Edge (34 page)

    "A Knifefight Challenge event," said Josh.

    "Which is also the season finale of
Knife Edge
, right? The two teams leave the fighters' house for the last time. Man, I've been loving that show."

    "Oh."

    "Shame I won't be around for that. But I don't suppose it matters. It'll be morning where I am, when the evening festivities start here. I can still watch."

    "I'm hoping it'll be a good one."

    "Uh-huh. So who lives in those tower blocks? I mean, we're talking luxurious, like some exclusive deal in Manhattan, right?"

    "The ones who are fans" – Josh glanced up at a tower, then returned his attention to the road – "get to watch from their living rooms and throw big parties. Others fasten their shutters or disappear for a few days. All of them are rich already, and they all get paid a tidy bundle for having their homes turned into a movie set."

    "Nice deal. So are we talking signals or bodies, Mr Cumberland?"

    "Say what?"

    "Your insertion op. Are you infiltrating their software, or sneaking actual physical people inside their perimeter? Maybe with actual physical weapons for hurting other folk? That's the question, my man."

    Josh hooked his lower lip behind his front teeth.

    Then: "Could I possibly have both?"

    "I like your style." Matt chuckled. "You sure you're not American?"

It was twenty minutes before dawn. At the edge of a wet, fresh-smelling field, Josh leaned against his unlit car, watching a black, jagged shape climb into an indigo sky, its mutable wings twisting as it arced through an improbable angle. Then its trajectory levelled off as it whispered into darkness, and was gone.

    "Good luck, my friend."

    He thought of the fractured ruin that had been an idealistic country and a symbol of freedom to the world, of self-destructive illusions that became self-fulfilling under a mass belief in Armageddon, a consensual chaotic hallucination perhaps no different from the final days of Mayan greatness or the ending of Rome, a frightening signal that civilisation is and always has been a fragile beauty, a delicate construction.

    Then he climbed inside the car, tilted the seat back, and closed his eyes. Sleep was waiting for him: cold, uncomforting, but necessary.

 

They met at 5 pm in the British Museum, Suzanne arriving to find Carol in the Stone Age section, before a worn stone carving of a voluptuous, large-bellied woman.

    "The original sex goddess," Carol said. "My role model."

    "You think she was addicted to chocolate, too?"

    "Allow me my one and only vice, why don't you."

    They walked on, stopping at the ancient tablet that contained the world's oldest written story, the tale of Gilgamesh. They paused again at the Rosetta Stone.

    "Incredible. When you think how we went from tree-hugging apes to this" – Carol pressed her fingertips against the glass, then waved at the high airy surroundings – "and on to all this. It makes you want to… eat cake and drink coffee, quite frankly. Where's the café again?"

    "Downstairs," said Suzanne. "Same as the last time we were here."

    "Well, let's go."

    At the café entrance, they came to a halt amid a press of Parisian schoolchildren, their voices tumbling Suzanne back to childhood – but not enough to prevent her from pressing the memory flake into Carol's hand, and winking. Amid the hubbub, pretending to blow her nose, she murmured: "From Cousin Matt."

    Carol nodded, before noticing one of the French teachers accompanying the party. She gave him her broadest, sexiest smile. The teacher tilted his head toward his charges, and shrugged an eloquent apology:
Je suis désolé.

    Her answering shrug said: Yo
ur loss, pal
. Then the sea of kids parted, allowing Suzanne and Carol to walk through.

    Once installed at a table with coffee and snacks, they relaxed. Suzanne broke off a tiny piece of her pain au chocolat, while Carol attacked a large slice of carrot cake.

    "Just cause you were raised in France," said Carol, "doesn't mean you have to nibble croissants, not when there's cream cakes on offer."

    "This pastry is not crescent-shaped," said Suzanne. "Only an American barbarian would call it a croissant. Even the English know this is a pain au chocolat."

    "Jeez, there's cowflap on my boots yet again."

    "Yee-hah. So how are things in Austin? You've been in touch?"

    "Well, shit." Carol stared down at her cake. "You know the city's like a bit of San Fran or maybe Seattle, smack in the middle of good ol' Texican cowboys."

    "It must be tense right now."

    "They closed the university, pretty much. Curfew on campus, kids arrested and beaten by armoured police."

    "Oh, no."

    "Meanwhile," said Carol, "rioters over the state border decided to protest the water rationing by going wild and
setting fire
to downtown Phoenix. How's that for

clear, logical thinking?"

    "I'm sorry."

    "Yeah. Still… Good news here is, looks like you're off the legal hook."

    "What do you mean?" asked Suzanne.

    "Mr Broomhall his own self is going nuts, speaking as one professional to another. Acute asshole-itis being my diagnosis."

    "He's withdrawn his complaint?"

    "Not exactly. Mr B did everything through his lawyers, except that since yesterday they ain't his lawyers no more. He screamed and shouted, then sacked the lot."

    "Oh," said Suzanne.

    "Yeah." Carol went quiet for a moment. "This city's going to fall to plague or drowning, so who cares? My street is piled with garbage, or rubbish as you Eurotrash put it. Plus, there are rats everywhere, some of whom aren't guys I've dated."

    "At least we still have cake and coffee."

    "Yeah." Carol raised a finger smeared with cream. "That we have, thank God."

    She popped her finger in her mouth, then looked over at the French teacher, who was now standing at the counter, paying for the kids' soft drinks. He looked at Carol – who raised her eyebrows, still sucking her finger – then turned away.

    "You've made him blush," said Suzanne.

    "I'd rather make him whimper."

    "You are a bad person, Dr Klugmann."

    "And your point is?"

 

    "–nice," Josh was saying. "Let's have more like that."

    
I don't believe it.

    Rugs and furniture were scrunched against the edges of the room, leaving clear space. On the polished wooden floor, two figures were manoeuvring barefoot, their trousers rolled up at the calves. They moved fast and sure, and it took her a moment to realise that the knives were rubber.

    "Trap my hand." Josh hooked his blade upward, his forearm banging against Richard's left wrist. "Good."

    And Richard's free hand whipped past Josh's throat, blade across skin.

    
Oh, my God.

    "Again, but without the knife."

    "All right."

    Tossing his practice weapon onto the couch, Richard spun away barehanded, waiting for Josh to attack once more. This time the uppercut stab was faster, but he blocked it as before, left wrist against bone, while his right fist pumped punches into Josh's throat, holding back from contact but only just, then rammed in his knee and twisted away, ripping the knife from Josh's grasp.

    "Good," said Josh again. "OK. From that angle, come in closer next time, use a fast knee, more a snapping motion, less hip." He demonstrated. "The long thrust is harder, but I might have tried to grab your leg. Not that I'd be able to after those punches."

    They did it again, Richard moving with a coordination that seemed at odds with the gawky, scared boy Suzanne had first met. But wasn't she supposed to be the one preaching rapid change?

    
This isn't what I imagined.

    It was disturbing. The point of empowering clients was for them to set and achieve their own objectives, not hers. But all the same…

    "Excellent." Josh raised his left fist. "We're done."

    Richard reached out his own fist, and they touched knuckles. Clearly a ritual, a trigger to change state and calm down from practice. Did Josh understand the significance of these things, or was it just automatic? On balance, he probably did know what he was doing.

    She felt warm inside her clothes.

    "Hi, Suzanne." Richard's smile was easy. "Josh is teaching me eskrimaga."

    "Is that some kind of needlework?"

    "It's a mixture of krav maga and escrima. Dead cool. It's what the special forces use."

    "Well, isn't that interesting."

    Josh rubbed his face.

    "I got bored of losing at chess to our resident genius" – he tousled Richard's hair – "so I thought we'd go for something different."

    "It's brilliant," said Richard. "I know I'm rubbish at it, but–"

    Suzanne blew out a breath, deciding.

    "The first time you tried to walk, you fell over, you know? But you just keep doing it, and from what I've just seen, you've picked up coordinated movement" – she clicked her thumb – "just like that."

    "I didn't know girls could snap their thumbs," said Josh. "Did you, Richard?"

    "Er, no." Richard grinned. Then his features descended into seriousness. "Opal's really fit, and she does all these gymnastics. You wouldn't believe it."

    "She will be leaping around again." Suzanne slowed and lowered her voice tonality. "The doctors feel confident."

    "Yes, I guess." Richard put his hands in pockets, and stared down at the floor. "After I go back… will I still be able to visit you two?"

    Suzanne was astounded by the assumptions in his words, accepting that he would return home, presuming that she and Josh could be visited at the same time, because they would be together.

    "Of course," she said.

    "Too right," said Josh.

    Then Richard produced the final surprise.

    "Perhaps I should call Father again."

    She took hold of Josh's hand – he grinned – and led him into the kitchen, leaving Richard to make his call.

Sunset was glowing strawberry and gold when Josh pulled up before the main gates of the Broomhall home. They opened. He rolled the car inside, and stopped before the inner barrier.

    "Get ready," he said.

    "OK," sounded from the rear footwell.

    One of the security guys walked up, and Josh lowered the window. "Evening," he said. "I rang ahead, to see your boss."

    "Please open the boot, sir. And step out of the vehicle."

    His colleagues approached, stone-faced, betraying no clues to outside observers.

    "All right."

    The guards moved in as the rear of the car popped open, and Josh stepped onto gravel. No one looked at Richard as he rolled out of the car and crawled three metres to the foot of the hedge, keeping to the blind spots, and stopped. From his crouched position, he grinned.

    "You can go up to the house," the first security guy said.

    "Thank you."

    Josh got back in, waited for the barrier to sink into the ground, then drove to the massive front door. A stern-faced woman opened it: Lexa, the driver. She waited until he was inside and the door was shut, then she grinned.

    "You've stirred things up. Whatever the old man's up to, it's all your doing."

    "I have no idea what you're talking about."

    "Sure you don't. Anyway, I've got to go out for a drive and get some shopping."

    "Good."

    "Richard will be able to slip in while I'm waiting at the gate. They've arranged a little delay." Lexa paused, then: "He is all right, isn't he?"

    "Sure he is. You'll see for yourself."

    "Good. Nice work, soldier."

    "Thank you, ma'am."

    "The boss is waiting for you. You remember the way?"

    "Sure."

    He walked through to the same massive office as last time. The house might be the same, but Philip Broomhall was transformed. His hair was greasy, and his jowls unshaven; but when he stood, his eyes were clear and his back was straight.

    "I've got the bastards on the run," he said. "They just don't know it yet."

    "Ah." Josh found himself smiling. "That's always the best way."

    "Africa's proving more of a problem, though. You don't have conclusive data yourself, I suppose?"

    "I've deployed query agents in the Web," said Josh, "and combined with what you've got, we should build up a picture of how they work."

    "But it's not the killer blow, is it?" Philip was fleshy and unused to physicality; his notion of killer blows was the manipulation of stock interests. "What we need is a picture of what Richard saw. Virapharm labs growing product inside children. Bloody Billy Church and the Tyndalls looking on."

    "So far we've got facts and figures. Pictures of Church and the Tyndalls at premises which we can show are virapharm facilities."

    "It's not enough," said Philip. "They'll spindoctor us to oblivion. Bury the facts with fiction and false figures."