I check inside for the others, but they are gone. Missing. The Nest now empty.
I’m sorry! I scream. Where is everyone?
I think I must have done something awful for the Flock to disappear, or maybe they’re scared—maybe the Fouls’ tyranny has forced them underground.
It’s okay, Runner finally whispers, everyone’s safe. Don’t worry.
Relieved, I feel my chest settle.
Flash.
And now I’m in the bath. Tick-tock. Every pore stinging like a thousand paper cuts. My fingers grip the edges of the bath’s enameled steel. Eyes crimping with pain, I wait for the Fouls’ judgment, for mercy, for their sadistic permission to immerse my head under the water.
Who’s a dirty girl? they snarl. Clean yourself.
I force my head under, tea tree oil swirling and burning the cuts on my face.
Me, I’m a dirty girl, I say. Me, me, me, me, me.
Tick-tock—
Tick-tock—
A knock on the door suddenly awakens me.
“Are you okay in there?” Anna shouts.
I check my surroundings. Bath. Mirror. Peach towels. Fizz bombs.
“I’m fine,” I muster. “I’ll be out in a sec.”
“I’m just popping over to Ray’s. I’ve left soup on the stove. Chicken, your favorite.”
“Thanks,” I say, disoriented and shivering. The bathwater now turned cold.
Wakey, wakey, the Fouls taunt, laughing.
I eventually manage to dress myself and make my way downstairs to the kitchen, checking my phone—12:17—and pour myself a bowl of Coco Pops, drenching them in Gold Top and wiping the creamed rim with my finger. The pops bob around like they’re lost in a sea of chocolate milk. I spoon them down and drink the milk straight from the bowl. My mouth fried and throbbing.
Everything I do is experienced in slow motion. My mind and body filtering smells, tastes, and sounds like it’s impossible to give them a life. I want to block out the entire day, and everything from the night before. Oh please, I think, then speak the words out loud for no one to hear—
“Please make it all go away.”
The hum of the open refrigerator brings me out of my funk. A violent flashing red beep informing me the door is ajar. I slam it shut and a shooting pain splits through my vagina. I double over, grabbing hold of the kitchen counter, the Body now fully awake.
Sliding my fingers down into my clean underwear, I touch the hurt part of me, then pull them back out to smell. It is not as I imagine—my body isn’t decomposing like some dead animal, some rotting meat left to fester in the corner of a grass field. There is no nasty smell, I think. I am still Alexa. I am still—
Alexa.
Alexa Wú. Born May 1994. Photographer. Best friend of Ella. Nest Builder to the Flock.
The phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me, Ella. Are you okay?”
“Did you call earlier?” I snap.
“No, why?”
“Someone called,” I say, hearing grime breakbeats down the line.
“Not me,” she says. “For fuck’s sake, Grace, turn that music down. Sorry. Are you okay?”
“No,” I say, staring at my wrists. “Something happened. Something horrible.”
The beats disappear.
“I know. I was really worried about you, but you insisted on going home alone after I got you cleaned up.”
“My face,” I say, ignoring Ella, “it’s all bruised.”
“You just disappeared. Shaun and I looked everywhere. And then I found you in the girls’ dressing room, passed out. Don’t you remember?”
“No.”
“God, Alexa, I can’t believe you don’t remember any of this. You got into some thing with Shaun and threw your drink over him. Then you started slamming tequilas—”
“What?!”
“—with that guy. Navid introduced you. I thought you were trying to find out about the Groom House. But as the night went on you seemed kinda into him.”
“Into him?”
I close my eyes, a vague image of a man in a gray suit falling in the front of my mind.
“I think—”
Flash.
“I think I remember him.”
“Well, he’s nasty,” Ella says, clearing her throat. “Annabelle said he’s really rough with some of the girls.”
I drop down on the kitchen floor, wedging the phone between my chin and shoulder, my wrists on autopilot and suddenly brought together.
Flash.
I am lying on the cold dressing room floor, unable to move. My wrists cuffed and forced behind my neck.
He pushes down hard on my chest with his knee.
I try to scream.
He covers my mouth.
Unzips his fly.
Flash.
“I think I was drugged and raped,” I say. “Rohypnol. He spiked my drink.”
“What? Who?”
“The Man in the Gray Suit.”
“Oh my God, Alexa.”
“I couldn’t move, when he—”
“I’m coming over,” my Reason says, “don’t move. I’m on my way.”
I put the phone down and throw up all over the kitchen floor.
You disgusting piece of shit, the Fouls sneer, forcing my hand to slap my face, hard.
37
Daniel Rosenstein
“Charlotte’s father is on line three.”
“Tell him I’m in a meeting,” I say. “Take a number. Tell him I’ll call him back.”
“Pants on fire.”
I smile, fancying the Receptionist’s jest. The pain of separation from her daughter, it seems, slowly healing. I picture Susannah, a slideshow of postgraduation images suddenly appearing in my mind, remembering how pride had overridden my pining when she left home for York to study art history.
“Even mothers lie,” I say. “It’s in their job description.”
The Receptionist laughs and ends the call.
I gaze out at the evening oak, its leaves fallen, bark gnarly and mossed. The crisp, curled wafers of foliage hoovered up by the handsome gardener and his greedy Flymo GardenVac. I linger on the view before checking my diary: December 7, 5 p.m.—Alexa Wú.
She’d seemed distracted when we finally spoke. Concerned that she’d missed her appointment. I suggested we reschedule our session. She agreed and admitted to loss of time and flashbacks. I hadn’t wanted to get into it on the phone, but I felt her desire to talk, her voice shaking, concentration a little wild.
“Five p.m., then,” I’d said, hoping her memory would hold.
“You’re a little early,” I say, checking the gold clock on my desk.
She looks to me, confused. Eyes wide, hands wringing.
“I— Sorry, I—”
She turns to leave.
“Come in,” I say, aware I’m in breach of our boundaries, but her disorientation bothers me so much that I fear asking her to leave or wait another thirty minutes might cause further anxiety.
I close the door, a mental note made of her disorganized arrival.
She smiles nervously. I’m aware of how young she appears. This evening, her hair is gathered up in a tight ponytail that swings from side to side like a cantering horse, revealing the olive skin of the back of her neck. Black round-toe slip-on sneakers and, pulled up over thick tights, a tiny pair of ripped denim cutoffs that are far too short, far too provocative. Especially for winter. She stretches the arms of her striped mohair sweater tightly over her fists and sits on them.
“I was worried,” I say, leaning forward. “It’s not like you to miss a session.”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she sets free her hands from beneath her bottom, twirling now the long strands of her ponytail. I watch the gentle in-turn of her sneakered feet, a slight shake to her knee.
Dolly, I think.
She unties her laces and kicks off her shoes, then raises her legs, curling in the chair like a noiseless cat. H
er eyes are like curious buttons, darting, scanning first my desk, the rug, then the oil painting before finally settling on me. With a vague expression, she pushes the arms of her striped sweater to her elbows.
There, no longer hidden by her sweater, are three-inch bruises violently circling her wrists.
38
Alexa Wú
Daniel—Mr. Talky—is staring at my wrists. I try to hide them but it’s too late, he’s already noticed that they’re bruised and hurting. When I arrived he looked all surprised, like he forgot I was coming or something. But then I realized it was my fault because I arrived way too early. I smile and he smiles back.
“What happened to your wrists, Dolly?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Nope.”
“They look very sore.”
“They hurt.”
“Do you have some cream for them?”
“I’ve got something called arnica. Alexa got it for me.”
Tick-tock—
A minute ago I was curled up like a pussycat on the chair, but now I’m sitting on the floor with my legs crossed. I don’t remember when I got down here.
Sometimes I don’t like Daniel’s chair because it feels all sticky, especially if I’m not wearing trousers or tights. It makes this really weird sucky sound when I move, just like when I drink bubble tea. So I come down onto the floor.
I use my finger to trace the pattern on the rug. Across, across, across. The purple and blue stripes reminding me of the sea.
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
I scratch my half ear and look up. It’s dark outside. Daniel looks tired and a little bit worried now. I wonder if he’s eaten anything or maybe had a drink. I had a cheese-and-tomato toastie and a glass of milk earlier. Oneiroi made it for me. I didn’t like it very much but I didn’t tell her that because she’d think me ungrateful, especially with so many other children worse off than me and dying in the world, as she is always saying. But the tomato made the bread go all soggy so I just ate around those bits and hid the rest under my napkin.
“Are you comfortable down there?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you. My wrists hurt a bit.”
“You don’t remember anything? How you did it—how someone else did it?”
“No, I’m like Mr. Forgetful today,” I say.
“Seems that way, doesn’t it. Why do you think that is?”
“Because my brain’s not working.”
“Oh, and why’s that?” He smiles.
“Because Mr. Forgetful forgets stuff!” I laugh.
“Do you think Mr. Forgetful forgets stuff because he’s not allowed to remember? Maybe he’ll get into trouble if he does?”
“Not sure.” Across, across, across.
My legs are starting to ache now from sitting on the floor, so I stand up and climb back into the sucky chair.
“Are you okay, Dolly?”
“Feeling sleepy,” I say, not knowing why I feel so tired. We didn’t even go to work today.
Tick-tock—
When I wake up there is a big woolly blanket covering me. Mr. Talky must have put it there. I’d like to drink a glass of water because I am very very hot and very very thirsty and my head hurts. Oneiroi says we should always drink water if our head hurts. I climb out of the blanket and sit up, then stare at my wrists. Those horrible bruises are still there.
“Why won’t they go away? Can you make them go away?”
“I wish I could,” he says.
My tummy feels all trembly and swirly like a washing machine. Just like the times when Baba would dress me up like a little doll. “Smile, Xiǎo Wáwa,” he would say. So I did.
Now I can taste cheese and tomato in my mouth.
“I don’t feel so good.”
I used to feel this way when I first used to come here because Runner told me not to talk. Button it, Dolly! she used to say. Then she’d get real cross.
She thinks we shouldn’t trust Daniel or any man, and gets all upset if I tell him our secrets.
You’re gonna land us in deep, deep trouble, Dolly, she said. Remember our rule, no one from the real world can enter the Nest, ever. If you tell Daniel our secrets he’ll destroy our home, and us.
She also said that we’ll get locked up in prison with no keys and no food, or even worse, a hospital full of crazy people where they put big needles in your arms and only let you watch TV if you’re extra, extra good. Runner doesn’t like me to talk to anyone really, especially about our secrets, even though sometimes I can hear Alexa telling Ella our secrets. They don’t know I can hear them, but I can, I can hear everything. I know what they’re planning. That’s why I came to visit Mr. Talky.
39
Daniel Rosenstein
I watch her leave—a divided self—noting her quick, petite steps. The striped mohair sweater once again pulled tightly over her fists. The woman I met last Tuesday now morphed into a little girl, a changeling, a human chameleon.
Head down and treading the corridor, she scuttles past Nurse Kennedy, then turns and waves at me with her striped stump. Wide eyes and gummy smile like an overanimated Studio Ghibli character.
I close the door and make my way to my desk. Sitting down, I pick up the phone.
This is the voicemail of Dr. Mohsin Patel. Unfortunately, I can’t—
I hang up and reach for my notebook:
Alexa Wú: December 7
Dolly was here this evening. She arrived early and was disorganized and dissociated. There is bruising on her wrists. She claims not to know how this happened. Defenses are dissolving and her switching into alternate self-states is increasing, indicating her life has become high-risk—particularly as she has little memory of what happens when she checks out. Need to think about cognitive restructuring to aid memory—Alexa is not safe if she can’t remember her actions.
I suspect one of the Flock knows why she missed her last session and what happened to her wrists. But it seems trust is still an issue. Many secrets. Discuss with Mohsin her extended regression and possible interventions. Do I need to visit the Electra and see what she’s involved in?
I wonder: is she telling me the truth, or might the bruises be self-inflicted?
Mohsin’s words flood back to me: They’re not straightforward—patients with dissociative identity disorder—dangerous in the wrong conditions.
I put down my notebook and switch on the kettle, urging haste. It seems to take forever. Time has slowed down. I have slowed down.
I wait.
Who is she? What is she hiding? What is she scared of?
I run my fingers along the base of my spine until the kettle eventually reaches the boiling point. I pour the water and wait again. Be patient, I tell myself. She’s not ready. Fear prevents her from letting me into her mind and the workings of the Nest. But it will come.
Doesn’t it always?
40
Alexa Wú
The living room sparkles.
“Ta-dah!” Anna sings. A Christmas tree dressed in wine-red and gold baubles, lights winking like they’re holding a secret.
Preeeetty, Dolly purrs as I reach for the home-crafted fairy to place on top. She holds a five-pointed star wand. Tinsel for wings.
“I want you to make an effort tonight,” Anna says, wiping her palms down her apron, “and if your moods decide to join us—tell them to make an effort too.”
“I can’t make any promises,” I say, readjusting the fairy’s full skirt, “but we’ll do our best.”
Anna fingers the cross-stitch holly on the apron’s hem.
“You do that,” she says, eyes staring, “because I really like him.”
Ray, I’ve discovered, works in TV. That is, he sells them: high-spec and complicated with surround sound. Apparently he and Anna met on their lunch break. A chance encounter in the staff lift that led Ray, the next day, to purchase a bottle of cloying perfume for an “aunt.”
“I know this g
reat little Italian restaurant,” he said, shuffling from left to right, “and I wondered whether you might—”
“Yes.” Anna spoke a little too keenly. “I’d love to have dinner with you.”
The fragrance counter, she told me, felt just a bit warmer afterward.
To date, I know the following things about Ray:
Second name: Homer (as in the legendary author and the bald yellow guy. D’oh!)
56 years old
Works on the fourth floor, in Electronics
Loves spaghetti carbonara
Recently split from his wife (overheard on phone)
Leaves soppy messages on the fridge, hearts dotting the i’s (weird!)
No children (also overheard on phone)
Kind (got me a mega discount on my new camera)
Anna likes him
“Help me in the kitchen,” Anna says.
I follow her swaying hips, entering a perfume cloud of beef Wellington and fresh horseradish. Roasted potatoes and a rainbow of vegetables coated in honey rest in tinfoil, while peach cobbler cools by an open window. Anna wipes her plucked brow, having spent the entire afternoon chopping and slicing while I lay in bed, having Oneiroi call in sick, citing the flu. Rather than admitting the truth of my wrists, I lied that I was running a temperature.
“Take the day off,” Jack said in between lip-smacks of satisfaction, the rustle of a crisp packet heard down the line. “Come back Monday.”
“Okay, thank you,” I said with a faux cough, “see you Monday.”
“Stir the horseradish,” Anna instructs, pointing freshly French-manicured nails at the pan.
Pulling down my sleeves to cover my wrists, I stir, not wanting to admit to myself, or Anna, the ghastly events of the week.
“Slooowly,” she says, grabbing the spoon, “like this.”
I do as I’m told and stir. Slooowly.
She hugs me from behind. Forages her mouth against the nape of my neck like a mother cat about to carry her kitten off by the scruff of its neck.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I take a moment to acknowledge Anna’s effort. A stark contrast to when my father left and evening meals became futile. Back then, her exotic tagines were replaced by quick salads, a plate covering their limp green edges with an egg thrown on top. I understood why. She was angry. And hurt. So I did my best to go unnoticed, making myself busy and eating elsewhere, usually at Ella’s place or afterschool clubs. Anywhere that welcomed my teenage mooching.
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