Glasshouse - Charles Stross [134]
My dirty little secret is that while I was in hospital I realized that I could give up. I’ve got Sam. I’ve got a job that has the potential to be as interesting as I want it to be. I can settle down and be happy here for a while, even though the amenities are primitive and some of the neighbors are not to my taste. Even dictatorships need to provide the vast majority of their citizens with a comfortable everyday life. I don’t have to keep fighting, and if I give up the struggle for a while, they’ll leave me alone. I can always go back to it later. Nobody will scream if I stop, except maybe Sam, and he’ll adapt to the new me eventually.
All of which is great in theory, but it doesn’t help when I’m crying myself to sleep, alone.
16
Suspense
THE next day is Friday. I wake up late, and by the time I get downstairs, Sam has already gone to work. I feel drained, enervated by the aftereffects of my infection and the stupid climbing attempt, so I don’t do much. I end up spending most of the day shuttling between the bedroom and the kitchen, catching up on my reading and drinking cups of weak tea. When Sam comes home—really late, and he’s already eaten at the steak diner in town and had a glass or three of wine—I demand to know where he’s been, and he clams up. Neither of us wants to back down, so we end up not talking.
On Saturday I come downstairs in time to find him putting the lawn mower away. “You’ll need to tidy up in the garage,” he says by way of greeting.
“Why?” I ask.
“I need to stash some stuff.”
“Uh-huh. What stuff?”
“I’m going out. See you later.”
He means it—ten minutes after that he’s gone, off in a taxi to who knows where. And it’s our most significant communication in two days.
I kick myself for being stupid. Stupid is the watchword of the day. So I go into the garage and look for stuff to throw out. It’s a scrapyard of unfinished projects, but I think the welding gear can go, and the half-finished crossbow, and most of the other junk I’ve been tinkering with under the mistaken idea that what I need to escape from is where I am, rather than who I am. Some bits are missing anyway; I guess Sam’s already made a start on clearing it out to make room for his golf clubs or whatever. So I heap my stuff in one corner and pull a tarpaulin over it. Out of sight, out of mind, out of garage, that’s what I say.
Back inside, I try to watch some TV, but it’s inane and slow, not to mention barely comprehensible. Bright blurry lights on a low-resolution screen with a curving front, slow-moving and tedious, with plots that don’t make sense because they rely on shared knowledge that I just don’t have. I’m steeling myself to turn it off and face the boredom alone when the telephone rings.
“Reeve?”
“Hi? Who—Janis! How are you?” I clutch the handset like a drowning woman.
“Okay, Reeve, listen, do you have anything on today?”
“No, no I don’t think so—why?”
“I’m meeting a couple of friends in town this afternoon to try out a new cafe near the waterfront that’s just appeared. I was wondering if you’d like to come and join us? If you’re well enough, that is.”
“I’m”—I pause—“supposed to take it easy for a few days. That’s what Dr. Hanta said.” Let her chew on that. “Is there a problem with work?”
“Not so you’d notice.” Janis sounds dismissive. “I’m catching up on my reading, to tell the truth. Anyway, I got the note from the hospital. Don’t worry on my part.”
“Oh, okay then. As long as I’m not going to have to run anywhere. How do I get to this place?”
“Just ask a taxi to take you to the Village Cafe. I’ll be there around two. I was thinking we could try out the cafe and maybe chat.”
I am getting an itchy feeling that Janis isn’t telling me everything, but the shape of what she’s not telling me is coming through clearly enough. I shiver a bit. Do I really want to get involved? Probably not—but they’ll start talking if I