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Author's Notes: The poem quoted is Elizabeth Barret Browning's Aurora Leigh.
Blood and Water
Chapter Two: I am your valuable
—It's always her.
A still Medusa with mild milky brows,
All curdled and all clothed upon with snakes…
It's always the same snatch of poetry that sings through him as he lets the last breath out.
He always drowns with her beside him.
"Bad dreams?"
Sawyer feels like biting Skinner. He feels as if he should tear into the concern and the regret implicit in that statement. The need to reject the patronising and sympathising, because no matter how many Freudian interpretations you want to extract from his nightmares he's grown, he's changed, he doesn't need to go back to the womb. The hunger now is to bite back. And he does.
"Dreams that were just bad would be a relief."
He watches with some satisfaction as Skinner's face shuts in upon itself, and then the pang of regret as he remembers why the lines have become so deep, so tunnel-like. At the end of these tunnels he can almost see William: the body washed and still and forever the image that Skinner will see; not playing, not growing, but still with a completeness that is too peaceful, and perhaps too restless.
An apology is too little, too late. And he doesn't quite know what he'd say if he could find the words.
"Where today?" Is the most he can offer.
"To the corporation." Is all Skinner can offer in return.
Perhaps it's good that they don't talk; perhaps it's a wise thing that the air has so much frost in it that to remove your mouth from behind its collar means to shear your lungs. Or at least this is what Sawyer reassures himself with in the climb, the soil crisp beneath his boots. The flakes are beginning to fall now, bringing with them the smell of the north—of Maryland and Washington and the cold snow of New York.
Strange to think that Skinner, carrying London in every turn of phrase, should come from here; closer to Iceland than to Paris, an island so northern that the light was almost completely gone during winter, leaving them with the streak of the northern lights, crimson splashes amongst the green and blue, the stars that stretched in the brightest, whitest smiles like children's grins.
The smoke and steam on the horizon, the quiet churning of the processing plant chewing over the few scraps thrown to it. Ahead of them Sawyer can make out the bright gleam of spades, shovels, coffee mugs; the gleam of workmen at rest.
"Afternoon." Greets Skinner, his cockney disappearing in a twist of the local accent, there's a picture in that voice; the visible Skinner, tilling the earth, wrapped against the cold, it scares Sawyer to see something so intimate so suddenly.
"Afternoon," They smile, all coffee-bean warmth and rather more than curiosity for Skinner and his white greasepaint.
After the offers of a few drinks in the public house later tonight, it turns out they're all very warm gentlemen who've worked as miners for the company for thirty years and now have the rather cold task of readying the land for resale. They happen to know that the chief accountant—that's the one who deals with that money, y'know, pensions and bonds and contracts—Mr. Christie retired 3 years ago, lives on fàrdach street and how come we'd like to know?
Feeling conspicuous, the American accent thick in his mouth, Sawyer replies that it's just a few enquiries as to what's happening to the pensions now that the company's closing.
They give him nods, deep understanding sketched rather superficially on their eyes.
"The parable of the talents is all about loyalty."
Dignified as any official of the company, Skinner sees in Christie the straight-backed corporation he grew up with. The soot of the workers who crawled from under the hills lies in the blackness of his suit; the brightness of the pennies passed from the officials to the men is in his hair. Behind his grey eyes is a church-fed brightness.
Although, it could just be a reflection from the fire.
"There is much more than simple loyalty to God, there is a complex worldly loyalty that we must all deal with. Jephthath may have killed his daughter in promise to the Lord, but I doubt either of you gentlemen would kill your own son."
The voice is a corduroy scratch against his skin. Skinner is too numb for the words to have any affect; they fall like so much snow. To his left Sawyer flinches in his place, and the teacup rattles in the saucer he is holding.
It has been a long time since Skinner talked to anyone from the corporation, and he had forgotten the fearsome scriptural knowledge they bring to the elevenses.
"I was accountant for the Corporation for forty-five years. Do you understand?"
"Are you saying you won't help us?" Comes Sawyer's voice; filling the quiet, patterned space with the warmest threat.
In the quietness Christie takes time to stoke the fire, the glow flaring and receding, flaring and sparking and dying down again.
"You want to know about the pension?" He asks, flaring eyes looking at Skinner with the indistinguishable expression of the company. "A widow's pension, fifty pounds per month, awarded to Mrs Sarah Chrishaaven."
He walks to the silver tea tray, refills his cup, all with the measured stride of one in control, in perfect understanding of what is set out before him—how to work around the logic of the problem. Skinner stays perfectly still.
"Your brother-in-law Mr. Skinner was killed in an expedition to the islands in the Davis Strait, west of Greenland. The 1893 expedition, in which the accident took place, was to the island of Ablach."
Sawyer continues to stand behind his chair, a nervous energy striking through his skin that Rodney can see in the flickering light of the fire, and he prays it won't boil over in the silence. The pauses, where Christie is not speaking, the times when he holds his rough voice are as thin as ice, and just as brittle.
Sawyer holds his patience. Thank God.
"In organising funding, equipment and manpower for these expeditions, there are many companies involved—those who deal with drilling, with diamonds with minerals, the scientists. Within each of these structures there is a hierarchy. There were parts of the accounts that even I did not have access to."
"So, you're telling us that you know nothing." Sawyer spits into the flow.
Skinner could quite happily strangle him.
Christie on the other hand looks completely unperturbed. He drinks from his tea, eyes focussed on some invisible distance. All Skinner can hope for is that this distance is filled with some knowledge that will help.
"In any company like ours there will be investors, partners; men who spend their money on extravagance and can retire still fat and happy. There was a lot of excess from the investors in our company." His eyes spark, and Skinner wonders if he is amused or irritated. "Mr Guildhall, one of the main investors, demanded at his funeral that he be sunk in a lead-lined coffin into the North Atlantic while the soprano, Daae, sang Ponchielli on deck."
Sawyer looks like he wants to intervene, to interrogate, and all Skinner can do is fix him with a stare. All he can hope for is that his invisible eyes will be able to tell Sawyer to shut up. That you are not helping, not in the least bit intimidating—
"It was safe to assume that with all this extravagance the investors, the partners, were paying very little attention to the shop-floor running of the corporation. At the end of the day all important decisions were left in the hands of the finance director Mr. Lukas. Obviously this man had a great deal of responsibility. Not once did he prove himself unable to bring to his role the required amount of trustworthiness and loyalty."
—And I need you to just. Hold. Your. Goddamn. Heels.
"The day I retired we balanced the books for the semi-audit. I reached the file for the 1893 expedition and there was an unexplained amount of money—a rather large amount—unitemised. Completely unacceptable. So I go to look for the file card on which it should be registered. Missing." For the first time since he has begun talking he looks fully into Skinner's glasses, eyes pin-wheeling with red from the fire. "I went to Mr. Lukas. His answer was to assure me that he authorised that entry personally, that there was no need to worry."
"So," Sawyer breaks, "What did you do?"
"I went back and I entered the numbers, and in doing so I made myself an accomplice.
Do as you will do. I have acknowledged my debt to God. It is to the amount of six hundred pounds."
It is a very wet evening. The snowflakes alight on her arms, her wings, white fluttering briefly before melting away—transient individuality, beautiful in their mathematical precision. She always admired snowflakes for the way they could hold together.
Below her is Skinner, a faint ripple in the snow, glowing molten with the thrum of blood in his veins. Ahead is the corporation; still humming with sleeping industry, hulking in the dark.
The weaving light that is Skinner is slowing, stopping; she touches down beside him melting into herself so that the wet slap of the wind hits her flesh, curls around her. Her eyes burn red at the discomfort.
"How are you holding up?" She asks, noticing the way he shivers in the night air—skin exposed for the sake of invisibility.
"Fine." But of course, always the answer she remembers giving, even at the funeral. To hear every bereaved parent's words coming from his mouth—clenched around the snow and the wind—it's disquieting.
"Time to fly?" She asks, impassive, showing enough dissociation from him to please.
"Only if you promise not to drop me."
They touch on the roof, wet flesh shivering beneath her hands. He moves towards the door almost immediately, Mina's penknife in his hand. She smiles, bitter.
Fingersmith.
"Shall I wait here until needed?" She asks, "You are, after all, least likely to be seen."
The twist of the knife in the lock and the door pops open, soft as the clouds streaming above.
"You can disperse if you need to." He states, gesturing for her to walk on in, little rivers of lava in his fingers barely cracks of light, he is so contracted with cold.
It is dark and warm inside, with the wet smell of snow and paper, the belly of the beast. He leaves streaks of water behind him.
"Records?"
He shrugs, frowning, moving ahead till he's almost swallowed up in the dark.
Flights of stairs; wrought iron twisting in ornate bars, like cages, stretch down from the balcony she stands on. Skinner steaks down one to her left. She diffuses into the air, caught in the darkness, wheeling down, breathing softly.
Appearing at his side, very quietly, very still, just a hand, a face in the dark.
"Right, left or straight ahead?" He asks.
"Ever read the inferno?" she replies. He looks at her, blood glowing like the darkest nemesis. Very still—not amused. "Seeing as we are here, it's got to be left."
A long corridor, black doors set deep into the walls. Three doors to the right, two to the left. She pushes against the first; it seems to solidify against her.
"Can you pick this lock?"
He crouches to twist the penknife in. Underneath the whisper of grinding comes the slow hiss of heat.
When he pulls out the knife it has melted.
"We're leaving that room then."
She has already moved to the next door. It opens to her touch, something like water brushing against her fingers from the solidity of the door. The light moving on the walls and the murk of the dark makes her feel as if she is underwater. The pools, hacked crudely into the floor below her feet are empty.
Skinner follows behind her, glancing down, the water's reflection passing straight through him. He glances to her briefly.
"Door ahead?" He asks. "I doubt we can get any record from whatever the hell this is."
She strides ahead pushing lightly against the blackness, the door swinging open lightly to let out a puff of stale air.
"Records." She answers.
"There was an earlier expedition." Nemo states.
Sawyer watches his fingers trace the handwritten figures, inks fading to little sunspots on the page.
"1868, subsidised by The Carter Diamond Company. There's a reference to another accident—more fatalities." His eyes shoot to Skinner, wrapped in a dressing gown in front of the fire, his painted face watching Nemo and Jekyll with very controlled, still movements.
"Ablach seems to be a very unhealthy place to visit." He states, deadpan in the silence.
Sawyer feels his skin itching uncomfortably.
The rustle of film from Jekyll as he lights the box, clipping the film into the edges; Ghostly bones lit from behind. His voice is almost subdued, but with something almost remorseless hidden in it.
"Medical records for the three casualties on the 1893 expedition. It looks like a simple mining accident. The charge exploded before they could move away."
Skinner's jaw tightens visibly, Sawyer begins to brace himself, and he's sure he sees Mina and Nemo exchange worried glances.
"It could be explained away, If it wasn't for the fact that they look as if they were sitting on top of the charge. Directly on top—no more than a metre away."
The tension changes its tone. Becomes something almost insubstantial. Sawyer feels the itching grow, holding his legs. The light from the box playing on Jekyll's face gives a desperate reality to the scene.
Mina walks to stand beside Jekyll, begins leaning into the film.
"Something else too," Jekyll continues, opening a blue envelope, "William's autopsy: Water was drawn from the blood into the lungs, causing the blood to become more concentrated, leading to an increased load on the heart and heart failure. He drowned in sea or salt water."
Jekyll looks directly at Skinner.
"Doctor Marber told me William drowned in freshwater, which has the opposite affect physiologically-speaking: diluted blood and Ventricular Fibrillation."
"What does that mean?" Skinner asks, abrupt and almost frantic in the firelight.
"That something is very wrong," Jekyll answers, "Very wrong indeed."
TBC