by Julie Frayn
Doc Kroft nodded, her lips puckered. “I see. That’s quite the one-eighty.” She tapped her pen against her cheek. “What happened, Billie? Why the emergency appointment?”
Billie set the coffee on the table and lay back on the chaise. She dropped her hands to her belly, her gaze focused on the tin ceiling maze. “I had another fugue episode.”
Doc’s pen scratched on the lilac pad. “When?”
Billie explained the events of Saturday.
“I see. How long were you in the fugue state?”
One thing Billie appreciated about the doc. When it came to talk of disorders and other serious shit, she was all business. “Well, I remember Friday night. But not waking up Saturday morning.”
“So sometime after, what, midnight? Until late in the afternoon. At least seven hours, maybe up to fourteen or fifteen.”
Billie nodded. “Sounds about right.”
“So that’s the farthest you’ve travelled and your longest state yet. And, to be frank, the weirdest.” Paper rustled and the pen scratched.
Billie couldn’t bring herself to sit up and face the doc.
“Have you checked the news? Found out if anything happened out that way?”
“Happened?” Billie wasn’t sure if she was ready to share the potential realities.
“Billie, you had a knife. You cut yourself. I doubt anything happened, but have there been reports of any ….” Doc’s linen pants shushed against her leather chair. “Have you checked to see if anyone has been stabbed?”
Billie sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “Yes. I did. And yes, someone was stabbed. And she died. In the exact area where I woke up, or whatever you call it. Well, a couple of miles away.” Damn her motor mouth of guilt. And damn her ping-ponging psyche. Overcome by the likelihood that she’ll rot in hell for bringing her justice fantasies to life one minute. Ready to punch strangers in the face for cutting in line at the coffee shop the next.
Doc nodded. “I see.” She set her notepad aside and tented her fingers. Her cheeks pinked. She stared at Billie for what seemed like an hour. “I’m going to suggest …” she clamped her lips together. “No, I’m going to insist that you avoid the newspaper. No more editing the endings. No more red pen of appropriate justice.”
Billie stared at her psychologist, a woman trained to find answers, to get to the bottom of the truth of Billie’s own special brand of psychosis. “Really? You think I should just avoid the whole thing?”
Doc sighed. “For now. Is there any chance you could stay with this boyfriend of yours? Have someone with you at night in case you wander? Does he know about this?”
Billie nodded. A little white lie. He didn’t know about the dead woman in Ivy Valley.
“As you know, we have confidentiality between us.” She bit her lip. “But do you trust this subway man to keep his mouth shut?”
“I do.”
“Good.” Doc reached behind her and picked up a prescription pad. “Get this filled and start taking them today. That’s step one. Step two is support. As in regular counselling. Maybe we can nip this thing now and prevent any further … incidents.”
“Have you seen the paper?” Bruce slid the Grantham Herald across the island between his beer bottle and her wine glass and tapped the open page.
Billie shoved it back to him. “Nope. Can’t. Doctor’s orders. Just like staying with you, I’m to avoid the news. And I’m not to edit.” Her fingers itched to pull a pen out of her purse. But what ending would she give this crime? What fate did she deserve?
“Billie, a woman died just miles from where I picked you up. Stabbed.” He put his hand over hers. “Just tell me, do you think it was you?”
She yanked her hand away. “I don’t know.” Her voice screeched from her throat. She dropped her chin and shut her eyes. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know. But — maybe.”
She couldn’t bear to look at him. Didn’t want him to see the truth. That she was drowning in a cesspool of disgust and fear and sin and hell. But at the surface of that pool was the divine light of power and strength and righteous indignation. That woman deserved her fate. And if Billie was the hand of God, wasn’t that her own fate? Her destiny? Her super-power? And didn’t she owe it to God to carry out his bidding?
“Look, I know you were in that foog state of mind thing.”
“F-you-g.”
He cocked his head. “Billie. Whatever.” He circled the island and slid behind her stool, draped his arms over her shoulders, and rested his evening whiskers on her cheek. “It’s a real disorder. It wouldn’t be your fault.” He kissed her cheek and perched on the seat next to her. He smoothed her hair and ran a thumb across her forehead like half a baptism. “I mean, damn, it’s scary as hell, the possibility. But shit. Pretty sexy. In a sick, twisted, warped, Batchick kind of way.”
She held her breath for a few heartbeats. “Do you think so?”
“Hell yeah, I think so.” He tugged her off her stool and pulled her toward him. “Except that I can’t see you harming a soul.”
“No souls. But what about the living? The soulless and the callous and the murderers.” She smacked the newspaper. “The rapists.”
“No one. It’s just not in you.” He grabbed her waist with both hands and shimmied her hips back and forth. “But if it was you, well, hell. I knew it the first minute I met you, Billie. You are badass.”
“If not a little crazy.” Her cheeks flushed with heat.
“Crazy good.” He kissed her.
She gripped his shirt in both hands. “What if it is me? What if I get caught? I mean, it’s justice, right? But it’s illegal too. That whole eye-for-an-eye thing I grew up with. They killed someone, I took their life. They raped someone, I took their ability to rape away.” She swallowed. “Theoretically.” She rested her head on his chest. “If I’ve taken lives, should I not die as punishment? And what about whoever puts me to death? Is it their turn next? I mean, where does it end?”
“And that little realization is just one of many reasons I skip church and God and just live my life my way. Because no matter what you do, you just can’t win.” He hugged her hard. “I think you’d be less murderer, more vigilante superhero.”
She pulled away. “I’m no superhero.”
“Aren’t you? Fighting for truth, justice. The Canadian way?”
She laughed. “The Canadian way? So after I fix their wagons I should apologize and offer them a double-double?”
He roared. “Yeah, that’s about right.” He scratched at the stubble on his chin.
Her body flushed with warmth at the memory of his whiskers against her cheeks when he kissed her. Against her breasts and her belly. Against her inner thighs.
He took a gulp of beer. “You need a name. For the press. You know, just in case. If you have a name, you’ll gain a following. No one will want to convict you.”
“You’re having a little too much fun with the possibility that I slice people up in my off hours.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I’d be okay with it. Maybe I’d even join in your crusade.”
“I doubt that. But I’ll play along. What is my superhero name?”
“Billie the Badass? Or Billie with the sweet ass.” He flashed his eyebrows up and down grabbed her behind with both hands.
She grinned and slapped his arm.
He pulled her body to his and stared into her eyes. “And I can be your sidekick. Robin to your Batchick.” He kissed her forehead. “Your Kato.” He licked her cheek. “Your Bucky Barnes.” He nibbled her lips. “Your, your … Your Jimmy Olsen.” He buried his nose behind her ear and kissed her neck.
Adrenaline flooded her body and pooled between her legs. “More like my Dum Dum Dugan.”
He snickered into the tender skin at her collarbone, swept her into his arms, and headed for the bedroom. His long arm reached around her body and he caressed her breast with one hand.
She closed her eyes and leaned against his shoulder. “Maybe my Jughead Jon
es.”
Friday, August 14th
BILLIE HIT THE SEND button and closed her laptop. First freelance job complete. Money in her bank account. Or at least her PayPal account. She guzzled what remained of her tepid tea and checked the stove clock.
Plenty of time to shower and put on her best business suit. The one she’d never worn. Never had a reason to. But today was different. Today blossomed with possibilities. Today she was going upstairs to be interviewed. Her chance to vault out of the proofing pool and lounge by the side, champagne glass in hand, with the other editing elite.
After that? The perfect topper to the day. Her regular Friday dinner with Bruce. Not that they were on a schedule anymore. He slept over at her house, and she at his. They went to the gym together any day of the week they felt like it, met for a quick lunch when he had meetings in her end of town. Her normal scheduled existence had become life by the seat of her pants. It scared her at first, but she’d grown into the randomness of it. But Friday dinner, that was a staple. No matter what. And that tiny slice of schedule brought her a huge helping of peace and comfort.
Two hours later, she sat at her desk, licked her fingers, and glued a stray hair to her head. She’d worn her hair in a high ponytail, but not confined to a bun. Bruce’s recommendation. He said it made her look sleek and professional, but not uptight. She dabbed rose gloss across her lips and used one fingernail to separate a clump of mascaraed lashes. She’d never felt less uptight in her life.
She blinked against her new contact lenses. It was like there were shards of glass in each eye instead of malleable plastic that didn’t hide her beauty behind thick rims. Bruce meant well, but Billie couldn’t reconcile beauty with brains. Contact lenses with accomplishment. But he had more experience climbing ladders than she did, corporate or otherwise.
“Are those pants?”
Katherine had snuck up on her, stealthy despite her clunky Guess heels and her jingling jewelry.
Billie cleared her throat. “Yes. A suit.”
Katherine’s doom brow shot up. “Huh. Looks nice.” She twirled one pointed finger in the general direction of Billie’s face. “I like the lenses.” Katherine walked away.
Billie sat in stunned silence. No zinger? No threats to her safety? Was that an actual … compliment? Her hand trembled. It was a bad omen. The calm before the shit storm. Katherine had pulled some nasty trick and doomed Billie’s chances at the job. Undermined her, cut her off at the pass.
Breathe, Billie. She closed her eyes and gripped the edge of the desk with her fingertips. There was a chance that Katherine was being sincere. That she simply liked Billie’s suit.
When 7-Eleven closes on Christmas Day.
She opened her eyes and shot red ink poison darts through Katherine’s open office door.
A calendar reminder popped up on Billie’s screen. Fifteen minutes until the interview. She gathered her editing samples and tucked them in her briefcase alongside references from authors and the editor of Dreckula’s business card.
She clicked the case shut, tossed a piece of gum in her mouth, and chewed it one hundred times before spitting it into the garbage. She stood, smoothed the front of her suit jacket, and shook her leg. The rayon of her pants dislodged from the sheath. She knew there was a reason she didn’t wear pants.
“You’ll be great.” Jeffrey came out from behind his cubicle wall and looked her up and down. “Twirl.”
Billie giggled and did as he asked.
“Whew, honey, your ass looks hot in those slacks. You ought to ditch the librarian garb and update your closet.”
“Well, if I get this job, that’ll be first order of business.” She’d wanted to expand her choices, add some figure-flattering tight-fitting clothes. Bruce seemed to think she had the body for it.
“It’s a date!” Jeffrey clapped his hands.
“A date?”
“You don’t think you’re going shopping without me, do you? Girl, I can hook you up.”
Billie nodded. “All right. A date. I’m ready to be hooked.”
“I didn’t stumble once, didn’t say um or er or any of the obvious nervous tells, and she kept zinging questions my way and I fielded them all, deflected the onslaught with my gold bands of justice, ptiu, ptiu, ptiu.” Billie held her arms up and mimed Wonder Woman’s patented wrist action.
Bruce laughed. “I’m not surprised. I knew you’d kick ass. When do you hear back?” He shoved a big bite of rare steak, dripping blood and juices, into his mouth. He gestured to the waiter, tapped his empty beer bottle and Billie’s mostly empty glass of Petit Verdot with his fork.
“They interview through Tuesday, thin the herd, and bring the shining stars back for one more interview. With the editor-in-chief.”
“Right to the top dog. This must be quite the position.”
“Well, if I do get it, I’ll be catapulted about three rungs ahead of where I am. A few years later, who knows? Maybe I’m the editor-in-chief.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
The waiter set a full bottle of beer in front of Bruce and another half-carafe of wine next to Billie’s glass.
“Jeffrey is so sure I’ll get it, he’s already planning a shopping trip so I’ll have the right wardrobe for the position.”
Bruce screwed up his face. “Jeffrey? Isn’t that the weasel?”
Billie nodded and swallowed a mouthful of prawn risotto. “He’s not so bad. Ever since I stopped him from getting beat up, he’s kind of become my best friend.”
“I thought I was your best friend.”
“Okay, he’s my gay best friend.”
Bruce raised his bottle. “To Billie. Future editor-in-chief. Superhero to Grantham’s victims of crime.” He reached across the table with his other hand and brushed a thumb across her cheek. “Woman of my dreams.”
Her face flushed with warmth and she averted her eyes. “Aw, gee. Thanks.” She clinked her wine glass to his bottle. “Cheers.” She downed the remaining wine and filled her glass. “Can we have pie?”
Tuesday Morning
BILLIE STARED AT the police artist’s rendering on the front page. A sketch of two suspects in a string of robberies and assaults on women, including one rape.
She scanned the article, her finger traversing the newsprint. Police were concerned that the dynamic duo would escalate and end up murdering someone in the commission of one of their crimes. Women were warned to avoid dark streets or alleys, never walk alone, keep their purses close to their bodies.
It’s always up to the women to change their habits. To avoid becoming a victim. How about the cops catch the perpetrators and the courts actually prosecute them for their crimes and keep the streets safe for law-abiding citizens? That would be a nice change.
She eyeballed the familiar tribal neck tattoo and the bandana. That was new. She opened the page to find grainy screen grabs from a shitty security camera. No matter the quality of the pictures, they were easily recognizable. Bat Head and his disciple. What was his name? Tom or Tim or … Todd. That was it. But Todd had walked away from Bat Head the day he’d assaulted Billie on the subway. Maybe bullying a woman with one leg wasn’t enough for Todd to risk arrest, but clearly Bat Head was in charge and Todd had fallen right back into step.
She read the article three times. They had no fingerprints, only eyewitness testimony and a few security videos. Anyone who knew Bat Head’s swagger and his habit of yanking his pants up every other step might recognize him. Or might write it off as just another anonymous teenager, like so many others roaming the streets after dark without proper parental supervision.
But Billie knew. It was him.
She dialled Bruce’s number. “You aren’t going to believe who made the morning paper.”
“So, what’s his fate?” Bruce sat at her breakfast counter hunched over the newspaper. “The little bastard has really taken a bad turn. Rape?” He shook his head. “Shit.” He reached across the counter and snatched a red pen from her pencil cup.
Billie put h
er hand over the pen and pushed it away from the paper. “No editing, remember? If I do, and something happens, it might prove it’s me.”
“And if we don’t, and something happens, what does that prove?”
Billie shrugged. “That I’m not a murderer?”
Bruce put the end of the pen between his lips and sucked on it. “Vigilante superhero, remember?” He touched the red tip to the page. “Come on. You know you want to.”
Oh, yes, she did. “He needs real jail time. He’s a good-looking kid. He’d find out soon enough what rape is.”
Bruce nodded. “I like it. An eye for an eye. Theoretically speaking.” He winked, and began to edit.
“Or maybe he should meet the same fate as those clowns. Except for the dying thing.” Though that wouldn’t be so bad either.
Thursday, the 20th
BILLIE VIEWED THE sidewalk as if through a glass tunnel. The periphery blurred, shadows jumped, and light refracted, her focus laser sharp on her target. Gold Tooth sat hunched in the same spot he’d occupied for more than a week. Perhaps longer, but had he been there before, she’d never noticed. His presence only became clear when she was overwhelmed by her own guilt, by the possibility she was no different, no better than him.
If she had murdered, it hadn’t been with intent. And if Gold Tooth really had saved her life, if he hadn’t pulled the trigger that killed her parents and took her leg — how could she judge him? The courts had already done that. And he still had to answer to God.
She stopped two steps beyond his rumpled form, took a deep breath, turned back, and plopped down on the pavement beside him, her eyes firmly on his face.
He smiled at her and shook his cup. He cocked his head and squinted. “Saw you the other day.” His voice was old and gravelly. “You never help a poor man out.” He shimmied the cup again.
“Help you?” Her voice spat from her mouth. She took a breath. “Why should I help you?” She couldn’t hold his gaze. She looked away and stared at an ad on a bus stop bench across the street. She focussed on the hefty bosom of a scrawny model selling vodka and struggled to keep her breath steady, to keep her butt planted on the cement. To not jump up and flee.