Nicola Griffith - Slow River

“I wouldn’t cause trouble.”

“Maybe not, but how can I be sure?”

I did not point out what I had done last night.

She made a soft sound of frustration. “I like you, but I don’t trust you. Who are you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Then tell me why you took this job.”

“Because it was something I knew how to do. And it’s inconspicuous enough to avoid attention.”

“From the police?”

I nodded. We walked some more. We were in the dock-side area now—the real docks, not the tourist arena.

“What did you do?”

“I think I killed someone.”

Five dangerous little words. They hung there like gnats. If I could I would have leapt and snapped them back, like a dog. For a split second I thought about running. Magyar would not follow me.

Instead, after a brief falter in my steps, we kept walking.

“That’s not everything, is it?”

“No.”

“But it’s all you’re going to tell me.”

“Yes.” I was cold and tired. I stopped walking. “What will you do?”

“Nothing.” I couldn’t see her face, just her breath, pearly against the dark, industrial sky. “You helped me last night. You helped all of us. And I’m a patient woman.”

You’ll tell me eventually, she meant. It wasn’t a threat. Not quite.

“Get to bed. Bird.” Or whoever you are. “You look worn out.”

I went to the Polar Bear.

The data-slate business stayed tight, and more and more Lore woke up with restraint marks on her wrists, or arms sore from paddling some flabby-legged sixty-year-old. Once, toward the end of summer, she woke up in their flat with a butt plug still strapped inside her, and she rushed to the bathroom and vomited. Afterward she hung limply over the bowl and whispered to the water, “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me…”

But even as her gorge rose again, her skin flushed with remembered heat. She wept.

Sometimes all Spanner would have to do was show her the little bottle and she would nearly come.

By November, they were tricking six nights out of seven, and sometimes more than once a night. They usually took it in turns: one to perform, one to guard. On the nights or afternoons when she was the one watching Spanner fucking some spoiled teenager or limp old man, she felt powerful: she was in charge.

She was the one who made sure there were latex and antivirals; she was the one who pulled Spanner off when the client had had enough; she was the one who took the money. She was in charge; she had choices.

This might not be love, but she was not being lied to. They earned a great deal of money, but they always seemed to need more. The holiday season came again. Lore wandered the streets, ending up by the medieval gate that had been excavated thirty years before. She stared at it, then out at what had once been a dock, long ago. A huge shopping mall, tawdry with age, floated there now. She wondered why modern creations became uglier faster. It was raining. Something about the gray sky and the sturdy shoes splashing through puddles reminded her of Den Haag, of her hand in her father’s as they ran, laughing, from the chauffeured car to the brightly lit store. She had bought Tok an art program for his slate that year.

Her father had helped her choose presents for everyone.

And she had felt so lucky.

Her father was a busy man, with meetings to run and schedules to keep, but here he was, running through the rain with her, choosing presents as though the future of van de Oest Enterprises rested on their decisions, queuing up like an ordinary person at the store cafe for hot chocolate while they gloated over the presents all snugged up in the bags under their chairs.

Lore smiled to herself, caught sight of that smile in a storefront window, and faltered. It was all a lie, because he was all a lie. All her memories of him were tainted, soiled by what he had done to Stella. How could someone do that to another, and smile and smile and pretend love?

She found herself huddling against the cold armored glass of a clothing store. She could not think of a single thing to buy Spanner that would not be a lie, because all their money was a lie.

I don’t know why I went to the Polar Bear—to exorcise some ghosts, maybe; maybe I just wanted some beer; maybe I couldn’t face being on my own—but I did not expect to see Spanner.

She was holding court at one of the center tables, gesturing with one hand, laughing, pausing to drink.

Just go, she had said last time I saw her. She would rather have suffered that terrible pain than have me in her flat. Yet here she was, waving me over. And here I was, sliding into a seat, nodding pleasantly at the woman and two men I didn’t recognize at the table.

“Lore!” She twisted her head over her shoulder and shouted at the bar, “Bring Lore a beer.”

Judging by the smears on the table and the flush on their cheeks, they had been there a few hours. Spanner’s color was high, too, but I noticed that although she lifted her glass often, she drank slowly, and there was a stop-start quality to her movements. I guessed that as well as the enormous dose of painkillers floating through her bloodstream she must be popping with stimulants.

After a few how-are-yous which meant nothing, I was left out of the conversation while Spanner laughed and glittered some more. It was warm. I settled into a half-lidded somnolence, sipping now and again at my beer, more tired than relaxed. Then Spanner and the others were standing up, shaking hands.

“The weekend? No problem. Yes, it was good to talk to you. No, no, I’ll stay and have a chat with Lore here.”

Then it was just us.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“I’m fine.”

I let it pass. If Spanner could walk, she was fine. It didn’t matter what that walking would do to her, how it would damage her for the future; it didn’t matter how many drugs, or how much, it took; if she could walk, she was just fine. It was not my problem anymore. It wasn’t.

“Is your video ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then we’ll go tomorrow night. Four-thirty.”

“I can’t.” I cast about for an excuse. “I’m working until four.”

“How long does it take you to walk half a mile?”

“But the equipment—”

“It’s ready.”

“—and the information…”

“I’ve got it. I’ve looked at it. We’re ready. And tomorrow, at four-thirty, at a switching station here in the city, is our hole.”

“No.” The idea was ridiculous. “Look at you. You couldn’t even lift that pint without a shot.”

“So? The fact is, I can lift it.”

“And how sharp will you be, full of drugs? No. We’ll wait.”

“We can’t wait.” She pushed her beer away. “I can’t wait. The information and equipment cost money and favors. I owe several people. By now they’ll have heard…”

She spread her fingers in a fan, indicating her body, the way it had been injured. I could see the faint glimmer of powder under her eyes where she had covered dark circles. She had already owed money before all this. Now, to get the equipment, she had pulled in favors. The people she owed would be getting worried: it was why she was out and about, counteracting the rumor that she was finished.

In the game Spanner played, worried creditors were lethal.

I hesitated. There was a lot at stake. If Spanner was just a microsecond slower than she had to be, the alarms would ring. If the alarms went, odds were they would get us. We’d be hauled in. She knew what that would mean for me: my family, the public humiliation, the possibility of a murder charge. I could only guess at what it would mean for her.

“Can you do it?” Tell me the truth. Just for once. Can you do this with all those drugs coursing through you?