Stay (15 page)
Authors: Nicola Griffith
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Hard-Boiled, #Women Sleuths, #Lesbian
I strip naked, except for my gloves. I drop my clothes on the bare floor by the body and walk to the bathroom. The shower fitments are sleek and modern, the water pressure strong. I wash carefully, thoroughly; the leather gloves feel odd on my skin; even after I’m clean I keep the water running a long time. I pick a couple of stray hairs from the plughole, get out without turning the water off. In the kitchen I find scissors and plastic grocery bags; I cut the labels off my clothes and put the clothes in the bags and the labels in a little heap on the floor. I have to take my jacket out again to get the tape and photocopies. Photocopies. It takes a moment to open the false front and find the original file, which I put by the cutoff labels, next to the tape and the copies. I line them all up carefully, edge to edge, then find there is a red glove print on the folder. It puzzles me: I can’t make it line up with the tape or the photocopies. I put the photocopies inside the folder and the tape on top. Better. The scissors go back in the kitchen, and I bring back sponges and a towel. I wipe away my footprints, and dry the floor. I go back to the kitchen for a mop and bucket. The walls of the elevator glisten, and the air is thick with the sweet coppery stench of the abattoir: blood, marrow, intestines. I begin to clean it up, then vomit, then have to clean that up, too. I rinse the mop and sponges in the shower, leave it running while I take the mop and sponges back to the kitchen.
I don’t want to stand naked in Karp’s bedroom. I have seen the pictures of the women and men who have done so. There is no choice.
His clothes fit me surprisingly well, but his shoes are a little big. I add another pair of socks and tie the shoelaces tightly.
My gloves are shrinking and uncomfortable. I take a look around the loft—if only I hadn’t taken the time to do this before, I would already have—
No. I didn’t have time for that.
I put the bagged clothes in two more bags, stepped over the bloody thing in the hallway into the elevator, and turned the key. My heart thumped lumpily and I couldn’t breathe quite right.
The woman. She had seen me. But she had run, and she hadn’t known where Karp lived: “Yes, on this block,” he’d said, as they turned the corner. If I could take a cab without being seen, I would be safe.
The elevator doors opened and every muscle in my body clamped down hard on the nearest bone: the street heaved with people. A man lay dead or dying twenty feet above my head, and here I was, displayed like a vase in a museum. I couldn’t move. A group of twenty-somethings walked past. One turned to look. His face stretched in shock.
Blood smeared on the elevator wall? Teeth on the floor? If I’d missed something on my cleanup, there was nothing I could do about it now. I jerked one leg forward, then the other, and walked right at him, and his little group burst apart like a school of minnows, and I was through. Three feet past, six.
“Hey!” Twelve feet. “You!” Thirty feet. More shouts. The cutoff whoop of a police siren stopping just as it was about to start; a car braking. Fifty feet. Never run from a scene, never. It’s the first thing they look for. Walk. Eat the ground with your stride, but walk.
“Here!” A woman’s voice. “Over here!” But I didn’t stop, didn’t look back. I moved past people as though they weren’t there, not thinking or planning, just moving. Between one stride and the next, everything changed: unrelated pedestrians suddenly focused, sharpened, tightened into a crowd. Heads turned and mouths opened, and a hundred hands lifted to point. My mind did a terrifying thing: it shut down. I bolted.
Lights. People. Air harsh, like sand in my lungs. Fingers curled around plastic bag handles. Pavement hard hard hard under my feet. More lights. Darker alley. Fewer people. Breath tearing in and out, in and out. Another street. More people. Yellow. Open, in, red upholstery.
“Where to?”
A cab. I was in a cab. “Drive.”
“That’s what I do. But where to, lady?”
I couldn’t think. “That way.” I pointed at random. He drove. The bags were heavy in my hand. Wet and heavy. “Let me out.”
I gave him a ten and climbed out, walked. Kept walking, mindlessly. Passed a street sign. King Street. I stopped at a traffic light. A cab stopped at the same time. I looked inside. The driver raised his eyebrows. I nodded, or my head jerked, and I climbed in. “East,” I said, then, “That way.”
“Not good that way,” he said. “Trouble. Police trouble.”
I was remembering the voice, earlier, shouting “Here! Over here!” A woman’s voice. The woman who had been with Geordie? But she’d said “Here,” not “There.” Then the sound of a police car, the cutoff whoop—not a chasing-the-perp whoop, more a clear-the-crowd-from-the-scene whoop, one I’d heard a hundred times. She had called them, then. It would take a few minutes for them to understand what was going on, to put it all together with whatever that crowd had seen in the elevator. Had she described me? Had that group outside the elevator?
A street sign said West Houston. I knew where I was. “Go north. Tompkins Square Park.”
I could do this. Dump the clothes at the park, take another cab to the hotel. Change. Catch the plane. Yes. I could do this.
P U P A
pupa (from
püpa
, L. for girl, or doll)
1. an insect in the third stage of homometabolous metamorphosis
the development from pupa to imago often involves considerable destruction of larval tissue…
I
t was four in the morning when I pulled into the clearing
, set the hand brake, and climbed out of the rented Neon. Strange, to stand on grass again. In the starlight, the Neon’s paintwork glistened, like mercury. The cold autumn air smelled different; it belonged to the world of someone I no longer knew.
A light flicked on in the trailer—yellow light, only a low-watt lamp, but I turned away. I couldn’t see the trees, but I could hear them: papery and tired in the softly stirring air.
After a minute brighter light spilled from the doorway, casting my shadow ten feet long into the dark.
“Aud?” I kept my back to her. “Aud?” Closer now. “Did you get it?”
I turned, and Tammy, in half-buttoned shirt, jeans, and no shoes, stopped dead. “You’re wearing his pants.”
It took a great effort to speak. “Did you ever mention me— my name, what I looked like, anything—to him?”
She shook her head.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” She folded her arms against the cold. “Why are you wearing his clothes?”
I didn’t have the strength to speak.
“Did you get the tape?”
I reached into the car, to the tape on the top of the folder of original and photocopied documents, and tossed it to her. She unfolded her arms at the last moment to catch it, looked at the label, at me.
“Did you… ?”
“It’s the right tape.”
She cradled it in her folded arms, holding it, protecting herself from it at the same time. She took another step towards me, peering at my sweater. “That’s not his. He never wore black. And it’s all wet, what—” She jerked back. “It stinks.”
I said nothing.
“It’s cold out here. Aud? Are you coming inside?”
I shook my head.
Lying naked and cold beneath the perfect, whispering dark, I imagined I could feel the curve of the earth under my back, that I circled the whole planet, so that my soles touched the top of my head and I blended with the dirt.
Dirt. Skin of the world, amalgam of eroded mineral and all things animal and vegetable, from tiny aphid to redwood giant. A burial ground or refuge; home for animal and insect, seed and spore. A place to rest, to hide, to grow secretly in the dark. A floor on which to stand. Alive and dead at the same time, fecund and rotten. Worm excrement. When dirt is disturbed, it becomes unpredictable: perhaps when turned and tilled it grows fertile and lush; perhaps erosion sets in and the whole turns to sand. Some soil is never meant to be turned; it’s best left frozen and hard-packed. Sometimes it can be hard to tell until you try. The blood and tears on my cheeks and chest and shoulders had tightened as they dried, my skin grown thick with cold. My throat hurt. There was no difference in light levels when I opened and closed my eyes. Perhaps I was already dead. Perhaps I had never really been alive, and if I lay here without moving, my bones would fall into dust and be blown away with a hiss by the wind. Perhaps that had been true, once, before I met Julia, with her soft skin and bright eyes, her warm hands that reached right through my layers of permafrost. And now I had torn and beaten a man to the brink of death when I had been in no danger, when there had been no need. Every other time, even after she died, I had had no choice: it had been strike or die. Every other time I had come back to myself feeling washed in brilliance and huge with life, like a god, untouchable. Now I felt soiled and outcast, like oxygen once floating free above the atmosphere and now trapped in the ocean and bound in dirt; like the peptides that had skimmed through space only to fall to earth and be harnessed to carbon dioxide and form life; like Lucifer—
“A little grandiose, even for you.”
I sat up and smacked my face into an unseen branch. “Julia?”
“Who else. Is that more tears, or are you bleeding again?”
The stuff running down my cheek was too warm and thick to be tears. I scrubbed it away impatientiy and looked around, but it was so dark I could see nothing, not even the branch. “Where have you been?”
She ignored that. “Where are your clothes?” Judging from her voice, she was sitting on the ground by my knees.
I touched my throat. “I don’t remember.”
“Naked in the woods, at night, in late October. Do you remember how to get back?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Oh, Aud.” She sounded sad. “Don’t do this to yourself. Karp was a monster. You said so yourself.”
“He didn’t deserve to die.”
“Does anybody? Besides, you don’t know for sure that he is dead. And even if he is, he wouldn’t be the first.”
“This is different.”
“How?”
I didn’t answer.
“Let me ask you something else, then. Think about Geordie Karp for a moment: smart, well-connected, cold, and manipulative. Forget the borderline thing for a moment. Who did he remind you of? And Aud”—she moved closer, until her voice was a caress—“please, get yourself back to the trailer and get warm.” And she was gone.
Forget the borderline thing? I didn’t understand. I did understand the last part: get yourself back to the trailer and get warm. And she’d said please. I sighed.
I tried to get to my hands and knees but my left knee wouldn’t work. I felt it; there was no obvious cut. Bruised, maybe. Hard to tell because my hands were so cold. What time was it? I couldn’t remember how long I’d been here, which direction I’d come from. No point trying to find the clothes now. No point trying to walk back to the clearing in total darkness. More blood ran down my chin and smeared stickily under my hand. I felt about me, patting. Not enough leaves. I rolled onto my belly, pulled myself forward a yard or so, and waved my hands to and fro, feeling for the branch. In woods this thick, a branch should not be so low to the ground.
Who did he remind you of?
I dragged myself another yard. There. Thick and sturdy, and growing upwards, from a point somewhere ahead of me. A fallen tree, with a small drift of dry leaves. I rolled onto my side, swept the leaves up around me. They’d keep me warm enough until dawn.
Who did he remind you of?
My knee began to ache. I must have twisted it somehow, earlier. I couldn’t remember. Too stubborn to go mad, Dornan had said. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been wrong. My feet hurt, too, but I didn’t want to reach through the leaves to feel them and disturb the warming air pockets.
Then there was nothing to do but wait for dawn, nothing to do but sit still before Julia’s question.
It took two hours to cover what should have taken fifteen minutes, and well after the sun had risen I limped into the clearing, leaning heavily on a broken branch, sick, tired, and empty. I hobbled to the fire pit and lowered myself slowly onto the log. There was no sign of Tammy, and I didn’t have the energy to call out. The rental Neon glowed zealous green in the early morning light.
“Aud!”
I was too tired to look up.
“Aud?” Somehow she was in front of me, kneeling on the grass, the way Julia had when Dornan was here, not that long ago, but oh, in what seemed like another lifetime… She was saying something else, about my clothes, but I didn’t pay attention, until she put her hand on my calf, gently, and I flinched.
“I said, is this your blood?”
It was spattered on my chest, smeared on my stomach and thighs and neck, on my hands and feet. How had it got on my feet?
“Aud? Is it your blood?”
“This time.”
“Can you walk to the car?”
I finally lifted my head and stared at her.
“I’ll drive you into Asheville. You need to see a doctor.”
I started to shake my head and the world slipped sideways.
“Whoa!” Strong arm around my shoulders. Her fingers brushed my bare breast and shifted instantly.
I looked at the grass until it stopped moving. “It’s nothing. Cuts and bruises. I can do it, clean it up.”
A long pause, then: “Can you stand?”
My knee was about twice its usual size and I’d lost some blood, but I’d been hurt much worse than this in the past and still managed. Today, for some reason, I just couldn’t seem to move.
“Okay.” Her grip around my shoulders shifted to my waist. “I’m going to haul and you can lean on your stick, branch, whatever. On the count of three. One, two, three.”
I tried, then, but it was as though someone had stolen the marrow from my bones and filled them with lead, heavy and soft, and I managed only an inch or two before I sank back on the log. How odd to be so helpless.
“Fuck,” Tammy said under her breath. Then, more loudly, “I guess we’ll just try again.” She got behind me this time, put both arms round my waist, face pressed against my bare back. Her hair tickled. “Okay. And this time you’re going to make it. On three. One, two, three.”
I rose slowly on one leg and hovered for a moment, knee bent, precarious as a kite deciding whether to catch the wind, then I was up, clutching my branch with one hand, the other arm over Tammy’s bowed shoulders.
“All right! Right leg first, okay, good. Now the left leg, I’ll take your weight.” Her voice was muffled: her cheek was crushed under my left breast. “Left leg, no, left leg. Good, good. Right leg. Okay. Let’s just stand here for a second and catch our breath. No, Jesus, Aud, don’t you give up. You have to help me. I’m— It’s not far. You have to help.”
She bullied, she panicked, she wheedled, and one step at a time I crept closer to the trailer, and after about five days I was there, swaying in front of the three metal steps.
“Fuck,” she said.
“I can do it,” I said, because she sounded near to tears.
“Yeah, right. Look, you sit on the edge of this step—”
“No.”
“Jesus, Aud, you have—”
“Won’t get up again.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, how about if you lean here for a minute— can you do that?—and I’ll get inside first and try to drag you up the steps from behind.”
“Move the steps.”
“Move… ? Right.” It took her a couple of shoves because she had to keep one arm around my waist, but they folded away underneath the rig eventually. She squeezed past me, climbed into the rig, and maneuvered me until my bottom rested against the cold sill. Then she squatted, put her arms under mine, and clasped them beneath my breasts.
“Now, when I say, you push off with your good leg and I’ll pull. You can do this, okay? Ready? On three. One, two, three!”
I hopped and she hauled and we shot backwards into the trailer alongside the recliners, heads pointing at her bed, me lying on top, faceup, her hands on my breasts. She levered me away from her and scrambled up. I just lay there, looking up at her upside-down face.
“My bed’s closest. You’re almost done.”
A confusion of trying to stand, pushing and being pulled, prodded, shouted at, until I found myself lying on her pullout and she was sitting next to me, water steaming in a bowl by her side. Where had that come from?
“Your throat’s stopped bleeding. I wrapped it. It was already crusting up.” I touched what felt like a towel around my neck. “Don’t mess with it. You’ve lost enough blood. And you’ve got a scrape across your forehead and nose that I still have to clean. I already did your feet.” They were wrapped bulkily in white bandage. When did she do that? “Full of dirt, but you didn’t seem to feel me scrubbing away.” She lifted the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “This’ll sting. Might have been better if you’d stayed passed out—”
Peroxide. Bleach. Pierced people with bleached hair and writhing tattoos. At night Tompkins Square Park was full of them. They hung out by the fountain that has been dry for years, on the side opposite the gay boys with their squat, muscular little dogs wearing bandannas. I didn’t want those dogs getting a scent of blood-drenched clothes.
I stepped off the path. It felt wrong walking on grass in Karp’s shoes. Light and sound faded until there was nothing but my breath and the rustle of plastic bags. I stopped, listened. Silence. And under the scent of green growing things, the smell of urine-stained clothes and unwashed hair.
I dumped one bag—the underwear, the shoes, the jacket— behind a tree. Someone would find it within half an hour, someone who wasn’t particular about bloodstains, and who wouldn’t talk to the police. I walked on a little.
The park bench was made of concrete, still almost whole, and in the dark you couldn’t see the graffiti. I went down on one knee to shove the second bag—the trousers and tunic—beneath it and was about to stand when the razor touched my throat.
“My bench, bitch. What you doing to my bench?”
The concrete smelled of mold and cold stone. My knee, to which I had transferred all my weight as I was about to get up, hurt. The arm around my throat, the one holding the straight razor, was thin and scabbed.
“Gonna cut you good.” A young voice, very young.
With a straight razor held firmly against your carotid, there’s very little you can do. If you kick out backwards, the person holding it goes backwards, dragging their arm and the blade with it. You wouldn’t feel much but you’d be unconscious in thirty seconds and dead in two minutes. If you turn to your left, it pulls across your trachea. You wouldn’t bleed too much, but you’d be getting no oxygen. Turn to the right and the blade slices into your jugular as well as the carotid. Move downward and it takes the artery where it eases past your jawbone. Try to pull the blade down and it opens the blood vessels where they dive under the collarbone.
Neither of us moved. I couldn’t think of a single thing to do or say that would save my life.
“What you say, bitch? Fucking with my bench.”
This is how it would end, then, killed by a barely teenage junkie in a squalid little park in a city I hated.
The arm under my chin tightened. A thin trickle of blood ran down the neck of my borrowed shirt. Dying in someone else’s clothes, with a pornographic tape in my pocket, dying as the kind of person who could disassemble a man with her bare hands for no particular reason and who hadn’t even thought to check whether he was still alive.
“You think I’m shitting you? You think I won’t do it?”
What did it matter? “Actually, I’m thinking of an afternoon a year or two ago, in my garden in Atlanta.” I closed my eyes, remembering. “It was sunny and warm. I have a lot of trees: oak and pecan and beech—”
The arm jerked. “Shut up.” This time the blood flowed smoothly, no little trickle.
“—and jays, a lot of blue jays. Noisy birds. But smart. They band together when there’s danger. So one day I was outside—”
“Shut the fuck up!” The hand was trembling.
“—and these jays were all screeching around the big oak tree, then diving at it. There’s this peregrine falcon perched on the end of a branch, about twenty feet up. It’s ignoring the jays and watching this hole halfway up the trunk of the beech tree where chickadees liked to nest. Then I noticed that all the little birds, the finches and sparrows and tits, had gone.”
The trembling against my throat grew worse and the razor shifted slightly as the wielder moved restlessly. In my peripheral vision I saw red sneakers. Small red sneakers. Razorboy was wired, needing a hit so badly that probably none of my words made sense. But the story wasn’t for him.
“The falcon was so sure there was nothing in the garden to hurt it that it didn't see what I saw. A cat, skinning up the trunk of that oak, quiet as a snake. The jays were screeching even more: now there were two predators on their turf. The cat inched belly down along the branch until it was about three feet away. Its tail lashed back and forth, and it gathered its back feet, but just as it jumped, the hawk dived. It nearly hit the ground but just managed to swoop back up. It was so—“
The arm spasmed and the razor jerked, hard, and one of the red sneakers kicked out involuntarily, and the razor fell and clattered cheaply against the concrete bench. I stared at it. Blinked. Stood up.
He, or perhaps it was a she, it was too dark and he was too thin and too young for me to be sure, backed up a step. I picked up the razor, hefted it, looked at his oversize turtleneck and flapping khakis. He was shaking so badly he wouldn’t get more than two steps before I’d be on him. He knew that, too.
I moved the razor back and forth, thinking, and took a step towards him. “—the hawk was so flustered the jays managed to drive it off. But do you know what the best part was? The cat. It was a long branch that the hawk had been on, and where the cat was now it was so narrow that it couldn’t turn around. It was stuck. And that’s when all the little birds, the finches and sparrows and tits, came out to play. They flew to the twigs and branches nearby and sang at the cat, and flicked their tails at it. The cat couldn’t do a thing. Take off your sweater.”
He was so far gone, arms and legs jerking so badly, that it took him almost a minute to get it over his head.
“Throw it to me.” He tried, but it dropped at his feet. I advanced. He backed away. I bent, picked it up. Black, thick, filthy. “There are clothes in the bag under the bench.” I lifted the razor and took another step towards him. He watched, dead-eyed.
I folded the blade.
“So the cat had to jump.” I threw him the razor and walked away.