80

 

THE LAB, MONDAY MORNING

Gwen arrived at Falcon at 11:00 A.M. Two hours later than normal. Two of the best hours of her life. She smiled at the CCTV as she swiped her pass, keyed in her PIN. She walked toward her office wondering if Kevin Barclay had come in to work. She glanced toward his office, saw him sitting there. She gave him brownie points for that, at least. He looked up, met her eye.

Two minutes later, he joined her at the coffee machine. His nose was heavily swollen, bruised blue, black, and red. His left eye was also swollen and bruised from where Gwen’s palm had also hit. Collateral damage, thought Gwen, veiling her smile.

“So, what happened to you, then?” she asked him, of necessity, as Peter Weiss ambled up beside them.

“Ran into some trouble when I left the bar. Couple of punks,” he said neutrally, eyes on Gwen.

Weiss angled his head. “Looks even worse than when you came in,” he observed in a voice richer in glee than compassion.

“Surprised you can see to focus,” Barclay replied, his normally smooth voice nasal and piqued. Gwen almost felt sorry for him. Weiss looked rough too, she noted: red-veined eyes, bloated face; hungover.

“What you put away last night would sink a football team,” continued Barclay. “Thought you’d given up the hooch.”

“I don’t touch it. As a rule,” Weiss replied tightly.

“Now now, children. Play nice,” murmured Gwen. She took her coffee, walked away, leaving them to their sparring.

*   *   *

She sat at her desk, sipping her coffee, body humming. She tried to work on the model of Zeus running on the laptop before her. Her mind strayed repeatedly.

“So how’s the arm?”

Gwen looked up. Gabriel Messenger, resplendent in gray trousers and electric-blue shirt, stood in her doorway, smiling at her.

“Oh, seems fine, thank you. Doesn’t hurt.”

“Of course it hurts. Unless you’re dosing yourself with morphine!”

Gwen tried, and failed, to suppress a smile. No, something much more powerful, she thought. She wore a long-sleeved shirt to cover the grass stains. She hoped Messenger wouldn’t ask to see it.

“You’re the tough surfer girl, of course. I forgot. You feel no pain,” he said with an ironic smile.

“Correct.”

“Keep an eye on the stitches. Get your dressing changed tomorrow.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Gwen smiled, felt the burn of her betrayal as she thought of planting the bug after Messenger, with surprising gentleness, had cleaned and stitched her wound.

“How’s Mandy?” she asked.

“In bed. Recovering.” Messenger gave a pained smile. “Every year she gets tanked and pulls a stunt. Can’t imagine what she’ll get up to next year.” Messenger raised a hand in farewell, turned and left her.

Gwen swiveled in her chair, looked out of the window, gazed over the sandy scrub toward the hills, pale blue in the shimmering distance. She could not imagine being here in a year. The fluttering in her stomach wasn’t just because of Dan. Under the euphoria there was still fear, and the gut awareness that something, the unseen wave that seemed to be heading her way, would break soon.