by Emma Pullar
‘Hand him back,’ I say, slowly straightening up, staring into Tinny’s sunken face. ‘You’re on the wrong side of the slums this late at night.’
‘You’d like that wouldn’t cha, keep this prize all for your ...’
Warm droplets spray across my cheek, I close my eyes and turn my face but my ears catch it; the desperate back breath of someone drowning in their own blood. No, I need Bunce alive. This can’t happen. I couldn’t even get him a few blocks past Rock Vault before walking into trouble. I knew he shouldn’t have come and now he’s … alive, he’s alive! Eyes wide, I stare into a smiling charcoal face then glance down at Bunce, who is kneeling beside his backpack at his saviour’s feet. Bunce holds his neck, probably more to stop himself from being sick than holding the pain where the blade pierced his skin. I doubt he has ever seen death, not like this – real death. Clover holds Tinny up like the catch of the day. Clover; black as night and twice as deadly, arms like boulders, teeth like pearls, how is it he has not succumbed to other Eremites’ dependence on glory? I stand to face Bunce’s rescuer.
‘Clover, you killed the Slum Lord.’ I say, trying not to sound alarmed.
‘I killed a Slum Lord, not the Slum Lord,’ Clover says calmly, his voice as smooth as silk.
He throws Tinny to the ground like spoils and with one giant boot on the corpse’s back, he pulls the blade from the body. The scrawny tin-capped addict leaks his life’s blood over the water-starved grass. Thoughts grow inside my head. No Tinny, we are not friends and I don’t care that you’re dead.
Clover stabs the sword into the ground and leans lightly on the hilt. For an Eremite, he is dressed well. Slum Lords are only slightly better presented then the rest of the Eremite population but Clover always looks clean and healthy, coursing with vitality. I admire his strength – mental and physical. I always have. When my grandfather died and I was left a skinny, undernourished twelve-year-old wretch, Clover reached out to me – watched over me, in a way. He will ask questions about Bunce. What do I tell him? If I tell him the truth, he’ll kill Bunce, but he’ll know if I’m lying. Those piercing dark eyes never miss a trick.
Bunce coughs, snatches up his backpack and stumbles to his feet. He holds out his hand. Clover frowns at me. My eyes flick to the ground. It’s not customary to shake hands in our society, it spreads illness and disease. We’re exposed by this Morb’s silly gesture of thanks or greeting or politeness, I never know which. Clover’s face softens, he yanks the sword from the ground.
‘Sure, take a look,’ he holds out the hilt. ‘Since I saved your life, I’m guessing you won’t try to kill me.’
Smooth, brown lips curl and hug white teeth, pushing Clover’s strong cheekbones up into soft peaks. Bunce’s pink cheeks quiver as he nervously takes the sleek sword. My sigh of relief goes unnoticed.
‘Ha ha, never held a sword, huh?’ Booms Clover. ‘Lift it a little higher, feel the weight, it’s a weapon of beauty.’
Bunce lifts the blade, too heavy for him, he struggles to keep his hands steady. The metal gleams under the harsh floodlights. Red stains the bottom half of the sword. Bunce’s eyes are focused on the blood. Unlike the trembling Bunce, Clover stands with his shoulders back, hands on hips, relaxed. Like killing someone on an evening stroll is as common as saying hello to a friend at the market. He watches Bunce closely.
‘Tell me, what is a High-Host doing out here at this hour?’
Bunce shoots me a look of corncern then stares back at the sword in his hands. Holding the blood-smeared metal isn’t helping his fear of the dead body a few feet away. Why does he fear Tinny? He can’t hurt him now, he’s dead. Bunce looked less scared with a knife at his throat. I dust dry grass from my knees. The dried-on, bloody toilet water makes my pants feel as though they are made of cardboard.
‘Bunce accidentally locked himself in a bathing block and I was trying to get him out. He was checking the blocks for squatters.’ I say, which isn’t entirely untrue. Will Clover notice my half-lie?
‘Isn’t that a job for the guards?’
I think quickly.
‘They’re busy investigating an explosion in the Morb complex. Bunce is a volunteer.’
‘Ah, a volunteer! Good man! We Eremites pride ourselves on volunteering.’ Clover grips Bunce’s shoulder. ‘You got a real job, unlike those other High-Host pussies.’
‘Y-yes.’ Bunce stammers.
‘So, what are you doing in my neck of the woods?’ Clover asks me. ‘You’re covered in more than that tin-can man’s blood, Skyla. Want to tell me what happened?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I say, dismissively. ‘I really need to wash this stuff off.’
Bunce awkwardly passes the sword back to Clover and breathes ‘thank you.’
Clover takes it. His eyes stay on me as he wipes the metal clean on the dry grass and then slides the blade back into the sheath at his belt. He places his thick hand on my shoulder and squeezes.
‘Don’t lie to me, little Sky. I know when you’re hiding something.’
I suddenly remember how brutal Clover can be, even to those he calls friend. The Slum Lord’s accusing stare sends a nervous tingle to my stomach. The VR is dangerous but I would rather take a volt from that than cross Clover.
‘It’s nothing, I just need to get clean,’ I say. ‘I’ve never hidden anything from you and I never will, and now you’ve saved Bunce’s life, we’re both in your debt.’
Bunce bows, a custom that is recognised. Clover nods.
‘Okay,’ he says softly, suspicion still etched on his face. ‘Follow me.’
We follow Clover. I check Bunce’s neck as we walk side by side. A few red marks from the jagged edge of the knife, nothing serious. We follow Clover to a line of palm trees. One is bent so far over its long palms almost touch the ground on the other side of the VR.
‘I can’t climb that!’ Bunce says, backing away.
Clover laughs heartily.
‘It’s not something I would attempt either, Bunce.’
Clover is broad and muscular while Bunce is stocky, more meaty than muscly. I could scale the tree but I’m not dumb enough to do it. Not with the floodlights highlighting our position and spilling shadows beyond; shadows anyone could be hiding in. The guards would easily spot me, no branches to hide in up a palm tree. Clover reaches down and pulls up a looped rope. It’s attached to the grass and he lifts up a large circle of dirt along with it.
‘A tunnel,’ I say, surprised.
I’ve been coming to the slums to visit Tess for years and in all those years she’s never mentioned this tunnel, and she’d surely know of its existence. Or maybe not. At ten years old, I doubt she would have ever experienced a time when the VR was used.
‘Yes, a secret tunnel,’ Clover reaffirms, ‘and if I find out others have heard about this, I will know who to blame.’
Clover leers at us. Now I know why Tess didn’t tell me. Clover’s threats are not to be taken lightly.
I duck into the tunnel. The earth walls have nothing reinforcing them, as if a large animal burrowed through. It’s dark for only a moment before I pop out the other side. Clover nudges Bunce forward and the Morb stumbles towards me, brushing dirt from his hair where he didn’t crouch low enough in the tunnel. He looks longingly up at the palm tree, not keen on being this side of the VR.
‘You’re always welcome to use the pond, Sky, you know that,’ Clover smiles. ‘Shall I take care of your friend here?’
Bunce fretfully shakes his head at me.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘Bunce would love to learn all about Eremite culture, wouldn’t you, Bunce?’
My Morb companion gulps, half-nods, and allows Clover to lead him away. He looks over his shoulder at me, worried eyes pleading with me to reconsider. I smile. He will be safer with Clover than he is with me even if he doesn’t know that.
12
Crow in the Shadow
The pond is not far beyond the plastic shanty town. I make my way quickly through litter-carved
streets, and to each side of me the shacks are lifeless or rather, the people inside them are playing dead. A tingling feeling shivers through my hair, I’m being watched. Rag curtains twitch, are they hiding from something? Staying inside because Central have turned on the floodlights?
Beyond a thick treeline, the vast pond appears. Twin moons face each other on sheets of black, the only difference between them is that the bottom one ripples. Cicadas hide in the thick weeds and trees around the side of the pond, their clicking song the only indicator of their existence.
I strip down to my underwear, careful to place my boots where I can see them. Last thing I want is for someone to steal my knife. I step into the pond then flinch. The water is colder than I expected and mud squelches between my toes. I cross my arms over my frozen breasts and wade in, holding tight to my filthy clothes. The chilly ripples of water shock my skin, goose-pimples instantly rising all over my body. I submerge up to my waist, hard stones replace the mud beneath my feet, at least I hope they’re stones. I get a foothold and reach over and rip off the head of a pink lotus flower.
Shaking uncontrollably with the cold, I crush the petals into the material and scrub the dirt and grime from my shirt, snood, pants, and socks then throw them next to my boots. My body temperature regulates, I stop shivering and let down my hair, then lean back to rinse out the putrid bloody water and entrails. I use more petals, rubbing them into my scalp. It won’t get rid of the smell completely but it should at least mask it. With my head tipped back, ears blocked with water, I watch the slow movement of the shaggy trees in the breeze. The centremost one is lined with crows, more than is usual. The birds darken the tree, making it seem sinister, a swaying, feathered monster, its many beady eyes staring down at me.
I sense a different set of eyes on me and wade out of the water, underwear and hair dripping. I wring out my clothes and dress, all the while keeping my eyes on the tree. My cargo pants are especially troublesome. Nothing to dry myself with, I jump and struggle to pull them over my damp legs. My shirt slides on with ease but immediately sticks to my bony body, outlining what little curves I have. I bring my snood to my nose. It still smells rancid. I tie it around my waist instead of wearing it then slip into my boots, and replace the knife. I smooth back my hair, and stare up at the crow-laden tree. Little birdy heads twitch about.
‘Have you been watching me the whole time?’ I ask.
The thud of heavy boots hits the dry ground.
‘Yep, spying on half-naked girls is a hobby of mine.’
Kian steps out of the shadows, moonlight twinkling in his emerald eyes.
‘Shouldn’t you be on duty or something?’ I say. What’s he doing here?
‘I have to report back on the lab explosion,’ he says, stepping closer. ‘But, I wasn’t there, I was making sure a guard who passed out, probably from exhaustion,’ he winks, ‘got back to the barracks.’
He shrugs. He’s tried to tame his wavy hair by sweeping it back with some sort of styling product. He does look smart in his guard uniform. Red scarf tied around his neck, tan jacket and trousers, pressed and dirt-free. A far cry from the scruffy teenage boy I met at the pond eight years ago.
‘Yeah, sorry about that.’
I kneel down, adjust the knife and pull my bootlaces a little tighter.
‘If you’d listened to me, I wouldn’t have had to ask Fingers to cover for me and you wouldn’t be out here freezing your arse off!’
He holds out his arms, expecting me to rush to him. Instead I hug my arms around me. I’m cold but I don’t want his warmth. He’s going to ask me to go back.
‘What do you want from me, Kian?’
‘All I want is for you to be happy.’
Kian takes another step closer and reaches for my hand. I let him take it. Water runs down from my arm, he doesn’t move. He reaches up and brushes my swollen lip with his thumb. I heal quickly. It’s sealed up and doesn’t hurt anymore. It must look worse than it is.
‘What happened to your lip?’
‘I fell and kissed the ground.’
‘Some kiss.’ He smiles.
Our eyes lock, in a way they never have before. I turn my cheek to his stare, heat flushing my skin. He senses my discomfort, drops my hand and steps back, wiping his palm down the sides of his trousers, pretending the dripping water was the reason he retreated.
‘Where is he? Dead already?’ he asks.
‘Where’s who?’ I say, still in a daze from Kian’s tenderness. What was that? Maybe I’m making too big a deal of it. We’re close friends. That’s all.
‘Your pet Morb.’
‘He’s with Clover.’
‘Clover! You trying to scare him to death?’
Kian looks amused as if he’d like nothing better.
‘At least I didn’t send him out into the city alone, like you did.’
‘He survived, didn’t he? Although he might be dead now. Clover won’t tolerate insults and I can’t imagine your Morb knows how not to insult an Eremite. He could say anything.’
A rush of concern slaps my face.
‘See you around, Kian.’
I turn to leave.
‘What about our …’
Kian trails off.
‘Our what?’ I ask, confused.
‘Forget it, go back to your Morb,’ Kian shakes his head dismissively. ‘If you’d stayed at the complex you couldn’t have come. We should probably stop coming here every year anyway. Our lives are different now.’
‘I didn’t forget,’ I say, but I did and I feel bad.
Being trapped inside the Morb complex has caused me to lose track of time. I might not have remembered the anniversary, but the day we first met is fresh in my memory.
I was a wiry twelve-year-old girl when I first bumped into Kian. I’d been caught stealing apples. The orchard guards let me off lightly. No broken bones, just a black eye and bloody nose. Kian found me at the edge of the pond, washing the red from my bleeding face, and here I am washing blood from myself again, at least this time it isn’t mine.
I remember staring at my pitiful reflection, droplets of salty tears adding to the murky pond water. My sadness turned to alarm at the sudden appearance of a rippling male face over my shoulder. I tried to scramble away but Kian caught me up, said he wouldn’t harm me. I instantly fell into his embrace, sobbing. He cradled me and I felt safe, wrapped in my Kian cocoon, my new-found friend. We talked for the longest time, secure in our stillness, for hours, peacefully watching the sun disappear and the moon arrive. From then on, every year we would meet back at the pond and eat stolen apples. After a while, security tightened around the food supply and we agreed not to risk going into the orchard again. He never kept his end of the bargain.
I’m brought back from my daydream by the sound of feathers ruffling.
‘Why is that thing on your shoulder?’
A crow is nestled lovingly next to Kian’s cheek.
‘This is Glider,’ he says, scratching the back of the winged beast’s head.
‘Glider?’
The bird nips at Kian’s cheek, spreads his black wings, springs from his shoulder, flaps into the air and glides down onto a nearby branch.
‘He’s kinda taken to me,’ Kian says. ‘Follows me everywhere.’
‘That’s creepy, Kian,’ I say, in a hushed voice.
‘Why is it?’ Kian crosses his arms.
‘It just is. Why don’t you use your influence on the birds for something useful?’
‘Like what?’ he snaps. ‘We’ve talked about this before. There’s nothing I can do.’
‘Kian, that kind of power could change everything. It’s not just that you can charm the birds …’
‘… the birds, the birds, that’s all you ever go on about!’ he yells, throwing his arms into the air. ‘When all I’ve ever wanted to do is charm you!’
This admission cuts off my voice, slices right through my retort. We fall silent. The cicada’s chatter grows louder, as if they’re goss
iping about us. Kian’s eyebrows knit, the angles of his chiselled face are dipped in shadow, and moonlight shines over his emerald stare but not within it. The light is stolen from behind his eyes by his frustration with me. I’ve known him forever, and I love him dearly but … Has he always felt this way about me or has he only just realised? Maybe deep down I’ve always known and chosen to ignore it – or I chose not to see it? As much as he is handsome, in a dark and brooding kind of … oh, maybe I do feel something for him? No, I’ve been cooped up in that Morb complex for too long, I’m desperate for affection. I stare at his smooth caramel skin, his Cupid bow lips. He stares back. Never blushing, never faltering, always confident – over-confident.
‘Kian, I’m sorry,’ I say, stepping towards him, I reach out and rub his arm. ‘I don’t feel …’
His lips are on mine, soft, moist. I can’t move. Warm kisses move over my stunned mouth and his hand is suddenly at the small of my back. I flinch, but I don’t pull away. Instead I close my eyes and move my mouth in rhythm with his. He tastes like apple. Did he steal them or did they give them to him, now he’s a guard? My thoughts disappear when his rough, strong hand grasps the back of my neck and a tingle shivers down my spine. I press my lips against his, and push my fingers into his dark hair. He responds. My waist is tugged towards him, tight up against his pelvis. My heart jumps. What am I doing? I should stop. I can’t stop. Everything aches. A breathless urge, my chest heaves, kiss him harder. The taste of apple teases my tongue and words whisper inside my head. Let it happen. How long has it been since you’ve had a man? He pulls me into the shadows and presses me against the rough bark of a tree. I want this, I want Kian to touch me – taste me. We kiss passionately, my lip stings, I ignore it, my senses in favour of the rush of excitement. The world evaporates and I run my hands down his back as he pushes his up the back of my shirt, fingers pressed firm against my damp skin. My body says take him. My mind arrives just in time. I press my hands to his firm chest and push until his lips disengage with mine. He holds my arms. I hang my head.
