Corvus Page 15

  There is something in Lev's voice which sounds pre-recorded. Zach shifts round fast enough to catch the look on his face.

  'In time?'

  'You keep tugging at Laura's chain like that, it'll break and you'll convince yourself it's an omen.'

  After a long hesitation, Zach lets Lev zip their sleeping bags together. A meagre comfort, that shared warmth, but a measure of comfort nevertheless.

  *****

  She comes to him in the hours before rising.

  The light is blue, the penetrating eerie blue of an ice cave, and she too is frosted in blue, her hair shimmering with ice crystals.

  He says her name. He says

  *****

  In the morning—Zach finds it easier to think in conventional blocks of time—he asks if they can't make a start despite the snowstorm, but Lev is blunt. 'I might manage on my own, but what will you do if something happens to me?' Neither mentions that Zach's chances for survival, alone, would only be marginally better in optimal weather, even with the dogs. Neither mentions the abort function.

  To pass the time Lev produces a small, square board which glows from an internal power source and whose playing pieces float just below the surface of an unfamiliar translucent material, a material with the brilliance of cut glass but the tactile intimacy of free-flowing water. The pieces move at the touch of a finger. The rules are so simple that Zach wonders why nobody has thought of them before, then reminds himself that nobody thought of the Wu constant for the longest time either—or the biro. But it's surprisingly difficult to win, and when he manages to stalemate Lev, Zach grins like a little kid who has just scored his first goal.

  'Even trickier than Go,' he says.

  'All sentient races develop such games.' Lev kneels before his pack. 'Here, you may as well see what you can do with this.' He passes Zach an oblong case about the length of a devil stick. 'Just keep the volume down or the dogs will go mad.'

  The instrument has a mouthpiece, though the reed isn't made of any material Zach recognises, and its body, roughly clarinet-shaped, seems to be constructed from the same crystalline substance as Lev's game. No keys are visible. When Zach raises it to his lips for a tentative blow, he's astonished by the force of the tone he produces, a shrill F#. The dogs lift their heads and Jagger gets to his feet with hackles raised.

  'How does it work?' Zach asks.

  'Try playing while you think of a tune, a scale, whatever you like. Remember, think softly.'

  Papageno's aria from The Magic Flute teases a smile from Lev, who is nothing if well versed in sapiens culture.

  'Will it play anything at all?' Zach asks.

  'A full rendition of Bach's St Matthew Passion, you mean? Complete with soloists, double orchestra and choir?'

  'I'd be happy with a chord or two, though I wouldn't turn up my nose at accompaniment.'

  'You'll have to be patient. Neuronal changes take time. Ultimately, though, you ought to be able to dispense with the reed, explore far beyond the limitations of the clarinet.'

  'A musical instrument which affects my brain?'

  'A reciprocal adaptation, though there will be more neurogenesis, more rewiring of your neural networks than hers, since you haven't been brought up with such'—another of his smiles—'such facilitators.'

  Zach weighs the instrument in his hand. 'She?'

  'He. She. What an odd language you speak. Depends on your understanding of gender. On you, in the end,' Lev says. 'The main thing is, the higher dimensions are conscious. Think of music as one of their languages.'

  And just for a moment, a velvety arpeggio giggles in Zach's ear. A very girlish giggle.

  Chapter 21

  'It's too risky,' Laura said. 'Let me go.'

  'No,' Zach said.

  Voices muted, they stared up at his windows from beneath the cast-iron canal footbridge. Their puffs of breath resembled the wavy speech balloons from Max's comics, dialogue faded to tremulous wisps. The falling snow afforded a quiet which was eerie in a city that was never truly quiet, and it was all too easy to imagine themselves safely hidden in a priest hole surrounded by flaking mortared walls. But Laura had no illusions about what would happen if they were caught.

  'You must have left a light burning,' she said. 'The police would be waiting in the dark, wouldn't they?'

  At that moment a shadow passed behind the drawn curtains in Zach's living room. Laura clutched his arm.

  'There's someone in your flat,' she said.

  'Stay here,' he said. 'Without keys my motorbike's useless. I'll be back as soon as I've packed a few things.'

  'But what about—'

  He was gone before she could complete the question. Stubborn idiot, she thought. Owen would at least pretend to listen. Yeah, a small mean voice countered, he'd listen the same way a well-trained pet listens, a sweet spoon-fed monkey. 'Shut up,' Laura muttered. She didn't want to think about Owen. And then she remembered that she didn't want to think about any of her mates—not now, not yet.

  She still had her keys to Zach's flat. Even with his keen hearing, five minutes' headstart ought to suffice in this weather, but she added another three or four to be certain, then made her way along the towpath until she reached the short flight of steps from which, in daylight, a decaying boat and derelict boathouse with half caved-in roof could be seen on the opposite bank. Streetlamps, set far apart on this stretch of canal, illuminated little more than the itinerant snowflakes. Laura followed Zach's footprints up the steps, smudged parallel tracks which soon veered off to the left across uneven ground in the direction of the main entrance to his building. Careful to avoid a fall, she crossed the intervening tract, glancing frequently at the windows above her, frequently towards the towpath at her back. It was late, Zach's neighbours all seemed to be asleep, and no abominations arose from the depths of the cut to accost her, no stalkers. No police.

  She was going to need new shoes, maybe new feet. Her mum, perfect homemaker that she fancied herself, kept complete sets of both sturdy walking boots and wellies at the cottage for the family and spares for guests. But feet . . . good, another item to add to the tally of things beyond her mum's command.

  Laura stopped and wriggled her numb toes, then with a final look behind her, ducked into the rear stairwell, grateful that no motion sensor was attached to the wall of the building, merely a low-watt bulb in a grimy fixture above the door. Undisturbed by shovel or rubber sole, the steps were slippery beneath the drifted snow, and despite her caution Laura lost her footing on the third step from the bottom and with an involuntary cry landed awkwardly on a metal grate. Rubbing her chin, she listened intently for a few seconds, but when she rose, cursing half in self-disgust and half in relief under her breath, her right ankle protested. That's all we need, she thought balefully, and yanked off a glove. It took her a few minutes to fit and turn the key—her fingers were stiff with cold, clumsy with nervousness. What if Zach came out and found her gone? What if Zach didn't come out at all?

  In the end she got her fingers and pulse under control, and with only a slight limp navigated the corridor and staircase till she climbed to Zach's floor. Heedless of the wooden floorboards, somebody had left three sledges propped up against the wall on the landing, along with several child-sized pairs of boots in a greyish puddle, as if a bucket full of cold scummy water had been upended after scrubbing the passageway. Laura wondered where in this quarter there'd be a hill big enough—safe enough—for sledging. Could these be the neighbours who had complained to the police? A family with more kids than sense, Zach had said. She was tempted to lean the sledges against the door to their flat, a trick she'd taught Max years ago with well-filled wheelie bins, and might have done so if she hadn't heard a low werewolf growl behind their door.

  Ankle forgotten, she raced along the passage and inserted the key in Zach's lock. In less than a minute she was inside, though she took good care not to slam the door. Heart jiggering like a sail in unsettled winds, she waited near the boot tray while her breathin
g returned to normal. She was reluctant to kick off her shoes, wet as they were, in case she needed to leave again quickly. Zach was planning to wear his motorbike boots, but in the tray there was also a smaller pair of black leather trainers which looked similar to Max's current favourites. Heels worn on the outer edges like his as well, she was just thinking, frayed and snarl-knotted shoelaces, when her ears picked up the murmur of voices from the living room. Familiar voices.

  On the threshold, she stood with her arms crossed until they noticed her, too angry to say a word.

  'Hi Laura,' Max said, as if his presence were as humdrum as grated cheese and sweaty socks and long dirty toenails. He was dressed in terry pyjamas, the smart blue-and-cream striped ones he wore for a sleepover. 'We were expecting you.'

  That did it.

  'What the fuck is going on?' she yelled.

  'Keep your voice down,' Zach admonished.

  Laura marched straight towards Zach, ready to make someone—anyone—finally pay, though the effect was ruined at the last moment by her ankle, which chose to give out as she came level with the couch table. She stumbled, and Zach caught her. Ignoring the vicious yank on his hair, he settled her on the couch, her foot elevated.

  'Leave me alone, I'm OK.' But she lowered her voice: murdering Zach was her prerogative, not the mob's.

  'You've sprained your ankle,' Zach said as he slipped off both shoes, then her socks, 'but I don't think you've torn a ligament.' His fingers were gentle, and she winced only once. At least her toenails were clean, she thought as she glared at Max, who glanced down at his bare feet, then curled his toes and hid one foot behind the other.

  Zach helped her to remove her jacket, then told Max, 'Fetch a towel with some ice cubes from the kitchen.' He grinned his infuriating grin. 'Make that two towels, your sister's ruining my furniture with her dripping hair.'

  'I'll ruin more than your sofa.'

  He handed her his phone from the table. 'Go on, then, ring the police.'

  She maintained a dignified silence while Zach packed her ankle, but when he tried to dry her hair, she snatched the towel from him. 'I'll do it myself.' In the meantime Max had brought them mugs of tea and a plate of thick cheese-and-blackberry jam sandwiches, exactly the horrid sort he himself liked to eat. She drank some tea while Zach left the room. He returned almost immediately with his backpack, a pair of elegant ankle boots which might fit her with some toe padding, an elastic bandage and dry woollen socks, a tube of ointment, and a bottle of anti-inflammatory tablets, two of which she swallowed without protest—there was no way he was going to carry her out of here. He stowed the bottle in his backpack. Sandwich in hand, he began to pace the room, passing repeatedly before the window and peering out. Finally, with an apologetic shrug, he switched off the lights, though he left the door to the passage ajar so that they weren't entirely in the dark. Max ate as if he'd missed supper, but kept his eyes on her and attempted a grin whenever she looked his way. Neither he nor Zach offered an explanation.

  'You'd better eat something,' Zach said. 'We've got a long cold ride ahead of us.'

  'If you think I'm—'

  'Changed your mind? Fine.' He dug out his wallet. 'Keep the lights off and don't answer the door. Here's enough money for a taxi. And a number to ring—the driver's trustworthy.' He rested a hand on Max's shoulder. 'You can always have Laura drop you off at your friend's house. Or your sister will think up a good story; stick to it. There might be some trouble, but you'll be OK. It's me they really want.'

  Then Zach handed Max some notes and a slip of paper, nodded at Laura, and hefted his backpack over a shoulder, leaving socks and bandage like a reproof on the table next to her foot.

  'Where are you going?' Laura demanded.

  'He doesn't know.' Max spoke through a mouthful of sandwich, hurriedly choked it down. 'Don't let him leave.'

  'Zach, wait.' His footsteps slowed, but he kept his back to her. 'Please, help me with the bandage.' He turned. His face wasn't as expressionless as he tried to make it. Beneath skin as thin as a tissue of lies lay living parchment, word-rich.

  'I haven't changed my mind,' Laura said.

  Zach said nothing.

  'She isn't lying. It's the family temper,' Max said, 'Like shaking a bottle of warm coke, but with Laura the gush doesn't last for long.'

  Laura rounded on Max. 'Listen, little brother, if you're suggesting I'm anything like Mum . . .'

  Still without a word, Zach came over and dropped his gear to the floor. He knelt by the table, and Laura forgot to be cross at Max as she watched Zach unwind the bandage, set aside the ice pack, and lift her foot; apply some ointment and deftly wrap her ankle. After securing the material with a clip, he slipped the thick sock over her foot, then held out his hand for the other foot. Max rose from the armchair, went to the window, and eased one of the curtains aside. He continued to look beyond their dim reflections towards the canal, as if he could penetrate a private dark, while Zach slowly drew the sock up over her toes, the ball of her foot, over the arch, the heel, the ankle. Her foot rested in the palm of his left hand; his right smoothed the sock into place, smoothed it over the arch and heel and ankle, smoothed it. She had to be very firm with herself—it would have been such a little lie to tell him that something was stuck inside the sock and could he please take it off and start again.

  Max laughed. 'A dirty toenail clipping, maybe?'

  Laura slid her foot from Zach's hand. In the silence that followed, her mind clicked over the implications of Max's joke. And checked and clicked, like badly rusted curtain rings which needed replacing.

  'You're scaring me,' she said.

  Max left his post by the window to stand next to Zach, who rose and slipped an arm around her brother's shoulders.

  'You tell her,' Max said.

  Her blackout curtains tore. Like a voyeur waiting in the dark, Laura had a bright terrible view of two figures embracing, embracing. There was nowhere to fix her gaze. She balled a fist and jammed it against her teeth, bit down hard. How could you, you bastard? she managed not to cry. He's just a little boy. But she didn't manage to keep her eyes from smarting in the sudden blinding insight, however much she blinked.

  'You're bonkers,' Max said. 'He never stops thinking about you.'

  Max meant to reassure her, but it felt as though he'd been drilling a hole in her skull—to liberate her thoughts, or was it her demons? There were some people mad enough to claim trepanning expanded your consciousness.

  'You really hear me?' she asked. 'It's not just sympathy?'

  'Empathy,' Zach corrected.

  'I suppose you lot are far too clever to make a slip of the tongue!'

  'Since when have you started talking about simus like that?' Max asked.

  Stung, Laura grabbed her mug, gulped her lukewarm tea. 'Ugh, it's worse cold. You've dumped half a pound of sugar in it.'

  'Max knows I like it sweet,' Zach said mildly.

  'Like Mum,' Max added. 'She always jokes that it sweetens her disposition.'

  Laura cast a searching look at her brother but saw no guile on his face. From where she was sitting it seemed as if he'd grown recently, the crown of his head nearly level with Zach's shoulder, his wrists pale and fragile in the anaemic light.

  'What are you doing here?' she whispered. 'You're supposed to be at Justin's.'

  Max pulled the neckband of his pyjama top up over his chin and lower lip, an old childhood habit. Laura remembered his terrifying nightmares—all of his ribbed collars matted and chewed within weeks. He'd come to her bed, trembling, sometimes crying, and his fear had always soaked into the sheets and pillows and duvet, into the mattress like spilled milk—colourless but with a sour smell that had clung to her hair and skin till she showered, or threw open the window to bright sunlight. She took a few deep breaths to clear the smell.

  With a crooked smile Zach tugged the fabric from Max's teeth, but gently, the way he'd tug a slipper from a puppy, your tomorrow from underfoot.

  'Zach?' Laura
asked.

  'Max is a cognoscens,' Zach said.

  'What?'

  'A cognoscens.'

  'That's impossible!'

  Zach's eyes gleamed as though a match had been struck along his optic nerves, a look which made her wonder how he'd escaped a flick-knife or tyre iron or garotte till now. Well, that could be remedied. She turned to Max. 'He's sending me up for some reason.'

  'Ask Dad, if you don't believe him.'

  Which meant that even the impossible is sometimes true.

  'But how—how—?' Stymied by the task of framing a question coherently—any of fifty, a hundred questions—Laura rose and walked to the window, not quite limping, but careful not to put too much weight on her damaged ankle. There was no pain, only some throbbing, and the feeling that her foot couldn't bear the strain. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass until Zach joined her. With a fingertip he traced a spiral in the fading condensation, then breathed on the pane and drew a small figure—a rather lopsided seal.

  'Max would have been back at Justin's before anyone was awake. I'll run him over now and return for you.'

  'The police might pitch up any minute.'

  'You can wait with my backpack in the cellar. I'll show you a warm corner where you'll be safe.'

  Safe, she repeated to herself.

  'Come away from the window,' Max said. 'I think somebody's walking along the canal.'

  'Can you pick up everything we think?' Laura asked.

  'Most stuff, if I pay attention. It's easiest with simus, though.'

  'From far away?'

  'I can't always tell about distance.'

  They followed Max to the bedroom, where he collected his clothes and went into the bathroom to change. Six months ago he'd have still undressed in front of her. Seated on the bed with her leg raised, Laura ate a few bites from the sandwich Zach had forced into her hand, then wrapped the rest in a tissue.

  'I'll finish it while I'm waiting for you. It'll give me something to do.'

  'Then don't shred it all over my bed,' Zach said with a smile.

  She shook out a second tissue to rewrap the sandwich. Zach was exaggerating, she'd only been kneading it a bit between her fingers.