Free Three Moments of an Explosion by China Miéville Page A

cavity. You never knew what, if anything, any such would surrender. The fourth swallowed a lot of gesso. They left it to dry a long time.
    They’d peeled the ground slowly away from the definitive image of the Collaborator Culture. One of the creatures, hunkered against the volcano’s murderous flow, the winglike limbs with which it could not have flown but which everyone called wings, curled protectively around two human youths, one girl one boy.
    They clung to it. They died together.
    In Gilroy’s resin, the light would have gone back and forward through the millennia-dead alien’s shape in the most complicated ways. McCulloch could have rubbed his hand on its face and felt it smooth under his fingers.
    Paddick was laughing by a cement mixer full of sloshing plaster, staring at his find with joy.
    “This is quite the coup for him,” Cheevers said. “What everyone wants but few are granted. He’s been doing recon all over the place, applying for digs hither and yon.”
    “Bet I know where else,” McCulloch said.
    “Some chap in the ministry likes the cut of Gilroy’s gib, I gather, hence bumping her up the queue. But look at Paddick. Revenge is a dish best served in plaster. Something particularly choice for him about finding it using the old untrendy techniques, wouldn’t you say? And not in Banto, but in this most untrendy old place.”
    “Gilroy must be spitting.”
    “Those who saw her visit report she was a model of professionalism. Congratulated the team. Asked to be shown over the whole site. Examined the specimen with appropriate fascination. And with grace.”
    Cheevers was engaged in what he called “a dull swine of a case.” McCulloch did not see him for several days.
    McCulloch was a man who thought himself content in his own company. He was always startled on the rare occasions he realized that he was lonely. This time, he did not have it in him to pursue conversation or sex.
    There was a small cave system halfway up the cold volcano. He had visited it when he came to the island, and once since, years ago. A path had been cut within, with a rope to hold on to. A sign by the entrance explained what rocks and types of formations were within, what species of bats. McCulloch realized he wanted to go back into the mountain. But he didn’t do it. He did not trust that it was not some lugubrious performance for himself, some nostalgia for his first days here, or for a childhood trip to Chislehurst Caves in London. He would not risk it.
    A few visitors came into the shop. He hoped one would engage him in conversation. None did, but after a few days someone phoned him.
    “Can you come?” A young man’s agitated voice.
    “Who is this?”
    “I got your number from the book. Can you come?”
    “Will?” McCulloch remembered decrepit call boxes outside the Banto petrol station. “Where are you?”
    “I’m at the dig. You have to bring someone. Paddick’s here. Him and Gilroy are going to kill each other.”
    “What? Call the police.”
    “I can’t, they’ll take her away, and—Do you know any cops? Can you send them? But talk to them first, you have to tell them, they can’t take her, not now—”
    The call ended. McCulloch swore.
    McCulloch parked skew-whiff across the Banto path and shivered as he emerged into a cold, very bright day.
    Paddick was by the dig site, one of his colleagues restraining him. He was screaming at Gilroy. She stood in unlikely smart clothes, her fists clenched. The terrified security guard stood between them.
    Sophie and Will watched. She had been crying, it looked as if with rage.
    Will ran to McCulloch. He hesitated as a thickset policeman hauled out of McCulloch’s car and straightened his cap.
    “Hensher’s alright,” McCulloch said quietly. “I’ve had a word. What the hell’s going on?”
    “Thanks,” Will said. “They can’t take her away now.” He looked back at her. “I can tell she’s got some plan …”
    Gilroy saw McCulloch. He blinked