The Reef (3 page)

She stumbled back before she regained her balance. The room became timeless with a pause. She examined herself, dabbed her chin delicately, as if applying make-up. She pulled her hand back, saw the blood. ‘You hit me, you shit.’ She sighed, smiled, as if she had been waiting for him to make such a mistake.

He stood up, brushed his shirt and breeches down, stumbled as he turned to look at her. ‘Please, I. .. I only held my hand up, I didn’t-’

‘Never mind that, you hit me.’ She glanced at the clock as it struck five. ‘Get out now.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Leave, go on. Get out. I’ll try and forget about this if you give me time.’

They held each other’s gaze, but he knew better, stormed out towards the bathroom. He turned the cold tap, lifted the soothing liquid to his hot, scarred face. His hands were sweaty. It felt as if the chilled water burnt him. Gazing down into the basin, he watched the diluted blood spill down the plughole. Vaguely aware of his reflection in the mirror, he didn’t possess enough pride to look himself in the eye. Instead, he viewed the two scratches down his left cheek, a token of her love. After he washed and changed his shirt, he grabbed a wax jacket before marching out of the room without a word to her. As he looked back one last time he saw her picking up pieces of the cup. He closed the door behind him.

She heard his footsteps as he departed and ran to the window. She watched him walk into the streets, with his collar turned up, and rainwater, stained yellow by the lamp, streaked down the window and smeared his figure as he disappeared into the docks.

She swallowed. A pang of guilt came to her-she hit him too hard. It was unnecessary. Why did he have to lie so much? It wasn’t as if she meant any of that, it was as if something took over her body, anger forcing her hand. She glanced at the clock then her watch. Ten minutes had passed before the door was knocked three times. Smoothing her hair down and rearranging her dress, she shuffled to the door, sighed as she pulled it open.

A man with long, tied-back brown hair stood there, brushing down his thin moustache. He was tall, and she felt both safe and threatened under his immense shadow. He dusted down his damp clothes before speaking in a bass voice. ‘I saw him leave early. Is it okay to see you now? I couldn’t wait.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes it is.’ She smiled, held out her hand to lead him inside. She kissed him on the cheek as he closed the door.

Manolin hunched up as the rainwater fell down his face, catching the line of his wound, running down his face and collecting, with tears, on his chin. He marched, head down, towards the tavern, knowing the others would be drinking in it by now. He flicked his collar to get rid of the rain, turned it up further, stared at his feet.

The water rattled on his coat and the cobbles, on the boats, the sea. The air smelled clean, forced a smile. For a moment, made him forget. He battled against the elements and he searched his pockets for memories. One side of his face was numbed by the weather, but he walked ignoring this discomfort. It was one thing he was good at.

He passed alleyways that were lit by lanterns. A legless man was crouched in the shadows against a wall playing a drum. The sign outside the shop to one side said “haircuts”. The buildings here were old, towering over thin alleyways as if they would collapse into it.

It took him twenty minutes to reach the area of Portgodel that harboured the taverns and the whorehouses. Despite the weather, the prostitutes were out, holding down their skirts, loitering around the sides of buildings. On the streets it was said you saw the less pretty ones, where their looks or age had failed to get them a regular room. Out here, Rumel women were the most stubborn, with their thick, rubbery skins, their tails rigid beneath skirts. Some of them passed drug wrappers between each other. One of the coca-skinned rumel, with a low white top, approached Manolin as he shuffled past. His face darkened.

She said, ‘After any business?’

Manolin shook his head, only glancing briefly at her broad face, not even wanting to connect with black eyes. He did not find rumel women all that attractive. It wasn’t the fact that they were a different species, despite being a cousin to humans, despite cross-species sex having being legalised for nearly a hundred years so that it had become acceptable socially.
It
just didn’t
feel
right, wasn’t really his scene, although you got plenty of men that wanted nothing but the strangest of encounters.

He walked past her, stepped down off the pavement. From where he was you could see chimneys in the industrial quarter, chemical plumes standing out against the darker grey of the clouds. Next to it: the square housing towers. They were so bland, so ugly, represented everything about the city that he hated. There was so much decay, so much sleaze. With a snort of disgust, he turned away.

Manolin closed his eyes, sighed. Right now, wanted to die-then he changed his mind to wanting his wife to die in some freak yachting accident so that he could sell her jewellery and at least get some of the money he’d wasted. He thought it funny how the best lovers did not make the best wives. It said so in all the books he’d read. All the passion only went in to one thing. He could never work out her insecurities-wasn’t him that she didn’t trust, she had said, but other women. She was probably using
herself
as an example.

His held his eyes shut for a long time, the rain cleaning his face, letting his tension drip away, and with it his feelings for his wife. After some time he could think logically.

So he opened his eyes and the world seemed just that little bit brighter.

Two

Above her, a moon arced over the city of Rhoam. Jella glanced across at the hundreds of spires that punctured a starlit, black and purple sky. The city was vast, the centre of being something of a museum of preserved architectures. It was one of those places where life became predictable, routine. Irregular laughter spat out a few streets away, where cafes and inns were packed in mellow lighting, the tables spilling out onto the ancient streets. Hot drinks and spirits were being served somewhere in rooms with steamed up windows. You could hear a horse on the cobbles at an even further distance.
Probably drawing some lord or lady,
Jella thought bitterly. Couples were laughing, talking in hidden lanes, in their own private worlds. Cats ran in packs between people’s legs, on their way to the canal.

From the balcony view of the cityscape, Jella turned back again to watch another scene with a strange sense of fascination. She was vaguely aware that she was internalising the irony. The room she had been spying on was illuminated by one thick candle near the far wall. On the bed, a young girl straddled an obese, old man. His fingers were covered with rings, his hands pawing the young girl in a primitive, distinctly animal manner. Every time his hands glided over her, they seemed to quiver with hesitation-perhaps fighting with his morals. Watching keenly, the rumel could tell that his nerves were overriding his body because of his clumsiness. The girl’s smooth body rocked back and forth, and the man opened his mouth as if to groan as she ran her hands around the base of his neck. A constant expression of awe never left his face when he touched her small breasts. The girl flicked back her long, dark hair, and looked at him in a way to check if he was watching what she was doing.

So
young and yet
so
aware of herself,
Jella thought.
Of her performance.

The man finished with a shudder. The girl seemed distinctly unimpressed, didn’t seem as if she really cared, but she ran her small hands over the grey hairs with a distant look in her eyes. She didn’t want to be there.

Whilst outside, in the shadows, Jella smiled. She thought about the money she would get from this operation. Blackmail was always worth it when done in such a calculating manner. She looked down off the balcony she had been crouched on for some time. The rumel waved to her comrades below knowing only her grey hand would be visible outside of her outfit. There were movements on the cobbles in front of the old house.

This ambient sound of civilisation was comforting. It was not so much a noise, but a sensation, one which calmed the rumel woman. Her tail became still, representative of her current state. But she knew that the wealthy lived out there, and that saddened her. Jella was conscious of the fact that she lived in that
other
place, one significantly removed from this painful glory.

A sound made her jerk her head. She looked into the window, back inside the bedroom. The door on the inside opened, and two men, one thin, one stocky, both dressed in the black outfits, formed shadows in the doorway. One of them held a box, the other a long, curved blade. Jella heard raised voices, but already knew the conversation off by heart. They were all the same. The shock, the self-disgust and panic. Blackmail using a young prostitute had worked. Again. The money was useful. It was all a contribution to her schemes.

It was so easy to do this way. A sign of the times. If a man had so much time and money, and he thought that he could get away with it, then he would certainly try anything. Sex was the driving force of the world, not money: this was something Jella was adamant about. That, and the fact that female morality was the
only
check on a natural male temperament.

She had discovered a radiograph unit, left out for rubbish near one of the lanes behind the opera house. It recorded sound onto a magnetic film. She did not know how it worked, or the technology behind it, but was aware of the potential. It was a relic, and it was all she needed. That was the thing about this world. Ever since the rebellion to science, an age that she would only know through rumours, stories, rare history texts, you could often find devices that no one knew of, or a technology of which they would simply be in awe.

With a few witnesses and a radiograph, Lord BarcIay , the man in question, would lose his wealth, reputation, his house, his life. Finding the girl was the easy part. Jella thought that young girls were loose and curious in Rhoam. It made her angry. Some were spoiled, covered in make-up, putting it about, pretending they were much older, competing with each other for admiration.
Whatever happened to childhood?
She would have done absolutely anything for a childhood, a real one, with a safe family, security.

Her last city was called Lucher, but you would no longer find it on any map. It had been destroyed, and with it, so had
her
childhood. It was poisoned and left to rot by Escha, a dirty, oil-rich sprawl on the west coast of the continent. It was part of a war she’d known nothing about, never would. Settlements waged war with one another regularly. It was part of history. That, she could accept. But what she couldn’t was the fact that it had ruined her life. The city of Escha and the west coast was responsible for that. It festered inside of her, a blossoming anger, and it was shared with others. Escha had acted with a military fist where possible. Her armies were vast, strong. However, Jella wouldn’t be picking her fight with an army-it was with the entire settlement of the west coast.

She couldn’t remember much about the time her life collapsed around her-vague thoughts of an endless walk out of the city, as if they were walking through some lower region of hell. A long dust march north. Her father had disappeared. Her sister abandoned her over a man. That was fifteen years ago. She was forced from a girl’s into a woman’s mind overnight.

She, like so many of the refugees, was promised sanctuary in Rhoam. Safety, comfort, love. In reality, she was delivered with thousands of homeless, to the outer regions of the city, where a large, dirty town was constructed from scraps.

Her childhood was ruined.

Back inside the bedroom, Lord Barclay was now crying into his hands. He had trailed the bed sheet over his gut, which had rolled over on itself. Then he stood, vanished out of sight, returned with a purse. He thrust it into the hands of one of the men, waved his hands for forgiveness. His voice was full of anger, desperation. He said, ‘Take it! just.…please. You can have anything. My…I have a reputation…’

The young girl ran to another of the men, then one by one, they departed form the room leaving only Lord Barclay to sit and quiver. The candle flickered as the intruders closed the door. Jella watched the lord for a second more, her face expressionless, focussed. This was all part of a grander scheme.

She turned to the edge of the balcony, looked down as the group appeared on the cobbles. Both of them and the young girl ran in separate directions. Jella hooked her grey hands into the vine by her side, hauled herself up, leaf by leaf, swivelling her tail until she oozed up onto a sloped roof top. Her boots gripped the tiles. She viewed the spires at a distance. A thin trail of cumulus clouds drifted like cigarette smoke, past the crescent moon. The night was calm, she could smell pine from the forests to the north. Her white hair was aired by the breeze.

She positioned herself at the edge of the rooftop before leaping on to the roof of the adjacent building. She ran south, up several steps to a second tier where there were shops that were now closed. She paused by a window. A doll caught her eye. She crouched down, focussing on the item. She smiled, vaguely, touched the glass. It was dressed in an expensive material.