“Grab me a couple of them milk bottles,” Ruby says, ’wind seething and nostrils flared. “Now, Spot!”
Relic’s looking skimpy, but seems he’s got a temper on him. His hood’s jerking against the fight in his trapped ’wind, the strings pulling under his tatty chin. Red roses bloom high in his cheeks, vivid against the white spatter creeping above the thin beard.
“That put a spark into you—didn’t it, Spot? Don’t take orders kindly—that right, Leopard? Don’t like being barked at—do you, Dalmatian?”
Quick as, Relic spins on his heel and whips a carafe at Ruby’s feet. It smashes a few inches shy of hitting her; no doubt he could’ve done her a sight of damage, she thinks. If he’d wanted, he could’ve taken her head clean off.
“Good arm,” she says, pumping her fist. That’s what it’ll take, a bit of fire and a strong throw… . “Bring it on over here—with the bottles, boy. Come on, now. Two’ll do just fine.”
Carrying them like cudgels, Relic stomps over and thrusts the things at her.
“Hang onto them for a sec,” Ruby says, wrapping her hands around his, firming and adjusting his grip. When the glass mouths are angled close enough, she tears the fury from her ’wind, stuffs the bottles with vitriol, and stoppers them with her gnarled thumbs. Then, calm, she takes them from Relic and rests the bases on her thighs. “Your turn. Top ’em up with some of that anger you got burning behind those pretty peepers of yours.”
Relic hesitates. Some of the steam’s gone out of him, now he’s cottoned that Ruby was sniping just to get him riled. Still, she thinks. He’s got more than enough pent up, more than enough that needs blowing off.
“I’ll close my eyes and promise not to peek, if that’ll brazen you a bit,” she says. “Go on and weed out all the filthy thoughts you want, son, then add them to mine. No way I’ll be able to tell which is whose.”
Before she turns away, she catches the odd glance Relic gives her—same kind Gramp used to shoot when she said something funny without knowing it. All the same, the boy adds his fuel to the fire-apples; without needing to be told, he plugs the pair with shreds of greasy rag he scrounges off the storeroom shelf.
“What’s the target,” he says, resigned, agitating the bottles with practised flicks of the wrist. “If it’s more than three bags’ worth, I’ll want interest.”
Ruby tilts her head, acknowledgement and direction both. With her chin, she points without pointing at the frilled monstrosity across the road. At Relic’s nod, she lifts a hand to stay him. “Wait ’til afternoon, right around prowling hour, when blame will follow the greys.”
Violent red and orange, the Belles in her ’wind spin and spin and spin …
“And Relic,” she says after the boy tucks the loaded rabble-rousers into his pack, tightens his hoodstrings, and prepares to blend into the night. Hiking the cargo onto his shoulders, he pauses on the threshold and waits for her to finish.
“Keep it contained,” she says with a smile, waving him out the door. “Aim for the pantry.”
After closing up at morning’s first brightening, Ruby feeds the nannies, then retreats to the storeroom and its uncomfortable army cot. The walk back to Gramp’s apartment gets harder every day—twenty minutes might as well be twenty hours, or so her throbbing joints say. And she thinks it might look suspicious when the Watch come, as they always do when accidents happen; it might look like guilt has chased her away, if she’s off-site when Belle’s supplies burn to the ground.
So she grabs what sleep she can, with her hips and spine already out of whack, and made worse by the canvas sagging between the bed’s metal frame. Torture devices, these racks. Hardly fit for a child, much less a woman her age. ’Wind tossing and turning in ways her old body can’t, Ruby takes in lungfuls of musty breath, listens to the street-noise hushing its way toward noon, and waits.
Relic’s quiet as a grey, she thinks before drifting off. While the new girl’s off burgling tonight’s produce, he’ll slink in and give her a little housewarming. With no pantry-shed left to hold any stores, what’s now in Belle’s shop’ll run out soon enough. Then, Ruby thinks, then she won’t be able to sell so much as a stick of butter without the whole market knowing it’s stolen.
At dusk, groggy, tongue furred with sleep, Ruby wakes to the smell of smoke and damp cinders. Must’ve missed all the hoopla, she thinks, half-disappointed she’d dozed through the fuss of putting out the fire. She’d planned on making an appearance, joining the line of goodie-goods, passing a bucket of water or two to prove she had nothing against the poor girl who’d just lost her outbuildings, nothing against her at all.
Hissing through the pain as she rolls off her cot, Ruby hauls herself upright, using the shelves as brace and ladder. Panting from the exertion, she sways on the spot for a minute before mustering the strength to smooth her calico dress and shuffle into the shop to find a suitable commiseration gift. A bit of cheese seems fitting, she thinks with a snort. After some consideration, she picks a round not so big it makes her look guilty, but not so small she’ll seem heartless. Beneath the counter, Relic’s payment sits where the boy left it, the bags tied and waiting for him to collect them. If it’d been Ruby in his place, she’d have returned before the fire had fully blazed, demanding and taking her due for starting it. But her Relic’s different—she knows that. He’s mild, soft-handed. He’ll come whenever he comes.
Before leaving, Ruby drapes a thick shawl over her head and shoulders; a sign of respect, of mourning, and a restraint for snitching thoughts. She doubts Chachi or Hack or any of the local hawks will squeal, even if they catch sight of the truth in her ’wind. But as Gramp used to say, you never can be too careful; business these days is full of vindictive cunts.
Soot-prints have been tracked all over the street, from Belle’s stoop all the way to Ruby’s threshold. Relic’s got some more overtime on the horizon, she thinks, tutting at the grime ground into her walkway. Looking up at the mess of Belle’s once-pristine shop, Ruby masks her surprise. Sloppy work, she thinks, seeing how the fire’s spread, crackling the shop from back to front. A real rush-job. Maybe that’s why Relic’s late coming back; embarrassed he let the flames best him, embarrassed he couldn’t keep things under control. Under the pall of smoke, there’s a whiff of roast veg, roast meat. Ruby covers her mouth and nose with a trembling hand. Whose livestock did Belle steal? Wouldn’t put it past the wench to have a house full of chickens she’s told no one about, a secret supply of eggs.
Pausing every few steps to catch her breath, Ruby makes her way over to the blackened husk, stopping for good at the Watch’s barricade. A troop of men and women in uniform, scarves wrapped round their faces, sift through the debris; nailing in place what can’t be immediately torn down, digging and shifting what might be salvaged. There’s not much of either, Ruby thinks. Just a few beams that need securing, a few bits of furniture that she wouldn’t recycle for pennies. A seatless chair. A pair of flower-shaped lamps. A headboard made of spindles, a matching cradle.
“Belle?” she calls over the steel and ribbon cordon, only half-feigning the shock in her voice. That must’ve been some anger Relic had bottled—no way her tired old ’wind could’ve conjured this kind of firepower all on its own.
Fool boy, she thinks, watching a woman traipse past carrying a singed picture frame. Must’ve assumed the pantry was attached to the storefront, like mine, instead of filling a swanky shed out back …
Taking in the sorry state of the building, Ruby shakes her head. It’s good and gutted, that’s for sure; little here but charred struts and blasted walls. The timber siding is crumbled in places, clinging by the nails in others. What’s left of the roof is teetering dangerously above the hollowed gable, and those pressed-metal ceiling tiles that made Belle so proud are now melted blobs on the exposed rafters. All in all, the sight of it reminds Ruby of the forest fire episode Gramp had only let her watch once—it was too sad, he’d said, seeing Relic and the other sailors brought to ruin. Seeing the
wreck nature had made of their lives.
No human could be blamed for such a disaster, she reckons, trying to find a way around the barrier to get a better view. Yeah, this definitely has the look of a grey storm about it.
“You in there, Belle?”
“Sorry, ma’am.” A broad-beamed woman in a boxy blue jacket and pressed trousers refastens the rope Ruby’s only just managed to undo. “Authorised personnel only.”
“But I’ve got a vested interest in the owner’s wellbeing,” Ruby says in all seriousness. Patting the Watcher’s thick arm, she lowers eyes and voice and tries to calm the thumping in her chest. “Put an old woman’s mind to rest, dear. That’s my shop across the way there. Best goats’ cheese in town, if I do say so myself. I’ve been concerned for Belle since she moved in; keeping an eye on her, so to speak, making sure she’s fitting in… . I won’t bother you for details—you and I both know who the culprit is, don’t we, dear?—but if you could just tell me one thing? How long, do you think, ’til our Belle’s back in business?”
“Oh,” says the Watcher. Quickly, she looks over at the hubbub behind her, then back at Ruby. Grimming her lips, the woman ducks under the cordon and gently takes Ruby by the elbow. Slowly guiding her back across the street, the Watcher tries to explain, in that way officials have, without saying anything much at all. “I’m so sorry. Circumstances have changed, ma’am.”
“Is Belle—” Ruby pauses, slackening her features. “Gone?”
“It’s best if you remain inside until the building is secured. Rest assured: this matter is of utmost importance to us. We will investigate fully, and deliver notices shortly. In the meantime, one of our officers will pay you a visit to install a new flambeau outside your stall; make sure it’s lit at all times, ma’am. Help us help you in the fight against the greys. Can you do that for me?”
“Certainly, dear,” Ruby replies, squeezing the Watcher’s hand weakly, offering the round of warm cheese. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
With trade disrupted for the night, Ruby keeps the door of her stall closed but not locked, the awnings and shutters bound fast. Relic will knock soon enough, she thinks. And I’ll holler, Let yourself in! Easing herself behind the small table she uses to count petty cash, she opens the safe buried in the floor beneath it. When the seven leather purses are aligned on the table top, Ruby counts out her savings—bills, coins and promissory notes—dropping not a nickel, calculating the lot down to the cent.
It won’t be long until people start bidding on Belle’s plot, she reckons. The shop’s completely shot, that’s clear as holes, but with a bit of work the turf will make a nice pasture for the goats. And with that bit of wriggle room, Ruby will revamp the beasts’ pen, expand her stall into a proper shop… . She’ll start up a payroll and her Relic will be first on it; her first official employee. Get him riled and he’d make a decent security guard, she thinks—and he’s always been a deft cleaner. Brooms up every word, he does, right down to the last letter.
That’s settled then, she thinks, packing away her money. The tally looks promising—she’s got a good chance at the land auction—and no doubt Relic’s just around the corner. What a surprise he’ll have when he gets here: three bags of veg and a contract! She drops a purse, scrambles to catch the runaways, now her hands are shaking worse than the boy’s. But he’ll settle soon enough, won’t he, he’ll relax when he’s safely, gainfully employed. Oh, how exciting! Ruby hobbles over to the stool, moves it so she’ll be the first thing he sees when he gets in. Shifting to ease the hitch in her back, she thinks: my Relic, a full-timer! What a change. What a lot of talking it’ll take to get it all sorted. And Relic’s never been much of a talker… .
Doesn’t matter, she thinks, straining for the sound of bootsteps outside. We’ll sift through the nitty-gritty the very moment he comes back.
Yeah, she thinks, staring at the closed door. I’ll make him a genuine offer.
Scientific Classification
Clade:Synapsida
Order:Therapsida
Class:Umbra
Order:Anceps
Family:Hominidae
Tribe: Hominini
Genus:Homo ferus
Species: Hf. cineraceus
Binominal name
Homo ferus cineraceus (cf. Linnaeus, Wadjakensis & Kleinschmidt, 51.3896° N, 30.0991° E)
I sought them out, not the other way around—there was never a finer chance. The south-central warren, collapsed in blackout shelling, would certainly hinder passage; yet the fée would have as difficult a time leaving their feral den as I would entering. Despite Bory de St. Vincent’s (absurd) classifications†*, these hill-and burrow-dwellers, these so-called ‘hidden ones,’ were not beings of smoke and air—I had seen linotypes depicting the forward-jut of their lips, the concavity of their orbital bones, the greed in their powerful fingers. These creatures could not ghost away on the breeze; they could not wheedle through crevice and shadow. After the firestorm, an entire tribe, perhaps, would be trapped underground, pinned by stone and clay and time. What a collection of specimens! What irrefutable proof! A gap in the rubble would be sufficient to confirm their corporeal presence, a spyhole through which my lens could peer. One clear snapshot of the [Lacuna; the better half of this document is now lost. Extant displays Spencerian script. Discovered: 40.1539° N, 76.7247° W. Fragment housed at Bibliotheca 37.4000° N, 140.4667° E]
*
* Bory de St. Vincent’s controversial treatise, On the Nature and Anatomy of “Umbra Ferus,” was recorded c. Evac.St.713 ±150 years, thus predating Linnaeus, Wadjakensis & Kleinschmidt’s humanist pamphlet, ‘More Man Than Monster: Homo ferus cineraceus’ (cited above by the speaker, a man commonly referred to as “Lapouge” though inked evidence of his identity is currently lacking) by at least a century. Copies of both works were pressed last month at Bibliotheca 37.4000° N, 140.4667° E, by the same hand that inscribed this note (HWV50, aka “Esther”). By today’s standards, “Lapouge’s” ethics were questionable; his “scholarly” pursuit of the greys’ anatomy prolonged a tradition of exhumations in northern regions—and, it is rumoured, dissections performed on the infirm; those whose ashen complexions condemned them to scrutiny, those too sick or weak to defend themselves against the knife of science.
Boys shouldn’t scream like that. So shrill and unconstrained. So little-girlish. No matter how frightened they get. How happy. How angry. They shouldn’t shred eardrums with their voices. They should fuckin’-well shove a gag in it. Think of the fallout of such a sound.
From afar, Peytr watches the howling pink mouth blacken, wider and wider, its head thrown back, like a baby bird. Where’s your dignity, son? Even at this distance, the scream’s decibel transcends all thought, all reason. It is mindless, instinctive, driven from the gut. Peytr catches a glimpse of grey, wandering through shelled tenements on the opposite verge of the shallow gully, and wills the kid to shut up. This fuckin’ kid is a baby bird, he thinks. Squawking, attracting attention. Defenceless, stupid, relying on others to feed him. Gripping a bulging plastic bag in one hand, a wizened wrist in the other. Hauling on both, back bowed with the effort of pulling, of going—where? The old sewage tunnel? Peyt grunts. Stupid choice. It’s too grey in there, too burrowed. The apartments above? Just as dumb. The long slope up to the parking lot? Up to Peyt? No. No. Hard enough for a grown man to skid down that scree; near impossible for a screeching kid and his silent Ma to clamber up it. But there’s a footpath nearby, well-worn, crossing the gulch. It curves close to the tunnel, but then follows a bend to the right, unseen, away. Maybe the kid’s not so stupid after all, not so bird-brained. No, he’s wily as a pup trying to get out of a cage. Yep, he’s trying to get out.
Still. He’s loud, way too loud.
A barking hound with tears slicking dirty channels down his black face.
Seriously. Where’s your self-control, kid?
Lying on the rubble beside him, apparently. Her c
alico skirts splayed across the pavement, hems snagged on tumbles of cinderblock, revealing brown stick legs up to the knots of her knees. Her torso contorted, shoulder pulled from its socket from all that dragging. Peyt can’t see her head, but the little pup pauses regularly, squatting to embrace something, cradle it to his sobbing chest. There’s no blood, not anymore. Just a fog of dust and whining.
Peytr hunkers next to a sedan carcass at the far end of the gravel lot, overlooking the gully. He gets low, head barely cresting the trunk, compacting his body, making it small, small enough to fit in the car’s rear wheel well if need be—though he doesn’t test it out to be sure. Doesn’t want to get trapped in there, suffocating on the ghosts of oil and tarmac and distance. What a useless way to die, stuck in one place, tormented by lack of motion. He crouches, coils, a kinetic ball, a human shell poised to spring. Shoulders bunched, arms heavy, palms callused. Hood up but compromised; words escape through a gash in the fabric. Peyt spends his coin on food, not thread. Food bought dearly from day-old tables at night markets with the few pennies he earns scrubbing stalls for this grower or that. Sweet old Ruby was the most generous, offering three full bags for other, messier, night jobs. Not sucking or fucking. Not stabbing or stealing. Just thinking incendiary thoughts, lobbing them at competitors’ pantries, setting their monthly harvest alight. No one gets hurt, Peyt tells himself, no one dies. Meals get cooked a bit early, that’s all.
Really.
But the greys black-and-blued him in his sleep afterwards. They tracked him off the field, followed him to the library, followed him to the markets, followed him here, beyond. They greys shoo him away from Ruby’s, but show themselves only when he isn’t looking. Through the night, his muscles shudder nonstop and often he froths at the mouth. Other guys in the hostel, gap-toothed and gaunt in inside-out fatigues, see Peytr roiling and moaning and biting at air, and they don’t ask. They understand enough not to ask. He can’t eat, though his stomach rumbles, though he can’t stop buying food. Now, crab-walking slowly beside the sedan, a plastic bag with three onions, a beet, and a dry wedge of bannock bangs against his knees. He won’t taste a bite of any of it.
Lament for the Afterlife Page 11
