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He got dressed in his jeans and yesterday’s t-shirt. He soft touched the cupboard under the sink and found the dustpan, some designer thing that could’ve been a sculpture. He cleaned up the glass, mopped up his blood trail, thankful for polished wood floors, then put his shoes on, stuffing his cut foot, protesting, into his runner.
He checked his phone. Four increasingly terse emails from Dillon, nothing from Buster or St Ags, but almost no battery either, eight percent. There was only a lick of life on his laptop as well. He hadn’t expected to need chargers. Jacinta had the full corporate kit he sometimes had to service, so he knew her brand of chargers weren’t going to fit his personal gear. He really had to get going.
She came out in a short summery dress and bare feet. Her hair was wet but piled on her head with a clip. He stared at her; this other woman without armour plating. She clattered about in the kitchen. He should’ve offered to help, but he didn’t want to make this
into something it wasn’t. They weren’t friends. They weren’t even colleagues. She only knew his name because Nolan had drafted him to the takeover campaign team because he’d had the idea about polling. If it hadn’t been for that, she’d never have laid eyes on him. She sat at the right hand of God and the board; he worked the IT support desk and did software testing. She was on the thirty-fourth floor of Tower A and he was on the second of Tower B. They didn’t even share an elevator shaft.
They had one night written all over them for good reason.
He avoided her by watching out the window. He could see the back-end of the marathon participants massing on the street directly below. They’d been gathering for hours. This was the family zone of the event, the parents with little kids and strollers, people in animal suits, or dressed as nuns, the folk who’d walk it, make a day of it. Only four floors up, he could see faces. The official starting line was further up the street and the race half an hour from kick-off. He realised he’d have to wait until this lot moved off before he could get out of here.
He could smell bacon and coffee and his gut rumbled. Breakfast would settle that and clear the fog in his head, the shadow on his heart.
“The tail-enders always amuse me. No hope of winning.”
He turned to find Jacinta close behind him. Her whole life was about success, she must think the fun run folk were ridiculous.
“They’re inspiring,” she said. “It one of the reasons we sponsor the event.”
“You find the losers down the back inspiring? That’s condescending.”
“Wow, Mace, you really don’t like me do you?”
“I—ah.”
She gave him a stop sign hand. “Don’t apologise.” She rolled her eyes. “Please. I don’t need you to humour me.”
She didn’t need him for anything. But he was stuck for a while and there was no reason to be so antagonistic toward her. What was wrong with him? For God’s sake, he liked her more than he should and the sex had been better than expected, a lot better. Maybe that was his problem. He was pissed off she didn’t remember last night and he’d let himself get all soft towards her this morning. That was the drink; he was usually better at this kind of stuff, took pride in his detachment because it kept him focused and clear about what mattered—not random hot sex with women who saw him as some kind of cheap thrill.
She stepped up beside him, a hand to his shoulder. “You cut yourself on that broken glass.”
“Your boyfriend got me a bandaid.”
“Jay. He’s my neighbour—”
“Sure.”
She sighed and he wanted to punch his forehead into the glass. He was acting like a prize jerk. He braced his hand on the window instead, so he felt the sound wave as it met the glass, hit his palm, ricocheted through his arm and whacked his chest. The thunderous sound of it was muted, but still an assault on his ears. “Holy fuck.”
“Dear God.”
There was grey smoke and then the weight of silence so heavy it made the screaming that followed surreal. Another gas explosion, a bomb, what?
“Oh my God. Oh my God.”
He heard the fear and shock in Jacinta’s voice and he reached for her. She came into his arms, tucked her face into his shoulder. Underneath them was carnage, people down and not moving, others running, covered in blood and scurrying with panic. His other hand was a fist made of the horror.
“Why?” She virtually sobbed it, pulling away, turning her back to the window.
“I should go.” He meant to help instead of being a spectator.
She put her hand to his face. “No. It might not be finished.” She went to the television and turned it on and they saw the whole thing again, this time as breaking news from a ground angle, this time with the shocked voices of the commentators overlaying it. They heard the sirens in stereo.
His head felt clear. He needed to move. “I’m going down there. I have to do something.”
“I need shoes. I’m coming with you. I have a first-aid kit.”
On the TV a talking head appealed for calm. The front door opened and Jay was in the room, white-faced, his hands shaking.
