Nicola Griffith - Always

“Did she give you the drugs?”

“Karenna?” He laughed, and it struck me that Corning had a penchant for young men: Gary and Mackie and probably Johnson Bingley. Big Mac.

“When and how did you meet her?”

He shrugged. But it didn’t really matter. I had the date of the first payment.

“Come with me,” I said, and motioned for him to stand.

“My leg.”

“You’ll just have to limp.”

Inside the warehouse, people glanced at each other as he limped in ahead of me. “You got any duct tape?” I asked an electrician. He passed a roll to the carpenter, who passed it to me without a word.

I walked Mackie to the food-services table, where it looked as though Bri had been crying. Turtledove seemed interested in his nails. “Yo,” Mackie said to Bri. “Fucking pussy.”

I made him kneel and put his hands behind his back. I put his jacket on the table, and taped his hands and feet together, then lifted him onto a chair. I taped him to that. No more hammering. The crew stared openly.

“One more question. When were you going to claim the rest of the money from Corning?”

He shrugged, though not as elegantly now that he was bound. “When the job was done.”

“How were you going to get in touch?”

“Her cell phone.”

I went through his jacket, found his cell phone, slipped it into my pocket.

“Hey!”

He seemed genuinely outraged that I was taking his fifty-dollar phone. I could have taken his sight, or his life. I just looked at him. Something deep in his eyes squirmed like a sea mollusk under pressure. I went through his wallet, but there was nothing interesting. I dropped the jacket on the table.

I said to the listening crew, “This man that you know as Mackie is really Jim Eddard. He and Bri spoiled the footage and drugged the coffee. If that pisses you off, feel free to let them know.” To Turtledove: “Don’t let either of them move.”

NO POLICE,Finkel and Rusen decided.

“That’s not wise,” I said.

“It would be too hard on the boy,” Rusen said. “His brother has just died.”

This wasn’t about how Bri felt. But I hesitated. What did I feel? What did I want? One called the police to ensure protection, punishment, or revenge. I didn’t need protection from a sixteen-year-old boy. Punishment was only useful when it triggered remorse, or acted as a deterrent. Revenge, as George Orwell pointed out, is the product of helplessness. I wasn’t helpless, though I had been for a few days, thanks to Bri and his friend. Perhaps if I’d understood a few months ago how it felt to be helpless, I could have explained to my students that having power meant not needing vengeance. Perhaps things would have turned out differently.

“Fine,” I said. “But I don’t want to see either of them on my property again.”

“But Bri is just a boy. I’m sure he wouldn’t—”

“He already has. Several misdemeanors and at least one felony. He would be tried as an adult. He might well go to prison.” It didn’t really matter. Turtledove would keep them off the set if I said so, and I’d be gone in a week, back to Atlanta, after which I wouldn’t care.

I went out to the parking lot to call Kick. She didn’t answer. I waited for the beep. “It was Bri and Mackie who drugged the coffee. I have verbal confessions. They’ve been banned from the set. Finkel and Rusen don’t want to prosecute, but there’s nothing stopping you from doing so.” Though there wouldn’t be much point bringing suit against Mackie, because he had no money, and if she sued Bri, his father would make sure she never worked in the industry again. I hesitated, wondering if I should remind her to drink lots of water, wishing I could take back the morning and do it again, unsure what I’d do differently. The tree was rotten. It had had to come down. “I wanted you to know.”

The interior of the Audi was hot, aromatic with the new-car volatiles drawn out by the sun. I tossed Mackie’s phone into the glove compartment, then was tempted to curl up in the backseat and drowse like a cat, reset my day, but my phone rang.

“Aud?” My mother sounded tentative. “I have just had a most interesting conversation with Eric, who had just spoken to your friend, Hugh.”

“Hugh?”

“Matthew. Matthew Dornan.” I opened the car door and got out, leaned against the Audi’s hood. “Aud? Are you there?”

“I’m here.” Hugh? I couldn’t remember anyone ever calling him that before.

“It seems you have upset your friend. Your other friend.”

“It seems you always blame me when things go wrong.”

Silence. “So,” she said. “Your friend. She is upset with you?”

“Yes.”

“And was it something you did?”

I sighed. “Yes.”

“Are you are sorry for it?”

“Yes.”

“But she didn’t accept your apology?”

Silence.

“Aud.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then say nothing while I talk. Your last friend died. I didn’t meet her. This friend—”

“She’s not my friend. I’m not even sure we like each other.”

“No?” I said nothing. “Tell me what happened.”

“I did her a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“One she didn’t want.”

“Eric is very keen on a paperback writer called Heinlein, whose books almost all have spaceships on the cover. He is dead now, I believe. But Eric is fond of a quote from one of these books: ‘In an argument with your spouse, if you discover you are right, apologize immediately.’ ”

“I don’t know if I am right.”

“All the more reason.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good. And when you have apologized, I’d like you to bring her to dinner. We’re leaving very soon.”

“I know.”

“Well, then,” she said in her it’s-all-settled voice, the one she used with recalcitrant parties in a negotiation, then rang off before I could muster an argument—which was another favorite trick.

I was still staring at my phone when Dornan arrived in a taxi. He paid the driver, got out—a little more slowly than usual—ran his hand through his hair, and saw me. He turned his head slightly, like someone approaching an unpleasant task.

We stood silently for a moment. He looked sweaty. It could have been a hangover. It could have been because it was hot.

“So, Hugh. You called my mother.”

“Someone had to do something.”

“Someone could simply tell me what is going on.”

“No,” he said. “No. You can’t ask me. I can’t—She made me promise.”

“So you do know what it is.”

“No. Or, yes, I knew she was going to find out yesterday what the—” He blinked, shook his head. “You have to ask her.”

“I did.”

“Ask again.”

A gull flew overhead. “I dreamt of Luz last night. And Kick’s tree.”

“She loved that tree.”

"Yes.” I watched the gull, wheeling round and round. “I shouldn’t have done it, should I?”

“What do you think?”

I tried not to think about how my stomach had rolled when she came home, clutching her carrier bag.

“Aud…” He wiped his upper lip. “Try to figure it out.” He headed for the warehouse door.

It was definitely hot.

I sweated lightly as I dialed. “Kick? It’s Aud. I was wrong. I’m sorry. I’m coming to your house to tell you in person. I’m sorry.”

I called Gary. “Reschedule my appointment with Bingley for tomorrow. Make it afternoon.”

“But he’s already nervous. He might—”

“Just do it.”

THE BASEMENT, WHEN I ARRIVED, HAD SMELLED OF PATCHOULI AND INCENSE ANDstrange women. I had turned on the sluggish air-conditioning unit and propped open the door, and my students had arrived carrying their own smells, but the room was still heavy with alien scents. I felt displaced. Perhaps it was just strange to be back in Atlanta after a weekend in Arkansas with Luz and the Carpenters. Her tenth birthday. Everything there had smelled of children and red clover and pine needles.