Slow River - Nicola Griffith Page 0,4

the shadows. The freighter moved off again. She counted to two hundred and fifty-one before another passed. In the silence, she heard the creak of a tree limb rubbing up against the bricks of the outside wall.

As the streetlights faded and the sun came up, the red eyes glowed less insistently and the shadows before her shifted. An electronics workbench, she thought, and tools . . .

Lore dozed on and off until around ten in the morning, when the noise of passenger slides and people passing by on the street filled the room with a bright hum. There was no sound from the bedroom.

The living room was big, twenty by twenty-five at least. The centerpiece of the shorter south wall was an elaborate fireplace, cold and empty now. A variety of leafy green plants stood on the hearth and on a low tin-topped table nearby. There were some books, but not many. A rug. Then the couch and coffee table, all well used, not exactly clean. The carpet was rucked up where she had dragged the mat over it last night in the dark. Squares of bright sunlight pointed up the wear in its red and blue pattern. The tree outside cast shadows of branches and shivering leaves over the wall behind her. From this angle, all she could see of it was the glint of low morning sun through leaves already beginning to turn orange and red, but the leaves looked big and raggedy, like hands. Maybe a chestnut. She lay under its shadow and tried to imagine she was at Ratnapida, lying on the grass. The birdsong was all wrong.

A large proportion of the room at the north end was taken by two tables and a workbench, all covered with screens, data-retrieval banks, a keyboard and headset, input panel, and what looked like some kind of radio and several haphazard chipstacks, all connected together by a maze of cable.

She could not figure out what it was all for.

In what Lore would come to realize was a pattern, Spanner woke up around midday. She went straight from bed to the connecting bathroom, and about twenty minutes later emerged into the living room via the kitchen door, carrying two white mugs of some aromatic tea. The silk robe she wore had seen better days, and in the daylight her hair was the color of antique brass. “Jasmine,” she said as she held out a mug.

Lore reached for the tea. The red scar between her thumb and forefinger showed up clearly against the white ceramic. Moving hurt. Spanner nodded to herself. “I called the medic. He’s on his way. And don’t worry. He won’t report this. Or you.”

Lore felt as though she should say something, but she had no idea what. She sipped at the tea, trying to ignore the pain.

“I know who you are,” Spanner said softly. “You were all over the net.” Lore said nothing. “I don’t understand why you’re not screaming for Mummy and Daddy.”

“I’ll never go back.”

“Why?”

Lore stayed silent. She needed Spanner, but she did not have to give her more ammunition.

Spanner shrugged. “If that’s the way you want it. Can you get any money from them?”

“No.” Lore hoped that sounded as final as she felt.”Then I don’t see how you’re going to repay me. For the medic. For the care you look like you’re going to need for a while. Do you have any skills?”

Yes, Lore wanted to say, but then she saw once again the red scar on the hand wrapped around her teacup. How would she get a job designing remediation systems, how would she prove her experience, without an identity? “My identity. . .”

“That’s another question. You want to get a copy of your old PIDA?”

“No.” The pain was hot and round and tight. The infection must be spreading. Again, she thought of his blood mingling with hers.

“Then you’ll need a new one. That costs, too. And what do you want me to call you? I can’t go around calling you Frances Lorien van de Oest.”

“Lore. Call me Lore.”

“Well, Lore, if you want my help then you’ll have to pay for it. You’ll have to work for me.”

“Legally?”

Spanner laughed. “No. Not even remotely. But I’ve never been caught, and what I do is low down on the police list—victimless crime. Or nearly so.”

The only “victimless” crimes Lore could think of were prostitution and personal drug use.

Spanner stood up, went to her workbench, brought back a slate. “Here. Take a look.”

Lore, moving her arms