by Lowe, L. Lee
You struck her. You struck her. Three barbed words repeated over and over again, silently, until they became a chant, a dirge, a self-mutilation: blood welling from the cuts they gouged into his skin. He’d struck her and come. His father’s son . . .
At the ship’s bow he slowed his footsteps and then halted altogether, held up a finger to his lips, and pointed towards the listing pier, where a young woman stood with her back to them, first stars glittering above her in the failing light. Her arms were raised above her head, hoisting a big plastic canister—one of those water-carriers used for camping—dousing herself. She tossed the carrier into the river, turned, and caught sight of them, and they saw that she was younger than Sarah, in fact little more than a kid, and decidedly pregnant. And how pretty she was—brown skin, black hair, and arresting though oddly mismatched oriental eyes.
The girl smiled, if it could be called a smile: a small sad twist that nipped the air like an acknowledgement of loss. Even from here Sarah could make out the expression in the girl’s eyes and bit down on her cheek to keep from exclaiming. Jesse held out his hands, palms up, and slowly walked towards her.
‘Please,’ he entreated. ‘Wait.’
The girl watched him without moving. Her hair was cropped short, her flowered dress clean but cheap, a thin cotton, her feet in plastic flipflops. Her arms were stick thin. She looked more like a ragged scarecrow than a person.
Jesse kept walking. The air was very still, as if it too held its breath.
A bird cawed overhead.
The sound severed the scene like a guillotine. The girl fumbled with something in her hand. Sarah heard the click at the same time as Jesse lunged forward.
‘No!’ he cried out.
The flames engulfed the girl instantly. She became a pillar of fire, a living torch. Sarah was frozen in horror, stunned, unable to move. Then she too screamed as she watched Jesse leap at the girl, his arms reaching out as though to embrace her.
‘Jesse, no! NO!’
No way. This couldn’t be happening.
Sarah saw Jesse fling himself upon the girl. The movement fuelled the fire, and the flames rose even higher. Burning fiercely, Jesse sprang into the air, drawing the inferno with him. He soared in an awesome—an impossible—trajectory, his arms beating like great fiery wings. Redgold flames shrouded him. Consumed him. Sarah threw her head back; she heard her throat, her heart burst open and the hoarse NO! NO! NO! NO! strike like a monstrous mallet against the sky. And the air pealed with knell after knell as if echoing between great mountains of brass. Then she could no longer see him. The blaze blinded her, her eyes swam with tears, and she was forced to look away. The screams began to recede as she was sucked into the cold white noise of a wind tunnel.
There is an unearthly silence when the world retreats.
Sarah raised her head. She was lying on the ground. She must have blacked out for a few seconds, because she couldn’t remember falling, nor seeing Jesse—Jesse’s body, she thought, and gagged—plummet into the river. She closed her eyes again and struggled with nausea and a ringing in her ears. She wrenched her mind away from the picture of him rising in flames from that girl. But she couldn’t prevent herself from looking out over the river. It was flowing smoothly: no foaming, no agitated eddy, no arm breaking the surface for help.
What did she expect? No one survives a fire like that. Fresh tears welled in her eyes and began to run down her cheeks, tears which washed away nothing. God damn him, she thought. Why the fuck did he have to play the saint? A spark of wrath was fireballing in her chest, blotting out the numbness, the shock.
The girl was lying curled on her side on the quay. Her faded dress rose and fell with each breath. Sarah couldn’t quite take it in, for though the girl’s eyes were closed, she looked unscathed. Sarah dragged herself to a sitting position. She ought to go to her, maybe help her. If she didn’t strangle her first.
Sarah tried to rise, but a wave of vertigo rolled over her, and she sank back down onto all fours, head hanging. Eventually she’d have to take charge, but for the moment she could do no more than breathe. And breathe.
At a touch on her shoulder, her heart nearly stopped. She looked up to find Jesse bending over her, dripping wet but otherwise perfectly sound.
A madwoman’s scream erupted. ‘I’ll kill you!’
‘Bloody kill you, you bastard!’ Sarah shrieked, her voice rising with each successive breath. ‘How dare you! I saw you burn. Damn you! DAMN YOU!’ and more, incoherently, until Jesse dropped to his knees, grabbed her, and hugged her tight. At first she struggled to get free, pummelled his back, yanked his hair, pinched him, kicked, even tried to bite him. He simply held on. Gradually the shudders subsided and she began to sob quietly, her head tucked into the crook of his neck, and to hiccup. He didn’t seem to mind the snot smearing his skin. Again and again he ran his hand over her head, stroking her hair, whispering meaningless phrases into the turmoil he’d let loose. After a long while she became composed enough to speak.
‘How?’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘How is it possible?’
He gave her a half-smile but said nothing. His eyes, darker than usual, were almost indigo in colour. Even now, at such a moment, she was spellbound; had to resist the temptation to let go, sink into that infinite well of blue, and ask no questions.
‘Was it a hallucination?’
He shook his head.
‘If you can put out fires, then why—’ she hesitated, but he understood straightaway. Abruptly he rose to his feet.
‘I want to check on her,’ he said, nodding at the figure on the dock, who was beginning to stir. ‘I won’t be long.’ Halfway there he slowed, then turned to look back at Sarah. Perhaps he was remembering their conversation in the factory. ‘I haven’t ever lied to you, Sarah. If I could have extinguished the fire that killed them, don’t you think I would have?’ He gestured wearily. ‘Like so much else, this is new. And it’s a lot harder to put one out than to start it.’
With a rush of shame she realised how exhausted he looked, hair dripping on bowed shoulders, clothes sodden, face drawn and bloodless. The computer spied on him, he’d said. She had a sudden picture of a creature something like a vampire, clinging to his back and feeding.
~~~
That night Sarah waited restlessly for several hours before throwing off her blanket. She stood at the open window, listening to the night sounds, listening for whispers. Go to him, Seesaw. You’ve got to tell him. But it was only when the neighbour’s cat began to yowl, and soft droplets of rain to fall, that she took herself to Jesse’s room, and even then she lingered outside his door at first. Once she finally slipped next to him and he awoke, they made love with an urgency altogether new and exhilarating and a little frightening; it almost convinced them that love had the power to melt and recast the hardest bell; almost, it tolled their last secrets.
Chapter 32
The skatepark was crowded. Everybody was out, determined to snaffle a share of the few leftover evenings before the new term began. Jesse had brought Nubi, but the dog soon chased first one, then a second skater into a nosedive. And when the third skater, who narrowly missed losing a tooth, limped off spitting blood and threats, Jesse tied the dog to a post with some threats of his own. Nubi bellied down with his head on his paws, pretending remorse. Jesse snorted and issued a further string of warnings while Sarah watched with an appreciative grin.
In the large central freestyle area Jesse tested his skateboard with a number of simple manoeuvres. Despite its responsiveness, he wondered if smaller wheels would give him more pop—he’d been browsing through the skater magazines Finn had also bought. Jesse hoped the board would work him hard. When he skated, he didn’t have to think.
Although Sarah was wearing a scruffy pair of cut-offs and shapeless T-shirt, she attracted a lot of attention. As a dancer she was used to it, Jesse supposed, but he found himself becoming more and more irritated by the sort of looks she was getting. It wasn’t admiration of her skating tr
icks, for she could handle the board just enough to get up some speed, and not much more. She wasn’t beautiful; she wasn’t baring her tits—which were pretty small anyway—or half her arse; she wasn’t even wearing any makeup. But there was something they liked. Maybe the way she moved: the air shimmered around her, and tiny prisms dusted her skin with light.
Sarah would never go near the immense maw of the towering three-level halfpipe, far higher and steeper than the one in Hedgerider Park, nor the other features that made Jesse drool: a massive street course, elbowed vert walls, a clover bowl, even a full-radius concrete pipe five metres in diameter. Jesse didn’t know where to begin. In the end he approached the halfpipe, where some radical skating was going on.
Jesse leaned on his upended board and feasted. There seemed to be a friendly battle taking place between three skaters. He watched one lad in particular, soaking up every detail of his technique. He moved with a dancer’s grace and fluidity, and an exultant power which left Jesse slightly breathless. When the skater floated switch ollies over the top of the huge halfpipe, his body seemed to obey some higher law than gravity: a law which the skater himself had forged in defiance of his own physical limitations, in defiance of time and space itself. His face was incandescent with ecstasy.
Jesse looked over at Sarah, who was sitting cross-legged on a concrete bench. She waved at him, and he smiled somewhat distractedly in response before taking his turn at the halfpipe. And it was just as before. The instant he stepped on the board, he knew exactly what to do. He didn’t have to think about it; his body—or his skater’s soul—did it for him. Effortlessly he skated into that place where every basket drops through the hoop, where every note shatters crystal, where every wave lasts for ever; where a beacon lights the dark wood, and nothing can go wrong. He was boundless. He was kwakabazillion.
The blokes really seem to like your Sarah. Or is it Sarah who likes a rough sort of bloke?
Red’s remark, sudden and sardonic, propelled Jesse out of the zone and into realtime. Equilibrium torpedoed, he capsized with a sickening, bone-jarring crash into the halfpipe, bouncing and flailing as he rolled to the bottom. He was lucky that Sarah had insisted on borrowing a helmet for him. ‘I don’t need it,’ he’d said. Now he lay unmoving, winded, intent on placating the pain. After a few minutes he was able to wonder whether he’d broken anything. Nope, said Red. Now get up. One of the other lads in the halfpipe whipped to a halt right next to Jesse, helped him to his feet, removed his helmet, asked if he was OK. It was the stunning skater he’d been watching before. ‘Brilliant switch mctwist you had going there,’ said the lad, ‘what happened?’ Come on, Red prodded. Save your social niceties for tea at Windsor Castle. They’re over there by the bench.
‘Saw that,’ drawled Mick when Jesse stood before him. ‘You need some practice.’
‘What do you think you’re doing here?’ Jesse asked.
Mick’s mate narrowed his eyes, a little bloodshot, a little belligerent, but decidedly less so than Jesse’s tone. He and Mick had skateboards tucked under their arms. A couple of girls posed at their sides, no one whom Jesse recognised. They wore the usual uniform of tight tops and garish shorts—very short shorts, Jesse thought in disgust—and loads of war paint. Their eyes were bold and greedy, their lips crimson.
‘Public place, isn’t it?’ asked Mick’s friend.
‘Not when I’m here,’ said Jesse, staring straight at Mick.
Mick glanced uncertainly at the girls, then at his companion, then more defiantly at Jesse. He had backup; and he had a reputation to maintain. He was careful not to look at Sarah.
Only then did Jesse remember Sarah’s presence. She was watching Mick’s friend, a faint beading of sweat above her upper lip. It needed someone who knew her very well to detect the intensity behind her staged calm, as if she were about to make her debut before a gathering of the world’s most exacting dance critics. Jesse could tell that her pulse must be racing. He turned back to Mick.
‘Introduce your friend,’ Jesse said.
‘My name’s Gavin.’ A wink at Sarah.
Jesse handed Sarah his skateboard, positioned his helmet on the bench, and wheeled to face the bastards. Careful, said Red. Show them who’s boss but don’t lose it.
‘I thought I warned you to keep away from Sarah,’ Jesse said.
‘What the fuck—’ Gavin began, but Jesse gave him no chance to finish.
‘I don’t say things twice.’
Mick transferred his board from one arm to another, shifting his weight. He didn’t seem to know quite what to do with his eyes.
‘Had a spliff too many?’ Gavin asked.
‘Shut up.’
Gavin moved closer. ‘That’s it.’ He jerked his head at Sarah. ‘Pretty lady, take your bloke home and get him to sleep it off. Before I do some serious damage.’
Mick muttered something under his breath.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ Jesse said. ‘Speak up.’
A punch or two if absolutely necessary, Red interjected. And I’ve got a nice line in Muay Thai kicks. But none of your fiery stuff with an audience.
But Jesse was no longer listening. No longer able to listen. The red glow in his head swallowed all caution; it emanated from deep within the reactor core where he safeguarded the flames. And, gluttonous, it was intensifying, spreading, feeding, degree by degree superheating—and breaking free of containment.
‘Look, Gavin, let’s forget this guy and do some skating,’ Mick said.
Will you back off before you do something really stupid?
‘Jesse,’ Sarah said.
‘Shut the fuck up.’ And it wasn’t clear to whom Jesse was speaking.
Gavin shook his head, almost regretfully. ‘Oh man,’ he said. ‘You are one stupid fuckarse. Someone who doesn’t know the right place for his tongue.’ He smirked at Sarah. ‘Like a nice wet fanny.’
‘Keep your tongue in your mouth before I burn it away.’
‘It’s got to be a death wish, whoring after trouble like this.’
Mick’s eyes flicked nervously from Jesse to Gavin and back to Jesse. He licked his lips and, hugging his board to his chest, took a step backwards.
‘Jesse, please let’s go,’ Sarah said. ‘The park is big enough for all of us.’
‘The world is not big enough for these fucked-up pricks,’ Jesse said. He could feel Red reaching for him, but he snatched up his rage like a blazing firebrand and thrust it with a low snarl at Gavin.
Who hissed and tossed his skateboard to one of the girls. She caught it with a broad smile. Gavin danced forward, his face assuming an in-yer-face ugliness that meant business. He was older and taller than Jesse, well muscled, practised, smug.
Sarah had risen to her feet, pale now.
‘It’ll be a pleasure—a real pleasure—to incinerate rubbish like you,’ Jesse said.
‘You—you pervy piece of—’ Gavin’s shoulders bunched, and he raised his arms, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Malice rolled off him like sweat. He was poised to tear Jesse apart—it was only a second now before he moved—but it was Mick who stopped him with a restraining hand.
‘Wait. This isn’t a good time. Too many people around.’
Angrily Gavin shook off Mick’s grip.
Mick tried once more. ‘Listen to me, Gavin. This guy’s got a thing with fire.’
Gavin’s face was flushed. A fleck of spit adhered to the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were narrowed and hard as marbles. He swung his head round and glared at Mick. Gavin’s throat was swollen with venom—a toad’s, pulsing, obscene. Anyone would do. Mick. A policeman. God, if he could be had.
‘Come on, then, if you’re coming.’ Jesse’s voice was amused now. ‘Or can’t you get it up when your boyfriend’s not licking your arse?’
Gavin swivelled.
Jesse was standing with his arms folded, pelvis arrogantly tilted. A mocking smile touched his lips. Not a centimetre, not a quarter-centimetre did he back away. He
looked for all the world like a supremely confident gunslinger; all that was missing were the spurs and ten-gallon hat. And the gun.
‘No one calls me names. Get it, cunt, no one.’
Jesse laughed.
That was the trigger. Gavin lunged for Jesse. It wasn’t clear whether he was planning to pummel Jesse’s face or grab him by the throat, but in any case Gavin didn’t stand a chance. And Mick knew it. He turned away at the precise moment when Gavin screamed and fell back, waving his hands frantically in the air. His palms were raw and blistered. He clamped his hands between his thighs, moaned low in his throat, screwed up his face in agony.
Jesse hadn’t even blinked. He waited with a look of good-humoured tolerance on his face, as if watchin’ the antics of a coupla little kids who’d nicked their pa’s pouch of baccy and were smokin’ behind the cowshed.
‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ Gavin screeched.
The girl holding Gavin’s skateboard parted her lips and eyed Jesse speculatively, but made no move to help her date—if that’s what he was. The other girl looked from Jesse to Gavin to Mick, a frown on her face. She seemed to be having a hard time grasping what was going on. Mick had retreated another couple of steps. He had no intention of tangling with Jesse.
Gavin was gradually gaining control of himself. Still clenching his hands between his thighs he looked up at Jesse with a mixture of fear and real hatred.
‘I’ll get you for this, you smegsucker,’ he said.
‘For what?’ asked Jesse innocently. He was beginning to enjoy himself.
Gavin held out his hands.
‘You’d better pray that they heal, pray real good.’
‘You seem to be a bit muddled,’ Jesse said with a smile. His gesture included the rest of them. ‘Did anyone see me touch him just now?’ His smile widened. ‘Maybe it’s one of those new viruses.’ He looked directly at Gavin’s girl. ‘I’d be very careful if I were you.’
Gavin jerked forward as if to have another go at Jesse despite his injured hands, then thought better of it. He stood there panting, his arms hanging loose from his shoulders, his face still white with pain; with rage. Jesse knew that he was going to have to watch his back, Gavin wouldn’t be as easy to despatch as Mick. But he couldn’t help being rather pleased with himself.
