The Crying Machine. Greg Chivers

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       7.

       Clementine

      Levi’s thin fingers close around the bright fruit as if to test its reality. He pinches the green leaf from its stem and sniffs it before leaning back, apparently satisfied. At the edge of her vision, the other one watches from behind the bar, his face halved in blue chiaroscuro by light from a screen showing some foreign sport. A bank of three refrigerators against the wall hums as freon courses through the tubes of their heat exchangers. One is a semitone deeper than its fellows and rattles faintly at thirty-second intervals. A dripping tap plays counterpoint to the chorus, but otherwise the room is silent.

      At a nod from Levi the barman bustles out from behind the counter like a heavily muscled housewife. Clementine hovers, uncertain where to sit, resisting the urge to blink and peer into the room’s darker recesses. A squeal of tortured wood from behind makes her jump as Yusuf slides a splintered wooden bar down between two staples on the door, sealing them all in.

      ‘Closing early tonight. This is a private conversation.’ His smile summons the memory of yesterday. His kindness had been a chink of light in her despair, but that meant nothing now. These people were criminals; that much was clear.

      ‘Over here.’

      A sudden circle of light illuminates a small round table in the corner of the room. Levi hunches over something, just as he did before. That time it was trinkets, now it’s two data slates hard-linked by a physical wire: old-school, but secure. Whatever is in them is supposed to be secret. The yellow glare from the ceiling lamp prevents her seeing what’s on the slates. Levi extinguishes the images with a tap of the finger and looks up as she approaches.

      ‘So, how are you doing? You like it there, at the Mission?’

      ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ Guilt darkens Clementine’s words. Nobody at the Mission made her sign contracts or swear oaths, but this still feels like a betrayal.

      ‘Yeah, I guess you are.’

      ‘So are you going to tell me about this job?’

      ‘In a minute. The thing you need to understand is that once I tell you the details, there’s no backing out.’ He looks over her shoulder to where Yusuf still stands next to the barred door, and then looks to her, waiting.

      ‘You want me to say “yes” without knowing what I’m agreeing to?’

      ‘Basically, yeah. Don’t worry, it’s only a little bit illegal.’ Levi chuckles at his own joke, but Clementine turns away, stares at the floor. The attempt at humour throws the reality of her choices into stark relief. It’s this or the mop and the kitchen forever, serving the ghosts as they pass through.

      ‘Levi, we don’t know each other. We can’t really talk about trust, or agreements, or anything like that. There’s no reason for me to trust you, or vice versa, so let me tell you where I’m at, and then you can decide for yourself how much of a risk it is to tell me about this job. How’s that?’

      His mouth narrows into a line and his gaze flicks to Yusuf and then back to her.

      ‘OK, tell me “where you’re at”.’ His words mimic Clementine’s still shaky Arabic accent.

      She forces a smile. ‘I’m broke, I spent last night in a homeless shelter, and the locals seem to regard the only clothes I own as some kind of sexual invitation. I need the money.’ Her smile sags beneath the weight of reality in those words, but she holds it in place and fixes Levi’s gaze, waiting for him to speak.

      ‘I think we can do business.’ His grin is a salesman’s, closing an easy deal. He taps the corner of one of the screens, and both of them shine into life; then he flips them around to face Clementine. They are photographs of the interior of a building taken from its own security cameras. ‘I need you to get into this building – it’s a museum storage facility – and retrieve an artefact. Think you can do that?’

      ‘Yes.’

      He laughs again. ‘Confident, that’s good.’

      Her fingers slide across the table to touch the tablet, but Levi jerks it back, caging it with his own hand just beyond her reach.

      ‘Keep your hands to yourself. You see what I need you to see, no more.’

      ‘If you want me to plan a break-in, I need to see everything.’

      He shakes his head and smiles, but there is no warmth in his expression. ‘I think you’re labouring under a misunderstanding. I don’t need you to plan anything. I need someone quick and smart to do the legwork, that’s all.’

      ‘How do we get past the security? There’ll be alarms, cameras …’

      ‘You won’t need to worry about any of that stuff. It’s taken care of.’

      ‘I worry if it’s my picture they’re taking.’

      Levi’s mouth pinches like he’s tasting something sour; then he shakes his head again. ‘I already told you too much. Get out.’ He spits the last word and leaves a silence, waiting for her to move.

      His anger vents in sharp, shallow breaths, a warning hiss, but Clementine doesn’t shift. The thought of tomorrow morning’s cleaning routine echoing infinitely into the future keeps her rooted to her seat.

      ‘Go on, move! If you breathe a fucking word to anyone, we will find you. Nothing moves in this city Yusuf doesn’t know about it.’

      Her head jerks around at the mention of the other man’s name. He’s still standing watchfully by the door, barring her exit, but there is no malice in his pose. The tablet lies tantalizingly out of reach, but she can almost taste the trickle of current flowing through the solid-state circuitry from the tiny block of lithium at its core. Just a little nudge …

      Blue light from the tablets suddenly illuminates Levi’s face. He blinks in disbelief. ‘What the fuck did you do?’

      ‘Like I said, I need see everything.’

      Heavy footsteps from behind warn of the big man’s approach, but Levi holds up a hand, and they stop. She feels the looming presence no more than a metre behind her.

      ‘May I?’ She gestures to the tablets shining through Levi’s caged fingers and he nods cautiously, pulling his hand away.

      The moment her index finger brushes the tablet’s casing, data rushes up to greet her, coursing through the fingertip interface into her grey matter, flowing in a stream of firing neurons into the tiny auxiliary processor at the base of her frontal cortex. An itch in her brain is a long dormant sub-routine СКАЧАТЬ