Page 32 of Homebound
“Play with fire,” he called to her back, “get burned.”
She straightened up, holding the cigarette butt between two fingers. “Speaking of fire. I’m curious, what did you use to light this up with?”
He said nothing as he stepped back, fading into the cell.
Gemma pitched the butt into her bucket. Thanks to Number 34, she now knew new facts about Rix. She knew Simon came from a capable nation. He wasn’t a mindless beast. He had probably been a soldier. For that, she was willing to forgive the fact that when the Perali laughed, a strong smell of tobacco breath reached her nose.
???
After her shift was over, Gemma walked home down a dark and deserted street - her usual promenade - and thought back on the events of the day, pondering where the weed had come from.
Her suspicions lay firmly with Arlo who often disappeared and hung around random people for no apparent reason. Besides, she’d seen him that one time in the courtyard, with the debt prisoners.
What a rogue.
A shout up ahead caught her attention. There were people on the street, unusual for this late in the day. A small crowd had gathered and voices were raised.
Gemma crossed the road to the other side to put distance between herself and the mulling, agitated group. She noticed how a dozen or so men, looking scruffy even in the darkness, pushed against several guys wearing the overalls of dock workers.
Distracted, she ran into somebody.
“Hey, watch out!”
“Sorry.”
More people, angry and troubled, poured in from side streets joining the scruffy crowd that now outnumbered the dockhands.
Migrants. They were migrants from West Plains.
And almost blending with the crumbling walls of the old buildings, shapes of Perali with backward-bent legs crept in.
Gemma quickened her steps, hurrying on by, afraid to get caught in the small riot. And she hated crowds. Hated them.
Turning a corner, she was fearfully checking behind her and failed to notice a patch of ice on the sidewalk. Her crippled foot slipped from under her, pain shot like a hot electrical current through her ankle, and her bum hit the ground with enough force to rattle her pelvic bones.
“Shit,” she half-whispered, half-moaned.
Of all the places… Now…
Gritting her teeth and grimacing from pain, she pulled her splayed legs together and tried to stand. Her bad ankle swiftly responded with a vicious stab of pain. She sat back down, eyes misting with tears. Her behind also felt sore, probably developing a massive bruise.
“Shit,” she said again, heartfelt.
The clash around the corner was getting louder. Gemma rolled over to get on all fours and crawled to the wall. Gripping the roughened bricks, she planted her good foot firmly on the ground and pulled herself up. Testing, she shifted weight to her injured foot to see if it could bear any weight. It resisted with a throb but didn’t buckle. Good, no bones were broken.
She had to get home somehow. If she missed the curfew, she’d get pulled into a circle surrounding a gassy, clanging contraption that slowly patrolled the streets and dragged its prey along until on-duty militants came and released them. After collecting the fine, of course.
Hugging the walls, Gemma hobbled home.
When she finally opened the door, five pairs of eyes looked up at her from around the dinner table.
“Hello, everyone,” Gemma said cheerfully. “Sorry I'm late.”
“Why are you late today, of all days? You were supposed to help with the dinner.” Aunt Herise’s words lashed at her with stinging disapproval.
“I am sorry Aunt Herise. I had an accident on my way home.”
She hopped on one foot to the nearest chair and, blissfully, sat down.
