Стивен Бойетт - Mortality Bridge

“Don’t hear what?” says Jemma.

“Hear what?” says the cabbie.

Niko opens his eyes. The yellow Checker Cab roughly idling ten feet away. The rear door open. Yellow dome light inviting as a fire on a cold night.

“Niko, I don’t understand. Why are you leaving me here?”

“You okay?” the cabbie says.

I could just go. Pick up the jar and drag Nikodemus and be out of here. Nothing to it. He looks at the jar trembling on Nikodemus’ belly.

“Niko?” Doubt cloud’s Jemma’s voice.

“I need a second,” Niko tells the cabbie.

“He needs a second, folks,” says Phil behind him, laughing now. “Maybe it’s just occurred to this fuckup junky that he’s about to trade his little sweetie pie for a jelly jar and a feather dipped in glowing paint. Which this numbnuts got from us. That’s how dumb this asshole is. He’ll waltz out of here with that thing like it’s a midway prize he just paid fifty bucks to win while we all laugh our ass off here. Wind him up and watch him go, every friggin time. It’s better than tee vee.”

Niko stares at the jar. The hoops they’ve made him jump through. It would be so like them.

But how to know? Could he learn anything by opening it? Or will her spirit rush from its container? It’s another highnote test. How can he learn if this is Jemma without destroying what is Jemma?

“Look at him, darlin. Your little white knight’s about to leave you to the wolves and sail on out of here. He’ll probably even tell himself it’s all his fault. Later on, of course, when there’s nothing anyone can do about it. You know why?”

“Niko please,” calls Jem. “I’m sca—”

“Cause he’s a martyr, pusspie. That’s why. He’s happier suffering on his cross than getting his sorry ass off of it. He always was. Why else would he fuck this up every time it all goes down.” Phil laughs. “He knows it’s you he’s leaving. The poor dumb bastard can’t suffer if he gets the girl. How he gon play de blues good iffin he don feel bad? You done been sacrifice fo art, babygirl. Aint that right, Niko-lostomy? You’d sell your mother for a song if it was sad enough. Wouldn’t you?”

“Jem,” says Niko.

“Niko don’t listen to him. I know you love me.” He can hear her crying now. “Just get me out of here. Take me home.”

Home. That’s good. Niko looks at the cabbie. “Do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Anything,” says Jemma.

“Look behind me and tell me what you see.”

“Niko—”

“I see the gate. I see the wreck.”

“Niko, what are you—”

“Some guy in sunglasses and a sportcoat who looks like he wants to sell us something.”

“Niko who is this woman, why won’t you talk to—”

“I see our old pal in the chauffeur outfit trying to stare a hole in me.”

“Don’t leave me here Niko you can’t—”

“There’s a couple dozen scary monsters who look like they belong with your buddy here.”

“You can’t just walk away from me—”

“They’ve got their backs to us and they’re guarding the gate against a lot of naked people who look like they want out real bad.” She spreads her hands.

“No one else?”

The cabbie shakes her head.

“You don’t need me anymore, is that it, Niko? You used me like you used everyone you ever met, used me up and threw me in the trash, and now you’re going to leave without looking back. Is that right?”

Niko nods at the cabbie. His face stone.

“Is it worth it, Niko? Worth being a selfish son of a bitch who lets his dead brother take the fall because he doesn’t have enough spine to face up to what he did? Who steals money from his friends to buy drugs and steals their talent to make albums? Who eats up the best years of someone’s life because he can’t stand to be alone? Who lets her love him and then sells her down the river to save himself. I’m here forever Niko. For ever. I loved you and you pawned me like a watch.”

“Anything else?” His voice sounds odd, his voice sounds old. “Tell me to my face,” says Jemma. “Be a man and look me in the eye and tell me you’re letting me go.”

“No,” the cabbie says. “Jeez, isn’t that enough?”

“Come on, Niko. If you’re going to dump me like an ashtray and go on with your charmed little life at least have the balls to do it to my face. Instead of slinking off like some kind of thief. Like you always do.”

Niko nods and says Okay. The way the cabbie’s watching him he wonders if she isn’t hearing everything after all.

“Give me a goodbye, Niko. Is that too much to ask? I wasted my life on you.”

The cabbie carefully picks up the mason jar and holds it out to Niko. He takes it from her and nods thank you. This time out he held no hand on his ascent. The letting go is different now.

“What’ll it cost you to be a man for once and face me, Niko? You’ll be fine, you always land on your—”

“Ready?” the cabbie says.

“Yeah.” Niko nods. “Thanks.”

She shrugs and picks up Nikodemus’ tendril. “No problem.”

“Niko look at me. I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t part of this. You can’t just walk away from me. You killed me. You sent me here. Look at me. Niko look at me you selfish son of a bitch.”

Niko hoists up Nikodemus’ tendril. “Nice try, Phil. You had me for a minute there.”

“Be seeing you, Nik-orpheus.”

“Niko—”

Niko and his guide and his demon and his love cross over.

OLD SPRINGS CREAK as Niko and the cabbie deposit Nikodemus on the dark green bench seat. They’re not sure what to do with his wings. One is torn near the thick muscle padding where wing joins back. It does not bleed. One long thin birdlike wingspar bone is broken.

Niko and the cabbie settle for turning Nikodemus on his side to face the seatback so his tattered wings can overhang onto the floorboards. Blood is everywhere on the cab and on their palms and clothes. The cabbie has a smear of it along one cheek where she wiped unthinkingly.

Niko’s eyes tear when he regards the trailing pulp of Nikodemus’ jellied eye. The demon is still unconscious. No pulse, no respiration. Was there ever?

Is it wrong to bring him along? Maybe. But it’s more wrong to leave him behind.

don’t leave me here Niko you can’t

Niko pats his demon’s chest and wings twitch with a sound of rustling taffeta.

Before he backs out Niko looks at floorboard litter stirred by Nikodemus’ restless wings. All exactly as remembered and welcome as a lifeboat to a struggling swimmer in a freezing sea.

He is suddenly impatient to get moving again and backs out of the cab. Ahead of him the cabbie stands holding the passenger door open.

Niko glimpses something blurring toward the cab in time to push the cabbie out of the way. She lands on her ass just as a hurled mallet slams the windshield and tempered glass explodes across the front seat and dashboard. A bellow cuts the tarnished air. The enraged Thor who threw this hammer rushes from the darkness toward them.

“Encule de ta mere, je vous tuerai!”

Auguste the sculptor runs fullout with arms outstretched and fingers curled. Beard a trailing banner and bright eyes crazed.

Niko is in no shape to fight anyone but he sets Jemma on the front seat and steps around the open door and braces himself to meet Auguste’s mad rush. Past the bellowing Frenchman the toppled ladder lies beside carved marble cracked and alabaster arms and heads amputated from the wall by the Black Taxi’s collision with the gate.

“Philistin! Assassin! J’arracherai votre coeur et violerai le trou! Mangeur de merde!” Auguste looms like a bear with arms spread wide and spittle flecking his beard. Niko drops into a squat and Auguste is suddenly overhanging him. Niko calmly stands and raises his arms and winces at the sharp pain of his broken rib as Auguste arcs high and loudly thuds onto the hood of the Checker Cab. For a moment the Frenchman lies there blankly staring up, and then he’s off and after Niko once again. Niko lifts his leg to kick Auguste in the kneecap but his leg just won’t cooperate and the Frenchman bowls him over. Niko slams the ground with Auguste on top. The hands that have spent lifetimes wresting life from inert rock now clamp his throat and bear down. Niko bucks like a fish on a deck. Maddened eyes glare inches from his own. Coarse gray beard tickles his purpling face. Tongue bloats in mouth. Buck again. Throw him off. No good. Grunt with effort. Nothing comes out. Scream. Throat pinched shut. Vision red edged. Heartbeat rhythm bludgeons skull. Face swells. Bursting. Auguste’s incoherent screams. Spittle patters face. Tight against him. Find his thumbs. Pull back. Relieve pressure. Not enough to get air through, strong hes strong. vision disperses. last sight flat mad light of his eyes. sorry auguste. sorry. think id have done the same