The Clarity of Cold Steel

IT’S LATE and I’ve some time to bleed before my a.m. meeting with Chirag, so I decide to stalk my wife — excuse me — my ex-wife. Aashirya. A little hobby of mine, y’see? I take the train to the eastern plague wall of the Seep and continue on foot through the mid-boroughs. Cross the river.

Something’s itching at me, and I know what it is. It’s a job left undone. I’m a bit of a stickler on that score. It never sits well with me to half ass something, not when I’ve such a gift for being a full-on ass on most anything. Where is this kid? Gortham. What happened to him? Maybe it’s as simple as the kid got his cash and split. Wouldn’t be the first time some cropper sod came to his senses and skipped town. Or maybe his surgery went sour. Or maybe Mac Heath took some liberties. Like maybe she took one kidney then his other one for good measure. And if you’re gonna take both, why let a perfectly good liver and heart go to waste? Lungs are expensive, too.

I take a sip of hard-wine, screw the top back on my flask, swallow. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

I walk.

Shit like that’s been going down in the shadows long as I can remember. It’s only now with the slough raging that it’s coming into the light. Coming to a head. From a penny ante cottage industry to a full blown black market cartel. I wasn’t joking with the Butcher about it being a sellers’ market. Folks’ve been selling kidneys for decades. Traditionally, you could make some coin. Sure, they fuck you out of three-quarters what they promise you, but even what’s left is more than you’ve ever seen or will again for most sods. Poor folks like Gortham and his family survive off it. That’s why a lot of families have so many kids. Kid is short for kidneys their part of town. Some joke.

I flash a passport to a border sentry and head on through the under-tunnel into the borough of Sepoy, my old stomping grounds. The border sentry squints me up and down, holding one of my many fake ID’s out at arm’s length. He nods his head finally, “Get on.”

The gate crashes behind me and curfew’s in effect for the night.

Times have changed. Used to be you wanted to sell a kidney, you had to wait on it. Wait for some rich fuck to eat himself near to death or burn his kidneys clean with ghost or ethanol. Nowadays with the slough, you can stroll into any chop shop and donate at the drop of a hat. Demand’s up. Prices rise. You still get screwed percentage-wise, but still it’s a bigger slice of screwed in the end. Almost literally. But that’s if you’re going to a reputable joint. A joint that won’t cut your heart out along with everything else. They call it husking you out. Fifty-fifty, that’s what happened to Gortham.

I round the corner and stomp up the rise and into New Delhi, my old neighborhood.

The gangs are in on it, too. Rolling folks for their money then slip-chopping them for giblets. Slash for cash. Right out there in the alleyways. Surgery amidst the sewage. Rats watching. Folks waking up in bathtubs full of ice and organs missing is an urban legend. No meatcutter’s gonna blink twice about ending some poor sod. Why leave all that coin in the form of meat behind? Take what you need, toss it in a cold-crate. Move on.

By the time the gaslights are lit, hissing softly in the night, I’m across the street from my old home. I can hear my old mechanical larks piping away in the foyer. Can hear my kids laughing about something. A sick feeling creeps through my gut. Where is Gortham? I shake it off. I did my due diligence, damn it. I got a lay of the land. Put out some feelers. Didn’t make any waves. That’s what Chirag asked me to do.

My old house looks the same. With the lights lit and the sound of voices inside reciting chants of the Rig-Veda, Aashirya and the kids, their voices are like a soothing balm enveloping me. Until it ain’t. Until I hear his voice chime in, and the balm begins to burn, building across my skin, raising welts and blisters as it works its way down deep, coalescing into a jag of ice torqueing in my guts.

I take a drink. It doesn’t help, but it doesn’t make it worse, either.

She sees me after a while. I don’t come here often, but I do come. I see a shade peeled aside, a diaphanous shadow peering down on me. A minute later and Aashirya’s strolling out the door and across the street. I catch my breath. By Brahma, she’s beautiful. What karma had I that allowed me to walk alongside her for even the short time we shared?

She crouches down beside me in the street, takes a seat on the curb, blue eyes aglow. “I’ve missed you.” She offers a slab of naan.

“Why?” I offer a sour look, just not at her.

“Take it.”

“I’m not hungry,” I lie. I do take it, though. It’s warm and soft and I bite into it, tear off a hunk, chew.

“You have enough pills?” she asks.

“Sure.” I ran out today, but Chirag’s supposed to resupply me tomorrow.

She nods, concern firmly engrained on her expression. “The children are well.”

I nod. Swallow. Take a drink. I move to offer her a sip but remember myself. Remember her. Remember the system. If someone were to be watching us, she might just be helping some indigent. If she were seen drinking with him…?

So I retract my hand.

“Keyan and Bhaarati are doing well in their studies.” My two sons. “Kalavati begins hers in two weeks.” My daughter, the youngest of the three. “I believe she will excel as well. She already knows her letters. Hindu and English. She has a steady hand for one so young.” Aashirya gazes up at the house, angled gables suffused by an inner glow. “We send letters every week.”

“Surprised they still remember me.” I can be a happy drunk. Just not lately.

“You are their father.”

I take a sip.

She frowns. “You shouldn’t drink. Your liver—”

“And whose fault is that?”

“It’s no one’s fault.”

“And how is my dear brother?” Acid drips from my lips.

She hugs herself, looks away. “It’s not his fault if it’s anyone’s.”

“Right.” I take another drink. “Stick up for him.”

She looks away, stares off in silence. After a time, her hand finds mine and she squeezes. I squeeze back. But just for a moment. I glance around at the houses all around, and then I stand, wipe my leaking eyes like some gods-damned swish. “Goodnight.”

“You could stay the night?” Aashirya rises after me, statuesque.

“You know I can’t.” A light goes on in the house across the street.

“But,” she’s reaching now and I let her, “the plague gates will all be locked.”

“Not to me.” I grin my rakish best and shake my head. “I have my ways.”