Nothing Is Ever Simple (Corin Hayes Book 2) Page 7

  I caught my hand reaching towards it, my fingers already forming the curl that would ensure a good hold of the sword. Something that special was likely attached to an alarm. Lowering the arm, with the traitorous hand attached, I contented myself with a last look at the weapon. A chill passed over my skin and ran down my spine, tickling my soul as it went. A shaky breath passed my lips and I backed away, casting a last look round the room.

  The last two doors were the ones that had been labelled for my attention. Left or right? Which one to choose? It didn’t matter really. I’d have to check both. I stopped for a moment and listened, letting my pulse settle and my ears pick up the faint sounds of the clip show still trickling down the stairs.

  I opened the left hand door first and shook my head. A kitchen. It was spacious and had all the things that kitchens needed. You know, shelves, cupboards, an oven, a hob, a fridge and a freezer. On the walls was every type of kitchen utensil you could think of, ladles, spoons, slotted spoons, spatulas, tongs, pincers, and dangling from a rack above the central workbench, a selection of pans. When you live on your own, you soon learn how to use all those tools and pans or you eat a lot of take-away food and die of heart-disease. Modern medicine is good, but not that good.

  It wasn’t going to be in here, but I checked the cupboards just the same. The fridge wasn’t well-stocked with food. Not enough for a family, which the owner apparently had, but plenty of the little things that would last. Some sauces, blocks of cheese, jars of things I didn’t recognise and that was it. Nothing that could be described as fresh. The freezer, by contrast, was full to the brim with things that could be reheated in the oven or the microwave. The only question I was left with was, why didn’t the blueprints say this was the kitchen?

  The right door swung open and lights came flickering on. When they steadied, I knew that there was a good chance that this was the right room. From floor to ceiling, clear cabinets lined the walls, and another ran down the centre of the room. Each cabinet held three shelves and on those were antiques and artefacts from the before. From our species’ time on the surface, before it all went wrong.

  I sidled along the shelves and perused the items. Such a collection must have taken quite a few years and a lot of money to put together. There were small statues made of stone and carved by skilled hands into the shape of different animals. Great lions stood on plinths of green, translucent stone, polished to a high sheen that shone under the spotlights. A golden figure of a man seated, cross-legged, with his eyes closed and hands clasped about one another. Ancient blades and knives rested on one shelf and on another, rows of soldier statues dressed in armour grasped their weapons.

  Up and down the two rows, inspecting every artefact and confirming a suspicion. It wasn’t here.

  Bugger.

  Chapter 15

  There was no door and all the lights were on. From my crouched position, three steps from the top, I could hear the clips show still playing, the volume turned up to eleven. There was another sound, a whooshing, bubbling noise which I couldn’t identify.

  Another choice. As if I needed one. Rush up and tackle the occupant or continue to sneak around. A brave, courageous man would stride up and tackle his enemy mano-a-mano, strength against strength, skill versus skill, honourably. I decided to keep it stealthy. No need to disturb them, they were probably busy.

  Two steps more and I peered around the corner into the open plan layout of the topmost level. Above my head, the clear dome looked up into the last of the blue light that filtered down. Straight ahead, a seating area where four large chairs surrounded a giant panel upon which the clips show was playing.

  I’d seen this one, it was old. Really old and utter nonsense. It was a series set in space where a crew of perfect people went about their perfect lives solving problems in perfect ways. When Tyler was found and before my trial, I’d watched most of them. Back then, I’d been looking at the bottom of bottle for a better life. I hadn’t found it in alcohol, though I didn’t stop searching, and the show had kept my mind occupied. The bright colours of their uniforms hazy in my drinker’s eyes. I remember the boy on the show, clean cut, perfect, bright and capable, going places, the kind of boy I’d hoped Tyler would find and marry.

  Close it down. Put it away. Mind on the job. Fuck, I needed a drink.

  Past the panel and comfy seats was a table and chairs, the dining area, and, beyond that, the edge of the dome. A little further around was the gym area. Four exercise machines, a padded mat and a strange thick wooden pole with four arms and one crooked leg. A bar lined the edge of the stairs and, furthest away, a raised dais from which steam and the strange noise came. There was a work desk with a tall, black chair between the dais and the gym.

  From my semi-prone position, half on and half off the stairs, I saw it. On the desk, in a display case, angled to face the rest of the room or, more likely, so that it could be seen from the rest of the room. I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. From here it just looked like a block of the translucent green stone I’d seen downstairs. A regular, sharp cornered, square of the stuff. The object I was here to steal, liberate, return to its rightful owner. Choose the verb that suits your morals. Me, I just wanted to get it and get out.

  Up and over the last step, hunched over, moving on quiet feet I started towards the desk. The Oxyquid on my skin hadn’t dried. It doesn’t for days, which is, when you think that this stuff is going in and out of your lungs, a damn good thing, but it was making my skin cold. I trailed a finger along the smooth wood, real wood, of the bar while I kept an eye on the dais, the only place the occupant could be.

  There was a splash and several large bubbling sounds. I froze, holding my breath and trying to stop the beat of my heart from giving me away. There was nowhere to hide. On the panel the heroes of the clip show had come face to face with a massive cubed spaceship. The boy I’d wanted Tyler to marry looked nervous and scared. I knew how he felt.

  A deep voice said, “Firing, Sir.” And a high-pitched whine came from the panel, along with a blue beam of light from the heroes’ spaceship. Even perfect people can resort to violence to solve their problems.

  The sloshing noise from the dais abated and I could breathe again. Did the owner have a swimming pool in here? The pastime had fallen out of fashion over the years. No point learning to swim, to keep your head above water if doing so meant your death. The rich? Well, they had their own hobbies. Some quite normal, some varied and strange.

  More steps forward, onto the padded mat. My feet a whisper over the surface, a quiet breath in my lungs and the deep thump of my thudding heart in my ears. I could see the occupant now. The back of their head at least, short blond hair resting against the side of the bubbling pool. I knew its name. A Jacuzzi. Why the wealthy chose to par-boil themselves in hot, bubbling water was beyond me, but the noise of it added to the sounds of battle from the clip show was masking my footsteps. For that, I was grateful.

  The desk was tidy. Everything in its place. The mind that worked at this desk was inquisitive, but thoughtful and logical. The panel was off and there was a writing block on the far edge. An antique one, dark lacquered wood and a stoppered ink well. Lying on a small pedestal was a pen, dark in colour and with gold engraving upon it. I’m not a thief, present activity excluded, but I could appreciate beauty when I saw it and it was tempting.

  The block of jade that I had been told, blackmailed, threatened, pressured, to steal was there in its case. It was covered in the same script, blocky lines that turned to sweeping arcs, right angles that morphed into elegant curves, that some of the statues downstairs had been. Impossible to read, but carved with an incredible eye to detail. I picked it up, ready to escape. Job done.

  “Hey,” the occupant of the Jacuzzi shouted. “How did you get in here? Put that down.”

  The shout was accompanied by a great sloshing of water as the man clambered and scrabbled out of the big bath. Water splashed across the floor, spreading towards the mat, and I came to a
halt. The blond haired occupant rose to his feet, blocking my exit. He was tall, my height plus a little more, and muscular. The gym equipment wasn’t his, he didn’t own this place, but I’d bet he used it whenever he felt like it, just as he did the pool and the panels. His muscles shifted under his bare skin as he pointed a finger at me.

  “Put that down,” he ordered. I was tempted, but a weapon is a weapon.

  “Just let me go and no one gets hurt,” I said, meaning me. If he got hurt, I couldn’t care less.

  “You’re not leaving with that.” There was a calm, finality to his voice. An indication that bartering and diplomacy weren’t going to be of much use.

  I hefted the jade block in my hand, getting a feel for its weight. “I have to.”

  He didn’t rush me, which was disappointing. A running man, one coming towards you has generally made the wrong move. I could predict his path, watch him for a moment and deliver a hit with the jade block where it would do the most damage.

  Instead, he slid one foot forward, balanced his body and adopted a guarded stance. His left hand stretched out towards me, palm upwards, fingers straight as if handing me a cup and saucer. His right arm bent at the elbow so that the fingers of his hand rested lightly against his left elbow. Great. A martial artist, a trained fighter.

  Chapter 16

  There is something weird about facing a dripping wet, semi-naked man across a padded practice mat when you’re wearing nothing but your own skin tight underwear and that’s covered in a slippery, oily gel. If this got any more homoerotic, I’d have to think about introducing him to my parents.

  I edged to the left and he moved with me. Going to the right, he mirrored the move. My military self-defence training was pretty basic, but I’d had to put it to good use in the corridors of my city. Being universally hated has few upsides and I wouldn’t put getting regularly beaten up amongst them, but it did mean that I knew how to handle myself. It had also led to the development of a healthy respect for the damage one human being can inflict upon another.

  “Any chance you’ll just let me go?” I asked.

  The blond Hercules shook his head, his eyes stayed fixed on mine.

  A step forward, not quite into range, and I watched what he would do. Nothing. He didn’t move his feet or hands, no flickers in his eyes, no indication that he was going to rush forward and attack. I am not used to being the aggressor, certainly not towards someone who is expecting it. If he’d been turned away, unaware, I’d have no compunction in bashing him over the head. The best time to hit someone is when they aren’t looking.

  “Nice trunks,” I said. They were too. Blue, baggy and covered in a bright yellow pineapple motif. They wouldn’t suit me.

  He glanced down and I moved. It’s the innocuous that distracts, the unexpected comment, word or action that isn’t threatening. The jade block came round in a flat arc aimed at his head where it would do more damage. One hit often settles a fight, if that hit is hard enough. Mine should have been. It wasn’t.

  His arm came up, wrist catching mine and his hand turning over my arm, pushing the jade block down and away with the added bonus of pulling me off balance. There was nothing I could do about his other hand which shot straight out, first two knuckles leading the way, catching me high on the cheek. Down I went, releasing the jade block to break my fall, and rolled over, back and away from the man. His foot came down in a solid stamp where my head had just been.

  As I came back to my feet, I saw him moving towards me, hands leading the way. All I could do was backpedal out of range and attempt to regain some semblance of control. A pain in my back, a sudden jab, brought me up short, and he came on. I fell, on purpose this time, as his fist flew towards my nose, and rolled to the right. There was a crack of bone on wood and a howl of pain.

  Back on my feet, I saw my attacker cradling his right hand in his left, rubbing the hurt knuckles with his thumb.

  “I bet that hurt,” I said. “Be a good idea to get some ice on those.”

  He turned a glare on me. I responded with a smile and ran towards the stairs. Behind me, a gasp and the sound of racing feet on the mat. The jade block had skidded off of the mat and was lying closer to the seating area. Without that, the whole breaking and entering thing was a waste and Rehja would make me pay in other ways. I altered my path.

  I felt his arms catch hold of my legs, the impact tripping me. For the third time I was on the floor and rolling. His fingers slid from my Oxyquid covered legs and I kicked backwards, catching only air. Another moment and the hands were back on my legs, digging in, trying to get enough purchase to stop me. It was difficult, water and Oxyquid don’t mix particularly well, just make the slippery even more so.

  I flipped over, onto my back, lifting my trailing leg high and then down onto, what I hoped, was his head or body. He caught it on his arm, deflecting it away, and pushed off of his knees and feet, launching himself up my body. All the air in my lungs exploded in one great whoosh as he landed on my ribs. I could feel his hands seeking a grip on my neck.

  We rolled on the floor like two schoolkids, grabbing, punching, kicking and, in my case, biting. I really had to make sure there was no recording of this.

  When his hands found my neck the coating of Oxyquid caused them to slip. On top of me, so embarrassing, his legs wrapped around my hips and pinning me down, the slip caused his head to move into range. I head-butted him and a splatter of warm blood fell on my face. My shoulder was shooting messages to my brain about the abuse it was having to suffer and my calf muscle had gone numb.

  He rose above me, backing his head away and spitting the blood out his mouth. His hands began to rain blows down upon me. It was all I could do to raise my own arms in defence. Some of his hammering punches got through and I could feel the swelling start around my eyes.

  I bucked my hips trying to dislodge him, but he rode out the motion, legs clamped around mine. More punches fell upon my raised arms as I twisted and bucked. All I succeeded in doing was moving the fight across the floor like some obscene centipede engaged in a sex act. Off the mat and onto the carpeted floor, every moment another punch came down and my arms were beginning to weaken under the abuse. My right arm especially was close to giving in, the shoulder just couldn’t support it enough.

  I was desperate. Another few blows and my arms would be black, blue and useless. There was nothing I could do to fight back. I couldn’t punch him, I didn’t have the reach to do any damage. His head was out of range and his chest was too thickly muscled. There was, I realised, one area in range.

  I arched my back, pushing down with my heels and head, lifting him off the floor a little. Not far, but enough to force him to cease punching and focus on maintaining his balance for a moment. As he did so, I reached down along the length of my body, my hand flat and facing upwards, to cup his balls. I squeezed. Hard. Digging my fingers in as much as I could.

  He screamed. A hideous, shameful sound, full of agony, pain and disbelief. I didn’t want to imagine the pain he felt. We’ve all been kicked there once or twice or had a slip and fall where we’ve landed on them. Some clips shows base their whole revenue stream on moments like that, captured in all their digital glory. Every time I saw one, I winced in sympathy. Despite the thorough beating I’d just received at his hands, the sympathy was strong.

  The weight of the screaming man fell off me and I gladly released my hold as he did so. I pulled my legs free and crawled away, the sounds of his cries followed me. Sucking as much air into my lungs as I could, I clambered to my knees and looked around.

  The seal was where I had seen it last, just out of reach. The man, the occupant, the caretaker, was curled into a foetal ball, his hands between his legs in an instinctual desire to protect and comfort. A spreading stain of vomit, acrid on the air, dribbled from his mouth and a flood of tears fell from his eyes. He was a pitiful sight. I was glad to be alive, but something in me could not revel at the victory.

  I staggered over to the seal, my eyesigh
t blurry and my face aching with the nascent bruises. By tonight, I would not be a pretty sight. Little children would scream and beg their mother’s to take them away from the hideously ugly man. If I smiled, it would make it worse. I shook my head at the thought and realised that was a bad idea. A headache hit me with the business end of sledgehammer.

  Gingerly, I bent down and grabbed the seal. It was tempting to crack it over the caretaker’s head, both in revenge and sympathy, but I was here to retrieve it, not break it. Turning it over in my hands I sighed in disappointment. There was a crack running the length of the base where the jade was coming apart. Through that little gap, I could see the silver shine of metal. There was something in it. Perhaps it wasn’t that old after all. Didn’t mean I could break it though.

  The bar held a selection of whiskeys and I pulled out the most expensive brand I could see, pouring myself a shot. I downed it in one, a painkiller and reward for a job complete. Not well done, just finished. I drank two more in quick succession, feeling the warm burn of the alcohol wash down my throat. I took a second glass and poured a large one. This glass I placed on the ground, not far from the still whimpering man. He’d need that in a while, when the pain had diminished enough.

  “I couldn’t see any ice,” I said, through bloodied lips. “I guess you’ll be needing a lot of that soon.”

  How was I going to explain this new collection of cuts, bruises and contusions to Derva? I could see her beautiful face now. The look of despair and disappointment in her eyes would hurt more than the beating I’d just taken.