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Rubbing her shoulders for warmth, Liz glimpses at the balcony above her. When will these two damn cops finish talking about politics? She didn't even know they can think. Despite Mr. Claire's order, surveilling their conversation has been a complete waste of time. The plaza is dead now. Only dust and plastic bags are swirling in the night wind. Harry's drama and the lieutenant's calm voice are clear enough for Liz's thought to drift with them, and slips away. Doubts sneak in again. Why Mr. Claire wants them to believe that the mercenary's death is a lynching? What good does it do for the Union?
The cops' discussion moves from "Coalition", "foreign occupation" and "Revolution" to "brain disease", "retrograde memory impairment". That alcoholic clown Harry is grasping straws to convince the lieutenant that he has "forgotten everything about this world". A high-pitch voice penetrates Liz's consciousness: "... a flood has washed away all my memory!"
"A flood of alcohol." The lieutenant sighs: "I need you to stay sober tonight. Tomorrow, we will question those Hardie Boys about the lynching. They are the muscles of the Union."
Tomorrow, of course. Mr. Claire told her to babysit the Hardie Boys through their investigation, to make sure that the cops buy their story about lynching that mercenary…
"You are sure his death is related to the Union?"
"I assume it is. A mercenary of the company killed among an ongoing strike, it seems all too obvious. Besides, both the Union boss and the company representative apparently want us to think this way."
"You suspect that they are misleading us?" Liz's heart sinks a bit. There is something sharp in this alcohol-soaked voice.
"I don't know. We need to talk to Claire again, find out whether those Hardie Boys were following his order."
"The Union boss Claire is playing us like his little pawns! He is definitely stalling us." Her heart really sinks this time. Glimpsing at Harry, the lieutenant takes a deep breath of cigarette and slowly breaths out: "It is possible. We need to find out why."
The two cops on the balcony sink into their thoughts. Staring at the little red light between the lieutenant's fingers, Liz's thought drifts away again, and ironically, this time towards the same direction as theirs.
Ever since Liz returned from law school, workers in the Union jokingly call her the successor of Mr. Claire. But there are so many things he keeps from her. The secrecy itself is not a problem. Everyone trusts Mr. Claire. Without him and whatever he has done, the strike won't be able to last this long. The fact is, most of the time, she doesn't really want to know. Maybe being a foot soldier suits her better. Like now, being on the stakeout reminds her of her childhood -- Running around Revachol's decaying walls and bomb craters, kids play to be soldiers or spies. No matter which ideology they play, there are always two sides so one can shoot the other in the head. And even kids want to play the winning side.
But there is something different this time. Staging the death of that mercenary as a lynching, and all this stalling… She is not sure what Mr. Claire is going after. The already difficult negotiation between the Union and the company has stopped. The other mercenaries are growing restless. And the workers too, gossiping about getting armed...
"The Union is certainly plotting something... But maybe they should be. The Coalition has hollowed out Revachol, and we are their servants!" The line between passion and irony is indiscernible in this voice.
"The first day back to reality, and you are already a communist, comrade?" The lieutenant leans on the balcony rail, cigarette light flickering with his breath. "We are servants of the Coalition, but we protect Revachol."
Protect -- Litz almost laughs out loud, but quickly paces her intake of air. The Coalition has drained Revachol of its coal decades ago, but the smell of sulfur still makes her cough. Nobody protects us but ourselves. Yet they call the Union a mob.
"... That company representative, she mentioned that the company is losing control over those remaining mercenaries. If we can not solve the case soon, they will take their own revenge from the Union. It can lead to open fire, maybe even war on a larger scale. If Claire is stalling, he must have thought of this."
"Maybe war is better. The Union could seize the port as Claire said, then this slum, this shithole will change." For once, Liz agrees with that drunkard. But Harry's voice grows lower and lower, as if losing his confidence. "I'm sorry, Kim. I shouldn't be so reckless."
After a long silence, the lieutenant says softly: "I don't know about changes. But there will be blood, a lot of blood." Despite her disdain, something in his voice strikes her. He cares about blood.
It starts snowing. In Revachol, even the snow is grey, like ashes of coal falling from the sky. The lieutenant extinguishes his cigarette and goes inside. Liz, shivering in the coldness, dreams about what could happen in spring.