Read Online The Minority Council by Kate Griffin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kate Griffin
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black trousers and rolled-up shirtsleeves from a day in the office. Some of the men, who worked on such things, had removed their shirts, revealing improbable pectoral muscles, and bellies which probably couldn’t remember digesting for fun. Black leather sofas ringed the dance floor, with candles on tables where non-dancers weren’t even pretending to talk over the noise.
I looked around for Meera. Pushing through the crowd, I tried dialling her phone again. As it rang, another phone started ringing, not five feet away. I couldn’t hear it, but I saw the screen flashing in the dark and as I edged closer I recognised my own number.
The phone was new and smart, black cover and bright screen. It had been left on a low, glasses-strewn table where a group of men in suit jackets and half-unbuttoned shirts were lounging. An ice bucket sat in front of them, and three women in heavy lipstick and straightened hairwere doing more than society required to make themselves amenable.
All ignored me as I approached, and one started clapping at some unheard joke. I stopped dead. As his hands met and parted, sparks flashed between his fingertips. His eyes were giddy and wide, his face flushed with drink and something more, but the ozone tang in the air was unmistakable. There was a sickly yellowness about his eyes, unnatural and bright in the dim light and, as he moved to refill his glass, I saw the condensation thicken on the silver ice bucket.
One of them noticed me. Still laughing at the joke, he said, “You got a problem, mate?”
Not taking my gaze from the man with the yellow eyes, I answered, “I’m looking for Meera.”
They laughed again, a great roar of sound, and the one with the yellow eyes drained a slurp from his glass.
“Not here, mate!” chuckled one. “You just missed her.”
“Where’d she go?” I asked. “It’s important I find her.”
“You her boyfriend or something?”
“Something,” I replied. “Just tell me where she is and I’ll be out of your hair.”
A certain something darkened in the face of the man who’d first addressed me. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, but his cufflinks were gold, glimmering with diamonds, and his black leather shoes were mirror-bright. “Why should we know where she’s gone? Sorry, mate, but you’re wasting your time.”
I didn’t move.
“That was goodbye,” he added. “As in piss off, okay?”
“You must be her colleagues from work,” I said. “You’ve got the look.”
He stood up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Is that it?” I asked. “ ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ People only say that when they know exactly what it means, but don’t have the wit to come up with an appropriate retort. It’s a holding phrase, and a bad one at that. Well, go on then! Concentrate really hard and see if you can come up with something better.”
He shoved me.
Probably he’d wanted to go straight for the punch, but didn’t have the physical confidence. I staggered backwards, and rebounded off a dancer who didn’t seem to care. As I lurched back towards him, I reached up, grabbed him by the lapels and pushed him backwards onto the table top. Glasses broke; the ice bucket went flying. I saw fear flash up in his eyes as they met ours and, before rage could replace it, we hissed, “You little worm-man. Little spark in a sea of fire, glint and die, little mortal with little mortal mind that thinks if it burns bright enough, it will be seen against the storm. She should be your friend and you don’t even care. I barely know her and I give more of a damn. Where’d she go?”
The others were on their feet, but weren’t rushing into anything.
“She, uh… she went with… the men.”
“Which men?”
“They knew her…”
“Which men?” He looked for a moment as if he wouldn’t answer. We tightened our grip, half drew him up ready to slam him back harder, and he gasped, “The dusthouse! She went to the
I looked around for Meera. Pushing through the crowd, I tried dialling her phone again. As it rang, another phone started ringing, not five feet away. I couldn’t hear it, but I saw the screen flashing in the dark and as I edged closer I recognised my own number.
The phone was new and smart, black cover and bright screen. It had been left on a low, glasses-strewn table where a group of men in suit jackets and half-unbuttoned shirts were lounging. An ice bucket sat in front of them, and three women in heavy lipstick and straightened hairwere doing more than society required to make themselves amenable.
All ignored me as I approached, and one started clapping at some unheard joke. I stopped dead. As his hands met and parted, sparks flashed between his fingertips. His eyes were giddy and wide, his face flushed with drink and something more, but the ozone tang in the air was unmistakable. There was a sickly yellowness about his eyes, unnatural and bright in the dim light and, as he moved to refill his glass, I saw the condensation thicken on the silver ice bucket.
One of them noticed me. Still laughing at the joke, he said, “You got a problem, mate?”
Not taking my gaze from the man with the yellow eyes, I answered, “I’m looking for Meera.”
They laughed again, a great roar of sound, and the one with the yellow eyes drained a slurp from his glass.
“Not here, mate!” chuckled one. “You just missed her.”
“Where’d she go?” I asked. “It’s important I find her.”
“You her boyfriend or something?”
“Something,” I replied. “Just tell me where she is and I’ll be out of your hair.”
A certain something darkened in the face of the man who’d first addressed me. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, but his cufflinks were gold, glimmering with diamonds, and his black leather shoes were mirror-bright. “Why should we know where she’s gone? Sorry, mate, but you’re wasting your time.”
I didn’t move.
“That was goodbye,” he added. “As in piss off, okay?”
“You must be her colleagues from work,” I said. “You’ve got the look.”
He stood up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Is that it?” I asked. “ ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ People only say that when they know exactly what it means, but don’t have the wit to come up with an appropriate retort. It’s a holding phrase, and a bad one at that. Well, go on then! Concentrate really hard and see if you can come up with something better.”
He shoved me.
Probably he’d wanted to go straight for the punch, but didn’t have the physical confidence. I staggered backwards, and rebounded off a dancer who didn’t seem to care. As I lurched back towards him, I reached up, grabbed him by the lapels and pushed him backwards onto the table top. Glasses broke; the ice bucket went flying. I saw fear flash up in his eyes as they met ours and, before rage could replace it, we hissed, “You little worm-man. Little spark in a sea of fire, glint and die, little mortal with little mortal mind that thinks if it burns bright enough, it will be seen against the storm. She should be your friend and you don’t even care. I barely know her and I give more of a damn. Where’d she go?”
The others were on their feet, but weren’t rushing into anything.
“She, uh… she went with… the men.”
“Which men?”
“They knew her…”
“Which men?” He looked for a moment as if he wouldn’t answer. We tightened our grip, half drew him up ready to slam him back harder, and he gasped, “The dusthouse! She went to the
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