Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock—
I step back from the tripod, my hands shaking.
Navid takes my hand.
“Well done,” he says, stroking my cheek. “You did it. Welcome to our little family.”
61
Daniel Rosenstein
“It’s time,” I say, rattled from our session.
She pauses, places a lone finger to her lips, and hands me a pink note. On it: an address written in a childlike cursive hand.
“Shh,” she whispers, her forehead resting in her palm, “don’t tell Runner.”
I wonder if I’m being tricked—Runner waiting in the wings and ready to seize the Body and pounce. Don’t forget, Doc. I see everything.
I hesitate, suspicious, but Mohsin’s words find their way into my mind: She’s frightened, Daniel. You have to earn her trust. It takes time.
She smiles and turns her feet inward. Hands nervous and wringing.
I quickly place the pink note in my pocket.
“The Groom House?” I whisper.
Dolly nods.
Thank you, I mouth.
She stands and gathers her red satchel and pale blue mittens. Takes her time to hang the strap diagonally, then pushes her hands through thick knitted wool. I also stand. My internal supervisor preventing me from running over our boundaried fifty minutes regardless of my desire to hear more about last night’s espionage involving a photo shoot.
“Maybe you can ask Runner to come next time,” I speak loudly.
“I’ll try,” she says, rubbing together her mittens, “but she doesn’t like it here very much.”
“I know. She thinks I ask too many questions. She wants to protect you.”
Dolly glances down at the rug between us.
“I guess,” she says, eyes fixed on her feet. A nervous lean. “Oh, I forgot to tell you; the Flock keep traveling back in time, just like Doctor Who. It’s not nice. It feels scary.”
“You mean like a flashback?”
She shrugs.
“It’s okay,” I say, walking her to the door, “we’ll figure it out, Dolly.”
“Bye-bye, Mr. Talky.” She waves.
I sit down at my desk, hoping that penning some notes will ease my surging disquiet. I place the pink note in my top drawer along with a bunch of unopened letters and take out my notebook, a mild shake to my hand:
Alexa Wú: January 10
Dolly has disclosed the Flock’s dangerous and compromised “evidence gathering” at the Groom House (address to be confirmed). She claims to have “woken up” and witnessed Alexa taking photographs of Poy-Poy and Britney. (Explore this, very confusing narrative. Are they the same person?) She also alludes to an increase in headaches, flashbacks, loss of time, and mood swings.
Today I observed her switching into alternate self-states at great speed, again, and have written a script for additional risperidone and quetiapine—twice daily. I have also suggested she ask Anna to help her remember her medication, and she was not averse to the idea.
It seems Alexa’s personalities are warring for autonomy and power. It is now much clearer how Alexa (and her dissociated parts) functions, detailing her behaviors when engaging in specific situations (e.g., at work, when faced with conflict, and in relationships) and we are discovering how adaptive these action tendencies can be.
Oneiroi (I think) cited that Runner is keen for the Flock to uncover the trafficking ring and expose Navid (the Recruiter).
Tow, or Tao (the Transporter), is operating from mainland China, where the girls are coerced, purchased, and trafficked via Myanmar, Laos, and Malaysia in small groups or individually. From my understanding, they have come from poor families or parents who believe their daughters will be offered a better life. Tow/Tao’s sister—Cassie (the Middleman/Harborwoman)—is responsible for live pornographic streaming of underage girls, of whom there are approximately fifteen, all being held at the Groom House, where Cassie lives. She acts as “mother,” madam, carer, discipliner, enforcer, and the main link to buyers—mostly men.
I have warned the Flock about the potential danger they are in, suggesting that one of them—preferably Alexa? or Oneiroi—contact the police as soon as possible. If she is unable to do this, then I will need to report these crimes to the authorities myself.
I am left wondering about Alexa’s role in all of this. Is she acting as negotiator for all of her personalities? Or is she a conduit? A body? A hostage?
For a moment my confidence is lost, my mind turning blank—too tired to think—white noise replacing any prognosis. “I need coffee,” I speak out loud, and then as if from nowhere a voice—low, mean, and vindictive—whispers in my ear: Just one little drink, no one would ever know.
62
Alexa Wú
I’ve made Ella a surprise lemon meringue pie. Her favorite. A kind of twisted celebration now that we’ve gathered enough evidence to go to the police and Ella’s decided to leave the Electra. To mark new beginnings.
I picture Ella and me at the police station: a white boxy room with unflattering fluorescent lights, a cup of sweet tea offered in a white polystyrene cup. Our hands in our laps, feet flat on the floor. We’ll dismantle our lives for the past six months and explain how we were too afraid to leave in case Navid harmed us, or Grace, and how I was forced to photograph Poi-Poi. The sickness and fear I’d felt as Navid stood behind me giving instructions. His hand touching my back, Ella touching Poi-Poi’s cheek for necessary comfort. We’ll hand over the incriminating facts and photographs: email accounts, Tao’s address and his accomplices, the girls’ passports, Cassie’s offshore bank account statements, and a memory stick of photographs posted on the dark web. We need to get Annabelle and Amy’s brother’s medical notes too if we can, Runner suggests.
“Annabelle might agree to it, but not Amy,” I say out loud. “Now that she’s Shaun’s girlfriend.”
I gaze down at the pie. I’ve added a hint of mint glitter to the whisked meringue that I now hold above my head, like a hat. Testing for stiffness. Voilà, parfait!
I wash my hands seven times (better), bleach the linoleum kitchen floor (cleaner), check that the windows are locked (good), count the knives in the cutlery drawer (twelve), then pour a large bowl of Coco Pops, adding milk.
Take your medication, Alexa; it’s three a.m., for Christ’s sake! Oneiroi orders, You haven’t slept for two days straight.
I’m fine, I say, spooning the candied pops in my mouth, stop fussing!
You’re not fine, and you lied to Daniel. You said you’d ask Anna for help.
Oneiroi shakes her head and leaves. A puff of exasperation to her cheeks.
You try talking to her, she says, addressing the others.
The Fouls take the Light and slap my face. It stings just a little.
Your so-called friend’s not interested in pie, they snicker. She wants Navid.
Tick-tock, tick-tock—
It’s close to five o’clock when we eventually venture out in the cold to deliver the lemon meringue pie. My head is thick with slumber and I feel foggy and disoriented from the Nytol Oneiroi forced me to take.
It’s okay, Oneiroi soothed, you needed to rest. You’ve been asleep for most of the day.
Tick-tock, tick-tock—
When I finally arrive on the corner of Ella’s street, Runner steps out and checks my phone to make sure the photographs I took at the Groom House have been uploaded to the cloud, then hands back the Body. Head still a little hazy from the Nytol, I note the front curtains drawn at Ella’s flat. I make my way across the driveway, crunching the gravel, a spill of engine oil leaked and smelling. Next door’s cat paws its way toward the leak and sniffs its black goo, sneezes, then, spotting me, quickly sprints off.
Ahhh, look at the kitty. Dolly points.
“Cute, isn’t she?” I speak out loud.
Balancing the pie on my palm, I press the doorbell and wait.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
There’s nobody in.
Told you she’s not interested in pie, stupid.
Quiet!
Christ, my head hurts.
Just leave it on the doorstep.
No, someone will steal it.
Don’t be ridiculous, who’d nick a pie?
Where’s the kitty gone?
Maybe check the back door.
Good idea.
I walk around to the side of her flat and open the back gate, the loud sound of grime breakbeats coming from an open window. Grace must be home, I think, no surprise they couldn’t hear me ringing the doorbell. I look down at the wooden slat table parked on the garden lawn, noticing a recent cigarette stubbed out in a glass ashtray, smoke still drifting. A pack of Marlboro Reds resting on its side.
Who smokes Marlboro Reds? Runner asks.
“I’m not sure.” I speak out loud. “Shaun used to, but he quit, remember?”
Something doesn’t feel right, Oneiroi says as I approach the back of the flat. You should walk away right now.
Ignoring her warning, I step up to the window and—
I stop breathing. The pie slips from my hand.
There, on the couch, kissing Ella’s naked breasts, is Navid.
I try to look away and fail.
My Reason sways with pleasure, her eyes gently sealed, her mouth easy and open. Luxury moves her further toward him as he takes hold of her ass. Navid working over her nakedness like a predatory cat. Charged and confident, she edges closer and arches her back. My disgust mixed with just enough envy has me suddenly feeling like I need to leave the Body immediately.
How could she, I say, dampness creeping beneath my arms.
With Grace at home too? Oneiroi adds.
You absolute fools, the Fouls sneer.
Reaching to kiss Navid’s neck, Ella opens her eyes and—
I stumble backward. She screams. Jolts. Stands and pushes him away. But it’s too late. I’ve already seen her. And him. Together.
Tick-tock—
I do not remember fleeing or how I came to be here, wherever this is, outside in the cold. No pie. I light a cigarette and check my watch, noting I’ve lost at least two hours, my head throbbing with pain. It’s as though someone has whacked my skull with immense force. Nervous, I touch it, checking for blood—but there is none. Sweat creeping up the back of my neck, I force my eyes to blink.
The image of Ella and Navid suddenly returns.
We need to check on Grace, Runner says.
We can’t go in there, Oneiroi orders.
All I can think about is the desire in her half-closed eyes. The memory now branded in my mind and unlikely to fade.
You liar, you whore, you disgust me. I want to scream, but don’t.
Pathetic, the Fouls scold.
Were I to take her lying, treacherous words—It’ll be the last thing, I promise. Then we’ll go to the police and I can leave the Electra for good—and drag them across my legs, they’d cut far deeper than any knife. How could I have been so dense? So foolish? Clinging on to memories of when we were younger and how there was an innocence to our friendship like to a life raft. We knew our bodies were blooming but we didn’t know the power they held, the sex that was inside us. Teenagers, we practiced fun and fashion, swooned over boy bands and exercised ways to clear zits, unaware of the consequences our naiveté held. So silly we were. And stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid, the Fouls mock.
Tick-tock—
The rattling from a closing garage door startles me. I search for my phone to call someone, anyone, needing to hear the kindness of another’s voice, but then realize there is no one.
Anna, call Anna, Oneiroi says, panicked.
I look up, the sound of a car’s engine fast approaching; its music bleeding into the onset of night.
I scroll through my contact numbers, pausing on Anna W. before moving on to Daniel R. I check the time—7:58 p.m.—and dial.
Deeply ashamed that the only person I feel able to call is my shrink, I force my hand down my leggings and drag my nails along my inner thigh. Immediately any numbness reawakens.
The call goes directly to voicemail.
Convinced Daniel is ignoring me, I run my nails a second time. Blood appearing like the scrawl of something wild.
63
Daniel Rosenstein
A brunette with a round face and high bangs has replaced the previous redhead.
She rests herself against a pine dresser, a caramel Stetson perched on top of her head. In the background, a thin red curtain casts a crimson glow across her collarbones, fledgling and slight, as she stares out from the screen of my laptop; heavily made-up eyes like pits of smoke, one hand resting on her slim waist. Her other hand turned into an imaginary gun as she blows.
Scroll down, the screen instructs.
I reach her denim cutoffs, worn beneath a holster containing a faux gun. Then another message appears: Fantasy Friday! Come and meet all of our beautiful entertainers in your favorite wear. I feel an awkward strain between my legs.
Above me, Monica’s footsteps pad across the bathroom floor, a rose oil bath run by me earlier hoping it might soften her mood—and buy me some time to research the Electra.
I try, unsuccessfully, to picture Monica’s face morphed on the screen. Monica Cowgirl. The brunette’s brown eyes replaced with Monica’s blue. But her presence is too powerful to be recouped by another, so she remains—eyes lingering with silent inquiry. Her smile large, wide and perfect.
Vibrating in my front pocket I feel the insistence of my phone. I reach inside. Hardness grazing my hand.
Alexa Wú.
I feel a sharp sense of alarm.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Talky?”
“Dolly?”
I stand, eyes still locked on the screen. The cowgirl still insisting on my attention.
“Dolly, is that you?”
I hear the shrill in my voice. Stay calm, I tell myself, erection now wilted.
“We caught Ella with the Bad Man. Doing Bad Things. Grace is in the house too. Alexa’s very upset. She’s going to hurt herself.”
“Dolly, listen to me. You have to call out Runner,” I order, Mohsin’s words, Intervention is needed, ringing in my ears.
A pause.
“I’m frightened,” she whispers. “Alexa wants to run in front of a car.”
“Where’s Runner, Dolly?”
“Not sure. All confused. My stomach hurts. Alexa is going crazy in her head.”
I gather myself.
“Dolly, you need to be brave and call out Runner. Show her the Light. Tell her she needs to take control.”
“Be brave. Call out Runner. Take control,” she repeats.
The cowgirl hasn’t moved. Her face suddenly appears to me like it is sealed and fixed. A digitalized mannequin of compliance, disdain in her eyes.
“Dolly?”
Silence.
“Dolly, are you there?” I speak louder.
“Yes.”
“Are you safe?”
Silence.
“Dolly. Alexa. Are you safe? DOLLY!”
“Relax, Doc. We’re all safe, for fuck’s sake.”
Just like that, the phone call is ended. A flatlining silence filling my right ear.
Relieved at Runner’s intervention, I feel my eyes close. My breath searching for a slow and steady rhythm.
It’s not until I hear Monica enter my office that I realize I have my head in my hands, my elbows resting before my laptop. Legs clenched together at the knee, my ankles cramped. A strained contortion of pain shooting up my shins before finally reaching my thighs.
I eventually turn.
Swaddled in a white terry-cloth robe and smelling of rose, Monica stares at me, at my laptop—the cowgirl still there, hand resting on her slim
waist. Her contempt filling the entire screen.
Monica’s eyes narrow, their blue turning green. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“Research” is the best I can muster.
She exhales. “I’m leaving. Too many deal breakers. Don’t come after me.”
I do not wait to watch the door or go after her, part of me knowing she had already left anyway.
Forlorn, I finally let go. My inner boy surrendering as I cradle my body with self-parenting arms. The same relief drenching my whole shape as when my mother would rock me at night when I was unable to sleep. Her cotton nightdress damp with my night terrors.
64
Alexa Wú
Ella’s eyes are swollen. Bulging like eggs. Her mascara sponged away but still detectable by the slight tinge of coal above her cheeks.
“Thanks for meeting me,” she says. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
I am silent. Waiting, I suppose, for her to feel something, as I have for the past two days, willing myself not to immediately try to make it all better and have us talking like nothing has changed.
She catches my eyes. Early light casting an eerie haze through the West End café’s blinds. A block of morning shade hovering above our beige Formica table and across our hands. Ella guides a spray of loose sugar into a neat pile, then flicks it away.
“Nice café, didn’t realize you worked so central.”
“That’s because you’ve never asked.”
She nods. “You been here long?”
“Long enough,” I say. “I’m actually meeting someone here in half an hour, so let’s get this over with, shall we?”
A pause.
“I’m so sorry,” my Reason finally says, resting her hand on top of mine.
Though stirred, I am instantly suspicious. Untrusting. Still vexed. And betrayed.
I pull my hand away to punish. “What were you thinking?” I say. “He’s a fucking pimp.”
Ella pokes nervously in her purse, retrieving first a cheapo lighter, then a cigarette that she holds by its tan tip. Her nails chipped and bitten down.
The Eighth Girl Page 31