. I wonder about him sometimes. He’s a little too fond of those scalpels. I’d love to know the real story behind the med school fiasco.”
“You’re trying to navigate around the subject of fair Emily Fenwick. Ah, there! A gentle blush now graces your manly cheek.”
“Annalise Pettigrew, you’re on ice so thin a mosquito…”
“Irked into using my real name for the first time in ages! She hits her mark.” Petti blew the smoke from her imaginary pistol.
“So what? So she has great legs? I’ll drop the whole saving the space-time continuum thing and concentrate on getting laid. Is that your suggestion?” In fact, that sounded so appealing at the time, I wondered what the hell was stopping me.
“All work and no play makes a dull, dull Steamside king. Speaking of which…” Petti arched a brow in a silent offer to change the subject, warning me that in doing so, we would venture into territory I wasn’t going to like much better.
“Whatever. Go.”
“Screw and I have been discussing morale. I know.” She held her hand up to ward off comments. “He likes my idea.”
“Which one? Screw likes all your ideas, if you hadn’t noticed. What the hell doesn’t the guy like?”
“He has a thing against Prince Albert, but that’s a secret.”
“I thought they were, whatever. You know.”
“Sex partners? Screw is straight.”
“Since when?”
“Since the last time I was in his bed.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You and Screw? When the hell…Jesus. Anything else you want to confess?” I wasn’t shocked at all, just trying to gain the upper hand.
“It’s not going to work. You don’t care about Screw and me, because if you could pick anyone for me, it would be him. Anyway, that’s over for now.” She waved her hand as if she swatted a fly. “We’re not as compatible as I hoped.”
“Dare I ask why not?”
“You do not dare. Now, back to the poor morale. Because we seem to be in a bit of a rut—that is, neither gaining the upper hand nor losing ground…”
My attention trailed off a bit. I thought I heard a yell for help from the Wall.
“You haven’t attended to their needs, staying in your quarters, going all Heathcliff on us. Nothing would lift their spirits like dancing!” Her eyes twinkled in mischief.
“Fine.” I’d turned my back so she couldn’t see my smile.
“Fine?”
Ha. Let her chew on that for a minute, wonder what to do with all her prewritten arguments.
“And you’ll be at the opening, of course. If you come, all the women will come. And if all the women come, all the men will come.”
“Great.” I imitated her chipper tone without adding the sarcasm she expected.
“We do have to lay in supplies, and I don’t want to put too much of a burden on the Dodgers. I’ll consult with Screw.”
“Fine, you consult with your former lover with whom you are not compatible but are in cahoots with.”
“Cahoots? I don’t like the implication of that.”
“You love it. You’ll start using the word every chance you get.”
“The first night will be on your birthday! Music and food and strippers and games…”
“Strippers? Jesus, Petti. Strippers?” I swung around and she winked.
“Just leave everything to me.”
“No marching music, okay?” I hated that shit. And I couldn’t imagine women stripping to Sousa, although if anyone could pull it off, it would be Petti. A sudden picture of Victorian strippers, all some facet of Fenwick pulled me out of Heathcliff mode.
“Is Fenwick in the band yet?” Or is she one of your strippers? I wonder if she’s okay. Maybe I should go out there.
“I guess you’ll have to show up.”
* * *
I struggled to push down worry over Fenwick as I turned in for the night. I had almost drifted off when Barber blew through my door, Fen passed out in his arms. My blood turned to ice as I lit the candle near my bed. Barber scanned the room for somewhere comfortable to put her. I helped him lay her on my bed, heart in my throat. Her breathing was shallow, her skin damned pale. For a second, I thought she shimmered, like they do before they shred away and don’t come back. God, I didn’t want her to go yet.
Chapter Five
How Miss Fenwick became troubled.
Screw held my hand and tried again to get me to sleep.
“At least take off those damned boots. They’re covered in blood. I don’t mind a messy roommate, but I draw the line at blood.”
“Don’t forget the entrails.”
“And slime. There’s green slime in your hair. What was that?”
I shuddered. I’d heard people talk about involuntary shudders before, and I experienced one. Goody. “The thing from Ghostbusters. Barber called it ecto-something.”
Screw sniffed out a low laugh. “Ectoplasm.” He lost it, hugging his stomach, tearing up in laughter. “Honestly, baby, Ghostbusters? That thing is ridiculous, a cartoon. I can’t believe anyone had a nightmare about that. How many rounds did you fire into him?”
“Fuck you.”
Screw took a deep breath and sat on the floor. He pushed newsprint under my feet, unlaced my entrail-, blood- and ecto-whatever covered boots, and threw them out the window into the street. God knows what mess I’d left in Jack’s bed.
“So what am I supposed to wear now? Size eight is not an easy find. Albert just got those for me. These women are so freaking tiny…”
I was getting wound up again. I’d promised the Man I would try, just try to relax. It’s all he’d asked of me after I punched him. I had an appointment with the great one the next day, to continue our discussion once I’d calmed down. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing the shiner I’d given him. He’d put me in Screw’s protective custody, I suppose, since we don’t have a jail or mental institution Steamside.
“Now I will have to scrub latrines. Jesus.” I rested my head on Screw’s shoulder.
“At least you didn’t shoot him. Could be worse.” Screw examined his manicured nails. I knew he wanted to counsel me somehow, but he held back. “Maybe you can take him a bottle of absinthe. I think I have an extra one.”
Screw smelled like mulled wine—he’d been drinking I guess. It was comforting, like being home for the holidays. “I saw you. You were checking up on me. It was sweet.”
“I didn’t go out.”
Bullshit. I’d made it up the ladder when the unmistakable sound of Screw’s steamboard—a long skateboard with a tanklike contraption on the back—made me look down. And looking down isn’t my forte when I’m on a ladder. My boot heel slipped, but I caught myself on the next rung and refocused enough to see Screw rounding the corner, hair flying behind him. He looked about fifteen when he boarded, because he just wore cut-off formal pants and his boots. Screw in motion half-naked was a wonder to behold.
“Then someone stole your board. I heard you go back and forth near the Wall a dozen times. It’s the only steampowered skateboard in existence. Seems like a bit of overkill to put an engine on a skateboard.”
“How did you hear anything over your own cursing and gunfire? You woke the whole freaking town.”
I hung my head in shame. I’d snapped, big time. I got into a fistfight with the man who had total control over my life. And for dessert, I’d told him I loved him. He’d laughed. Laughed.
If this place isn’t Purgatory, then the Pope ain’t Catholic. Which of course means I’m dead. I’d heard a few of the Punks use Steamside and Purgatory interchangeably, but I’d never put it together. It’s together now
.
“Tell me more.” Screw laced his fingers in mine. “Get it all out.”
“Sweet Pea hasn’t posted it on her blog yet? Right, I guess it will have to wait for tomorrow’s extra.”
The Man’s bed was bliss. Thicker than my bunk, with soft clean sheets smelling of him—shave cream and hair tonic. Spicy and exotic and manly. I don’t know how long I’d been there, but when I opened one eye, I saw Barber and the Man squatting near me, speaking in low tones. Petti was at the end of the bed, wringing her hands in an un-Petti-like way. The memory of the end of my life in the Bronx washed through me and surfaced in waves of sobbing. I didn’t care who saw me or what they thought. I think it was the Man who shot something into my arm.
The Man must have ordered everyone out of the room, because after I surfaced from my stupor, I found myself alone with him, still curled up in his sheets. He was reading, back toward me, leaning against the bed. The light in the room had changed, and I had the vague sense it was morning, that he’d waited at my side through the night.
I didn’t move, but glanced around his inner sanctum. Not much fancier than our quarters, it had a tattered Oriental rug, a lot of stuff nailed to the walls in no particular scheme—photos of pretty girls from magazines—Gibson girls, I guess they were. What looked like woodworking tools were nailed on the wall next to maps of the city, printed schedules of trains or ships, I couldn’t tell, drawings of ships and bridges, and a few bookshelves with maybe a dozen leather-bound volumes.
On a small nightstand stood what looked like a French coffee press, and next to it a hookah. His hats hung on hooks, as did ties, odd bits of rope and cloth, some oily rags, and a dressing robe. It was a manly mess. I’d expected some measure of luxury, but the only acknowledgment of his station was the comfortable bed, and the fact that he roomed alone.
As the fog lifted from my brain, another wave of grief clutched at my chest and despite wanting to suck it up this time, I fell into another sobbing spell. When moments later I came up for air, Jack was rocking me in his arms, like Juan had, like Sweet Pea had.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, not sure what I felt sorry for. He hadn’t plowed a car into me, but he’d brought me here, or at least his stupid sister had. Why was it my fault?
“Oh, Emily.” He pushed me away and ran the back of his hand across my tear-soaked cheeks.
“You have sexy eyes.” When I realized my speech was a little slurred, I also realized I’d spoken. “That was out loud, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, it was. Thanks. You have pretty eyes. They’re a little red right now, though. And your eye makeup is on your cheeks.”
“Oh no! Not eye makeup smears! Am I all bloody from my mortal wounds too? A girl shouldn’t go out like that.” Jack smiled a little and shook his head.
“No blood, at least not yours. They’re nightmares, Fen. You didn’t die out there.”
I turned away from him, caring a little that I did look awful. He rubbed some warmth into my shoulder for a few minutes. When he stopped, it felt like the universe had gone cold.
“You gave me morphine?”
“Not much. The effects should have worn off by now.”
“I’m a cheap date. Can’t hold my juice. Not that this is a date.”
“Of course not. I couldn’t get a woman like you into my bed on the first date.” I rolled toward him, expecting a grin or little twinkle in his eye, but he looked serious.
“You’re full of shit on every level, aren’t you?”
“Pretty much. But I meant that.”
“Whatever.” A woman like me? I wanted to know what that meant, but it seemed a little pointless.
“Let’s sit you up and see how that feels.” I grabbed his shoulders as he hoisted me to the edge of the bed. I caught him copping a quick glance at my body, and looked down, a bit horrified that I was overflowing my gut-stained bodice. I looked like a horror-movie trollop and felt like I’d been hit by a truck.
“When do we get to the part where you explain to me that I’m dead and that you’re the Prince of Darkness?”
“I’m the Prince of Screw-Ups, Fen. I had no business putting you on the Wall, and I have no answers for you regarding your status as dead or alive. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Huh? Was it a dream? Hadn’t I been shot in 2010? I’d never gone to Central Park, never entered Petti’s tent of mystical psychic hoo-ha. No, I floated out of my body in the ambulance, if not before, and gone straight to…
“Wait, what do you mean about the Wall? I was awesome!” I tried to stand but it wasn’t happening without his help.
“Don’t try…”
I swatted his hands out of the way. “Stop looking at my boobs.”
“For Chrissakes, just relax, would you? You’re hungry and dehydrated and still in shock. Sit down!”
“Tell me if I’m dead or not! Tell me!” I pounded on his chest, terrified, frustrated, longing for him to hold me again and make sense of everything. Wasn’t he the Man? Didn’t he know what the hell he was doing? No answers? If he didn’t have the answers, who did?
I wriggled my right hand out of his grasp and as he went to capture my hand again, I clocked him. A full-on, right hook to the eye. I froze in horror.
“God damn it!” He backed away from the bed and held his hand over his eye. “What the hell?”
“Shit, I’m sorry.” I started crying again and he walked to a cabinet. Afraid he’d dope me again, I scrambled to my feet. But he was just pouring himself a drink. “I’m sorry, Jack.”
“S’okay.” He sat in a worn leather chair and held the glass up to his eye. “I’m used to the ranting and raving, just usually don’t get decked.”
“I slipped, I swear.” I tried to walk toward him, but the floor started moving in one direction, the ceiling in another.
“I’m in love with you. Help me. Tell me I’m not dead.”
“That was out loud, again.” Before I passed out, I heard him laugh.
Chapter Six
In which our hero’s fortitude is tested.
I found Screw in our pathetic little machine shop, more of a lean-to against the Wall. Littered with odds and ends of scrap metal, copper and bronze tubing and cast-off tools, nuts and bolts in piles everywhere, the chaos of the place contrasted with Screw’s impeccable attire. Everyone Steamside had their own sanctuary—Petti’s Grassy Knoll where she liked to host outings, my private quarters, Barber’s Little Shop of Horrors (as we called his knife-throwing alcove), or Lieutenant’s stool on the Wall.
I tried to give Screw privacy when he was tinkering, because I respected the need for a space of one’s own, but also, he made some damned useful things.
“You hit something, didn’t you? The alignment is off.” He didn’t look up from my velocipede, and I knew from experience that was a very bad omen for the discussion ahead. No matter how hard Screw concentrated on one of his geek projects, he rarely skipped a chance for a smile.
“It would be dented if I’d hit something.”
“Then you hit one hell of a pothole.”
“On our beautiful smooth paved streets? Nah.”
“Go ahead, ask about her.”
“I came for my bike. I need a bit of air. When will you be done?” I needed to ride to California, maybe join the Gold Rush, if it’s the right time for that. Or ride off a cliff into the Pacific and get it over with.
“You know what the worst part is? She seems more worried about your eye than the fact she might be dead. Oh, and something about telling you she loves you.”
Screw dropped his wrench and stood toe to toe with me. I had about an inch on him at six feet, and he was smaller framed, but he seemed imposing. I’d never seen him angry, not even when he first found us. Screw and Steamside were synonymous. I think he’d been rescued from some desperate emotional trauma in Normal by getting swept here. He embraced his life with us, not speaking of home or philosophical questions of the afterlife and our purpose. I never knew what he hid beneath his fantastic
personality, more fantastic intellect, and good looks. I always imagined it a door left closed with good reason.
Screw might have been a better leader for the Punks. I imagine he thought the same thing, but in a silent gentleman’s agreement, I kept the job. But he was our soul. And he was my friend. I loved him, in that ‘okay for a guy to do’ kind of way, and he knew it.
“Look, Screwball, Petti already read me the riot act this morning. Barber isn’t speaking to me.”
“How can you tell?”
“His silence is louder than usual. How the hell could any of us have imagined she’d witness her own death on the Wall?”
“Her death?”
“Whatever, death, near-death, coma, nightmare, whatever.”
“Wanna know why I’m pissed off, Jack?”
“Not particularly. I came for my bike.”
“You came to see how she is. You’re going to wuss out and not meet with her, avoid her as much as possible. Just because she was high on juice and spurted out some shit about being in love with you. What the fuck? Grow a pair. If you want her, either do her and get it out of your system, or be up front with her about why you can’t. But don’t put her on the goddamned Wall before she’s ready just to get her out of the way! It’s like you were hoping she’d crack. Oh, and moving her into my room in hopes we’d hook up—not too subtle.”
“She was good up there, Screw. Sweet Pea said before she got hit by the car, she had it nailed. What should I do with her? Make her mend my shirts? She’s really bright.”
“She’s a basket case, a tall, smart, gorgeous basket case. I know you do the ‘I’m the king of the world’ thing to keep us all grounded. I wouldn’t mind if you have to drop it for your own sanity once in a while. If you want to pull her into your close circle, do it, be upfront about it. If not, let her sew buttons and don’t work so hard at not caring. It just makes it obvious you do.” He blew out a deep breath. “Except to her.”
“I’m not dying for anything. I’m trying to fix…”
