Chapter Text
There is something about the pale that scares Kim. It’s not something he’s ever said to you- it’s not a topic that comes up often at all, really- but it’s something you had caught on to in the very first days of your partnership. His refusal to discuss it with Joyce, his uneasiness with the church, particularly after you’d shared your theory on the swallow… In the months since Martinaise, as you’ve worked on re-learning the world around you, you’ve noticed that the pale is one of those topics that is generally avoided, superficially discussed when brought up and usually almost immediately redirected from. Kim, though- he stonewalls. He doesn’t want to think about it and he doesn’t want *you* to think about it.
You can’t say you get it. You’ve got more immediate problems than some weird entroponetic bullshit six thousand kilometers away. Honestly, sometimes the idea even appeals to you, the Paledriver’s words echoing in your mind. Watching it all go away, rolling off like the sea. Becoming vapor. No more of *this* to struggle with day after day.
You had theorized that something pale-related had happened to you. Kim had not wanted to help you speculate, so you had gone to Jean instead. You’d already known on some level that it wasn’t going to be a productive conversation- things are still treacherous at best between you- but still you had to ask:
“What happened? The day we got to Martinaise?”
Jean, in the process of cleaning up to leave for the night, had glared up at you. “I told you the day you came back, shitkid.” He’d paused. No, he’d decided, he wanted to rub this part in. “Drunk. Breaking shit. Yelling at people. Usual asshole behavior out of you, but dialed up to eleven.”
You’d tried not to grimace. “Yeah, I know, I’m sorry-”
“I don’t fucking care if you’re sorry-”
“But I- that day, really Jean, I’m trying to understand what happened-”
He’d slammed his desk drawer shut to end your sentence before you could. “There’s nothing to *understand*. You told me to fuck off and then *forgot*. So here’s me returning the favor: fuck off, Harry, and stop fucking asking. I’m not a- a reel of goddamn ferrotape for you to play back. You want to know? Remember it yourself.”
You’d heard him muttering to himself as he left- “fucking asshole” a prime phrase among them- and you’d watched him go, helplessly. A useless conversation, as most talks with Jean tended to be, not that you could really blame him. But it had stuck with you for a few days, that last thing. You want to know- remember it yourself. It hadn’t really been working that way, you’d remember little things if your memory was jogged but never on command and rarely at a convenient time, but maybe you could be intentional about the way you jogged yourself this time, since you already kind of knew what you were trying to remember…
A couple days later Trant had mentioned returning to Martinaise with Mikael for a day, and hardly thinking about it, you’d asked if you could come along.
“Sure,” Trant had agreed, a bemused smile on his face. “But may I ask why?”
“I dunno. Pink academia stuff. Trying to figure out this whole mess,” You’d told him, with a vague gesture towards your head.
“Oh,” Trant had said, and visibly brightened. “Yes, Harry, of course- scene of the incident and all that. Would it be too much to ask that you share with me if you have any insights while you’re there?”
“No,” You’d replied, while thinking that yes, it might be too much, that really just depended on how things went. “I’ll owe it to you for driving me.”
“Oh, it’s not a matter of debts.” But he’d looked pleased with that response. “Well, Sunday morning then- let’s say we meet here at eight?”
And that’s how you ended up here, crossing the Martinaise waterlock with Trant and his son late on a Sunday morning, hands shoved in your pockets to quell the temptation to go looking through things.
You are prepared to greet the residents of the fishing village and find that there are none outside for you to greet, despite the relatively pleasant weather. Lilienne is presumably off casting her nets, but the rest are gone with nothing to account for the absence: no twins, no little Lily, no washerwoman and, in a discovery that relieves you in a guilty sort of way, no village drunks.
All of Martinaise is like this now, you reflect. The strike had broken briefly, you’d seen in the papers, only to redouble within a week or two. The Claires have crushed the harbor shut with iron fists, trapping valuable cargo in their possession and preventing the movement of anything new. Wild Pines is content to let them starve Martinaise out, afraid of the bad publicity that might come with direct retaliation, and oh, is Martinaise starving. You can feel the desperation in your bones. Even the seagulls don’t seem to laugh so much anymore.
“It’s quiet,” You say as the three of you pass out of the village. You haven’t spoken much since leaving the station, Trant has been too busy talking poor Mikael’s ear off, but you feel that Trant has to acknowledge the change somehow.
“It’s a Sunday morning,” Is Trant’s cheerful reply. “People probably want to sleep in.”
That isn’t what you meant. That isn’t what’s happening here, anyone with eyes and a brain can see that- nobody in Martinaise can afford lazy Sundays, nor can most in Jamrock. The atmosphere here is tense, duck-your-head-when-you-walk don’t-stay-out-long kind of quiet. The kind of quiet that comes when no one wants to be seen or singled out. The prey kind of quiet, when even breathing too deep might call the predator down on you.
How can he not feel that? The town is curled into itself like a kicked dog, caught halfway in the decision between submitting and fighting back. You hadn’t asked him along for a specific reason, but for a moment you still wish Kim was here. He’d understand.
It frustrates you, maybe more than it should. Trant didn’t work the case and knows Martinaise only as a curiosity for its history, of course he’s not going to notice the change. But it’s glaringly obvious to you- you’re going to tell Kim about this as soon as you’re back, you decide- and you’re happy to part with Trant at the Feld building. His talking was starting to wear on your nerves anyway.
The rest of the walk to the church is at once familiar and strange. You had walked this path many times in March’s late winter, but the snow and sea ice are gone now in the warmth and sun of early summer. It feels like a different place, shifting mud where before the frost had crunched underfoot. You can’t say that you like the feeling it’s giving you, but you came here for a reason- you’re not going to leave now.
As you approach the old building, you expect to feel, then hear the heavy rhythm of anodic music, but nothing comes. There is anxiety gnawing a hole in your chest as you push open the door. Did they leave? Were they kicked out? Killed, even? They were obviously using- did they overdose? Get into debt with the wrong pusher?
But there is still equipment in the church when you walk in- the booth, the speakers, rearranged to sit before the stained-glass window where Soona once worked, a modern-day pulpit. Her equipment is gone, you notice: she must have finished getting her answers and gone home. You wonder if she keeps in touch with the speedfreaks-
(Thirty-three kilometers away, in Couron, a dark-haired woman sits at a desk feeding lines of test commands into the executive screen of a radiocomputer. The bluish light illuminates her face, stark and severe in the dim room. The right side of the wall in front of the desk is littered with memos covered in programmer jargon- the left side, decorated with postcards, writing side facing out, each enthusiastically signed in four different handwritings.)
-and feel a little more at ease. The ravers can’t be raving every second of the day. They’ll be back tonight.
But there is someone who is always here, someone whose guidance you need.
“Tiago?” You call, stepping into the middle of the church. “Hey, it’s me- Tiago, you here?”
For a few minutes there is no response, and you are left standing alone behind the pews, waiting. You haven’t truly approached the swallow yet, you’re not under the bell tower, but even from where you’re standing there’s a thick quality to the air, like someone plugged your ears and nose with cotton while you weren’t paying attention. It’s uncomfortable, more than it was when you first felt its presence. Something about the feeling makes you want to blow your nose to try to clear your ears.
Then, finally, when it’s getting so irritating that you’re considering leaving and trying again some other time, you catch movement in the rafters.
Tiago swings himself down with an easy grace- you think his eyes might be closed. “Hey there, homes,” He says. His eyes are *definitely* closed. Probably were the whole time. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“Didn’t think I’d see *you*, to be honest.” After leaving Martinaise, you had been left with a deep feeling of uneasiness regarding the place- even the thought of coming back had been enough to get your hackles up. Now you recognize those feelings for what they were: anxiety due to the trauma, a pervasive feeling of guilt for not *doing more*.
The guilt is not entirely unfounded. Think of those wasted hours over the weekend while you drank yourself into oblivion, three *days* of- of…
Well, you’re not entirely sure what *of*. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?
“Hoping it’s a pleasant surprise, then.” Tiago shifts to sit rather than hang. His posture is looser now, but still more tense than you remember it being when you were first here. “What can I do for you, homes?”
We’re on a time limit here, you remind yourself, let’s stay on track, get what we need and go.
But you’re you. There’s no way that’s happening.
“What’s going on around here?” You ask, lowering your voice on instinct before realizing he probably can’t hear you up there.
But he hears you perfectly, it seems. “Man, what *isn’t* going on around here?”
“It’s gotta be bad if *you* know what’s going on.”
“Sure is, homes. Sure is.” There is resignation in his voice. “I overhear the kids. Or they tell me, sometimes. When they’re scared. I don’t have the answers, but it helps if I pretend to.”
You think of Acele, by herself on the ice, fiddling with her microphone. Of Andre’s starry-eyed hopefulness in the tent as you’d agreed to help if the club came sans-drug-lab. “How are they doing?”
“Holding on. Same as the rest of us. The club isn’t working out-” Big surprise, his shrug seems to say- “But they make music and sell it now, somewhere in the city. No penthouses in anyone’s future, but they’re comfortable. And they’re together- that’s the important part.”
Together. You agree. Even the more grounded Acele, away from the warmth and noise of the tent, had shown fondness in her frown at them. Together it won’t be so hard for them.
“And they live here?” You know the answer, seeing their things here, drying clothes hung over the backs of the pews, but you feel you have to ask anyway.
“Business on the first floor, residence in the loft.” He gestures at the second story. “Nowhere else for them to go, man. It’s not like anyone else needs the place. And besides the viejita, I’m all the guidance they’ve got. Me and the Mother.”
The Mother. What you *really* came to talk to him about.
“Speaking of, actually,” You say, and you can see him lean in a little. “The Mother- that’s the swallow, isn’t it? The perforation in the world.”
Tiago laughs. “The Mother isn’t that simple, wey. You’ll never see her. She just speaks through the perforation, that’s all.”
“But there’s no sound there. The swallow…” You trail off, remembering that head-splitting, apocalyptic deafness that had consumed you. The certainty of the end of the world. The knowledge of how it would go.
“In her silence she speaks, and in her speech her silence.” He says it like a hymn instead of the inane jumble of words it is. “Why, homes? You ready to accept the Mother’s love this time?”
“I think so.” You aren’t sure exactly what it entails, but it was the only idea you could come up with, besides starting another fight with Jean and hoping he’d yell something useful this time.
He studies your face. You can’t imagine he’s seeing much all the way up there, but he nods to himself all the same.
“Left behind the bottle, wey? Good for you. Does wonders for the spirit, you know.” Again he nods. “I think you can try,” He says. His verdict, delivered. “The first time is always hard. But I can introduce you. Come on up, homes.”
Up? As in the second floor, or as in…?
“There’s a ladder for you in the loft,” He tells you. “I’ll come down, homes, don’t you worry. You’ll need me there, unless you’re okay with falling.”
You’re definitely not, and you say as much as you ascend the stairs. You think you hear a laugh among the quiet shuffling in the rafters. At the back of the loft, below the bell tower, there is in fact a questionable-looking ladder, and hanging a few rungs up is Tiago, a broad smile on his face.
It’s by far the closest you’ve ever been, and you take a moment to look at him properly. He’s on the short side but built solidly, and naked except for a pair of old shorts. His hair is messy and dark, and not very long- you wonder who cuts it?- and he’s got exactly the kind of face that fits with his ex-gang-member story, serious and squarish and well-defined. He could be handsome, but there’s something unnerving about the faraway look in his eyes- when he looks at something it just seems like he’s looking through it, beyond it.
You wonder if you look the same way.
“Up there?” You ask after a long moment, and he nods and drops gracefully from the ladder. His feet hardly make a sound.
“You first.” He speaks louder than before, despite being closer to you. That cottonplug feeling is creeping back into your ears. “You might need a catcher.”
You try not to think about that as you approach the ladder. With each step you take, the sensation gets worse- it’s like tinnitus but without the noise.
“You can take my weight?” It’s meant to be a joke, but as the question leaves your mouth you realize you’re serious. This was your idea, you wanted this, but- it unnerves you. You’re worried. (You’re *scared*.)
You don’t miss the shift of his muscles as he crosses his arms casually. “You’ll be fine, homes. Focus on the journey.”
When you get your hands on the ladder you have to pause to let yourself adjust. The feeling of the swallow wasn’t good underneath the bell tower on the ground floor- up here, it’s worse, the heaviness more tangible as it eats away the world around you. But Tiago’s hand is on your back, urging you up. And you *wanted* this. There are things you need to know.
With each rung you push yourself up, you remind yourself of this. Rung one; Jean is upset with you. For many things, but it seems especially because of what happened in Martinaise. You’re starting to feel queasy. Rung two; you don’t know what you did to him or what you said, and he won’t help you find out. You can hardly tell when your feet hit the ladder anymore- there’s almost no sound left. Rung three; it’s definitely your fault and you need to make amends, but it’s hard to apologize for what you don’t remember. Your pulse is pounding in your ears and it’s the only noise in the world. Rung four; if you’re going to stop being this kind of animal, then you need to know exactly what kind of animal *this* was. The blood rushing through your head is the loudest thing you’ve ever known, but if you stop hearing it you’ll think you’re dead, so it’ll just have to do. Rungs five-six-seven-eight; why this? Why you? Why now? Why here? Distantly you wonder if Tiago is still below you, you can’t see or hear or feel him, but really it doesn’t matter, does it? Rung nine; what the hell *happened*? The end of the ladder is within reach. You feel a tug at your ankle- your head breaches a cold airy *something* and-
Silence.
You could say there is no church, but that would require you to remember that you had started off in a church. Here, wherever here is, there is just *now* and no concept of *before*. You are somewhere high, where the air is thin and cold and you gasp for breath as vapor stings your cheeks. You breathe and watch the breath hang in the air before you. It does not dissipate even when you wave a hand through it- then it just swirls, clinging to your bare hand in milky white droplets.
You look down. Below you, distantly, is a dull gray tangle of streets and city blocks, discordant and clinging together desperately, as though disentanglement would mean death.
IT WOULD.
Although it is sudden, and although there is no source for it that you can see, the voice in your head does not startle you. Her voice is urgent but gentle and you have heard it before. It is the reason you came here, the reason you dared to go near the swallow again.
Hello, you say to nothing.
The city below you begins to come alive at the acknowledgment, warm light spilling into its streets- sodium lamps, motor carriages- traveling down its alleys and up its tenement blocks like a wave (like blood through veins) until all of it is awash in a haze of soft red. If you squint, you could almost see a human bust in the outline its shape resolves.
I SEE YOU. Spoken like a reminder.
I see you too.
YOU DID NOT SEE ME BEFORE. AND YOU CAME TO ME KNOWINGLY. BY CHOICE.
It- no, not *it*, you decide- *she* doesn’t sound so scared, now. The concept of *before* is coming back to you just a little, enough to know that in the before, she had been scared.
YOU COULD HAVE LEFT ME. IN ANOTHER WORLD, YOU DID. IN ANOTHER WORLD I WATCHED YOU GO. AND WITH YOUR LEAVING, ANOTHER HOLE. MY HEART COULD NOT TAKE IT. I LOVED YOU AND YOU LEFT.
There is a terrible ache in your chest at the words. I love you. Whoever that person was, I am not him. I’m here. There is a hole in my heart too, but it belongs to you anyway.
I KNOW. BUT IN A HUNDRED HUNDRED WORLDS, THAT IS NOT THE CASE. A pause. Snow is falling all around you, laying a grayish haze over the glow of the city. BUT YOU ARE HERE.
I am here.
WHY ARE YOU HERE?
That gives you pause. Why *are* you here? Where is *here*?
YOU ARE IN COMMUNION WITH ME. YOU ARE MY CHILD. YOU WARM MY STREETS AND FOLLOW MY WORD. IN RETURN YOU ASK A FAVOR.
A favor? A favor… In this moment, you can’t remember what you’d wanted. You don’t know why or how you’re here. You turn a hand palm-up to catch snow and it drifts onto you, raising goosebumps on your skin without you ever feeling cold.
YOU ARE HERE ALONE.
Wasn’t I always?
NEVER. You are not cold- there is no sensation here- but you feel like you could lay your hands over the city’s glow and be warmed by it. A HAND ON YOUR BACK IN THE SNOW. AN IMPRINT IN THE PILLOW BESIDE YOU. LOUD VOICES IN AN EMPTY SILK MILL. A BLUE PEN SCRATCHING PAPER. AND YOU IN MY HEART, ALWAYS. HOW COULD YOU EVER BE ALONE?
You want to cry, suddenly. Something is threatening to spill over. But you just said that I…
YOU ARE NOT ALONE. BUT YOU ARE HERE BY YOURSELF. A pause, to make the distinction felt. WHY? YOU ARE GOING TO NEED THEM.
I don’t know. There is the truth- *that* is why you are here. They don’t understand- one won’t listen to me. I need to know why.
I AM SPEAKING THROUGH YOU. HE MUST LISTEN.
But he won’t and it’s my fault. The very thought makes you feel guilty, ruined. There might be tears on your face. I need to know what happened to me. What I did.
The lights below you dim. Some blocks go dark, while others flash bright- neural networks firing in real time. You get a sense of hesitation, some kind of internal debate. In a way it is all the answer you need.
It might be forever before the lights start to steady out. I NEEDED YOU.
What happened?
YOU WOULD NOT HAVE STAYED.
But what happened?
IT WAS BETTER FOR YOU. FOR US.
What did you do to me?
Total blackout, just for a moment, but long enough to make you panic. This darkness, this absence of everything, is something you can recall feeling twice. The same person pulled you from it both times, but he is not here now. You wonder if he will get the chance to do it again.
I TIDIED UP.
You stole.
The city flares bright for a moment. A blush and a scold all in one. I DID NOT TAKE. I PACKED. I HAD TO.
You recall an old dream, a glimpse into your future. So I can get it all back?
YOU CAN. BUT YOU SHOULD NOT. DON’T YOU REMEMBER HOW IT HURT? UNCONSCIOUS, DIRT STUCK TO YOUR FACE, SUFFOCATING… ARMS LOCKED UNDER YOURS, PULLING YOU TO WARMTH, SAFETY- IT IS LUCKY HE WAS STRONG ENOUGH FOR YOU BOTH.
You remember how it hurt. It still hurts now. But that doesn’t absolve you of responsibility. You are learning to be a new man, a better one. This is your first step.
This should be my decision. Not yours.
I LOVE YOU.
This tactic feels familiar, somehow.
I MUST PROTECT YOU. AND YOU MUST PROTECT ME. Fear edging back into her voice. WE NEED EACH OTHER.
I love you. I will protect you. But you’re not protecting me.
FORTY-FOUR YEARS OF RAIN POOLED BEHIND A DAM. FORTY-FOUR STORIES OF A COLLAPSING TENEMENT. YOU MUST UNDERSTAND. IT WOULD KILL YOU.
I don’t need it all. I don’t want it all. Not yet, maybe not ever. But I need this.
A gentle dimming below you. I DID NOT TAKE FROM YOU. YOU HAVE IT. Avoidant. But it is a concession nonetheless.
Then help me find it.
The back of your neck prickles. IT WILL BE UGLY. YOU WILL NOT LIKE WHAT YOU SEE. Something catches in your chest. The hairs on your arms are up. THIS CANNOT BE YOUR UNDOING. I HAVE ALREADY DONE ALL THAT I CAN FOR YOU. THERE WILL BE NO TRYING AGAIN.
I know. I’ll be okay. Do you trust me?
A breeze across the back of your neck like a sigh. I TRUST YOU. YOU ARE MY CHILD. COME BACK TO ME. I WILL BE WAITING.
It comes to you suddenly, violently, a gift you cannot refuse being thrust into your arms.
You, in the passenger seat of a blue Coupris 40, a bent ledger and a thin case file in your lap. Trant and Judit quiet in the backseat, listening. Jean- his name warm in your mind, familiar and fond in a way it hasn’t felt in months- is driving. He wouldn’t let you do it, for all your cajoling- he knows you’ve already started drinking today. He didn’t argue with you, just took the keys and sat in the driver’s seat. You didn’t care enough to protest.
“This seems like a quick one,” Jean says. When he doesn’t need both hands on the steering wheel he’s rubbing at his face or fussing with his hair. It’s a nervous tic of his. He doesn’t believe what he’s saying.
“C’mon, Jean, bullshit.” You jostle his arm and he shoves your shoulder hard.
“Fucking knock it off, shitkid,” He snaps, but he’s smirking a little bit when he catches your grin. “Maybe you want to die in a traffic accident, but we don’t.”
You ignore the appeal of the thought. There’s a little bottle in your pocket that will help you to ignore it, as soon as you’ve arrived in Martinaise. You want you and Jean to be friends today. There’s word on the streets of some kind of pissing competition going on here and Jean had demanded strict- well, not professionalism, more like nonparticipation- from your team, specifically from you. Who the 57th sent remains to be seen.
You want to nudge him again, but you settle for an unobtrusive poke at his shoulder. “It won’t be simple.”
“It looks quite simple,” Trant says from the back. “Labor dispute. There have been troubles with unions all over Revachol in the past year or two.”
“But we’re rarely involved,” Judit says. “And when we are, it’s never because either side *wants* us there.”
You make a vague affirmative gesture in Judit’s direction. “Right on the money, Jude. Jean could learn from you.”
“You could learn from shutting the fuck up.” But he nods. He’d meant it with love. “I want this to be easy, but it won’t be. A regular union problem- they’d go to Madre before they’d come to *us*.”
“‘Cause we’re meant to back the ‘lintern, and they just back the money.”
“Keep that shit to yourself, Harry.”
“What? You’re gonna argue that?”
“I don’t think we disagree,” Judit says- somewhat undermined by Trant’s emphatic “no” gesture. “It’s just not a smart thing to *say*.”
“I say a lot of things that aren’t smart. It usually turns out okay.”
“You’re half right.” Jean speeds up a little as the traffic opens up. “Stay on track, shitkid. What are we looking at?”
You read the meager case notes out loud for the thousandth time.
“And that’s all it says?”
You make a big show of squinting at the paper. It’s actually not all show. You’re getting to that age- a pair of glasses would do you a world of good. (You’re still not going to get them.)
“Oh, shit,” You say, and it’s hard not to grin when everyone perks up around you. “Wait, hold on. I missed this part the first fifty fucking times I read it- there’s a back page and it has the killer’s name and address and motive and *everything*. My fucking bad, man.”
“I fucking hate you,” Jean tells you as Judit laughs in the backseat. He’s trying not to laugh too.
“Says right here it was a weird sex thing gone wrong,” You continue, pulling at your tie in a suspiciously believable pantomime of tightening a leash. “Or gone right. Who can say?”
“Stop projecting,” Jean says. Even Trant is now trying not to react. “You think you can dig something useful out of your thick skull?”
You’re thirsty. It distracts you for a second. You wish you could get out the travel bottle- you almost do, but it’s nice to see Jean almost-smiling. It makes you feel a little less wretched about yourself.
“It was a personal problem.”
“As in suicide?”
“The fuck? No. No one’s gonna call in a suicide.” You’ve had that thought many times. Your body carries the evidence. “Personal problems with someone else, I mean. Stepped on some toes. Would help if we knew who the fuck he was, though.”
“Oh, do you think so?”
“I fucking think so.”
“Can I just say, it’s really clear to me how you earned those yefreitors. You’re slogging through some real tough shit to get these theories.”
There’s more conversation between the two of you, mostly the beginnings of an escalation that’s so typical of you two that your mind apparently didn’t bother to catalog it. It starts to get a little hazy here. The itch in your palms is strong and the bottle is burning a hole in your pocket. A few kilometers out from the scene and you’ve gone quiet, but no one comments- it’s better silence out of you than insults and drama and abuse.
At that thought your mood tanks hard. It’s going to be one of those days, then. You thought you were ready to have an alright time with Jean, taking care of business and all that shit. Now you just want to get there, get to a store, find a place to sit and drink until you’re no longer so acutely aware of how fucked up you are. Jean can handle things by himself, or with Judit. It’s barely noon and you’re already buzzed- what part of you thought you could get there and still be able to do your job? Let them work without you. It’ll be better that way.
The closer you get to Martinaise the worse you start feeling. You shouldn’t have come. You are keenly aware of your heart hammering in your chest- it’s all you can do to control your breathing so Jean won’t rip into you for having “yet another fucking panic attack,” as he has so lovingly put it before. (Don’t be unfair, you tell yourself, a lot of the time it’s my fault for mixing shit or doing too much, I’m getting too old for all this. Do be unfair, the worse part of you chides, it’s not *always* because of that, sometimes he just wants to hurt you. Not that you can really blame him. You want to hurt you too.)
Jean takes the exit towards Martinaise and you’re ready to crawl out of your skin. The scared animal inside of you wants to grab Jean by the shirt and *make him* turn the carriage around. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done something like that- you can see his reaction in your mind, him grabbing you back and screaming at you until you back down or hurt him so bad he leaves the second he’s able to and doesn’t speak to you willingly for days. You almost wish he would. Sometimes it grounds you, when he treats you like that. Sometimes you provoke him just so he does that to you and he goes along with it because both of you need to feel *something* and anger is as good as anything else. And it’s fine. At the end of the day you come back to each other. There’s no one else to come back to.
You only realize you’ve arrived when the MC lurches to a stop underneath you, on the side of a plaza in front of a massive gridlock. The rest of the carriage doors are slamming shut as everyone disembarks- you stumble out, dazed, narrowly avoid eating shit on a flagstone that’s come loose from the plaza’s pavement.
You’re acting drunk without even *being* drunk. That’s the first step in fixing all this- while they’re at the boot of the Coupris looking through supplies, you sneak out the bottle and down it in one go. It’s not much, but it’s a start. You see a Fritte down the street. Maybe you can get more there, as soon as you can find an excuse to split. Jean will see right through it- he always does- but he won’t stop you. He’s too jaded for that now. (Probably.)
Wordlessly, Jean hands you a piece of gum as you enter the hostel that the body was found behind.
“Thanks,” You say. You know the gesture for what it is. A silent ‘I saw that,’ as good as permission in your eyes.
There’s a bar in here- fuck the Fritte, this is the first stop as soon as the eyes are off you. The shot has taken the very worst off, but only that. You’ll need more, much more, if you’re going to make it through the day.
Jean takes the lead on talking to the cafeteria manager. It’s clear by the way he keeps pausing that he expects you to have questions of your own, but frankly you’re just too out of it- you barely register the man’s answers. No, I didn’t call- out back- I have no idea- no, no other officers so far- took *you* long enough, didn’t it?- not a customer, no- I’ll ask when she comes back- sure, here’s the key, it’s just around there, have fun.
As soon as you’re outside, Jean grabs you by the shoulder and squeezes until it hurts. You could be mad, hurt him back, but just now you’re grateful for it. The pain pulls you back into yourself a little.
He’s studying your eyes, you realize. “How much?”
You blink. Trant and Judit are not with you. Probably still in the hostel, talking to the other guests. Jean wanted to take you out back and put one between your eyes in private.
You can’t even find it within yourself to seem ashamed. God, you need to *leave*. “Three shots. No- four?”
“Nothing else?”
“Huh? No.” You snort. “I wish.”
He punches your chest. It isn’t full force, not a real punch, it’s just a warning (and an anchor), but it does leave an ache deep in the muscles there. He seems satisfied when you don’t even flinch.
“You’re lucky the 57th hasn’t shown up yet. Don’t fuck this up. I’m serious.” And he keeps walking towards the courtyard.
The key Jean is holding is for a fence out by the side of the hostel. Ah- so you’re going to take a look at the body. Normal stuff. You can do this. Sure, you’ll need some drinks after, to wash the picture out of your mind, but you can do it.
Jean unlocks the fence gate and ushers you through, then follows you and closes it behind him. You don’t look up immediately, too busy scanning the churned-up ground as you walk. Footprints, held solid and clear in the freezing mud, although they cross over one another and make some hard to distinguish. You kneel down to get a closer look and Jean lets you- he’s busy studying the path the tracks make.
“Seven or eight people,” You decide. “One’s got a weird fuckin’ shoe. You think it’s his?”
Jean glances up at the body. It’s turning gently on the belt, its back to you, but its glossy white armored boots are hard to miss.
“No. We’ll check the soles anyway, but armor like that? It wouldn’t be uneven.” His eyes scan the tracks again. “The group went back and forth a couple times. Admiring their work?”
“No. These were all made within the same hour or two.” Focusing on the details is helping, but you still want to throw up. Your mind is screaming at you to turn around, walk away- fuck the case and fuck this guy, dead’s dead, but despite your best efforts you’re still alive and for some reason you’re trying to stay that way. “Maybe there were complications,” You manage to continue. “Getting him up. Or- or keeping him there.”
“That does look like a heavy-duty belt he’s on,” Jean muses. “Come on, shitkid, let’s get a better look at him. He’s been up there too long already.”
It’s more than the smell or the sight of it. It’s more than your general unwellness that always has you feeling like you’re dangling loose over the end of the world. It’s more than the awful empathy you’ve been trying to drown for the past decade, the thing that simultaneously tears you apart and keeps you moving with every new tragedy you’re tasked with solving. And really, genuinely, this time, it is more than the alcohol in your system.
When the breeze turns the body to face you, something in you breaks.
You stop in your tracks, every atom of every cell of your body frozen in place. It’s *you* up there. That’s you, hanging from the tree with a belt around your neck, cold and alone and utterly uncared for. Did someone put you there, or did you finally string yourself up like you’ve been wanting to for years? Does it matter? No one’s coming to the funeral anyways.
“No,” You say breathlessly, and take a step back.
Jean looks weary of you already. “Oh no,” He says, grabbing your arm. “No fucking way. You’re not freaking out on me *again*. Get your ass over here, we’re getting it down.”
You rip your arm out of his grip and take another step back. “No,” You repeat. It’s the only way you can express how you’re feeling right now. If you don’t get out of here *now* you’re going to *die*. “No. I- no.”
“Good god- shitkid, will you quit fucking shutting down on me?” He turns around to glare at you. “Every fucking time, I swear, it’s always something with you, the fucking coffeepot would be a better partner- can you get it the fuck together? Just once?”
“I can’t-” You try to remember to breathe. “Five minutes. Fuck, gimme five minutes, just stop fucking yelling at me-”
“I’ll stop fucking yelling at you when you stop giving me reasons to fucking yell at you-”
“Fuck’s sake, Jean, I just need five minutes-”
He takes an angry step towards you. “It’s the same shit! It’s always the same goddamn shit! Five minutes my ass, you’re buzzed now and you’re gonna go get *drunk* and then *I* have to clean up whatever fucking mess you decide to make-”
“Shut the fuck up!” It comes out raw and angry and the sheer force behind it makes Jean step away a little. “God, just shut the fuck up, will you?!”
You can see him winding up for a response, face flushed and fists balled at his sides, but you don’t give him the time to use it. Every muscle in your body says *go* and you go, straight down the Frittte for some drinks (they’ve only got a few bottles stocked right now but who gives a fuck) and then somewhere off to the west by the docks to be alone.
Once or twice you think you might hear Judit and Trant looking for you- never Jean, you note with a sick kind of glee as you finish off your second bottle- but you ignore them. Something is wrong with this place. They knew that and they brought you here anyway. You need to be totally numb or you’re going to fucking die here.
They only find you as dusk begins to settle over Martinaise, and it’s only because Jean is finally with them and he sometimes knows you better than you know yourself.
He actually *kicks* you when he finds you sitting with your legs swung over the edge of the seawall. It’s not hard, but it’s a kick and there’s malice in it.
“Hoping I’d fall in?” You ask bitterly. You’re slurring and you don’t care. You make a lazy grab at his leg and he steps away.
“Harry, let’s not,” Judit says softly.
“No, let’s,” Jean says. He sounds just as bitter as you do. “Maybe I am, shitkid. Maybe I want you to fall in so for once I can have a decent fucking explanation for why you’re not doing your fucking *job*.”
“I’ll do my fucking *job* as soon as you stop- stop riding my fucking ass over everything-”
“You fucking dick, if I *don’t* ride your ass then nothing gets done!”
“Goddamn, will you shut the fuck up? You’re fuckin’ lucky I even put up with this shit from you, Satellite. Goddamn fucking asshole.”
“I’m lucky?” He is genuinely incredulous. “*I’m* fucking lucky? *You’re* lucky that we don’t leave your ass like everyone else did! You know how long we just spent looking for you? Wasted a whole day, looked like a bunch of fucking morons too- sorry, lady, you seen my partner? This tall, stupid hair, acts like a fucking toddler in a forty-year-old’s body? I was starting to think-” He stops suddenly, swallows hard. “Goddamn you, shitkid. I don’t need this shit.”
“Then just fuckin’-” You hiccup. “Go. Fucking idiot. Like I ever fucking wanted you around anyway.”
There’s a long pause before he says, quieter than before: “What?”
Finally you look up at his face, and it’s not hatred you see there. Anger, yes, and disappointment. But mostly confusion and worry, and betrayal. He’s hurt. You hurt him.
Judit and Trant are worried too, in the background of all this, but you take this look at Jean and suddenly you can’t bear it anymore. You’re ruined and you’re ruining him with you. He deserves better than you but he’s all you have and you’re all he has and there’s bile burning in the pit of your stomach. You hurt him and it isn’t the first time but it is going to be the last. You’re going to make sure of that.
You may be drunk but you’ve never been stupid. Your gears turn just as fast now as they do sober. Just get them away from you, far away where they can’t change their minds and try to come back. Then you’ll take care of the problem once and for all.
Your pulse is pounding in your ears. “You heard me, asshole.”
Jean goes stiff. “What,” He says, measuring his words, “Is your *fucking* problem?”
“I don’t have a problem. You’re the fucking problem.” You drain the last of the bottle in your hand. You hope you look nonchalant but you know you just look sad and desperate. “You’re cramping my style.”
“Your *style*?!”
“I’m a fuckin’, detective god. Fuck it,” You continue blithely, ignoring his indignation. “This shit is- it’s serious. Detect or die.”
You shiver, suddenly hyper-aware of the salty breeze pulling at your clothes. You’d said it as a stupid piece of drama to piss him off, but something in you seizes on it and won’t let go. You’re right. You’re right and you don’t know how or why or in what way, but people are going to die and you’re going to be one of them.
“Are you crying?” Judit asks quietly, and at the same time-
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Jean demands. “Do I need to get you a fucking straitjacket? The hell is going on with you today?”
“It’s gonna go to shit,” You say. The tremor in your voice is obvious even to yourself. With significant effort you haul yourself onto your feet and stand unsteadily before them- you feel like you’re teetering on the edge of some great height. “Fuck this. Fuck everything. We’re going into the- the fucking abyss here, fuck this-”
“You’re hysterical,” Jean interrupts. You hate that he sounds more worried than angry now. “Like with the goddamn tie. Is it the tie? Because you’re just being fucking insane-”
“Fuck OFF!” You shatter the empty bottle in your hand against the seawall and *that* sure gets everyone’s attention quick. It’s hard to string a sentence together through the angry, scared static in your head. “Just- fuck off! I don’t want you here, I’ll do this on my own, I don’t need you, just FUCK OFF!”
For a moment there is utter silence. You stand there, chest heaving with the effort it takes to breathe, staring them down and feeling like a caged animal. Jean studies your face with a scowl, shoulders high. Judit and Trant, a few feet further away, might as well not exist.
And whatever kept Jean going through these years of your abuse, whatever hope he had left for you- it collapses right in front of you. His shoulders drop. His scowl smooths out into a tight frown. Everything in his demeanor just *sags* as he slowly nods.
He’s giving up on you.
“Okay,” He says, almost calmly. “Sure, you know what? We’ll fuck off. We’ll fuck off all the way back to Jamrock and you can drive your sorry ass back when you’re not so fucking wasted.” He reaches into his pocket, throws you the keys to the Coupris, which you fumble badly and lose among the flagstones.
Judit steps forward to put a hand on Jean’s arm. “Jean, we shouldn’t leave him…”
“Oh, we’re gonna leave him. Just like he wants. I’m just the *satellite officer*- he’s the lieutenant double-yefreitor.” He spits the title like it’s poison in his mouth. “Fuck you, Harry. I really mean it this time. Come back or don’t- I’m sick to fucking death of your little games.”
Jean turns around, ushering Judit and Trant along in front of him. You watch them enter the hostel and just like that, they’re gone. You’re alone.
You stand there awhile, miserable and cold, with the presence of mind only to bend down and pick up the keys to the MC and drop them in your pocket. From there it’s a haze- only pieces peek through in between the drinks, the constant drinks.
Wandering the hostel lobby, making a show of holding your loaded gun to your mouth and grinning. A man nearly slaps you for it, takes the gun and empties the rounds into his hand and shoves the gun back at you empty, yelling in your face until you leave. In a moment of lucidity, running frantically to the pawn shop and threatening yourself with the unloaded gun until the undeniably stoned owner takes it from you for far, far less than it’s worth. It’s enough to keep the tab open, though, and you do.
You drink and you sleep for some amount of time. In the middle of the night you wake up, terrified and alone, and decide you need to go home. The driver’s seat is pushed a little too far back for you- it was to accommodate Jean’s longer legs- and you decide you need to die instead. You hit a fence, a sign, but it’s okay, third time’s the charm and you’re sailing through the air and crashing through the thinning mid-spring ice. The carriage is a twisted deathtrap around you and there’s frigid seawater shocking the air from your lungs as you sink and you decide that you need to live.
You stumble around for a while, dazed with hypothermia and whiplash and rapidly approaching far too sober. You find a church, wander in seeking safety, smash in that awful stained-glass portrait of *her* (dear god must she be *everywhere* the fucking bitch you want her back you can’t live without her). At some point you must black out there, cold and exhausted. There’s light outside when you wake and you bum some drinks off a man who accepts the name you give him, your true and final designation. He toasts to it, races you to the bottom of two commodores and sends you on your way. Somehow you get back to the hostel, aching, and you decide you’re still too sober.
More drinks at the bar. An argument when the girl tries to cut you off- *you,* Tequila Sunset, doesn’t she *get it*- and you prove a point with some stupid taxidermy and the drinks keep coming until you’re out of money, and even then some. A wing lays on the counter between you and you stare at it every time she hesitates on a pour. It does the trick.
At some point you decide the drinks don’t kill you fast enough. There’s a tie around your neck and a ceiling fan in your room, you remember, and you stand from the counter and shuffle upstairs. The knot is tied and the chair is under you and you’re about to kick and you decide that this will kill you too fast. You step off but leave the tie- punishing it for your own cowardice- go downstairs for a few more bottles, see the tie again and are filled with fury, suddenly.
Some amount of time. Disco music, sad music, a bath with some pilsner to try to shut it all out, a shoe through the window that lets in air that freezes your wet hair to your neck. Shivering and smashing the tape player to the floor because the noise is too much all of a sudden.
Finally, exhausted, cold tears cutting into your swollen face, you have had enough. You are finished. You are ready to go. You don’t want to be this kind of animal anymore. Maybe it’s hypothermia, maybe it’s cardiac arrest, maybe alcohol poisoning or just plain fatigue- something happens, and you crumple in the middle of your room. The last thing you feel is gratitude, and regret.
ENOUGH.
Back in the thin air. For a long moment it feels like you’re burning alive. The breeze around you chills you into calm again.
I came back.
YES.
Thank you.
WILL IT HELP?
I think so. Was it you in the church, then?
THE HOLE IN MY HEART- YOU WERE SO NEAR. THERE WAS A HOLE IN YOURS TOO. IT WOULD HAVE SWALLOWED YOU. SILENCE WAS ALL I COULD GIVE.
But it was what I needed.
YES.
Why not sooner?
IT IS NOT EASY TO DO WHAT I HAVE DONE. BUT YOU WERE SO NEAR DEATH. I COULD SLIP IN THROUGH THE CRACKS, WHERE YOU WERE. I CLEANED UP AND I HELD ON. I WILL ALWAYS BRING YOU HOME.
But why? You feel sick thinking of all the attempts crowded into three short days. If I wanted to go…
I NEED YOU. I LOVE YOU. YOU HELD ON TOO. IF YOU HAD TRULY WANTED TO GO, YOU WOULD HAVE GONE. I WOULD HAVE BEEN POWERLESS. The city breathes below you, luminous and serene. BUT YOU WANTED TO STAY. HELP ME. I WANT TO STAY TOO.
You close your eyes and take a breath. It smells like industrial fumes and rain and burnt wiring. Sea air and caramel.
Revachol forever…
FOR EVER AND EVER.
There is a warm hand on your neck and another on your wrist. Cool wood is pressed into your back, just a little too hard for you to ignore. Your hair feels wet for some reason.
“Hey, man,” Tiago says, and there is palpable relief in his voice. “You’re back.”
“Back.” It’s half an agreement and half a question. You struggle to sit up- he helps you with a hand on your back. “Hey. Hi. Sorry. What, uh…”
“You had me worried for a second there, homes. I was trying to tell you, but you couldn’t hear- you got a little too close to it. The fountain. Even I’m not pure enough to go there yet. Shorted you out, or something. You feeling okay now?”
“Yeah, I think so.” Your hair isn’t the only thing that’s damp- you might have been crying too. “Guess you caught me after all, huh?”
He smiles at you. “I caught you.”
A lull. You’re not sure what to say. You had an idea and it worked- now you have to figure out how to move forward.
“Thanks,” You say finally, for lack of anything else.
“Sure thing, man.” He tilts his head like he’s seeing something new in your face. “You wanted that to happen, didn’t you? You knew.”
You shrug in what you hope is a suitably embarrassed gesture. “Not *knew,* but I had an idea…”
“Hey, man, it’s all good. If you heard the Mother, I’m happy.” He leans in a little- almost conspiratorially. It’s a little spark of selfish curiosity you’ve never seen in him. “What did she say?”
For a moment you debate on whether to tell him. You’ve already decided you’re not going to share this with Trant. Not yet, anyway. If he tries to grill you on your memory after reliving *that* you might pass out again. You can still feel the cold saltwater spilling into your lungs.
Tiago is okay to tell, though, you decide. This place has given him memory problems of his own. He’d probably understand better than anyone.
“You remember how I forgot everything?” He nods. “Well, there was something I needed to remember. She gave it back.”
He looks up into the darkness of the bell tower and a strange expression crosses his face, just for a moment. When he looks back at you, he looks content. “That’s good,” He says, and he means it. “You got what you needed. I’m happy for you. Me, though… I’m okay just forgetting. But it’s good to know I have a choice.”
Does he, you wonder? You get the feeling that his progressive memory loss is of a different nature than yours- drug-related or neurotic or wholly entroponetic, and in any case irreversible- but he doesn’t have to know that.
“Yeah,” You agree. You’re both quiet again for a moment before you remember that you have no idea what time it is and you’re supposed to be meeting Trant in the plaza before sundown and it’s definitely looking a little dark out there. “Shit- fuck, I gotta go- how long was I *out*?”
“A few hours,” Tiago answers, unperturbed. “I tried to throw some water on you towards the end there, homes, but you were far away.”
You’re feeling better now, steadier, and you don’t need Tiago’s help to stand, although he does offer it.
“Thank you,” You tell him again. “For this, but- for the kids too.”
“Nothing to thank me for, man. They take care of themselves. I just keep an eye out.”
“Then thanks for that. I feel better knowing they’re with someone.” Even if that someone isn’t totally in touch with reality most of the time, you think. But still- you think of cluttered postcards on a dark wall. They *are* being looked after, in a way. “Say hi to them for me. And if Soona comes back, I say hi to her too.”
“The viejita,” He says with some amusement. “She’s back every couple of weeks to take measurements. I help out. I’ll tell her. Safe travels, homes. Come back sometime.”
There is something knowing in the way he says that. You try not to linger on it as you say goodbye and break out in a brisk jog towards the Whirling-in-Rags, hoping that Trant won’t be too upset with you. You can keep a good pace- you’ll be *almost* not late.
Trant is standing beside his motor carriage when you jog up, a twinge in your shot leg. It’s healed- you’re in no danger of bleeding out of it, haven’t been for a couple months- but it still hurts when you push it too hard.
“Harry,” Trant says cheerfully when he sees you. He doesn’t sound mad, at least. Not that you think he’s got the balls to be openly angry at most people, least of all you. “I was starting to worry you’d gotten distracted.”
“I kinda did,” You say. “Sorry. Not great with time management. You know that.”
He nods. Mikael has his nose in a book- he didn’t have it on the way here, they probably went and bought it from Plaisance- and is thoroughly uninterested in what you have to say.
“So? Anything interesting happen?”
“Not really.” If you tell him, it will be after you’ve already sorted things out with Jean (or tried to). “Took some looks around and talked to some people, but…” You shrug. You try to look helpless, resigned. “Nothing.”
He waves you into the motor carriage, helps Mikael up into the backseat as you get in. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” He says as he slides into the driver’s seat. “It may just take more time. Or it may not come back at all. It’s good that you tried, though.”
“Yeah,” You agree absently. You’re staring at the plaza as the carriage begins to pull away. The paving is lit a dusty gold by the sodium lamps. With some effort you can make out the dark stain in the center where you’d lain dying. Around it, easier to see, loom the charred ghosts of huge letters, painted on in blood and heavy fuel: UN JOUR JE SERAI DE RETOUR PRÈS DE TOI.
The words are branded into your soul. You think of Jean sitting at the cafeteria table, leaning forward with his arms crossed, something eager and expectant beneath the anger. A punchline to a joke you couldn’t understand.
One day I will return to your side... You had all seen the mural that day. You hope he read it. You hope it holds true.