The Reef (4 page)

Jella sighed, couldn’t remember ever having a doll of her own that looked so good. She was certain she had one before she had to come to Rhoam-distant memories, picnics, bedtimes. Things that, as one gets older, become more crystallized in the mind, enhanced even, but for her they were not there. She frowned, concentrated on her memory, then slapped the window with her hand, stood up and burst into a sprint, which continued for several minutes.

Her movements hardened as if she ached. She dropped onto a limestone path, which stood a fraction lower than the roof tops on to the inner city walls and she looked beyond, to the mass, which lay in a heap, which had not progressed, but had remained stagnant and it was her home. A myriad of metal boxes formed symmetrical grids and squares, and this was the area that housed the former refugees of Lucher. They stretched out as far as her eye could see, lined with lanterns and barrel fires.

New Lucher expanded for miles. It was crude, muddy. She could smell the intense odour from the lack of good drainage, could see smoke as if the shanty city was visibly steaming. The rooftops were flat, sharing the same height and design. They were meant to be temporary, only for a month or two, but had remained for years. There was a flaw in that plan. It was obvious to her: Lucher had been a communal city. It did not use money. It was idyllic, some said naive, but people were happy, sharing a wealth that others couldn’t, would not understand. Those people had to make the transition to Rhoam, where money passed hands quickly, and with lasting damage.

Jella simply stared from the city wall. The limestone battlement made a wide arc around the main city, curving in a way so that from where she stood, and when she looked closer it seemed as if the city walls cowered at the edges from New Lucher. Pulling back, she thought, like a rich man would walk around a beggar, trying not to notice, struggling to avoid eye contact. Lines of clothes were hung out to dry, spanning across from one roof to another. Smoke blew into them. Dogs trotted in and out of people’s way, wondered in to dark corners. People were gathering in streets, even at this time of night. They exchanged small pots and tools. Children ran excitedly with machetes.

Jella refused to acclimatise to this. It wasn’t how it should be.

She had a plan to get out of all this. Blackmail was a necessary cruelty, call it a redistribution of wealth. There would be justice.

Three

Manolin’s arms ached as he pushed open the door, stepped inside the tavern. It wasn’t as artificial as those found in the city. This was a proper tavern, one where women didn’t like to go because it was too dark. Sometimes there was a smell like a creature had dragged itself out of the sea and died behind the bar, but he didn’t mind. That smell, people said, was
character.

A brown cat shot by his feet and outside, taking less than a second to come back in, damp. It looked up to Manolin, its eyes narrowed, before it trotted under a table. He looked across the large, wooden decked room to a group of humans and rumel that were sitting in their usual place in the far corner making much noise. They were hunched over a table with a lantern hanging above.

You either got sailors or fishermen littering this dim building-it was always the same, never attracted a new crowd, and there was something comforting about that. You got cats everywhere, mingling with the customers. Two old men were playing dice, as they always did. Others were engaged in passionate conversations or arguments, persuading the other that their opinion was revelation. Brass ornaments littered the walls, rare bottles, and antique books sat gathering mould in dark corners.

An old, black-skinned rumel looked up from the table in the corner as the door shut. He bellowed something incoherent across the tavern, gestured elaborately. His black eyes gradually focussed on Manolin, his thick black tail shook, his face creased into a smile.

‘Hey, Manny. Whatever took you so long? Has that pretty creature of yours been beating you up again?’

Laughter filtered around the table as Manolin walked into the light. The beam drew across his face like a curtain revealing his scar.

Manolin became aware of awkwardness. ‘No. I slipped over whilst having a bath. Damn soap.’ He walked around the group, who seemed to pick up in spirit as he scraped a chair backwards. He slipped his coat off, sat down.

Opposite him was a middle-aged figure, wearing fine clothes: a grey silk waistcoat covered a white shirt, and he was crowned with a top hat. His name was Santiago DeBrelt, and his black moustache curved magnificently outwards.

Despite his age, Santiago was, by all accounts, a bounder, and a bit of a cad.

Manolin observed him for a moment. The older man maintained his usual cool, detached fascination with the world, as if he pulled all the strings for his own amusement.

Manolin nodded and smiled, and Santiago, tilted his head down slowly and surely, then brought a cigar to his mouth. He inhaled, presenting a glow at the tip. His violet eyes narrowed with sympathy at Manolin, rolled his lips inwards in a half smile. The two men had known each other for years. Manolin couldn’t hide what happened to Santiago. You couldn’t hide much from the man.

‘Evening, Manolin. To fill you in, the party is just getting started and Tchad has not arrived yet as he’s still signing the wedding contracts.’ Santiago inhaled from his cigar again, his cheeks being sucked in, enhancing the angles on his face, making him look like a drug addict. He took a sip from his nearly empty glass, calm, methodically, as if it would be enough to pre-empt any complaints on him being a drunk.

‘Ah, the secret wedding,’ Manolin said. ‘In that case I’ll order a little something to get me started until he arrives.’

Manolin stood up and walked to the bar. He leaned forward as the barmaid wondered over. She was short, old and slender, and she looked at him and relaxed her shoulders.

‘I’ve never seen anyone need a drink as much as you,’ she said.

‘True,’ he said.

‘You spend too much time here, you know.’

Manolin said, ‘You know how to sell a drink, don’t you?’

‘Can’t a woman care?’ she said. ‘You look troubled.’

‘You could say that,’ Manolin said.

‘I’ve seen guys from all over Has-jahn with faces like yours. From that I’ve known of a lot of lonely women.’

‘I have to work.’

‘This isn’t work, honey. This isn’t work. Spend a little more time with her. Yeah?’ ‘You wouldn’t understand. Life isn’t that simple. Anyway, I’m not going to talk about it. Give me two malts, finest ones you’ve got.’

‘All right, but this isn’t the solution, honey.’

‘No, but it’ll help until I find one.’

After watching with cool interest as a waitress sprung up the stairs, pausing politely for people to pass, he returned to the table with two glasses, rested them on the table with reverence. He slid one across to

Santiago, who glanced down to the glass and back up.

‘Malts, from the north,’ Manolin said.

Santiago nodded, smiled, picked up the vessel. He held it to his nose, inhaled before taking a sip, his face showing that he was savouring the taste, again cool, calm, to say,
I’m not a drunk.
‘Many thanks.’ Santiago placed the whiskey back onto the table, gazed at it like usually would a woman. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ Manolin said. Then, ‘I thought you’d given up smoking? I take it you still take the white stuff, too?’ ‘I’ve said no to drugs before,’ Santiago said. ‘They just won’t listen.’

Their colleagues sat nearby. Jefry and Arth, two old, black rumel men who were both dressed in white shirts and black breeches. Arth was one of those jerky-motioned man, who walked as if his shirts were tied around his ankles. Jefry seemed as though he never took the care to think about what he said or did, but went in wholeheartedly anyway. As loyal as a dog, and just as clumsy.

To his left sat a middle aged woman with silver streaks, racing though dark hair. She was sitting alongside Santiago, a black cat on her lap, and she smoked a cigarette whilst gazing out of the window nervously, possibly imagining herself elsewhere. Yana was more handsome than pretty. Manolin always thought she looked like a starlet of the theatres. She was married to the rumel, Jefry, but it had occurred to him that they seemed to be more friends than lovers these days, and her husband did not seem to mind her spending so much time with Santiago. If indeed Santiago was fucking his wife, Jefry did not show such knowledge. Santiago seemed to know how make her smile. She possessed a straight nose and a firm jaw. Her eyes were silver, beacons against the dark outfits she always wore. Manolin gazed at her face, wanted a woman like that when he was older. She had laughter lines around her eyes and everything she did or said seemed almost secret, hidden, demanding more attention. Young girls looked up to her, wanting to be her. She rubbed one of the cat’s ears.

Manolin suspected that only Santiago could possess her attention, like he did so many other women, but in Yana’s case it was because he was her boss. He never acknowledged that fact. Santiago was a true ladies man: one with a good ear. He had set Manolin up with several women throughout their working career together, and had even introduced Manolin to the one he went on to marry.

Manolin felt frustrated at times. Santiago had been like a father to him, aiding him with his Doctorate and eventually providing him with a job for life. He felt that he owed Santiago a lot, much of what he was in fact. He still wanted more, but just what their relationship was any more , was beginning to form complex shapes in his mind. He laughed at himself at the negativities that he found he had towards his mentor. Why should he have felt this particular way when he owed so much? Manolin shrugged off the notion as a peculiarity of the human animal. It was, he had declared, an inevitable predisposition to destroy relationships of any kind wherever they can. It contrasted with the natural world. It was where relationships formed and developed never destroyed-but always transformed into new systems, and increased in stability along the way.

‘Becq not coming out tonight?’ Manolin said to Santiago.

‘No, she’s out at the theatre with her aunt,’ Santiago said. ‘She’s leaning towards the Arts these days. I despair. You know, she’s taken to making dolls in her spare time. Dolls. All that science I gave and she turns to crafts. I pour over journals and research notes, and she makes dolls.’ He smiled at his drink. ‘Still, I have to say, they’re very realistic. ‘

Manolin was disappointed.

‘You know, I can’t remember what I was saying before you came in,’ Jefry said. ‘I’m sure I had a point to make.’

‘What’s that?’

Jefry said, ‘I got lost in my thoughts’

‘Was that unfamiliar territory then?’ Yana said.

Jefry saw the sarcasm in her eyes. ‘No, my dear, your body is unfamiliar territory.’

Arth sniggered. Yana sat silently, fingering her cigarette. She rubbed its ears with her free hand, and the creature regarded her with narrow, satisfied eyes.

‘So, any work this week?’ Manolin asked.

‘Not much to report,’ Santiago said. He puffed on his cigar. ‘Guano has gone to the Mayor’s office though, and he’ll be back soon with some possible news, but apart from that we’re still going to have to burn that research grant for a month or two longer.’

Everyone nodded. A silence crept on them. Times were tough for DeBrelt’s Freelance Exploratory Crew. They were mercenary naturalists. Together they travelled Has-jahn and lands further, for whatever they were asked for, animal, vegetable, mineral. Their knowledge was unrivalled. They came at a high price, but, as they told everyone, you got what you paid for: intellectuals who knew their subjects inherently. There wasn’t much call for their specialist knowledge in recent times, and so they had become regulars at the tavern, drinking away research funds, eating into Santiago’s personal pockets, which Manolin knew were luckily rather deep. Sometimes they even had mail delivered to the bar.

The door burst open. A couple strolled into the room to a standing roar from DeBrelt’s table. The man was clad in a smart, black robe, with baggy white breeches underneath. His fingers were covered in dozens of silver rings, and at his side was a small woman with a large smile that Manolin thought was genuine. She wore the same styled outfit, but wore a white top and black bottom.

‘Tchad, Dora, come over, many congratulations,’ Jefry said, checking his stance as he scraped his chair back.

He was being careful not to stumble, and Manolin saw that Yana looked at him almost angrily at his loudness. Shame flashed across her eyes as if a candle had been blown out. Jefry sat back down, removing beer froth by raising his lower lip over his top. Manolin watched and felt pain as Tchad squeezed Dora’s hand, their faces beaming. He could see they were happy. He breathed out, but smiled anyway, and he congratulated the pair.

Drinks were ordered. Food was brought. The table became full of rare curiosities: crab, oyster, certain cystoids, fish, eel, lizard were all crammed into the centre, sizzling and spiced. The main course, a large squid, was brought last, placed in the centre of the table and everyone gazed at such a delicacy. Each of them had a plate and filled it to the top. Manolin was not feeling particularly hungry. Santiago more than made up for it. He devoured the delights, being careful not to get any in his moustache. A crowd came and went, congratulating the couple, who were coy, gracious.