Corvus Page 14

  Whatever the woman was up to, Laura couldn't hide out in the toilets much longer. She flushed the loo, straightened her jumper, and clasping her bag tightly under her arm—not that there was much to steal—slid back the bolt.

  'Flushes in the key of E♭,' a familiar voice said.

  'You can't come in here!' Laura hissed.

  'Is that so?' Zach asked, arms crossed and one buttock propped on the edge of a basin. How did he always manage to upend her expectations?

  She moved to the other sink and washed her hands. And washed her hands.

  'They're not going to get any cleaner,' he said.

  'Shut up and go away.'

  Zach reached over and turned off the brass retro tap—no fancy modern gadgets for Thea. Silently he handed Laura a clutch of paper towels which she would have preferred to toss back in his face. She forced herself to dry each hand with care, finger by finger. Don't ask him, she told herself. Don't you dare ask him.

  'Who is she?' she heard herself say.

  Their eyes met in the mirror.

  'You're wearing my jumper,' he said.

  Laura glanced down, reddened. With both hands she dragged his jumper over her head, then realised too late that her camisole wouldn't conceal the bruise across her upper arm. For a moment she thought he'd be polite enough not to comment.

  'At least my dates don't slap me around,' he said.

  'Don't jump to ridiculous conclusions.'

  'So you walked into an open door?' He didn't bother disguising the contempt in his voice.

  Laura held up the jumper, knowing full well she'd have to put it back on—or ask him to fetch her jacket, which would be worse.

  'I'll have it cleaned and returned to you,' she said.

  'Wear it. It suits you.'

  Suddenly she was tired of pretending. 'Because it's yours.'

  They were quiet for moment, then Zach stepped forward and ran his fingertips lightly over her bruise, while Laura studied the tarnish dulling the mirror like crape.

  'Here, I've been carrying this around for days. I planned to give it to you the afternoon of the Fulgur bombing,' he said.

  A small gold pendant lay in the palm of his outstretched hand, chain dangling from his fingers, swinging. His hand, she saw, was trembling slightly. She couldn't believe the necklace was for her, even when he fastened it round her neck.

  'Thank you,' she whispered.

  Hands resting on her shoulders, he closed his eyes for a short time, allowing her to search his face for an inkling of understanding. To mention the bombing in such a casual—callous—tone, damn him. And then this.

  'Do you know the legends of the selkie?' he asked.

  The door opened. On the threshold Olivia was already calling out, 'Laura, what's taking you—'

  Zach and Laura sprang apart.

  'Zach. Why am I not surprised,' Olivia drawled. Always the quick-witted one, she'd never been bothered that people resented you for it, especially your mates, especially when you defended them. 'Your own hot curry waiting at the table, while you guzzle ours in the loo.' Sighing ostentatiously, she considered Laura. 'How utterly tacky.'

  'Livs—' Laura began.

  'Don't worry, I'm not about to tell Owen. Or Tim. Just get the fuck away from this freak, even if his instrument's as big as his clarinet. Even if it's bigger.'

  And then she was gone.

  Laura hadn't realised that Zach could blush. She was trying to decide whether it was anger or embarrassment or something else entirely when the walls shuddered, then tilted. Later she would have trouble remembering the exact sequence of events—have trouble remembering if she even heard the detonation or only felt it. There had been too many films she'd seen, too many news clips. Too many stories.

  Zach rolled away from her and slowly sat up, holding his head. His face was the colour of a twice-used teabag left on the worktop to moulder.

  'What was that?' she asked.

  He didn't answer.

  'Zach? Are you OK?'

  Hoarse cries, screams were beginning to penetrate her awareness. Laura glanced towards the door, still firmly closed. The mirror had fallen and shattered, otherwise everything in the toilet seemed intact. Perhaps a bit more dust in the air, that was all. And that acrid smell.

  'A bomb?' she asked, disbelieving.

  She found she was still clutching Zach's jumper. Wrapping it round her hand, she swept the shards away and crept to his side. He was shivering, unable to do much more than lean against her. She picked a sliver of glass from his hair. A small cut above his eyebrow was oozing blood, which she wiped with a spit-moistened tissue from her pocket. It continued to seep, but he shook his head when she tried to swab it again.

  'You people will blame us,' he whispered. 'Blame the murdering auger bastards.' Though a little colour was returning to his face, the shivering continued. 'Oh god, Carla, Andy, all those kids . . .'

  'Zach, look, no matter what I said that afternoon, I never meant it. Nobody who knows you could believe for one minute—for one second—that you'd do something like this.'

  'Haven't you listened to the stuff the Purists spout? They're everywhere, in the government, the police, the media, the chatrooms, your grandmother's Bible study group . . .'

  Above the frightful sounds from the club—and the smoke alarms—Laura now could hear sirens in the distance, heading their way. Despite the heavy snow, ambulances would soon get through. Firefighters, probably. Police.

  'Zach, we've got to leave. I'm going to try to find our jackets.'

  'Don't go out there. You don't want to see it.'

  Laura looked round but could spot no place for Zach to hide.

  'Lock yourself into a cubicle,' she began, but realised it was hopeless. She scrambled to her feet. 'I'll be right back.'

  The corridor was full of smoke, but there didn't seem to be any flames nearby. Ducking back for a second to take a swimmer's deep breath, Laura shut the door behind her, crouched low, and made for the row of coathooks along the wall. Sheer luck that it was only a few metres. She would not think about the room full of people. She would not think about Andy and the other musicians. She would not think about her friends. There was nothing she could do.

  Zach's sheepskin was right on top, and Laura ripped it off the hook. Eyes smarting, she grabbed the next jacket that came to hand and held it to her face. She was beginning to feel light-headed. The fumes made it easier to ignore the sounds of panic and agony and confusion, only partly dampened by the dense pall. A man was moaning, 'Help me, help me, someone help me.' Contrary to her resolve, Laura slid forward for a quick look. Her gaze went straight to the flames claiming the wooden stage, so that her foot bumped up against a solid object, and it took a moment for her streaming eyes to recognise its grisly nature. She gagged.

  Nothing you can do.

  She stumbled back to toilet, slammed the door behind her, and dropped to her knees, gasping loudly. The air was still clear, there must be an open window. Wiping her eyes, she saw that Zach hadn't moved except to cradle his head in his hands. Nor did he look up now. The sirens were louder.

  What do you expect, a magic knife that would cut you out of here? she could hear Olivia scoff as Laura located the ground-level window, only to find it half open but burglar-barred. At least you're alive, while I . . .

  Laura shook out Zach's jumper, hurriedly put it on, then the jacket. Stuffed into a pocket were a pair of gloves, a packet of cigarette papers, some matches; and best of all, a knitted woollen scarf, which she soaked at the tap.

  'Come on,' she said, taking Zach's arm. 'We've got to hurry.'

  She was relieved when he got to his feet and slid his arms obediently into the sleeves of his jacket, which she held open for him. Though trembling no longer, he fumbled with his buttons, then stopped to look at Laura in bewilderment. At first she thought of a child lost in a crowded supermarket, but was suddenly struck by his resemblance to their puppy when her mum had swatted it the first time with a rolled newspaper—befor
e it had learned to cower. It should have bitten her there and then. Rage like boiling tar erupted in Laura. She seized Zach's arm and shook him—shook him till he yelped.

  'Don't even think of giving up!' she shouted.

  With the scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, he followed her along the passage to the small kitchen, where the smoke had hardly penetrated. She'd guessed right, a service door led to a short flight of stairs and back alleyway. She dragged him at a clumsy run to the next road, skidding repeatedly but not quite falling on the icy pavement, as the sirens converged on the club. Only when they'd reached the charity shop and turned the corner did she stop for breath. They leaned against the wall, sheltered from passing gawkers by a large wheelie bin and by the snow, still falling thickly. Neither the late hour nor the weather would deter the curious from a bomb site.

  The cold air had revived Zach. He loosened the near-frozen scarf, and searching his pockets for gloves, also came up with a bar of chocolate, which they split.

  'Thanks,' he said. 'I'm OK now.'

  But Laura wasn't sure, he kept pulling his glove off, chewing on a knuckle, replacing the glove, pulling it off . . .

  'I'm going back,' he suddenly said.

  'Back where?' she asked. He couldn't possibly intend what it sounded like.

  'Maybe I can help.'

  'Are you mad? They'll lynch you on sight. You didn't see . . . there was a . . . oh god . . .' She broke off and bent over, retching.

  Zach held her as she vomited at the kerb, then kicked snow over the patch and drew her a few feet away. With a bare hand he scooped up a mound of clean snow, from which she took a mouthful or two, grateful for its numbing bite. Sirens continued to approach, hypnotic blue lights: rule of law, they flashed. It was hard to think when you were so afraid.

  'And you can't go back to your flat either,' she said. 'You're right, the Insects have been sniffing round. You've got to think of the others in your group, Stella too.'

  He walked to the bin and slid open the lid, dislodging a thick crust of snow. The scarf was stiff and unyielding, it took some effort to remove it. Silently Laura watched him compress it into a spongy mass, grey and slushy as grease ice, before tossing it away, then flip up his collar and jam his hands into his pockets. With his shoulders hunched, he trod a few steps away from her, so that she couldn't tell whether he was preparing to sacrifice himself in some stupid stupid stupid—and completely pointless—act of loyalty. Snow lay unsullied on his hair and jacket like fresh breadcrumbs, scattered by the village idiot for the crows. Rule of claw, the sirens cawed, rule of claw.

  'Maybe it's time we simus started fulfilling their expectations,' he said, his voice low.

  'Zach, you don't mean that.'

  'Don't I?' He turned to look at Laura, such a bleak expression on his face that, viciously, she hoped if a couple of Purists had been at Thea's, they were still alive, and screaming. 'Savagery requires a savage response.'

  'So who's first? I reckon you ought to catch them early on. A busload of preschool kids with their biccies and teddy bears?'

  His lashes swept downwards, but not before she saw the spurt of tears. Fool, she told herself, why don't you just peck them out, his heart as well? She moved to his side and with apologetic strokes brushed off his shoulders; even more tenderly, his hair. Snow swirled around them, lingered. Their breath fogged the small shared space. In a brief lull between sirens they could hear a distant church bell, thin and fragile as a rime of frost. Nine, ten, eleven—Laura counted the knells.

  A sweep of yellow light startled them to attention. As one they pitched behind the wheelie bin, Laura narrowly avoiding a fall, but it was only a snowplough lumbering past. Laura rubbed her bruised shoulder, which had caught against the protruding lip of the bin.

  'Let me look,' Zach said.

  Laura shook her head. 'I'm OK.'

  After patting his own pockets but only coming up with his wallet and keys, he asked, 'Have you still got your mobile?'

  'Yeah, in my shoulderbag. Why?'

  'I'll ring for a taxi,' Zach said, drawing her near. He tucked a strand of her hair into the hood of her jacket, then worked the slider on her zip, which was gaping open a bit, till his fingers rested under her chin. Still he didn't release the pull tab. 'You need to get home.'

  'And you?'

  He shrugged. 'It doesn't really matter, does it? They'll find me sooner or later.'

  'Maybe someone will come forward and claim responsibility.'

  'Yeah, someone will, all right.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'There's no faster way to make us feared—hated—than to prove we're terrs. Scapegoatery's been around since you lot climbed down from the trees, it's a favourite pastime. As thrilling as ritual sacrifice, and a hell of a lot better than football to sate—temporarily—your near insatiable hunger for violence. And what a tasty morsel: the auger who, miraculously, escapes devastating carnage with nothing more than a scratch. The auger with known underground connections. The auger so despicable he's even willing to blow up his own date, his friends.'

  Only later would she wonder what it would have meant to let him go back to the club; wonder too at the ease of his acquiescence, as though he were choosing an anticipated, and more brutal, reckoning. In her imagination she'd replay events, and replay them, to avoid the irrevocable.

  'Can you drive your motorbike in the snow?' she asked.

  As if to gauge its density, Zach gathered up some of the powdery stuff and weighed it in his hand, then formed a compact snowball and threw it with a grim smile across the street, where it thumped against the wall, leaving a butterfly-shaped splotch.

  'Not easily.'

  'But it's possible?'

  'I've got winter tyres. Yeah, it's possible . . . He brushed his gloves free of snow. 'If you're mad. Or desperate.' Again shrugged his shoulders. 'And have a place to go.'

  'Come on, then.' Laura said, plucking at his cuff. 'We'll stop in a bit to ring my parents.'

  'And tell them what, exactly?'

  'Oh, I'll think of something.' She exhaled in relief when he took her hand. 'I always do.'

  Chapter 20

  Zach awakes to ferocious gusting. With luck Lev won't have heard his groan. Their world has been compressed into this small, temporary shelter where they may be warm, they may be fed, they may even be safe, but Zach knows that if he were to risk a few steps beyond the tent, he'd be taken by the storm.

  It's supposed to be a sleepy kind of death. Once the violent shivering subsides.

  Do they program dreams to taunt him? No Inuk would ever club a seal senseless, then shove it into the water to drown.

  He stretches as unobtrusively as possible, mostly his cramped legs, which could have used another four or five centimetres of sleeping bag. Back to back, he and Lev have managed to preserve a semblance of privacy, but Lev rolls over, slips an arm out, and unzips his bag. There's not much he misses.

  'I'll turn up the heat and put on the kettle,' Lev says. 'Get up and move round a bit.'

  'I'm fine,' Zach says. 'It was just a dream.'

  'Remind me to add an entry to my translator. Fine can also be used for stubborn.'

  Light is soon flickering along the sides of the tent, whose billowing and snapping remind Zach of sheets hanging from a washing line. Crisp sunshine, a last brisk day. To elude Ben he dodges through the heaving walls of the maze, where the three-eyed, sword-toothed monster guards the treasure. This time he's going to reach it for sure, and find the gold, and the spell-locked casket of jewels, and win the sloe-eyed princess's hand. The air smells of autumn and woodsmoke. Leaves crunch underfoot. His father is chopping wood, his mother collecting walnuts in a basket. The wind kicks and pummels like a small, baffled child wailing to be let into the snowy labyrinth of memory.

  'Zach?' Lev says.

  The boy, and the incident, vanish in a whiteout.

  They take turns at knee-bends and toe-touching, the dogs watching with somnolent amusement. His se
lf-appointed guard hugs Zach's side while they drink tea. Up close, her coarse fur smells pleasantly oily, like fresh-toasted wheat germ, and Zach finds himself combing her coat with his hand, digging his fingers into her thick ruff.

  'Bella's very discerning,' Lev says. 'She's got the team's best nose.'

  'I don't suppose you smell any sweeter.'

  'Is it my scintillating wit and delightful company, or have you always been so touchy?'

  After a moment Zach releases a laugh. 'OK, I deserve that.'

  Lev rolls a cigarette, permits himself two brief drags, then extinguishes both it and the light before crawling back into his sleeping bag. 'Let's rest while we can. It's going to be a difficult trek to the hunters' camp.'

  'How long will the storm last?' Zach asks.

  'No telling. We'll have to wait it out.'

  Lev's teas are very soothing. Zach yawns, closes his eyes, drowsily listens for the sound of a zip, the usual pre-sleep noises. They don't come. Instead, Lev's hand skims Zach's shoulder, so lightly that at first he wonders if he'd drifted off for an instant.

  'You're welcome to share my sleeping bag.'

  So much for sleep. At the end of a held breath Zach mutters, 'Look, it's not that I don't like you.'

  'No need to be so nervous.' A soft chuckle. 'I'm not going to jump you.'

  Embarrassed, Zach blurts out, 'Is homosexuality common where you come from?'

  'Our categories are somewhat different,' Lev says dryly.

  Zach rolls to face Bella, who works herself into the harbourage of his body. He moves his hand to her neck, again plies the firm stratum of muscle beneath her coat, and she gives a little whimper of pleasure. Dogs are heavily taxed, enough of a luxury for Laura to have called it her mum's perfect excuse whenever Max asked for a new puppy to replace the spaniel which died young—one of those new and devastating metaviruses. Fucking morons, wanking round with uploads when they can't even develop some decent antivirals.

  'I promise you, we'll find her.'