Nicola Griffith - Stay

“Who are you calling?”

I just looked at her. She gave me the phone.

My head ached, and I couldn’t remember Eddie’s number at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution , so I had to scroll through the names menu. When it rang, the man who answered was not Eddie. After a moment’s confusion, I discovered Eddie had been promoted to late-shift manager of the weekend edition. I was put through.

“Aud!” His voice was textured and rich, like nineteenth-century brocade. “Delightful to hear from you, as always. Where have you been?”

I’ve been up to London to visit the queen. “Renovating an old cabin in the woods. I need a favor.”

“But of course. Though you and your latest client’s expense account still owe me a dinner at the Horseradish Grill.”

“I’ll buy you two, just as soon as I’m back in town. But if you could get on the wires for me and find out if a man called George Karp was hurt or killed in New York, SoHo, three or four days ago, I’d be grateful.”

“And I suppose you need this information yesterday?” I could hear him clicking on the keyboard as we spoke.

“Even the day before.”

“Well. I seem to recall that last time I looked someone up for you, he turned up dead a month or so later, in a public bathroom.”

“Nothing to do with me.”

“On this particular occasion, I believe you. Ah ha. Here we go. George Karp, white male, assaulted by unknown assailants inside his own home, a fashionable loft in—How much detail do you want?”

“The extent of his injuries, whether or not he’s dead.”

“As good as, according to this. ‘Deep coma.’ Somebody really did a number on him. Cervical vertebrae fractured in two places, spinal cord disrupted. Left eye ruptured—associated orbital fractures. Both shoulders dislocated, some muscles torn out. Ruptured spleen, both kidneys severely damaged. Ribs splintered, which probably caused the pneumothorax and liver laceration. Jaw broken, and teeth. Legs more or less untouched, strangely enough. Cranial fracture—that’s what did the damage, they think, although it’s possible that the injury to the larynx, and one to the spinal cord, led to oxygen deprivation before the head trauma. Police are looking for two assailants, white male and white female. From the descriptions you’d think they were brother and sister. Description one is from a group of young men and women passing the loft just after the incident: male, six-two, blond hair, possibly something wrong with his eyes. Description two is from a woman who was apparently accompanying Karp home from a restaurant, who says the attacker was female—still tall, though, another six-footer, and blond hair again, very pale blue…” His voice trailed off. “Aud, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Always,” I said lightly. It was an effort. “Any other details?”

Click click click. “Ah. Now this is interesting. Tabloid stuff, though. Want to hear it?”

“Yes.”

“After the news hit the real papers—apparently this Karp is some kind of minor celebrity in the retail universe—a woman talked to the Daily Post , said Karp abused her so much he drove her insane and she ended up in a psychiatric facility. She says, and I quote, ‘He’s a perv and a wacko.’ ” The colloquialisms sounded alien in his smooth diction. “Though, of course, she herself is certifiably insane, so it’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black.” He clicked away. “Lurid tale of kink and coercion follows. According to the tabloid, her statement is corroborated by videotapes found in Karp’s apartment. Although they were all erased somehow, the labeling is apparently suggestive. The tabloid hints that the police now believe this to be some kind of revenge attack.” More tapping. “Officially, the police will say only that they’re pursuing leads.”

“No mention of anything missing?”

“Not that I can see, although a few items of obvious value were left untouched.” A few more clicks. “No. Nothing. Anything else I can do for you?”

A sudden picture of Eddie in his cubicle, smiling down the phone, relaxed and calm, made my eyes smart. “Just keep being yourself.”

There was a startled pause. “Is everything all right with you?”

“Fine. And thank you. I’ll buy you that dinner very soon.”

I folded the phone and dropped it on the bed. Tammy put it on the table with the folder.

“He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

“In a coma. A deep coma. He’s not going to recover.”

“He would hate that,” she said, “lying there totally helpless,” and her whole face curved in a predatory smile: the old Tammy coming out to play.

I pushed away the blanket and swang my legs off the couch bed. Instead of lead, my bones felt filled with polystyrene.

“ Now what are you doing?” she said.

“There’s still Luz to take care of.”

She stood in front of me. “You’re joking, right?”

I stood on the second try, and shivered. It was definitely cold in the trailer, and I was still naked.

“Jesus, you’re not, are you?” I ignored her and concentrated on moving. Styrofoam was not reliable construction material. “What are you going to do? You can’t even drive with that knee.”

Seven feet from the foldout bed, I couldn’t seem to move anymore. I leaned dizzily against the kitchen counter.

“You’ve still got some fever,” Tammy said from behind me. “You haven’t really eaten for a couple of days. You’ve lost blood.”

I tried to straighten up and the pain in my knee bloomed like a fireball. I didn’t dare let go of the counter. If someone knows you need them, it gives them a weapon to hurt you over and over again. But the counter began to tilt and slide. “Help me.”

I thought for a moment she was going to fold her arms and say, Pretty please, but her response was a neutral “Back to bed?”

“Bathroom first.”

She took my arm and some of my weight. “You really are a stubborn asshole,” but the hard look had faded, and while I was balancing carefully on the toilet she went and got me one of the oversize T-shirts she slept in. It wasn’t easy to get it over the bandages on my head and neck.

By the time I got back to bed my knee felt as though someone had poured molten tin in the joint.

“You shouldn’t have gotten up,” Tammy said as she lifted my leg onto the bed for me.

“No.”

“Probably needs more ice.”

“Heat would be better,” I said. “There’s a hot pack in one of the storage bays. Stick it in the microwave.” She pulled the blanket up to my chest. “Why is it so cold in here?”

“Because there’s not a lot of propane left, and I didn’t know how long you were going to be sick.”

“What about the solar panels?”

She just gestured at the window: heavy overcast.

I nodded. “When you get the hot pack, bring the first aid kit, too. Please.”

She raised her eyebrows at the “Please,” but brought the kit back with the hot pack. “I turned the heat up.” We unbandaged the knee. “Looks painful.”

“It is,” I said shortly, then swore as she nudged it positioning the hot pack.

“You hold it, then.” I did. She brought me a glass of water and two pills.

“No more Vicodin.”

“They’ll help with the pain.”

“I don’t want any more Vicodin.” Pain reduces everyone to childishness. It reduces, full stop.

She put pills and glass on the table and gave me a look that said, You’re crazy.

“I do want to take a look at my throat, though.”

I told her what I needed, and when she had the warm water and Band-Aids and mirror assembled, I put the hot pack aside and unwrapped the thin towel around my neck.