Nicola Griffith - Always

Behind the food counter, Kick had her hands on her hips and Dornan was looking mulish. “…asked me to run things tonight, so that’s what I’m doing. You should rest while you can.”

“I have too much to do.” She wore jeans and a sleeveless, heathery-grey mock turtleneck. It must have been sunny in Anacortes; her skin was golden, her teeth and sclera very white.

“Then why are you pestering me? Look”—he held up his gloved hands—“I’m all hygienic.” He picked up Kick’s triangular knife. “The worst thing I can do is cut the sandwiches a bit crooked. Go. Take a break, for pity’s sake. I’ve got things—Aud.”

Kick swung round. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Here and there.” Trying to decide.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“I haven’t been carrying it. Taking a leaf from your book.”

Beneath the tan, there was a hint of the old graphite sheen under her eyes. Talking to the family had not gone well.

“My apologies for interrupting,” I said to Dornan, “but I need to talk to Kick a moment about the prowler, and gas line safety.”

“I’ve been over that,” she said. “They’re fine.”

“Humor me.”

“I would have humored you this weekend, if you’d bothered to answer your phone. Right now I’m pretty busy.”

“I got the impression that Dornan has things covered. Dornan?”

“Yes,” he said.

She had the grace to blush. “Oh, fine. We’ll take a walk.”

Outside, she paused in the dark and breathed the scent of damp earth and looked at the stars. “It stopped raining.”

“Yes.”

“Where did you go?”

“Nowhere. The lines. Are they truly safe?”

“Look, they aren’t even connected to anything. It’s just piping. The propane is safely under lock and key inside. I ran compressed air through the setup, twice, and there was no leakage. There’s nothing wrong. Nothing happened. I’ll run the same tests tomorrow, to be sure, as I would have done even without a prowler, but I’m telling you now, no one touched that pipe. And as part of my usual safety precautions there’ll be a double cordon around the area, and the camera operators closest to the flames will wear Nomex. Even if the whole damn thing blew up, we’d be okay. We don’t need much gas, and in the open air there won’t be atmospheric buildup. I called you from Anacortes. I was going to suggest we go to Rainier for the weekend. Just you and me. Nowhere, you say. Why didn’t you carry your phone?”

“I had some thinking to do.”

“And what did you think about?”

Paintings. Odds at a craps table. Love as a bear trap. Doing the best you could, then improvising.

The world shimmered. No, I thought, not now.

“Aud?”

“It’s nothing.” Do you see that silver cloud? Do you hear the silence? Do you feel the distinctness of every molecule, all at once? No. It was another brain chemistry cascade. It wasn’t real.

I shook my head. Neither of us moved to go back inside. Traffic sounds had drained away, sliding off into a bubble of silence. Even the trees were still. I could hear her breath.

“Is that real?” I said.

“Is…” She saw that I was listening, and tilted her head. “Wow. That silence. It’s like a magical moment out of time and space. Wait.” She listened some more. “Is that the river in our park? Let’s go see.”

“It’s not safe.”

She looked at me. “Listen. There’s nothing. No one’s out here. Are you all right?”

“I’m… not sure.”

She touched my arm. “Come with me, then. We’ll sit by the river.”

It was too dark to cut through the line of trees so we walked up to Diagonal Way. It was half past nine on a holiday evening in an industrial zone. Perfectly natural for everything to be quiet and deserted, to look and feel like something from a post-apocalyptic film.

“Cue zombies,” she said.

“You really want to go to the river?”

“Smell it,” she said. “On a night like this it will be beautiful.”

I nodded. “There’s an old rail track we could follow once we’re across the side street. I don’t know what the light will be like but the footing will be level.”

On the other side of the road, the Federal Center was silent and dark. The buildings appeared derelict. The wire fencing was torn here and there.

I crossed the side road. After a moment’s hesitation, so did she; I realized that on her own she would have walked to the light and waited for it to change. We found the track. The night smelled of trees and river. My land, I thought, and, just like that, I felt good. Something inside me had settled. I wasn’t sure what, yet, but something.

I smiled. “In some ways, you’re more—”

The only warning was the skittering of a can the taller one kicked as they attacked. Everything slowed down. Two of them. I noted Kick’s face, still and quiet, her relaxed shoulders. I saw the glint of something moving at my head, felt the wave front of air as a heavy body came at me.

This was a dream. Wasn’t it?

I stood, irresolute, stupid, while one of the shapes threw Kick to the ground.

Kick opened her mouth, but I didn’t hear a scream.

Would she do that if this was a dream? I couldn’t breathe. Something knocked me down. The dirt under my cheek felt real. I could hear my breath, now, and feel it. I breathed, long and deep. Something thudded on my thigh. I felt that. The body always knows.

“You asshole,” Kick shrieked. “Leave her alone!”

Would you let her protect you?

Is that what was happening?

I kipped up. Something wasn’t quite right with my left leg, but I ignored it. It was working well enough. Pain is just a message.

Two of them. One coming at me again, swinging something. Kick, I thought, and turned, and as easily as unscrewing a cap from a bottle I drew in the arm, twisted, and threw the attacker away. He and his crowbar landed on the concrete at the same time. They made different sounds.

Kick was half up, half down, shouting something, and this time the sound stretched and slowed, like whale song, and I stepped lightly to her side, and put my hands around that little waist and lifted her away, and laughed, and now the second attacker was behind me, and I pivoted and unfurled a back-fist strike, more to get the range, and then I was close enough for my favorite, which I gave him: a perfect elbow, driven hard and flat as a boar spear into his floating ribs. They broke like twigs. He went down with a querulous oof?

Scraping sound, hoarse breathing; the first attacker hauled himself like a zombie from the concrete, one arm swinging limp. His eyes were like pools of tar.

I dived into a roll and brought my trailing leg in a great arc, heel into his breastbone, and he went down.

Some drugs make their users impervious to pain—able to ignore the message. I picked up his crowbar. It was rough and pitted.

“You really should take better care of your tools,” I said, and smashed his right kneecap. If you take out a support, the building can’t stand. He started trying to sit up. I considered. Even a hopping zombie could do harm. I smashed the other knee.

I walked over to the second man.

“Kick,” I said.

“Asshole!” she said, and kicked him again. “You asshole!” Her voice was shockingly loud.

“His ribs are broken. If you really want to hurt him, kick him there.” That made her pause. “Step aside a moment.”

It was Mackie. His eyes, too, were dark with drugs. “You,” he said.

“Me.”

“I knew you’d have to come. I knew they’d send for you.”

He was lithe and capable, ambidextrous, and chemically removed from pain.

“There’s some bits of broken wire over by the fence,” I said to Kick. “Bring them, please.” I turned back to Mackie. “The easiest thing, the most sensible, would be for me to break your spine, or crush your larynx, or smash your knees. Like his.” I nodded back at his friend. “But she wouldn’t like that. So your other choice is to lie still and be tied up.”