Читать книгу The Big Smoke - Jason Nahrung - Страница 12

Kevin ran across the rooftops. There were sirens, but there had been sirens since he'd arrived in Brisbane. He didn't know if these were for him; he kept running. A lane separated the roofs, the gap a little more than a car-width wide. He jumped it easily enough, despite a moment's hesitation. The roofs ran out at the end of the block, a main road bustling with traffic, pedestrians oblivious as they waited at the lights or strolled along.

Kevin stopped, huddled behind a parapet, and vomited a sticky drool.

On the run with Taipan outside Rockhampton, he had killed a girl. Her name was Nicola. Taipan had fed her to him and he'd swallowed every drop. Her life — her experiences, her feelings — haunted him still. Before he left Cairns, he'd promised himself he'd never again take without asking. He'd never risk stealing another person's life. But tonight he'd done just that.

Greaser's memories swirled through him, a kaleidoscope of impressions mixed with his own visceral memory of having just shot a man through the head. But he'd seen the tell-tale flash of green in the gunman's eyes; there was little doubt that the vampire had been intent on harming Kevin, and that he would recover. It was little consolation. Taipan's words, having sunk like fishhooks into him, jagged at his conscience:

See, fella. You ain't that different

And here, on this first test, he had proven his maker to be correct.

And it had all been for nothing.

Greaser's blood provided only teasing information about the Needle, master tattooist to the vampire underworld and, Kevin gathered, a kind of saint to Brisbane's street kids. The man with the finger on the pulse of the city's nefarious operations and a spare bed for the dispossessed. Just the man Kevin needed to find if he was going to commit murder.

'Yeah,' he muttered to Taipan's memory as he rubbed at the stains on his lips and chin, 'I'm just like you.'

Kevin climbed down the rear wall of the building and walked barefoot, hunched inside his coat, taking care to conceal the weapons belt.

He kept to the quieter streets, a mishmash of flat-packed businesses and flats, and rundown houses waiting to be made into businesses and flats. There were few people on the streets: young, mostly; goths and hippies and suits, gabbing on their way to somewhere, or like him, huddled solo against the night.

He sifted the bloodmemories from the girl. The connection to the Needle was obvious. There was affection there, fatherly, but aloof. He got the impression of a Winnebago-type vehicle, covered in graffiti, but no idea of a location. Damn it.

And now he was hungry — hungrier. The blood, the adrenaline, had whetted his appetite. People moved away from him. Some even crossed the street when they saw him coming.

Maybe Danica had been right; maybe he had been stupid to come here. But what else could he do? Mira had killed his mother; he couldn't let that rest. He simply couldn't.

Finally, he reached the coffee house. All the comfort of home except power, which he barely required. Food was also a secondary concern; what he needed most came hot, direct from the vein. He'd have to eat before he faced Mira.

He climbed up the wall to the window he'd left ajar and levered himself inside, then shut the window behind him. The smell of stale coffee beans and neglect rose up; somewhere, stagnant water lay. He made his way to the office where he'd set up camp and checked his pistol before placing it within easy reach on the desk — one of the few pieces of furniture in the building, its surface scratched and dented beneath the dust. Thank goodness no one knew about this place; he'd never find another hideout this good.

But someone had found out he was in town. Had Hunter seen him? Would the Needle search him out, as Greaser had said? Could Kevin trust him if he did? Regardless, it seemed he'd lost his element of surprise along with his shoes. The shit could only get deeper from here.

Kevin was still trying to work out his next move when the squeak of a floorboard caught his attention. Someone was in the building.

Pistol in hand, painfully aware of having only three mags, he crept to the door and listened.

Someone on the stairs.

He cracked open the door enough to see out. Just in time. A head. Enough light to make out the features. Despair and a horrible sense of anticipation ran through him.

It was Greaser. He tasted her again, had to push through the memories of her life, the father, the mother, the drugs, incidents of life on the street. Hunger stabbed at his guts like a blunt knife.

Somehow, she'd followed him. How? Had Danica's putsi lost its power to shield him?

Why had Greaser come in? She had to suspect he was here.

She would've seen the car downstairs. So what the fuck was she doing? She didn't even have a gun!

Greaser crept, hunched, nervous, one careful foot after the other. Alone? He couldn't hear, couldn't smell, anyone else. She reeked of fear.

Go away, he urged her. Turn back. Should he run? Leave the Monaro and scarper out the window?

Or he could fight. Could taste her again for information about the Needle. He could feed.

The girl was at the door. All she had to do was push.

She sneaked past; still crouched, still nervous. Something yellow flashed in her fist.

He let the door swing open slowly, stepped out behind her, gun levelled.

The hunger howled.

He swallowed it down, and said, 'You shouldn't be here,' and was rewarded with the sight of her jumping and stumbling, ending in some strange, karate-like huddle with her eyes as round as hubcaps. Pointing the yellow object at him.

Movement from behind. A figure — rushing from the stairwell! He turned — too slow! A hand grabbed his chin and reefed him back, held him tight against his attacker. A sharp point dug into his throat under the jaw.

'You shouldn't be here, either, chum.'

Greaser straightened, her chest heaving, body trembling. 'Took your time, Mel. What if he'd shot me?'

'One thrust, this goes into your brain,' the woman, Mel, told Kevin. Her breath blew warm and blood-tainted across his cheek. 'Do you understand?'

'Sure,' he mumbled. The hand on his lips was covered in a lace glove that left the fingers exposed. Her fingers moved down to free his mouth but kept the grip tight. The sharp object pierced his flesh, making him wince.

Greaser took his gun and stood facing him, as though deciding whether to shoot.

'You took from Greaser without asking,' Mel said. That's a capital offence.'

'I had to.'

'Why?'

'I'm looking for someone.'

She pushed the weapon into him. 'The Needle, I know. But why?'

'My business.'

'I'm the one with the stiletto.'

'Are you the Needle?'

'Interesting leap of logic there, Sherlock. Incorrect, as it happens. Greaser?'

The girl shook her head and stepped back, behind Mel, keeping the gun poised.

'You gonna behave?' Mel asked.

'Sure.'

'Good. This is bloody uncomfortable.'

Mel was as tall as him and thin. Everything was thin — eyebrows, lips, hair pulled back tight from her long, pale face, dark shadows around eyes that glistened chartreuse. Her arms were pale, her torso sheathed in a kind of purple velvet vest, her wide stance stretching a black skirt that didn't quite reach the knee-high boots, a patch of purple-and-white striped tights filling the gap. A handbag hung at her side, the strap cutting diagonally across her chest. She bent to slide the long, silver blade into her boot.

He could see Greaser more clearly, shorter and chubbier. She wore cargo pants, singlet and hooded army jacket, straggly hair poking like straw from under a beanie, those Doc Marten's of almost clown-like size.

'I'm Melpomene,' the woman said. 'You've met Greaser, so you probably know all about her.'

Shame washed over him again. 'Melpo…?'

She rolled her eyes. 'Not my real name. It's all rather tragic.' A smile, but the joke was lost on him. 'Mel is fine.'

'Kevin,' he offered.

'Just Kevin?'

'That's enough, isn't it?'

'For now.'

He rubbed his jaw. 'How did you find me?'

Greaser fetched his shoes from the stairs and handed them across, soles out to show the coffee beans stuck in the rippled soles. He couldn't tell if that was an answer or just an act of politeness.

He stood, awkward, facing the two women, barefoot, his shoes in his hands.

'Invite us in?' Melpomene asked.

'You're already in.'

'Somewhere to sit? A biscuit and a nice cup of tea?' There was a hint of accent. Pommie?

'You can sit, if you don't mind the floor.'

They followed him into his room.

Melpomene took Kevin's pistol from Greaser and sifted the gear on the table: the Staker, the sword and other stuff he'd taken from Hunter during their last encounter out west. 'This is VS issue.'

He shrugged.

'You continue to surprise.'

Greaser leaned against the wall, close to the door. 'What was with the gecko action?'

'Just something I can do.'

'Why do you want to see the Needle?' Mel asked.

'Like I said: it's private.'

'Well, he is a very private man. He doesn't see just anyone.'

'I hope he'll see me.'

'You got something to offer?'

'I won't know until I talk to him.'

'You didn't get what you needed from Greaser's blood?'

'No. And I'm sorry. I didn't want — I wouldn't have done it, not if I thought I'd had a choice.'

'He did say sorry,' Greaser conceded, perhaps offering an argument for a quick death rather than a slow one. She rubbed her throat where a hint of a wound still marked the skin.

'That your motor downstairs?' Mel asked.

He nodded.

She scooped his gun and belt, Staker included, into her handbag, making the cloth bulge like a snake that had eaten building blocks. She passed the sword to him. 'Let's go.'

'To see the Needle?'

She shook her head. 'First, you need to see Blake. He vets all of the Needle's appointments. Sorry.'

'Why "sorry"?'

She grimaced. 'It's poetry night.'