Nicola Griffith - Always

We spent two minutes posing and snapping. We were getting closer to the corner where Kick and Branwell were rehearsing. I could hear her clear voice, Now, when you shove here, really show the effort. You’re pushing this man from you, hard.

Then it was on to the costume designer and props manager.

That’s excellent. But move a little more from here, from the hips.

I hadn’t taught her how to hit people. Perhaps she’d picked up pointers last night.

Okay, let’s take five.

“I think we have a moment for a very brief introduction to Ms. Branwell, ” I said.

Branwell, lightly sheened with sweat—I turned back to Kathy and mouthed, “Tell Rusen to turn up the AC”—gave them the same gracious treatment she had given me. They basked. Kick spoke to them briefly, but no one but me had eyes for anyone other than Branwell, whom they crowded around.

Kick, outside the circle, looked tired. I wanted to pick her up, tuck her head against my shoulder, hold her while she fell asleep. I wanted to ask her when she might know. “Maybe we should forget the demonstration fall.”

She shrugged. “It’s only from the fifteen-foot platform. I’ll get the Model Forty gassed up.” And she walked away to do just that.

Getting the fans away from Branwell was like whipping hounds off a fox, but eventually I persuaded them that she had to get fitted for a safety line, and she escaped. In the background, the racket of an air compressor started.

“This is the scaffolding tower where later Ms. Branwell and the stunt actor will be staging the fight scene. As you can see, it’s very economically designed, with the steps built right up the inside.”

“Those tiny things are steps?” said Toni.

“Certainly. I’ll check with the stunt coordinator, but perhaps we could go up and take a look at the platform.”

“I think Mom and I will get that coffee now,” Toni said.

“Cheney and I want to get more pictures.” I remembered that Leptke hadn’t even liked standing on her desk.

“Oh, I’m sure it would be so interesting,” Pat Irenyenko said, “if only I could climb with this shoulder. But Kat will certainly want to go, won’t you, darling?”

Kat looked as though it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, but she was too young to know how to disagree with her mother.

“We can do something else, if you like,” I said.

“Oh, no, she’s dying to climb up,” Irenyenko said. Mommy couldn’t, and so darling daughter must.

“If you’re sure?”

“Of course she’s sure, aren’t you, sweetie? She’s not at all afraid of heights. And here’s the nice stunt person. There’s no reason my daughter can’t go up there, is there? I mean, I’m sure it’s a very safe structure.” She leaned a little on the last phrase.

Kick knew as well as I did why these people were here, and what the right answer was. “If your daughter is fit and has a head for heights, and if she’s accompanied by Ms. Torvingen, I have no objections.” She turned to me. “When you get to the top, don’t touch the rigging or headsets, and don’t let her near the edge. Oh, and you’d better wear hats.”

KAT WENTfirst, keeping both hands on the pipe railings, taking a rest every few steps. It was probably hard on her eleven-year-old quads. It certainly was on mine. I felt every flex and stretch of the crowbar-shaped bruise on my left thigh. It was just pain. Clenching and relaxing the muscle would flush away the miniature clots and speed healing.

“We can stop at any point,” I said.

“My mom can’t do this,” she said in a determined voice. In her bright orange hard hat, her head looked very big.

“True.”

“It’s pretty high,” she said, a few feet from the top. And then, “Oh,” as her head emerged from the stairwell. She froze.

“Keep going, otherwise I can’t get by. That’s right. Keep holding on to that pipe, that handrail, right there.”

She leaned to one side but didn’t move a step farther away from the pipe. Her hand was white around the metal. Keeping her away from the edge wasn’t going to be a problem.

“You don’t have to look down, but if you look out, across that way, you can see Sîan talking to the director, Stan Rusen.”

“The guy in the glasses?”

“That’s the one.”

She swapped hands carefully on the pipe. “They look pretty small from here.”

They did. “About the same size as the figures in a foosball table.”

She giggled. The hand around the pipe rail wasn’t as white. I imagined David up here, picking off the figures one by one with his Nerf gun. Luz would squat down, get on her belly, and inch to the edge. The set hummed. I had helped make all this possible.

It was a small sound, a flat crack, and I thought, Oh. I thought, I should have asked Turtledove if we’d taken Mackie’s swipe card. I should have asked Mackie what he did when no one was here. But I knew, even before I smelled the distinctive, blue-smoke scent of dynamite, even before the platform dipped and swayed, exactly what he’d done.

With all the time in the world, I took Kat’s left hand and put it next to the right on the pipe, lay flat on the platform, and pulled myself to the edge.

Everyone below was crouched in the startle reflex, except Kick, who was running to the soundstage. Behind me, Ekaterina started screaming, and a split second later, so did everyone else. I thought I caught a flash of blue as Dornan lifted his face to look up. The tower swayed again. I could still smell smoke.

Below, Kick ran back from the soundstage wearing a headset. She tapped it, and gestured at me. I took off my hard hat, pushed myself back from the edge, retrieved the headset from the neatly stacked gear by the top of the steps, and turned it on with a click.

“Here,” I said. I went back to the edge.

“We’ve got fire,” she said. “Hold.” Click.

She looked so small from here. Unreal. She had grabbed someone by the shoulders, was shaking them, shouting, pointing. She grabbed another, pointed at something else. A ripple of purposeful movement started from Kick’s nexus.

Click. “We’ve got fire on your tower.”

Dornan was heading towards her. She made some gesture at him that he seemed to understand, because he stopped, turned around, and walked in a different direction.

She disappeared for a moment. I could hear her breath on the headset. “Steps are gone. Fire on the cladding is spreading.”

No way down.

“Is that the girl screaming?”

“She’s fine,” I said.

Now Kick was breathing hard. When she reappeared I saw why. She and four hands were moving the Model Forty. While I watched she gestured for someone to take her place, and started talking fast to Dornan and one of the electricians.

I could smell the painted plywood burning, and the stink of melting polystyrene.

“You should get people out,” I said.

Click. “Others can do that. I’m focused on getting you down.”

Orderly groups were moving towards the door, including my tour group.

“Mom!” screamed Ekaterina. “Mom!”

A tiny foosball figure in a sling lifted its face. Another figure, in glasses, dragged her towards the door. A flash: the photographer. Perhaps I should wave.

Four people were ripping all the foam from the two old sofas by the craft table.

Click. “The fire’s moving too fast for ladders. Can you help the girl jump?”

“Yes.”

“Mom! Mom!”

“Hold.” Click.

Now she appeared to be directing one of the carpenters to strip polystyrene from a sheet of plywood. Someone stood by with a glue gun. By the craft table, Dornan and the electrician were throwing things out of cardboard boxes. She put her hand up, palm out, to the stagehands dragging the air bag. They stopped.