A Day Of Faces (4 page)

He was still, even now, learning how to control the genoshifts (as he called them). At times of heightened stress a shift could be triggered, which is exactly what had happened just prior to the cops busting in on the Black Jasmine.

“I represent every fear,” he said. “People don’t understand me. They think I’m heretical. That I break the natural order. I disgust them. Our society is dictated by genotype, you know. What you’re born as decides what you’re going to do - squamata get great rates for joining the army, right? They lowered the sign-up age just for you guys.”

I picked up a feather from the floorboards and pulled absent-mindedly at the barbs, half-forgetting that it had once belonged to Cal’s body. “It’s still up to us what we actually do with our lives,” I said.

“Is it? It might feel like that on an individual basis, but look at the broader patterns. If you want to get into politics, how are you ever going to get off the ground? Literally. You think it’s just coincidence that the wings run the show?”

Yawning, I gave him a hug and said goodnight. Too little sleep over the weeks had started to catch up with me. I shuffled my way back through the garden and gently pushed open the back door. I knew exactly how to turn the key silently, exactly how far I could push the door before it creaked. I crept in, yawned again, then shut the door.

The kitchen light flicked on, in all its harsh fluorescence. I spun around, actually letting out a sharp hiss.

There was my dad, standing in the doorway into the rest of the house, one hand on the light switch, his trademarked cane in the other.

“Where you been spending your nights, my little girl?” he said, grey fur ruffling up around his mouth. He lifted and pointed the cane at me. “You and me, Kay, we got to have a talk, me and you. And it’s a long time coming. A long time.”

nurture

ˈnəːtʃə/

verb

upbringing, education, and environment, contrasted with inborn characteristics as an influence on or determinant of personality.

“Go back to bed, dad.” I really didn’t have the energy to deal with this right now. It’s not like he was going to use that cane; not on me, at least.

He stopped in the middle of the room and leaned forwards with both hands on the cane. “Me and your mother,” he said, “we both thought having a kid would be the best thing we ever did. My friends kept saying how you don’t know what you’re going to get. Total lottery, they said. Doesn’t matter, we said. Whatever she is, we’ll love her and look after her.” He paused and his lip wrinkled, like he’d smelled something bad. “And then you popped out. All scaly and coarse.”

“Welcome to biology 101,” I said, and moved to go past him. He raised a hand, pointed a finger and pressed it against my chest, stopping me dead.

“You know the rates of rejection for you lot are the highest on record, right? But we kept you. We had offers from all the state’s orphanages. Good ones. Could have made money off you. But we chose to keep you. I want you to acknowledge that.”

I smiled up at him, baring my fangs. “Yeah, I’m very grateful. Look how wonderfully it worked out for everyone. Yay.”

“Twenty years from now when I’m dead, then you’ll get it,” he said. “When you have your own kids and find out how it ruins your whole life.” He sounded like he’d been rehearsing this.

“So,” I said, holding up fingers, “One: not planning on having kids. Two: if I did, you wouldn’t be my baseline for parenting skills.”

He stepped away, moving across the kitchen towards where dishes were stacked and drying. “You think you’re so clever, always having a quick word to say. Something funny.” He swung the cane across the worktop, scattering plates and cutlery and glass across the floor. The clatter of shattering kitchenware boomed out, knifing the silence. I hadn’t even realised until his shout that we’d both been whispering. As if to be polite to the neighbours.

“Is it drugs? You mixing something up in the shed? Boys? Bringing someone back here without telling us? Girls? You stealing shit? What is it?”

It sounded like he’d known about me going out to the shed every night for a while. They always say you can’t sneak anything past your parents, because anything you do they already did a few decades earlier.

“Which would you prefer?” This was an old game, seeing just how red I could get his face - the bits you could see behind the fur, obviously. When he got really angry his ears started to twitch. It’d be adorable on anybody else.

“You don’t want to piss me off, not tonight, Kay,” he growled, coming back towards me.

The inner door opened and my mother stuck her head in, squinting against the light. She must have been asleep. “Gary,” she said, “just let it be. Come back to bed, we’ll talk in the morning.”

He stopped, looked at me with a cocked head and raised eyebrows, as if to say
can you believe this shit?
Turning his attention towards her, he flung his arms out wide, knocking a vase off a shelf in the process. “What’s the point of the morning?” he said, nonsensically.

My mum entered the room, slowly, everything in her posture reminding me of workers at a zoo approaching a dangerous animal. She was submissive, conciliatory. We weren’t much alike, me and her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, “we can find another job. It doesn’t matter.”

He was nodding repeatedly. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, as if it were a statement. Then he repeated it, louder, angrier. “I was there twenty eight years. You wouldn’t get it, you’ve never worked a day in your life since she was born, but some of us take pride in what we do.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

She was always saying sorry. It was like her catchphrase. This time, like so many others, it wasn’t enough. He clocked her on the side of the head and she sprawled onto the wet kitchen floor with a scream, limbs flying out in odd directions. There she lay, amongst the broken crockery and glass.

“You son of a bitch,” I said, the words tumbling out unbidden. I darted across the kitchen, moving like only squamata can do, and was on him in a heartbeat, pinning him against the
counter.
9
“You’ll never hurt her again, you hear?” I pulled my lips back, revealing my fangs, sharp and long and eager.

Then I paused. Which was all he needed.

He threw me off and back across the room. Roaring to his feet, he shouted “what were you going to do? Kill your old man? Don’t be ridiculous.”

I’d landed on my feet, instinct kicking in. “You need to leave,” I said. “Tonight.”

There was an unfamiliar flicker across his face. He actually looked hurt, just for a moment. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out.

That was when the outer door splintered apart, wood and glass flying into the room, and Cal dived in, crunching into my dad and sending the both of them skidding all the way to the opposite wall.

My dad swore and rolled away, jumping up and running back to the worktop, where he pulled a large knife from the block and held it out in front, waving it back and forth. He didn’t even say anything to Cal, but dived towards him, knife poised. At the last step he slipped on water, spilt from a broken jug, and tumbled forwards, flailing wildly.

The knife embedded itself harmlessly in the wall, half a foot from where Cal lay crumpled on the floor as my father piled on top of him. They both cried out, my father a strange whispering wheeze and Cal a surprised, horrified squeal of sorts.

Cal was trying to get up but my father was weighing him down, even though he was no longer fighting or moving.

Something had happened.

I rushed over and took hold of my father’s shoulders, pulling him backwards. There was an odd resistance, then a sucking pop as he fell onto his back.

Two large, gored holes were in his chest. Actual holes, where I could see though to blood and muscle and bone. Cal lay against the wall, freaking out, his month-old horns covered with blood, which was dripping down and onto his face.

I crouched by my dad. He was still alive, though not for much longer. His breathing was ragged. “I thought—” he gasped, scrabbling to hold my hand. “I thought—he was attacking you—”

Then he died.

Interlude #1

The coffee machine never worked. That was the one constant of working at Applied Dynamics, and Wynton Simons needed a coffee. The baby had kept him up half the night again and he’d needed to get in to work early, which had meant setting the alarms for five in the morning. He wasn’t one to complain, but everybody had a threshold and his wasn’t far away.

“Just have the instant stuff,” said Janice, spooning endless sugars into her tea.

“I’d rather not have anything,” Wynton said.

“Well, then,” said Janice, pushing her glasses up her nose as she tended to do when making a point.

Wynton made his way sluggishly from the canteen and down the corridors towards his office. The one he shared with five other men, of varying odours. It was a grey, overcast day outside, with rain on the horizon, making the building seem even more dour than usual. It was times like this that he started thinking about looking through the job supplements and updating his online work profile. But he already knew that he’d be too tired to do anything productive by the time he got home.

Derek emerged from the gents, tapping away happily on his tablet. Probably hadn’t washed his hands. Or even stopped using it while he went. He glanced up, saw Wynton, and reluctantly tucked the tablet into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Alright, Wynton?”

Wynton managed a shrug. “Didn’t get much sleep. Baby being a baby.”

“How dare it.”

“Right,” Wynton said, “what’s that about? Outrageous.”

“You see the game?”

“Which game would that be?” Wynton didn’t like sports but Derek had never quite believed him.

“The only one that matters, of course.”

“Chess?”

“What?” Derek sighed. “Have you never heard of water cooler chat? How am I supposed to banter with you if you don’t watch anything?”

“I’m a terrible person.”

“I know,” Derek said, “it’s really very inconvenient of you.”

“Did a ball get kicked around?”

“Yes.”

“Some points were scored?”

“Goals, yes.”

“The usual, then?”

Derek threw up his arms in exasperation. “Alright, then,” he said, “what did
you
get up to at the weekend?”

“I had a category five nappy change, got caught in the rain pushing a pram without a cover, and changed my clothes more times than a catwalk model. Because of the vomit. And wee.”

“Category five?”

“Yeah. I rank them depending on severity. It can only be a category five if blood is drawn.”

Derek looked aghast. “What the hell were you doing to the poor nipper?”

“Not him,” Wynton said. “Me. He hit me in the mouth with his toy guitar.”

“Oh.” Derek pondered that one. “That’s alright, then.”

He reached the door first, swinging it open and holding it. Wynton grimaced and entered the dark chamber, walls covered with monitors and digital maps and readouts. The others were already at their desks and each muttered distracted hellos.

“Where are we at today with patient zero, then, chaps?” Derek asked.

Wynton slid his chair under the desk and leaned back as his computer booted up. It seemed to take longer every day at the moment. His desk had a photo of Sarah holding Zane. They both looked very cute, even if it was a year out of date.

One of the geo-operators, a guy called Steve, put a location up on the big projector screen. “That’s the downtown area of Perlyn, which is the last place we saw him. Did you see the game?”

“No, I didn’t see the game,” Wynton said. “This guy travelled all over that damn planet. Why’d he go back to his home town?”

“Homesick?”

Derek snorted. “He grew up in an orphanage.”

Wynton clenched his fists under the desk. “Do you actually know anything about your job, Derek? Orphanages on Locque aren’t the same as here.”

“Hey, mate, I’m not the historian on the team.” Derek held his hands aloft, eyebrows raised, then reached down and pulled a packet of crisps from his desk drawer.

“Neither am I,” Wynton said. “Look, if he’d left the city we’d have spotted him, right? We’re watching all the transport routes. So he’s still there. And probably for a reason.”

“I reckon he’s just hiding out,” Steve said. “Can’t go anywhere even if he wanted to.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t explain why he went back in the first place.” Wynton looked over the map, spinning it around with his pointer. “There are a lot less high profile places to hangout than the capital of the planet’s upcoming superpower.”

“That’s it,” said another voice, from the back of the room. It was Holt, leaning against the wall as he did when thinking over a case. “It’s the seat of government. He’s planning something big.”

Wynton frowned and turned his mouth up in surprise. “Really? That doesn’t fit his MO.”

“I think he’s had enough running. And he’s had the power long enough that he’s probably gaining some control and direction over it.”