Geoff Nicholson - The City Under the Skin

Then Wrobleski dropped his arms to his sides and turned around, moved away from the women, toward Billy Moore, who remained gazing inertly at the spectacle, bafflement and dismay on his face. Wrobleski said something to him, but if it required a response, Billy Moore didn’t give it. And then Wrobleski looked away so that he could stare at his own reflection in the glass of the conservatory wall, and now Zak got a perfect look at his face. There were long thick streams of tears running down his cheeks, bubbles of snot in his nostrils, and his mouth was contorting as he tried, but failed, to prevent himself from sobbing. Wrobleski couldn’t bear to see his own reflection. He closed his eyes tight, and his head and shoulders quaked. To Zak he looked like a big, fat, murderous baby.

* * *

The show was over. Zak was relieved, more for the women than for himself. He watched as a young black man came into the conservatory, attentively helped the naked women cover themselves up, then led them away, solicitously, maybe even obsequiously, into some other part of the compound. They didn’t resist; they went as if floating, sleepwalking. Billy Moore and Wrobleski remained behind, though they didn’t seem to be talking to each other. They didn’t seem to be doing anything.

Zak remained where he was, wondering what to do next, whether he should wait for something else to happen, and how long that might take. There were surely any number of inferences, though not conclusions, that might be drawn from what he’d just seen, but lurking in the dark on the roof of the compound seemed no place to do that. He decided he’d wait a while longer, make sure the coast was clear, and then he’d descend, go back to Marilyn. He’d be the proud hunter-gatherer returning with his stash of precious information.

Then he heard a man’s voice, a deep, constrained whisper: “And who the fuck are you?” At the same moment he felt a metal snout pressed into the side of his neck: a gun, he supposed, though he had never actually had a gun pressed into the side of his neck before. So the ARMED RESPONSE sign hadn’t been bogus after all.

“I’m … Steve,” he said. The hesitation was natural enough, and at that moment Steve was the only name he could possibly think of.

“And what the fuck are you, Steve?”

“I’m a trespasser,” he said quietly.

“Yes, you are. But why?”

Out of the corner of his eye Zak saw that the man with the gun was the same one who’d helped cover up the women, an all-purpose assistant, it seemed.

“I’m an urban explorer,” Zak said tentatively.

“You’re a fucking what?”

“Well, in this case I guess I’m more of a builderer. A freakclimber. That kind of thing.”

“I still don’t know who the fuck you are, or what the fuck you’re talking about,” said Akim.

“There are a lot of us,” Zak said, then quickly added, “but I’m on my own now. We climb buildings. We like a challenge. I saw this place, and wow, I had to climb it. Really. That’s all. I’m done now. I was all set to leave. I won’t make trouble.”

“I know you won’t.”

Akim patted down Zak, went through his pockets, finding absolutely nothing. Still pressing the gun into Zak’s neck, Akim steered him into the conservatory, into the presence of Wrobleski and Billy Moore. Zak couldn’t help looking more closely at the relief map. He recognized it immediately as Iwo Jima, and he could tell it was a fine thing: he could think of quite a few collectors on the Utopiates mailing list who’d pay an arm and a leg for a specimen like that. Then he thought he ought to concentrate on matters at hand. Wrobleski turned to him. He no longer looked like a man who did much crying. He didn’t look at all like a baby.

“Do I know you?” Wrobleski said to Zak.

“No, you don’t,” Zak said, and Wrobleski seemed prepared to believe that part of the story, at least for now. Zak was well aware that if this went on too long, then serf or not, he would surely remember him from the store. He set his features in what he hoped was an uncharacteristic expression.

“Do you know this guy?” Wrobleski said to Billy Moore.

Billy Moore looked at Zak for just a second, his face a mask of utter indifference, then said, “No. He’s a nobody. How would I know him?”

Zak tried to breathe normally. He didn’t understand why Billy Moore would say that, but he wondered if he was allowed to feel the very slightest relief.

“He says he’s a freak,” said Akim.

“A what?” said Wrobleski.

Zak tried again to explain the joys of urban exploration and freakclimbing, all the time keeping his head down, his face away from Wrobleski.

“Can you believe this guy?” said Akim.

“I have actually heard of this shit,” said Wrobleski; then to Zak, “And what, you were going to spray your name on the side of my building?”

“No way,” said Zak. “I respect the places where I trespass. And anyway, you can see I don’t have any spray cans with me.”

There was no denying that.

“You’re not just some common or garden-variety burglar, are you?” said Wrobleski.

“No,” said Zak.

“Can you imagine what I’d do to a burglar?”

“No, I can’t,” said Zak.

“That’s probably just as well,” said Wrobleski, and he scrutinized Zak’s face, looking for evidence. Zak was terrified at what he might find.

“Is that a black eye you’ve got there?”

“Yes, yes, it is,” Zak said, and allowed his eyes to turn just a couple of degrees in Billy Moore’s direction. Billy remained reassuringly blank.

Wrobleski continued to stare at Zak. It was true enough that he didn’t look much like a burglar, and just as he was carrying no spray cans or climbing equipment, he wasn’t carrying any burglary gear either.

“What do you think, Billy?” said Wrobleski. “You think he’s worth soiling my hands on?”

“That’s your decision, Mr. Wrobleski,” said Billy.

“Fucking right it is,” said Wrobleski; then to Zak, “You weren’t spying on me, were you, kid?”

“Who’d employ me as a spy?”

It wasn’t a bad answer, and Wrobleski seemed inclined to accept it. Even so, he said, “You understand I can’t just have people waltzing into my place. That would be very bad for business.”

“I’m not trying to hurt your business,” said Zak, having no idea what Wrobleski’s business was.

“I believe you,” said Wrobleski, “but you also understand that I have to do something to you, right?”

“No, I don’t really understand that,” said Zak.

“Do you know why I’m not going to kill you?” Wrobleski asked.

Zak shook his head gravely.

“Because nobody’s paying me to,” said Wrobleski.

Zak thought that might be a joke, but nobody was laughing, least of all him.

“Would it help if I said I’m sorry?” Zak offered.

“No,” said Wrobleski. “It wouldn’t help in the least. Billy, would you do the honors?”

Billy Moore crossed the conservatory, edged around the relief map, and, with a remarkable tenderness, put one hand on the back of Zak’s head, pulling him forward. For one bizarre moment Zak thought Billy Moore might be about to hug him, but then Billy tightened his grip and, with a deft, intense force, slammed Zak’s face down into the concentric, geometric heart of the golden barrel cactus. He twisted the head a little, rubbing it in, scuffing it around, then he changed hands, grabbed Zak’s hair and the back of his shirt, and tossed him all the way across the conservatory.

Zak lay motionless on the floor, not the first time he’d been in such a position thanks to Billy Moore, though this time there was no supplementary kicking. There was no need for it. His face felt as though it had been in a losing encounter with a commercial-grade stapler, as if it had been excruciatingly refashioned, collaged into some new, though by no means improved, design, and when he raised a hand to touch his face, he felt the spines that remained in his flesh, perforating his lips, his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids. He could hear Wrobleski making some approving noises.