Free The Race by Nina Allan

didn’t get home until after eleven. I felt exhausted, wiped out, but the idea of sleep seemed impossible. I paced around my apartment, pulling down blinds and checking doors, and all the time there was this horrible little voice inside my head, whispering to me all the terrible things that could be happening to Lumey at that very moment.
    If she was even still alive, that was.
    I did the only thing I knew that would help. I unwrapped the package of blue leather I’d bought at Romer’s and spread it flesh side up on my workroom table. I stroked it gently, stretching it just a little with the tips of my fingers to test its strength. I flattened my palm against the downy underside, its texture so soft and so pliable I already knew how the needle would feel going in. Smooth and sweet as a silver spoon through a jar of honey. I opened the computer file with Kiwit’s measurements, the photographs I had taken of her hands and arms, both front view and back. Not all gantiers bother with photos, but I have always found them essential because they help me imagine.
    Angela Kiwit had very strong forearms. In isolation from the rest of her body, you might easily mistake them for a man’s. The long hands with the tapering fingers did not quite match them.
    For me, all hands are beautiful, the most complex and fascinating part of the human body. I spent some time studying those photographs, and at some point all thoughts of Claudia and Del and Lumey leaked silently away. I made a cup of tea and drank it. I thought about making a start on drawing the pattern but suddenly realised how tired I was – tired enough, finally, to sleep.
    It was one o’clock in the morning and not quite dark. I love the long summer evenings. In winter it’s the thought of those long light evenings that keeps me going.
    ~*~
    The phone woke me just after seven. The caller was Del.
    “I’ve just spoken to them,” he said. “We’ve agreed a date for the exchange.” He named a day, the Monday immediately following the Delawarr Triple. “They’ll let me know the location nearer the time.” He sounded okay, buoyed up even, back in control. “See you this afternoon,” he said. For a moment I couldn’t think what he was talking about, then I remembered I’d promised to go over and see Claudia. It wasn’t a prospect I relished, but I knew there was no way I could get out of it.
    “Fine,” I said. “See you.” I ended the call, then spent the rest of the morning measuring and cutting out the paper pattern I would use to make the gloves for Angela Kiwit. Pattern-making sounds simple but it’s not. It’s exacting work, and can’t be rushed. It occupied my mind entirely, and the deeper I sank into my work-trance the less I was aware of anything except the sound of my own breathing, steady and deep and reviving and entirely calm.
    It was as if my life had split into two separate halves: one mad, one sane.
    ~*~
    Limlasker was Swift Elin’s grandson. Swift Elin was tall, but Lim was taller, a hand’s breadth at least. He had the same light blue eyes and silver coat, but whereas Swift Elin was silver all over, Lim had a black patch, like an inky handprint, on his left hindquarter. Del always used to say it looked as if he’d had his arse slapped.
    When Tash first took over Limlasker, Del stayed away from them as much as he could, at first, anyway. He said it was so Tash could get to know the dog without feeling scrutinized, but really it was for Limlasker and himself. Del wanted Lim to understand that their relationship was to change. Later on though, Del began to supervise Tash and Lim’s training sessions. Gra was worried that it wouldn’t work, that the dog would become confused and his performance would be affected but his fears proved groundless.
    It was as if Del had told Lim he was giving him to Tash willingly, for a reason, and Lim understood and accepted that.
    Greyhounds are different from other dogs, anyway. They hardly ever bark or wag