Infixion (Mesmeris Book 2)

by K E Coles

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘What can you see – around you, what can you see?’

  I scanned the street for something, anything. ‘There’s a pub,’ I said, ‘the George and Dragon, but it’s boarded up.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay. I’ll find you. Just stay where you are.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered, then cut me off.

  I crossed the road, and waited outside the pub. A breeze picked up. As the sweat dried, so the cold crept back into my limbs.

  A red bus appeared, going to Camden, so I jumped on. I sent Art a message, said I’d see him at Mrs Arnold’s. After all, I had nowhere else to go.

  I leaned my face against the cool glass. It was almost dark outside. Big, fat raindrops splattered against the window. People hurried past the brightly lit shop windows, hunched into their coats, struggling with umbrellas. I wondered about their lives, if they had worries like mine, and I thought probably not. And I wished I was them, any of them, instead of me.

  Someone sat next to me. Art. Rain dripped from his hair, ran down his face. He smiled. ‘Are you okay?’ Why, why did he have to be so beautiful?

  ‘Am I your target?’ I prayed he’d say no, even if it was a lie.

  ‘What?’ He’d heard me all right, I could see it in his eyes, the guarded shadow, the withdrawal.

  ‘Am I your target? Yes or no?’

  One tight nod.

  I stood, pushed past him, and rang the bell.

  He stood up too, and followed me off the bus. ‘Listen.’

  Rain hammered down on my head.

  He took my elbow. ‘In here.’

  An amusement arcade, all flashing lights and crap music.

  Art fished some change out of his pocket. ‘Here.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Pearl . . .’ He looked right into my eyes. ‘Papa’s given an order. He wants you taken in.’

  ‘Taken in?’

  ‘He thinks you’re pregnant, and he doesn’t want you getting away.’

  ‘Papa thinks I’m . . ? Why would he think that?’

  Art put money in the fruit machine, pulled the lever. The machine span then clunk, clunk, clunk – two lemons and a strawberry.

  ‘Why, Art?’

  More money in the slot. He looked up, blue eyes, treacherously beautiful. ‘Us – me fucking you, those were my orders.’

  I stared at him but his eyes were back on the machine.

  ‘What? Why?’

  He stared straight ahead, pulled the lever.

  The sickness, the nausea. ‘Oh, my God!’

  Three plums. The machine spat out a load of coins.

  He bent to scoop them out of the tray.

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, irritated.

  ‘All right? How can it be all right?’

  His mouth was set, hard.

  ‘So it was your job?’ I said. ‘Those nights, when I thought . . . You were working?’ This had to be a nightmare – had to be.

  ‘Pearl . . .’ A flash of blue eyes – and away.

  ‘I was a task, was I? A chore?’

  ‘Listen . . .’

  ‘No – no.’ I held my hand up. ‘Just tell me. Did you feel nothing for me? Nothing at all?’

  A masochist picking at a scab. I had to do it, had to dig into that raw, weeping wound.

  He shrugged. Shrugged.

  I couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. I longed to get away from there, from him, but my legs wouldn’t work and I was afraid of falling. I held onto the machine, stared at my white knuckles. What an idiot. What an idiot.

  ‘Papa said you’d be vulnerable,’ he said, ‘after Jack. Said I had the best chance, because I look like him.’ Another flash of those hypnotic eyes. ‘He said you’d be easy.’

  ‘Easy?’ My laugh almost made me gag. ‘And I was, wasn’t I? Shit, I was so easy.’

  ‘It’s understandable.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Pearl . . .’

  I walked away, steadying myself on each machine I passed, legs wobbly and weak. Humiliation, anger at my own stupidity and, worst of all, a sense of loss – again. Except this time, I’d lost something that never even existed in the first place, something I’d invented.

  He blocked my way, backed me into a corner, next to yet another machine. ‘Think about it. I used protection, didn’t I?’

  He put a coin in the new machine, pulled the lever.

  ‘You’re saying you went against Papa’s orders?’ I snorted. ‘As if.’

  An orange, two bananas.

  He looked straight at me. ‘I thought it would kill you, all right – to have a kid – and have it taken away.’

  ‘That was Papa’s plan?’

  He nodded.

  Was there nothing that monster wouldn’t do? ‘I was sick today,’ I said, ‘and yesterday.’

  He stared at me.

  Three lemons. Coins clattered into the tray but his eyes didn’t leave mine.

  ‘Are you late?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I’d lost track, stopped paying attention.

  He exhaled. His eyes held mine for just a moment longer and in that moment, I saw something I wasn’t meant to see – something damaged and broken, something private.

  He fed the machine, over and over, punching one coin after another into the slot, as if he hated it.

  The noise, the lights, the spinning symbols, made me dizzy but there was hope there too, in amongst all the crap. He’d risked failure and Mesmeris didn’t tolerate failure. He’d risked death for me, to protect me. I could cling on to that, stop myself sinking into the mire.

  ‘It would be your child too,’ I said, ‘and he wants to take it.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And he kills your mother and you still call him Papa.’

  ‘He’s the only father I have.’ That beautiful mouth, corners tugged down.

  ‘And Ben?’

  He turned his face away, made an incoherent noise.

  I touched his back. He flinched, so I took my hand away. ‘Papa’s not a father to you,’ I said. ‘He controls you, but he doesn’t love you.’

  ‘And you do?’ His eyes flashed to mine and away.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, shocked to realise it.

  He ran his hand along the tray, took out one last coin, fitted it in the slot, pulled the lever. ‘Then you’re a fool,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Orange. Banana. Pineapple.

  He put his hands in his pockets, felt around. ‘A suicidal maniac.’

  ‘Like you,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’ He gave the machine a kick. ‘Like me.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY PEARL

  He walked a hundred yards behind me all the way home. ‘I’ll spot a tail,’ he said. ‘I probably trained them.’

  As soon as we were in my room, the situation hit me. ‘What if I am . .?’ The word was too terrifying to say aloud, as if hearing it would somehow make it real. ‘What are we going to do?’ I held onto the door handle, leaned back against it, to stop them getting in, whoever they were.

  He paced the floor. ‘I have a plan.’

  ‘A plan?’ Why did my voice have to sound so shrill? ‘Do I survive, in this plan?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘And are we together?’

  He kissed me, pressed me back against the door. No softness or gentleness this time. His lips bruised mine, crushed them. He pulled away. His eyes seemed darker, deeper. His breath, shallow and quick, echoed my own.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  He made a noise, half-sob, half-choke, and then he kissed me again and this time was nothing like the others. This time, I lost myself, my sense of time, of place, of where my body ended and his began – and I thought he did too. The room, the bed, seemed to dissolve around us, so there was nothing else in the universe, nothing but us.

&nbs
p; Afterwards, he lay on his front.

  I stared at the mark on his back, the red weal, long-healed. I traced the line with my finger, wished I could make it disappear. I kissed the back of his neck, rested my cheek against the jagged scar.

  ‘It must have hurt,’ I said, ‘when they did it.’

  He turned to face me, put a finger over my mouth. ‘Shush.’

  ‘It looks deep.’

  He threw the covers off and stood up.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  He pulled on his clothes.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? ‘Get back into bed, please.’

  He stood over me. ‘Say it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Say it. Say you love me. Say it.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Say it again.’

  The sharp edge to his voice made me uneasy, the manic glint in his eyes, even more so.

  ‘I love you,’ I said.

  ‘Again.’

  ‘Your turn,’ I said, with a feeble laugh.

  ‘I have to go.’ He picked up his coat.

  ‘No.’ I jumped off the bed, stood between him and the door.

  He tried to pull me aside. I braced my feet.

  ‘Pearl, move.’

  ‘No.’ I pushed my back against the door. I couldn’t lose him, not him as well.

  He smiled. ‘You can’t stop me. I’ll just lift you out the way. Simple as that.’

  ‘Please.’ I caught his arm. ‘Please don’t go. I have a bad feeling. Please, stay with me.’ Tears ran down my face but I knew I’d lost.

  He gently removed my hand.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ I said.

  ‘No.’

  So I pretended to give up, let him open the door. I’d followed him before. I’d do it again.

  I waited until the front door clicked shut and then went after him.

  Last time, he’d been easy to tail. Not only was his head a mess but it was light and he was slow and unobservant. This time was different. By the time I was outside the house, he was already at the end of the road. I ran after him but he was so fast, I lost him in the darkness. It seemed likely he’d head for the tube station so I went there but the platform was deserted.

  Mainline then. It took me too long to get there. Plenty of people but none of them Art.

  I dithered, yet again. He could have gone in any direction. Guessing would be a waste of time. Perhaps Mrs Arnold would have an idea where he’d go. I went home, knocked on the living room door.

  ‘Yes, dear?’ Same smile as ever – warm, motherly, but she stood in the doorway, blocking my view. It made me nervous.

  ‘I wondered . . .’ the words just would not come ‘. . . um . . . if you were all right.’

  She smiled but her eyes looked weird, they held mine just a little too long. I had a feeling there was someone with her although I heard nothing. It was as if I could sense another heartbeat, someone else breathing, listening. It was ridiculous but goose pimples prickled my skin in waves. I laughed for no reason. It sounded bizarre in the silent hallway.

  ‘Is Art still here?’ Mrs Arnold said.

  ‘He’s outside, waiting for me.’ On some deep, primeval level, I felt threatened. She was the only one who knew I’d found Maria – the only one. Stupid thought. She was a sweet old lady.

  ‘I thought he’d gone,’ she said.

  ‘We’re just popping out – for a drink. I’d – better go,’ I said.

  ‘Let me know when you get back, would you?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, all right.’

  She shut the door in my face.

  Fear like I’d never felt before coursed through my veins. Groundless, but too powerful to ignore. I had to see if there was someone there, or if I was going crazy. I crept around the side of the house and into the back garden, peered through the narrow gap in the curtains, where the window was left open for Tootsie to come in and out. There was someone, a man with white hair. He sat on the sofa, legs outstretched, his back to me. A boyfriend. I almost laughed. Why shouldn’t Mrs Arnold have a boyfriend, just because she was old? What I’d taken to be menace, was nothing but embarrassment. Maybe she’d thought I’d be shocked, poor, sweet old thing.

  She seemed agitated, the way she paced the floor, hands folded together. ‘. . . deal with it,’ she said, ‘like . . . Ben . . .’

  I caught my breath. My heart beat loudly in my ears, so loudly, I missed what she said next.

  Her boyfriend stood, held her shoulders, and said something. I heard two words - ‘plan’ and ‘mother’.

  I clamped my hand over my mouth. My legs folded beneath me. I clutched at the windowsill to stop myself falling. That voice. Papa, in Mrs Arnold’s.

  ‘You think I’ve worked so hard, to let some silly girl ruin him?’ Mrs Arnold said, her voice shrill. ‘No. No.’

  I ran. As I ran, I called Art. No reply, so I sent a message. ‘Something wrong here. I’m out. Find me.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE PEARL

  I sat on the tube. The flickering bright lights of the empty carriage, the darkness outside, the crashes and bangs as the train hurtled through the tunnels, all added to the dream-like horror. The train stopped in the middle of a tunnel. I counted the seconds – five, ten, twenty. One minute, two. The lights flickered on, off, on, then off again. I sat in the darkness, couldn’t breathe. My feet and hands tingled – pins and needles. I flexed my fingers, my toes, tried to ignore the increasing tightness around my chest. The lights came on and the train juddered forward, stopped, juddered again. Flickering lights, then darkness, except for the tiny lights along the wall of the tunnel. The engine noise died. Silence like I’d never known before. All I could hear was my own ragged breathing. I sat still, closed my eyes, imagined myself on a beach, lying on the sand, the waves lapping at the shore, the sun shining, felt the warmth on my skin. Then someone shoved my face into the sand so I couldn’t breathe. I opened my eyes, gasping for air, just as the lights flickered on and the engine coughed into life.

  By the time we reached the next station, it felt as if I had no bones in my body. I stood up on jelly legs, on feet that couldn’t feel the ground. I stepped down onto the platform breathed, staggered to the wall and stood there, felt the cool wind from the tunnels blow over my face. I closed my eyes, tried to get a grip.

  Maybe I’d worked myself up into a panic over nothing. Art hadn’t said he loved me, probably because he didn’t. No doubt he’d gone where he always went, wherever that was. But Mrs Arnold? Oh, my God. Then, a different fear came over me. Fear that I was losing my mind, becoming paranoid, that Papa in Mrs Arnold’s living room had been nothing but an invention of my brain. That was more frightening than anything - the idea that my mind was about to shut down. That I’d be permanently shut in my cocoon, unable to say anything, feel anything. Even terror was better than that.

  The tube station was new to me. There were no escalators, only two lifts. I couldn’t face being shut in again so climbed the winding stairs. I counted to thirty-five and gave up. On and on they went, tiny, narrow steps – cramped, dark, smelling of urine. I stopped to catch my breath and thought I heard a footstep behind me. I waited but there was no sound so I carried on up, listening now. There they were, definitely footsteps. I stopped. They stopped. Again goose pimples radiated across my skin. All was dark ahead of me, all dark behind. I began climbing again, this time, two steps at a time. My thighs ached, my calves seized up, so I went back to one. At last, a glimmer of light appeared up ahead. It gave me the extra energy I needed to reach the surface. I ran to my left and dived into a small newsagents – bright and cluttered. I tucked myself in the corner, between a chilled drinks cabinet and stand of postcards, and watched the door.

  A man in a raincoat went past, newspaper under his arm. A girl in a short skirt and bare legs. An older woman with a small dog that looked like a drowned rat.

  A khaki Parka, sandy hair – Leo.

  I took my phone out, called Art. No reply. />
  Outside, Leo had disappeared. Then I saw him on the other side of the road, striding along, glancing left and right as he went. I mirrored him, staying back a little, out of his eye line, hoping he wouldn’t look back.

  He stopped, held his phone to his ear, looked around.

  I dived into the nearest door – a late night shop, all bright, cheap, shiny clothes. I kept my eyes on Leo, noticed some hats on a shelf by the door.

  Leo shrugged, looked around again, and shook his head.

  I picked up a bobble hat with pompoms, one that would cover my ears.

  Leo waved his hands in the air, stamped his foot in that childish way of his.

  The woman at the counter took the hat. ‘Eight pound-fifty,’ she said.

  I pulled out a ten-pound note, and slammed it on the counter. By the time I looked around, Leo had gone.

  I ran out, pulling the hat on. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but better than nothing. The fishtail of Leo’s Parka was just visible as he turned left, down a side road. I followed, zigzagged through the traffic, kept as far behind him as I could without losing sight of him altogether. The streetlights of London meant it was easy to see his pale khaki coat.

  As we went on, the roads narrowed. The posh squares, with their gated, private gardens, gave way to smaller, scruffier buildings with shops below. Cardboard boxes and bags of rubbish littered the pavements. The air smelled of rotting vegetables. The streets grew busier so I had to run to keep an eye on Leo.

  The road came to a bridge, but instead of crossing the canal, he turned left, and disappeared. By the time I came to the steps, he’d vanished. All was dark down there, the steps wet and slippery. I almost turned back, but Leo was my only hope of finding Art. I held onto the metal handrail. The cold made my arm ache. Trying to hurry, and yet afraid of slipping, I eventually reached the bottom. It opened onto a towpath alongside the canal. I edged along the path, peering into the distance. Nothing moved. Damn it! I turned back, followed the path under the road. I’d wasted too much time. He’d already disappeared. Weeping willows grew here and there, trailing their branches, seeking the water. I passed a pub garden full of noise and bustle. The chatter, laughter, clinking of glasses sounded all wrong, as if they were in a parallel universe, one I couldn’t reach.