Kymiera

by Steve Turnbull

  Mitchell slammed the door. Blackett jumped.

  ‘I don’t like being inside,’ whined Blackett.

  ‘I know. That’s why we chose a nice interview room without any windows at all.’

  ‘That’s mental torture, that is.’

  ‘Is it? Personally, considering the inclement weather we’re having today, I thought an inside room would be preferable to one where cold could seep in through the glass.’ Mitchell sat carefully and deliberately in the chair opposite Jeremiah Blackett. He was an anachronism. He couldn’t have been more than ten when the plague hit, but had styled himself after the 1970s punk movement. God knows what he put in his hair to make it stand straight up. He had a mishmash of tattoos, including ones with spelling mistakes. Mitchell shook his head slightly. It wasn’t that he had anything against punks, then or now, but when they were as stupid as Blackett, it tended to put the whole group in a bad light.

  ‘So, Mr Blackett, you were arrested during the disturbance on Friday night at the junction of Tibb Street and Lever Street. In your arrest record it states you were in possession of two weapons: an automatic pistol and a long knife.’

  ‘That knife is for eating, use it for eating. Not a weapon.’

  ‘The blade is a foot long,’ said Mitchell tiredly. ‘Look, Blackett, if you just tell me what I want to know then maybe, just maybe, the knife could be considered a culinary instrument.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Eating knife. I can’t help over the gun since it was fired, and caused injury to one of my colleagues.’

  ‘You can’t prove that,’ said Blackett. He was sitting back trying to give the impression of confidence. With his hands and arms in constant movement: rubbing, scratching and running his fingers over his shaved scalp, the illusion was not convincing.

  ‘That’s the point, though, isn’t it? We can prove it. Gun: fired. Your prints. Gunshot residue on your clothes.’

  Mitchell stood up. Blackett jumped again. Mitchell wandered away and stared at his prisoner in the mirror. ‘Thing is this, Blackett, I want to know who told you to be at that location on Tuesday night.’

  ‘Me and my mates were on a trip to the pub, in order to get a drink, when we were waylaid by a contingent of police and attacked. We was only defending ourselves.’

  ‘Look, Blackett, you can keep giving me that line, but no court in the land will believe you. You’ll be going away for a very long time, unless they decide execution is cheaper. You tell me the truth, and I might be able to do something for you.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do for me, Mr Mitchell, that I couldn’t have done anyway. I am a man of influence.’ Mitchell spun round and slammed his hand down onto the table. The noise and sudden movement almost had Blackett falling out of his chair. ‘You’re nothing, Blackett. You are nothing and nobody. Any power you have comes from the person above you. And he’s not going to help you because he doesn’t want to get involved in this. That’s why he sent you, because you’re stupid and expendable.’

  ‘You can’t intimidate me,’ said Blackett, his voice trembling. ‘I know my rights.’

  Mitchell carefully removed his jacket, which he hung on the back of his chair, and sat down. That he was wearing his gun was not lost on Blackett. His eyes were glued to it.

  ‘You know what I do, Blackett?’

  Blackett shivered. The nervous trembling of his hands, arms, legs and pretty much the rest of him increased.

  ‘Well? You know what I do?’

  ‘You kill freaks, Mr Mitchell.’

  ‘That’s right, Blackett. I track them down, and then I kill them.’ Mitchell unclipped the gun, slid it from the holster, and set it down on the table, with the dangerous end pointing towards Jeremiah Blackett.

  ‘You see, Blackett, what I really need to know is who told you to be at that junction, at that time.’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Mr Mitchell, really I don’t know.’

  Mitchell chose to ignore the fact Blackett had tacitly admitted that he had been told to be there. There was no point pressing the issue, since they had both known from the start.

  ‘Now that could present something of a problem,’ said Mitchell. ‘You see, my bosses, they want results. Just like yours did. You didn’t succeed, but I will.’

  Mitchell picked up the gun and clicked off the safety. He held it casually, pointing it in the general direction of Blackett’s head.

  ‘Honestly, Mr Mitchell, sir, I don’t know nothing.’

  ‘You had a freak test when you came in. Obviously we have to be very careful we don’t let a freak in. Do you understand that, Blackett?’

  Blackett nodded, his attention still riveted on the gun.

  ‘The problem is, those tests take a little while to come back, and if I happen to see a freak in the station, well, I just have to do my job.’

  Blackett was trembling all over now. Mitchell almost felt sorry for him, but not quite.

  ‘Now, Blackett, you can keep saying you don’t know, but every time you say it, I become more convinced you are, in fact, a freak.’

  On the last word, Mitchell raised the gun and pointed it directly at Blackett’s forehead. Blackett whimpered. ‘You can’t do this, Mr Mitchell, there are rules.’

  ‘The rules cease to apply when it comes to freaks, Blackett. I’m sure I can see some sort of weird growth coming out of your ear.’

  Blackett fell off the chair, and crawled into the corner covering his head. To Mitchell he seemed like some sort of grotesque insect, he was so thin and scrawny with his hair in a Mohawk. Mitchell stood up with his gun still trained on the prisoner. He walked over deliberately.

  ‘I’m going to count to three, Blackett. After I have counted to three, I will blow this freak out of existence. And then I will have to buy a new suit. And so will the Constable here. In order to change my mind about whether or not you are a freak, you will tell me the name of the person who told you to go to that location at that time. Do you understand me?’

  The only sound that came out of the shivering wreck was a squeak.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  Mitchell took up a careful position, both hands on the gun aiming fair and square at Blackett’s head, not that he was looking.

  ‘One ... Two ... Thr—’

  ‘Bob Moses, it was Bob Moses.’

  ‘Bob Moses? The one that runs the freak shows in the Flixton area?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that Bob Moses. I’m not a freak, Mr Mitchell.’

  Mitchell clicked on the safety and pointed the gun away from the snivelling wreck on the floor. The unpleasant odours in the room had increased. Mitchell turned, headed for the door and paused briefly to speak to the constable. ‘I think you really should have him hosed down, for all our sakes.’

  Chapter 17

  Ellen

  The shop was warm this morning and Ellen delayed as she wandered along the aisles with her trolley. She knew she wasn’t the only one and sometimes people were chased out for loitering too long with no intention of buying.

  But she was experienced at this. Every winter was the same: she could not afford to heat the house so the daily trip to the shop for warmth—and buying some little thing she had forgotten—was a ritual. She moved along the aisles at a slow but steady pace, looking at all the goods she could not afford. Hoping that there would be plenty of goods on the shelves so she could stop more often to study them. Every now and then she would take an item she intended to buy, so she was always shopping and would not be turfed out into the cold.

  The boy who visited had said Jason was all right, but that did not stop her from worrying. She did not know if she could trust him. He seemed sincere. The idea that he was like her Jason seemed strange, but why could there not be another one like him?

  The police visits had unnerved her and the Purity man was terrifying. She had tried to hold herself together but she was not sure what they could discover. The second policeman had known there was someone else there and hadn’t said
anything. But he was the one that killed the freaks. His face had been on the cover of the newspapers only last week, she had seen it in the shop. He would kill Jason. And if he had realised the person who lived in the house with her was a freak he would have been less friendly.

  She kept moving.

  Sometimes she had to pick up more than she needed—and more than she could afford—just to give herself a few more minutes in the shop. The opportunity to get warmed through was always helpful. Without Jason to give her real money she would be able to afford even less.

  She sighed as she came to the final aisle. The checkout at the end was like the gateway to the frozen hell of the outside. The bread was on the right and she paused. She took one of the loaves and put it in the trolley. She wouldn’t be able to afford it and it would have to go back, but it was worth it for the warmth. After all these years she was surprised she still felt embarrassment at her poverty. After all, there were so many people just like her.

  The kid sitting at the checkout operated the machine. Ellen reached into her bag and pulled out her purse, ready to pay at least some of the balance in real coin. The kid tallied up and then sat back in the chair. Ignoring her.

  She waited.

  The kid became aware she hadn’t moved on and looked up. He frowned. ‘What?’

  Ellen looked at the items in her trolley and then back at him. She felt she ought to say something but had no idea what.

  ‘I’m not packing them for you.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, of course. Did you get everything?’

  ‘’Course.’

  ‘And everything’s...right?’

  ‘What do you want? A receipt?’

  He muttered something under his breath and went back to his newspaper.

  Ellen pushed the trolley forward to the exit and piled everything into her bag. Even the loaf. She half-expected an alarm to go off as she pushed out into the freezing air. But there was no alarm. No one came chasing after her. No police slammed around the corner to arrest her.

  It had happened. What the kid said was true.

  She could have a hunk of bread with her thin soup for lunch in a couple of hours.

  To hell with that, she thought, I’ll have it as soon as I get in. Her mouth started to water at the thought and somehow the cold did not seem to bite as hard as it had before.

  Chapter 18

  Dog

  ‘Here,’ said Dog holding out the racquet. ‘Why don’t you try?’

  Jason looked at him in that expressionless way that he had. Probably expressionless. Perhaps there was a way of interpreting the nose tentacles.

  Dog glanced over his shoulder at Delia. The form-hugging leotard and shorts accentuated her figure, and she looked good, as usual. Not a single sweat mark anywhere. As far as he could tell she had no sweat glands. There was never an increase in her scent when she exercised and her strongest smell was the cream she used. It wasn’t very pleasant but he was used to it. He wondered what Nosey thought of it.

  The racquet moved in his hand. The little guy was so quiet Dog hadn’t noticed him approach. Dog smiled and let go. The kid had watched enough to get an idea of what was needed, even if he didn’t know the details of the rules. Just get the shuttlecock over the net without it touching the floor on your side.

  He sat down to watch. She would make mincemeat of him.

  The rule that every serve had to be underarm was the thing he found most irritating. He just wanted to smash it every time. She could take it.

  ‘You do it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You play him.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be fair.’

  As Jason stood, lost, in the middle of the court, Delia walked over. Dog glanced up the court to where Mr Mendelssohn would be if he was here. Of course he wasn’t, but that didn’t stop Dog being cautious.

  ‘I’m tired,’ she said and sat down next to him. She planted a light kiss on his shoulder. ‘Go on.’

  The wrong sort of energy rushed through him. His animal instincts just wanted to grab her and, at the very least, indulge in some tongue duelling. But they had company and Mr Mendelssohn was in the building—and, besides, he couldn’t. It was frustrating but there was another part of him that prevented him.

  But she had never kissed him before. Not even on the shoulder. Did she feel safer because Jason was here?

  ‘What are you waiting for?’

  He growled, tore himself out of the chair, and stalked to the rear of the court where the scent of her cream still hung in the still air. She was teasing him.

  Dog served to drop the shuttlecock just over the net. Jason was off-centre and would never be able to get it. He’d show her.

  The shuttlecock came rocketing back, only instinct got his racquet to it and it went flying high. It was going to go out but Jason didn’t understand the rules. He moved like a flash to the back of the court and smashed it again.

  It went straight into the net.

  Dog smiled generously. ‘We won’t count that, you’re just getting started.’

  ‘You should have left it, Jason,’ said Delia. ‘It was going to land out of bounds. You’d have got the point and the serve.’

  Whose side is she on? thought Dog as he walked forward and picked up the shuttlecock. He watched as Jason looked at the lines on the ground again as if he was only just realising their significance.

  Fine.

  Dog turned his back and headed to the rear of the court.

  The next point went to Jason. The shuttlecock landed at Dog’s feet as he rushed forward to meet the light tap.

  ‘I was on the wrong foot,’ said Dog as he flipped the shuttlecock from the floor over the net with his racquet. Jason caught it easily.

  Jason’s serve went to the wrong side of the court.

  ‘My point. My serve,’ said Dog.

  ‘He didn’t know he was supposed to serve diagonally.’

  ‘He does now.’

  ‘Serve inside the side tramlines but all the way to the back when it’s singles,’ said Delia to Jason. ‘The other way round when it’s doubles. Serve from your box to the one diagonally opposite, swap sides each serve you do. If your score is evens serve from the right box, odds serve from the left. First one to twenty-one with a two-point lead wins.’

  Dog frowned. Perhaps the kid wouldn’t have a good memory.

  It wasn’t a complete whitewash, but by the end of ten minutes Dog had been run ragged and had lost by ten points. The longest rally had been just three hits.

  Delia clapped enthusiastically. ‘You’re really good.’

  Dog turned away and went to the basin at the back of the room to get some water. He could not remember the last time he had felt so ... angry. It was just a game, wasn’t it? He liked playing games.

  He liked to win.

  There was the occasional game he lost to Delia, but he usually won and that was fine. She didn’t seem to mind that he won. She enjoyed the playing as much as he did. But now she seemed to enjoy seeing him beaten.

  It wasn’t fair. The little freak was just too fast, and it wasn’t just that. Dog could see the speed that Jason reacted with, or, more accurately, he couldn’t. The kid was moving the right way before Dog was even sure what the right way was.

  ‘I’ll play him,’ said Delia. ‘You can be umpire.’

  Dog forced a smile on his face and turned back. She was just so graceful. Then he saw Jason was watching her as well and the anger welled up again. But he didn’t have to be angry, after all, she had kissed him on the shoulder not Jason.

  But that was before she had seen him play.

  She wouldn’t be that fickle. Would she?

  Dog sat down in the chair she had been in. He relished her scent that still clung to it and hung in the air. It made him feel better.

  The match that followed wasn’t any kind of competition at all. She scored one point at the start. She barely managed to return anything, while Jason seemed to be able to judge everything perfectly
. By the time he had reached twelve points she was giggling so much she couldn’t even return the easy ones. The last set of points went past in a flurry of serves.

  ‘Well, if we ever need to fight someone on a badminton court we’ll know who to call.’

  Jason turned to look at him but Delia just laughed again. ‘You’re jealous!’

  ‘I am not jealous.’

  She laughed again and ran over to him. Leaned over and pressed her lips against his.

  The door slammed open.

  I am going to die, thought Dog.

  Delia pulled away and stood up straight. Dog glanced in the direction of the door where Mr Mendelssohn was coming in. Only to see Jason, obscuring the view.

  Which worked both ways. But Jason hadn’t been standing there moments before. He had moved so he blocked Delia’s father’s view of the two of them. Delia walked towards her father. Dog pretended he was picking up his racquet. Perhaps he had been wrong about the kid.

  Maybe. But he still didn’t like the way Delia paid so much attention to the freak-boy.

  ‘I’ll need you here tomorrow evening, Dog.’

  Dog got up as Jason moved out of the way. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Delia.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  She didn’t argue. There was no point. She was never allowed out. The outside world knew nothing of Delia Mendelssohn and that was the way her father intended to keep it. Although Dog was pretty sure that wasn’t going to last much longer. A gilded cage is still a prison, and this place wasn’t exactly gilded. She was chafing at the restrictions even if her differences made it hard for her to travel much.

  ‘What about Jason?’ asked Dog.

  ‘He stays. We’re going to the fights and he’s supposed to be a typical fighting freak. Can’t have him wandering around outside.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Jason moved swiftly to Dog’s side and tapped the wall. Dog looked and Jason made the shape of an M on the surface.

  ‘What about his mother? He wants to visit.’

  ‘Not yet. But she did spend some of her new money today.’

  Jason nodded.

  Dog felt a pang of jealousy again, but this time it was over the fact Jason had family. Real family. Blood family, people who would smell just like him. Dog would never have that. He heard the door open.