A Sort of Homecoming Chapter 2
Thirty six hours ago, she’d been happy. Thirty six hours ago, in fact, she’d been delirious. Up to her knees in Chechen mud, surrounded by a thousand workers and a steadily growing forest of solar panels and windfarms, Izzy Hutchins had felt something a lot like joy sweep over her.
The plateau they were building the wind farm on hadn’t been there when she’d moved to Chechnya and, she reflected later, neither had the ability to feel joy. It had taken two full years of that time for her to get over what had happened. New York had been over the horizon but it hadn’t been far enough away.
‘You’ll be a technical consultant. Make sure the server farm’s up and running, do on site patches if the wind farm mainframes get a little screwy. Sound good?’ Nurbika Baisal had six inches and several billion Euros on Izzy. She’d been the first one to call after New York, and the only one to call in person. She’d made the best offer and the offer that took her furthest away. She’d accepted almost before Nurbika had stopped talking, had packed all she needed and signed the deed of her apartment over to Duffy that night.
The note had taken longer. She’d stared at the blank piece of paper for hours before finally deciding. He’d been there, he’d seen what she’d seen. He’d understand.
He’d have to.
She’d mailed her shield and quittance papers in from the airport. Izzy Hutchins, intrepid trouble-shooter, a voice that sounded a lot like Duffy’s had whispered to her. She laughed and choked down a sob, looking out at the Atlantic thousands of feet below. The wave farms glittered, strings of pearls against the black.
*
‘Isabel Hutchins?’ She closed her eyes, pulled herself up onto the matting they’d set up around the foundations. Any time someone used her full name she knew she was in trouble. Nurbika never called her Isabel. Duffy never called her Isabel.
The speaker was a trim, apologetic young man in his late twenties. He was dressed in workman’s clothes but he carried himself wrong. His arms were a little too far out from his sides, too much muscle in the useful instead of the visible places.
She stood brushed her hands against her top. ‘Call me Izzy, everyone else does. What can I do for you?’
He smiled, looked bashful. ‘It’s not really anything for me, Miss Huchins.’
‘No, of course not. Who do we need to pay?’
He blinked, impressed. ‘You know who I work for?’
She took a step forward, smiled in a way that went nowhere near her eyes. ‘You’ve got muscle across your back and down the sides of your torso and absolutely no fat anywhere on your face which points to either some form of military service or extensive Sambo training, which most people out here have anyway.’ The smile widened. ‘Think I should start? I’m eating too many carbs. Anyway, you have no fat anywhere on your head, your hair is military standard, your clothes are immaculate, you’re polite, you’re diffident and you have no discernible accent. Oh and I’m guessing your sleeves are down because you don’t want anyone to see your prison tattoos. Am I close?’
The young man’s smile matched Izzy’s. ‘The NYPD must miss you.’
‘I doubt it. Who do you work for?’
‘A friend of your father’s.’
Her awareness shrank to his eyes, his hands. Where they were, where they could be. She could take a knee first, if it came to it, take him off his feet and hope he wasn’t able to pull her head off before the others got to her. If they worked for her and not for him.
‘Really.’
‘Yes.’ The young man raised his arms. ‘Please Miss Hutchins, I have no intention of hurting you. It wouldn’t be courteous.’ He indicated his top pocket, and she nodded. Slowly, he took out a USB pen and dropped it on the matting in front of them. ‘There is a single image on there that my employer would like you to see. If you want to take no action, he will understand. If you want something to be done, simply call the Krasniiy Building in New York and ask for me. My name is Michael.’ He turned to go, without bothering to see if she picked the pen up. She had to will herself to pick it up.
Later, she made three phonecalls. The first was easy. The second, to Duffy was difficult. The third, to Nurbika, was impossible.
*
Nurbika had understood, and that had bothered Izzy even more than if they’d argued. She’d simply nodded, her black hair falling around her face and asked if she needed anything besides the flight. She wanted to stay, wanted to ignore everything she’d seen, wanted to keep New York past the horizon.
‘No. I’ll be fine.’
It was a return ticket. That was the thought that got her through customs and passport control, through baggage claim and out into the Arrivals lounge. It was a return ticket and once this nonsense was done with she’d be back over the horizon and away from this ridiculous city and it’s ridiculous past and-
Albert Duffy. Arms folded behind his back, hair cut close to his head. She was smiling before she knew it and for a second it all faded away.
‘They still employ you?’
He grinned, took her bag without being asked. ‘Token English guy. They just keep me on hand because I sound good answering the phones. How was the flight?’
In the wrong direction. ‘Fine. So, three years. Girlfriend?’
‘Possibly. Interesting developments there.’
‘You talked to women? Who aren’t me?’
‘A shock I know. You?’
‘Oh I HAVE a girlfriend.’ He stopped and she flashed him a very wide, very dirty grin. ‘A shock I know.’
‘She nice?’
‘And pretty. AND rich.’ She sounded hostile and she knew it and didn’t really care. Nurbika wasn’t here. She was.
‘Want to come over for dinner sometime?’
‘Tempting but the commute’s a little tight. Where are we parked?’ They’d made their way out of the concourse and there, on the horizon, she got her first view of the city. Much bigger than it had been three years ago, staring her down. She blinked first.
‘Taxi rank. Cop privilege.’ Duffy’s old hybrid was low and long and deep blue, sitting at the front of the taxi rank with a very large NYPD tag in the window. He dumped her bags in the back seat, opened the door for her and got in.
‘So your dad’s alive.’
‘Want to see the picture?’
‘Please.’ She’d picked up a fifty euro laptop her first day in Chechnya. It was a tiny, no frills machine that she never connected to anything else and, she suspected, had bought because she always knew this would happen. She took the machine out of her hand luggage, booted it and handed it to Duffy.
The desktop image was a still from a security camera. It showed a large room filled with coloured banners, racks of servers and at the far end, a throne made out of black glass and metal. In the centre of the image, a small, friendly looking man was looking up at the camera and waving.
‘Jesus.’
‘No, my dad.’
Duffy was still staring at the image. ‘We’ve talked to Zoo Station, they’re letting us in.’
‘They say anything else?’
‘Salieri said to tell you welcome home.’
‘Yeah he’s first on the list. My dad shows up, three years after he died, in that room? Salieri knows where he is.’
‘That’s just what Wayne said.’
‘Good.’ She nodded absently, almost to herself. ‘I need back in, Duff.’
He started the car, working his neck from side to side as he did so. ‘You’re already on the books. Your shield’s in the glove compartment.’ He pulled out into traffic. ‘I’m really sorry, Izzy.’
‘Not your fault. Now, are you up for making Salieri’s life miserable?’
‘Absolutely.’
She took her shield out and ran her fingers over it.
New York. Again.
She hoped she was ready.
The plateau they were building the wind farm on hadn’t been there when she’d moved to Chechnya and, she reflected later, neither had the ability to feel joy. It had taken two full years of that time for her to get over what had happened. New York had been over the horizon but it hadn’t been far enough away.
‘You’ll be a technical consultant. Make sure the server farm’s up and running, do on site patches if the wind farm mainframes get a little screwy. Sound good?’ Nurbika Baisal had six inches and several billion Euros on Izzy. She’d been the first one to call after New York, and the only one to call in person. She’d made the best offer and the offer that took her furthest away. She’d accepted almost before Nurbika had stopped talking, had packed all she needed and signed the deed of her apartment over to Duffy that night.
The note had taken longer. She’d stared at the blank piece of paper for hours before finally deciding. He’d been there, he’d seen what she’d seen. He’d understand.
He’d have to.
She’d mailed her shield and quittance papers in from the airport. Izzy Hutchins, intrepid trouble-shooter, a voice that sounded a lot like Duffy’s had whispered to her. She laughed and choked down a sob, looking out at the Atlantic thousands of feet below. The wave farms glittered, strings of pearls against the black.
*
‘Isabel Hutchins?’ She closed her eyes, pulled herself up onto the matting they’d set up around the foundations. Any time someone used her full name she knew she was in trouble. Nurbika never called her Isabel. Duffy never called her Isabel.
The speaker was a trim, apologetic young man in his late twenties. He was dressed in workman’s clothes but he carried himself wrong. His arms were a little too far out from his sides, too much muscle in the useful instead of the visible places.
She stood brushed her hands against her top. ‘Call me Izzy, everyone else does. What can I do for you?’
He smiled, looked bashful. ‘It’s not really anything for me, Miss Huchins.’
‘No, of course not. Who do we need to pay?’
He blinked, impressed. ‘You know who I work for?’
She took a step forward, smiled in a way that went nowhere near her eyes. ‘You’ve got muscle across your back and down the sides of your torso and absolutely no fat anywhere on your face which points to either some form of military service or extensive Sambo training, which most people out here have anyway.’ The smile widened. ‘Think I should start? I’m eating too many carbs. Anyway, you have no fat anywhere on your head, your hair is military standard, your clothes are immaculate, you’re polite, you’re diffident and you have no discernible accent. Oh and I’m guessing your sleeves are down because you don’t want anyone to see your prison tattoos. Am I close?’
The young man’s smile matched Izzy’s. ‘The NYPD must miss you.’
‘I doubt it. Who do you work for?’
‘A friend of your father’s.’
Her awareness shrank to his eyes, his hands. Where they were, where they could be. She could take a knee first, if it came to it, take him off his feet and hope he wasn’t able to pull her head off before the others got to her. If they worked for her and not for him.
‘Really.’
‘Yes.’ The young man raised his arms. ‘Please Miss Hutchins, I have no intention of hurting you. It wouldn’t be courteous.’ He indicated his top pocket, and she nodded. Slowly, he took out a USB pen and dropped it on the matting in front of them. ‘There is a single image on there that my employer would like you to see. If you want to take no action, he will understand. If you want something to be done, simply call the Krasniiy Building in New York and ask for me. My name is Michael.’ He turned to go, without bothering to see if she picked the pen up. She had to will herself to pick it up.
Later, she made three phonecalls. The first was easy. The second, to Duffy was difficult. The third, to Nurbika, was impossible.
*
Nurbika had understood, and that had bothered Izzy even more than if they’d argued. She’d simply nodded, her black hair falling around her face and asked if she needed anything besides the flight. She wanted to stay, wanted to ignore everything she’d seen, wanted to keep New York past the horizon.
‘No. I’ll be fine.’
It was a return ticket. That was the thought that got her through customs and passport control, through baggage claim and out into the Arrivals lounge. It was a return ticket and once this nonsense was done with she’d be back over the horizon and away from this ridiculous city and it’s ridiculous past and-
Albert Duffy. Arms folded behind his back, hair cut close to his head. She was smiling before she knew it and for a second it all faded away.
‘They still employ you?’
He grinned, took her bag without being asked. ‘Token English guy. They just keep me on hand because I sound good answering the phones. How was the flight?’
In the wrong direction. ‘Fine. So, three years. Girlfriend?’
‘Possibly. Interesting developments there.’
‘You talked to women? Who aren’t me?’
‘A shock I know. You?’
‘Oh I HAVE a girlfriend.’ He stopped and she flashed him a very wide, very dirty grin. ‘A shock I know.’
‘She nice?’
‘And pretty. AND rich.’ She sounded hostile and she knew it and didn’t really care. Nurbika wasn’t here. She was.
‘Want to come over for dinner sometime?’
‘Tempting but the commute’s a little tight. Where are we parked?’ They’d made their way out of the concourse and there, on the horizon, she got her first view of the city. Much bigger than it had been three years ago, staring her down. She blinked first.
‘Taxi rank. Cop privilege.’ Duffy’s old hybrid was low and long and deep blue, sitting at the front of the taxi rank with a very large NYPD tag in the window. He dumped her bags in the back seat, opened the door for her and got in.
‘So your dad’s alive.’
‘Want to see the picture?’
‘Please.’ She’d picked up a fifty euro laptop her first day in Chechnya. It was a tiny, no frills machine that she never connected to anything else and, she suspected, had bought because she always knew this would happen. She took the machine out of her hand luggage, booted it and handed it to Duffy.
The desktop image was a still from a security camera. It showed a large room filled with coloured banners, racks of servers and at the far end, a throne made out of black glass and metal. In the centre of the image, a small, friendly looking man was looking up at the camera and waving.
‘Jesus.’
‘No, my dad.’
Duffy was still staring at the image. ‘We’ve talked to Zoo Station, they’re letting us in.’
‘They say anything else?’
‘Salieri said to tell you welcome home.’
‘Yeah he’s first on the list. My dad shows up, three years after he died, in that room? Salieri knows where he is.’
‘That’s just what Wayne said.’
‘Good.’ She nodded absently, almost to herself. ‘I need back in, Duff.’
He started the car, working his neck from side to side as he did so. ‘You’re already on the books. Your shield’s in the glove compartment.’ He pulled out into traffic. ‘I’m really sorry, Izzy.’
‘Not your fault. Now, are you up for making Salieri’s life miserable?’
‘Absolutely.’
She took her shield out and ran her fingers over it.
New York. Again.
She hoped she was ready.