Squid's Grief

SQUID’S GRIEF

DK Mok

Copyright 2016 DK Mok

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

www.dkmok.com

First Edition: March 2016

DK Mok

Squid’s Grief/by DK Mok—1st ed.

p.cm.

Summary:

When car-hacker Squid rescues a cheerful amnesiac from the trunk of a stolen car, her decision to help him recover his memory sets her on a collision course with the enigmatic crime lords who rule Baltus City.

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction: Band-Aid, Chanel, Charger, Connie Francis, Dumpster, Enterprise, Fuji, Garry Shead, Harvard, Hummer, Mercedes, Queen Mary, Rolex, Scrabble, Skywalker, Superman, Taser, Tiffany, Vulcan.

Cover design by Errick A. Nunnally

ISBN: 978-0-9944315-0-9 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-9944315-1-6 (ebook)

For my family,

and for all the people looking for a

squid-shaped place in the world.

ONE

Squid prayed for red.

A million crucial decisions and damning mistakes had brought her to this point, where her continued existence depended on the mercy of chaos theory. She could still dig herself out, somehow. All she needed was a miracle.

The ball whirred across the wooden dividers, jumping from slot to slot on the roulette wheel. Squid gripped the side of the table, broadcasting mental spam to every god, spirit or demon willing to cut her a deal.

Just make it red.

The wheel turned, the wheel slowed, and the ball settled on thirty-one. Black.

Squid stared as the croupier raked the tarnished silver watch across the felt. It seemed to tumble in slow motion into his battered wooden box, like a star sliding over the event horizon.

It had been a birthday present.

You can always make more cash, Squid, said the tousled croupier.

Squid gripped the table harder, concentrating on making time go backwards.

Not anymore.

Trying to go straight again? said the croupier.

Squid knew better than to reply. She knew better than to gamble, too, or borrow money from people called Kneecaps, but the past few weeks, months, years seemed like a chain reaction of decisions made between a rock and a hard place. It was a hell of a mess, but she could still fix it without resorting to what had started it all in the first place.

I heard there’s a back room where you can bet organs, said Squid.

The croupier’s smile hardened, like a snap-frozen butterfly.

O-positive, said Squid. And I’ve got all my own teeth.

The croupier’s reply faded on his lips, his expression darkening as a pack of hard-eyed men slunk through the doors. A hushed mutter rippled through the room, the interlopers having the same effect as a half-mad wolf wandering into a room full of exceptionally bright geese.

Squid froze as the rangy leader sliced his glance through the shifting crowd.

Everyone knew Mal. Some said his name was short for Malaria, because he’d killed more people than a parasitic outbreak. Some said it was short for Malware, because he’d crippled more businesses than a digital pandemic. Squid personally thought it was short for Malcolm, but she knew better than to say this.

Mal’s gaze stopped on Squid, and their eyes met across the smoky room.

She saw the start of recognition dawning on his face, like a nuclear ground zero, but she was already bolting out the back door. A terrible crash ripped through the den, raw fury sailing after her like a wave.

It wasn’t that Mal didn’t have a concept of going around things, but if it was easier to push an old lady over than to step around her, he would. If it was easier to walk through plate glass than to open a door, well, that was Mal.

Squid pounded through the narrow streets, the pavement awash with fizzing neon lights and broken glass.

Baltus City was a nation unto itself, a city-state where extremes were crammed into uncomfortable proximity. The obscenely wealthy, the devastatingly poor, towering skyscrapers and sleepy suburbia, all pressed together beneath the massive orbital highways that laced the city like Celtic knots of steel and concrete. And within the borders of the teeming state, all were equally ruled by the enigmatic crime lords of Baltus City.

It should have been the backdrop to an unextraordinary life marked by repetitive work, lazy weekends, small pleasures and mindless diversions. Instead, Squid had wedged herself into an existence where she was lucky to crawl into the next day. All she needed was one lucky break, and she could get herself out of this. But psychos like Mal weren’t making things easier.

Squid didn’t stop running for another fifteen blocks, and even then, it was only because her feet were suddenly kicking air. She’d ducked into a decaying rat-run of an alley, like countless others tangled in the city. The regular lurkers knew better than to mug Squid unless they wanted a used tissue and a handful of blank IOUs, but the guy holding her by the throat obviously hadn’t gotten the memo.

He must have been seven foot, and although he wasn’t wearing a trenchcoat, he looked like he was waiting for one in his size to come wandering down the alley. He had a broken nose, and one eye bulged noticeably larger than the other.

I have a message from Ferret, he said.

Squid grappled desperately with the hand around her neck, but it was like plucking at the edges of a tectonic plate. A message from Ferret had every chance of involving a melon baller. If you were lucky.

Three thousand dollars or fifteen cars, the man continued. You have twenty-four hours to settle the debt, or Ferret starts counting interest in fingers.

Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared into the inner-city fog, leaving Squid gasping on the damp concrete, gagging on the stink of rubbish and unidentified sludge.

And there it was. A rock and a hard place.

Squid pressed her eyes shut, trying to make sense of the exhausted thoughts running through her head. She hadn’t slept in thirty-five hours, or maybe it was fifty-three. She’d crashed through some kind of psychological barrier, and for a while, everything had looked like cream buns. She blamed this for the gambling idea.

Now she was beyond exhausted. She was an obituary waiting to happen. An obituary that needed three thousand dollars.

Or fifteen cars.

Squid remembered the first job she’d flipped for Ferret. She’d been fresh out of high school, on a fast track to nowhere. She’d never had many friends, and when her mother left town, it was just her and Baltus City. To Squid, a support network was what you erected around an unstable building.

People always said getting a job was a world of nos followed by one yes. And that yes had come from Ferret.

The first job had been easy. She’d picked an expensive car in an expensive suburb. It wasn’t until later that she’d found the birthday cake in the trunk, with a jauntily iced picture of a girl in a wheelchair. And the glove box full of repossession notices.

After that, she swore she’d only steal cars from people abusing disabled parking spots. Then, only cars belonging to criminals. And finally, only cars belonging to criminals who were currently using their cars to commit crimes. However, this meant pickings were slim and you got on the wrong side of people like Mal.

Squid stared blearily down the alley, towards the glow of flashing signs and falling halos. On the main walk, she’d find a street crooked with cars, piled nose to bumper outside the cheap bars and unlicensed casinos. She could settle her debt within hours and have enough left for the rent.

It was already past midnight, with people going from drunk to drunker. Most of them shouldn’t even be driving, and it might even be an act of responsibility to take away their cars. But Squid had been down that road of logic before, and she knew where it led.

Here.

Squid dragged her feet homeward. Things would look better tomorrow, after she’d had a shower and grabbed some sleep. Making decisions after your brain had ceased to function only led to regrets. Squid’s hand went automatically to her bare wrist, and her chest ached a little.

She took a shortcut through the slums, where the homeless congregated beneath sheets of damp cardboard, like human sediment in the cracks of society. Unlike the nearby shanty town, with its fancy tin roofs and luxurious sheets of plastic, the slums were a desolate junkyard, cupping the wide black waters of Baltus Bay. Water views were usually coveted, but not in Baltus City.

Squid padded through the silent slums, trying not to disturb the muttering piles of newspapers. The burning bins had cooled to ash, and even the ranters and paranoids had retired for the night. There was never much starlight in Baltus City, just the city’s own reflection drowning out the sky.

She crept past mounds of flaccid tyres and broken prams. This was a place of abandoned, forgotten things. Including people.

Squid almost didn’t see it at first. Just a few kicks of light suggesting a shape in the shadows. But she could recognise a shape like that from six feet under.

It was shadow-sleek and gorgeous, all curves and dark glass. It was the kind of car that didn’t need gills or spoilers—it had engineering. It was less a physical presence and more like the thought of a car, like a fantasy conjured up in the mind of a delirious, sleep-deprived car thief.

It was like a gift.

It was almost like a deity saying, Sorry about the watch; I wasn’t really paying attention. Here you go.

Certainly, the car sported a few dents. And certainly, there were two men arguing in hushed voices behind it. However, none of this seemed nearly as important as the fact that the men seemed to be trying to push the car—her car—over the concrete siding and into the murky depths of the bay.

Squid knew the difference between men in suits and men in suits. The car was probably stolen. They’d probably just used it in a robbery and were gearing up for a night of kicking puppies. What she was about to do was perfectly justified, perfectly sane.

Part of Squid knew that there was no possible way this could end well. Some part of her was screaming something about sleep deprivation and bad decisions and painful repercussions. Unfortunately, the part of her mind that was at the controls had flown off the rails and crashed into a giant cream bun.

The car rolled towards the ledge, and Squid found herself rushing through the shadows. She knew this part. She was good at this part. Her fingers swept over the scrambler in her pocket, streaming a silent lullaby of code to the car. She barely waited for the blink of green.

Drop, roll, click.

She was in the car and elbow-deep in wires. She could hear the startled voices outside, see the fists banging on the glass, but they were minor distractions. The secondary security system had kicked in: the engine was neutralised, the mainframe seized in lockdown. Squid’s fingers darted through the circuitry behind the steering column, threading and rerouting the cables into her scrambler. It was like making up a song by using the same old notes to create a whole new piece of music.

The car jolted, and the knot of wires fell from her grasp. Somehow, the car was rolling forward, the engine stone-dead. Squid shot a panicked glance through the rear window and saw angular silhouettes shifting against the glass. They were pushing the car into the bay—with her in it.

She hauled on the handbrake and the car shuddered, locked tyres grinding in the dirt. Her hands flew frantically through the innards of the dashboard, the bay looming closer in the windscreen.

She wasn’t sure how things always got from bad to worse, how simple wants turned into wretched cycles. How trying to pay the rent turned into tumbling into the bay, tangled in the cables of a stolen car. If a zoologist ever wrote a paper on people like Squid, it would read:

Natural Habitat: Between a rock and a hard place.

The car tipped forward, and Squid slammed her fist on the ignition button, the engine roaring into full-throated life. Her foot stomped on the accelerator, and for a moment, the car hung on the ledge, staring into the cold black waters.

Just make it red.

The car suddenly reversed into a cloud of curses, boots kicking at the doors. Squid spun the steering wheel, streaking out of the slums in a hurricane of cardboard sheets and plastic bags. The gangly figures were soon lost in the swirling wake, the car sliding seamlessly into the pulsing city.

It handled like a whisper on a bullet, gliding through the slick streets. It was with immense reluctance that Squid pulled into a rubbish-strewn alley a few blocks from her apartment. Business was business, and for the next twenty-four hours, her business was survival.

She rummaged through the glove box, tapping a name on her phone. The meter flashed briefly onscreen:

Seven seconds of credit remaining.

Drop-Off Twenty-Six, said Squid.

She punched the button to disconnect.

Five seconds of credit remaining.

The glove box was empty—probably cleaned out by the henchmen. Squid patted down the chair pockets and assorted compartments, digging out a smattering of coins. For some reason, there were always a few coins wedged in the upholstery, and she suspected the manufacturers put them there, although she couldn’t fathom why.

She could have stripped the gadgets from the console, but she didn’t want to be here when Ferret arrived. She quickly popped the trunk for a final check and found something worse than a cake piped with a smiling girl.

She stared blankly at it, and it stared back.

Squid slammed the trunk shut, her head spinning, the world spinning, the universe coming off its axis and splattering into a conga line of dancing flamingos.

You have to be kidding.

Squid took a deep breath and heaved up the lid again.

The trussed-up man looked to be in his early thirties, smartly dressed and decidedly dazed. He’d been roughed up a bit, with a few nicks on his face and neck, a spattering of blood on his shirt. A wide piece of duct tape covered his mouth, and he squinted at her with some expectation.

Squid closed the trunk calmly. She crouched on the ground, gripping her head. She had to get a job. A real job. Something in an office, with cubicles, and tea breaks, and communal biscuits you could take home for dinner.

She was so tired, she wanted to throw up, but decisions kept flying at her like bricks through a windshield.

Problem: There was a man in the trunk.

Solution: Pavlova.

Squid buried her face in her hands, trying to force her thoughts into some kind of coherence. It was like trying to catch snow on a griddle.

The obvious solution was to leave him there. Maybe he was dangerous. Maybe he’d report her to the police. She could just leave him to Ferret.

She stared at the silent trunk. Someone was actually having a worse night than she was.

She pulled the tape from the man’s mouth and began sawing urgently through the rope with her pocketknife.

Hi… said the man uncertainly.

Don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me.

He stared compliantly at the sky for a while before his gaze turned back to Squid.

Did I offend you or— Ow!

Squid yanked her knife through the last of the rope.

You never saw me, she said.

The thrum of an approaching car rumbled through the air, and Squid’s heart began to somersault.

Get out! hissed Squid, half-dragging the man from the trunk.

She gave him a solid shove, and he stumbled a few steps before petering to a halt.

Shoo! she said, waving her hands frantically.

He stared at Squid in mild curiosity.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you, said Squid, and she started to run.

She was three blocks away before she realised there were footsteps pounding behind her. She staggered to a halt, peering back at her pedestrian tailgater. The man from the trunk stood about thirty feet away, watching her with an expression of vague interest. Squid took a few steps back, and after a pause, the man took a few steps forward.

The hairs on the back of Squid’s neck stood on end, and she wondered if things were about to enter horror-movie territory. Although, considering her situation, it might be an improvement.

Squid took a few cautious steps towards him, and the stranger tucked his hands in his pockets, looking nonchalant. If he hadn’t had a busted lip, he might have tried to whistle.

Are you hurt? she said.

He suddenly smiled, as though Squid had opened a welcoming door in a winter storm.

I don’t know, he said.

If you need to make a phone call, there’s a Twenty-Four-Whatever on the corner.

Thanks.

He continued to stare at Squid with a cheerful and slightly expectant expression. He didn’t reek of alcohol or recreational powders, which ruled out a buck’s night gone bad, but Squid was starting to wonder if perhaps there’d been a good reason for him being tied up in a trunk.

Well, she said, backing away slowly, you’re probably wanting to head home…

Squid took that to be the end of the conversation, and she began jogging away down the street. Footsteps padded after her.

She felt an overwhelming urge to handcuff the man to a lamp post.

Are you following me? she said.

I’m not sure I should answer that.

Squid wasn’t sure if he was toying with her, but there was something in his eyes that reminded her of a small child adrift in a bustling shopping centre, pretending not to be lost.

What’s your name? said Squid.

The man opened his mouth and seemed surprised when nothing came out.

I’m not sure.

You have amnesia? said Squid, her tone more accusatory than she’d intended.

I’m sure it’ll come to me, he said quickly.

The man appeared well manicured, wearing a silk-blend shirt and tailored pants, but there was something slightly stray-dog about him. Squid knew better than to get involved in someone else’s problems, especially when she had a riot of her own, but judgement had taken a shot between the eyes tonight.

Are you hungry? she said.

The man thought about this, as though she’d asked him to calculate the quantum mass of pi.

I don’t know, he said.

Squid sighed.

The Twenty-Four-Whatever was a brightly lit box of acrylic and linoleum, lined with food that had probably been 3-D printed from corn syrup and MSG. Squid pushed through the smudged doors, and after a beat, the man from the trunk followed her inside.

Hey, Ed, said Squid with a smile.

The squat man behind the counter grimaced as Squid rummaged through her wallet.

What can I get for sixty-five cents? said Squid.

Lost, said Ed.

How about a sandwich?

Ed sighed, as though Squid had just foisted the troubles of the world onto his shoulders.

The one at the end, said Ed. The one with sprouts.

Squid was pretty sure the sandwich hadn’t had sprouts yesterday, but a sixty five-cent sandwich was still a sandwich. But only just.

Back on the empty street, Squid pushed the sandwich into the man’s hands.

You should eat it before it turns into a salad, she said.

He stared at the bristling bread, as though not entirely sure what to make of it.

Thanks.

You should probably go to the police. Just don’t mention me. I’m leaving now.

Squid had never learned the art of extracting herself gracefully from a conversation, although she’d stopped pointing behind people and running away.

The man started to follow her.

Stay, said Squid firmly, holding out her hands as though halting a tide. I don’t want to you follow me.

She walked away, and this time, the man remained stationary. As she rounded the corner at the end of the block, she glanced back and saw him standing on the sidewalk, staring at the soggy sandwich in his hands.

*

No one believed the truce would last.

For decades, the underbelly of Baltus City had been ruled by a single criminal empire—Pearce’s empire. No one knew much about Pearce, except that crossing him meant hitting the morgue in a bag the size of a grapefruit.

Only one other operation had survived his juggernaut. Verona had cobbled together her territory in the shade of Pearce’s massive machinery, edging her way quietly into unoccupied niches. Before anyone could join the dots, her isolated niches had flowed together to create an organism to rival Pearce’s.

For years, their organisations had casually avoided one another, but skirmishes had become unavoidable. Like the incident last night.

Pearce and Verona. The twin spheres of power in Baltus City had finally overlapped, and things were about to get messy.

Verona’s hands moved across the holographic display, waving away schedules and dragging fiscal reports to the fore. Sunlight streamed into the room through transparent solar panels, the tall windows framed by the hanging gardens outside.

In the heart of trendy Downtown North, Verona’s head office was a message: Pearce was child soldiers on the front line. Verona was zero-emission, autonomous killer-drones. Who do you want to work for?

Behind the holographic screen, Verona’s assistant—Clef—stood dourly clutching a sheet of electronic paper.

Where’s Mal? said Verona.

Probably on rampage.

Verona’s gaze stopped on Clef, and he cleared his throat.

Preparing for tomorrow’s shipment.

Any movement from Pearce? said Verona.

Clef glanced at the updates scrolling across his page.

Nothing confirmed. But Callan and Grout are missing.

Verona’s expression grew grim as she marked two red dots on a growing list. Pearce’s syndicate grew more unassailable every day, and soon, he’d move to rectify the problem that was Verona. The city wasn’t big enough for both of them, and Verona was determined to be the last one standing.

TWO

Prosperity Mansions was an apartment block the size of a neighbourhood. A neighbourhood with as many factions as post-Soviet Europe, and more weapons. No one ventured into Prosperity Mansions unless they had the misfortune of living there, or they had pressing business, or they were in desperate need of a killer tzatziki. One had to be very careful, however, if what they wanted was the killer tzatziki, and not the killer tzatziki. In the Mansions, punctuation could kill you faster than a shiv.

Squid had moved into the worst part of town out of a combination of defiance and desperation. She told herself it had been to get away from the snide looks and patronising eyes, but in truth, she couldn’t afford anywhere that wasn’t regularly sprayed with bullets.

She navigated her way through the dim, ramshackle corridors that resembled laneways in a miniature post-apocalyptic city. Some doors hung open, revealing glimpses of drifting smoke rings and tables laid with velvet pouches. From other apartments wafted the mouth-watering aroma of butter chicken and fresh sago pudding.

Squid couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, and she now regretted not taking a bite from the sandwich before giving it to the amnesiac. It would have been a gross breach of etiquette, but her crash-and-burn social skills were partly to blame for her current predicament, anyway.

She shoved open her apartment door and realised too late that there’d been a crack of light at her feet. A man lay on her couch, reading a stained copy of Jane Eyre.

Hi, said the amnesiac, smiling brightly.

Squid realised now, in a moment of deranged lucidity, that her earlier prayer had been answered by one of those twisted gods who granted one wish, only to hurl you into an ironic hell.

What are you doing here? choked Squid.

Reading, said the man. "You like Jane Eyre?"

I use it to squash roaches.

The man delicately replaced the book on a teetering stack of odds and ends.

How’d you find me? said Squid.

Saw it on your licence when you were turning your wallet inside out.

How’d you get in?

Turns out I can pick locks.

The man pulled a bent bobby pin from his pocket.

Do you want it? he said. It was in the sandwich.

No, said Squid, with the kind of preternatural calm that precedes a tsunami. I do not want it. I want you to leave. Now. Permanently.

The man looked around the cramped studio.

I like it here.

Arghh! Squid’s tenuous grip on sanity snapped, and the man watched with fascination as she scampered around him, trying to pry him from the couch using a broken broomstick.

She could have called on her neighbours for assistance, but asking for help at Prosperity Mansions was like borrowing money at the Fess. You’d end up missing your kidneys and feeling like you got off lightly.

Squid threw the broomstick away, starting a small avalanche of jars and broken appliances in one corner.

Leave, or I’ll… she began.

Call the police? said the man.

Squid’s eye twitched, and she punched an icon on her phone.

Someone’s broken into my apartment, she said. Can you come over? He’s still—

The phone gave a reproachful beep.

Zero credit remaining.

It was seventeen minutes before someone knocked at the door. A woman in her early thirties sauntered in, dressed in a leather jacket and khaki pants, her gaze sweeping the room quickly. Tufts of chopped hair the colour of damp malt poked out from beneath a dark green newsboy cap.

Casey, said Squid plaintively, pointing to the man on the couch.

Casey looked sceptically around the dingy studio.

He broke in? said Casey.

And he won’t leave, said Squid.

Casey regarded the man for a moment, and he gave her a brief wave.

Stuff like this wouldn’t happen if you got your act together, said Casey.

You’re saying I brought this amnesiac home invasion on myself?

Amnesiac?

It’s a long story.

It always is, said Casey. Squid, the longer you live this life—

It’s not a career. It’s just… bits here and there, until I get a proper job. I mean, technically, you’re a crooked cop for turning a blind eye.

It’s not a blind eye, said Casey. It’s a long blink. If you’re still messing with this stuff when I stop blinking, don’t think I won’t put you away. You’ve only got ’til—

August eighteenth; I know, said Squid.

Knowing and doing are two different things.

Thank you, Zen master. Look, I said I would.

Casey turned to the man on the couch. What’s your story?

I don’t know yet, said the man politely.

Casey dragged her gaze over him, as though committing every detail to memory.

Don’t give me a reason to come back here, she said.

No, ma’am, he replied.

Good to meet you.

Casey extended a gloved hand, and after a brief pause, the man shook it. Squid stared in disbelief.

You’re just leaving him here? said Squid.

I won’t bail you out of a mess you’ve created.

Casey paused in the doorway.

Hey, where’s the watch I gave you?

At repairs, said Squid.

Of all the punches she’d rolled with tonight, the look in Casey’s eyes as she left was the hardest to take. Squid closed her eyes, feeling the man’s silent presence like a mosquito on the ceiling.

Please, just go, said Squid.

You really want me to leave? he said quietly.

Emphatically.

Squid opened her eyes to find the apartment empty, and she collapsed gratefully onto the couch. All she needed was a few hours’ sleep. Just enough to take the edge off her zombie status and give her a chance at clearing fourteen cars before Ferret set up his scales for a pound of flesh.

She stretched out across the mismatched cushions, her eyes lingering on a small patch of fresh blood on the armrest.

She found him wandering a few corridors away, following the scent of baking waffles.

Hey! said Squid.

The man turned, his expression like that of a tragic hero at the end of a movie, waiting for a letter he knows will never come.

Just tonight, okay? said Squid.

*

Squid’s apartment wasn’t designed for two people. Or people, full stop. There were rumours that Prosperity Mansions had been built off blueprints for a prison that had been scrapped due to breaches in regulations for humane detainment.

I’ll take the couch, said the man.

You take the floor. I get the couch, said Squid.

Oh. I just assumed the bed was buried under all the junk.

It’s not junk.

It’s like a rat’s nest, if rats could have OCD, said the man cheerfully.

And I suppose you live in a fashionable downtown loft? You’re probably just some homeless guy.

In threads like this? They’re probably couture.

He groped for a tag and started to pull off his shirt.

Whoa! This is not a shirt-optional household, said Squid.

This isn’t a house.

He grudgingly slid his shirt back on and began to unzip his trousers.

Hold it right there, said Squid. Any kind of pants removal happens in the bathroom.

The man paused, looking around the studio.

That’s a door? I thought it was a piece of cardboard stuck to the wall.

He disappeared into the bathroom. There was a long silence, and when he emerged, he seemed oddly subdued.

No tags, shrugged the man.

Maybe you found them itchy.

Maybe someone didn’t want me to know where I shopped.

I think rolling you into the bay would have fixed that.

The man’s expression clouded over, reminding Squid that where other people had tact, she had a mouth.

You don’t remember anything? she said.

"Just