echo The tap dripped. The walls shuffled. Thin and reedy, cement and dust flaked like grey snow with every elicited movement. The rats scrabbled and clawed in the distance, a writhing mass trapped inside the prison of tarmac and tar, throbbing squeals and incessant chitters. The undercurrent of voices – low and indistinct – pumped through the open ventilation, carried past the iron bars into apartment room 148B. Thump, thump. Bang. The scratch of Old Wicker’s chair dragged, nails over chalk.
It was all part of a percussive symphony with the express purpose of driving Olivia mad. She slammed the designer magazine, pinched from that Downy Street studio, against the top of the cabinet. Her palm stung at contact. The drawers rattled like a handful of loose teeth, pennies inside a jar, and then there was the indelicate crash of overflowing newspaper stacks as gravity did the rest. The pigeons and bloated crows outside tittered a laugh, ocherous beaks mimicking a hyena’s cackle.
She straightened and unrolled her spine, twisting her neck until the knot of muscles at the base twinged in self-pity. Sandra Beckingham’s Blues, Jazz and Pop played on, occasionally drowned beneath the sound of crunching sheaves, but still as distinct as the disjointed thumb of the radio’s antenna sticking out mid-air. She bent over to haul the laundry basket back into the room, balancing on her toes over the labyrinth of sealed boxes and twined books.
She was twenty-nine years old, and had approximately fifty dollars left in her registered bank account. That being said, the act of shredding the bills was also deeply cathartic. She held a handful of curling paper chips over the bin as it molted from her fingers, slipping through the cracks to drift lazily downwards like polymer flakes in a cheap souvenir globe. The coffee had gone cold on the table, but she drank it anyway, grimacing before she could reorient her features. The painted sun faced her, smiling yellow and mildew wilted.
Olivia faced herself in the bedroom mirror. She wiped it clean with the hem of her sleeve, then peeled off her top. She brushed her hair, artfully smoothing out the curls to fall on either side of her face. The foundation hid the paleness of her skin, the smattering of scar tissue wrapped under her right cheek. When she was satisfied, she changed into a black blouse and shrugged on the dark jacket. The seams were tight-fitting but worn. She caught a glimpse of herself before the act – lips parted, amber eyed and listless, nearly crystalline against the gleam of reflection.
Funeral clothes, she recalled wryly.
Not that anyone ever realized. It was not the only suit or formal outfit she had, but it was sentimental. This one was special. Luckily for her, she’d resembled her mother more strongly, growing sturdy and tall while her father had lost weight especially during those last days. It still smelled like him. She pinned the brooch deep inside, the teal silver of a starling disappearing beneath thick fabric. The rose gold watch around her stocky wrist winked as it vanished up her arm. Her fingers deft and sleight, she traced the contour of a genial smile against her lips, light crinkles against softer eyes. Long lashes fluttered like leaves in autumn, tongue relaxed against the roof of her mouth.
Colt was pretending to sleep when she returned.
The quilt – isometric triangles spiralling to infinity, their mother’s work – was draped over him as he lay prone, knees folded to his chest and a pillow dipped under his neck. He was still too gaunt, all the color in his skin leached as he drifted on with every day. He didn’t usually respond much. Didn’t do anything, really. She could tell when he was gone, safe in an entire world behind his colourless eyes, content to float with the currents of thoughts in his head. Her baby brother. The moniker ached as much as the sight of him.
But it was not a future she was particularly resigned to. She was going to fix it. She would make things right.
Just hang in there, she promised fiercely. A little longer.
His breath squeezed when she crouched next to the ratty cushion. When he opened his eyes, his pupils were still as milk white as baby teeth. It never stopped being jarring. She automatically corrected it to fit with memory – soft gray, like the charcoal dusk of the sky after a long summer rain.
She said, “Be good, yeah?”
The look he gave her in response was blank, his gaze sliding through and past her. She could have sworn there was a spark of exasperation somewhere, but maybe she was just imagining that as well. There was once upon a time where he would have returned fire with some smartass remark and they would end up bickering for hours on end. She wanted him back. All of him. The good, the bad, and even the little things that used to drive her insane.
Olivia wasn’t sure when the breaking point hit, only that it had.
It might have been before the accident. Before he was emptied into a husk. Or maybe before she herself did, because when Shakespeare said all the world’s a stage and the men and women merely players, she was sure he wasn’t talking about the con-woman smile and skills she’d shaped. Before she saw the world as a game, the thrill of a gamble. Before she was addicted to the stakes. She’d upped it every time until that point where, one day, only finally hitting rock bottom would stop her.
But it didn’t change the fact there was time before that. And she still had plans for so much more.
She ruffled his hair.
He didn’t so much as twitch.
The locals called it the Hovel. Capital ‘H’. Officially, it was still Park Row on maps and GPS, but only tourists or government officials ever called it that. Under that purview was a quarter of a children’s playground, a recycling centre, and about fifteen low-rent apartments packed tightly together in a cluster. Slender yellow birch trees stretched upwards, the malnourished parts hidden within thickets of jaded bushes and foxtails. The main road artery cut through the heart of it, giving a perfect display of disparity with the Heights situated right behind, rising above the skyline and towering pristine over much of the city.
Olivia Walters lived in the Hovel. Michelle Shawn did not.
Jay waved her over to their table at the restaurant. She slid across him, on the stone bench with her back to the gurgling fountain. She set her duffel bag down next to the large potted plant – snake grass up to her waist – and turned to him. “Nice beard.” She said. “Very distinguished.”
He looked proud for a moment, instinctively reaching up to stroke the fake stubble. “62% of American males have a beard or other facial hair. Figured I might as well blend in with the bigger half. Plus, did you know studies have found people frequently find haired men more attractive and dominant than clean shaven ones?”
“Right.” Olivia said. Then, “And how’s that working out so far?”
He stuck out his hand. His voice changed, deeper, silky smooth and more of a Brooklyn accent. “Michael Cahn. Insurance company consultant. So lovely to meet you.”
She shook it. She let her chest go airy. She played along, her tone traipsing and shy, “Michelle Shawn. I’m new here and I am so sorry to bother you, but I seem to have misplaced my key card. Could you help?” Her head hung low and she widened her eyes for effect.
Their gazes locked. Then the moment broke, and he grinned first. She echoed it.
Five years ago, she was an art gallery curator’s assistant. She’d had another name, different credentials, and a keen eye on one of Nuller’s recent works – The Man in the Red Bowler. It was a modern impressionist piece, gorgeous with its shades and tonal hues, as it depicted a grayscale life after emotional incision. More importantly, that painting was her target. She’d been persuaded by a client who was more than willing to pay handsomely for its acquisition.
A con always recognized another. Which is why, when she slipped back inside after closing hours, she was entirely unsurprised to find the janitor ‘Gideon Worth’ emptying the back section. The fact he’d disabled the mounted wall sensors and the emergency exit bars was something she didn’t hesitate to take advantage of. Not a single word was exchanged during the theft itself, but he’d smiled at her on the way out. And afterwards. Well. She found his favourite street corner, where his day-time job was apparently the coin and three cups ruse. It wasn’t very ambitious. She learnt it was simply a character quirk – he had a tendency to appreciate the smaller pleasures in life.
Half a dozen tiny pieces from the Silk Road Collection at the art institute and the Brathwaite statues later, it was mutually agreed upon that the other was a reliable go-to partner for the two-people grifts. Olivia decided he was her good luck charm after she came home one night and found Colt reading in his room, flipping through one of the old comic books he collected a very long time ago. The next night, she stirred three grams of joy into his soup, and her brother was lucid enough to help her solve Sunday’s edition of crossword puzzles – she remembered it so vividly.
Jay brought her back to the present as he pulled out his laptop. His fingers flew over the keys as nimbly as untangling a ball of thread, and a moment later he turned the screen to face her. She saw the broad profile of a gleaming skyscraper, sleek panels and black glass racing over the tetragonal edges. “The new Pelios branch.” He said. “They’re hosting an opening gala. It’s scheduled in three days. That’s our in.”
They discussed the rest of the details over lunch, occasionally disguising it within another thinly-veiled conversation. To the outside world, it wasn’t a particularly interesting sight. Just another couple – corporate clearly, from the looks of it – snatching a few moments together in the midst of the mid-day rush. There was a rule there – smile nice, dress well and no one blinks an eye. A speck among thousands, lost within the crowd.
Before she left, she leant to peck a kiss on his cheek. She spoke quietly, “Use the blue lapel.”
He didn’t react. But he understood.
The clink of champagne glasses and heels against the cherry wood floor floated all around her. Michelle Shawn exchanged pleasantries with her date – a mid-level executive with a penchant for brunettes. Silver fabric crept up her right shoulder, falling with grace past her neck, and the air brushed bare against the upper half of her back. The sequins caught the light as it spun whenever she moved, but she’d made sure to remove the excess draping. It was important that it fit.
She’d had many identities over the years – some dangerous, others mundane – but the one thing she’d never lost was the feeling she didn’t belong. It was a reminder, always catching a glimpse of herself as a stranger. That was the most risky aspect of the game – getting caught up in a life that was not yours. It was tempting, but it was also a lie. Eventually there came a time where you just had to… let go.
Right now was nearly a dream, a bubble so removed from reality that it could never have been real to her anyway. The blur of faces, an array of classically arranged bouquets, and the sweet-spicy waft of appetizers beneath the sandalwood fragrance that steeped the large banquet hall. Round white tables were set up at the front, golden cusped candles flickering warm yellow at the heart of every linen bloom. The wine red petals on the napkins were a nice touch, striking against the arctic paleness of the cloth. The hired violinists played a festive string concerto, before the flutist took his place. The notes, as clear and bubbling as spring water, mingled inescapably.
The eyes were as much of an indicator of wealth as the garments and jewellery. The rich lilac hues of a manager spoke compassion. The dark maroon of another spoke to ambition, a complement to his hawkish features. There was very little bluebell tint of loyalty. She wasn’t expecting it anyway. The lenses she wore were scarlet red – mimicking love and passion. Nobody spared her a second glance as she hung off the arms of the man she’d conned thoroughly.
After he was occupied, turning right in front of her into an eager puppy between his superiors, she set her empty glass back onto the tray of a passing server. She acted as if excusing herself to the washroom. That brought her closer to where she needed to go. Jay had been around earlier. She found the tools and lockpicks waiting in the storage room. She cut the wiring in the control box to disable the silent alarm and then rode the service elevator up to the third highest floor, before switching to the emergency stairwell to reach the top.
It had a penthouse view of the city. The night stars outside twinkled faintly, a carpet of silver pinpricks against a nebulous abyss. Jay was already inside, his computer open on the mahogany desk and the vault door exposed from where he must have successfully gained control of the wooden panelling to retract it. The cameras covering the route they took were on loop to show an empty room. Hopefully, just enough time to get what they needed and make a clean escape.
The only hitch came after.
“The guards are circling back.” He hissed, so close his breath tickled hot air against her ear. She slung the bag tighter around herself and followed without another word. Rappelling downwards to the midway point of the rooftop gardens had been an inspired idea. Theatrics aside, it would cut the risk of tampering with the footage on their way out as well as bring them closer to the south side, where it was easy from there to disappear back into the streets. The car was parked in front of an old theatre – she remembered seeing the poster. Peter and the Wolf was playing tonight.
But her cable caught abruptly and fell short by about forty feet.
She hung in the air, panicked. Jay was faster. He reached for her, stretching out to catch and ordered, “Let go.”
Rock bottom, she thought and jumped.
She hated her brother, once.
After the funerals, even the act of standing in the same room was stifling. She was the one who’d washed the bodies, combed her father’s hair and brushed her mother’s curls for the last time; he’d disappeared into the thick of night and came home two days later reeking of cheap alcohol and bloodshot eyes. The splash of porcelain plates was what had awoken her. She grabbed the baseball bat and swung, barely recognizing his face before jerking the trajectory at the very last minute. It shattered the last picture they’d taken together as a family – at that Vietnamese restaurant.
She’d lost it then. He did too.
After, when the house had gone quiet, and the suited vultures had picked apart what was left of their lives, she sat with her back to the door in her parents’ room and cried. Through the swell of tears, she only saw the bare mattress. The mostly vacant closets. The hole in the wall, after the safe was pried out, all the contents catalogued and seized. The last of her father’s debt was finally paid, and the cost was everything.
The bank extracted it all. The sunshine hope their mother wove into fabrics. The glowing ember of love from every family photograph. The ocean blue of peace from the rugs and childish drawings still stuck onto the fridge door.
But they’d never known the glint of righteous anger nursed within the cradle of her ribs, jostling with every breath she took.
She’s reminded of the transient at the park. He’d been old, white-haired with grey curling at his temples like a shadow, his hands calloused and broken. He had a limp, always shuffling forward with nowhere in mind. His clothes were dulled and grimy, but the brim of the cap pulled low to cover up his ghostly eyes. He’d disappeared in spring back when she was twelve, but she still thought of him sometimes. That sadness of his face turned apathetic just because of his eyes. So utterly lost.
Emotion was expensive. It was bought. Given. Taken.
She hated her brother, once.
She stopped hating him after coming home one day to find him lifeless in the bathtub, eyes white as snow, and the hypodermic needle still punctured in his arm. She pounded against his chest, bruising bone, until it finally brought him back. The rest passed in a nightmare haze. She didn’t sleep the next few nights, her spine fused against the hospital chair in his room. All she kept thinking was this – when he was conscious, she would throttle him herself. When. When. She prayed. She cried. She cursed.
Because she should have known. She should have been there to stop him.
There was nothing in the world that would ever make what he’d done okay.
She stopped at the traffic junction, the red light haloed somewhere above like a warning as rain started to pour all over the windshield. Her foot rested on the brakes, the engine idling. It sounded almost like darts – big fat drops battering the Chevy. Her chest still hurt from the adrenaline and it made her feel amazingly alive in that moment. She rode that high, until Jay froze next to her and then swore profusely.
He was holding an origami lily between two fingers. The calling card of someone she’d only heard of from rumors on the street, more myth than man.
She refused. “No.”
He rifled through the rest of the vials they’d lifted straight from the office vault. He held one up to the light and gave it an experimental shake. The swirls lifted and fell. It became evident there were dyes mixed within, no longer pearlescent and pure. All of it was a forgery. This type of counterfeit wasn’t usually meant to last, and she realized that the shipment would have been replaced before or during transport, just over thirty hours ago.
He said, “Halden.”
“He got there first.” It wasn’t a question. Her knuckles were white against the wheel. Her eyes stung with frustration. She blinked rapidly, furiously trying to clear her sight and clenching her jaw before the dam could break loose.
They ditched the bag on the corner of Lexington and 4th.
He did not speak. Finally, “You okay?”
“No.” She said.
“I’m sorry.” He looked down at his hand, splayed across a bouncing knee – his nervous tic. “I know how much this meant.”
She exhaled, said nothing. There was a unique sort of agony in knowing that all the money in the world could never get her what she needed so desperately. Not when stronger, richer people restocked their emotions by the hordes, regulating and controlling and tightening everything until it was impossible to do the same. It never stopped them from taking though – from her, from Colt, from all those living miserably back in the Hovel.
The anger was familiar. It was all she had left. There would be nothing left if it was gone, she was certain of that.
Sometimes, she envied her brother. The temptation refused to entirely fade away. The whispers, the voices. As annoyingly persistent as the electrical hum of cords within the walls. She did think about it occasionally. Imagining it. Just to surrender and plunge a needle into her veins to pull out all of that pain so she would never have to feel it ever again. But wanting something and wanting the consequences of it were two very different things. She shoved the thought away as hard as she could.
Jay’s hand was alienly soft in hers. He promised, as whimsically as a lullaby, “Next time.”
Ten months later, she was writing off the last part of her childhood for good. She carried the cardboard boxes downstairs herself and pulled open the corrugated iron-linked fence. The chains rattled as she bumped up against it, squeezing through the crack and trying not to focus on the faint barbs it left on both her arms. She loaded the clothes and books into the car. She wiped the sweat on her brow and tried not to physically wheeze from the heat.
“All yours.” She told Paul, once she’d gotten her breath back. He was a good man. A local priest from the Clinton church, right next to the St Agnes Orphanage. She knew the kids could use at least a bit more color in their life. She ran her thumb over the pages of the colouring book. Then the wooden train and pouch of marbles.
The priest clasped her on the shoulder. The lavender kindness of his eyes bore into her, his voice warm and grateful, “Thank you. God bless you.”
She tried for a smile. “I’ll take it.”
The dusk after evening sank, bruised and purpling, into the endless horizon was marked by a slight breeze. She had a nest’s view of the bristling trees, the leaves swaying and shedding to the pulse of an invisible melody. The faintest whistle trilled past her ear as she shut the windows and locked it. She closed the curtains and dimmed the hall light. She left the lamp on.
She wasn’t really conscious of it, doodling on the scraps of paper left scattered on the desk. The television was running in the background, showing tiny dots of people running across a field, splotches of jerseys and sweaty men against artificial grass. It had been a long time since she’d picked up the charcoal pencils, but it made sense she was a bit sentimental after erasing the last of her younger self. If only I could see me now, she thought humorlessly.
After the failed job at the Pelios, there was the Whitstone auction. Everything that could have gone wrong did so spectacularly. It was a narrow escape that left them scrabbling underground for the next couple of good long months. She suspected Jay was somewhere in Spain. The last card he’d sent her was a week ago, from a small Portuguese tourist town, barely a blip on the map unless you knew exactly what to look for. He kept leaving a few crumbs here and there, leading law enforcement on a merry chase around the globe.
People had different interpretations of the word ‘fun’, she supposed.
She sketched. She ended up with a particular scene in mind as she went slowly, patiently, over the contours in miniscule increments. She fully intended to complete the memory. It was hours before the whole of it emerged, like the imprint of silk from a cocoon – that mirage of a frizzy-haired boy on the swings at the park. Even the composition knew the truth of gentle grey eyes, as placid as a lake, and a beaming gap-toothed smile.
She was working on detailing the gravel and clouds, the wisps of her grief misting over the outlines, faintly pewter, when pastel blue – threaded with faint flaxen – dripped and stained into the paper like the pattering of tears. All of the drifting thoughts in her head were instantly sandblasted out. Shaking, she turned.
“Liv.” Colt whispered, and there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there for a very long time.
Written By: Trishta
