Slow River

The second third of the shift seemed harder than the first, despite the fact that we were on our own. By the second break, Cel’s rumor had gone round and there was intense speculation. No one seemed to doubt that Magyar would take the job—the interest was all about who would take Magyar’s place. I watched the fish and spoke to no one, then went back to the troughs and worked like an automaton.

Finishing at four in the morning felt different from two. Bleaker. Or maybe I was just tired. It was one of those strange, warmish winter nights, when the air is full of moisture and you can hear the wind.

“Bird.” It was Magyar, waiting for me. “I expect you’ve heard the rumors.”

“Yes.”

We walked in silence.

“You won’t ask, will you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t take the job!” She seemed angry. At herself, or me.

I didn’t know what to think, or how to feel. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. It just…”

I smiled, I couldn’t help it. “Cel said you wouldn’t know what to do with those soft wankers.”

Magyar grinned back. “Work their asses off.”

We walked some more. I had no idea. where we were going.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time: better hours, more money. No Hepple. Then they asked me who they should give my job to. I thought about you. You know more about that place than you’ve any right to. You’d do a good job. But… I don’t know… you’re not who you say you are.”

“You could have suggested someone else. Cel, maybe.”

“Don’t think I didn’t consider it. But the more I thought about you, the more I thought we had some unfinished business. You lied about your identity to get a job you’re way, way too qualified for. I can’t trust a person who does that.”

“I wouldn’t cause trouble.”

“Maybe not, but how can I be sure?”

I did not point out what I had done last night.

She made a soft sound of frustration. “I like you, but I don’t trust you. Who are you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Then tell me why you took this job.”

“Because it was something I knew how to do. And it’s inconspicuous enough to avoid attention.”

“From the police?”

I nodded. We walked some more. We were in the dock-side area now—the real docks, not the tourist arena.

“What did you do?”

“I think I killed someone.”

Five dangerous little words. They hung there like gnats. If I could I would have leapt and snapped them back, like a dog. For a split second I thought about running. Magyar would not follow me.

Instead, after a brief falter in my steps, we kept walking.

“That’s not everything, is it?”

“No.”

“But it’s all you’re going to tell me.”

“Yes.” I was cold and tired. I stopped walking. “What will you do?”

“Nothing.” I couldn’t see her face, just her breath, pearly against the dark, industrial sky. “You helped me last night. You helped all of us. And I’m a patient woman.”

You’ll tell me eventually, she meant. It wasn’t a threat. Not quite.

“Get to bed. Bird.” Or whoever you are. “You look worn out.”

I went to the Polar Bear.

* * *

The data-slate business stayed tight, and more and more Lore woke up with restraint marks on her wrists, or arms sore from paddling some flabby-legged sixty-year-old. Once, toward the end of summer, she woke up in their flat with a butt plug still strapped inside her, and she rushed to the bathroom and vomited. Afterward she hung limply over the bowl and whispered to the water, “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me…”

But even as her gorge rose again, her skin flushed with remembered heat. She wept.

Sometimes all Spanner would have to do was show her the little bottle and she would nearly come.

By November, they were tricking six nights out of seven, and sometimes more than once a night. They usually took it in turns: one to perform, one to guard. On the nights or afternoons when she was the one watching Spanner fucking some spoiled teenager or limp old man, she felt powerful: she was in charge.

She was the one who made sure there were latex and antivirals; she was the one who pulled Spanner off when the client had had enough; she was the one who took the money. She was in charge; she had choices.

This might not be love, but she was not being lied to. They earned a great deal of money, but they always seemed to need more. The holiday season came again. Lore wandered the streets, ending up by the medieval gate that had been excavated thirty years before. She stared at it, then out at what had once been a dock, long ago. A huge shopping mall, tawdry with age, floated there now. She wondered why modern creations became uglier faster. It was raining. Something about the gray sky and the sturdy shoes splashing through puddles reminded her of Den Haag, of her hand in her father’s as they ran, laughing, from the chauffeured car to the brightly lit store. She had bought Tok an art program for his slate that year.

Her father had helped her choose presents for everyone.

And she had felt so lucky.