Nothing he’d told the Partial had stopped him. Nothing. Not once. Not any more than Stark had stopped Finch. Saw Bliss at the table in the Photographer’s apartment, carefully creating the vial of liquid. Saw Sintra’s face against the wall as they made love. Rathven’s hesitant smile at their detective joke. None of it mattered anymore.
Began to cry. To weep. Slumped over. Head leaning toward his lap.
“Oh, there’s nothing to cry about, Finch. Nothing at all,” the Partial said. “We’re just having a conversation. A kind of meeting of the minds. If it makes you feel any better, those sounds you hear—they’re your rebels, Finch. They’ve abandoned you. They’re attacking the tower. It won’t work, but I almost wish it would. Except there’s no place for me in their new world, either.”
“I’m sorry the gray caps. Betrayed you.” Mangled the words. Parched. As if he could drink forever and not be satisfied. But the Partial had only given him boiling water.
“Are you?” the Partial asked. “Really? Because all I ever got from you before was contempt. An aura of deep contempt.”
“Not contempt. Ignorance.”
“Ignorance?” Incredulous.
“Of what. You had to go through. To become a Partial.”
At some point during the interrogation, if that’s what it still was, Finch remembered consoling the Partial. Couldn’t keep it straight in his head. His brain felt like it was outside of his body. Exposed and raw.
“It’s nice of you to pretend,” the Partial said.
If I ever get free, I am going to put out your eye with my hands.
Another flash. A recoil. But the attack seemed blunted. The explosions of light less frequent. Saw the Partial’s serious, pale face in the half-light.
“I’ve told you all I know,” Finch said. “Anything you needed to know.” But not Sintra. Not Rathven. Not the Lady in Blue. Hadn’t given them up. Still, couldn’t be sure anymore.
She said she’d have watchers on me. She lied.
The Partial ignored him. “Don’t worry, Finch. We’re almost to the end. Almost to dawn. Just another couple of hours. You might even make it.”
Couldn’t help himself. “Fuck you. Fuck you. You psychotic little prick. You cock-sucking psychotic bastard. You fucking coward!”
Thrashing in his chair until it fell over onto its side.
Silence then. Waiting.
The Partial lowered himself against the floor next to Finch. Looked him in the eyes. Said, “We’ll keep going until I see all of you. All of you.”
Finch tried to spit in his face. All that came out was a trickle of blood.
Am I dying? Is this what death is like?
The rest dissolved into a kind of distant burning.
A kind of despairing, raging ache.
* * *
Back on the Spit. On the roof of the houseboat. Dusk now, the sun almost gone, but lingering.
The Spit smoldered. Thick with flame and smoke. The towers were silent. From that angle, he couldn’t see what lay between them. But strange birds flew out between them. Like parrots, but different. Flashes of green-blue-orange. Beyond that, the city, in an agony of bronzing light.
Opposite him on the bench sat Duncan Shriek. This time he had a long gray beard, white hair down to his shoulders. His beard writhed, alive. His overcoat wasn’t made of cloth at all. Concealed a mountain of a body, reminding Finch of Wyte. No shoes. Shriek’s feet seemed to blend into the wood of the floorboards as if rooted there. His image flickered in and out. Could not seem to settle into flesh and blood.
“Hello again, Finch,” Shriek said.
Finch, bitter: “They burned your body. Spread your ashes over the towers. You’re dead,” Finch said. “You failed us. Thousands and thousands of people are going to die because of you.” Angry at himself.
Shriek said, “Your body is shutting down, Finch. You cannot take more torture. You have to do something. All I can do for now is numb the pain.”
Finch’s legs were on fire. He couldn’t put out the flames.
“There’s nothing I can do.”
Shriek pulled him close. Until his face was inches from Finch’s. Drawn into the power of those eyes that were both more and less than eyes. Into the magisterial force of the experience and pain there. “Find a way. And when you’ve done it, drink the vial you brought with you. Even if you do kill the Partial you’ll die there on the floor, otherwise.”
“The Photographer said the vial is poison.”
“It is. But it’s life as well. You’ll die, and then I’ll bring you back.”
“You can’t do anything,” Finch said. “You’re just in my head.”
“So are you,” Shriek said.
He picked Finch up by the shoulders. Raised him high. Pushed and released him in the same motion. So violently that he was sent flying over the city. Where Shriek’s hands had touched him, a healing numbness. Spreading.
Below, the fires crackling on the Spit were snuffed out. The black smoke turned white and then broke apart. Still he soared, over the twinkling green of the Religious Quarter, over the dull white remains of the camps, over everything.
So this is how it ends. How it really ends. But at least it ends.
* * *
Woke to darkness. Woke to blood caked around his eyes. To a broken nose. To the knowledge that his bowels had loosened. That he’d pissed himself. Dribbling hot down his thighs, itching through the numbness. Was able to move his legs a little. A veil now between him and the pain. It registered as an even, serrated glow around his body. No part of him hurt more than any other part. Allowed him to concentrate. Gave him energy.
“Not done with you. Not the right answers.” Mumbled like a prayer from somewhere in front of him.
Right eye was swollen shut. Opened his left enough to squint.
The Partial’s face was up close through that slit of vision. The abyss of the fungal eye. The orange lichen of the other. The stark white landscape of that face. Staring at him. A hand shaking him. Trying to see if he was still alive.
Too close.
The gun was on the table. The knives were on the table.
Erupted hard up and out. Caught the Partial on the chin with the top of his head. A grunt of surprise. Of pain. Finch fell on top of the Partial. Legs still too rubbery. Brought his forehead hard onto the fungal eye. Could feel it give. The Partial screamed. Tried to push Finch off him. Battered his sides with his fists. But Finch felt none of it. Bit into the Partial’s left cheek. Pulled back. Spit out the flesh. The Partial shrieking. Finch kept smashing his head into the right side of the Partial’s face. Until the eye socket sagged and the Partial was moaning. The beating of hands at Finch’s sides now more like the wings of a bird.
Finally, the Partial stopped moving. Maybe he’d been saying something. Screaming something. Finch didn’t know. Didn’t care. The warm glow that surrounded him muffled sound. Muffled everything but itself.
Was the Partial dead? He would be. Finch picked up a knife off the table with his mouth. Positioned it between his teeth. Knelt. Bent his head to the side. Came down hard. Jammed it hilt-deep in the Partial’s throat. Got out of the way as the blood came quick and heavy. The Partial convulsed once, twice, back bucking. Then nothing.