La Femme

by Storm Constantine

  Eclipse smiled from his soul: the first time he had done so in at least the last century. He extended one hand. Slowly, Soleil took it, and allowed him to draw her to the viewing window.

  “It doesn’t have to happen again. We’ll go where no one has heard of the Aurealus, where they drink coffee and you and I will have no more history than destiny.”

  “A new world?” Soleil considered. It was a temptation. “Is it dangerous?”

  “Mostly harmless, as I understand.”

  “I bore easily,” Soleil warned.

  “I’m sure we’re both due a holiday. Somewhere we have no-one to hide from.” Eclipse glanced through the viewing screen. “Somewhere free of the shadow of Osai.”

  “How unreliable is the wormhole?”

  “Oh, very. It could be an extremely long holiday.”

  Soleil felt lighter already.

  “Can I trust you, Eclipse?”

  “Not for a moment,” he said cheerfully. She nodded. Just the way she liked it.

  *

  Earth would, in time, cost Soleil yet another name and both of them their current faces. And these would be considered a price worth paying. For when first they met, they were two souls lonelier than a dying star; cursed by their sentience, they remembered better times now lost, and would remember them still for aeons yet to come. But in each other, there in the glow of old Osai, they found a kinship for the cursed.

  New adventures beckoned. Dreams of freedom stirred. Together they stood in silence, bidding what they thought were farewells to the planet of the dead, their artificial eyes reflecting the play of leaping flares, cavorting across the surface of a planet as beautiful and deadly as the burning heart of a sun.

  Haecceity

  Stewart Hotston

  He was waved through by an armed policeman at the perimeter. Faizul was standing on the other side of the shivering yellow cordon of inch wide tape. “Morning boss. You’re not going to believe this.”

  “C’mon then,” said Michael. He stepped gingerly through the unending detritus of pulverised wood, glass and waste paper that always covered the site of every explosion he’d ever worked. The end of human civilisation was non-descript rubbish. The wreckage was beyond recovery and too vast a volume to begin imagining the clean up that would inevitably occur once they were done with forensics. Amazingly, the building was still standing, reinforced concrete struts peeking through the damp mist and floating debris as he negotiated his way around shattered masonry.

  By the time they reached the point of interest, Michael was trudging through the mess without a second thought. In spite of himself he was amazed; a girl lay, without burns, in the recovery position while paramedics attended.

  “First responder Darren Hall found her under a ton of roof. Got the fright of his life when she shouted out as he poked around between collapsed joists.” Faizul was reading from notes, peering occasionally over the top of his pocket book to look at the girl. “Lapsing in and out of consciousness, hasn’t said a word. Duty physician is Josh Cohn.” Michael nodded. He knew the man, mid-forties, career in public service.

  “Have you met him before?” he asked Faizul.

  His sergeant shook his head. “No, Sir.”

  “Word of advice, he’s seen more blood than Dracula. It’s left him with a unique view of the world.”

  “I’ve met my share of pathologists and morticians,” said Faizul dismissively.

  Michael shrugged. He didn’t care to babysit and had warned his man about the desert-dry doctor. The rest was down to him. Waving over one of the white scene suited SOCOs he said, “Where’s Dr. Cohn?”

  The eyes of the woman behind the mask rolled and with a turn of the head she indicated deeper into the site, through a partially pulverised doorway. Faizul followed after him, taking photos on his phone. They found Cohn talking to another medic. The Attending was tall and thin with a greying moustache hanging heavily and untrimmed over his top lip. Like SOCO he was wearing a white suit, although his face was uncovered.

  “More survivors?” asked Michael, interrupting Cohn in mid-flow. The doctor ignored him and finished his conversation. Michael didn’t say anything else.

  Cohn turned to Michael, “Ya wee shite, did your mother teach you nae manners?” His voice was like three day old cigarette smoke.

  “I’m a disappointment to my mother in so many ways,” said Michael.

  “Aye,” said Cohn approvingly. “Seen the wee bairn with nae a scratch on her?” Michael nodded. “What ye won’t have seen was the man she must hae been with.”

  “Where’s he?” asked Faizul, looking over his shoulder to where they had come from.

  “Well, big man, I’d say he’s on ye shoes, ye troos and pretty much spread across the rest of the site. If yer lucky, yon white suited minions might find his teeth. Now shut yer hole while the big boys talk, eh?”

  “So what protected her from ending up like him?” asked Michael.

  “Honestly, Michael?” suddenly his accent faded, “I’ve no idea. I’ve never seen anything like it. The forensic pathologist will give you their best shot but I’d bet my daughter’s Pooh Bear onesie that they’ll not draw a firm conclusion. She was next to the site of the explosion. There is no reasonable explanation at this point for why she’s still in one piece, let alone breathing.”

  “You’re not Scottish!” said Faizul, the words bursting out from his mouth.

  Cohn looked at him like a snake might regard a mouse. “Aye? Is that so? You being second generation Asian an’ all would be the fucking expert on matters such as these, eh? Inspector, take your toddler off with ye, I’ve got work ta do.”

  Michael tried not to laugh as he led his fuming sergeant away.

  *

  “How long has she been waiting?” he asked the desk sergeant.

  The overweight and faintly fusty man on duty looked at the computer screen, although Michael knew he must have been here when she arrived. “She was brought in about eleven this morning.”

  “Which room?”

  “Two.”

  “Thanks. Can we get some coffees?”

  “Sure,” said the officer. Michael nodded and turned to find the interview room. “Machine’s by reception,” the sergeant said to his back. “Takes shrapnel and doesn’t give change.”

  “I’ll get them, gov,” said his constable, Eleanor Stryck, before walking off to find them drinks.

  “Get a tea for the interviewee,” called Michael after her.

  The interview room was standard issue mottled grey. There was a cctv in one corner, a single laminated chip board table with four chrome legged chairs. A stopped-up plug sat alone in the wall; it would once have had a tape recorder attached to it. The light was a thin fluorescent bar; the cool illumination creating gloom all around.

  He was immediately struck by a smell he couldn’t identify. Hints of apple, lavender and freesia, cinnamon and other spices he knew but couldn’t name. It was so pleasant he took a second breath to try and retain its essence for as long as possible. Michael stopped himself from standing there and simply breathing only by dint of focussing on the witness they were supposed to be interviewing.

  “Not what you expect in a cell, is it,” said the woman.

  Michael shook his head, almost groggy; it was as if he were fighting with himself to simply find a chair and sit.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after he had taken his seat, “I’m Inspector Michael Case. We’ll be joined momentarily by my colleague, Constable Stryck.” She didn’t say anything. Her name was Jayne Seeker, 31, currently working as an accountant for one of the big four. Speciality was, according to the firm’s website, IPV and illiquid asset valuation. He wasn’t sure what that meant, even after looking it up on the internet. Maths. She had graduated with a degree in physics from Leeds. The building where she’d been found the day before was a shuttered chemical plant. It still belonged to a huge pharmaceutical company but, apart from a handful of security types, there wasn’t supposed to
be anyone there. The representative he had spoken with at her firm wouldn’t give him her assignments. “Data protection,” said the nasal voice on the other end of the line. He was told to ask her himself. Another constable, Hesketh, was working her home life, but it was too early to suggest she was anything other than a lucky individual; if being caught in an explosion that flattened a five story industrial site was lucky.

  She might not have been his type but Michael could still appreciate just how elegantly beautiful she was. The explosion appeared to have left her entirely unharmed, an initial fear about concussion had passed without incident. Her eyes were huge, almond-shaped and completely symmetrical, her skin was smooth, slightly tanned and radiated a youth his constable, who was younger than Seeker, was already losing to stress and irregular shift patterns. She returned his stare with lazy assessment, leaning back in her chair, arms by her sides, leaving her chest uncovered. Michael’s boyfriend, Mark, would have commented sharply that little Miss Seeker was gorgeous and knew it. He thought about his own time in the gym and the dozen little imperfections chance had left him with that nothing but surgery would correct.

  If she had undergone surgery it was, without doubt, the finest example of the scalpel at work he had ever seen. Mark was an actor and always said that the truly beautiful had only to turn up and get given stuff. He acidly maintained such beauty ruined them for hard work. She was wearing a corn blue rugby shirt that was a little tight for her, with her hair tied back in a knot that revealed sculpted neck and collar bones.

  Michael was rehearsing the conversation he would have with Mark later, the one about the genius on wheels accountant who should be in the movies, when the door behind them opened and Eleanor entered.

  “I got you a tea,” said Michael. “I hope that’s okay.”

  Stryck plonked the cup on the table and sat down beside him. “I’m constable Stryck. We’re sorry we’ve had to bring you from the hospital, Ms. Seeker. Standard procedure in cases like this.” She turned her cup on the table. “We understand that you have been through a terrible ordeal and we’re grateful that you’re prepared to make a statement.”

  Michael let the constable lead the interview – woman to woman was considered more appropriate. He resisted the urge to check his phone every couple of minutes; the preliminary report from forensics was due that morning.

  “Anything I can do to help,” said Seeker. “Please, call me Jayne.”

  “Jayne,” said Stryck, “could you tell us what happened?”

  The look in her eyes changed, but Michael couldn’t see her reliving her experience. Instead it was as if she was repeating something rehearsed. Stryck changed her position on the chair next to him and he was pleased to recognise that she too had noticed the change in Jayne’s demeanour.

  Jayne fingered a heavy locket that hung low on her neck. “Work,” she said. “I was there because of my work. I’m an accountant and I was doing a site visit.” She picked up speed as she warmed to her subject, the first halting words being replaced by a smooth and assured delivery. “My client required us to look into a certain issue they had with the value of some assets. I’m a subject matter expert in valuing illiquid assets; you know, ABS, derivatives and the like. The asset in this case was a Real Option.”

  There are those words again, thought Michael. He supposed she was paid much more than him, probably just for knowing what they meant. What he did know was that valuing made up financial instruments didn’t need site visits.

  “I arrived about 9 am and was being shown around by the site manager.” She leaned in conspiratorially and Michael found his eyes drawn to her breasts, which she managed to push forwards without being brazen about it. The move was subtle but the effect undeniable – Michael knew some of his straight friends would have been momentarily lost. “The client’s audit implied some business was still ongoing at the site but,” she paused, “apart from the security guards the place was derelict.”

  “You were there investigating fraud?” asked Stryck, sounding as if she didn’t quite believe her own words.

  “Goodness me, no,” said Jayne, sounding offended, “Well, I suppose you could categorise it like that. You are a policewoman. I was there to complete some due diligence before I calculated the option value of the site.” She leaned back as if her conclusion was obvious without needing to be said. “Just thinking about the environmental liabilities makes me shudder. The maths says that no option ever has zero value, if it’s probable then it’s possible and, on that basis, nothing in the future is ever worthless, but this one would have been pretty close to it.” She shrugged as if this was of no concern to her while also very bad news for someone else.

  “How did you get there?” asked Stryck. Michael’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He guessed it was the forensics team. He couldn’t read it in front of her but the information would be pertinent.

  “I drive a Toyota Prius,” said Jayne. “Company car. The details are in my handbag. Do you have my handbag? I’m rather hoping you people collected it while I was unconscious.”

  Closing the door to the interview room behind him, he saw two officers approaching; the place was getting busy. He thought nothing more of it and checked his messages. He couldn’t quite believe his eyes when he saw the preliminary results. Seeker was now their only witness, and only current suspect, to what was being classified as an event that would lead to a Cabinet Office Briefing Room A meeting.

  “Excuse me,” said a plain-clothed officer, who attempted to push past him and reach for the door.

  “Occupied, mate,” said Michael, blocking him.

  The detective looked puzzled for a moment and then, as if nothing had happened, walked back the way he had come. What the hell? thought Michael, shaking his head in disbelief. His phone buzzed again, like an angry grinding of teeth; the world was about to go mental and Ms Seeker would soon be gone. Rooms with one-way mirrors and people listening to ear buds were her future. Whatever her involvement, Ms. Seeker would also be wanted by people other than her Majesty’s government.

  He stepped back into the room.

  Jayne appeared shaken. She looked up at him with a sharp jerk of her head, frowned and snapped her gaze back to Constable Stryck. “Was he the only one who died?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Stryck, “we can’t confirm that right now.”

  “At least four others,” said Michael. He had decided to be direct, in the hope of getting some sort of result before she was whisked away from him.

  Stryck was looking at him as if he had gone mad. Seeker rocked back as if he had punched her in the face. Her hands were now palm down on the table. “God,” was all she said.

  “When were you last at Manchester Airport?” he asked her.

  “Months ago,” she said immediately.

  “We have found your car,” he told her, changing tack.

  This time she didn’t respond. A hand went to a locket around her neck. Michael noticed, for the first time, that the item was burnt around the clasp, that blackening of melted wire and electrical components he’d managed to create once after attempting to rewire a light switch.

  “What’s in the locket?” he asked.

  “A picture of my mother,” said Seeker, hand covering it completely now.

  “Would you mind if I had a look?”

  The door opened behind them.

  Stryck turned in her chair and opened her mouth to kindly ask them to piss off. Michael was forced to look when she said nothing for some moments.

  “What?” he said in exasperation and turned around in his seat. Two officers he didn’t recognise stood in the door, semi-automatic pistols pointed into the room. They weren’t police issue. His chest burned as he looked at the barrel aimed at his face.

  The two men moved into the room and closed the door behind them. Michael realised he had stopped breathing. A roar of fear in the silence of the room filled his ears and a thousand thoughts flew through his mind without a single one of them settling. A whizz of
motion beside him caused him to dive to his left, his shoulder against the wall.

  “No,” said Jayne firmly from behind him as the two men shot Michael and Eleanor. The man whose gun was pointed at Michael pulled his trigger but the gun didn’t fire. Eleanor wasn’t so lucky; a damp bang sounded and she dropped to the ground. She was dreadfully quiet and still.

  The man in front of Michael pulled the trigger again but still nothing. The other bastard kicked Stryck’s prone body hard. Satisfied that she was done, he turned his gun on Michael. He realised he hadn’t moved since that first dive. He could feel time slipping away from him and a desperate urge not to end up like Eleanor, the desire to see Mark again, pulled him into awareness. Michael stood up and leapt at his attacker, throwing a punch over the barrel of the pistol into the man’s face. It was poorly thrown but he followed through with his whole body, hoping the other one wouldn’t shoot at his mate. More shots rang out and, in the haze of smashing the man’s head against the floor until he stopped moving, Michael dimly registered that he wasn’t dead.

  His attacker was unconscious but alive. He cuffed him and looked around to see Jayne kneeling on the back of the other gunman who was laid flat on his face. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, “I’m truly sorry, I couldn’t stop both of them. Too improbable.”

  “They would have shot you,” he said, trying to reassure her. “Eleanor saved us both.” In saying her name he remembered her. “Oh shit.” He checked her for the entry wound and realised she was laid on top of it. “Shit, shit, shit.” He wanted to cry, to shout.

  The door opened with a wrenching crunch. “Everyone freeze!” someone shouted. “On the floor, now!”

  Michael looked up, tears pouring down his face. His mate, Andy Clerk, was standing over him with a semi auto pointing down into his face. “Christ, Michael,” he said and, shouldering his weapon, knelt down over Eleanor’s limp body. Around them people poured into the room, help was called for and hands gently lifted Michael away from his colleague. He didn’t remember much more of those moments except the look of sorrow and guilt written across Jayne’s face, as if it were all her fault.