Nicola Griffith - Slow River

Afterward, she cleaned her spade and shears and clippers carefully and wrapped them in oilcloth. Then she waited patiently for Spanner to wake.

When she did, Lore called her into the living room. She gestured at the two piles of debit cards on the table. “Choose one,” she said. “They’re roughly equal. You can check them if you like.”

Spanner looked at them, and at the two suitcases against the wall. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

“Yes.” Lore sat on the couch. She had meant to be businesslike, but the lost look on Spanner’s face brought back memories of all the good times they had had: the exhilaration of riding the freighters; packs full of stolen slates; champagne at four in the morning. “Yes,” she said again.

Spanner squatted on her heels by the table, examined the pile thoughtfully. “You know, there’s enough here to bankroll that scam you were talking about earlier.”

And Lore couldn’t leave without one more try. “We could both start afresh,” she said. “You’ve got skills. It wouldn’t be hard. We could move, find another flat. Somewhere where Billy and the others couldn’t find you.” Spanner said nothing. “We could take new names. Get real jobs. You have skills. It’s never too late to start again.”

“Isn’t it?” She looked up, and Lore was reminded of the ancient look, the soft pain she had seen that first night on Spanner’s face when she had seen how badly injured Lore had been.

“No,” she said, but even to herself she did not sound convinced.

Spanner laughed, but it was a sad laugh this time. She scooped up the nearest pile of cards. “Well, it lasted longer than I expected that October night, and it was more fun.”

“Please, Spanner…”

“No. We’re different. This may not be what you feel you deserve from life, but it’s the level I’ve found, the place I call home. It’s where I belong.”

“No. It’s where you think you belong, because you believe you don’t deserve any better. But you do. We all do. There’s a chance here, with this.” Lore nodded at her own pile, “Don’t dismiss it.”

But Spanner was already getting up, flipping the switch on her screen, pulling up a swirling graphic in vibrant colors. Lore picked up a suitcase in each hand, paused. “I’ve entered my new address in your files.”

Spanner said, without looking up from the screen: “I’ll see you again. You’ll always need me.”

I stood and stretched, turned off the camera light, looked at the clock. Eight-thirty. Morning in Ratnapida.

A bath first.

The tub took a while to fill. I don’t remember thinking anything in particular.

I climbed in but felt no urge to use the soap. Gradually, the water stilled. My face came into focus on the surface, between my bent knees. I looked at the reflection curiously: brown hair, gray eyes, good bones. The gray eyes watched me back. This was me. I didn’t need Sal Bird anymore.

This is what my father would see when I met him tomorrow. What would I say? How would I explain how I had lived the last three years? I wouldn’t, not right away. It would be enough that I was here. At last.

And then I was filled with a sudden energy, the need to call, to meet Oster and show him my real face, to wait for Magyar outside the plant afterward. I reached for the soap.

I was toweling myself dry when the screen chimed. I wrapped the towel around myself and took the call.

“Magyar!”

“You haven’t called yet, right”

“No, but as soon as my hair’s dry—”

“Too late. Your father’s here, demanding to know where you are.”

That couldn’t be right. I hadn’t called him yet.

“Look, if… if you need more time, I can foul up your employment records to hide your address.”

“No.” It came out crisp and decisive. “I mean, yes, hide my address. I’m coming in to see him.”

“Now?”

“Right now.” My hair could dry on its own.

I don’t remember getting dressed, or whether I took the slide or walked, but I do remember the sheen of Magyar’s hair in the street light outside the plant, and I remember walking through the gates next to her, carefully, as though my body were built upon bird bones, hollow and light. And I remember the door.

It was pale woodash, something like that. Very pale. There was a nameplate: P. Rawlin, Superintendent. I stood in front of it, my face about four inches from the grain, long enough to worry the assistant. He shifted slightly behind me, and Magyar gave him a look. I closed my eyes. My father was behind that door. Whom I had loved, then hated, and did not know at all. I took one last look at Magyar, who nodded.

The handle was one of those old-fashioned knobs. Brass. Slippery under my sweating hands. It turned easily.

Dark red carpet. A desk, a big slab of some dark wood. A man climbing to his feet as the door shut behind me—the plant superintendent. To the right, a woman in a brown suit. A quick glance from her pale eyes to me and then from me to the man sitting on the left side of the desk. A strange, eerie silence. Then the superintendent, Rawlin, saying something at the same time that the door swung shut with a click and my father jumped to his feet, face eager, hands open: “Lore! Oh, thank god, Lore!”

His words were like solvent on cheap varnish, stripping away my comforting glaze of unreality.

“God. Lore. When I heard, I came as fast as I could. We’ve just land—”

The world was painfully bright and real. I held up my hand, making him stop. “Who told you? Was it Meisener?” Oster dropped his hands. “Who?”

“Meisener. Or that’s what he calls himself. He works here.”

“Wait a minute,” the superintendent said, coming out from behind the desk. “One of our workers knew you were here?”

“Oh, he’s not yours.”

Rawlin frowned at that, then ignored it. “But if he knew you were here, why didn’t he claim the reward?”

“It wasn’t Meisener?” I asked Oster. But of course it wasn’t. And then all my adrenaline had boiled away and I felt old and sad and tired. They were all staring at me. I sighed. “Let’s start again.” I nodded to Rawlins. “Superintendent,” I said, then held out my hand to the woman. “I’m Lore van de Oest.”

She responded automatically, as people do. “Claire Singh. Director of City Sewage.”

I smiled the polite smile I had not had to use for a long time. “My father and I haven’t seen each other in a while. We would like some privacy.” It took her a moment to understand; then she flushed. Perhaps it was the smile, perhaps she remembered that Oster could buy her and her city from his daily operating budget. “Rawlin,” she snapped. “We’ll leave father and daughter to themselves for a few minutes.”

I watched them leave, refusing to meet my father’s eyes until the door was closing behind them. I tried to imagine what Magyar would make of their exit. I felt better knowing she was there.

Then there was no way to put it off any longer. I turned to my father.

He held out his arms again, but more cautiously this time, and that caution, almost timorousness, undid me. He was my father.

“Oh, Papa…”

I threw myself into his arms. But I wasn’t six anymore, and he couldn’t keep out the world. And he seemed smaller than he had been. We moved apart a little to look at each other, hands still wrapped around biceps and triceps.

“Lore…” Long and drawn out, as though it was new in his mouth. “Lore, I thought you were dead.”

“I was, in a way.”

He reached up, seemed about to ruffle my hair, then touched the ends gently. “Brown suits you.”

We held each other at arm’s length in silence, measuring. Still daughter and father, but changed. “Come for a walk with me. By the canal.”