by Claire North
I rolled off him as more onlookers gathered round our little scene. “Who did you touch?” I whispered. “Who did you touch?”
“A woman. She had red hair. My shoulder…”
“I hit it. Sorry.”
Inspecting the crowd – woman with red hair, woman with red hair – I saw no such woman, but then that could mean nothing at all. “Get out,” I hissed. “Get out of here.”
“What?”
Pulled him to his feet. “Get out. Your injuries will protect you; she won’t wear damaged skin. Shots have been fired; the police will be on their way. Get out!”
“I can’t just —”
“Go!” My voice echoed down the staircase, bounced off hard, clean walls. I pushed him away from me, turned again to the crowd, snapped, “All of you, get out!”
His hand caught my sleeve as I turned. “Be me,” he whispered. “No one else dies.”
I jerked my arm away, shaking my head.
“Kepler!” He held on tighter, pulling me back. “I killed Josephine. It was me. I did it; I killed the woman you love. Be me! The woman you are now, she doesn’t have to die; no one else has to die. Galileo knows me, knows my face. Be me!”
He was crying.
I hadn’t ever seen Nathan Coyle cry.
I pulled my arm free of his grasp, pushed him away. “No,” I said. “I love you.”
And ran on through the crowd.
Galileo.
Who are you, Galileo?
I am security guard.
I am Japanese tourist admiring samurai swords.
I am schoolteacher taking notes on American sculpture.
I am student, sketching a statue of the goddess Kali as she dances on the skulls of her foes, slain in righteous retribution.
I am man who wants to sit down on a gallery bench.
Woman with flapjack stuck between my teeth.
I am catering staff pushing a tray of cakes.
Wanderer with audio guide pressed to my ear.
Usher with belt done up too tight around my underfed belly.
Every step there is someone new to be, every step a new shade of skin.
My flesh is silken soft, moisturised fresh this morning.
I have eczema beneath my elbow, red lumps up my arm.
I am old and stooped
fresh and beautiful
my skin is the colour of autumn sunset
pale as snow
dark as oil
so warm I feel every capillary tingle in my fresh wide lips
so cold that my toes are no more than slabs of defrosted meat blocking the ends of my shoes.
I move between the galleries, stand beneath the stones of Egyptian temples, before the gaze of medieval saints, looking for the one who looks for me.
Where are you, Galileo?
Won’t be far.
Won’t have run, not this time.
Do you like what you see?
We have come here for this, you and I.
Come to make an end of it.
Do you like what you see?
And then I am…
armed security, because shots were fired in the Chinese tea garden, and a man is dead in his chair, a wealthy man, a sponsor of a great many cultural events, and there are bullet holes in the wall, and bullet holes in the glass ceiling, whose panels have cracked to let in the angry sky, and a woman lies bleeding on the floor, a handbag full of money and no recollection of how she came to be in this place, and so armed security have sealed off the wing and the police are sealing off the gallery, but that’s fine, Galileo, that’s absolutely fine.
Because where there are policemen, there are weapons, there is armour, there is opportunity.
I slip into a man with a great flat nose, black hair cut close to my head. I am NYPD, New York’s finest, shotgun held in both hands, body armour blue on chest, big black boots and knee pads, and I move with the team I’ve been assigned to because that is what I would do, and nod my answer to any questions, and do not speak, not knowing what it is I would say.
The NYPD seal off the Chinese tea room, set up cordons at the door, and where there were only half a dozen of us before, now there are twenty, thirty, trucks pulling up outside, and news crews too. A few hours and we’ll have made headlines, GUNS FIRED AT THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART, and just you wait because there’s more to come; there’ll be bullets flying.
Will you close the museum?
No, we will not close the museum.
You must close the museum, sir.
Do you know how long it will take, how much it will cost?
A man is dead, sir.
And that’s a tragedy, but these things happen, and hell, you’ve already got the gun that did it, can you stop frightening our visitors?
I look around at the dozens of policemen and armed guards, and one of them is Galileo. We’ll have both gone for a weapon, preferably carried by someone in full body armour, now look, just look, seek out the anomaly, the man who staggers, the man who is slow, the man who does not respond to his name, the man who falls behind. Look for him who does not belong, whose shoulders are not drawn back in pride, for him whose finger nervously taps the trigger guard of his weapon, for the one who too closely scrutinises his neighbours.
Who among you speaks French when he should not speak French?
Which of you loves the Mets but has “Yankees” on his underpants?
(Mr Whatever-your-name-is.)
Who cannot remember the number of their badge.
What they had for breakfast.
Their very name.
(I am Kepler.)
Who are you, Galileo?
Then a man comes up to me, revolver at his side, badge clipped to his leather belt, and says, “You got it, Jim?”
I turn and look into his eyes, and he must be my partner, and I must be Jim, and perhaps I do have it, whatever it is, but damned if I can tell him that.
Or perhaps my name isn’t Jim at all.
He looks at me, and I look at him, and there is a moment which becomes a moment too long, and he smiles, trying to read the strangeness in my eyes, and I finger the trigger of my shotgun and wonder whether, at this very close range, he really stands a chance, even in the body armour. Or whether I do too.
“Jim?” he says again. “You got it?”
“No,” I reply. “Not yet.”
“Jim?” Irritation, worry in his voice. “Jim? Where is it?”
A moment, a doubt, a hesitation, and in the corner of my eye I see a movement that might be as innocent as the scratching of a nose, as circumspect as the tugging of an itchy earlobe, and I don’t hesitate but reach out and press my fingers against my partner’s neck and
blood splatters my face.
Point-blank range, blood and brain and little bits of skull, I stare into the face of the man who almost certainly was called Jim, and probably did have whatever it was I was asking for, stare into his eyes as he falls, crumpled like a paper cup before me, one hand slipping away from my neck, my shoulder as he drops, a dead weight to the floor, a bullet straight through the back of his head and out the forehead, slamming in a little bloody cloud into the pillar at my back.
Behind him, the shooter, a man of barely nineteen years old, gun held out in one hand, finger still resting on the trigger, policeman’s cap pulled down over his eyes, giggles.
I grab my gun, and as the shooter’s eyes widen in surprise put two in his chest and a third in his neck, firing as the arc of my weapon comes up from my hip, an empty sound of incoherent rage even as the body of the man I was rolls beneath my feet, his wet blood slipping under my shoes.
Arms grab me, pulling the gun from my hand, and I scream in fury as they take me down, three, four men knocking me off my feet, hands on my head, my face, my arms, but my fury is not for them, it’s for the three other men pulling the shooter down, pulling Galileo down as the blood pops and bubbles around his throat, bursts upwards with every breath in great splatters, and then
one of them steps away.
One of the men holding him down just steps away, and looks at me and smiles
and I scream again
and
a hand is against my face
I hold a hand against his face
pull it away from the writhing, bewildered body and myself free of the scrum and scream, “Galileo!”
He turns and runs.
I ran after him, leaving my bewildered colleagues behind, fumbled at my side, felt the gun, raised it to fire and he swerved round a corner, boundless giddy energy in his youthful, uniformed body, past statues of the serene Buddha, carved jade of fair Kuanyin, lute in hand, willow branches at her back. I fired and my shot went wide, impaling a screen of delicate wading birds brushed on to silk, which toppled as the people around screamed and parted before us, and then Galileo
staggered
and as he staggered his hand seemed to brush the arm of a woman dressed in purple and pigtails and I screamed again, “Galileo!”
And she looked back, and saw me coming, and saw that I saw her, and she ran on, beneath the dark wood of a Shinto arch, raised against all evil spirits, and swerved again, feet slipping on marble, into a room of violins and cellos, ivory-carved flutes and pearl-embossed guitars, a palace to the music of the ages, where she
caught the arm of a man dressed all in white, who looked towards me and, seeing that I looked at him, for the first time showed a little fear, and he too ran, his feet faster than hers had been, his shoes more appropriate for the chase, throwing off his coat and bag as he fled through rustic scenes of haystacks and lambs, of dancing farmgirls and dying saints, and again a turn, and again he tried a switch, not running this time but sitting still and serene in the body of the guard by the door, but to hell with that, I raised my gun to fire, and seeing my face the guard threw himself, tooth and nail, towards me, and I pulled the trigger, knocking him back, and as he fell his hand caught the hand of the very same man he’d just been, who at once leaped back to his feet and turned and ran again, leaving the screaming guard behind him.
“Galileo!”
My voice, strange, a copper’s throat, a smoker’s lung, echoed through the corridors. Now he is a woman who throws her bag at me as I pursue, now she is a teenager with an incredible stride, a breathtaking burst of speed, and I am panting, gasping for breath, but I will not give up this chase or this body with its armour and gun, so as he rushes fresh-faced and full of air through the halls I sweat and pound after him, a clear shot – just give me a clear shot.
Crowds scream and part around us, like the ocean before an angry Moses as we move through halls of ancient totem poles pillaged from the Pacific, past cloaks of shell taken from the backs of dead American priests. He jumps and is a she, she jumps and is a child, it jumps and is a man again as we pass monuments to the dead, ancient images of gods who faded when their worshippers forgot, carved tokens to speed departed souls on to the afterlife or sink their bodies into the embrace of those loving oceans whence they came.
There are policemen after us, security, but who knows who to pursue? A man who was Galileo is tackled to the ground; a woman who three bodies ago ran now stands and screams as guns are pointed in her face, who are you, who are you, why did you run? Run where? she gasps. Run why?
A figure in grey, Galileo is a child, straight black hair, pale beige skin, grey uniform and knee-length socks. In one hand he holds a satchel, half-open to reveal the schoolbooks within; papers spilling from the bag as he runs down the hall.
A woman ahead. She’s got a gun, the veil across her face is dishevelled. I can see bare skin about her wrists, eyes and throat, but she doesn’t seem to care, raises the gun, levels it at
not the child
at me.
Pamela, back on her feet, I scream. “I’m Kepler, I’m Kepler!”
She doesn’t seem to care, doesn’t seem to perceive the child running towards her as she raises the gun and
fires.
I throw myself to the ground. I am policeman. I wear body armour, build up muscle tone, take long walks around my local beat… or perhaps I don’t. Perhaps I drive everywhere and live on doughnuts, and my heart is going to give out any moment. In all the fuss I didn’t really have time to check. Either way, a bullet is a bullet, and we’re all out of time.
I drop.
Zeus stares down at us, full of anger and sorrow at the deeds mortals do. Aphrodite combs her marble hair, Ares grapples with a raging warrior, Hercules strangles a snake, and two-faced Janus, god of gates, doorways, endings and times, laughs from one side of his face and weeps from the other, and I? I am cowering beneath a statue of Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, her face turned down in a serene smile, already knowing who will win.
Pam stands in the centre of the hall. She has followed the sound of gunfire, which makes her brave or foolish or otherwise emotionally involved. She doesn’t fire again, but enough has already been done: people are running, fleeing from the gallery, pushing and shoving their way to the exit. Someone, somewhere has sounded an alarm, and an evacuation is under way, just like the NYPD wanted. On a stairway behind me someone falls, someone cries, someone sobs, and I remember Taksim station, where this all began, when I ran from a stranger’s gun as Galileo runs from mine.
I am policeman.
I am meant to be obeyed.
I shout, “Everybody out!” but everybody has gone.
My hands are sweaty where they hold the gun, but my recovery time is impressive, heart already slipping down into steady double figures inside my chest.
“William…”
A child’s voice, sing-song. “Oh William!”
Who the hell is William?
(My Will, dead on a Miami dock.)
Ah yes.
I was a William once.
A long time ago.
I peep round the side of Athena, and there he is.
The schoolboy, Galileo, barely nine or ten years old. He’s smiling, one hand in Pam’s, the other still clasping his satchel. She stares at nothing, face greyer than her scarf, the gun still in her right hand, limp at her side. Of course. She came here without any gloves and now stands there, a picture of motherhood holding a child, and that child is Galileo.
I level my gun at the child, then turn it towards Pam.
The boy tuts. “But which one am I now?”
The boy staggers. Pam blinks, then smiles, her fingers tightening around the child’s little fist. “Which one do you want me to be?” she asks, then she too sways as the child grins, pressing Pam’s hand against his cheek like a cat brushing itself against its master’s legs.
“Shoot me…”
“or me?”
“Which one…”
“first?”
He is she, she is he, clinging to each other, and in the moments when she is not he, she is terrified, tears rolling down her cheeks, and in the moments when he is not she, he is pissing his pants, a child lost and confused, clinging to a stranger’s side and not knowing how he got there.
I stand.
The gun trained on some point between them both – best chance if I’m fast and they’re slow.
I am New York’s finest, called to the scene of the crime.
I am armed.
I am come to kill the child, Galileo.
Will, dying on a Miami dockside, the blood popping in his chest.
Johannes Schwarb, burned alive for all to see.
Do you like what you see?
I said, “I killed you before; I’ll do it again.”
Galileo grins, and as soon as the expression comes, it goes again, and, rubbing one eye with a fist, he stammers, “B-b-b-but please, sir, don’t hurt the little boy.”
I tighten my grip on the gun, level it at his skull. “I don’t know you,” I reply. “It will be a moment. That’s all. Just another moment, and done.”
My finger tightens against the trigger.
A shot.
Not mine.
Somethi
ng slams into my back, into the bulletproof vest, knocking me down. I land on my hands and knees, gasping for breath, head ringing, Galileo before me. The shot frightened him and he must have jumped, because now she’s standing there, breathless, gun raised ready to fire, a two-handed grip, and at her side the child is crying, standing bewildered, doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t understand.
Footsteps behind, approaching, by my side.
I half-turn my head, ribcage screaming at even that little movement, and Coyle is there, above me, a gun held tight, pointing at Pam, who tightens her grip and points straight back. “Remember me?” he asks. Galileo’s head tilts on one side, curious. “Remember me?” Coyle’s voice shook round the empty hall, off the sad smile of mother Hera, through the twisted limbs of raging Poseidon, into the cold white stones of the museum.
I tried to stagger up, and thought better of it, remained on my hands and knees, sucking in air. My jacket had stopped the shot, but not the shock, and now my ears rang and my tongue tasted of bitter adrenaline.
“Coyle…” I wheezed.
“Shut up,” he barked, eyes still fixed on Galileo. “Do you remember me?”
“No,” she said. “Who are you?”
He draws in a breath. Is this hurt? Had he imagined his murder meant something to a creature like Galileo? “Boy. You!”
The child looked up.
“Get out of here.”
The child didn’t move.
“Run!” Coyle’s voice echoed off stone walls, off statues of gods and monsters, and the child ran, leaving his satchel behind, slipping on the papers strewn across the floor.
Coyle kept the gun trained on Pam; she kept her gun trained on him.“Well,” she said at last. “What now?”
Coyle’s hand was shaking, but his voice shook more. “Santa Rosa. You wore me there. Do you remember?”
“No.”
“I killed a woman – you killed her in me. Do you remember?”
Galileo shrugged.
Coyle’s hands shook around the tight fist of the gun. “You stuck a knife in me. How can you not remember?!”A scream in the hall.
I think: you’re getting hysterical, Nathan Coyle. Nothing.
Galileo remembered; she didn’t remember.
