Simon Morden - Theories of Flight

“This is not my brother,” she said through clenched teeth.

“I gave him every chance. And when he wouldn’t take any of them, I put a bullet in his brain. Us or him.” Petrovitch slammed his hand down on the table, making their mugs jump. “I am not ashamed of what I did. I saved people that day. I saved them from Martin Sorenson. Yebany v’rot, he’d turned into a monster. Someone had to stop him.”

“You’re lying to me. He would never do anything like that.”

Petrovitch took a deep breath and sighed it out. “I could have spun you a whole sack of govno. But I haven’t. The only person lying here is you to yourself. You know what he was capable of. What he was so nearly convicted of. What everyone thinks he did to your father. Go home, Charlotte Sorenson. Do yourself a favor and just go home.”

She considered matters for a moment before lunging across the table at him, her clenched fist aiming straight for his nose. It met the tabletop as it rose and tipped, Madeleine holding it like a shield, crowding forward, forcing the American back.

Sorenson kicked out. The formica cracked in two, throwing Madeleine aside. She was a moment slower getting to her feet than normal, a touch more awkward in her rise. Sorenson surged forward again, sending a chair flying, her legs coiled as she tried to spring at Petrovitch, who was pressed against the wall.

Wong threw himself on her back, his wiry strength knocking her off-balance.

“Hey,” he shouted, just before she elbowed him in the ribs, then shrugged him off onto the floor.

The general scatter of patrons was almost complete, either cowering on the greasy lino or breaking for the exit: there was a half-empty plate of eggs within reach, and Petrovitch snagged it and launched it like a frisbee. It glanced off the side of Sorenson’s head, deflecting her attention from Wong and back onto him.

The plate didn’t have as much effect as he’d hoped. She came for him, changing her tactics and attempting to shatter his leg with her foot. She telegraphed it, allowing him to dodge, and she slammed her foot into the wall and broke the wipe-clean plastic cladding into splinters. She lined up for another attempt and Petrovitch stabbed her with a fork.

It stuck out of her forearm through the thin material of her coat, and while she stared incredulously at the obscenely wobbling handle, he hit her with a haymaker that started somewhere behind him and ended with his knuckles splitting against her jawline.

She reeled back, and Madeleine was ready this time. She picked the American up off the floor, turned her and threw her hard against the wall by the door. Face lined with effort, she was on the fallen form before Sorenson had managed to work out which way was up.

Wong scrambled to his feet and pulled the door open. Madeleine straightened her arm and Sorenson was gone, out into the night.

“And don’t think about calling the militia, because I am the militia,” she shrieked after her. “If I see you again, I will arrest you. Got that, you crazy bitch?”

Wong slammed the door and stood with his back to it, bracing it against further breaches. He looked around as people started to emerge from behind chairs and tables.

“Coffee? Hot and strong?”

Tables were righted, all except the broken one, which was taken out the back. Spilled cutlery and crockery was retrieved and stacked on the counter, and Wong did the rounds with his coffee pots.

Without a table, Petrovitch set his chair back on its legs on an available piece of floor, and slumped into it.

“Are you okay?” asked Madeleine.

He inspected his hand, which hurt when he moved his fingers. His knuckles were crusted with blood and ragged pieces of skin. “What about you? Your ribs.”

“I felt something move. My lungs aren’t filling with fluid, so it can’t be that serious. Sam,” she said, “why did you tell her?”

“Because there was no reason for me not to.” He pushed his glasses back into place. “I didn’t want her thinking that he might turn up at any moment, alive, scratching his arse and wondering if anyone had missed him. She’s his family. She needed to know.”

She rested her hand on his leg. “You’re right.”

“I am? I was beginning to wonder.” Petrovitch watched Wong do his rounds, and then he came to him. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“My shop. She attacked my customers. Crazy lady bad for business, so out she goes.” Wong inspected the pair. “Where your mugs? You not want refill?”

“I think,” said Madeleine twisting round and wincing, “they’re back on the counter.”

He smiled. “I fetch clean ones.”

Madeleine got stiffly to her feet and hugged Wong to her, planting a wet kiss through his wispy hair onto the crown of his head. She held him tight, imprisoning him in her arms and leaving his own stuck out either side, each holding a coffee pot. “You are so very good and kind, and I love you very much.”

After a while, she let go, and secretly wiped her eyes. Wong went back behind his counter without a word, and did the same.

She lowered herself back down and leaned in. “We need to do something for him, Sam.”

Petrovitch rolled an idea around in his mouth, tasting it and finding its flavor.

“Yeah. And all the other Wongs.”

H e woke up next to her, and still experienced that visceral thrill of being not just accepted and wanted, but loved.

He lay in the gloom, not moving for a moment, listening to the sound of her and feeling the heat radiate off her body. He had spent a lifetime being cold and not minding so much, whereas she seemed to run hot, like a furnace, fueled by her energy and passion.

Petrovitch eased himself out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. As his fingers closed around the wire arm of his glasses, he felt the skin on the back of his hand tighten. No bones broken from what had been a wild, spontaneous swing, but he’d been left wondering if it was only Charlotte Sorenson’s legs that were made of metal.

He went to the bathroom cubicle, and inspected himself in the mirror, his face gaunt in the harsh blue-white light of the fluorescent bulb. To be caught in one explosion was excusable. Suffering two was starting to look like carelessness. It wasn’t just his coat that was a mess: canned skin only covered so much.

He scrubbed himself down in the miserly spray from the shower. He still smelled of dust and semtex—unless it was his towel, which he sniffed carefully—particles of which had embedded themselves deep into him. He hung his head. He was tired, so very, very tired.

He thought about going back to bed and leaching more warmth from Madeleine, but instead he found some clothes that hadn’t been worn too often before and shrugged them on.

Without turning on the light, he knelt beside the bed and tickled the end of her nose with her plait.

“Hey.”

She opened her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

“Going to work?”

“Someone has to.”

“Oi.” She raised herself on her elbow. “I thought I might report in later. Light duties until the ribs knit properly.”

Petrovitch played with the thick rope of her hair, looping it through his fingers and around his wrist. “Today isn’t the right day for that. You should stay here.”

“I could say the same to you. You can work from here just as well as you can anywhere else.”

“That’s not strictly true. You, you distract me.”

She smiled lazily and rested a sleep-softened hand on his cheek. “Poor Sam can’t do his sums if there are girlies around.”