The Crying Machine. Greg Chivers
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sorry, I can’t.’ Clementine lowers her hands away from her face and lifts her gaze to meet the other woman’s scrutiny, those green eyes boring into her from beneath the shock of copper hair. The temptation to confess threatens to swallow her. But it would be selfish; the knowledge brings danger. ‘Perhaps it would be best if I go away for a while.’
Hilda flinches and gives a barely perceptible shake of the head. ‘You don’t have to.’ The corners of her mouth relax. The anger that possessed her moments ago seems to flow away, dispelled by some internal discipline or ritual of acceptance. Clementine watches, fascinated by the subtle transformation. There is still so much unsaid. What is it that moves this woman to care for her above the strays who wander through these doors? She’d thought at first it would be sex, but the bed has remained hers alone.
‘Who would set fire to the Mission?’
Hilda smiles sadly. ‘I’m afraid there’s a long list of suspects.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s easier. We don’t belong here, that’s one thing a lot of people in this city agree on.’
‘I don’t understand. The work you do …’
Hilda takes a breath. ‘It’s hard to understand the city until you’ve lived here. The work we do, helping the helpless, is a visible reminder of all the ways the city doesn’t work. People would rather turn a blind eye than see their own cruelty laid bare, and our beliefs frighten them.’
‘I thought you were Christians.’
‘Let me show you something.’ Hilda stands from the chair and steps over to the bookcases against the far wall, her fingers ghosting across the spines of old volumes bound in cracked leather. The titles are unfamiliar: The Revelations of Glaaki, The Pnakotic Manuscripts, De Vermis Mysteriis. ‘These books are our most treasured possessions, but they are not Christian scripture. Indeed, many Christians would consider them heretical. We gather knowledge because we accept there are truths in all faiths – they are all paths to connect with something greater than ourselves. We believe we all worship the same creator, whatever you wish to call her. So, yes, we are Christians, but we’re the wrong kind. We are not pure.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a threat.’
A long sigh escapes her. ‘If you’ve survived a thousand years by telling everyone they’re damned unless they accept your trademarked God, our mere existence is a threat to who you are.’
‘So the fire …?’
‘It’s only the beginning, Clementine. I’m afraid there is worse to come.’
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