Amberlough(93)

“Only, I know she was doing errands for you here and there, and if they caught her with anything I don’t wanna think about what might have happened.”

Aristide took a deep breath through his nose. “Malcolm, Cordelia … well, she was moving more than tar, this last week or two.”

Malcolm looked up from his knees. “What do you mean?”

“She’d started carrying messages, and a few other things. Since T-T-Tory died.”

“And?”

“She was caught ferrying sensitive documents between two of my contacts. She’s been in custody since late last night.”

The stillness that crept across Malcolm’s brawny shoulders was a warning. Seconds later, the snifter popped between his hands and he started bleeding on the carpet. Aristide shook out the handkerchief from the pocket of his smoking jacket and handed it over.

“Where is she?” His fists clenched around the cloth and turned it red. “Get her out.”

“I can’t,” said Aristide. “I don’t know the right people anymore, Malcolm.”

“You got me out.”

“That’s d-d-different and you know it. That was money. This is statecraft.”

Malcolm let his head fall back. His dark hair left an oil stain on the upholstery. “Mother’s tits. Everything. They’re taking everything.”

“Like I said: You should have j-j-jumped on the buyout when they offered it.”

“You think I haven’t figured that out by now?” Blood seeped between Malcolm’s fingers and dripped onto his trousers, disappearing into the weave of the dark wool. “But Ari, that’s my life’s work. Don’t you understand?”

“Believe me,” said Aristide, suddenly immensely tired. “I do.”

“I can’t afford the fines for stocking ballast,” said Malcolm. “They know I can’t. I wouldn’t sell out, so they’re gonna ruin me.”

“What do they want the Bee for?”

“Picture house. Showing jingo flicks.”

Aristide waved an indifferent hand “No one will come.”

“That’s not the point. They just want us shut down. Doesn’t matter if they bring in punters. They don’t need ’em.” He uncurled one hand and hissed as sticky wounds reopened. “Poor Dell. Queen’s sake, Ari, ain’t there nothing you can do?”

Aristide shook his head. “Again, I’m sorry.” It was true. He’d come to rather like Cordelia. To trust her. And here she was arrested on his account, probably holding out like a skint blush boy to keep him safe from the Ospies. Must be, or he’d be behind bars by now as well. He didn’t like to think what they’d have to do to make her talk. “You have no idea how much.”

“Don’t I?” Malcolm stood and balled Aristide’s handkerchief between his bloody fists. “She was my girl.” He tossed the red-splotched rag onto the coffee table and stalked out.

Aristide stared at it, bereft of words. Finally, his growling stomach spoke for him. He lifted the little glass bell from its bracket and rang for supper.





CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

Cordelia’s wrist was swollen up, purple and black, and she could feel the edges of crushed bones grinding just beneath the skin. Nobody had offered to splint it. Nobody had offered her water, though her voice had given out with answering the same questions, over and over. Nobody would even tell her what time it was. There weren’t windows, wherever they’d brought her, but from the sticky dryness of her eyes and the exhaustion making her head pound, she guessed it had to be well into the next day. Maybe evening time. She hadn’t gotten more than half an hour’s sleep together, and usually less.

But she hadn’t told them anything, because she wasn’t a bird. One sleepless night wouldn’t get her singing.

They hadn’t put her in a cell, at least. Just a room with four bare walls, a chair, a table. Men came in, asked questions, left. The light stayed on. Sometimes she heard footsteps in the corridor, sometimes muted voices.

She was just starting to nod off again when the door opened and a new sculler came in. Not one of the stout, clerk-faced types that had visited her so far. He was tall and on the thin side, hair clipped close. A badly set break had put his nose crooked. He wore a plain, dark suit, jacket unbuttoned over a rumpled white shirt. No waistcoat. When he pulled the jacket off, his sleeves were already rolled up past the elbow.

He stood across from her, leaning in. Didn’t say anything. She could see the sinews of his forearms ridged beneath the skin. And she saw them tense, seconds before he turned his hands and hooked his fingers underneath the table’s edge. Cordelia scrambled from her chair, but not fast enough. The falling table struck her knee. She reached out to catch herself, forgetting her broken wrist. When she came down, her vision went white. Pain sent electric sizzles through her body.

Opening her eyes, she realized she was lying on the floor, curled up like a baby around her throbbing arm. The thin man stood over her. Down here, she could see the scuffed toes of his boots, and guessed there was steel behind the leather. She thought of her sister, whose man had got her in the belly with boots like these, and the long three days it had taken her to die.

“You gonna ask me any questions?” She squeezed her eyes shut. It was easier to sass him if she couldn’t see. “Or you just gonna start kicking?”