The Deep Sea Diver's Syndrome by Serge Brussolo

veil between herself and the rest of the world. Dad kept shouting by his lonesome for a good part of the night, then buckled his suitcases and left, shouting over his shoulder that he was happier at a hotel anyway, rather than in this stinking dump … and if it kept up, he’d never set foot back here again. David’s throat was so tight with fear he couldn’t even cry. When Dad’s car drove off, Mama pulled him onto her lap and mussed his hair.
    “It’s not your fault,” she said in that voice tarry with tobacco, which grew raspier with each passing year. “It’s a side effect of the gift. When God gives you a present, a power, a talent, the Devil also hands you a poisoned apple, so as not to be outdone. You have to deal with them both. Pay for your gift with a vice, a defect—that’s the rule. Some people become perverts, others murderers. No point complaining; our cross isn’t all that hard to bear. Stealing isn’t the worst thing. I know others who’ve had to give into much more disgusting weaknesses.”
    David didn’t understand much of what she was saying. What gift? He wasn’t bad at drawing (especially naked women), but it wasn’t enough to make a big deal about. He couldn’t sing, much less dance. He was in no way artistically inclined. So what, then?
    As if the failure of the last raid had upset the very order of the world, Mama got nabbed by fat old Morillard right during the annual clearance sales. David let out a whimper of fear when the cop’s hand pounced on his mother’s wrist in the costume jewelry department, and for a second, he thought he’d wet his pants like a baby.
    “Little lady,” chuckled the brilliantined, mustachioed man, “I think we have a lot to discuss. We go way back, don’t we? You’ve been playing me for a sap for quite a while. Now you’re coming with me to my office for a quick pat-down.”
    David followed as if in a dream. No one had spoken a word to him, and he’d never felt so small. He knew if he opened hismouth, he’d immediately burst out sobbing. Morillard ushered them down a dark, narrow hall.
    “Kid, you sit your butt down and don’t move!” he ordered, indicating a flaking cast-iron chair. Then he pushed Mama into the office and closed the door neatly behind him.
    “Now, about that pat-down,” he crowed, delighted. “First, empty your pockets. Then your sleeves!”
    The ringing in David’s ears blotted out what followed, but at one point the cop yelled: “I said your slip too!” Then there was a muddled noise, as if things were falling on the floor. Mama came out ten minutes later. Her face was smeared with lipstick and her hair disheveled. She took David by the hand and left the store standing tall, in no hurry, as if indifferent to the salesladies’ looks.
    “So, um,” David stammered once they were outside. The winter evening shrouded the street in darkness. “We’re not going to jail?”
    “No,” Mama murmured, “you can always cut a deal with a guy like that. You have to take your punishment without flinching. It’s because of the gift. They make us atone for it on credit. That’s how it is. It’ll be the same way with you. Every now and then, they’ll hand you a bill, and you’ll have to pay up, no balking.”
    When they were back at the house, Mama hurried to the shower and stayed under the water for a long time. When at last she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in her old dressing gown, she downed three sleeping pills with a glass of rum and went to bed. David alone remained awake in the empty house, unable to sleep. Something had been broken, but he didn’t know what. Was it his fault Mama had gotten caught? Had the failure of his lastraid derailed the delicate gears that had till now ensured them utter impunity? It was his fault; he’d let his guard down. Success had gone to his head. He’d underestimated old Merlin, and …
    That same night, he heard his mother let out a moan. Thinking she was sick, he peeked