Benighted (10 page)

SEVEN

S
omething has happened to my fingers, they won’t fan out, they won’t stay straight. They’re concussed. They stumble over each other as I try to type.

Recommended action: suspect should be held in detention. His behavior may or may not indicate

What could it indicate? He never said he was up to anything.

His behavior may be general hostility, or indicative of a more serious problem.

My bones are hollow, there’s cold air inside them. Something’s eating at me. A death-watch beetle, chipping away, leaving white mazes of cold air behind it till my skeleton is light as a bird’s. It’s going to keep mining me till I’m shredded into a dried-out honeycomb, then flex its wings and fly out of my mouth. I can hear it chipping.

“That’s your watch, Galley,” I mutter, and push my mouth against my wrist. My fingers are dancing, rippling as if in a strong wind. I suppose I must be shaking.

The reasons for his behavior are unclear, but his hostility appeared unusual, and it may be best to monitor him for a while. Subject has made no request for visitors or legal counsel.

I look out of the window and there’s a storm coming in; the sky is the color of an overboiled egg yolk, green and sulphurous.

I want this report finished. If I could finish it, I could have some coffee and warm up. I’d like very much to dash through it and do a slack job, but I can’t dash if I can think of nothing to say.

In the light of these facts, it would seem that detaining him here is feasible.

What made me want to be a lawyer? I don’t think I ever believed I’d set the world to rights. I’ve ended up sitting at a desk using words like “feasible,” and there must be some good reason why I got here.

There’s a knock at my door. I don’t want to answer it, really, I don’t want anyone to see me sitting here with my veins showing through my skin, but another person might bring some heat into the room.

“Come in.”

A head comes around the door, and the cold spills out of my bones and into my flesh. “Is this a bad time?” says the face.

“No,” I say before I have time to think of a truthful answer. “It’s all right. Paul Kelsey, yes?”

“That’s right,” says Paul Kelsey, and the next thing I know he’s sitting opposite me. “How are you?”

“Fine. I’m fine. Sorry, I—” My voice sticks in my mouth.

“Are you okay?” He puts his head on one side and frowns at me.

“I—” I touch my forehead, blink hard, my hands won’t keep still. “Sorry, I’m having a bit of a day.”

“Mm.” He nods, perfectly pleasant.

“Are you here to talk about Jerry Farnham?” This is practical, this I think I can handle.

“Well, I was passing.” He’s just sitting there looking happy. He’s bigger than I remembered, a tall man. What’s he doing bringing his happy self into my cramped-up office?

“You could have made an appointment, you know. My telephone works very well.”

He ducks his head for a moment, then shrugs. “I could. You’re right.” I haven’t made a dent in his good mood. “But then, I thought I’d just say hello.”

“Don’t you say hello on the phone?”

“No,” he says reflectively, “I say, social services, how may I help you. Or I say my name. Are you too busy? Because I can always come back another time.”

“No.” I run my hand through my hair. “No, I’m sorry. Look…” I shake my head, trying to clear it; my brain knocks to and fro against my skull and I give myself a headache. This is no good. “We seem to have got off to rather an odd start. It’s mostly my fault, but can we just take it from here? Because we do need to sort out Jerry’s case.”

“Yes, we do.” He gives me a look of amusement.

“Well, don’t look at me,” I hear myself say. “I’m trying to sort this out as much as you are, pal.”

“I’m sure.” The amused look lingers, then his face sobers up. “How’s your sister, by the way?”

“What?”

“Your…” He sketches in the air. “That night in the bar, you were talking about your sister.”

“Oh, Christ.” I bury my face in my hands. “Do we have to do this? I’m trying to be a professional.”

“Have to do what?” He gives me a wounded glance, still looking entertained.

“I was halfway out of my skull. I was off duty. You don’t have to rub it in.”

“You were pretty interesting, really.” His face is dangerously close to a grin. “Anyway, who’s talking? I was coming on to you. I was pretty off duty myself.”

“Oh.” My head comes off my hands and we look at each other. The room goes quiet. “Were you?”

I wait for him to answer, wait seconds and seconds. A pulse is beating in my throat. He draws a breath. The silence stays between us, thickens, goes solid.

“Was I what?” he says, too late.

I look back down at my desk. “Never mind.”

I glance through my bangs at him. He doesn’t look amused anymore. His mouth chews itself, and then he raises his eyebrows. His face is talking to itself, and I can’t understand what it’s saying. He sits still in the chair.

One of us has to say something.

My hands rest on the table, inert. I flex my fingers, drum them against the surface, and look up at him. With a tug of self-control, I even manage something like a wry grin. “Well. If we leave aside my drunk ramblings and your curb crawling, we can still talk about Jerry Farnham.”

“Jerry Farnham. Yes.” He slaps his palm against his leg and sits up. It’s an arresting mixture of gestures, the slap like a middle-aged man, then his shoulders shifting like a boy’s as he straightens. I stop myself wondering about his age, and put my eyes back on his face, his black-lashed eyes.

“Yes, Jerry.” I push my hair off my forehead. “Now. Have you found him an AA group yet?”

“Yes, though that doesn’t guarantee that he’ll go there. I mean,” he leans his elbows on the table, so far forward that he’s almost lying down, “it’s going to be hard to get him to make any real commitment to helping himself. It’s not exactly relaxing, what he’s going through with the loitering charge. I mean, my problem is his general welfare.”

“Your problem?” I say.

“Mm?”

“I just thought I heard you say you were going to take some work off my back.”

He looks pleased. “Well, you shouldn’t have to take away his whisky.”

“No, I’d just drink it myself. You were saying?”

“That as far as we’re concerned, it’s the short-term problem, which is getting him off the loitering charge. Do you think you can do that?” His tone has gone professional. It sits oddly with his casual posture. He scrubs a hand against his head, looking up at me and waiting for an answer.

“Well.” I tap the table, think about it. This is my area. “Do you want it in detail?”

“Do you have time?”

I think about what I’ll have to go back to if he leaves. “Yes. Hold on.” I talk to him over my shoulder as I get out the file. My hands are a little steadier than they were. “It could go either way. Clearly he did what he’s charged with; the best we can hope for is a suspended sentence. And whether I can get that or not depends on how world-weary the judge is.”

Probably that’s an improper thing to say to an outsider, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “As in, I’ve seen too many like him, send him down?”

I turn. “Hell, no. As in, why bother looking after him in prison.” I look at him. “Have you worked with DORLA before?”

He shakes his head. “No. My first time. Any advice welcome.”

He’s new to this, new to everything about us. No scars. DORLA people don’t get government services when they have problems; we have to take care of our own. Social workers only get involved when there’s a lyco client. It occurs to me that it’s just possible I’m the first non he’s ever had a conversation with.

I sit down, lay the file on my lap, trying to sort what I want to say into words. If I was talking to Bride, I wouldn’t have to, I could just pull a face and leave it unsaid and she’d know what I was talking about. And I’ve never tried explaining it to a lyco before. For some reason, it seems important. “What we want is an exhausted man who can’t be bothered to follow through with the law. It’s one of those laws that a lot of us would ignore if we could. I mean, not every case, there’s a lot of people cause us a lot of trouble loitering, but the screw-ups like Jerry…The thing is, none of us make the laws, and they don’t always work. I’m sorry, I’m not saying this right.”

He’s studying me. “Go on.”

I slip my hand inside the file, feel cool smooth paper. “We just have to carry out the laws. I mean, if you work for DORLA you can’t be a politician, a civil servant, any of those types, so none of us get to make the laws, we just have to carry them out. Even if they don’t really stick. And—and with Jerry, the law isn’t going to help at all. It’s just a rule we’ve got to do something with if someone breaks it. We—we—everyone has feelings about it. We just need a judge who can’t face following through with the whole business.”

I can’t believe I’ve said all that to a stranger. I just said all that to a lyco.

“Why?” he says.

“Why what?”

“Why do you have to do something with the rules?”

“Instead of ignoring them?” My voice sounds quiet in my own ears. “Look, Kelsey, you just get to share my client. You don’t get to come in here and question my career.”

“No,” he says, just as quietly. “I guess not.”

I look at him again, but he’s looking at my arms, my wrist buried in the file.

The telephone rings, making me jump.

“I—” I make some gestures, grasping air, and turn to the phone. “Excuse me.”

The receiver is chilly against my ear. “Lola?” It’s Josie.

“Speaking.” I keep my eyes down, aimed at my in-tray.

“Lo, I’ve got some good news. You know Marty?”

“Marty?” Do I know Marty? I clutch the phone with both hands.

“We’ve just got a call from the hospital. The doctors said he said something today.”

“He—” I swallow. “He said—?”

“His voice came back, Lo.” Josie sounds a little hoarse. So do I. It’s the news we’ve all been waiting for. “Now, the doctors said it’s not definite, he could have a relapse, or get an infection or something, I don’t know, but—”

She hastens on, and the phone goes loose in my grip. “Ohh…” It’s all I can say. “Ohh…”

“Are you all right?” Kelsey is on his feet, all ready to fetch me a glass of water or open a window for me, and I wave him back into his chair. All I can feel is relief, a great cool wave of relief like a waterfall washing down my back.

“Josie, that’s great,” I manage. “Thanks.” And I set the phone down in its cradle, gently so as not to break it, not to damage the news. My arms are weightless and clumsy, as if a great load had just been taken out of them. A smile is coming out of my mouth, spreading across me.

“Are you all right? Can I get you some coffee or something?” A voice sounds in front of me. I open my eyes and smile at its beautiful owner.

“Coffee,” I say, “would be lovely.”

I sit back and enjoy watching him make it. He leaves the jar out of its box, and I don’t suppose it really matters. He’s even quite tidy, for a man, I reflect cheerfully. I watch him as he frowns with concentration, screwing the top back onto the jar, and then puts it down on the table and forgets about it as he turns his attention to the kettle. He passes me the mug and I wrap my hand around it, hold it against my face. I’m warm.

“Have you had good news?” he says. The idea seems to please him.

“Yes. Yes, I have.” I touch my heated cheek and hold the cup against the other one. “A friend of mine has been in the hospital, but I’ve just heard he’s going to be okay. Or they think so, anyway.”

“Lola, that’s wonderful.” What’s he doing saying my name, I wonder, and then lie back in my chair again. The coffee is as bad as you’d expect cheap instant to be. I’m enjoying it.

“What was wrong with him?” Kelsey says. I think he’s trying to decide whether to look polite or curious.

“A maul.”

“A mall? Like a shopping mall? Was he in an accident?”

I put down my coffee. Really I should know this for what it is, cosseted ignorance, but I’m too relieved to hold it against him. Instead, I grin. “You really haven’t worked here before, have you?” And I move my nails in a clawing motion across my throat.

His eyes widen and he shifts in his chair. He puts his fingernails in his mouth, a gesture that makes him look younger. “Oh,” he says. “Well, I’m sorry.”

“No point in fidgeting about it, it wasn’t you,” I say, and shrug. “And he didn’t die in the end.” I suppose it’s wrong of me to rub it into him like that. I think it’s upsetting him. He’s just so different. He doesn’t turn his head with a flinch like a horse twitching off a fly. I’ve seen that so often, and it’s not what he’s doing. He moves his shoulders to and fro; it’s a fly he’s not shaking off. I don’t want him to suffer, really I don’t, but I have just a little power sitting in my hand, just a little piece that’s dropped into it without warning, and it’s hard not to feel it.

Finally he looks up at me, and the power slips through my fingers. “Does that happen a lot?” he says.

I lay my hands together; my voice is quite light. “It happens to all of us sometimes.”

“Sorry,” he says. His face is talking again. If he was tiptoeing or offering condolences I don’t think I could take it; but this look is much better. He really does look sorry, in an innocent sort of way. It’s almost like a kid offering me a cookie, convinced that it will solve my problems.

I let the air out of my lungs. I’m about to reply when I remember again that Marty is going to be all right, and the smile comes back onto my face and goes through me. I get to my feet, walk across the office. “I think I’m going to visit him,” I say. “You don’t mind, do you? Only we could do this another day, and I’d really like to see him, I haven’t seen him since—since he got hurt, and being that it was my fault and all,” I unhook my coat from the door, “I’d like to see him, even if it means braving his relatives again.”

Kelsey’s also on his feet. “Sure, sure. How are you getting there?”

“How am I—? By bus, why?”

“Well, I could drive you.” He raises an eyebrow, gives me an inquiring look.

“Oh.” I pause in draping my coat over my arm.