Daniel Polansky - Tomorrow, the Killing

‘How exactly do you know Roland?’

‘I served beneath him.’

She set one hand on my chest. ‘We all so appreciate your sacrifice,’ she said, blinking her eyelashes as if shooing away a fly.

I would never be categorized as handsome – a lifetime of scraps had been effective in defacing a physiognomy that would not originally have been mistaken for attractive. But there was a certain type of woman that seemed to find my alley-mutt face alluring, at least as a curiosity. And the uniform helped – the rich had no greater love of Black House than any other cohort of the population, but it was at least evidence that I had a real job, which I supposed made me something of a novelty.

‘Is it true what they say about him, our Roland?’

I thought about that for a while. ‘Yeah, it pretty much is.’

‘What an honor it must have been for you, to be a part of his command.’

‘Every moment a joy.’

‘Tell me, what was it like? The war, I mean?’

I finished off what was in my cup. ‘It was like something that you never feel like talking about.’

Her face turned from pink to bright red. The pink had been make-up, but the red seemed authentic.

‘Where is the guest of honor, anyway?’ I asked. I’d seen Roland briefly on the way in, he’d pumped my hand and told me we’d talk soon. That had been two hours prior, and so far his promise had been unfulfilled.

‘I’m . . . not sure,’ she said, eyes fluttering about the party for someone else to speak with.

‘Perhaps I’ll see if I can’t run him down,’ I said, disengaging.

Buffy or Minnie made no particular effort to dissuade me.

Somewhere in the vast estate surrounding me there was a fully stocked bar, but it was not in view, nor did the various waitstaff seem inclined to provide directions. This left me trying to get drunk on the house punch, a syrupy concoction ill-suited to my mood, which was bored trending towards bitter. It filled my bladder long before offering any sort of a decent buzz. As watering the greenery seemed likely to betray my upbringing, I found my way towards the powder room.

Business concluded, I detoured away from the party, bright lights and dull people. This was my second visit to the Montgomery Manse. The first had been several months earlier, a dinner party to which I’d been invited. I’d sat at the far end of the table from Roland and his father, said little and enjoyed myself less. But it had given me a passing familiarity with the layout, one I put to good use in avoiding the gathering outside.

I wasn’t exactly trying to snoop, but then I wasn’t exactly trying not to either. As a member of the secret police I figured I had at least the license, if not the obligation, to figure out what everyone else was doing. And given the sensitive nature of the conversation, General Montgomery and his seed had done little to inure themselves from eavesdroppers. The door to the office was half open, and if they weren’t yet yelling outright, it was clear the conversation was moving in that direction.

‘They can’t very well name me High Chancellor with my eldest child calling for the abolition of the damned monarchy!’

‘There are more important things in the world than your political career, Father,’ Roland said. His voice was calm but not quiet, and I thought I detected in it a hint of mockery.

‘Like yours, for instance?’

‘Like the interests of the men who served beneath my command.’

‘And how are their interests served by you making trouble in the streets? By threatening the Crown and the government?’

‘I’m simply asking that the Queen appropriately reward the men who died keeping her aloft. If she chooses to take offense, I can hardly be blamed.’

‘Should she take offense at your marching armed through Low Town? Of instigating feuds with drug dealers and criminals?’

‘I can hardly imagine the Throne would object to concerned citizens defending their families.’

‘The Throne would object to your building a private army, regardless of who you choose to aim it at.’

‘The Throne built the army, Father. I’m just borrowing it while it’s not in use.’

There was a choking sound, then a long silence. When next the general spoke, it was with that studied composure that lies a short step from open rage. ‘Flippancy ill-suits you, or the gravity of the situation. Pensions, almshouses, jobs – as High Chancellor I’ll be in a position to provide these things. If you cared as much about them as you did your own grandstanding, you’d cease your provocation and fall in line!’

A movement in the shadows betrayed that I wasn’t the only one interested in the goings-on of the Montgomery clan. Botha stood silently outside the study door, an impressive degree of stealth for a man of his size. I wondered what it meant that he hadn’t bothered to chase me off. His smirk had worn a groove into his face – a bitter thing, devoid of levity.

I followed the hallway back toward the party, taking a seat on a small sofa near the exit. It was getting late, and unlike the rest of the attendees, I had things to do in the morning. I could hear Roland and his father continue with their dispute, the distance I’d added made up for by the increase in volume. It was too garbled to make out specifics, and I didn’t strain myself trying.

After a moment I noticed someone peering out from around the corner. A young girl, ten or twelve, I’m bad at that sort of thing. She had her brother’s red hair and her father’s fierce gaze.

I crooked one finger in hello. She scowled and approached me.

‘It’s my brother’s birthday,’ she said.

‘Is that why all these people are here?’

‘Of course,’ she said, clearly thinking me very foolish. As a line, the Montgomerys had many virtues, but not one of them possessed anything resembling a sense of humor.

‘Are you supposed to be up so late?’

‘No one cares what I do,’ she said.

At her age I had been five years on the streets, orphaned by the Red Fever, scraping by on theft and low cunning. It had been quite literally the case that no one cared what I did. ‘Don’t you have a nanny or something?’

‘She thinks I’m in the privy.’

‘A budding criminal genius.’

‘I don’t want to be a criminal,’ she said.

‘Most don’t.’ I very much had the urge to smoke a cigarette, but decided it was better not to offer the pubescent an opportunity to feel morally superior to me. We stared at each other for a while.

‘Do you want to sit down?’ I asked.

‘Will you tell Father that I’m out of bed?’

‘I won’t.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘I promise.’

She rolled over the worth of my word. ‘I shouldn’t believe you,’ she said. ‘But I will.’ She plopped herself next to me on the sofa.

‘That’s very kind.’

We sat quietly while the familial dispute worsened.

‘My brother’s a hero,’ she said suddenly, as if expecting me to contradict her.

‘I’ve heard that.’

‘My father too.’

‘That’s the word.’

There was the sound of something breaking. One of the participants had thrown something against a wall. I assumed it was Edwin. He’d something of a reputation as a firebrand, despite his age.

‘They fight a lot,’ she said. ‘I’m not supposed to know that.’

‘I don’t think either of us are.’

‘If they’re both heroes,’ she asked, ‘then why do they fight so much?’

‘Heroes can’t disagree with each other?’

‘Of course not,’ she snapped. ‘Being a hero means you always know what the right thing to do is.’

‘What if there’s more than one?’

‘There’s only ever one right thing to do,’ she said, the final moral authority on the subject.