Only later would she wonder what it would have meant to let him go back to the club; wonder too at the ease of his acquiescence, as though he were choosing an anticipated, and more brutal, reckoning. In her imagination she'd replay events, and replay them, to avoid the irrevocable.
'Can you drive your motorbike in the snow?' she asked.
As if to gauge its density, Zach gathered up some of the powdery stuff and weighed it in his hand, then formed a compact snowball and threw it with a grim smile across the street, where it thumped against the wall, leaving a butterfly-shaped splotch.
'Not easily.'
'But it's possible?'
'I've got winter tyres. Yeah, it's possible . . . He brushed his gloves free of snow. 'If you're mad. Or desperate.' Again shrugged his shoulders. 'And have a place to go.'
'Come on, then.' Laura said, plucking at his cuff. 'We'll stop in a bit to ring my parents.'
'And tell them what, exactly?'
'Oh, I'll think of something.' She exhaled in relief when he took her hand. 'I always do.'
Chapter 20
Zach awakes to ferocious gusting. With luck Lev won't have heard his groan. Their world has been compressed into this small, temporary shelter where they may be warm, they may be fed, they may even be safe, but Zach knows that if he were to risk a few steps beyond the tent, he'd be taken by the storm.
It's supposed to be a sleepy kind of death. Once the violent shivering subsides.
Do they program dreams to taunt him? No Inuk would ever club a seal senseless, then shove it into the water to drown.
He stretches as unobtrusively as possible, mostly his cramped legs, which could have used another four or five centimetres of sleeping bag. Back to back, he and Lev have managed to preserve a semblance of privacy, but Lev rolls over, slips an arm out, and unzips his bag. There's not much he misses.
'I'll turn up the heat and put on the kettle,' Lev says. 'Get up and move round a bit.'
'I'm fine,' Zach says. 'It was just a dream.'
'Remind me to add an entry to my translator. Fine can also be used for stubborn.'
Light is soon flickering along the sides of the tent, whose billowing and snapping remind Zach of sheets hanging from a washing line. Crisp sunshine, a last brisk day. To elude Ben he dodges through the heaving walls of the maze, where the three-eyed, sword-toothed monster guards the treasure. This time he's going to reach it for sure, and find the gold, and the spell-locked casket of jewels, and win the sloe-eyed princess's hand. The air smells of autumn and woodsmoke. Leaves crunch underfoot. His father is chopping wood, his mother collecting walnuts in a basket. The wind kicks and pummels like a small, baffled child wailing to be let into the snowy labyrinth of memory.
'Zach?' Lev says.
The boy, and the incident, vanish in a whiteout.
They take turns at knee-bends and toe-touching, the dogs watching with somnolent amusement. His self-appointed guard hugs Zach's side while they drink tea. Up close, her coarse fur smells pleasantly oily, like fresh-toasted wheat germ, and Zach finds himself combing her coat with his hand, digging his fingers into her thick ruff.
'Bella's very discerning,' Lev says. 'She's got the team's best nose.'
'I don't suppose you smell any sweeter.'
'Is it my scintillating wit and delightful company, or have you always been so touchy?'
After a moment Zach releases a laugh. 'OK, I deserve that.'
Lev rolls a cigarette, permits himself two brief drags, then extinguishes both it and the light before crawling back into his sleeping bag. 'Let's rest while we can. It's going to be a difficult trek to the hunters' camp.'
'How long will the storm last?' Zach asks.
'No telling. We'll have to wait it out.'
Lev's teas are very soothing. Zach yawns, closes his eyes, drowsily listens for the sound of a zip, the usual pre-sleep noises. They don't come. Instead, Lev's hand skims Zach's shoulder, so lightly that at first he wonders if he'd drifted off for an instant.
'You're welcome to share my sleeping bag.'
So much for sleep. At the end of a held breath Zach mutters, 'Look, it's not that I don't like you.'
'No need to be so nervous.' A soft chuckle. 'I'm not going to jump you.'
Embarrassed, Zach blurts out, 'Is homosexuality common where you come from?'
'Our categories are somewhat different,' Lev says dryly.
Zach rolls to face Bella, who works herself into the harbourage of his body. He moves his hand to her neck, again plies the firm stratum of muscle beneath her coat, and she gives a little whimper of pleasure. Dogs are heavily taxed, enough of a luxury for Laura to have called it her mum's perfect excuse whenever Max asks for a new puppy to replace the spaniel which died young-one of those new and devastating metaviruses. Fucking morons, wanking round with uploads when they can't even develop some decent antivirals.
'I promise you, we'll find her.'
There is something in Lev's voice which sounds pre-recorded. Zach shifts round fast enough to catch the look on his face.
'In time?'
'You keep tugging at Laura's chain like that, it'll break and you'll convince yourself it's an omen.'
After a long hesitation, Zach lets Lev zip their sleeping bags together. A meagre comfort, that shared warmth, but a measure of comfort nevertheless.
* * *
She comes to him in the hours before rising.
The light is blue, the penetrating eerie blue of an ice cave, and she too is frosted in blue, her hair shimmering with ice crystals.
He says her name. He says
* * *
In the morning-Zach finds it easier to think in conventional blocks of time-he asks if they can't make a start despite the snowstorm, but Lev is blunt. 'I might manage on my own, but what will you do if something happens to me?' Neither mentions that Zach's chances for survival, alone, would only be marginally better in optimal weather, even with the dogs. Neither mentions the abort function.
To pass the time Lev produces a small, square board which glows from an internal power source and whose playing pieces float just below the surface of an unfamiliar translucent material, a material with the brilliance of cut glass but the tactile intimacy of free-flowing water. The pieces move at the touch of a finger. The rules are so simple that Zach wonders why nobody has thought of them before, then reminds himself that nobody thought of the Wu constant for the longest time either-or the biro. But it's surprisingly difficult to win, and when he manages to stalemate Lev, Zach grins like a little kid who has just scored his first goal.
'Even trickier than Go,' he says.
'All sentient races develop such games.' Lev kneels before his pack. 'Here, you may as well see what you can do with this.' He passes Zach an oblong case about the length of a devil stick. 'Just keep the volume down or the dogs will go mad.'
The instrument has a mouthpiece, though the reed isn't made of any material Zach recognises, and its body, roughly clarinet-shaped, seems to be constructed from the same crystalline substance as Lev's game. No keys are visible. When Zach raises it to his lips for a tentative blow, he's astonished by the force of the tone he produces, a shrill F#. The dogs lift their heads and Jagger gets to his feet with hackles raised.
'How does it work?' Zach asks.
'Try playing while you think of a tune, a scale, whatever you like. Remember, think softly.'
Papageno's aria from The Magic Flute teases a smile from Lev, who is nothing if well versed in sapiens culture.
'Will it play anything at all?' Zach asks.
'A full rendition of Bach's St Matthew Passion, you mean? Complete with soloists, double orchestra and choir?'
'I'd be happy with a chord or two, though I wouldn't turn up my nose at accompaniment.'
'You'll have to be patient. Neuronal changes take time. Ultimately, though, you ought to be able to dispense with the reed, explore far beyond the limitations of the clarinet.'
'A musical instrument which affects my brain?'
'A reciprocal adaptation, though there will be more neurogenesis, more rewiring of your neural networks than hers, since you haven't been brought up with such'-another of his smiles-'such facilitators.'
Zach weighs the instrument in his hand. 'She?'
'He. She. What an odd language you speak. Depends on your understanding of gender. On you, in the end,' Lev says. 'The main thing is, the higher dimensions are conscious. Think of music as one of their languages.'
And just for a moment, a velvety arpeggio giggles in Zach's ear. A very girlish giggle.
Chapter 21
'It's too risky,' Laura said. 'Let me go.'
'No,' Zach said.
Voices muted, they stared up at his windows from beneath the cast-iron canal footbridge. Their puffs of breath resembled the wavy speech balloons from Max's comics, dialogue faded to tremulous wisps. The falling snow afforded a quiet which was eerie in a city that was never truly quiet, and it was all too easy to imagine themselves safely hidden in a priest hole surrounded by flaking mortared walls. But Laura had no illusions about what would happen if they were caught.
'You must have left a light burning,' she said. 'The police would be waiting in the dark, wouldn't they?'
At that moment a shadow passed behind the drawn curtains in Zach's living room. Laura clutched his arm.
'There's someone in your flat,' she said.
'Stay here,' he said. 'Without keys my motorbike's useless. I'll be back as soon as I've packed a few things.'
'But what about-'
He was gone before she could complete the question. Stubborn idiot, she thought. Owen would at least pretend to listen. Yeah, a small mean voice countered, he'd listen the same way a well-trained pet listens, a sweet spoon-fed monkey. 'Shut up,' Laura muttered. She didn't want to think about Owen. And then she remembered that she didn't want to think about any of her mates-not now, not yet.
She still had her keys to Zach's flat. Even with his keen hearing, five minutes' headstart ought to suffice in this weather, but she added another three or four to be certain, then made her way along the towpath until she reached the short flight of steps from which, in daylight, a decaying boat and derelict boathouse with half caved-in roof could be seen on the opposite bank. Streetlamps, set far apart on this stretch of canal, illuminated little more than the itinerant snowflakes. Laura followed Zach's footprints up the steps, smudged parallel tracks which soon veered off to the left across uneven ground in the direction of the main entrance to his building. Careful to avoid a fall, she crossed the intervening tract, glancing frequently at the windows above her, frequently towards the towpath at her back. It was late, Zach's neighbours all seemed to be asleep, and no abominations arose from the depths of the cut to accost her, no stalkers. No police.
She was going to need new shoes, maybe new feet. Her mum, perfect homemaker that she fancied herself, kept complete sets of both sturdy walking boots and wellies at the cottage for the family and spares for guests. But feet . . . good, another item to add to the tally of things beyond her mum's command.
Laura stopped and wriggled her numb toes, then with a final look behind her, ducked into the rear stairwell, grateful that no motion sensor was attached to the wall of the building, merely a low-watt bulb in a grimy fixture above the door. Undisturbed by shovel or rubber sole, the steps were slippery beneath the drifted snow, and despite her caution Laura lost her footing on the third step from the bottom and with an involuntary cry landed awkwardly on a metal grate. Rubbing her chin, she listened intently for a few seconds, but when she rose, cursing half in self-disgust and half in relief under her breath, her right ankle protested. That's all we need, she thought balefully, and yanked off a glove. It took her a few minutes to fit and turn the key-her fingers were stiff with cold, clumsy with nervousness. What if Zach came out and found her gone? What if Zach didn't come out at all?
In the end she got her fingers and pulse under control, and with only a slight limp navigated the corridor and staircase till she climbed to Zach's floor. Heedless of the wooden floorboards, somebody had left three sledges propped up against the wall on the landing, along with several child-sized pairs of boots in a greyish puddle, as if a bucket full of cold scummy water had been upended after scrubbing the passageway. Laura wondered where in this quarter there'd be a hill big enough-safe enough-for sledging. Could these be the neighbours who had complained to the police? A family with more kids than sense, Zach had said. She was tempted to lean the sledges against the door to their flat, a trick she'd taught Max years ago with well-filled wheelie bins, and might have done so if she hadn't heard a low werewolf growl behind their door.
Ankle forgotten, she raced along the passage and inserted the key in Zach's lock. In less than a minute she was inside, though she took good care not to slam the door. Heart jiggering like a sail in unsettled winds, she waited near the boot tray while her breathing returned to normal. She was reluctant to kick off her shoes, wet as they were, in case she needed to leave again quickly. Zach was planning to wear his motorbike boots, but in the tray there was also a smaller pair of black leather trainers which looked similar to Max's current favourites. Heels worn on the outer edges like his as well, she was just thinking, frayed and snarl-knotted shoelaces, when her ears picked up the murmur of voices from the living room. Familiar voices.
On the threshold, she stood with her arms crossed until they noticed her, too angry to say a word.
'Hi Laura,' Max said, as if his presence were as humdrum as grated cheese and sweaty socks and long dirty toenails. He was dressed in terry pyjamas, the smart blue-and-cream striped ones he wore for a sleepover. 'We were expecting you.'
