Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [45]
The woman is making horrible little whiny sounds, her eyes still squeezed shut, while the Aito shoves its snout into the saggy folds of her over-sized tracksuit, as if she'd been liposuctioned fresh that morning. Her fingers flop and twitch reflexively on the pavement, but she knows enough to keep her arms by her side, hands down, while it snuffles around her.
'You a cop? You with the guy inside?' the shoppie says, bending his knees to talk to me confidentially. 'Cos it was legitimate, okay? Bitch started pulling down the merchandise, falling around. Dronkie. She's been in here before, causing shit. Stealing shit. And how long is your friend gonna be in there anyway?' Behind him, out of range, the street kids are capering and strutting, waving their arms, imitating him.
Her forehead, when I lay a palm on it, is clammy. But what else was I expecting? I don't quite know what I'm doing or why I can't leave the situation alone. At my touch, her eyes flare open. She stares at me, frantic, her lips popping bubbles of spit as if she's about to say something, but then the Aito rumbles warningly and she squinches her eyelids shut again, clamps her lips as if she could suppress the tight squeaks escaping her throat.
'You check my records, okay? You'll see. Always, every week, some bergie or skollies causing trouble for me. What are my customers supposed to do?'
I raise a placatory hand, keeping the other on her forehead. The Aito lifts its paw off her chest, now totally disinterested. It swipes its head up and down the street, scanning, and then starts digging into its flank with the edge of its teeth. I guess fleas are a problem when you come into regular close contact with the homeless and criminals.
'I'm logging one crisp every coupla days. And now I gotta pay extra cos I'm over the limit? It's not fair. It's not my fault you can't take care of this rubbish. Now I gotta do your job?'
The woman opens one wary eye, and blinks it, comically. And then the other.
'I wasn't…' she starts in a voice so little and pathetic, I have to lean in to hear her. Her breath is ripe with cheap papsak.
'Hey, you even listening to me?' the shoppie snaps.
And suddenly, the Aito lunges forward, leaping over the woman's body, shouldering me aside, and grabs one of the street kids who has gotten too close, fastening its mouth like a bear trap on his arm and crashing him down to the street in one movement. There is a branch-crack of bone, followed by the inevitable screaming.
The other kids scatter. Gone before the Aito looks up, like roaches skittering away into the city's dark places. Without thinking about it, I already have my Zion out, snapping the dog-hybrid standing hunched over the child, growling, the boy's left arm twisted underneath his body. The shoppie is sprawled on the pavement where he'd tumbled over backwards with surprise. And I know this is illegit, that you're not supposed to photograph police procedurals without a media permit, but I don't care.
Behind me the woman sees her opening, scrambles to her feet and takes off down the street. The Aito cocks its head at me with what I swear is disbelief. It snaps at the boy, closing its teeth with a sharp clack a hair's breadth from his face, and then bounds after the woman, almost playfully.
And then – it's gone. The feeling, the compulsion, whatever it was, has vanished. I snatch my bag from where I was kneeling – was that what the kid was after? – and stow my camera deep inside.
A citicop emerges from the liquor store, doing up his belt, relief apparent on his face, but his face drops when he sees the