He feels a hard stab of excitement. ‘You found the back door.’
She hums, making him wait. ‘I was busy while you were drinking.’
‘Where is it?’ His mind is turning over and over. He feels anxious, excited, sick.
‘I’ll show you tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Nighty night, Marky Mark.’ Kimble stands. ‘I’m taking the back seat.’ Vaguely, against the sound of crickets he hears her brushing her teeth, spitting into the forest. Fireflies move above in the forest canopy.
Marc eases himself quietly into the back of the van. He lifts his trouser leg and gently removes his prosthetic and the liner. He cleans the blunt place where his shin ends with an antibacterial wipe and then cleans the socket of the prosthetic. He realises that he forgot to bring lotion. The stump aches, it tells the tale of a long day. Marc makes a small noise of frustration. The pain is deep and massaging it with lotion is the only thing that helps.
‘Jesus.’ Kimble’s voice is thick with sleep. ‘Is that a buffalo herd? Or a marching band firing guns next my head? So much noise.’ Kimble doesn’t like being woken up.
‘Sorry.’ It takes him a moment before he sees her hand sticking over the back of the seat. She groans and drops something which falls by his feet. It’s her fancy mineral vitamin E lotion.
‘Thanks, Kimble,’ he whispers.
‘Shhh please now, shut up shut up.’
The hardware store has a hand-painted sign out front. Inside it is deserted.
A bald guy sweeps the linoleum floor in slow, sad strokes. He’s thick with muscle. A rose tattoo winds red and green around his neck. Behind him, dirty paper ribbons flutter in the wheezy air conditioning, leading to the stock room, as dark as a lion’s den.
‘Doesn’t look like much of a back door,’ Marc says.
‘You haven’t met him yet. Linus,’ Kimble calls.
The bald man lifts his head and fixes them with a level hard gaze.
‘Wait,’ Marc says. ‘How?’ The back door is a person.
Kimble flicks Marc a look. She takes off her sweater and hands it to him. It’s their code forI got this. She goes to the man, easy. ‘Hey. Remember me?’
‘No way.’ The guy turns back to the dark storeroom. ‘I already told you.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘But I have this disorder. It’s a bad one.’
‘Uh. I’m sorry.’ He sounds it, really.
‘It might finish me in the end.’
‘What,’ the man asks, awkwardly, ‘exactly—’
‘I can’t hear the word no,’ she smiles. ‘Doesn’t matter how many times someone says it I just – can’t hear it. So I come back again and again, like a curse. I never leave you alone.’
He gives a reluctant cough of laughter.
‘It’s an affliction.’ Kimble nods towards the back. ‘You got time for a smoke?’
He hesitates.
‘It’s just a smoke.’ Kimble is honey, voice dripping with it, but also giving him space, letting him feel it’s his decision.
‘Uh,’ says Linus. ‘I have a break coming up.’
The afternoon sun has warmed the red brick wall behind the store. Instinctively, they all three lean their backs against it.
‘I’m Marc.’
‘Linus.’ In their handshake Marc feels the great size and strength of Linus’s fingers, the many calluses. Linus offers a pack of cigarettes and Marc takes one, grateful. Kimble shakes her head. Marc and Linus smoke.
