‘Christ almighty, stick to sucking balls. It’s what you do best. You’re a shitty counsellor.’ Kira turned her back to her friend, leaning against the bar. She winced, remembering too late the bruise on her back where Blake had shoved her against the kitchen sink.
‘That’s why we get along so well, my dear. Shared talents.’ A soft whipping sound followed, and something snapped at her flesh arm. She turned to see Perry sauntering away, waving the black tea towel he’d just flicked at her like a victor’s flag, his pearly whites made even more luminous by the rich, deep shade of his skin. ‘You can pay for that shit he’s wasting, by the way.’
He gestured towards the booth where Azrael sat pulling out each and every paper napkin from the dispenser, arranging them in a warped kind of snowflake design on the table. A woman stood at the end of the table, wobbling back and forth, a half-empty pint of golden goodness in her hands. She’d come into the pub about an hour after Kira and Azrael. Kind of hard to miss.
Oompa Loompas had died and she’d bathed in their blood apparently. She was as orange as, well, an orange. The tan queen had spindly short legs and a shock of white hair that eclipsed Kira’s in the messy stakes. It might have been a bob once; now it was a bird’s-nest. A nest for bower birds apparently, the ones that collected shiny things. An assortment of clips and ribbons clung to random strands. The woman was way too interested in Azrael’s attempts at artistry.
‘That’s so beautiful,’ she of the dead Oompa Loompas declared, loud enough for some other patrons to glance her way.
‘Oh fuck.’ Kira sighed.
‘Quick, sweetie,’ Perry laughed, ‘she’s moving in on your territory.’
Kira flicked him the bird. ‘Do something useful, like change that fucking music.’
She strode towards the table, champagne safe in metal clutches. ‘Okay, show’s over, love. I need to talk with my man here. Private stuff.’
Tan Queen turned towards her, stumbling against the edge of the table. Azrael glanced up, but his jade-greens didn’t so much as flicker over the orange catastrophe in front of him. It was all about Kira. His eyes locked on her like heat-seeking missiles. Even the drunken mess seemed to notice. Dark brown eyes darted between Kira and Azrael, flicking back and forth as if she were watching a tennis match. The chick was older than Kira had first thought. A roadmap of wrinkles made their way through the orange wasteland, but she wasn’t as unattractive as her hair. An old-lady stateliness was draped about her, her rouged cheeks resting around a smiling mouth.
‘Lady, please. Leave us alone.’ Kira swept her hand towards a couple of empty tables at the room’s centre. ‘Plenty of spare seats. You don’t need this one.’
The smile faded. ‘No need to be so harsh. Just being friendly.’ She lifted one hand from the table to point at Azrael, and the movement made her rock. ‘He all right?’
‘Perfectly fine.’ Kira took the woman’s arm. ‘Go on, get yourself another drink or something.’
A hint of spices wafted off the woman. Cinnamon or allspice or something else that should be in a bakery.
‘Righto, righto. No need to manhandle me, girlie.’ Tan Queen tugged her arm free of Kira’s grip with a strength that didn’t match her scrawny frame. ‘I’m leaving.’
The woman studied Kira, her gaze dropping to her metal limb, then dragging itself up the length of the armadillo, as if she were counting each layer and saving it to memory.
‘Want to take a picture? It will last longer,’ Kira said. An oldie, but still a damn goodie. ‘Piss off, now.’ She flicked her metal fingers in that condescending way asshole villains did in movies. But Tan Queen was too busy staring at Kira’s hand to appreciate the Academy Award moment. She darted another look at Azrael, raised her beer to him, and then stumbled away, snaking her way across the crimson, leaf-patterned carpet, her skin colour clashing with it in a gut-wrenching way.
Kira snatched the napkin dispenser from Azrael. ‘No more masterpieces, my friend. Too many trees died for the honour of being wiped across someone’s ketchup-soaked lips.’
Azrael stared down at the deep brown table, fingers tracing the veins in the wood. Any second now dribble would run from his mouth. She stuffed a couple of napkins in her pocket and dumped the rest on the neighbouring empty table.
‘I’m fucking starving. How about we –’ Kira jerked at the sudden vibration against her hip. Scrambling to pull her phone from her slim-fitting pant pocket, Kira almost dropped it in her haste to get it to her ear. ‘Blake? About fucking time. Jesus, what is the –’
‘Kira, it’s time to go. Now.’
‘Go where?’
‘Leave the pub.’ Blake’s voice rose over the music. ‘I want you to take Azrael. I need you to keep him hidden until this is . . . Kira can you hear me? That music is terribly loud.’
‘Heard you, yes, understood you, no. Keep him hidden? Hidden from Captain Asshat? B, did you finally smoke that weed I gave you? I reckon it’s probably stale as shit by now. Maybe go easy.’
‘Pay attention, Kira. The quicker we make this, the better,’ Blake said. ‘You need to leave there but not in the car you arrived in. I’m going to set the auto to head out of Pryden, maybe into Lorhurst. Are there any clubs there that you go to? Somewhere they’d expect you to go?’
‘There’s not even a Girl Scout clubhouse in Lorhurst. No. I do not go there. Blake. Seriously, you are not James Bond. Not even close. Tell me what the fuck is happening.’
Long pause. So long
