'Now that you're here, Laura and I best be going,' Owen said.
Zach lifted his head. 'Wait outside and warn us if anyone approaches.'
Owen looked about to refuse until Laura-with admirable self-control, she thought-smiled at him. 'Please, Owen. I'll be along in a short while.'
As soon as they were alone, Zach used his pocket knife to slice through the bonds. Without a word he ran his fingers over the abraded flesh, which left a smear of blood on his fingertips, then arranged the boy's limbs tenderly. Despite the silence Laura could hardly detect the sound of the boy's breathing, but his chest rose and fell, albeit shallowly, and a weak pulse flickered like a matchlight at the hollow of his throat-the slightest stir of wind, and it would be snuffed.
Zach wiped his fingers on his jeans before removing a plastic container from his backpack.
'Is he going to be OK?' Laura asked.
Instead of answering, Zach ran his eyes over the boy's body, then slipped one arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees, lifting him enough to take the measure of his weight. At last the boy reacted. A soft moan, eyes half open, neck muscles tensing.
'I've got your medicine,' Zach said. 'After that you can have a drink.'
The child's lips moved as if he wished to say something, but his body relaxed. Soon his eyes drifted shut.
From the plastic container Zach brought out a clean paper towel, on which he arranged a sealed disposable syringe, some flat foil packets, and a small bottle. He held the bottle up to the light before rolling it back and forth between his hands, evidently to mix its contents. After checking it once more, he tore open one of the foil packets, releasing the sharp smell of alcohol, and cleaned his hands with the swab it contained. He removed the lid from the bottle, cleaned its top with another swab, and broke out the syringe. All his movements were precise and unhurried, and despite the circumstances Laura couldn't eschew her pleasure at watching him. For a brief moment she wondered how it would feel if those fingers touched her skin, her lips, her . . . Idiot, she thought, what's the matter with you? But thoughts have a sly hunger of their own.
At least Zach was ignorant of her perfidy. He continued with his preparations until he'd drawn up the right amount of serum. Then he addressed Laura for the first time.
'Hold the syringe by the barrel,' he said, passing it to her.
With a fresh alcohol swab Zach cleaned a patch on the boy's upper thigh, followed by a grimace as he noticed how dirty the swab had become. He used a second, then a third. Satisfied at last, he pinched up a fold of skin, held out his hand for the syringe, inserted the needle at a 45?angle, and slowly depressed the plunger. Under his breath he counted to five, removed the needle, and pressed another swab in place over the injection site. Through all of this the boy remained very still.
Zach dropped the spent syringe onto the paper towel. His eyes met Laura's, and she recognised the bleakness in their depths.
'Owen didn't want to ring for an ambulance,' she said.
'Your boyfriend's not as stupid as he looks.'
'I told you, he's not my boyfriend.'
Zach shrugged and turned his attention back to the boy, whose pulse he took with a frown before lifting one of the boy's eyelids, then peeling back his lower lip. Even in the poor light Laura could see the bluish discolouration of the mucous membranes.
'Maybe we'd best get him to a hospital,' Laura said.
'No. Only Fulgur's people know how to deal with this, and they'd write him off straightaway.'
'A child?'
'Never heard of the slaugers?'
'The what?'
'The slag augers. The offscum, the damaged goods, the seconds. The Fulgur rejects.'
His bitterness stung like raw alcohol poured full-strength into an open wound, but Laura restrained her impulse to defend her kind. As she stared down at the boy, she remembered the contempt of the police till her father had managed to smooth things over. She'd been too scared to argue. But a boy younger than Max?
'What about his parents?' she asked.
'Does it look like he's got someone to care about him?'
'But-'
'Look, I appreciate what you've done, but Owen's right. Keep out of it.' He said nothing further while he stood and stretched, his jumper riding up to expose a gap of skin. He paced up and down for a few minutes, the slap of his booted feet loud against the concrete floor-any carpeting had been ripped away long ago-before coming to rest near a metal coat rack abandoned in a far corner of the room, one leg and several hooks broken off. He crossed his arms, stared down at it blindly, and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. 'The boy's probably not going to make it, anyway.' Zach kept his voice level, but Laura sensed the effort it cost him-a clear cool melt pool disguising needle ice.
'Be careful,' she said, throwing a glance at the boy. 'He might hear you.'
And as though in response, his body arched off the floor, his eyes flew open, and a deep gurgling sound issued from his throat. Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, he fell back almost at once, and was still again. Too still.
Zach launched himself with a cry towards the boy, all pretence of disinterest-resignation-forgotten. As Laura hovered in horror, Zach listened for a heartbeat, then pulled open the boy's mouth to begin artificial respiration.
'Not like that,' she said.
She quickly felt for a pulse in the boy's neck. Nothing. She checked his mouth for any obstructions, then tilted his head back with his chin pointing upwards. With one hand she pinched his nostrils shut, took a deep breath, and holding his jaw firmly in position, blew into his mouth. His chest rose. She placed her ear near his lips to listen for an exhalation. Again she breathed into his mouth, again she listened. There was an exchange of air, but he hadn't resumed spontaneous respiration. Nor was there any sign of circulation.
'You're going to have to help me,' she said, and showed Zach how to administer CPR. His thrusts were steady but too vigorous. 'More gently, you'll break his ribs.'
They worked together, alternating respiration with chest compression, for a good twenty minutes, half an hour. Sweat was dripping off Zach's forehead when Laura laid a hand on his arm.
'It's no use,' she said.
Angrily Zach shook off her hand and continued on his own, breathing in her stead. She crouched opposite him, tears threatening. They should have rung for an ambulance. With the proper training, proper equipment . . .
'Zach,' she finally said.
He dropped his head onto the boy's chest, his face hidden from Laura. She couldn't think of what to say, so said nothing. She hoped Owen had given up and left.
Not more than five minutes passed before Zach rose to his feet. Peeling off his jumper, he advanced on the remains of the coat rack, hefted it in his hands, and stepped back from the corner. His breathing was harsh in the silence. Laura saw his shoulder muscles bunch under his T-shirt. Then he swung for the wall. With an explosive whomp plaster and chips of paint flew over him in an avalanche of white. Some of it must have stung his skin, gritted his eyes, but he swung again, and again, and yet again, not once breaking the apparently effortless rhythm of his stroke. If anything, each blow was more forceful than the last. At one point the detonation was so loud that Laura flinched and glanced at the boy, irrationally expecting him to jerk upright in protest. Let me rest, she imagined him saying.
In a short while Zach was covered with a thick layer of snowy dust, and most of the plasterboard had been demolished. Hair now sweat-soaked and straggling free, he prepared to attack the adjoining wall. There was no sign that his rage had abated, despite large wet patches under his arms and along his back. Laura had always hated her mother's angry outbursts-feared them often enough, too-but was riveted by the brute simplicity, the savage power of Zach's feelings. His ragged panting filled the room, filled her inner space, as he paused for a moment to catch his breath. Her own breathing, she was shocked to discover, had quickened in response.
'Have you lost your mind?'
Owen stood in the doorway, his expression-his whole bearing-incredulous. Zach spun to face him.
'Out!' Zach snarled. 'Or you're next.'
Owen hesitated, then took a step towards Laura.
'Laura's coming with me,' he said.
Zach hoisted the tortured length of metal in both hands, cocked it over his shoulder, and with a cold smile closed on Owen. No tribal paint could have looked more feral, more inhuman than Zach's glowing mask of white powder. Suddenly Laura understood why they whispered about a simu's eyes.
'Zach, no. No!' She was on her feet and moving between them. And to Owen, 'I'm OK. Go home. Please.'
For a second or two it seemed as if Zach would dodge around her. Owen backed away, brandishing his hands to conceal their trembling, though not quite succeeding. Zach halted and jerked his head towards the door.
'Go on, get going,' he said.
Laura knew enough about male pride to realise that however cowed Owen might be right now, he'd be the first in a crowd to kick a prostrate Zach in the kidneys, the first to throw a rock or jagged curse from a safe distance, the very first to snicker and crack dirty jokes with his mates. She'd made things worse. Again.
'I'll ring you later,' she said, but immediately regretted her attempt at appeasement. With a grin meant to be mocking, Zach wheeled and stomped towards the intact wall. Owen flicked an anxious glance at Laura, but sighed when she mouthed 'please'.
Along with the tension, Owen's departure carried off the last vestige of energy in the room. Rather than battering the wall, Zach rested his forehead against it. His shoulders sagged, he gripped the coat rack like a cane. Laura considered searching for a blanket or bit of sacking to cover the boy, but it was all she could do to keep from sinking to the floor. The plaster dust had settled, leaving the air dry and motionless, the way the desert tombs of the pharaohs once must have been. There was a gritty film on her skin, and she ran her tongue over her teeth and swallowed repeatedly to erase the chalky taste. And she was thirsty, she realised, terribly thirsty, but the prospect of drinking from the same bottle which she'd held to the child's mouth less than an hour ago defeated her. In her mind she saw those chapped lips desperately puckering for another sip. She could have at least let him have all he wanted . . .
How could someone die in the time it took to watch a cartoon? to play hide-and-seek? to decorate a birthday cake with sweets? No, less time than that. The time it took for a little kid to make his wish. To blow out the candles.
As if he'd heard her thoughts, Zach let go of the coat rack, which clattered to the floor. Slowly he turned to face her. His eyes were brimming with tears.
'Laura,' he whispered.
It took no time at all to reach him. Nothing she'd ever felt came close to the fierce possessive joy which swept through her at their embrace. Her father controlled every one of his feelings; her mother, none of hers. But neither parent would have felt so elated-so fucking glorious-at someone else's grief. She buried her face in Zach's damp, grimy T-shirt, and held on. With any luck he wouldn't notice.
* * *
Zach covered the boy with a blanket he'd found in one of the other offices.
'Do you mind waiting with him for five minutes?' he asked. 'I want to fetch something from my bike.'
'What?'
'My petrol canister.'
'You're not planning to-?'
'Yeah, I am.'
'But there should be an investigation. A funeral. Or something.'
Zach regarded her soberly. 'I'll do my own investigating.'
* * *
The fire destroyed most of the cannery. By the time the blaze had been brought under control, Laura had ridden pillion on a motorbike for the first time. TV coverage mentioned a child's remains, unidentified. 'Under investigation,' a police spokeswoman said.
Chapter 10
'Laura,' Zach whispers.
For a moment he can still see her and lifts his head, only to gasp as his belly tears apart, deep-gutted. He drops back onto the pillow, riding the waves of pain like a surfer. Breathing. Breathing. Then sinking.
When he opens his eyes again, Lev is bending over him.
'Here,' Lev says, 'drink this.'
He slips an arm behind Zach's shoulders, and with his help Zach manages to take a few sips from the warm drink.
'What is it?' Zach asks.
'Something to ease the pain.'
'Tastes vile.'
'Drink it up. It also contains an extract to promote healing.'
Zach is too muzzy to argue. It crosses his mind that Fulgur might be able to stage a fatal mishap due to a so-called technical error. Would they risk an outcry? And didn't they still need him? He tries to recall the wording of the release each participant, client and instructor equally, is obliged to sign. Something about 'highly experimental programme', 'unforeseeable developments'. Like moths round a weak light, his thoughts flutter without settling. If he can't trust Lev . . .
'Think back, we've both proved that we can trust each other with our lives,' Lev says.
Clamping his lips round the rim of the mug, Zach finishes the seaweed-coloured liquid. A feeling of lassitude is spreading through his limbs; the stuff must be far more potent than Lev's offhand manner indicates. But his head is clearing, he's not spilling any more thoughts, and he discovers he can shift his body with less pain. He draws up his legs and rolls gingerly to his side in a move to sit up.
'Not so fast,' Lev says. 'I want to be sure there's no internal bleeding.'
With a hand on Zach's shoulder, Lev coaxes him to relax once more, then folds back the blankets and runs a hand over Zach's abdomen and chest, lingering longest over a spot just below his ribcage, right of centre where the liver nestles. Lev's touch is assured but gentle, as though he were a practised doctor, or blind sculptor tenderly examining his model. A nude model, in fact. There's one sharp twinge as Lev's fingers light on the area which seems to concern him most, followed by a deep dull ache-but nothing like that surge of excruciating pain, still vivid despite Zach's initial grogginess. He doesn't need to be told that some memories are forever; some pain.
