by Poppet
I look around. “Where is it then?”
“In your dad’s Rolls. You didn’t think I was jogging back, did you?”
Only now with every face in sight do I note that Jude has indeed arrived alone. His 6 and 9 are already here. That was not part of the plan. I glare at him, saying, “I should punch you for being a twat! That zone was too hot, in every sense of the word.”
“I couldn’t risk it, Vic. I went back, I got what we needed, and I made sure the sections we missed went boom with a little chemical help.”
He gives me the stare, the ‘I’ve got your back so say thank you before I hand you your pride in a jar to ruminate over on rheumy nights’.
“Thank you.” It’s the very least I can say. Moving us back to the kitchen, my arm still around Polina, I say while pointing to the table, “All of you, one by one, I need you to give me your left wrist. Jude, you’re first.”
•
Jude:
Impatience rides me hard. We’re running out of precious seconds, again. Stephen hands me a celebratory drink when I sit down at the kitchen table, resting my arm to Vic by resting it toward him on the table. With eerie calm he uses a scalpel from his surgeon’s bag to make an incision on the underside of my forearm, midway. Then using tweezers, with some tugging, gross gloop adhering to the foreign object, he extracts a microchip.
He places it in the centre of the table, revealing it, exposing one more secret to his men. The past is dust, this is the day of full disclosure and reckoning.
“Alpha adopted all of you when you were teens, if not younger. You were chipped for tracking during your first medical. This chip is inserted with a needle, you probably thought they were taking blood. I managed to wipe most of the records a few years back when I went on the run, but just in case the fuzz find another copy of the records in dad’s off site computers, we need to wipe them out,” says Victor.
“Alpha was fucked up twenty ways to Sunday,” mutters Kyle.
Victor nods, disinfecting the incision, closing it with spray on skin because it’s less likely to leave a scar than if he used stitches, plus it makes this a speedy procedure. I appreciate his economical approach. He ends our little session by placing medical tape over the incision, and waves me out of my chair. “Next. Hop to it chaps, I have a date to keep with the cameras.”
They take turns, each of them disgusted, crushing their chip once it’s extracted, drinking in celebration.
The fleeing is over. They’re no longer hunted men. The head is cut off the snake.
Finally Victor offers his wrist on the table to me. “Go on then. I’m not naive to think I’m special. He marked me too. The devil has a thing for marks.”
Victor points to a precarious position, between the tendons in his wrist underneath a web of fine veins feeding his hand. I could disable him if I fuck this up. “There?” I ask, to be sure he’s not joshing.
“Just make the incision,” orders Victor.
Dipping the scalpel into the alcohol again, copying the disinfection technique he used after each soldier sat down to be unmarked and set free from this earthly damnation, I cut precisely where he points.
Victor is stoic, seldom revealing weakness, and his strength infuses us all. We thrive in his aura, we are braver when he is close.
His blood wells and flows onto the table but he has no reaction to the pain, to the anxiety he must’ve experienced knowing how much trust for his mobility he just handed to me, giving me a scalpel and his wrist, the tender underside of vulnerability, no bone or muscle to provide security.
Withdrawing his arm he picks up the tweezers, his wrist resting on the table with his hand, close to his body, and he digs into his own flesh with savagery.
His chip is twice the size of any of ours. It’s mammoth and probably hurt him his entire life. Again, props to the saviour, he really is a cut above.
“Maybe I was special after all. Dad sure as fuck didn’t want to lose me,” he says, his tone derisive.
Smirking at him, I say, “You’re a fuckwit. I destroyed all records of chips when I went on the run with you after Alpha had bullets put in you when you married Shauna.”
“How is she?” asks Terry.
“Dead,” answers Victor, deadpan. “She knew too much. She’d suffered enough too. It was a true mercy killing.”
Victor keeps his head down, sealing the incision after disinfecting it with pure alcohol, covering it with surgical tape.
“I love you, Viktore,” says Polina, head tilted, smirking coyly at him.
“I know, sweetheart. I fucking know. And if you call me Victor again I’ll have to cut out your tongue. My name is Niel. Got it?”
She gets fire in her eyes, the hellcat ready to rumble. “Da vozlyublennaya.” (Yes sweetheart.) “Whatever you say, Niel, Polina be here, do eternity with Viktore’s glad eyes.”
He grins at her like a total moron, happiness I’ve never seen exhibited in his expression. But he has to save face in front of his men, so grumbles, “Save it for the bedroom, I’ll be back later. Right now I have an inheritance to claim.”
•
Victor:
Laughing, I move, shaking hands with my team, congratulating them on finally ending the war, and getting Jude to keep Polina put until I get back.
I’m out of time and rush to strip out of these threads to don Niel’s clothing again. I have no hang ups being naked in front of folks, who I am, what I am, I’m fucking proud of. If not me, then who?
I have a brand new future, and I’d rather sleep with a woman who’ll murder someone who tries to kill me, a woman who protects me, rather than the feeble woman I was previously married to. I’ve learned so much, grown so much, and changed so much.
It’s my turn to play the victim.
I was, really. I was raised in Hades and now finally the cage has no bars and I’m liberated. Niel’s death will satisfy every wronged woman I ever damaged, his death will pacify their hurt rage and guilt, it will also give law enforcement a wrapped up case in less then twelve hours of one of the worst revelations in modern political history.
I kiss Polina, then say, “Stay here where it’s safe. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Then I look to my men, my brothers, and warmth rifles through my innards. “Thank you.”
I can say no more, not now. I pocket Niel’s keys, all of his effects, and wait while Jude rushes to adhere Niel’s fingertip pads over my own. Jude is always one step ahead. If I was Immanuel he’d be my John the Baptist. High priests, the both of us.
I hoof it, jogging to the stashed Lamborghini, get in, and insert the thumb drive Jude gave me, listening to my brother speaking. How sad that when we met he didn’t utter one word to me. Not one.
Driving the back roads to Alpha’s destroyed estate, I copy Niel’s words, perfecting his inflection and accent.
Me, I’m devastated. I had a twin I didn’t know I had, and tonight he killed my father. My father was such a good man, the best! That’s gotta be my story now.
But he should’ve known. He named me Victor, and him Niel.
I am the Victor and my brother is the one who is dead on his knees in a bloody driveway in Bedfordshire.
He kneels, I stand victorious.
Oh Dad, you gave me the perfect out! You did one thing right in your life. Now I can live in the light, in public, and enjoy the rest of my days without looking over my shoulder.
Today, with a new identity for a face identical to mine, I am reborn. I’m born again!
Laughing I shake my head at the irony, driving through the throng outside ‘my’ home.
It is mine.
The kingdom is mine!
Not from my father, but from those who came before him. He was an impostor in this world, a delusional man with so many mental disorders I could write a medical journal on him. No, my freedom is from my grandmother, who died by my grandfather’s hand.
Evelyn Ward, her parents created this empire.
So it’s true after all. The meek inherit the Earth.
>
I was the one who followed every obscene order my father ever commanded, he threw me out of his heaven and betrayed me, and yet now, I am the one who will live in peace.
Peace. Wow, that’s a word that feels so foreign on my tongue. I have a woman who loves me so much she’d kill for me. I have love and peace. And money.
I think I like being Niel.
I’m here. This is the final hurdle, the final test for the son.
Vulture’s crowd the Diablo, news crews with microphones and lights slow my progress to a crawl, shouting at me in such chaos that I can’t discern one sentence or one question, and am saved answering. A police barrier is erected at the end of our road, and I’m forced to stop the car. Taking a deep breath, needing to be convincing of a sweet and spoiled child who was just nearly run off the road by his insane twin brother, I pop the door open. It’s widened instantly, a cute redhead shoving her mic at me. “Niel? Niel are you aware of what happened here tonight?”
Crushing my laugh I get out of the car, pretend panic, and shove through the throng. I push my way through the sea of chaos and get behind the police barrier, yelling, “What happened? Is father alright? Oh my word, what’s going on here? A man just tried to run me off the road! How can this happen on British soil? We’re targeted by terrorists!”
I’m sprinting now toward the carnage, and when in sight of my father and Niel, I collapse onto my knees, for all the cameras to capture my despair and anguish. On the ground beyond policemen and medics I bellow, a harsh and tormented wail of grief, then push up and run for my dad.
Policemen try to stay me, they try to halt me, but I wrestle, my face twisted in sorrow and pain, crying unashamedly. Some tosser says, “Let him through.”
I collapse next to Alpha, lifting him up and cradling him, wailing.
Folded over him, I kneel.
Niel kneels.
You were the hell on this Earth father, and I hope you rot in hell regardless. But I know better. The only evil here is in us, and what we do.
There are three things you can count on in life. The only trinity you need to give attention to:
Friendship.
Love.
Freedom.
We cage ourselves. We give our power away. We let other people tell us how to live and what to do. We follow orders from the day we’re born. We give them the power, and then get twisted when we become bitter and unhappy.
Accepting the blanket for shock, I let the medic guide me away from the corpse of what’s left of my family.
Guiding me towards my future.
Now I cry.
No one will ever know it’s not an act. Sat down on the seat of the ambulance I sob my fucking heart out. I cry with relief, with pain, with liberation, for all my sins, for all I’ve done, for all I’ve had to do. I cry for the childhood I never had, I weep for the father who could not love me even when it’s what I needed most from him, and I cry because my entire family turned their backs on me when I was just a defenceless child.
Bowing my head, being comforted by strangers, given a tranquilliser, giving a statement of my account of this unholy night, I watch the smouldering ashes of my father’s kingdom.
He underestimated me. They all did.
I am wealthy.
I have friends, I have love, and I am free.
I am Victory.
I wrestle out from under the blanket and the medics around me, striding toward the covered bodies.
Dawn is just breaking the edge of the horizon when I go down next to my father again. Pulling back the tarp, I bend over and kiss him again.
This is the final farewell.
“You took away my life, and you gave it back to me.” Tears blossom again, the hermetic seal on my soul has been broken and now buried emotions are spewing forth unchecked. “Thank you, Father. For all your wrongs I forgive you. Because tonight you have resurrected me.”
It’s whispered so quietly, and I hold my father a last time, cradling him the way he never cradled me, with tenderness.
Tonight I am reborn, bestowed with liberty and means, and I will take it with both hands, gladly.
•
Jude:
His comms are still in his ear. He’s transmitting to all of us, and we are assembled, riveted to the drama.
Polina sniffs loudly, wiping her eyes.
Looking around, I don’t see a single dry eye.
Our saviour humbles us all.
THE END
~ Epilogue ~
I do not have a command from the Lord,
but I give you my opinion …
~ 1 Corinthians
Victor:
THERE IS SOMETHING better for a wealthy man to indulge in than opening a church as a tax dodge. I am the proud owner of an obscene fortune and yet to pay tax on that withers my sentience. I am opposed to tax in its entirety. Tithing is for those who are not free, and I, my feeble followers, am free.
The cameras flash and blind us while we stand in front of the rebuilt empire. It’s a charity now and Polina is the poster girl. Here, today, is the first celebration of finding a way to keep my dosh tax free. I’m a spin doctor, and I’m spinning a new tune.
Raising my hands to the adoring paparazzi, I say when they quieten, “Thank you for attending the opening of Ridley Manor. As Niel Adam Ward it is my sworn duty as a man of conscience to atone for the wrongs wrought by my evil twin brother, Victor, and our father, Christopher Ward. It’s with heartfelt gladness that I present to you Miss Polina Scott, my fiancee, who was the victim of childhood paedophilia and trafficking. So many women are victims of the unholiest acts against humanity and yet you do not count them as statistics of a moral and spiritual war, one which we have ignored for decades. Ridley Manor is her stronghold now, for the charity Women Need You. Illegal aliens live amongst us, too afraid to come forward for fear that they will be extradited back to the very people who put them in peril and danger, who sold them like a commodity. To all you ladies watching this who were in Polina’s position, you have a new champion. She has the means, the financial backing, and the legal clout to help you. Call our toll free number on the bottom of your screen for help. Ridley manor is your safe house. It is your haven. Our soldiers are paid to be in danger, they’re provided counselling for their psychological trauma and physical wounds, and yet women are the recipients of the same level of violence, coupled with bodily violation, fracturing hearts and minds alike, yet these victims are expected to continue as if their oppression and victimisation is normal. Ladies account for more than half our population, statistics proving that even in marriage most are assaulted, raped and abused, and yet no one is providing these ladies with the psychological and moral support they need.”
I hand the microphone to Polina.
She’s beaming, smiling from ear to ear.
“I am thanking you. This is so precious. Niel is so kind, no like his father. I met his father, his father lock me up and beat me, he call me dirty angel. Is not our fault to be dirty, bad man make us dirty. For why is it woman’s fault to be violated? Come home my sistras, Polina teach you to kick head, to defend your own body. God gave you two things the day you be born. Your body and your spirit. And no man may take that from you by force. If he do, he be the devil. Only devil makes mark on the body. A bruise is mark borne of violence, is from devil.”
She gets shy, hiding behind my shoulder, nodding coyly, whispering into the mic, “Thank you.”
This world has no clue who she is. She seems like a divine intervention, and for me she is, but she’s so much more.
I hand the microphone back to the roadie, saluting the crowd, and guide her inside the open doors of the manor.
I can’t wait to get upstairs.
It’s time for us to decide who we’re killing tonight.
Human trafficking is an epidemic. Just because a religion says a‘god’ says it’s okay, doesn’t make it okay.
And the Israelites took captive the women of Midian and their little ones – and
kill every woman who is not a virgin.
But all the young girls who have not known man by lying with him keep alive for yourselves.
~ Numbers 31: 9
Parabiosis is a real thing.
You can read more about it here, here, and here.
There is plenty of scientific examinationinto this, and personally I don’t think humanity should be so obsessed with ageing and vanity (and death) that parabiosis is justified. It’s morally reprehensible.
Gratitude
For this final novel I have many people to thank for standing with me throughout the seven years it took me to write this series. First and foremost I’d like to thank Rod Glenn, owner of Wild Wolf Publishing, for giving Darkroom a publishing contract. Darkroom was my debut novel and Rod’s support bolstered me so much, giving me faith in myself and the courage to pursue writing as a career.
Rod, thank you for your friendship and unwavering support of my work. You are one of my rocks, such an anchor, and you don’t receive the adulation you deserve for being the champion to so many.
To Twiggles and Kells, thank you for your love. You have remained by my side with devotion, you’ve held me up when I had doubts, and you continue to give me a reason to write yet another novel. Without you two I’d not be here now. Thank you! I love you so much, you have become my sisters.
To my husband, Mister Poppet, you have heard me rant about these characters, you have seen me sob and cry while writing deep into the night, you’ve lived through all I go through being the author of so much sadness and pain, silently supporting me, leaving me to sleep late when I work through the night, and tirelessly waking me up with a hot mug of coffee. Your love is so constant and true, and honestly I know I couldn’t have done any of this without you.
To the book bloggers, readers, and reviewers, wow, I can never thank you for all you have done for me. Reading your reviews has given me the self-confidence I sorely lacked when I started this series. Thank you for every share, every click, every review, and every moment we have shared in email and social media. You do such a selfless service to authors, and truly no author can thank you enough for your thoughtfulness, sweetness, and selfless giving of so many hours of your life to our craft. Thank you!