She looked at the muted wall screen, then, forcing the glass to her lips, drained the last of the liqueur. It wasn't her habit to drink, and not this awful stuff, but for once she'd needed something.
The news was awful. All of that death. All of that senseless violence. It made one think that the world was ending. And perhaps that was no bad thing, for perhaps it was easier to end than to endure.
She set the glass down and turned her head, listening, but the child slept on. That at least was a blessing. She turned back, opening the folder.
It had been years since she'd looked at these. Years since she'd felt the urge. But tonight she had taken them down from the top of the wardrobe where she'd put them shortly after her wedding.
The first thing that struck her were the colors. She had forgotten— forgotten how Ben had made her look at things; forgotten how he'd pointed out to her the force behind the shapes. These—these paintings at the top—were the last she had done before she'd given up. The last and the best. Impressions. Sketches of things from memory. Sketches of him.
She stopped and moved her head back slightly, squinting at the painting. It was of Ben's face, side on, the light from just behind.
Or half his face, she thought, realizing she had not finished it. The half I thought I knew.
Sergey had never seen these. In all probability he didn't even know they existed. Besides, he was too preoccupied with his own work—with his own obsessive version of this face.
Ben. Ben Shepherd. How strange that she should think of him now, after so many years. Or maybe not so strange. After all, Sergey's attack on him was fresh in mind. He had tried to keep it from her, but she had overheard things, seen the bitterness in her husband's face as he was talking of Ben's work.
All that hatred, she thought, amazed that it had lasted all these years. Should one admire such a purity of purpose that nursed a hatred over fifteen years, or should one pity it? Whichever, it was certain that her husband hated Ben. Hated him for breaking his hand. Hated him, too, for having made her love him.
And herself? Did she still hate him?
She lifted the canvas, revealing the next work. This was a sketch—a pen-and-ink drawing of two lovers, their naked bodies abandoned to sleep after lovemaking. She sighed, remembering the day she'd done this. It was the day she had decided to accept Sergey's offer of marriage.
Yes, and she knew why. She had drawn this to purge herself. To finally accept that this was what she'd seen—Ben and his sister, Meg, asleep in his bed. . . .
But that was no answer. Did she hate him still?
There was a sudden thumping on the outer door, the sound of someone trying to force his way in. "Cath-rine! Cath-rine, open this fucking door!"
She jumped with shock, then closed the folder. It was Sergey. He was back at last, and raging drunk by the sound of it.
"Cath-rine? The gods fuck you, woman! Get off your ass and open this fucking door!"
Quickly she hid the folder. Then, taking a long breath to calm herself, she went out into the hallway.
"Cath-rine!" There was another thump, then a murmured "Shit! Where is that fucking woman!"
She went across and reached up, drawing the bolt. Then, fearing the worst, knowing how angry he got when he was drunk, she undid the catch and moved back sharply.
Nothing. She frowned. Had he fallen asleep? She moved closer, trying to peek around the door. Then, very slowly, it began to slide back.
"Sergey?" she began, then caught her breath.
"Catherine. It's been a long time. Can I come in?"
"Ben . . ."
It was as if she had conjured a ghost. She moved back, letting him enter.
She closed the door, bolted it again, then turned, looking at him.
"These are good. They're Sergey's, I assume."
He was holding one of Sergey's heads. Three of them rested on the table in the hallway. Carved from black marble, each depicted Ben's face in various degrees of torment.
"Why did you do that?" she asked. "Why did you mimic him?"
He put the head down, smiled at her. "Why did you let me in?"
She shrugged, then moved past him, returning to the living room. He followed.
"I often wondered," he said, looking about him at the room. "I thought his father was rich."
She switched the screen off, then turned, facing him again. "He was, once. But he died penniless. Sergey makes his own way in the world."
"Ah . . ." He stared at her, taking in the changes time had wrought in her, then smiled. She had forgotten how green his eyes were; forgotten the darkness behind the green.
"Do you want a drink?"
He shook his head. "I want you."
"No."
It wasn't possible. Too much time had passed. Too much had happened to them both.
He stepped across, taking both her hands in his. Then, without a word, he picked her up and carried her out into the hallway.
"The child . . ." she said softly, but he wasn't listening. He took her through, into the darkness of the end room where she slept, and laid her on the bed.
"What if Sergey comes?" she whispered, as he pulled her blouse up over her head.
"Sergey's not coming," he said, pausing to kiss her neck, her cheek, her mouth, his hands smoothing her naked flanks. "Sergey's sleeping it off at his club. I saw him there. He won't be home for hours."
"Ben . . ." Gently she pushed his face back away from hers. "Ben, we can't do this. What happened then . . ."
He did not answer her. Instead, his hands went to her breasts and cupped them, his thumbs caressing her nipples. Again his mouth was on her throat.
"Ben ... Ah, Ben . . ."
And this time as his mouth brushed hers, she pushed against him hungrily, unable to resist.
"You bastard," she murmured, tugging his shirt up over his head and throwing it aside, her need mixed with a burning anger. "Why did you go away? Why the fuck did you leave me here with him?"
LEHMANN LOOKED ABOUT him at the smoke-blackened ruins of the gutted school. Most of the children had died in their beds, but those who'd woken had found themselves locked in and the fatty remains of their corpses were heaped beside the blocked safety exits. He had seen sections of the camera records; had seen how the two copies had covered the school's entrance from overlooking balconies, picking off anyone who tried to help the screaming children, like machines functioning at prime efficiency. It had taken almost thirty of his men to subdue them, and eight had died in the process.
In all, over seven hundred had died here; elsewhere the news was just as bad. More than two thousand "berserker" outbreaks had been reported—more than twice the number in the Northern Enclave—and news of yet more was coming in by the moment.
It could no longer be denied. Things were falling apart. Local guard posts had been attacked throughout the levels and apart from a few key areas surrounding his major garrisons there had been an almost total breakdown in law and order. Even at the best of times his forces had enjoyed only minimal popular support but now, it seemed, the mob were getting their own back on those minor officials who, before today, had held the power of life or death over them.
He turned to Soucek. "Is there any news from Pasek?" he asked, looking past him at the mobile communications center parked just outside the entrance. Soucek crunched through the debris and lifted his mask.
"Nothing yet. But it's chaos out there. We're not even sure where Pasek is."
"So where are the two who are supposed to be looking after him?"
"Dead? Unless they got him."
Lehmann stared back at him, then shook his head. "I've a bad feeling about this. This is Pasek's chance. If he doesn't take it—"
"Master!"
Lehmann turned, facing his captain.
"What is it?"
"It's a broadcast, Master. I think you should see it."