HIT ME HARDER

Chapter 3: The Napkin

The first thing Kai felt was the carpet.

Not the floor. The carpet. Thick. Expensive. The kind of carpet that cost more per square metre than his monthly rent. His cheek was pressed into it. His bare toes were curled. His jaw was clicking. And his right hand was on the floor, palm down, warm, glowing faintly amber in the total dark, like a coal somebody had forgotten to put out.

He hadn't fallen. He'd been put there. He didn't remember being put there. One second he was in the chair, in his penguin pyjamas, listening to Silas Vane talk about his father's hands, and the next second the lights were gone and his face was in carpet and he couldn't remember the middle. The middle was just a sound. A wet sound. Like someone snapping a celery stick wrapped in a towel.

"That," Kai said, into the carpet, "was rude."

No answer.

He pushed himself up. His arms shook. His left arm shook more than his right, which was annoying, because his right was the one that was supposed to be doing the work. He got to his knees. Then his feet. Bare feet on expensive carpet. July night. Warm air. Cold toes. His jaw clicked three times in a row, like a broken metronome, like a little wooden bird trying to sing a song it had forgotten.

"Mr. Vane," he said. "Silas. Si. Can I call you Si? I'm going to call you Si. Si, I can't see anything. I can't see my own hand. Well. I can see my right hand. It's doing a thing. A glowy thing. Very festive. Like a nightlight. Like a penguin-shaped nightlight, which would be on brand, given the pyjamas."

A sound. To his left. Soft. Fabric on fabric. A sleeve moving.

Kai turned. Too slow.

Fingers.

Not a fist. Not a palm. Fingers. Five of them. Clean. Precise. They touched his ribs. Gently. Like a doctor checking for a fracture. Like a man selecting a peach at a market.

Then they pressed.

Kai heard the rib go. Felt it go. A small pop, deep inside, like a knuckle cracking in a quiet room. Then another. Then a third. Three ribs. Three pops. Three little sounds that meant three little things were now in the wrong shape.

He fell. Again. Carpet. Cheek. Penguin pyjamas. Warm hand. Cold toes.

"Three," Silas said. His voice came from everywhere. From nowhere. From the dark itself. Calm. Polite. The voice of a man reading a menu. "Your father took nine before he fell. You took three. Disappointing."

Kai spat. Blood on the carpet. Expensive carpet. He hoped it stained. He hoped it stained badly. He hoped Silas Vane had to call a carpet cleaner and the carpet cleaner said, "Sir, this is penguin blood," and Silas said, "No, it's F-rank blood," and the carpet cleaner said, "Same thing, sir."

"Again," Kai said.

He got up. Knees this time. Then feet. His ribs screamed. Not a metaphor. They actually screamed. A high thin sound inside his chest, like a kettle in another room. He stood. Swayed. His right hand glowed. ×1. He threw a punch. Into the dark. Into nothing. Into the space where he thought Silas was.

Silas wasn't there.

Silas was behind him. Fingers on his shoulder. Gentle. Almost kind.

"Wrong direction," Silas whispered.

The fingers pressed. Kai's collarbone went. A longer pop. Louder. Like a branch. Like a dry branch in a garden in November. He'd broken a branch once, in a garden, when he was seven, in a house he didn't remember, with a woman who might have been his mother, and she'd said, "Don't do that, love," and he'd said, "Why?" and she'd said, "Because the tree feels it," and he'd said, "How do you know?" and she hadn't answered. She never answered the good questions.

Kai fell. Third time. Carpet. Cheek. Blood. Penguin pyjamas. The little cartoon penguins stared up at the ceiling. They looked happy. They looked like they were having a much better evening than he was.

"Four ribs. One collarbone," Silas said. Counting. Like a man counting change. Like a man checking a receipt. "Your father took nine ribs and both collarbones before he stopped getting up. You're at four and one. You have room to improve."

"I'm not," Kai said, "trying to improve."

"Everybody is trying to improve. You just haven't admitted it yet."

Kai got up. Fourth time. His legs were bad. His left leg was worse than his right. His ribs were a choir. His collarbone was a solo. His jaw was percussion. His right hand was warm. ×1. He punched. ×2. He punched. ×3. He punched. Into the dark. Into the nothing. Into the space where the voice was.

×4. ×5. ×6.

His fist hit something. Not a wall. Not air. Fabric. A sleeve. A shoulder. He felt it. Felt the impact travel up his arm. ×6. A real hit. A hit that would have put Marcus through a second wall.

Silas didn't move.

Kai hit him again. ×7. ×8. ×9. ×10. Ten punches. In a row. Into the dark. Into the man. Each one stronger. Each one warmer. His hand was burning now. Not hurting. Burning. Like holding a mug of tea that was too hot but you couldn't put it down because your fingers had forgotten how to open.

×10.

Silas caught the fist.

Five fingers. Clean. Precise. Wrapped around Kai's fist like a glove. Like a father catching a child's hand before it touches the stove.

The glow went out.

Not faded. Went out. Like a switch. Like a candle in a draught. Kai's hand was just a hand. Warm, still. But not glowing. Not building. Not counting. Just a hand. In a man's fingers. In the dark.

"Ten," Silas said. Soft. Almost impressed. Almost. "Same as your father. Same number. Same heat. Same stupid stubborn refusal to stop."

He let go.

Kai stumbled back. Fell. Fifth time. Carpet. Cheek. Penguins. Blood. His hand was warm but empty. Like a pocket after you've spent the last coin. Like a glass after the last sip. Like a bed after the person who was supposed to be in it has left and taken the good pillow.

Silas knelt. Kai heard the knee on the carpet. Heard the fabric stretch. Smelled wine. Red wine. And something else. Something under the wine. Something metallic and sweet and old.

A hand touched Kai's face. Gently. Wiped the blood from his lip. With a thumb. A clean thumb. A manicured thumb.

"You're going to go back to your academy," Silas said. "In your penguin pyjamas. Barefoot. You're going to walk. My men will drive you to the gate. You will walk the rest. It is four kilometres. Your ribs will hurt. Your collarbone will hurt. Your jaw will click. You will look ridiculous. And every camera on every street in Northside will see you. And by morning, every fighter in Ashgate will know that Kai Ashford walked out of my building alive."

He paused.

"They will wonder why."

He stood. The knee left the carpet. The wine smell moved away.

"I wonder why," Silas said.

A door opened. Light. A thin line of it. Yellow. Warm. Ordinary. The light of a hallway. Of a building. Of a world where people wore shoes and ate steak with forks and didn't break collarbones in the dark.

"Your father," Silas said, from the doorway, from the light, from the place where the napkin was still white, "did not die."

Kai looked up. From the carpet. From the penguins. From the blood.

"Your father asked me to kill him. And there is a difference."

The door closed.

The light went.

Kai lay on the carpet. Four ribs. One collarbone. One jaw that clicked. One hand that was warm and empty. One sentence in his head that was louder than all of it.

*Asked me to kill him.*

He closed his eyes. Opened them. Closed them. Opened them. The penguins stared back. Happy. Unhurt. Wearing little scarves. Why were they wearing scarves? It was July. Even the penguins on his pyjamas were dressed better than he was.

He laughed. It hurt. Every rib hurt. The laugh hurt. The breathing hurt. The existing hurt. He laughed anyway. Into the carpet. Into the dark. Into the expensive, blood-stained, penguin-watching dark.

"Right," he said. "Cool. Great. Love that. Very normal Tuesday. Very standard. My dad asked a man to murder him. I'm in pyjamas. I have no shoes. I have four broken ribs and a clicking jaw and a hand that does a glowy thing I don't understand. And I have to walk four kilometres. Barefoot. In July. At night. In Northside. In penguin pyjamas."

He sat up. Slowly. Like a man assembling himself from parts. Like a man building a chair out of broken chairs.

"Greg is going to laugh at me," he said. "Greg is going to laugh so hard he chokes on a chip. And I'm going to let him. Because Greg is right. This is funny. This is the funniest thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of pyjamas."

He stood. Swayed. Walked. Toward the door. Toward the light. Toward the four kilometres. Toward the cameras. Toward the morning. Toward every fighter in Ashgate who was going to see him and wonder.

His right hand was warm.

Still warm.

Even now. Even empty. Even broken. Even after Silas Vane had squeezed the glow out of it like water from a cloth.

Warm.

Like it was waiting.

Like it remembered.

Like it knew something he didn't.