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“I hope you’re not about to give me a problem,” Hu San said shortly.

“/
don’t think so. I was hoping for an address for Haruki?”

Half question, half request… Still, it threw Hu San off guard.

“What?”

“I owe him an apology.”

For what, exactly?
Hu San wondered. Maybe the English boy had heard about her anger with Wild Boy and held himself responsible. If so, the boy was right: he
was
responsible for Wild Boy’s current disgrace. But that still didn’t mean it was his fault. Hu San clearly remembered saying
Not the face.
Wild Boy hadn’t listened and she couldn’t accept that.

Wild Boy was on ice until he grovelled properly. Screaming fits and protests wouldn’t do, and nor would sulking. And yes, sex complicated things, no one could deny that. All the same, she expected obedience, even from the boy who sometimes spread her legs.

“Tell him to quit sulking,” said Hu San and rattled off the address for an apartment block two streets back from the harbour. She paid the rent, she paid his bills and she paid the woman who went in once a week and cleaned up. In fact, she paid the woman double, once to do the job, and once again to ignore the discarded roaches and the gun Haruki could never remember to hide away in a locked drawer.

Let them make friends,
thought Hu San tiredly. Or she’d get rid of both of them. Besides, both their sets of bruises should have started to fade by now. And anger faded like bruises, or it did in people wise enough not to nurse it. As to whether Haruki was as wise as the English boy obviously was, that was something Hu San reckoned she was about to find out.

Payback time.

ZeeZee blipped his bike into life, let out the clutch and felt his tyres squeal on the wet tarmac. Bain had cleared the harbour road of everything except a delivery truck, a police car and him. Spray from his back wheel rose behind the Suzuki like a wave. And by the time he reach Wild Boy’s apartment, rain was vaporizing off his single exhaust to add its own fog trail to the spray. It was cold and undeniably wet but ZeeZee was seriously enjoying himself.

Hidden strips lit the foyer inside Wild Boy’s building. A wall of glass separating the warmth of the foyer from the dark and rain of the sidewalk where ZeeZee had left his bike.

“Going all the way,” he told the clerk behind the desk, pointing his finger at the ceiling. Inside a lift, he checked his gun. Full load, seven shots. Flipping out the cylinder and then flipping it back. Only then did he realize a video camera was positioned in the top right corner of the lift. Too bad. Besides, he had a license for the gun, because delivering court orders meant not everyone liked to see him coming.

ZeeZee counted off the floors as each number lit and the lift shot past, headed for the penthouse. What was it Wild Boy always used to say?
It ain’t over till the fat lady pings…
The English boy took a fold of paper from his pocket and looked at it. Wild Boy lived on this stuff—that, and Mexican red. Hu San—he wasn’t too sure what she used, but something more than just life regularly reduced her eyes to dark pinpricks. He, on the other hand, didn’t even smoke. The fox didn’t approve.

Not usually.

Weighing the twist in his hand, as if it might actually have a weight rather than being too light to feel, ZeeZee shrugged and carefully unwrapped the chemical origami to reveal the grey, salt-sized crystals inside.

“Have a great evening,” said the lift.

“Thanks,” said ZeeZee as he put his nose to the paper and inhaled, hitting it with both barrels. “I intend to…”

A creak of the apartment door tugged Haruki away from his dreams. Far away—in the world inside his head, which was less safe even than the world outside—he registered first the click of a lock recessing itself and then a door creaking open on hinges that needed oiling.

The next click was closer and dispelled his dreams like wind through smoke. It came a microsecond ahead of the cold kiss of metal on his forehead. Revolvers that operated
on
double-hammer action were increasingly rare but Haruki knew of at least one person who owned a model like that. The cold-eyed English boy who walked alone and mostly talked to himself.

“Get up.”

Haruki opened one eye. His other was still too badly bruised to open. Around the eye he could, there were distinct bruises, left by a bony knuckle.

“Out of bed.”

Slowly, very carefully, Haruki eased his feet out from under the covers, toes feeling for the floor. The cold made him reach instinctively for his silk dressing gown.

“You won’t need that.” A hand flicked Haruki’s fingers aside before they could touch fabric. “Walk over to the window.”

Haruki did what he was told, trying to ignore both the cold and his own nakedness. Most of all, he tried to ignore the revolver and a rising fear brought on by questions he suspected it would be stupid to want answered.

“Open the curtains.”

He did that, too. Seeing the pinprick lights of Seattle flicker in the falling rain. The carpet felt sticky under his bare feet and the room stank of incense, empty beer cans and half-finished Singapore noodles. The sheets were dirty and his Toshiba wall screen was running nothing except static, but the view out over the harbour was heart-stopping. So beautiful it almost made up for dying surrounded by his own squalor.

“Now open the window.”

The glass slid back silently and a sudden gust of cold raised goose bumps on Haruki’s naked skin. “Why are you doing this?” Wild Boy asked. His voice sounded small, even to him. “We didn’t touch your face.”

The English boy shrugged. “Did I ever say you did?”

“You let Hu San think so…” Wild Boy’s hand went up to touch the bruise below his eye and his fingers came away wet.

“How sweet,” said ZeeZee. “You’re crying.” He raised the gun and sighted along the top, seeing a naked Japanese boy no older than he was. “Any last requests?”

Haruki just looked out from under his fringe.

ZeeZee sighed. The fox was right and he was wrong.

“I don’t know about you,” ZeeZee said as he lowered his gun. “But I’m not finding this nearly as much fun as I thought.” Stepping back towards the bed, he threw Haruki a dressing gown.

“You don’t love her,” Wild Boy said fiercely.

“And you do?”

Haruki nodded, sliding first one, then another arm into the gown and knotting the belt loosely round his narrow waist. “And she loves me.”

“Not any more,” said ZeeZee.

He closed the apartment door behind him and left Wild Boy to lock up the window and call Hu San, if he was that stupid. Not that he would—call Hu San, that was… ZeeZee knew Wild Boy. Shame would prevent him.

Haruki was right about one thing, though. ZeeZee didn’t want a lover, certainly not a Chinese gangster in her late thirties. A mother—now, that was something different. But that was one place even Wild Boy couldn’t make him go.

Shoving his gun back into its holster, ZeeZee zipped up his black biker jacket and hit a button to call the lift. He didn’t know how well Wild Boy would sleep but as soon as he got back to his own room he intended to crash out like the proverbial log, cooking sulphate or not. And then, first thing tomorrow he planned to get up and go visit Micky O’Brian. Hu San wanted a small package delivered. Something by way of apology for the recent misunderstanding…

Sitting on the edge of his bed, knife in hand, Haruki remained awake for the best part of five hours while he went over what had happened. What he’d said, what had been said to him. It was as if black and white had suddenly reversed. Maybe he could have handled matters differently. Perhaps he really should have launched himself at the English boy and not even thought about the gun.

Except that if life had taught Haruki anything it was when to lose fights. Most times he fought hard and won but occasionally he knew to give in. That knowledge had saved his life as a kid.
He wasn’t proud of how he’d made his living before he met Hu San but never once had she shown anything but sympathy. Until now…

Sadly, Haruki put his hand to his swollen eye and then touched the edge of the blade to his throat.
No use,
he didn’t feel brave enough for really grand gestures. Reversing his grip, so that he held the blade securely, Haruki dragged its point across his wrist, feeling sick. The wound should have been deeper but two glistening sinews blocked his way.

The tears that started up ran unchecked down his face as he sat there on his bed, his one good hand wrapped tight round his damaged wrist, trying to hold the edges of the cut together. For all his front, it seemed he couldn’t even kill himself properly. Haruki had a decision to make without being sure how much time he had left in which to make it… In the end, shame or not, Haruki ordered his mobile to call Hu San and keep calling until it got through. He wanted to apologize or say goodbye, whichever seemed appropriate.

10-11th July

Saturday began hot, the early-morning sun turning the
Corniche to a burning silver strip that flared along the shore and separated the city from its beaches and low-lying headlands. But even early, with the sun hanging low over Glymenapoulo to the east, the air was too heavy and too sticky for blue sky to last.

A headache settled over the city, dogs growing restless and feral cats slinking from the shade of one shabby tenement to another. Policemen pulled at their high collars as they tried to relieve the itch, women scratched discreetly and men at café tables casually adjusted their balls. Through endless shuttered windows came the sound of toddlers whining, being slapped and whining louder still.

Under their glass roofs the souks overheated, peaches turned bruised and rancid in the open markets and at the taxi rank on Place Orabi a driver killed two passengers in an argument over his tip.

The storm came in at noon, as muezzin were calling the faithful to prayer. It fell on Iskandryia in a rolling landslide of dark clouds that slid down the coast, vast and soot-hued, banked so high that the outer edge of each cloud turned back on itself and still kept climbing. Looking up was like staring down into a bottomless canyon.

And with the clouds came a chill that cooled the air until the only heat was latent, radiating back from alley walls and parked cars. But Hani didn’t notice the sudden chill at the time because she was too busy in the haremlek throwing “rubbish” clothes into a black plastic bag… Rubbish meant anything neat, anything fussy, anything that Hani’s aunt had made her wear…

Now they were up in the attic, rubbishing that without quite saying so, Raf had decided to get the al-Mansur madersa swept clean of ghosts and rearranged by the close of the weekend. Some ghosts need exorcism. Some die, shrivel in the daylight or let time brick them off into the little-visited rooms of memory.

His own were mostly sterilized and labelled, neatly hidden away by the fox or secure behind emotional safety glass as the regime at Huntsville had demanded. But Hani’s ghosts… Raf intended to kill those with a bucket and mop, black bin liners and the scrape of clumsily moved furniture.

“It’s dark…”

“I know,” said Raf, glancing round. “The electricity’s out again.”

“No.” Hani stood in a doorway, holding a torch. “I mean it’s dark outside. The whole sky’s gone black… Come and see.”

“Let me just finish this,” said Raf, picking up a chair. He was sorting through an attic, which led out onto a flat roof. A room stuffed with ancient china, wall hangings, carpets and old chairs, domestic detritus to which people had been too attached or too lazy to discard. The space was also home to a wasps’ nest, high in one corner, and a tribe of mice that left markers in a spread of oily seed-like droppings.

They’d gone up there to find new furniture for the
qaa,
after Hani had rejected the original stuff on the basis that Aunt Nafisa liked it. Raf had seconded her opinion on the grounds that the silver chairs, at least, were unbelievably uncomfortable.

There were undoubtedly very good reasons why it was a psychologically bad move to let Hani discard her smart clothes and the
qaa
chairs on the sole basis that they had been liked by an aunt whose death she should have been mourning. And no doubt any child psychologist could have told Raf exactly what those reasons were but, since he’d had enough of psychologists as a child to last both of them a lifetime, he didn’t care.

As Hani waited, the first heavy droplets of rain hit the flat roof outside. “It’s beginning,” she announced and then she was gone, stepping though a sudden steel-grey sheet of rain that closed off the open doorway like a bead curtain.

“Hani!”

He was too late. By the time Raf reached the door, Hani’s hair was plastered to her face and her green tee-shirt had turned dark and heavy with rain. She was laughing.

“Come on.”

The water was warm and the drops huge, falling so heavily that they bounced off the tiles until the guttering that drained the roof could no longer cope and a skim of water built up across the surface of the roof to swallow the rain.

“Does this happen often?” Raf had to shout to make himself heard above the noise.

Hani grinned. “Not like this.” She spread her arms wide, welcoming the torrent. “This is wild.” And it was.

Walking to the edge, she leant over the parapet to watch rain racing through a storm pipe at her feet and fall in a heavy stream on Rue Cif below. Waves of racing water drove down the middle of the road, sweeping rubbish before it.

“The carpets,” said Raf, suddenly. “Come on.”

With Hani’s help, he dragged a heavy roll of cloth out onto the flooded flat roof of the madersa, discarding his shoes and socks to trample back and forth across the unrolled bokhara until grey water seeped between his toes and was washed away by rain. By the time he’d dragged out his second rug, Hani had ripped off the Nikes he’d bought her the day before and was trampling hell out of a small carpet of her own.