Полина Саймонс – Inexpressible Island (страница 17)

“What did you really travel to the end of the earth in search for, Swedish?” Wild laughs. “It was some girl, right?”

Mia, Mia, my heart, my dearest one, you are the one.

“What do you call the cliff?” Wild asks when Julian doesn’t answer.

“Mount Terror,” Julian replies.

“Fuck, yeah!”

“Fuck off!” says Nick.

Finch scoffs.

Mia jumps to her feet. “Wait! Stop speaking, Julian.”

“What a splendid suggestion, dove,” Finch says.

“Your story is too good to waste on us wankers.”

“Thanks a lot, Folgate,” Wild says.

“I, for one, would enjoy hearing the rest,” Peter Roberts says in a measured baritone. “The man has finally got around to telling a real story. He began at the beginning and was continuing capably until you stopped him, Maria.”

“That wasn’t the beginning, Robbie,” says Julian. “Not by a long shot.”

“You’ll hear all of it, Robbie, I promise you,” Mia says. “Follow me. Bring your chair.”

Mia leads Julian and the rest to the escalator lobby where a hundred Londoners have collected for the night, spilling out onto both platforms. “These poor folks are starving for entertainment,” Mia says. “You saw how fired up they were last night. What do you say? Let’s give them a story. Some drama, some comedy, a fight. You’ll lift their spirits, make the time pass. What could be better? I wish we had enough drink for them. They would so enjoy a little sip of whiskey.”

“I’ll get some,” Julian says. “I’ll get some as soon as I can.”

“Sure you will.” Mia smiles, as if she’s heard a lot of promises men have not kept. “We’ll do it interview style, okay? I’ll ask you questions and in your answers you’ll tell them what happened.”

“Thank you, Mia,” Julian says, gazing at her, “for explaining to me what an interview is.”

She giggles. “You’re welcome, Julian.” She hops up onto the makeshift stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, come closer,” she yells, motioning the Londoners to her. “Gather round. Tonight, for your listening entertainment, we want to present our new series of tales. They’re called … what are they called, Julian?”

“Tales of Love and Hate.”

“Tales of Love and Hate!” she exclaims. “Tonight, we’ll start with the first of—” She glances at Julian. “First of how many?”

“First of five.”

“Tonight, we will start with the first of five, called ‘The Death Match at Sea,’ or the mystery of how Julian nearly lost his hand. I’m Maria Delacourt. Please welcome to the stage, my co-star in The Importance of Being Earnest, Julian Cruz.”

There’s tepid clapping.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for that smattering of applause,” an unperturbed Mia continues. “Rest assured, when you hear the story of this fight, you will be standing in the aisles.” She leans to Julian. “Am I overpromising?”

“Underpromising, I reckon,” Julian says.

“Why don’t we have a real fight instead?” a man in the back says.

“Yeah,” another man says. “Now that would be bloody entertainment.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be fair for me to fight Mr. Cruz,” Mia says. “He wouldn’t stand a chance.” She winks at Julian. “How about if we begin with a story, and then we’ll see what we see. Prick up your ears, give Julian your full attention. You won’t be disappointed.”

And they’re not.

Raptly they listen, gasping at the horror of being vastly outnumbered by murderous men with evil intent in the middle of an ocean, gasping even more at the girl’s shocking betrayal. Even Mia loses her put-on composure. “Did she really do that?” she whispers, wide-eyed.

“She really did,” Julian replies, studying her face.

“How could she do it? I thought she loved you.”

“She did. But she didn’t want to die.”

“Julian, why do you keep staring at me, as if I have the answers to my own questions?” she whispers. “Did you forgive her?”

“What do you think?”

“You fool, I think you did.”

Julian ends the story of his Valkyrie, the chooser of the slain, with Tama’s demise, not with the actual end, which is too cruel for this setting and these people. Probably too cruel for any setting. Ending it early makes it almost a happy ending. Masha at the Cherry Lane was lost and then was found, just as she had always dreamed of.

The crowd applauds with gusto. Wild cheers wildly. Even Peter Roberts claps, his face flushed and satisfied. The only one who doesn’t clap is Finch.

“Well done! You definitely want them more ecstatic at the end,” Mia says to Julian, grabbing his arm and raising it together with hers as they take their bows. “That’s how you know you’ve done your job.”

“I agree, it’s always good to end ecstatically,” Julian says, squeezing her fingers. Blushing, she doesn’t return his gaze.

“Fight! Fight!” the crowd keeps yelling. “Show us a real fight! A boxing match! There must be some plonker in your group who’ll fight you. Come on! Give us something!”

“We’re not going to do that,” Mia tells the audience. “But if we’re still here tomorrow, God willing, and you return, we might have some whiskey for you … and we’ll tell you another story—which one, Julian? The murder in a brothel?”

“That one’s good.”

“Okay,” she says. “Are there any details to the brothel story besides cold-blooded murder?”

“Oh, one or two,” Julian says, making Mia blush again. He smiles. She smiles.

“How about a hot-blooded fight right now, Swedish?” Wild yells from the sidelines. “Finch over here just told me he’ll fight you.”

“You bet I will,” Finch says. “I’ll kick his arse. He won’t know what hit him.”

“Finch is dying to fight you, Swedish!” Wild yells. “What do you say?”

“Fight! Fight!”

The howl of the siren sounds. There’s a collective groan of disappointment and misery. The bad part of life has intruded on the good part of life.

9

Cripplegate

“ARE THE DOORS OF ST. PAUL’S STILL OPEN?” JULIAN AND MIA are walking briskly down Whitechapel. Earlier that morning, they rode with Shona to the Royal London Hospital to get resupplied with bandages and antiseptic. With Julian carrying the heavy canvas bag, they’re headed back to the jeep on Commercial Street, where Finch is undoubtedly steaming and waiting.

“Sure, it’s open,” Mia says. “Why, do you want to hide inside?”

“Yes,” Julian says. “Inside the Bank of England, inside St. Paul’s. Inside the Stock Exchange. Inside Monument.” Inside things that don’t fall. Things that won’t fall. The gods of the city have cloaked the Bank of England and St. Paul’s in an invisible shield, as if the mystical dragons of London jealously guard its greatest treasures.

“I’ve never seen London like this,” Julian says as they walk, “without its people.”

Mia nods. “It’s like a ghost town. But believe me, the people are still here.”

“Yes,” he replies, not looking at her. “They’re just ghosts.”

The rain turns to ice. Frozen pellets drop out of the sky and pound Julian and Mia like gunfire. He notes her falling apart boots as they hurry down the street.

“Did you know,” he says to her, “that if you run in the rain instead of walk, you won’t get as wet?”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“I’m serious. If we run, we won’t get as wet as when we dawdle and take in the sights. Want to try it? Here, give me your hand.”

They race down Whitechapel to where it crosses Commercial Street and duck into a covered archway at Aldgate East tube station to catch their breath and get out of the hailstorm for a minute.

“I don’t know, Swedish.” Mia laughs. “I’m pretty soaked.”

“Well, you started out soaked,” Julian says, “so it doesn’t count. Try it when you’re dry. Run through the rain. You won’t get as wet.”