Bovicide, Zombie Diaries, and the Legend of the Brothers Brown

by Stephen Bills

  * * *

  In the hour since being rescued, Lisa had spoken less than ten words. It wasn’t that Quentin didn’t try to talk to her – he did, always on with the latest gossip or small talk – it was that Lisa wanted some quiet to process what her life had become. Eventually Quentin went down to the pub and left her alone in his house.

  Lisa made herself pasta and waited. There was little in the house for entertainment: no TV, no computer, just a radio so old it was technically a wireless. She found one of the few books that didn’t have pictures and, two hours into it, heard the front door click and placed the hardcover spine-up on the side table. Someone stopped at the edge of the living room.

  It was Jim.

  He placed a backpack on the carpet, his long face paler than usual, the eyes deeper set and mouth drawn tight, a very different man to the one who’d taken her to see the Andrastes four nights ago. Or the one who’d glared at her from the top of Richard’s trap that morning.

  Had the Team followed him? Did they know he’d helped her escape? Was she to be taken to London for study? Had the order been given to kill her?

  Was he going to obey?

  Jim stared at her, drawing her in, but his expression remained wooden. Lisa waited him out. After all he’d done, she sure as hell wasn’t making the first move.

  “There’s a cure,” he said at last.

  Was that his idea of comfort? To see her as a problem, like McGregor did: a disease, a mongrel. She’d seen the disgust in his eyes. It was over between them. Jim didn’t want to be with her. He wanted to solve her.

  She was nothing but a case to him now.

  Lisa narrowed her eyes. “What?”

  “For what you are. There’s a cure.”

  “For what I am…” The words hung in the air as the clock sliced time between them. She got out of the chair and stepped forward. Jim backpedalled half a pace.

  “And this makes it all better?” she asked. “We can pretend you didn’t hand me over to be crucified?”

  “To be what?”

  “Focus, Jim!” Lisa snapped, stepping closer. This time he stood his ground. Lisa wondered whether she should punch him again. It had felt good the first time. “I spent twelve hours locked in a cell! My boyfriend nearly had me killed! You don’t think we should talk about that?”

  Jim risked a glance up from the floor. “What can I say?”

  “To make it all better?” Lisa asked. “To make me understand you, Jim? I don’t want to understand. I don’t want to understand why my boyfriend hated the sight of me. I want you out of this house.”

  “I can fix it.”

  “Fix it? Fix me?” she asked, staring. “And what will that cost? Who else will you sacrifice because you think it’s the right thing to do? Dom? Your mother? Everyone?” Jim didn’t say anything, which meant she was right on the money. He was only quiet when someone was already speaking his mind. “Jim, if you have to kill anyone, you’re not doing the right thing.”

  He nodded. “I didn’t mean for thi—”

  “Yes you did! You knew exactly what you were doing when you handed me over! You knew they wouldn’t let me go, but you could live with it because you told yourself you had no choice, or that it was justice because of what I am. Get out.”

  “It’s not like tha—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Jim!” She grabbed the hardback book off the table and pressed her fingers hard into it. As long as he stayed quiet, she might resist hurling it at his head.

  After a minute of what looked like moping, Jim said, “You can’t… leave the house. Mitchell will kill you on sight.” His eyes had the same pleading for love they had fifteen years ago. The same desire to do right. The same ignorance of what “right” really meant.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll stay here.”

  “How can I prov—”

  “You can’t!” Lisa threw the book behind her so she wouldn’t be tempted to swing it at him. “Trust has to be earned and I can’t trust you. Ah!” She grabbed her left wrist, which felt like it had been torn open again. Blood seeped through yet another bandage.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “No I’m not all right!” She clamped a hand on her wrist and clenched her teeth at the pain. “I was shot. It fecking hurts. Maybe you’ll get to find out one day. Soon, if you don’t leave.”

  Jim hung his head and nodded. “I’m going. I just wanted to know you got out okay.”

  “I’m fine. I’m giddy,” she said icily, and headed to the bathroom to check her arm. She heard the front door click, then an engine rev and splutter off down the road.

  Alone in the bright white bathroom, Lisa allowed herself to break down again.