Matt Callaghan snored.
Curled up on his side, mouth slightly open, his limbs wrapped in a tangle of sheets and blankets, Matt slept soundly in the calm and quiet night. For a while Jane just lay there, listening to his breathing; watching the slivers of the city’s starlight flit across the ceiling, the patterns stealing around the black curtain covering the bedroom window. Little light, little sound, little dark. It was so peaceful, and for a moment all Jane wanted was to lay back and hold it tenderly in her grasp.
Matt’s snoring was steady and constant, little more than a rasp or whisper. That was okay. Once upon a time Jane might’ve found it annoying, or it might’ve kept her awake, but now she found the sound oddly soothing. Not that it mattered either way. She wasn’t tired.
The girl indulged in a few more moments’ peace, then rolled from their bed as quietly as she could before padding barefoot across the shaggy carpet to the other side of the room. She pulled on a hoodie, more out of habit than anything, then tip‑toed from the bedroom, gently closing the door behind her – leaving Matt to his rest, and her to their sprawling apartment and the looming, vacant night.
*
Clank-clank. Clank-clank. Clank-clank.
The individual weights of the dumbbells rattled with each punch, unused to being jerked around with such ferocity.
Clank-clank-clank. Clank-clank. Clank.
Jane moved through the boxing routine with a sort of indifferent familiarity, weaving an uninspired combination of jabs, straights and hooks. She wore no gloves and hit nothing save empty gym air, but she wasn’t practicing striking as such. More just… going through the motions. Punching for punching’s sake.
The dumbbells she held in each hand clanked and shuddered with every movement. A hundred pounds, one twenty – she wasn’t sure what she was up to anymore. All she knew was that the bar‑ends were full and the spin‑locks holding the weights in place looked like they were straining. Probably weren’t designed to be thrown around so much.
Jane stretched out her arms, let herself fall into a plank and began doing springing push-ups.
Clank; thud, clank; thud, clank; thud, clank.
She wondered how good the apartment’s soundproofing was. Muting voices through walls was one thing, but this constant pounding of dumbbells hitting the hard foam floor – it was difficult to believe no one heard that. Though so far there’d been no complaints. Maybe the units below them thought their roof was haunted.
Jane pushed back onto her feet, balancing the right dumbbell unthinkingly on her left wrist so she could use her free hand to wipe her brow. Halfway through she realised how stupid the motion was, since she wasn’t actually sweating. The corner of Jane’s mouth twitched into a frown, then she grabbed the right dumbbell again, sat down on the bench and began to unscrew the spin-locks. Weights. She needed more weights. Denser weights. Add it to the shopping list.
Jane re-racked the equipment and turned the lights off before leaving, returning the gym to darkness. The iron glimmered in the light of the distant hall. How much had The White Queen lifted, Jane wondered. If she had even worked out to begin with. Probably hadn’t. Probably too busy being royalty.
*
“Princess. Little baby princess. Go cry about it.”
The crappy speaker in Jane’s headset crackled with insults from some guy she’d never met. He was dead, she’d killed him, and he sounded very emotionally involved.
“What’re you, twelve? Yeah right. No you’re not. Thirteen max. Go hit puberty. You sound like a girl.”
Curled up alone on the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, Jane’s eyes remained focused on the TV as the soldier she was controlling clambered up and took cover behind a ledge. The living room was dark save for the flash-flashing of the TV, and quiet save for the click-clicking of the Xbox controller.
“Yeah no duh idiot, I am a girl. Yeah. Yeah I am. Nineteen. Yeah. Goddamn right I’m good.”
She was alright, she guessed. Before she’d dated Matt, Jane had never really been around videogames. It took a while to pick up, the way you wriggled your fingers here and your guy moved on the screen over there. But you got it after a bit of practice. After that, well, her eyes were sharp and her reflexes sharper.
“Yeah. Nah I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t know, a bit. This is my alt account. Haha yeah. I mean if you want. It’s a new phone though so I gotta check my number. Cool. Hold on, let’s get out of the way for a second. Yeah. Yellow house, top floor. Yeah. I’ll meet you there.”
The sound of footsteps echoed through her headset as somebody nearby hurried up a digital flight of stairs. Jane’s character crouched facing the stairwell, shotgun locked and loaded. A few seconds later an enemy soldier came charging with reckless abandon into her line of sight. Jane blew his brains out.
“Haha. Idiot. Freaking idiot, what did you think was going to happen? No, no, jokes, sorry, I was just messing with you. I was joking. For real, no for real this time. Yeah. No, I promise. I’m out of ammo anyway. Yeah I’ll wait.”
A few seconds’ pause. Then more approaching footsteps, followed by another shotgun blast.
“Ha. Die trash.”
*
‘Lèsè tǒng zài nǎlǐ’
“Lachee tong zed nali.”
‘Where is a trash can. Lèsè tǒng zài nǎlǐ.’
“Lachae tong zae nali. Where is a trash can.”
Jane squinted intently at the coloured workbook on the desk in front of her, her hands pressing both off‑white headphones slightly more firmly onto her ears. They had better quality speakers than the crappy Xbox Live headset, but she still found it hard to concentrate on the individual sounds the man in the recordings was making. She looked down at her workbook, illuminated by an adjustable desk lamp. So many different tones. So many little pictures to memorise. And so many of them looked so similar.
‘Yóuxiāng zài nǎlǐ. Where is a post box. Yóuxiāng zài nǎlǐ.’
“Yoshung zai nali. Yosheyoung zai nali.”
She was getting to the back half of the workbook now, reaching the point where it felt like she was forgetting some of the words she’d learned up front. Jane gnawed her lip, concentrating on the tip of her pen as she tried to make sure the spikes of the Chinese characters she was writing were all pointing the right way.
‘Gōnggòng qìchē zhàn zài nǎlǐ. Where is a bus stop. Gōnggòng qìchē zhàn zài nǎlǐ.’
“Gung-gung teacher chen zai nali. Gung-gung… crap.” Deep breath. “Gung-gung chi-zur-zen zai nali.”
Why couldn’t the world’s most spoken language be Spanish? Spanish was easy. She could make sense of Spanish. Matt had taught Spanish to his dog.
*
Deer Lady Dawn
My name is Cassie. I am 6 years old. My dog has run away. Her name is Ori. She is a whyt dog with whyt hare-
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Sitting alone at the long wooden dining table, Jane squinted at the laptop screen, the glare spreading out around her into the violet dark. Her fingers on her lips, she continued scrolling through the email, dreading the inevitable point.
Mom says that Ori is gorn and that she went to look for her but she cood not find her. It is cold and I miss Ori. She is a good dog but she can not opin dog food with out my help.
Please please please find her I love her so much evin moor then doodl bear. My hows is number 7…
For what felt like an eternity Jane read and re-read the email, feeling, as with so many she received, a building panic at how to respond. She knew, logically, there was nothing she could do – but how could she tell the little girl that? What did she say? Did she say anything? Did she just delete it and move on? The dog was probably dead. Oh god, the dog was probably dead.
Indecision weighed on her like a lead blanket. Jane’s fingers hung paralysed above the keyboard, her anxiety mounting as she wasted precious seconds on vacillating that could’ve been spent answering another request.
Finally, she managed to tap out a reply.
Dear Cassie,
Good start, idiot.
Thank you for writing to me. I’m sorry to hear about Ori. I’m sad to say that she has probably been hit by a car or something and-”
No. Jesus Christ Jane. Come on.
It is a sad fact of life that everything dies, and sometimes the things we love the most disappear and there is nothing we can do about it. When I was nine, my mother-
Backspace, aggressive backspace. This is not about you.
Jane stared at the screen for a few minutes more, and then finally settled for being practical.
Dear Cassie,
Thank you for your letter. I’m sorry to hear about Ori. I can’t come by and look for her right now but I think you should tell your Mom that she should call the local police station and let them know. You should also call the nearest animal pound because it’s possible Ori might have been taken there by accident. She is probably microchipped so talk to your vet. If your Mom has any friends who can turn into dogs, maybe see if they can have a look around your yard to see if they can see anything which might have spooked Ori. And if your Mom knows any psychics maybe they can also help.
Wait could telepaths hear animals? Crap, she didn’t actually know. She’d have to ask Wally. Jane powered on.
There are also people who can talk to animals called anipaths. Ask the police if they know any. They might be able to help.
Jane leaned back from the keyboard, feeling satisfied. Then she read again the girl’s desperate pleas for her to help, personally. Jane hesitated, scrunched up her face, trying to resist the overwhelming sense of guilt – then finally she sighed and leaned back in.
If I am in the area I will fly over and see if I can see her.
There, Jane thought. Surely that’s the most anyone could expect of her. She’d done good. She was doing good. Good job.
Jane clicked through to the next email, a request for help to get clothes and family heirlooms back from an abusive ex‑husband. She squinted at the laptop screen, trying to concentrate on the details, but soon found herself reading and re-reading the same three lines. Jane closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, took a deep breath and sighed. Then she scrolled back up.
Dear Cassie,
Following on from my last email, you should also suggest to the police, if they have someone with super-senses, that they get some of Ori’s fur-
*
“Mmm, smells like burning dog.”
Jane looked up from beside the sink, her hair tied loosely in a bun, her expression frazzled. The sun was up, dawn light streaming through the windows. On the other side of the long kitchen counter, Matt strode out from the bedroom, his face a friendly smile. He was still wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts.
“I thought you’d be out for-” Jane glanced at the oven clock, “-another hour.”
“Well, there was a bit of swearing. And some… scents.” Matt raised an eyebrow and pointed with his chin towards the benchtop. Jane grimaced, sweeping her eyes over the various plates of food she’d laid out. In theory, it was supposed to be a hearty, expansive breakfast. In reality, most of it was black.
“Sorry. Thought there was more time. I was just…” She sighed, turning away from the stove and putting down the spatula she’d been holding. “These were going to be test runs.”
“Extensive testing,” Matt commented. His nose wrinkled. “So smoke I get, but I still can’t place the burnt dog smell.”
“I cooked spam.”
“That’s what that is.”
“I meant to cook bacon. I mean I did cook bacon. But then it burnt.”
“It’s okay, I like bacon extra-crispy.”
“This is … ash.”
Matt peered at her, bemused. “Why’d you cook it to ash?”
“It was going too slowly, so I added fire. Then I got distracted. Then there was too much fire.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sorry.”
He shook his head and beckoned Jane over, leaning across the counter to kiss her on the cheek. “I appreciate the effort.”
“This isn’t my forte.”
“I know. Does take some practice.”
She turned back to switch off the stove, abandoning her latest omelette abomination to the same fate as its predecessors. “Try the toast,” she suggested, starting to move dishes into the sink. Matt was better at stacking the dishwasher. “I think if you scrape the top off it’ll be alright.”
“Restaurant quality,” her boyfriend assured her, and though he smirked when he said it his voice contained no hint of malice.
It tended to be most mornings that Jane attempted to make breakfast. Her goal, as it had been for some time now, was for Matt to wake up and find the dining room table already laden with food. It wasn’t a strong goal, and it wasn’t some stupid gender roles thing; she just wanted to be able to do it. And she had time to do it. And she wanted to be a good partner. And she wanted Matt to think she was nice.
Unfortunately, despite her litany of other skills, Jane Walker was perhaps persistently the worst chef in the history of mankind. Beset by a strange, almost bewildering combination of impatience, inexperience, aggravation and just plain bad luck, she had devastated, carbonated, evaporated and exsanguinated an entire deli’s worth of consumables, which might have been an issue if money had been tight. As it stood however Matt simply continued to find her efforts funny, and Jane continued to feed her repeated failures down the whirly-death-vortex garbage disposal thingy in the sink.
Matt sat down at the kitchen counter and started scraping char off some toast.
“Turned on my phone,” he told her. Jane restrained a smirk.
“And?”
“Fourteen missed calls from Mom. One from Dad. Two from Rana. A few from Kate.”
Rana was their lawyer at the ACLU. Kate was their agent.
“Emails?”
“I shudder to think.”
“Damn.” She shrugged. “Well. Sounds like you’ve got a fun morning.”
“Yeah-yeah.” Matt paused as Jane passed him the butter. “I should call Mom.”
“Yeah.”
“You should call your Dad.”
Jane felt herself stiffen. “He’ll be fine.”
“I know he’ll be fine, he’ll want to know you’re fine.”
“He knows I’m fine. How could I not be?”
“Alright, well then maybe he’ll want to know I’m fine.”
“He watches TV.”
“Lord preserve us,” Matt lamented, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. He bit down, his next words garbled through a mouthful of toast. “Ish badsh enough you donk cheth your phone.” He swallowed. “At least call someone occasionally after I almost get killed.”
Jane had a phone now. She didn’t like it. With the exception of Matt, she found the idea of being generally contactable all the time by anyone irritating.
“I don’t know where it is.”
“It’s in my bag. Underneath the-” He abruptly ground to a halt, then swore. Jane smirked.
“I put your sandwiches in the fridge.”
“Wait, really? Goddamn I love you.”
Jane’s cheeks flushed with pleasure at the off-handed remark. She attempted to respond in kind but by the time she’d opened her mouth and struggled close to forming the same sentence, Matt had already charged headfirst into another topic.
“Are you happy for me to give Rana your statement?”
Jane swallowed and forced herself to move on. “Absolutely. Lie away.”
“Mildly lie.”
“Little baby lies.”
“A little lie-flavoured garnish.” He paused. “So call Mom,” Matt counted on his fingers, taking another bite of toast, chewing and swallowing, “Call lawyer. Call Kate, spend an hour and a half shooting down her latest terrible merchandising concepts. Respond to emails. Delete emails. Study with Giselle-”
“Put on pants, probably, before that happens,” Jane added, trying to keep her tone light. Matt indicated to her with his finger.
“Put on pants, check, maybe even shower. Study, lunch, study, gym-”
“Cardio,” Jane interrupted.
“Cardio,” agreed Matt, though he sighed as he said it. Jane had no idea why Matt seemed so resistant to her insistence that he spend half an hour every day running on the treadmill. It was a complete no‑brainer. Matt had literally one job in the event anything went wrong, as she oft and repeatedly reminded him: run, run as fast as you can, and keep running until I save you. A consistent cardio routine was literally the bare minimum for that.
Plus it improved his butt.
“Giselle leaves,” Matt continued, oblivious to Jane’s butt thoughts, “Dinner, maybe, you home, probably, try not to lose my mind.”
“I’ll be back before then,” she reassured him.
“I’m not criticising,” said Matt. He sighed, sinking to rest his head on his arms on the kitchen counter. Jane felt a rush of pity and wracked her brain for something she could do.
“What about you?” Matt asked, before she could reach any brilliant revelations, “What’s on your agenda?”
“I… you know. Superhero stuff.” She paused, mouth twitching into a grimace. “I should message Will.”
“Already done.”
“Oh. Thank you.” She leaned over and kissed him clumsily on the cheek, which Matt somehow managed to receive without any reciprocal awkwardness. “Did he say when-”
“No but can’t imagine long.”
“Right. Well, I…” She glanced back around at the mess-strewn kitchen. Matt rolled his eyes.
“It’s fine. I’ll do it.”
“No, sorry, you shouldn’t have to, I-”
“Just go. Jesus. What else do I have to do?” To her relief he didn’t sound too annoyed when he said it, and his eyes twinkled as he smirked.
“I really thought I’d get it done.”
“And yet your organisational powers continue to be matched only by your cooking. Go. Leave the dishes. Save the world.”
He rounded the bench and hugged her, and Jane nestled her head against his neck. Then she went to get changed.