The hummingbird killer, p.2
The Hummingbird Killer, page 2
‘Good, because I don’t know how to turn it off.’ Laura starts walking and Isabel follows her, one hand straying absently to the pocket where she keeps a trusty switchblade. So far, Laura doesn’t seem like a threat, but that doesn’t mean Isabel’s getting comfortable. ‘So, what do you do for a living, then?’
‘I’m… between jobs at the moment,’ says Isabel. ‘I’m hoping Central Espera might have more opportunities than Lutton.’ She thought hard about her story, and lying to Laura about her current address was the only option that made sense. Weaverthorpe is a Comma borough, and that invites curiosity, whereas nobody would question trading a poor civilian borough like Lutton for greener pastures. ‘Is that a problem? The landlord…’
‘Doesn’t care who lives there, as long as the rent gets paid.’ Laura doesn’t seem concerned that she’s unemployed. ‘Honestly, I’ve met the guy, like, once. You don’t need to worry about him.’
That’s not necessarily a good thing, but Isabel doesn’t push it. She can see why Laura suggested meeting her somewhere central: these narrow streets twist and turn, doubling back on each other and branching into shadowed alleyways that lack street signs or names. She knows some of them, but soon the artwork covering the walls becomes unfamiliar, new colours and shapes adorning the concrete and plaster of the buildings they pass. She’ll have to come back later to look at it properly and catalogue these new corners of the city.
‘You come to Central Espera much?’ Laura asks. ‘Lutton’s a bit of a trek, isn’t it? I can see why you’d want to move.’
Isabel shrugs. ‘Sometimes,’ she says, choosing not to mention that most of her targets live in the city centre. ‘To go to the shops, or the cemetery.’ She still visits Emma’s grave more often than she’d like to admit, sitting by the headstone to tell her friend stories, even though she knows it’s pointless. She tells them to Emma’s sister Jean, too, even though she never knew her, because Emma isn’t there to do it. She always leaves feeling both comforted and ashamed.
She’s the reason Emma was killed. She doesn’t deserve to mourn her, to miss her, to pull the weeds from her grave.
Laura’s expression has turned sympathetic, and Isabel realises too late what she’s given away. ‘Who’ve you got there, then?’ Laura asks.
‘What?’
‘The cemetery. If you’re visiting regularly, you must—’ Laura cuts herself off. ‘Sorry. Forget I asked. None of my business.’
‘A friend of mine,’ Isabel admits. ‘It was a couple of years ago now.’
Laura nods. ‘My mum’s down near the south gate, beside the rose garden.’
‘I’m… sorry to hear that,’ says Isabel, wrong-footed.
‘Oh, don’t be. She was awful. Roses are too good for her.’
A small laugh escapes Isabel before she can stop it. ‘We’ve got something in common, then.’
‘Shitty parents?’ says Laura. She gives Isabel a sympathetic grimace when she nods. ‘Everyone always tells me I must have loved her really, and expects me to be traumatised by her death, but… I hated her. I was mainly relieved that it was over. Sometimes I visit her grave just to remind myself that she’s actually dead and I never have to see her again.’
Isabel has never visited her father’s grave – she doesn’t need to, when the memory of shooting him is still vivid in her mind. As for her mother, she has no idea where Judith is buried. After the Ryans’ inglorious defection and the spectacular failure of their attempts to start their own guild, Judith wound up in Hummingbird custody, and no doubt they disposed of her once they were done with their interrogation. Isabel doubts Comma would have asked for the body back.
She decides against mentioning this to Laura. ‘I know the feeling,’ she says instead.
‘Right? It’s like, sometimes a death isn’t sad. Not when the world’s better off without them. But people look at me like I’m disturbed if I tell them that.’ She glances sideways at Isabel. ‘Sorry. I just met you, and here I am, throwing all my dirty laundry at you. It’s nerves, I swear. I’m not always like this.’
‘I make you nervous?’ says Isabel. She’s been trying not to seem threatening, but she’s obviously not succeeding. ‘Why?’
‘Have you seen yourself?’ says Laura incredulously. ‘With the boots and the piercings and the leather jacket? You’re clearly a thousand times cooler than me, and you could definitely beat me in a fight.’
She could. ‘I’m not going to fight you.’
‘Not yet. Wait until I forget to do the washing-up, though.’ Laura gestures to a building up ahead. ‘This is us.’
It’s one of the older blocks in this part of the borough, a brutalist stack made slightly more appealing by the faded artwork covering its concrete frontage: the delicate outlines of woodland creatures, pastel shadows of their true nature, against a peeling geometric background interrupted only by the punctuation of windows. To one side is a narrow alleyway that looks like it probably leads back down to the main road; to the other an uninspiring strip of grass overshadowed by the neighbouring building.
Isabel gives it a once-over. At a guess, she’d say there are ten flats in the block – two to a floor, five floors. Maybe only eight or nine, if the ground floor has been given over to the security theatre that so many of these Central Espera buildings buy into: a burly guard on a front desk and a metal detector to pass through, as though that would stop the guilds. If it’s one of those, she’s leaving right now. She doesn’t need that bullshit in her life.
‘I know,’ says Laura, reading into her critical look. ‘It’s not much to look at. But the flat itself was refurbed a couple of years ago, so I swear it’s better on the inside.’
Isabel shakes herself out of it. ‘Sorry. It’s not that. It’s—’ She hunts for an explanation. ‘The artwork. It looks familiar. Do you know who painted it?’
‘The mural?’ Laura sounds surprised. ‘No idea. I don’t pay much attention to that stuff. Are you an artist?’
‘No, but… my friend.’ It feels odd, talking about Emma to a girl who doesn’t give art a second glance. ‘The one who died. She was. She painted all over the city.’ This isn’t one of Emma’s pieces – it’s too quiet and restrained, lacking her fire. But Isabel recognises the style from somewhere, and can’t place it.
‘The landlord’s not a fan,’ says Laura, heading towards the front door. ‘He wants the council to pressure-wash it, but they keep saying no.’
‘Good,’ says Isabel emphatically, almost without meaning to, and Laura shoots her a curious glance. ‘I like it.’ A weak excuse. But sometimes, she thinks, the colours and the art are the only reason Espera is bearable.
Laura says, ‘Should’ve known you’d be the arty type, with that hair.’ She pushes open the front door, denying Isabel the chance to explain that she borrowed all her appreciation of art from Emma and she doesn’t really know what she’s doing, never has, she just knows that the colours mean something. ‘Come on, then.’
There’s no security guard or metal detector in the lobby, though there’s a curved reception area and a secure post room, suggesting the building has pretensions to grandeur far beyond its uninspiring architecture.
‘Lift’s broken,’ says Laura, leading her towards the stairs. ‘Happens a lot. Hope that doesn’t put you off.’
Isabel shakes her head. Lifts feel claustrophobic, dangerous, a metal box with no escape. She’s happy to take the stairs up to the third floor, where Laura unlocks one of the doors and gestures grandly inside.
‘This is it, then?’ says Isabel, stepping inside.
‘Yep. Take a look around.’
Isabel’s standards for a flat are a little esoteric for her to feel comfortable examining this place in company, but she doesn’t have a choice. The front door looks solid enough; the main lock isn’t guild-grade, but it might actually take her a couple of minutes to pick, so it would defeat most people. Inside, three doors open off an open-plan living room and kitchen.
‘I’ve got the master at the end,’ Laura tells her. ‘The first room would be yours, if you want it.’
Isabel nods, glancing into the room. It’s a good-sized double bedroom, plainly furnished with everything she’d need, even if the pale grey walls are depressingly monochrome. Between the two bedrooms is a bathroom, glossy and recently re-tiled. The kitchen, when she gives it a look, is well equipped and easily large enough for them to stay out of each other’s way, and although there are signs of habitation in the living room – a haphazard handful of books on the shelves, a mug on the coffee table – it doesn’t feel cluttered.
She can’t tell yet how safe this place is, how well the windows fit, whether the cameras on the outside of the building are enough to discourage attacks. But while her current flat is secure, it’s a Comma signature on the lease, her rent going straight back into the coffers of the guild. Safety at the cost of freedom, the way it always is.
This flat is a risk. Laura is a risk. Isabel knows better than to ignore that. But it’s hard to see any threat in the girl in front of her, and Laura’s chatter promises to fill the silence of Isabel’s life. Besides, Central Espera means opportunities, the chance to do more with her time than kill people and while away the empty hours in melancholic distraction.
Between her parents and the guild, Isabel’s never had the chance to figure out who she is, or what she wants from life. Maybe with Laura, she can find out – rediscover the civilian world that’s slipped away from her these past couple of years, become something other than a knife in Comma’s hand. If she turns down this opportunity, she might not get another chance.
‘Works for me,’ she says finally, and tries not to sound too hopeful. ‘If you still want to live with me.’
‘No objections here,’ says Laura, and grins. ‘When can you move in?’
3 SKOLTI (TO SCOUT)
It’s a rash decision, and Isabel spends the next two days making up for it. She researches Laura Clarke, whose online presence is minimal. Comma aren’t keeping any files on her that Isabel can find, either, so all she manages to prove for sure is that Laura does work at The Griffin’s Claw. The building’s owner is a nondescript civilian landlord who owns two such properties and lives pretty off the profits in Grindale, unremarked by anybody much. Laura has been renting the flat for five months; until a week ago, the second tenant was listed as Heather Markham, now living in Swaythorpe.
In other words, Laura’s story checks out, and there are no obvious red flags. So Isabel turns her attention to the area around the new flat. It’s not completely unfamiliar, but she doesn’t know it as well as she’d like. The building is low risk for snipers, at least, with no good sightlines from neighbouring buildings. Most of them are smaller: squat squares of apartments or narrow terraced tenements. It’s closer quarters than she’s used to, after living in Weaverthorpe, but that’s the nature of the city centre.
On one of her reconnaissance missions, Isabel passes a library, less than a mile from the flat. She’s had little use for books since her last attempt at a civilian life went up in smoke and she dropped out of Fraser Secondary School, but nostalgia – or perhaps faded memories of Grace, the librarian-poisoner who tried to save her – makes her slow her pace to read the poster in the window.
WE’RE HIRING, it reads. LIBRARY ASSISTANT WANTED. P/T 20+ HOURS.
Below the printed text, somebody has scrawled, The pay’s crap, but the books are good.
Libraries hadn’t been high on Isabel’s list of possible job opportunities, and she doubts they’d offer her a work schedule that could disguise the irregular hours of her assignments. But she stares at the poster, running through possibilities in her mind. It’s local, at least. And if they’re reduced to putting a sign in their window, they’re probably not going to insist on qualifications, and references she’d have to forge.
‘You know, if you keep staring at the window like that, it’ll shatter,’ says a voice.
Isabel turns. The speaker is a few years older than her, wearing a startling orange coat and thick glasses with bright yellow frames that stand out vividly against their brown skin and hair. They look at her expectantly.
She takes a second to adjust to the sight and the surprise, and then manages, ‘I was looking at the advert.’
‘No shit,’ they say. ‘If you’re looking for a job, it’s Jem you should talk to.’
‘Jem?’
‘Inside. We usually go through the doors, but you can keep trying to teleport through that window if you want.’
Isabel doesn’t remember the last time anyone other than Mortimer made fun of her, and his teasing has a different tone to it, a softness born of familiarity. It’s a strange experience, but not entirely unpleasant. ‘I’m not qualified.’
‘You know the alphabet?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re qualified. And we’re desperate. Talk to Jem.’
‘Talk to me about what?’ A tall woman in jeans and a tartan jumper emerges from the library. She looks stressed: her dark hair has been haphazardly swept up into a messy bun, a pen thrust through it, and her pale, freckled skin is lined with care. Isabel would guess she’s in her early thirties, but it’s hard to be sure. ‘Beth, you’re late. What were you saying?’
Beth, the brightly coloured librarian, gestures to Isabel. ‘A job applicant for you.’
‘Hang on,’ begins Isabel, ‘I’m not… that is, I haven’t…’
Jem quirks an eyebrow at her. ‘Please don’t feel obliged to apply, if Beth has been trying to press-gang you. I’ve told them they can’t do that, but it doesn’t seem to sink in.’
‘I was curious,’ Isabel says hesitantly. She still is, mainly about what kind of library is desperate enough to recruit strangers off the street. ‘I’m about to move here, tomorrow. From Lutton. I’m looking for work, but—’
‘Know anything about libraries?’ Jem cuts in.
‘I’ve been in one. Two. A long time ago.’
‘Read much?’
Isabel hasn’t read anything that wasn’t a Comma intel file in months, if not longer. ‘Not really.’ It’s clearly not the answer they wanted, but she tries, on the rare occasions it’s possible, to tell the truth.
Beth says, ‘Ask her the alphabet question.’
Jem rolls her eyes. ‘Do you know the alphabet?’
An odd urge to impress them and make up for her lack of expertise pushes Isabel to say, ‘Latin or Cyrillic?’
For the first time, the librarian’s expression brightens. ‘A linguist!’ she says. ‘Tell me more. Are you a student?’
Pretending to be a student at the University of Central Espera would have been a good cover, if she’d had time to construct it, but she can’t risk lying without watertight details. ‘No,’ she says. ‘But I read Russian. I learned from books.’ This is partially true. ‘Is that useful?’
‘More than you’d expect.’ The two librarians exchange a look Isabel can’t interpret. ‘You said you’re moving tomorrow? Come here when you’re done, and I’ll interview you. If you’re nice to Beth, they’ll give you a tour.’
Once again, Isabel’s struck by the sense of everything moving much faster than she anticipated. After two years of letting Comma make her decisions for her, she’s been thrown back into the world at full speed, and she’s not sure she can keep up. ‘Okay,’ she says helplessly. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘Like I said,’ says Beth, ‘we’re desperate.’
‘And like I said,’ Jem tells her colleague, ‘you’re late. They’re waiting for you in the children’s section. Get a move on.’ Beth grins, waves at Isabel, and disappears inside. Jem adds, ‘I wish I could say Beth’s exaggerating and we’re flooded with applicants, but they’re right. We’re seriously short-staffed. So between you and me, the interview’s a formality, but… you’ll come, won’t you?’
The hope and uncertainty on Jem’s face makes her look younger. ‘I’ll come,’ Isabel promises, before she has time to talk herself out of it. ‘Although, I’m not sure when I’ll be done moving.’
‘We’re open until six. Come whenever. And, here,’ Jem adds, rummaging in her pocket for a scrap of paper and taking the pen from her hair to scrawl a number on it. ‘If you can’t make it, call and let us know.’
Isabel takes the paper. ‘Okay,’ she says again. ‘I’ll be there.’
* * *
In the end, moving doesn’t take long. Laura raises an eyebrow at Isabel’s lack of luggage, but she doesn’t own much. Just a suitcase full of clothes and another full of weapons. Even the crockery at her old flat technically belongs to Comma.
She’ll buy more. Like a civilian. But first, she has an appointment to keep.
Isabel hesitates for a few moments outside the library, wondering if ripped jeans were the right choice for a job interview. Too late now if not, she concludes, and plucks up the courage to go in.
The library’s bigger than it looks from outside, the small lobby opening out into a large room with other doors branching off it. She expected dark wood and tightly packed shelves, but instead the shelving is pale and low enough to see over, colourful paperbacks jostling against thick tomes. Comfortable-looking chairs are scattered conveniently in each section.
It takes a few moments to locate the issue desk, and Jem behind it. She’s helping an older woman fill out an application form, but she glances up and grins when she sees Isabel. ‘Be right with you,’ she says. ‘Feel free to look around.’
Isabel looks but doesn’t stray. From here, she has a clear line of sight to the door, but there’s probably a back entrance, which she hasn’t located. The windows are all partially blocked by posters and artwork, which is vaguely distracting, but the maze of shelves is a bigger risk. So many hiding places, so many blind spots: a killer’s playground. There are a few CCTV cameras, but nothing that wouldn’t be easy to avoid.
She’s never been sent here before. That doesn’t mean nobody has. Isabel shifts uncomfortably, wondering if there’s a way to ask Jem about the library’s body count without seeming like a paranoid freak. She’s not concerned for her own safety – she’s carrying three knives and a small pistol, though you wouldn’t know it to look at her – but if the guilds are active here, it’ll be a pain to get the security clearance to declare it as her day job.
