(2014) Deep Inside

by Jack Parker

  He was making her angry. "What the hell do you want?"

  "Answer my question," he hissed. "How did your parents die?"

  She creased her forehead. "You already –"

  "Answer the question, Leanora." His voice welcomed no argument.

  She bit her lip. Fire sparked, rose to a peak and danced under heated fumes that rose, tore at its periphery and crumbled to ashes. "They were shot, fuck-head."

  Kayden rolled his eyes, sighed and tapped his fingers against the table. "Have you ever wondered why?"

  "They were set up." She stretched her arms, casually, walked around a bit and met his gaze head on. "By Elonsicans." The words were venom on her tongue. "They were working for the government, your government, but LAFFAT thought they were a threat, so they sent them to Elonsica with blueprints of the Loscia Tower and shot them, dead, on the spot, then blamed the Rebels."

  He let out a dry laugh, a dry, chill laugh that curdled her blood and sent a shiver racing through her spine. "Well done, Leanora. Beautiful explanation. But, as is expected, only half right." He clapped, causing her to fume.

  Lia dug a hand into her pocket, felt the cold metal graze her fingers. Only a little longer, and then… "Oh?" She raised an eyebrow, kept her cool. "Then what's the other half?"

  He began tapping at the desk again, regarded her, amused. "I am considering as to whether I should…share that information with you."

  Lia leaned against the wall, waited. "As you said, I'm only going back to a cell straight after this. So it doesn't kill you to tell me."

  Kayden cocked his head to the side, smirked. "No, it doesn't. After all, even if you did tell anyone, who would believe you?"

  She bristled, chewed at her bottom lip. As long as she didn't get angry –kept her cool – he would tell her, and then…Lia fingered the gun, steely metal cold to the touch, yet at the same time so…inviting. Hatred poured through her chest, something so soft and tangible that begged for abundance. She let it fuel her, waited.

  "Your parents –" He leaned against the back of his seat, casually –took his time. "Well, let's start from the beginning, shall we?" A smirk. "Sure you don't want a seat?"

  She kept her back against the wall, didn't meet his gaze. "I'm fine." Because if she met his gaze –

  "A few weeks before you came to Elonsica, there was a party, a ball, if you must; everyone was invited. And, your parents, working for the government as they were, as well as being immensely rich, were also invited to this 'ball.' I was there, too, as was the leader of the Gredge, Marcus Stanton, and other such people. Not to forget Jessica Coles, of course. Though, she was quite new to this whole business back then. Five years is a long time."

  The delay was irking her. "Stop reminiscing, old man, and cut to the chase."

  He tapped his fingers against the desk, regarded her bemusedly. He was just waiting for a reaction, she told herself. It was essential to stay calm; otherwise, he wouldn't tell her anything.

  "Patience, Leanora, is a virtue." Eyes glinted, maliciously, like a hawk, feeding on its prey. "Now, where was I?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "Everyone was invited."

  "Yes," he agreed. "They were. And what a splendid party it was. Of course, as all parties go, a number of the officials ended up getting drunk." He shook his head. "What a pity. Missed out most of the night, you know…"

  She reminded herself to stay calm; the gun was just itching for release.

  "Your parents, though, Dominic was never a heavy drinker and the same could be said for Lessandra. They went out to the balcony, needed fresh air, you see. After all, considering Lessandra's condition –" He stopped, cast his gaze towards her. "Of course, you'll know all about that, won't you?"

  Old wounds tore, ravaged, seeped with blood that curdled over rabid flesh, opposed the clot that formed over their scabby surface and mixed with age old sweat that lingered so far from termination.

  The answer came through gritted teeth. "Just finish the fucking story."

  "Well." He stretched out his arms, let out a yawn. "She got thirsty, so Dominic went inside to get her a drink. Feeling a bit faint, Lessandra made away from the rail and to the wall where she stayed for a little while. She was about to go back to the rail when a couple of Elonsican officials came along, drunk as hell, and began talking."

  Lia fingered metal, looked up and cut him off. A question lingered on the edge of her mind. "How do you know so much detail?"

  "We're getting to that." He sighed. "Now, as I was saying, they began talking. What they were actually talking about, well, I'm not going to let you in on that, but let's just say that they were matters of great importance, 'top secret' and if they got out, well…" He stopped, paused for effect. "They didn't notice her and left soon after. When Dominic came, she told him immediately and, being the trusting, law abiding citizens they were, who else to tell but their boss?"

  A hiss. It was all adding together. "You."

  "Yes." He yawned. "Me. I really shouldn't have slept that late last night. It can't be good for my health."

  How could he be so casual, so placid, about it? She clenched her fists. "Will you just –"

  "Finish? Yes, in my own time. Now, as I was saying, they told me, their boss. Now, you may not be aware of this but I have…connections with the rebels."

  She blinked in wonderment. "The rebels?" Something clenched in her chest, filled her with worry.

  "Yes. Well, actually, in fact –" He stood up, smirked. "I'm the leader of the rebels."

  Silence.

  The foundations cracked, splintered, and bricks toppled to the ground in an earthshaking tumult of concrete and mortar that cut through tarmac and stained pure earth like ash over snow.

  Everything crashed.

  And somewhere, at the back of her mind, something clicked. "That's why you're not leader of LAFFAT." She said her words slowly, carefully, more to herself than him. "Because –"

  "Yes. I leave that up to Miss Coles. After all, if I were leader of LAFFAT, surely the rebels would become suspicious, don't you think? But, as it is, they just think I'm working undercover for them. After all, I do pass useful information once in a while to keep the whole thing going. Now, at the time, as you are probably already aware, the rebels had a plan."

  She cut him off. "They wanted to bomb Loscia Tower."

  "Indeed they did. Now, the information that Lessandra and Dominic discovered was the sort that…well, they weren't meant to know and, by them knowing it, a threat was posed to, well, everything. I sent them to Elonsica, to one of the remotest and 'undercover' looking places possible, as to both arouse suspicion and …not. You see, by going somewhere remote there would be less likelihood of them being found, on the surface layer; however, at the same time, such a step would also be looked upon with suspicion by the residents of said area –after all, your parents went to Elonsica at a time of great political unrest."

  The glares that had burned, seared into her skin, left white-hot fingerprints that still blistered and itched a new, washed through her mind –the shop where she had bought those biscuits, the taxi driver and the people at the port.

  "I supplied them with blueprints of the Loscia Tower. Told them not to look at them and that they were letters to the Elonsican government concerning what they had discovered at the party. Then the tricky part. A message was sent to the rebels to say that the blueprints had been 'stolen' by two Cadlians who were planning on handing them over to the Elonsican government. Police officials within the area were given a 'tip off' to say that terrorists were arriving to give some important information to the rebels. Of course, one slip up and the plan would have been destroyed. It was timed, perfectly." He stopped, smirked, noticed her anger, the taut expression. "The rebels were made aware that Elonsican police were coming so they set off a bomb nearby as to serve as a distraction, then made to the house. The order: take no prisoners. Of course –" He sighed. "There had to be complications. The Elonsican police split up and half went to the house. Your parents
were caught in the crossfire."

  It came out in a hiss. "They never had a chance. You son of a –"

  "Mind your language, my dear. You're on camera."

  That was the last straw. Hands tightened over steely metal, pulled it out, rested on a trigger. Something pierced the air, then a sharp pain in the back of her neck.

  Five words. "Take her back to the cell."

  And she lost all consciousness.

  * * *

  Water trickled over soil, made it darker.

  He spoke. "It's a bit pointless, don't you reckon?"

  Emilie stopped pouring, flitted her glance over to him. "Oh?"

  "The weather." Carmon wavered, gesticulated. "It's way too cold. Past minus. You can't expect anything to survive in this weather."

  "If it can't survive –" She fingered the petals, let pink bleed into her fingers. "Then it wasn't worth my money."

  Carmon toed the soil. It was hard, dry and he flicked it with his feet. She shoved his foot away, glared, and he raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

  Emilie shrugged. "If it's a strong flower –I mean, if it was worth it, then it should be able to survive anything and take whatever's given to it."

  The words, the philosophy, hit a chord, pulsated and wrenched out strings that panged upon release. He replied, fervently, "But –" Carmon wavered, searched for the right words. "Yeah, I mean, if it's strong it should be able to take whatever's given to it, but at the same time, no matter how strong something is, it needs support. Good weather, sunshine, I mean, to keep it going, if only a little. It can't stand on its own." He was aware that he was rambling.

  A light smile flitted over her features. "Maybe."

  He formulated the words, desperate to make her –to make anyone – understand, then buried them beneath the sand, let the waves wash over thrust them into the sea like pebbles strewn across a rocky surface. "Have you spoken to Lia recently?"

  Emilie turned her gaze back to him, raised her eyebrows. "Do I ever talk to Lia?" She smiled, spoke again. "Why?"

  "It's just –" Carmon shrugged, slipped on his trainers. "Ever since that time –well, since Lacey died, anyway; I haven't actually seen or spoke to her and I guess I –"

  "You're worried?" Emilie put down the jug, made towards him and plodded herself down on the grass.

  He nodded. "Yeah."

  "Then –" She fingered white grass, let cold seep through her legs and met his gaze levelly. "Why are you always so concerned about her? I mean, she treats you like shit. I don't get it."

  The corner of his lips tugged into a grin and he fingered the grass, followed suit and watched frost crumble. "Jude and Lia." He stopped, looked up. "They're all I've got left and, I guess, I'm all they've got left, even though they don't realize it. And both of them –" He shrugged. "They're so fucked; they need someone to be concerned about them."

  She took his hand, laced his fingers with hers and tilted her head to the side, spoke softly. "But who's concerned about you?"

  Carmon stood up, abruptly, pulled his hand away and cast her a smile. "I'm going to go check on her. You coming?"

  She shook her head and crawled back towards the plant, smoothed over the soil. "I'm going to stay here for a little longer. Make sure my baby's healthy." She pinched a leaf.

  He grinned. "Yeah. See you."

  "Bye. And, remember, tomorrow –"

  Carmon nodded. "I won't forget. I'll be there."

  "You better be."

  "I will."

  And with that he walked away, across frost that crunched, shuddered, beneath his feet.

  CHAPTER 21

  "Hungry?" He kicked at the bowl, made it slide over tiling until it was just in reach of the bars.

  "No," she replied, bluntly, and slid her hand through bars, pushed it back, then added, "They've fed me already, so the tactic doesn't work."

  "It's still fun." Cal picked up the fruit bowl, balanced it in his hand. The cell still reeked of the old bowl –the rotting fruit – even though it had been taken out.

  Lia fingered her sleeve, tugged at it. Whenever he came, something caught at the bottom of her stomach, pulsed through and refused release. She hated it, bit out her next words, "Why the hell are you here?" They came out softer than she had intended. But at the same time she felt so angry and hated him, so so much. Why didn't that show through?

  "I heard you tried to escape." She could see half of his face, lit up by fire dancing from a torch on the wall. Chestnut hair was highlighted at the edges, looked almost gold under flickering candlelight.

  "No thanks to you."

  He smirked and the fire caught the edges of his lips, pooled into irises that shone a stark green. "In a few days," he began, stopped and turned to face her. "You're base –the one in the old building. They're going to raid it. As for everyone in it …" He cut himself off, didn't need to say anymore. She knew the rest.

  "And you're going to say I spilled, aren't you?" Her words were soft, as if if spoken any louder they would crumble, rocket down from a peak and crash, smash into heavy rock like shards of glass.

  Cal shrugged and pulled an orange from the bowl, juggled it between his hands. He kept looking away, focusing on something else. Why wouldn't he just meet her eye already and affirm everything? His words were harsh, calm, yet there was something at the edges that caught, diminished into a thick mist that clogged and choked and cut off into an epiphany of light. She hated him for it, hated that he made her doubt –hated that she caught the cracked edges that kindled doubt and hope in one rabid inferno that was crushed upon each syllable, then rekindled once more. She hated that she couldn't hate him.

  Why couldn't she hate him?

  Because he, sure as hell, hated her.

  She could see it; hear it, in the way he spoke, the way he looked. Something blazed in his eyes, shot out from his lips and seared through flesh that burned and screeched –begged penance.

  "It wasn't my idea." Why was he defending himself? Why was she noticing that he was defending himself? Why was she thinking so much? What was she thinking about? And why was it all so jumbled and messed up and she hated it –hated everything so much.

  Lia wanted to scream.

  "Not that I care," he added, casually. His tone of voice, the way he said everything, were the same as usual –calm, placid, cold – so why was she noticing something else? Or maybe she was searching for hope, for anything. Because it felt like nothing was left. "But even if you did somehow manage to escape, you'd have no where to go. LAFFAT would be after you, and the rebels would hate you. Win-win situation."

  And now she wanted to punch him. "Shut-up."

  "Is that the best you can come out with?"

  She had to stay calm, catch him off guard. Maybe if she was careful –played her cards right – she would achieve something, find something. Because this couldn't be the end. It just couldn't. "What happened to your mom?"

  He answered, dryly. "She died."

  The way he said it, the sarcasm, the condescension, made her want to bite back. Then something clicked. Sarcasm…whenever someone asked her about her parents, about anything, she always used sarcasm to signify that she didn't want to talk about it –to put them off.

  "But how?" her voice was calm, controlled even. Now that she thought about it, she couldn't recall ever being this controlled.

  "Can't you get a fucking hint?" Or a time that Cal had ever lost his cool…

  Lia winced. "It's something to do with us –with Cadlians," she stated. "And your dad." The words dropped, rested on a shore and awaited confirmation.

  "Yeah," he replied. The momentary outburst had subsided to be replaced with the old calmness, placidity. "Why do you care?"

  "I want to know –"

  "Why?" he bit, let out a dry laugh. "Why I betrayed you, betrayed everyone, right?" She didn't answer. "I'll tell you why, Lia, and you can listen to me, and you can pity me, or you can hate me or do whatever the fuck you want to do with whatever I tell you because, frank
ly, I don't give a shit what you think." The words were crude, raw, bled from open wounds that refused to clot over. "When I was nine, my mom and I were driving back from Andy's house and it was snowing, frosted over, kind of like it has been now." His voice softened, "I'll always remember the window pane and the way frost settled over it in cross shapes. At the time it made me think of snowflakes, even though it was way too big. There were gunshots –" He hesitated, continued rapidly. "Men in masks and screaming and a crash and I fell out and the tarmac was cold and hard and frosted over. Before I blacked out I saw a man. His hair was black, stood out against the frost and his skin –a dark, Cadlian tan. He had matches and there was oil, a heavy, sick smell. Fire trickled over frost, wrapped over it as if drinking it in." He stopped again, fiddled with an orange. "When I woke up there was no-one about." His tone became harsher, tinged with ice. "I wandered for ages, through alleys and it was cold, so fucking cold like needles just stabbing and stabbing into your chest. After a while I went back to the car wreckage. I found her before the police came." He stopped, gaze cold, then added, "She died the next morning."