Read Strawman Made Steel for Free Online Page B
Authors: Brett Adams
liquid carried it up and away at a tangent.
I waited to be spattered with flammable
rain.
Instead, an explosion pounded on my head
like a fist. Light flared through the cavernous space and woke a thousand
shadows. The roar of ignited accelerant bounded back and forth, and somewhere
in the middle of it I heard a curiously inhuman squeal.
Then silence, and a flickering, muted light
played over everything.
Still restrained, I took stock of my body
as best I could, and when finally satisfied no part of me was on fire, grunted
in surprise. “One for the books.”
It took me the best part of half an hour to
work slack into the ropes holding me. I shrugged up and down until my trapezius
ached. I think I was whistling Pop goes the Weasel.
Up a short flight of stairs I found the
corpse sprawled on a gantry. What was left of it was the spitting image of the
psycho I’d left out cold in the scrapyard, except for the gold teeth. This was
the identical twin with superior dental hygiene. I tamped out the few flames still
feeding on his clothes before letting myself out.
Outside, I took a bead on the city to
orient myself. The sun had dropped out of view but the sky was full of
second-hand light. I was across the river, but not so far from Eastside as the
crow flies. The building was an old factory that had been converted to
munitions assembly, all boarded up and left to rust.
I found a drum full of rainwater and
plunged my head under to clear away the foul mood. Then I went in search of a
cab.
— 5 —
The elevators in my office building
were out of action. The boiler was silent and the diesel backup had been a
piece of found art for at least as long as I’d been a tenant. I slogged up the
stairs to my office level thinking about salmon.
Night had fallen, but instead of the faint
glow of the pilot light pushing through the frosted glass of my office front,
there was a blaze. I nudged the door open and saw Ailsa’s head cradled on her
arms beside her hooded typewriter.
I barely made a noise but she came awake
when I stepped into the room. She answered the question on my face by pointing
at my office door.
The day’s hurts were coming home to roost.
They put some spring back into my step. I flung my hat and coat onto a chair. I
yanked the door open, saw a female form hugging itself by the window, and
snapped out, “You’ve an unfortunate economy with the truth, Mrs. Speigh―” but
stopped when I saw my mistake.
The woman turned. On a stage you would have
called it a pirouette. But this was discount office-space, and her face was riven
by real tear tracks.
“ Miss Speigh,” she said, and that
was obvious. She was the image of her mother―except for the eyes. They were
pools of spring’s rainfall, dappled green.
She came near, and trained that spring
light on me. “You are hurt, Mr. McIlwraith. Did my mother...?” Her voice
trailed away like vanishing rain. For a moment I thought I might fall into
those eyes. Then I noticed something else the girl’s form didn’t share with her
mother’s; it played fair with gravity. Her shoulders sagged as if they bore
more than the light dress she was wearing.
The only light in my office came spilling
in through the door. Her hair caught up in coarse coils at the nape of her neck
was the purest blonde. Still she looked pale.
I rounded my desk and tugged a cord hanging
beneath the standing lamp behind my chair. Its wick took the spark and, with a
hiss, a yellow light forced the gloom back. It did nothing to expunge the
haunting luminosity of her gaze.
I said, “Your mother,” made it neither
question nor statement.
Miss Speigh approached my desk and sat in
the customer’s chair, with mirror motions of her mother, an instinctual
elegance. The tuck of her legs, even the stretch of her back to its full
extent, though I sensed that cost her.
She clasped her handbag, a slim, white
leather satchel, with both hands in her lap. Her gaze searched now as if
probing
I waited to be spattered with flammable
rain.
Instead, an explosion pounded on my head
like a fist. Light flared through the cavernous space and woke a thousand
shadows. The roar of ignited accelerant bounded back and forth, and somewhere
in the middle of it I heard a curiously inhuman squeal.
Then silence, and a flickering, muted light
played over everything.
Still restrained, I took stock of my body
as best I could, and when finally satisfied no part of me was on fire, grunted
in surprise. “One for the books.”
It took me the best part of half an hour to
work slack into the ropes holding me. I shrugged up and down until my trapezius
ached. I think I was whistling Pop goes the Weasel.
Up a short flight of stairs I found the
corpse sprawled on a gantry. What was left of it was the spitting image of the
psycho I’d left out cold in the scrapyard, except for the gold teeth. This was
the identical twin with superior dental hygiene. I tamped out the few flames still
feeding on his clothes before letting myself out.
Outside, I took a bead on the city to
orient myself. The sun had dropped out of view but the sky was full of
second-hand light. I was across the river, but not so far from Eastside as the
crow flies. The building was an old factory that had been converted to
munitions assembly, all boarded up and left to rust.
I found a drum full of rainwater and
plunged my head under to clear away the foul mood. Then I went in search of a
cab.
— 5 —
The elevators in my office building
were out of action. The boiler was silent and the diesel backup had been a
piece of found art for at least as long as I’d been a tenant. I slogged up the
stairs to my office level thinking about salmon.
Night had fallen, but instead of the faint
glow of the pilot light pushing through the frosted glass of my office front,
there was a blaze. I nudged the door open and saw Ailsa’s head cradled on her
arms beside her hooded typewriter.
I barely made a noise but she came awake
when I stepped into the room. She answered the question on my face by pointing
at my office door.
The day’s hurts were coming home to roost.
They put some spring back into my step. I flung my hat and coat onto a chair. I
yanked the door open, saw a female form hugging itself by the window, and
snapped out, “You’ve an unfortunate economy with the truth, Mrs. Speigh―” but
stopped when I saw my mistake.
The woman turned. On a stage you would have
called it a pirouette. But this was discount office-space, and her face was riven
by real tear tracks.
“ Miss Speigh,” she said, and that
was obvious. She was the image of her mother―except for the eyes. They were
pools of spring’s rainfall, dappled green.
She came near, and trained that spring
light on me. “You are hurt, Mr. McIlwraith. Did my mother...?” Her voice
trailed away like vanishing rain. For a moment I thought I might fall into
those eyes. Then I noticed something else the girl’s form didn’t share with her
mother’s; it played fair with gravity. Her shoulders sagged as if they bore
more than the light dress she was wearing.
The only light in my office came spilling
in through the door. Her hair caught up in coarse coils at the nape of her neck
was the purest blonde. Still she looked pale.
I rounded my desk and tugged a cord hanging
beneath the standing lamp behind my chair. Its wick took the spark and, with a
hiss, a yellow light forced the gloom back. It did nothing to expunge the
haunting luminosity of her gaze.
I said, “Your mother,” made it neither
question nor statement.
Miss Speigh approached my desk and sat in
the customer’s chair, with mirror motions of her mother, an instinctual
elegance. The tuck of her legs, even the stretch of her back to its full
extent, though I sensed that cost her.
She clasped her handbag, a slim, white
leather satchel, with both hands in her lap. Her gaze searched now as if
probing