David Mitchell - The Cloud Atlas

I fell to the floor, reached to peel the paper away from his face, but lost my balance as he thrashed.

That’s when he made his move.

And then the paper was on me. It smelled of whisky and spit and Gurley and something else-rice, I suppose, strange as that sounds. He couldn’t get it to adhere, not as well as it had on him, but he didn’t need it to; he was on top of me, pressing me down, his hands making up for anything the paper failed to do.

“And you hold him down, Sergeant. He sucks in, he gasps for air, but he is only making it worse.”

If I’d have taken a breath first, if I’d been prepared, I would have had no difficulties. I would have had the air to slither out from under him. But I hadn’t taken that breath, and now, instead of fighting, I was panicking. I watched him, watched for him to watch me. Look at me , I willed him. Look at me. Wouldn’t this make it harder to kill me? Even for Gurley?

I don’t know. It would have made it harder for me. But for whatever the reason, he did look, and maybe he saw me, or maybe he saw Lily, or maybe he saw himself. He tore the paper away, rolled off, and stared at me while I panted there.

I slid away from him, but only a short distance; I was surprised by how tired I was. I looked back at him; he was tired, too. Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, he even looked a bit like the old Gurley, comically instead of criminally mad.

We sat like that for a while. I think it was only a minute, but if someone measured it as an hour, I wouldn’t argue.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. He waved an arm so that his apology included the whole office, the whole war, perhaps. “I’m-listen,” he said. “Help me up.”

I laughed. Well, I didn’t laugh. I puffed. I rolled my head to look at him, and then rolled it back to stare straight up. His left foot was cockeyed; the leg had detached.

“Louis,” he said: my first name. I don’t know why; I wish he hadn’t. “I still think-I mean, we can see, but-given everything. Maybe you should go anyway to-maybe it’s best.” He stopped.

“Sergeant,” he said, the old voice. Not angry, but the officer once more.

“I’ll go,” I said.

“You might be able to help from there,” he said. “Truly. That fishing boat-it wasn’t so far south of there. It’s just that, with Lily and all—”

“I’ll go,” I said, and slowly got to my feet. “First thing,” I said. “First flight I can get going anywhere. Anywhere north.”

“Good boy,” said Gurley. “Good man. I’m sorry, Sergeant—”

“Good night, sir,” I said, going to the door.

Gurley put on what he must have thought was a brave face: he wasn’t going to ask, again, for help getting up. Which was good, because I wasn’t going to.

“Louis,” he said, which was again so strange that I turned back to look at him, even though I was through the door.

But he was still slumped against the wall, and the half-closed door obscured his face. I could only see his legs, and hands, and the sheet of paper, drying on the floor.

And I could hear him softly calling after me: “Sleep well!”

I HAD THOUGHT ABOUT SPENDING THE REST OF THE NIGHT on base, maybe even seeking out Father Pabich to help set me straight or simply to say goodbye, but I found myself skirting the pickup baseball and football games behind the barracks, making for the main gate and downtown.

It was a Monday. Lily charged less on Mondays to read palms than any other day of the week. I’d asked her once if it was to drum up business, but she shook her head: she said she was tired on Mondays, and didn’t feel she did as good a job. Whatever the reason, Mondays were a slow night, and the building was deserted when I entered. I climbed up to her office and found it dark, the door ajar. I waited a moment while my eyes adjusted to the light, just so that I could be sure she wasn’t hiding in the shadows. Then I went back downstairs and outside, where low and heavy clouds were bringing the evening to an early close.

I had just started to walk back up the street when I heard Lily’s voice behind me, delighted. “Louis!” But when I turned around, her face fell. “What happened?” she asked. “What did he say?” She shoved her hands in her pockets and stared at her fists through the fabric. For the briefest moment, she looked like a little girl. I felt like a little boy, the two of us on our way back to Mary Star of the Sea. Then she looked up. “I’m sorry if I made things awkward. It’s just that-but he’s not a man who likes being babied, even if he needs it.”

“Then why try?”

“Let’s go inside,” she said.

“I can’t stay,” I said. “Something happened. If he came now—”

“You mean Gurley,” she said. “He has a jealous side, doesn’t he? Which is strange. But you don’t need to worry.”

“Lily,” I said. “I’m leaving. Tomorrow morning. First thing.” My voice grew quieter with every word.

“Where this time?” she asked, forcing cheer. “You two have such adventures. I’d have signed up for the army if I knew—”

“Leaving” I said. “I don’t know what you said to him, but I’m leaving. He’s sending me to Russia or damn close-Little Diomede. A rock in the ocean. He’s getting rid of me. He almost tried to get rid of me tonight. He thinks I was trying to steal you away from him,” I said. And then, mostly because she was still trying to smile this all away, I added, “Guess I was.”

Lily stopped breathing then. Her mouth was open, but it stayed open, no air coming in or out. And she made one wrong face after another-concern, dismay, horror-until I turned away and did what kids do when they get upset, which is turn red and wait to cry.

“Louis,” she said. But she didn’t put her hand to my face. She didn’t take my palm in hers. She let me stand there, my only comfort being that the tone of her voice sounded exactly like I wanted it to, heartbroken. I wanted to hear her say my name again, just that way, so I didn’t turn around. I waited. “Louis,” she said, and then came a hand to my elbow, and I turned.

The clouds had descended almost to the ground. The street was empty. Just Lily, crying, and me, watching, and some man, two blocks down, walking toward us in the mist, the whole of him indistinct save his slightly irregular gait. Step… step. Step… step.

“Louis,” Lily said once more.

“Gurley,” I whispered. “Down the street. Coming this way. He’ll see us.” And he did, or whoever it was did, because he picked up speed: step, step; step, step.

Lily spun.

Then Lily’s name came tumbling down the street, half shout, half moan, and she began to run. Gurley did, too, or at least lurched into the odd gallop he used those few times he did run. I stood my ground, long enough for him to see me clearly, and long enough for me to see that he hadn’t expected me. Then I ran, too.

GURLEY KEPT US IN SIGHT far longer than I thought he would. I began to tire, but Lily kept streaming through the city, passing all sorts of places I thought might be good to hide or disappear into-an empty building, or a busy bar.

Eventually, Anchorage began to run out of streets and buildings. Lily kept running, until the street became a dirt road, and then a trail, and then we were in the woods. I stopped, exhausted, but also anxious to see if Gurley was still following us. I heard nothing, only the sound of Lily’s footsteps ahead of me, growing fainter. I turned back to the trail and continued into the forest.

TEN, TWENTY YEARS AGO, I went back to that trail. The area is parkland today, popular with joggers in summer and cross-country skiers in winter and wildlife any time of year. It all looks as it did fifty-odd years ago when Lily and I walked into it, except it wasn’t called a park then. It was just the place where Anchorage gave up and the rest of Alaska began, and it would have seemed silly to put a sign up and call it a park. Keep walking into that forest, deeper and deeper, and four hundred miles later, you’d cross the Arctic Circle. Another three hundred miles or so beyond that, Point Barrow, the ice cap, the North Pole, the place where all the longitude lines on the map begin, a place where, certain times of year, the sky seems low enough and the stars thick enough that you’d only need to be a bit taller to reach one down for yourself.