Read Online Pandaemonium by Ben Macallan - Free Book Online Page B

was behind the desk, as ever.
    I still had hold of Jacey with my non-knocking hand. I wasn’t looking at him, but I didn’t need to; I could feel his sudden hesitation, I knew exactly the abrupt blink of surprise, the moment of unpreparedness, the swift recovery. Knock him back on his heels and he rocks right up again, that’s how it goes.
    Probably I should have warned him, probably I should be feeling guilty. But we never do, and I never would. Not about this.
    Reno said, “Not expecting a woman, huh?”
    It’s her standard joke. It’s a test, I think, to see if people laugh. Learn how they laugh, meanly or forcedly or hysterically or what.
    Jacey was being good. He said, “Well, it does say Stationmaster outside your door.” He played it as po-faced as she did, as if he was enjoying himself just as much.
    Reno’s an angel, and she likes to make a pun of it. In the way of a West End theatrical angel, she invests in us and hopes for a return, even while she’s hoping never to see us again. Never to need to.
    But that really is just for the pun of it. Reno really is an angel.
    Or rather, she’s a woman with wings. That’s as good as it gets down under, as much as you can hope for.
    Or rather, she isn’t. A woman with wings.
    She used to be, but that was long ago. Somebody’s been unkind to her, cruel and unkind. She’s the other thing now, a woman without wings. But still nothing like the rest of us.
    I’m guessing that they plucked her first, quill and barb: every pinfeather and every flight ripped individually out. There must have been a number of them – she’s a big woman, even sitting down she’s taller than me, and she wouldn’t have sat still for this – and they will have needed tools, pliers of some kind. But they did have tools. I know that, because plucking wasn’t enough. They cut away her wings, what they’d left of them, the naked bleeding ruins that they were; broke them, crushed the bones and hacked off what was left. What she has now are splintered stumps, just too unkindly long to hide beneath a shirt. They jut from holes she rips in anything she wears, and twitch with remembered life when she’s forgetful.
    I think they must hurt her appallingly, all the time. She doesn’t show it, but even the healed skin shows brutal scars where she was torn deep inside. The visible bone, all the serrated living shards that push out through fresh scabs, fresh runs of blood like dribbles of congealed ruby – well. It doesn’t bear thinking about, so I don’t. Much.
    She said, “Jacey Cathar. I never thought to see you here. I don’t imagine you’re looking for work.”
    “No,” he said. “Nor shelter, actually. I only came because... because Desi brought me.” He was still tripping over the name, but still being good, making the effort. I squeezed his hand.
    “Well, never mind. You’re welcome anyway.” And then she turned to me and said, “I didn’t expect to see you back. I thought we’d got you settled.”
    “You did. But, you know. Stuff happens.”
    “Stuff. Yes. It must do. Someone was asking after you just recently. Asking for you, actually. Did I know where you’d gone, how to find you. I said no.”
    “Uh, thanks, Reno...”
    She shrugged. And didn’t wince, but I thought that was practised. I thought a shrug was like red-hot irons in her shoulders, biting deep. “What I do. Client confidentiality. But I did think you were settled. Well, no matter. You’re here now. Make yourselves a space, settle in. Find your boy some boots if he’s staying, don’t let him make trouble if he’s not. Are you looking for another position?”
    “No. Thanks, but no. I’m really not. Who was asking for me?”
    “Client confidentiality,” she said again. “I can’t tell you that. Only – well. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised to see you back. Go on, now.” And her long, long arm was already reaching for a sheaf of papers in a cubby-hole, her head and her attention were