by Sarah Noffke
2:59 pm.
I raise my eyes to the sky. “No fucking way, God. Stop messing with my life,” I say under my breath.
“What?” Trey says, confusion in his tone.
“I’ve got to go,” I say and switch off the phone as I sprint for the exit.
I don’t stop running until I’m two blocks away. I can’t see Dahlia. I can’t. Ever. I don’t know what kind of shenanigans the guy upstairs is playing. I’m sure it’s for his amusement. Dahlia and I don’t need to see each other. I don’t need to help Trey. I need peace, quiet, and solitude. Fat chance I’m getting that.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“You’re back,” Jane, the irritating waitress says, looking surprised and pleased.
I unfold the newspaper, blocking my view of her. “I’m a creature of habit. This is my pub.”
“What?” she says. “I’ve been working in this pub a whole year and I have never seen you in here.”
“Well, I used to come here every day,” I say.
“But…?” she asked, fishing for details I’m not willing to throw over.
“Are you going to take my order or are you trying to see if I’ll die from this conversation first, because I might at this rate.”
Jane turns and walks off.
“Where are you going?” I say to her back. “You didn’t get my order.”
“If you’re a creature of habit then you’re having what you did yesterday,” she calls over her shoulder.
I fold up the newspaper with repugnance. The pages are quickly filling up with events related to Group X. I’m confident now that whoever took over for me as Head Strategist is as incompetent as a box of rocks.
Jane returns with a cup of Earl Grey. I regard her and then the tea with annoyance. “I was going to order green tea actually.”
“No, you weren’t.” She crosses her arms and looks at me with a tough expression. “You’ve been gone from London for a long time,” she says, taking a different stance in the nonexistent conversation.
“Good guess,” I say.
“Not a guess,” she says. “My empathy read that you’ve missed the city and this pub.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Stay out of my head.”
“I don’t read thoughts,” she says, tapping her head and then her chest. “I read emotions from the heart.”
“I don’t have a heart,” I say.
“That’s not the impression I’m getting,” she says.
I try again like I did yesterday to shield her. Empaths are hard to block. I know this.
She eyes me for several seconds. “That was a weak attempt,” she says with a proud smirk.
“I’m done with your service. You may go now. I’ll whistle if I need something.”
To my irritation Jane sits down, just like she did yesterday.
“By all means, slack off so you get yourself fired,” I say, waving at where she sits in the booth across from me. “Then I won’t have to deal with you. But please slack off elsewhere. I’m busy.”
She looks at the folded up newspaper. “You look like it.”
Then she waves at the mostly empty pub. “As you can see, I’m not needed. And besides, I’m not getting fired. I’m shagging the owner.”
“Very classy, aren’t you?” I say. “I’ve seen how dirty the pint glasses are here. I think you should devote some time to them and leave me be.”
“Your accent, it’s Estuary, am I right?” she says, settling more into the booth. “Where are you from?”
“A place where people can take a hint,” I say, my eyes seeking to cut her like a laser.
“Well, tell me where that is. Maybe I’ll go and observe and learn.”
“I doubt that,” I say. My tea is cold when I take a sip. “I’m from a small town, you wouldn’t know it.”
“Try me, I grew up in the southeast too,” she says.
I sigh melodramatically. “Peavey,” I say.
“Oh,” she chirps loudly. “I can’t believe it. I lived a town over in Miller.”
“Good for you,” I say flatly.
“It’s uncanny how many things we have in common.”
“We have nothing in common,” I say.
“Oh, come on. We’re from the same area, both Dream Travelers, and both working in menial jobs because we’re tired of having our powers,” she says.
“I’m not tired of having my pow—” I stop myself and throw down the napkin I was kneading during this conversation. “Oh, fine,” I say in surrender. “What’s the use? You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”
“Probably not. It’s not that I fancy you, I just know you could use a friend.”
I scowl at her.
She holds up her hands. “Just calling it how I sense it,” she says and then pauses. “So I’m right, you’re tired of your powers, aren’t you?”
“It’s not that simple, but sure.”
“Well, you don’t take me as the simple kind of guy.”
“I’m aspiring,” I say.
“That’s the reason for the ticketing job, isn’t it?”
“Well, I have to pay the bills now, don’t I?”
Her eyes drop to the gold ring on my finger. It’s a gift from the Lucidites and of the highest quality, just like everything in the Institute. “You used to have money though, didn’t you?” she says, studying me.
I’m actually intrigued by her ability to observe. Coupled with her empathy she would be a good agent. Damn it! I can’t keep my mind away from thinking like the Head Strategist. It’s just a habit, though, and has to be broken.
“So what is your gift?” she asks.
“I have a few,” I say.
She waves her hand at me. Imploring me to keep sharing. “This friend thing only works if you elaborate from time to time or otherwise I’m doing all the talking.”
I have a few dozen crafty retorts but I kind of don’t feel like using them right now. Instead I roll my eyes. “It doesn’t matter what they are because I’m not using them anymore.”
She blows out a breath. “Wish I could turn off my gift. It’s incessant on my attention. What’s your name?”
I pause and then say, “Ren.”
“At first I thought you’d give me a false name,” she says with a clever, triumphant smile.
“How do you know I didn’t?”
“Because people feel bad when they lie and you didn’t just now,” Jane says.
“How do you know that I’m not a psychopath who doesn’t feel bad when I lie?”
“You’re not a psychopath. I know.” She shivers. “You never want to use empathy on psychopaths, it’s like wrapping your mind around a block of ice.”
“I think I have an idea of what it’s like,” I say, thinking of my experiences of being in Allouette’s head.
“Ren, do you ever feel cursed?” Jane asks and there’s a pureness to her question. She’s a girl standing alone in a desert. She’s been searching, trying to find her path. Trying to abandon her identity. It’s so plain on her. Plain Jane. And I hate that I know exactly how she feels. I know exactly what she’s looking for, because I’m looking for it too.
“I’ve only ever felt cursed,” I say, sounding as dejected as I am.
She nods with a commiserating look. “Yeah, I kind of figured you knew what I meant. I used to be in a society of Dream Travelers and they all seemed happy to be this race of people. They never felt burdened and that’s why I left. I couldn’t relate to them.”
I lower my chin and rub my temples. Jane and I have too many things in common and it is starting to piss me off. My mum would say the hand of God is playing strongly in my life. She’d say I should be grateful, but I’m not sure I know how.
“You’re not drinking your tea,” she says.
“It’s repulsive,” I say, raising my chin.
She pops out of the booth. “I’ll grab us ales.”
Jane comes back a
minute later carrying two hazy glasses with too much head. “You’re a horrid waitress,” I say, looking at the pints.
She shrugs and takes a long sip.
“And you’re drinking on the job?” I say.
She burps loudly and then shrugs. “The owner won’t fire me. I know how to give him exactly what he wants and how he wants it,” she says with a wink. “Empathy does have some benefits.”
I throw my eyes up to the ceiling. Oh, bloody hell, would you stop it! I say to God, silently.
“What are you looking at?” Jane asks.
I bring my eyes down. “Just cursing God.”
“Oh, I do that all the time but he doesn’t seem to care. Why are you cursing him right now though?”
“Because you’re like the female version of me,” I say with a repulsed shiver.
She laughs. “I always hoped the male version of me would be more attractive than you.”
My mouth pops open. “I’m deadly attractive.”
“Maybe for people who are color blind?”
“Well, you look like a bloody elf with the pointy ears and cropped hair,” I say.
She laughs. “Don’t take offense. I’ve never been attracted to redheads,” she says, draining her glass.
“I’m not offended.”
“You are a little,” she says, giving me a knowing look.
Chapter Thirty
I woke up the next day with the first hangover I’d had since after the night I broke up with Dahlia. Jane and I closed down the pub, spending most of the time exchanging insults. It was the first good time I’d had in many years. I may have actually laughed, although it’s hard to remember after that many drinks.
Over the last week I’ve learned that Jane and I indeed have a parallel life. And although I’d die before admitting it, it’s been nice to have someone to relate to. She takes a break when I come into the pub at mid-day and we chat. It’s become the only part of my life I look forward to. Work is always the same boring bullshit. And each night is filled with strange dreams. I’ve got a long list of missed calls from Trey that I have no intention of returning. There was an off hour where I actually considered going back for one more job but every time I pick up my mobile I freeze. I then remind myself that doing one job isn’t going to make a difference. There will just be another tragedy. There’s no way to stop evil. It’s all just a delay tactic. And to do what he wants I’d have to turn back on the mind control and hypnosis and that isn’t an option. Since I’ve quit being me, my life has simplified and the monster is growing weaker. I was actually laughing. Maybe one day I’ll actually have a humble demeanor. The odds are close to nil, but one can have dreams.
I’ve been napping lately. It’s more a way to avoid reality than to get rest. I woke up late today from the nap and therefore I have to take a shortcut to get to work on time. I’m halfway through a back alley when I catch a movement in my peripheral. I flip my head around just in time to catch a fist slamming into my jaw. I’m then assaulted by a boy’s thoughts. He’s scared and his hand instantly sears from his own assault. I stumble back into a brick wall just as two other boys grab my wrists and pin me to the wall, one on either side of me. They’re street hoodlums who are stealing money to buy booze. They’re bullies hyped up on testosterone and hot egos. I know more about either boy holding my wrist than they’ve dared to share with each other. And I know they’re mostly harmless. They’re not murderers. Just common criminals.
I pull my face up and stare at the boy in front of me. He’s still cradling his hand. “Damn, you got a hard face,” he says with a sneer.
“And you’ve got a weak punch,” I say.
He then lunges forward and throws a punch into my ribs. I double over as much as I can with the two pricks holding me against the wall.
“You watch your mouth,” the boy says, jumping up on his toes, feeling victorious assaulting a pinned man.
I raise myself upright, but remain still otherwise.
“The wanker isn’t even fighting us,” the boy holding my right wrist says.
He’s right. It must strike them oddly, as it does me. The urge to use mind control on these gits is incredibly persuasive. I could get into the heads of these buffoons and make them fight each other to the death, but that would feed the monster. I think he’s almost starved to death and there’s no way I want to bring him back. And really, what does it matter? These prats aren’t really going to hurt me. They’re just kids who are hyped up on power. I’ve been there. Trey would say this is my karma. Why run from it when it follows me around?
“The wanker is probably scared shitless,” the other boy holding me says.
I close my eyes and resign to this godforsaken moment. When I open them it’s because I feel hands reaching into my jean pockets.
“Take my wallet but watch my balls, would you?” I say to the boy in front of me.
“Sorry, but I can’t resist, pops,” he says and knees me in the groin hard. Then his friends release me and they dart away as I double over in pain and frustration.
The little run-in with the bloody buggers in the alleyway cost me more than just a tenner, which is all I had in my wallet. I’m going to be six minutes late to work. I turn the corner to the station and realize I should have been paying better notice to my surroundings. My aching balls happened to be soaking up my full attention. But now I realize there’s a great commotion at the station entrance. I blink rapidly and notice there’s smoke pouring through the crowd.
Smoke? Why is there smoke coming up from the Underground entrance?
Then a rush of panicked people brush past me. Some screaming. Some crying. All of them delirious. And one touches me.
There’s been another bomb. Group X has struck again, I hear the person think.
I walk almost in a daze as too many thoughts compete for real estate in my head at once. A deafening number of sirens ring through the air. The authorities move in, pushing the crowd of overly emotional people back. I flash my Underground staff badge to civilians and bobbies, and it actually gives me clearance to keep moving through the growing crowd. I haven’t awoken from my shock, but I’m starting to gain a clear stream of thoughts as I push forward.
“The bomb went off just a few minutes ago,” I hear a woman say to a paramedic. I don’t look at her, but hone in on her testimony as I move forward, getting closer to the entrance. “It rocked the ground up here like a small earthquake. People were shouting and yelling down below.”
I move until I can’t make out the woman’s voice anymore. And then my ears pick up on another conversation. “They’re saying there are people stuck down there. The ceiling crashed in. Apparently the bomb went off just beside the ticketing office.”
I actually whip around at this and the woman who was speaking looks at me oddly.
Ticketing office? The booth where I work? Where I was supposed to be?
Something is needling my mind, like it’s trying to get my attention in this disastrous moment. Possessed by a weird force, I turn my gaze away and keep moving closer to the Underground entrance. Compelled. Magnetized. Something keeps pulling me to the wreckage, although there’s nothing but devastation there. Maybe I’m compelled by the strange idea that three teenage punks are responsible for saving my life. I was supposed to be down there.
Almost all realities state that I was supposed to be one of Group X’s victims, except the reality that I’m living. And still my mind keeps hitting a brick wall. Why? Why was I late when I’m never late? Why on this day? What is going on in this strange life of mine? Everything seems to have such odd timing lately and I’m not sure why. Why do I keep getting pushed into near collisions with Dahlia? Or joined up with a person like Jane? Or why am I stalled on a day when I would have been at the epicenter of an explosion? I’m supposed to have free choice and the ability to live my life the way I want to now, but strangely I don’t feel like I do. Increasingly I feel like a pawn.
The paramedi
cs are starting to carry people out of the Underground entrance now. Most victims have on oxygen masks or have bloody gashes in their heads or are laid out on stretchers. I stop moving forward and assist a bobby who is trying to move the crowd back. There are so many people being brought up to the surface all at once.
A herd of frantic victims swarms to the surface and behind them more and more. The tube would have been packed with people. It’s rush hour. My mind has a hard time assembling the idea of a bomb going off on the platform during rush hour. It would have been bloody chaos. A blood bath. Metal and concrete and bodies all fighting for a space when the detonation happened. My stomach curdles with revulsion. And yet, I all but signed the papers on this kind of thing happening by not taking the job to stop it. What am I so angry about? I don’t have any right to be repulsed by this. I knew this kind of thing was going to happen and yet I’m shocked by the aftermath of the tragedy unfolding around me.
Just then a dead man’s body is brought up, carried between two other men. Their faces are flushed and sweaty when they lay the man down at a paramedic’s feet.
“There’s a hundred more like him,” one says to the medic.
I narrow my eyes at the man, like he’s done something wrong by surviving a catastrophe and stating a fact about what remains.
I knew more people were going to die from Group X’s acts. I surrendered to it. And I’d seen the reports about the attacks in the news. But seeing the reports and watching the outcome are two different things. And knowing I was six minutes away from being blown to bits makes a new reality sink in. I’ve only ever cared about myself. Ever. And to know that the acts of a group I could have stopped almost killed me hits a tender place not protected by armor. I could have died. I was supposed to. And it would have been my fault. It would have been justified.