Free Breakdown by Sarah Mussi Page A

panelled compartments, each showing ancient emblems. Light filters in through stained-glass windows. Coats of arms, paintings, frescoes, statues. Solid brass gates bar an entrance to some kind of chamber. At the far end on a dais is a throne, ornate, gilded.
    I think of Nan and her tales of the Gods. I stare.
Was Olympia like this? Did Zeus sit on such a throne?
    Careem sits down on a carved seat near the dais. ‘Walk,’ he says, ‘there.’ He points into the centre of the room. I obey, totter over, stand there, faint, hungry. ‘Where’s all the sass now?’ jeers Careem. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
    Get tougher.
    I try not to teeter in the impossible shoes. Instead I feel for the safety pin Dena used on the dress. I loosen it. I twist the sharp end out.
Look for his weak points. Just one careless moment. I’ll take his eye out. That’s all I need.
Bastard
.
A few minutes of chaos. I’m outside the ghetto. I could kick these heels off and get clean away.
    I hear the click of boots on stone. I hear the ornate brass gates squeal open. Something creeps out, staggers to a nearby table.
    A silky voice says, ‘Take it away. Give it to the troops. It’s got no use left.’
    I look up, focus my attention.
    It’s a girl. A long-legged, striking girl. Once a beautiful girl. Her face is bruised. One eye black and swollen. She staggers, holds on to a picture. Her thick golden hair falls in waves onto her thin shoulders. Everywhere, she’s covered in black bruising. Around her delicate ankles and wrists, raw wheals, like she’s been tied down by wires too tight.
    Two soldiers march up, take her by the arms, lift her almost bodily. She seems to have no energy left. They support her and half carry, half drag her out.
    Careem laughs.
    The gates creak open again. The same click of leather on stone.
    They open. Through them marches the General. He’s much shorter than I imagined. Short and old. And there’s something about his eyes. They slide over the floor and over me. He smiles. His teeth – broken, stubby – slope backwards into his mouth.
    I tighten my grip on the safety pin.
    He seems to be drying his hands. As if he’s just washed something off them. He marches straight up to me. Grabs my chin, forces it up. Then he looks.
    He likes what he sees. I can see his pupils widen. I can see his lower lip fall slack. He lets out a long, low whistle. He rips my dress down.
This is it.
I respond. My arm comes round fast. My knee comes up. I smack the side of his head. I drive the pin in until it hits bone. I find a use for the stupid shoes. Stiletto heel right on his foot. He jumps back. I knee up again, but miss.
    â€˜And spirited too,’ he says, slamming his hand to his head. It comes away tinged in blood.
    Shit. I missed his eye.
    â€˜Haven’t had one like that for a long time, have you?’ says Careem.
    The General lets go of my chin, turns and faces him. ‘Don’t waste my time. How much?’
    Careem chuckles. ‘I want twice the usual for this one.’
    â€˜Twice?’ remarks the General, but I can hear the excitement in his voice.
    So can Careem. ‘Plus guns.’
    â€˜So you
are
going to waste my time,’ remarks the General. ‘I’m not going to arm gangers, however many girls they find me.’
    â€˜Can’t blame me for asking,’ smiles Careem.
    â€˜I can just take this one and give you nothing. You’re in my garrison,’ threatens the General.
    â€˜But you won’t,’ says Careem, ‘because there’s nobody else who can get you stuff like this, not as good, not as sparky. C’mon, she’ll be a lotta fun, and you know it.’
    The General considers this.
    â€˜And you know I’m your man. You can call me up any time. If you get a little problem down on your farm, or you need to shift a bitta cargo, or want to hunt a runner down, I’m your dog.’