Several seconds of tape hiss. I listen closer. Then the door flies open and I whirl around, tossing the recorder out into the dark. But it’s not Julie. It’s the two men from the pool table. They stumble out the door, jostling each other and laughing through the sides of their mouths as they light up cigarettes.
‘Hey,’ the one who was talking to Julie calls to me, and he and his friend start ambling in my direction. He’s tall, good-looking, his muscular arms sleeved in tattoos: snakes and skeletons and the logos of extinct rock bands. ‘What’s up, man? You Nora’s new guy?’
I hesitate, then shrug. They both laugh like I’ve made a dirty joke.
‘Yeah, who ever knows with that chick, right?’ He punches his friend in the chest while continuing to saunter towards me. ‘So you know Julie, man? You Julie’s friend?’
I nod.
‘Known her long?’
I shrug, but I feel a coil inside me tensing.
He stops a few feet away from me and leans against the wall, taking a slow drag on his cigarette. ‘That one used to be pretty wild, too, a few years back. I was her firearms teacher.’
I need to leave. I need to turn around right now and leave.
‘She got all pure after she started dating that Kelvin kid, but man, for a year or so she was ripe fruit.’ His exhalations form a haze of smoke that stings my dry eyes. ‘A hundred bucks won’t even buy a pack of cigarettes any more, but it sure went a long way with that bitch.’
I lunge forward and crack his head into the wall. It’s easy, I just palm his face and thrust forward, punching the wall with the back of his skull. I don’t know if I’ve killed him and I don’t care. When his friend tries to grab me I do the exact same to him, two big dents in the Orchard’s aluminium siding. Both men slump to the ground. I wobble my way down the stairs and out onto the catwalk. Some kids leaning on the support cables smoking joints stare at me as I shove past them. Excuse me, I try to say, but I can’t seem to find the syllables. I slide down the four apartment floors and lurch out onto Fairy Street or Tinkerbell Street or whatever the f**k it’s called. I just need to get away from all these people for a minute, collect my thoughts. I’m so hungry. God, I’m starving.
After a few minutes of wandering, I’m completely lost and disorientated. A light rain is falling and I’m alone on some dark narrow street. The asphalt glitters black and wet under the crooked street lamps. Up ahead, two guards converse in a rain-flecked cone of light, grunting to each other with the affected toughness of scared boys straining to be men.
‘. . . out in Corridor 2 all last week, pouring foundations. We’re less than a mile away from Goldman Dome but we’ve barely got a f**kin’ crew any more. Grigio keeps pulling guys off Construction and dumping ’em into Security.’
‘What about the Goldman crew? How’s their end coming?’
‘Goldman is shit. They’re barely out their front door. I’ve been hearing the merger’s in bad shape anyway, thanks to Grigio’s bad diplomacy. Starting to wonder if he even wants the mergers any more, the way he handled Corridor 1. Wouldn’t surprise me if he arranged the collapse himself.’
‘You know that’s bullshit. Don’t be spreading that story around.’
‘Yeah, well, either way, Construction’s gone to shit since Kelvin got squished. We’re just digging holes and filling ’em in.’
‘I’d still rather be out building something than playing rent-a-cop in here all night. You get any action out there?’
‘Just a couple of Fleshies wandering out of the woods. Pop, pop, game over.’
‘No Boneys?’
‘Haven’t seen one of them in at least a year. They stick to their hives now’days. Fuckin’ bullshit.’
‘What, you like running into those things?’
‘Hell of a lot more fun than Fleshies. Fuckers can move.’
‘Fun? Are you shitting me? Those things are wrong; I don’t even like touching ’em with my bullets.’
‘Is that why your hit rate’s one in twenty?’
‘Doesn’t even seem like they’re human remains any more, you know? They’re like aliens or something. Creeps the shit out of me.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s probably ’cause you’re a pu**y.’
‘Fuck you. I’m going to take a leak.’
The guard disappears into the dark. His partner stands in the spotlight, pulling his parka tighter as the rain comes down. I’m still walking. I’m not interested in these men; I’m looking for a quiet corner where I can close my eyes and gather myself. But as I approach the light, the guard notices me, and I realise there’s a problem. I’m drunk. My carefully studied gait has been replaced by an unsteady stagger. I lumber forward, my head lolling from side to side.
I look like . . . exactly what I am.
‘Halt!’ the guard shouts.
I halt.
He moves towards me a little. ‘Step into the light please, sir.’
I step into the light, standing on the very edge of the yellow circle. I try to stand as straight as I can, as motionless as I can. Then I realise something else. The rain is dripping off my hair. The rain is running down my face. The rain is washing away my make-up, revealing the pale grey flesh underneath. I stumble back a step, slightly out of the lamplight.
The guard is about five feet away from me. His hand is on his gun. He moves closer and peers at me through slitted eyes. ‘Have you been drinking alcohol tonight, sir?’