by Sean Hancock
Choppy complies, edging past me and stepping over Tammuz to join his friends.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” I say. “It will end badly for you.”
“My days, you stabbed me,” Robbie says, holding a hand over the wound. “Just relax, yeah, babes, lemme go so I can get this looked at, yeah? You’ll never see my face again. I wasn’t gonna do anything, swear down, we just wanted to scare you . . .”
I press the blade into his throat to shut him up, breaking the skin so he and the others know how serious I am. “Tell your guys to back off. Now.”
“Back off, man,” Robbie says. “Back the fuck off.”
The three of them retreat, and I tell Tammuz everything’s okay and that he can get up. Tammuz is not looking too bad considering, messed-up hair and red blotches on his face, but no serious damage from what I can tell.
“You good?”
He nods, checking himself over for injuries.
“I’m going to give you instructions,” I say, talking to our four friends. “Follow them, and you live. Hesitate even once, any of you, and I open his throat. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” Robbie says. “Do what she says, man.”
I tell Choppy to pack my bag without forgetting my money or passport; Robbie is bitching how he’s bleeding to death and needs a doctor. I instruct Tammuz to bind all of their wrists and tape their mouths, promising Robbie I’ll tourniquet his wound if they all play nice.
“Do it,” he says, and I honor my word.
We shove all of them into the bath, the group sitting side by side with their legs over the edge. I have a quick wash in the sink before getting changed in the bedroom as Tammuz secures their ankles with duct tape and asks where the keys to his moped are, hearing a muffled response followed by the jinglejangle of metal.
I enter the bathroom and pull the tape from Choppy’s lips.
“How did you get into my room?”
He coughs. “The man who works here, he gave us a key.”
“Where is he?”
“In his office. The girls are watching him.”
I can hear a police siren in the distance. Someone from a neighboring room must have made the call.
“Why do you hang out with these people?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” Choppy says. “They’re my mates, innit.”
“You’re not like them.”
“Course I am,” he says. “What do you know about me?” but I can tell it’s more for their benefit than mine.
I grab the knife and cut his binds. “Go.”
He looks confused. “I ain’t going nowhere without them.”
I push him into the bedroom and toward the door, out of earshot. “Go now,” I say. “And don’t you dare warn the girls, just leave.”
“Why you doing this?”
I shove him into the communal hallway, the police siren getting louder. “Because you did the right thing.”
Dropping the tough guy act, Choppy says, “I didn’t know he wanted to rape you. I ain’t into that shit.”
I nod.
He turns and starts running.
I close the door, grab my bag, and tell Tammuz we’re leaving. I hear loud, muffled sounds coming from our three captives. Unable to resist, I pop my head in and smile at Robbie, the big, bad gangster making the most noise of all, showing me the whites of his eyes and gesturing wildly at his bloody leg to let me know I can’t leave him like this.
But I can and I do, saying, “Looks like you’re the one who won’t be able to walk for a month, bruv.”
SIXTEEN
Seconds after we pull away on Tammuz’s Vespa—I’m wearing the spare helmet that was in the seat compartment—two police cars skid to a halt outside the hotel’s entrance, officers streaming out of both vehicles. It’s inevitable that Robbie and his crew will be serving prison time for this, especially with the manager’s testimony, as he was obviously forced to comply under duress.
“Can you take me to the airport?” I shout, fresh, cold air rushing by, the road and pavements black and glistening. Tammuz can’t hear me. I repeat the question, but it’s no good. He turns down a residential street and parks.
After kicking out the stand and getting off, he says, while removing his helmet, “Jesus, Sam, if that’s even your name, do you know what that animal was about to do?”
I nod, and he asks how they found us.
I take my helmet off but remain seated, pausing to watch the planes overhead, one of them readying to land. I feel revitalized and strong in spite of everything, and I hope it means I’m through the worst of the side effects associated with my Flooding. Either way, a switch has definitely been flicked somewhere deep inside of me.
“They saw us outside Archway Station.”
“You’re joking,” Tammuz says after letting the comment sink in. “What’re the chances?”
“Pretty high actually. Robbie had people all over the area looking for us.”
“He tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“How did they overpower you? Why didn’t you just kick their arses like last time?”
“They broke into my room and hit me over the head,” I say. “Caught me by surprise.” I rub the spot with the tips of my fingers, and Tammuz moves around to take a look, telling me there’s a bump but no blood. He touches it gently, saying I should get it looked at; I might have a concussion. I disagree, of course, and he knows better than to push me.
He changes the subject. “Did they touch you . . . before I got there?”
“Touch me how?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“Luckily for them, no.”
He softens and says, “Thank god,” and then he says, “They were going to rape you,” staring into my eyes, talking as if I don’t know that already.
“But they didn’t,” I say, curious to know if Tammuz heard my voice in his head, unsure of how to broach that subject, not wanting to open Pandora’s box. “Thanks to you.”
“It was so close,” he says. “We got lucky.”
“There’s no such thing as luck. We were presented with a problem, and we worked together to solve it.”
“We were presented with a problem,” he repeats, looking at me as if I’m insane. “What the hell kind of thing to say is that? It wasn’t a crossword; they were going to rape you. How can you be so calm?”
“I try not to dwell on the past or what might have been.”
“How very Zen,” he says. “Unfortunately, I’m the opposite. I can’t help dwelling on the past, like when you told me your name was Sam, or how we had sex after you killed someone. For some reason, I’m finding that stuff difficult to shrug off. What do you suggest, some deep breathing? Burning incense, chanting maybe? That should sort it out, right?”
Ignoring the sarcasm, I say, “My name is Sam.”
“Just stop it, will you? I’m sick of it. Tell me who you are and what’s going on. After everything we’ve been through, it’s the least I deserve, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I say. “But that is the truth.”
“Who the hell is Rosa then?”
“She’s also me.”
“How can you be two people?”
“They are only names, labels, they mean nothing.”
He sighs. “Let’s forget Sam for a moment. Tell me about Rosa.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Who is she?”
“I told you, she’s me.”
Through gritted teeth, Tammuz says, “Fine. How old are you, Rosa?”
“Eighteen.”
“Where do you live?”
“Exeter. Until recently.”
“Are your parents there?”
“Yes.”
“They know where you are?”
“No, and it has to stay that way. I’m making these decisions for a very good reason, so don’t try and be a hero. I mean that.”
“Don’t worry. I’m done trying to save you.”
&n
bsp; “Good,” I say, surprised by how much that hurt.
Tammuz pauses, bracing himself for whatever he wants to say next. “Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Unbelievable,” he says, becoming animated. “What about the fits?”
“They’re genuine, but it’s not epilepsy.”
“What is it then?”
“Something else.”
“Something else. Are you serious? I can’t believe you let me think you were dying; that is so dark.”
“Why? We’re all dying, even you.”
“Now you’re just being a dick.”
“You want the truth, here it is: I thought you could help me get something I needed, so I manipulated you. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You’re a good person. That’s why I tried to get out of your life.”
“What if you’re not meant to get out of my life?” he says, forcing me to realize something very interesting: every time I’ve tried to put distance between us, events have conspired to thrust us back together again.
Why?
“If you’re not ill,” Tammuz says, “why do you need that ayahuasca stuff?”
“It’s a long story; you wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“No.”
“Fine,” he says. “I give up. Where next?”
“What do you mean?”
He glances at a plane overhead. “Where you going?”
“Hong Kong.”
He nods.
“That’s a lie,” I say. “But you know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he replies. “I’m learning. Need a lift to the airport?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Which terminal?”
“Three,” I say. It’s another lie, but the less he knows about where I’m going, the better. My life is only going to get more dangerous and complicated, and I don’t want to be responsible for another person’s safety, especially his.
Five minutes later, Tammuz drops me off and wishes me a safe flight. I want to hug him, but he’s being standoffish, so I keep my distance and say thanks and goodbye and disappear into the terminal. I feel alone and afraid but also fired up and determined, ready for whatever this crazy life decides to throw at me next.
SEVENTEEN
After getting the shuttle to Terminal 5, I wait for the British Airways desk to open, and then I buy a return ticket to Los Angeles, which costs £850. My backpack qualifies as hand luggage, and I have a couple hours to kill, so I eat and look around the shops, buying a few T-shirts, a pair of sunglasses, extra underwear, shorts, and makeup. Before boarding, I get $1,500 at the currency exchange, leaving me with around £900 sterling.
Because of the eight-hour time difference, we land the same morning of departure (Wednesday) at 11:25 a.m. I had three hours of dreamless, heavy sleep on the plane but don’t feel properly rested, which isn’t surprising, considering the events of the night before.
I’m remembering my life here as Suzi Aarons, how I was overweight and depressed before my Flooding in the mid-1990s and convinced I only had friends because of who my father was—a rich and powerful movie producer—and the advantages that afforded me, such as VIP access to all the best parties and a white Mercedes convertible. I soothed my secret pain and self-loathing with food and then forced myself to vomit because of how disgusting and worthless I was, living that cycle over and over until I was awakened and set free. I had realized yet again, as with every life, that the personality I had developed to cope with the uncertainty of the world, and the ego associated with it, had concealed from me my true nature and purpose.
I jump in a taxi outside LAX. Predictably, the sky is blue and the sun is shining. I tell the driver I’m looking for budget accommodation in the Venice Beach area. He takes me to a freestanding two-story building called Ocean Park Getaway. The exterior is pastel blue and sand yellow, and the beach is just a few blocks west. Even better, a single room is only sixty-two dollars per night.
I pay cash for a few days in advance. They insist on taking a copy of my passport for their records, which isn’t ideal. I head to my surprisingly large but sparse en-suite room on the ground floor. There’s no air-conditioning, so I open a window, turn on the ceiling fan, and lie down, looking at the rotating blades from my position, hypnotized by the movement and sound. Everything softens as I begin to fall asleep. I fight it at first but then give in to the sheer power and pull of the other world, knowing I have arrived when a man says, “Sleep, little owl, sleep,” the words echoing between unseen walls as if spoken inside a huge, cavernous, subterranean chamber.
It is very dark, and I raise my right hand to within an inch of my face but see nothing.
“Master?”
While I do not recognize the voice (although it is reminiscent of the one I heard when Sergei was trying to kill me), he is the only person who calls me that.
The air is cool and damp against my skin, and the floor has the rough texture of stone. I realize that for the second dream in a row, I am naked, confused, and utterly vulnerable. I can hear a girl screaming in the distance. I feel intimately connected to her, but I can’t put my finger on why.
“Yes,” the voice says. “I am here.”
“Where? I can’t see you,” I say, feeling panicked. “I need light.”
“There is no light here. Only darkness.”
Could this be the imposter? I think, recalling the strange dream Elsie had the night after her Flooding, the one she wrote about in her notes before burying them in Highgate Cemetery.
“You have done your part, little owl, but you must be very careful,” the man says. “For there are many who want to destroy what we have. We can’t let that happen.”
I’m not sure what he means. I want to ask questions but decide against it; experience has taught me that Ashkai (if this is really him) won’t give a straight answer. Indeed, the more I probe and rationalize, the more complicated and confusing everything will get. And the lesson is always the same: stop trying to solve problems at the level of mind and go deeper.
I try to do exactly that by following my breath, visualizing a flowing, liquid light connecting throat, chest, and stomach.
“Stop doing that,” the voice says, which is when I know it is not my master speaking. I do my best to shut the imposter out as I travel deeper within myself. It’s a very calming exercise, and before long, all thoughts, worries, and concerns fade away. And the good news doesn’t end there because the suffocating darkness of moments ago has been replaced by an expansive and perfect clear blue sky.
Even better, I am flying across it: soaring like an eagle, spinning like a ballerina, somersaulting like a carefree child, that is, until I become aware of the mighty Amazon rainforest below, its thick, brown waterway slaloming through green, verdant jungle, an immense and powerful serpent. There’s a canoe down there, a mere speck from my vantage point. I dart down and zoom in, knowing exactly who I’ll find: Ashkai and Ainia, a girl I once was, both of them nut brown, lean, and in the prime of life. I estimate this to be about forty cycles ago, roughly two thousand years.
After buzzing around like a curious hummingbird (I am formless and invisible), getting a good look at both of their faces, I settle upstream a few feet above the water. I’m looking over Ainia’s exposed shoulder at Ashkai, who’s sitting at the back of the boat, rowing toward me. The canoe is centrally positioned in the river, a good place to be when passing potentially hostile tribes, of which there are many.
There are caimans in the water and insects and birds in the sky. Everything is warm, damp, and earthy. Ashkai has a six-inch bone from the right leg of a spider monkey piercing his nose and a bow and arrow at his feet. He says, “Human beings are born with limitless potential and infinite wisdom.”
“Why are most of them so stupid then?” Ainia asks, her sharp, angular cheekbones decorated with dye from the genipapo tree.
“Is a babe stupid for reaching out to touch a flame?” Ashkai respond
s. At one point, he glances up in my direction, just for a beat, and a smile teases the outer edges of his mouth.
“No,” Ainia says. “But that is different.”
“Why?”
“Because they know no better.”
“Can’t the same be said of man? At the level of consciousness, are they not also babes?”
“But if people are inherently good, as you have always maintained, why do they behave so despicably?”
“They are afraid, and fear smothers light,” he says, looking at my position above the water again. “That fear can become so entrenched, so powerful, that it begins to take on a life of its own, a conscious parasite that feeds on its host.”
“For what purpose?”
“For the purpose of transforming that soul into dark, hateful energy.”
“So fear itself is something to be afraid of?”
“Only if you want to empower it further. It might not feel like it, little owl, but love is the predominant force of the universe. It’s what holds everything together, and it is who we all are at the deepest, most fundamental level.”
“Why does learning such a simple lesson take so long?” Ainia says. “And involve so much misery and heartache?”
“Pain and suffering, if channeled correctly, can be great teachers.”
“Of what?”
“Of surrender, of acceptance, and ultimately of the truth.”
“And what is the truth?”
Ashkai looks over Ainia’s shoulder a third time, holding my gaze, even though I am lighter than air and completely invisible. He says, “Let go of your fear, Rosa, and you will see.”
As if mirroring my state of shock, everything darkens: the sky, the jungle, the water. The river reptiles, some of them very large and agitated, start surrounding the canoe, thrashing their long, thick tails and snapping their teeth. Others are coming toward me. To avoid them, I shoot upward until I’m hovering about twenty feet above the water.
How can I let go? I think, thrusting the question into my master’s mind.