Alyzon Whitestarr

  I shrugged. “He didn’t smell of anything.”

  “I’ll have a look at his Web site,” Raoul promised. “But in the meantime, you do your best to stay away from Harlen until we can figure out how to handle him.”

  Comforted by how easily and naturally he used the word “we,” I turned to Gilly “Listen, I feel bad that most of the night has been spent talking about me when we were supposed to—”

  “Take my mind off the fire?” Gilly asked. “I think you could say you were successful.” She grinned and moved closer to give me a hug, then she stopped. “Is it bad if I hug you?”

  I laughed, relieved at her simple directness. “It’s fine.”

  “Good,” Gilly declared, and hugged me hard.

  * * *

  Wednesday dawned warm but dark, the sky full of scabby brown clouds and the wind blowing hard in several directions at once. It was the kind of day that makes dogs howl and horses twitch their ears and break into sudden, skittish bursts of speed.

  At breakfast Da mentioned that he had agreed to the new gig with the other band. He sounded cheerful, but his ammonia smell was strong. Aaron Rayc, I thought grimly, and I suddenly had a clear memory of him and the announcer at the Urban Dingo gig talking to the guy in green shoes, while the journalist, Gary Soloman, stood in the background watching them intently. I thought about him on the way to school, wondering if he had been doing a story about Aaron Rayc. But by the time the bus pulled up, I couldn’t think of anything other than having to face Harlen again.

  Reasoning that it would be better to go on avoiding Harlen than refusing him, I managed to skulk in unlikely places between classes. The day seemed to take forever. Maybe it was that feeling of frustration that gave me the idea of going to the newspaper office and talking to Gary Soloman.

  I went out of the school the back way, just in case Harlen was lurking, but I hadn’t gone far before it started to rain. It was so heavy that I sprinted back to the main road, where I knew there would be a bus shelter. There was a woman standing in it already, and we exchanged rueful smiles, then stood together in silence peering glumly out at the rain. When I tired of watching the street, I turned my attention to the ads on the walls of the shelter. They were heavily defaced and I grimaced at a swastika wound about with snakes.

  “You’d think no one would ever want to use that symbol again, given what it has been associated with,” the woman said.

  “Wasn’t it originally some sort of eternal energy sign? And I think Nazis usually drew it facing the other direction,” I said when we had looked at it a bit longer. A teacher had once explained the ancient origins of the symbol.

  The woman studied it. “I’m not sure. But the snakes don’t seem to go with eternal energy, so most likely the gang actually meant to draw the Nazi cross.”

  “Gang?”

  “It’s the emblem of a skinhead gang over in Shaletown,” the woman said. “I guess they’re widening their territory.” She shook her head and, just then, the bus loomed up.

  Inside the foyer of the newspaper office, there was a line of people waiting to book advertisements. I went straight to a receptionist and asked if I could speak to Gary Soloman.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “I have some important information for him,” I said, trying to look older than I was. The receptionist just nodded with supreme indifference, pressed some keys on her computer console, and then talked into the mouthpiece looping out of the earphones she was wearing. She wore the earphones slightly askew so that she could hear out of one ear, and now she angled her head toward me.

  “Name?”

  “Alyzon Whitestarr,” I said.

  She repeated my name, and I extended my hearing. I heard a man’s voice come over the earphones. He said my name with a note of surprise and asked if she was sure. The receptionist said I seemed to be sure of my identity, and he laughed and told her that he would come right down.

  Five minutes later he emerged from the security door. His eyes skated right over me, so I stepped closer and was reassured to discover that Gary Soloman smelled a lot like a walk through a forest in autumn.

  I said, “I’m Alyzon. My class came here a few months ago, and you gave us a talk on newspapers.”

  “Ah!” His eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “You were with the class from hell?”

  I laughed. “Not all of us came from hell. Just a couple of the boys. The rest of us come from right here on Earth.”

  He smiled slightly. “Fair enough. Well, Alyzon, what can I do for you?”

  “You went to see Urban Dingo at the Dome.”

  “I didn’t—” he began.

  “I saw you there!”

  “Yes, and I saw you,” he said patiently. “I didn’t recognize you at first because you weren’t wearing a uniform then. I guess you went to see your … brother?”

  “My father,” I said.

  “I was about to say I didn’t go to see Urban Dingo, or your father’s band for that matter, although it was pretty sensational. I was there because I was working.”

  “On what?”

  His face closed up. “It’s my job to ask the questions.”

  “So no one else should?” I asked, annoyed.

  A faint impatience flowed into his features. “What was your question?”

  I swallowed. “Were you at the concert because you were investigating Aaron Rayc?”

  His expression hardly changed, but a sharp pickled-onion smell infused the autumn fragrance. “Let’s get a coffee,” he suggested. His tone implied he was bored, but his scents told me he wanted to get me away from other people.

  We went out of the office and into a nearby arcade, passing three coffee places before he led me into a rather dingy Italian restaurant beside an old-fashioned barber shop. The door was open but the lights were off inside, and the big sleepy-looking Rasta man who came out at the sound of our entrance looked as if he had just crawled out of an all-night party. He just gave the journalist a wave and headed for the coffee machine.

  “What will de lady have, Solo-man?” he called.

  “Coffee. Espresso,” I said, because I felt I needed to counterbalance the uniform.

  The journalist shouted the order, then turned to give me a speculative look. “So, what makes you ask about Aaron Rayc?”

  “Aaron Rayc set up the gig with Urban Dingo because he heard a song Da wrote,” I said. “Ever since the concert he has been coming round and offering Da jobs, only the jobs are not with Losing the Rope. First they were solo and now they are with some other band whose lead singer just happened to get sick.”

  I stopped because the man brought the drinks, the silver cuffs on his dreadlocks clinking as he set two mugs down, then shuffled away.

  “So let me get this straight,” Gary Soloman said when he had gone. “You’re bothered because a rich, powerful businessman is showing an interest in your dad. Isn’t that a good thing?” His voice was slightly mocking, and suddenly I was furious that he was using his face and voice to lie.

  “I don’t think it’s a good thing and, what’s more, I don’t believe you think so either,” I said very coolly.

  “You figured this out from an expression on my face at a gig?” A sharp citrus smell that I guessed might represent curiosity reminded me to be careful; this guy made a living out of finding out people’s secrets.

  “Why were you watching Aaron Rayc?” I asked mildly, playing his game.

  “I could have been looking at the other guys with him,” Gary Soloman said.

  “You could,” I agreed.

  He suddenly grinned, looking nicer. “What exactly is it that you want to know?”

  “I don’t like Aaron Rayc, and I want to know what he does. He’s not an agent or a promoter; he says so himself. His Web site is weird because it doesn’t tell you anything.”

  “I know about the Web site.” He sipped at his coffee, although my hands around my own cup told me that it was scalding hot. Then his scents shifted, and
I could distinctly smell newsprint. “I went to the concert because I wanted to get a look at him without his knowing it. I had heard a few things that made me wonder about him, but it turned out to be nothing.” He was watching me over the rim of his cup.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said flatly. “I don’t see why you can’t tell me what you know. It’s not like I’m going to steal your story!”

  He sat back in his chair and laughed. “I should confide my love life to you while I’m at it, and maybe my credit card number.”

  His snide tone infuriated me. “Well, maybe I’ll just ask Aaron Rayc why a journalist is taking an interest in him.”

  I hadn’t meant it as a threat so much as an angry comeback, but the blood rushed to his face and for the first time his expression matched the scents he was giving out. “If you talk to Rayc about me, it might be a lot more than a news story that got hurt, girl. Your father is not the only person involved here.”

  I felt ashamed but also triumphant. I said, “I’m just worried about my da. I wouldn’t tell anyone anything you told me, not even him.”

  A nerve beat at the journalist’s temple. “Are you a girl of your word, Alyzon Whitestarr?” he asked at last.

  “I am,” I said gravely.

  “Then I will give you this: Aaron Rayc is bad news to artists. He ruins their lives or their careers or he turns them into something that is the opposite of everything they cared about before they met him. I’d like to know why, and that’s why I’m digging. So far I haven’t found out anything that makes sense, but I have learned that bad things happen to people who poke their nose into Aaron Rayc’s business. Very bad things.”

  I felt the blood draining from my face. I didn’t know what I had expected, but it wasn’t this. “My da—”

  “Look,” Gary Soloman interrupted forcefully. “If your dad comes into the paper demanding to know what I’m on about, I’ll deny this conversation and my friend behind the counter there will swear on a stack of Bibles that you came in here with a lot of crazy talk and he threw you out. End of story.”

  “I said I wouldn’t say anything,” I said quietly.

  He calmed down. “I’m sorry to get so heavy, but this is a heavy guy and he has ears in places you wouldn’t imagine. Don’t tell anyone about this talk, and if you’ve got any sense, forget about Aaron Rayc. Your dad looked like a pretty bright guy, and he can probably take care of himself a lot better than you could.” He got up. “Go home, Alyzon Whitestarr.” He reached into his pocket to take out a five-dollar bill and tossed it on the table.

  I stood up, too. “Thank you for talking to me.”

  He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something else, then he shook his head and left. I was still standing there staring after him when the Rasta man glided over. I don’t know what he saw in my face, but he said, “Eh, gal, don’ look so down. Soloman is a good guy. If he huntin’ a story, he gonna get dat story and he gonna protect his sources. He infamous for it, eh?”

  I looked at him, and let the warm chocolate smell of his kindness soothe me. “Thanks,” I said.

  * * *

  I walked back to the library, determined to do a search for every online mention of Aaron Rayc, but all of the computer consoles were booked. Since I was in an investigative frame of mind, I went to the outdated phone books. Harlen’s friends had indicated that his previous school had closed, so I reasoned there might be an old listing for a private school in Shaletown. Talking to the others about Harlen the night before had made me feel more than ever that I needed to know what made him tick, and it might be worth visiting the neighborhood where the school had been. It was a long shot, but maybe someone would remember him.

  It turned out there had been a Shaletown Boys Academy. I wrote down the address, then I went back to check the computers, but they were all still in use. I gave up and went outside. There were five minutes to kill before the bus, so I went to the phones and called Harrison. It wasn’t until the phone was ringing that I remembered I had promised not to say anything about the conversation with Gary Soloman.

  A man answered the phone, sounding drunk. Before I could do more than say my name, he swore and hung up. I stared at the phone, thinking I must have dialed a wrong number.

  * * *

  That night when I slept, I dreamed again that I was a wolf. I woke feeling tired and out of sorts, and the only thing I could think was that the dream was my subconscious trying to deal with the input from my extended senses. In particular, from my sense of smell.

  When I got downstairs that morning, Da was dressed to go out and checking his duffel bag.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “Got a gig in Remington,” Da said.

  “Remington?”

  “I told you about it,” Da said, easing the zipper past the worn bit that always caught. “The gig with the other band.” There was no sign of the doubts he had shown days before.

  “What is it?” Da asked, catching the look on my face.

  “I just don’t much like Aaron Rayc,” I said lamely. I wanted to tell him to cancel the gig, but even if I had broken my promise and told Da what Gary Soloman had said, it wasn’t concrete enough to make him break a commitment.

  “He’s not our kind of person,” Da said. “But that doesn’t make him a bad person. He’s doing me a favor funneling work my way right when we need it for your mum’s show.” He zipped his bag fully and went upstairs to say goodbye to Mum and Luke.

  The phone rang and I snatched it up. “Yes?”

  “Yes tae you, too,” Harrison said.

  “Harrison. Hang on,” I told him, and gave Da a hug on his way out.

  “See you in a couple of days,” he said.

  I grabbed up the receiver, registering what Da had said with a sinking heart. “Sorry, Harrison. What is it?”

  “Did you call last night?” He sounded tired and tense.

  “I did, but I thought it must have been a wrong number. There was a man—”

  “It was my father,” Harrison said brusquely. There was a crash in the background. “Look, I have tae go, Alyzon,” he said hastily and hung up.

  I put the receiver down, wondering what had happened.

  * * *

  I was more than glad to see Gilly waiting for me at the school gate when the bus pulled up. She hooked her arm through mine as we came into the school, enveloping me in the lovely freshness of her sea scent. I knew she was there waiting in case Harlen had been waiting, too, but he was nowhere in sight.

  At lunchtime I had booked a spot in the computer lab for the first half hour, the maximum time slot, and Gilly agreed to come with me. There was a note on the computers warning students to be careful about what they downloaded because a virus had recently infected the system, corrupting much of the school’s network of computers.

  I typed Aaron Rayc’s name into a search engine. A list of entries came up, and I clicked on the first. It turned out to be a luridly overdecorated gossip site as famous for its bitchiness as for its raunchy photos. Of course, the latter set off the school’s cyber nanny and blocked the connection, so I backtracked and tried the second item on the list, a who’s-who-type monthly magazine with photos and stories of people with a pedigree.

  The mention of Rayc came in an article at the top, which talked about him being at a charity ball for Hunger Relief with Dita and singer Angel Blue, who had recently won a major music industry award.

  “Angel Blue?” I asked Gilly, who shrugged but made a note of the name on a scrap of paper while I clicked on the next entry. This time a longer article appeared, describing the opening of a club for billionaires. The luxury of the rooms made the people lounging in them look unreal, and I felt slightly sick thinking of these same men and women attending balls to raise funds for starving nations. How many thousands of people could have been fed by the money squandered on decorations in each of the ballrooms, let alone the amount spent on clothes and jewels for the occasion? And how much of the money raised a
ctually got where it was supposed to go?

  Aaron Rayc was in a photograph with Dita; she was wearing daffodil-yellow silk chiffon. With them, according to the caption, were Lord and Lady Harmigan. The couple looked like an astonishingly ugly elderly father and his exquisite daughter, but they were described as recently married.

  “I think she used to be some kind of radical artist, but I can’t remember her real name,” Gilly murmured, tapping on Patricia Harmigan’s glowing face.

  I searched the article to be sure there was no other mention of Rayc, then clicked on the next item listed. Another magazine, another article, another charity fund-raiser, but my neck prickled because this one was at the Castledean Estate. Aaron Rayc’s name appeared as the owner of the venue, but the article focused on the guest headlining the concert program for the night, a rock star so famous that even I recognized his name, although he had died about three years before.

  “Didn’t Dawed Rafael—” Gilly began.

  “Commit suicide,” I said.

  Gary Soloman’s words floated through my mind with chilling emphasis: “Aaron Rayc is bad news for artists.”

  “Now I remember,” Gilly said. “Everyone was calling Dawed Rafael the new Bob Dylan, because he’d brought the protest song back. But then he went into leather and chains, and his songs got a lot tougher and more violent, and people said he was outrageous and he must be on drugs. I’m sure it was him that did a concert with real blood smeared over his face, and then there was that time he used a water gun to squirt red stuff at the audience and they went crazy because they thought it was blood. A girl got badly hurt in the stampede, and it wasn’t long after that—”

  “He killed himself,” I said. “Write his name down.”

  The next item was from a serious kind of art magazine, an interview with a man called Oliver Spike. He was a writer talking about technique and philosophy and about his underprivileged youth in the UK. I searched for a mention of Aaron Rayc and found it right at the end of the article, where Oliver Spike called him “a close personal friend.”

  Gilly wrote his name down, too, then pointed at the clock.