Solomon's Ring

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  Mr. Khan and Jade come up behind her. I look over at them, unsure of how to answer. We haven’t talked about what to tell people when they ask what happened tonight. All I know is that demons aren’t supposed to be part of the narrative.

  “I don’t remember,” I say. “One minute I was walking back from Cassandra’s, and the next I was waking up here.”

  Mom’s eyes narrow. She straightens and turns to Jade. “Why weren’t you together?”

  Jade opens her mouth, then closes it again.

  “Cassandra and I went to Cherry Beach,” I say. “Jade thought it was a bad idea. I told her if she didn’t want to come, she could stay at school to work on her project, and that I’d come back to walk home with her afterward.”

  Biting nervously at my lip, I stop and glance at Mr. Khan. He’s impossible to read right now. His face is ­neutral, emotionless.

  “Except I didn’t make it back. I guess that’s when Jade sounded the alarm, told Mr. Khan, and he came to look for me. Thank goodness for video phone tracking ­devices, right?”

  Mom stares at me, her face transforming into a mask of fury. “With everything going on, you left your sister and went to the beach after classes? Are you trying to kill me?”

  Mr. Khan steps forward and puts his hand on Mom’s shoulder to calm her. “What’s done is done. The most important thing to focus on is that Jasmine’s okay, other than being bruised and having some internal swelling. Dr. Sullivan is on her way to give us more details, but the scan seemed clear. It could’ve been so much worse. We just need to watch that no further swelling happens over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

  “Where’s Raphael?” I ask.

  Everyone looks at me, worry creeping back across their faces.

  “Raphael?” Mr. Khan says.

  “He was just here with me … he was beside me when you got here.” I look around. “How did you not see him?”

  “Maybe we do need the doctor — right now,” Mom says.

  “I don’t need a doctor; he was here with me.” My voice is rising like lava, which is not helping the situation. “I’m not imagining things. Where did he go?” Panic claws at my chest. He can’t be gone. Not again.

  “Here comes Dr. Sullivan now,” Mr. Khan says, ­looking behind me. His eyes darken with concern.

  I turn to see what he’s looking at.

  The doctor is flanked by two police officers. And from the looks on their faces, they mean business.

  JADE

  “Mrs. Guzman?” the doctor asks, extending her hand to Mom. Her white coat is crisply ironed and spotless, in contrast with the stained and rumpled ­appearance of most of the doctors at the hospital, and she looks like she’s not much older than Jade and I. “I’m Dr. Sullivan, one of the doctors that’s been ­looking after Jasmine this evening. I had the chance to look over her scans a few minutes ago, and I have to say this young lady is very lucky.” She smiles at Jasmine, ­revealing a set of very white but (thankfully) slightly crooked teeth. It’s good to see a flaw; I was starting to feel like my sister’s being taken care of by Superwoman. “But ­attempted ­suffocation can cause complex injuries. There doesn’t seem to be any serious esophageal ­damage or soft ­tissue damage ­showing on the scan. That being said, it’s not unheard of for ­swelling to occur hours or even days after this sort of injury, so we need her to be ­monitored closely.”

  Mom nods. “I’m at home full-time, so I can make sure nothing worsens. Thank you for taking such good care of her.”

  Dr. Sullivan smiles. “You’re most welcome. Despite the challenges we’re facing here, especially on the nights when our generators don’t kick in and we’re packed to the gills, we still try to keep things functioning well. It’s not always easy.” She pauses and looks at Jasmine. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  Jasmine gives Dr. Sullivan two thumbs up. Dark marks cover the circumference of her neck like tattoos. Instinctively, my hand flies to my throat. That’s why I’d felt like I was suffocating in the police cruiser earlier. A shiver travels up my spine. If anything happened to Jasmine, I’d be left with half a soul.

  “Do you think you’re well enough to speak with these officers for a few moments?” Dr. Sullivan asks. “Feel free to say no. We’ve given you some pretty hefty pain meds this evening.”

  Jasmine’s brows draw together in concern. I’m not sure my sister is up to being questioned, ­especially ­considering she was just yelling her head off about Raphael being here when she hasn’t seen him for nearly a year.

  One of the police officers turns to me. “Were you with your sister this evening when the altercation with Jamie Linnekar took place?”

  I look from Jasmine to Mr. Khan and then to Mom. The world is white light and silence, except for the sound of my heart thumping in my ears. I wish there was a way for the floor to open and swallow me whole.

  “Yes.” My voice seems very tiny and far away. “I was with her.”

  There’s a sharp intake of breath from Mom as her ­eyebrows rise in surprise. “What exactly is going on here?”

  What do I say? Jasmine, who so easily and quickly lied to Mom with her intricate little narrative, is now conveniently silent. I feel like I’ve been thrown under a subway train. And if I don’t come up with something fast, Mr. Khan is going to be stuck here with me. We can’t let Mom think he lied to her. It’s ultra important she doesn’t lose trust in him. He’s our Protector.

  “Um … after telling Mr. Khan that Jasmine was missing, I went out to find her as well. I know I shouldn’t have.” I pause, my face burning. “She was heading back to the school to get me when I found her, so we decided to just head home.”

  “And you left Mr. Khan out in the streets alone, with everything that’s going on, all the ­disappearances, to search for you? Then you leave your sister to be ­attacked by some psychopathic man? She could’ve been raped; she could’ve been murdered.” Mom’s voice is ­razor sharp.

  Each word lands like hot acid on my conscience, ­because I did leave Jasmine alone to fight the demon. Even if it’s what I needed to do to ensure the demon couldn’t fully take our soul, I didn’t want to abandon her. God, how could Mom think I’d ever choose to do that?

  Crossing her arms, Mom glares at me. “If there’s ­anyone who should know better than to do that, it’s you.”

  “We were going to video message him as soon as we got in,” Jasmine interjects. “It was getting dark, and we just wanted to get home before curfew. I guess we weren’t thinking. Jade ran to get help when I was ­attacked.”

  Mom raises an eyebrow at Jasmine. “You just said you didn’t remember anything about the attack.”

  Mr. Khan steps forward. “Alejandra, the girls are both tired. You and I are beyond exhausted as well. Let’s wait to discuss all of this. The girls seem to realize they both acted imprudently.”

  Mom turns to Mr. Khan. “I’m so sorry. You’re right. Thank goodness you found Jasmine when you did. I don’t know how I can ever repay you. The girls need to ­recognize how you have gone above a professor’s duty.”

  One of the officers clears his throat. “We do need to get an initial statement from Jasmine,” he says ­apologetically. “The surveillance video was somehow leaked to the media. “We will certainly wait and send officers over to do a more detailed questioning of the girls in the next day or two. It’s just that, with everything that’s been going on, Jamie Linnekar’s death has already garnered a lot of media attention.”

  “Thanks to our esteemed mayor,” Mr. Khan says, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “I thought it seemed a little trigger-happy for her to be on the news declaring this was the work of the CCT.”

  “We can’t comment on that,” the other officer says. “Except to say that the mayor’s office has been very ­supportive of the antiterrorism squad’s work.” I don’t like the way he looks Mr. Khan up and down like he�
�s some sort of criminal as he says this, before walking away to record something in his video phone.

  “Well, if the footage from tonight has already been seen, it’s pretty obvious that Jamie, I mean Mr. Linnekar, attacked my sister and me. He was choking me. I was going to die, so I hit him in self-defence,” Jasmine says to the other officer.

  He puts out his hand to her, palm forward.

  “Hold on. I’m just going to start recording now, if you don’t mind repeating that,” he says. “And can you also tell me where the weapon … the pole … that you used against Mr. Linnekar is right now?”

  Jasmine pauses. I try really hard not to look at Mr. Khan. Her pole. Not that it’s anything more than a ­simple bamboo pole in anyone else’s hands, but it’s the pole my sister’s been training with for over a year.

  “I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “Sorry.”

  “And the insignia that was found at the scene. Do you know anything about that?”

  Confusion clouds Jasmine’s face. “Insignia?”

  “What did you do directly after Jamie Linnekar died?” the officer asks.

  “I tried to leave but was too weak. I couldn’t breathe right. That’s when Mr. Khan came. Isn’t this all on the video?” Jasmine asks.

  The officer nods. “Most of it, yes. Part of the video was lost, however, due to an apparent technological malfunction. We have footage until your friend comes into view. After that, the video is lost until about nine o’clock.”

  “If you’re implying,” Mr. Khan interjects, his voice slightly shaky, “that either Jasmine or I would do ­something as abhorrent as using a dead man’s blood to write with, then perhaps we need to have legal counsel here. And I find it more than convenient that the video is missing.”

  “I would highly recommend you do obtain a ­lawyer,” the officer answers. “We’ll need to question anyone ­involved in the events that transpired this evening with regards to Mr. Linnekar’s death.”

  The officer stops recording and turns back to Jasmine. “We’ll send officers in the next day or so to do more ­in-depth questioning. By the way, I have no idea how you did what you did tonight. It took some guts and super strength. You must be some kind of Wondergirl.”

  Despite being totally exhausted when we finally get back from the hospital, my brain won’t shut off once I’m in bed. Or to be more specific, the part of my brain that’s ­responsible for memories won’t let me sleep. Sometimes I feel like Jasmine, and even Mom, forget that I’ve been away, that things aren’t a hundred ­percent normal for me here. Not yet, anyway.

  I can’t help but be angry with Mr. Khan. He had no right to go off on me tonight. Despite his apology, I’m still resenting the fact that I got a lecture because of Jasmine’s bad decision-making. He knows just how stubborn my sister can get. She’s impossible to reason with when she’s made up her mind about something. It drives me crazy.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love being back with Jasmine. And with Mom. But sometimes it’s just really hard for me to believe I’m actually here. At night I’m often afraid to close my eyes in case I wake up back down there. The strange thing is, since Lola’s Ibeji doll was destroyed, all those years I spent in the Place-in-Between are ­becoming more and more blurry. I don’t know if they were ever clear. It’s like a nightmare where everything seems real when you’re dreaming it, and even directly upon waking, but then progressively fades with each passing daylight hour. I now only remember my time down there from when Jasmine touched the doll and I could see her. That’s why Mr. Khan’s uncertain answer as to how I survived all those years with my half soul trapped in the Ibeji doll has left me uneasy.

  The ceiling of the bedroom stretches out above me like a desert. I do vaguely remember sleeping in the Place-in-Between, mainly because it was something no one else around me ever seemed to do. I never questioned that fact … it just was. Everything down there just was. The reason I didn’t question anything was probably ­because shortly after arriving there, the ­memory of my life before, of Mom and Jade, of Dad and his passing, of Toronto, of my friends, began to ­evaporate. Everything in my ­memory bank became more and more ­translucent and hazy. And yet there was always a deep feeling that something crucial was missing. Now I know that ­something was the part of my soul I share with Jasmine.

  Every once in a while during the four years I spent there I’d suddenly remember a song or a smell, or a ­vision would pop into my head. Once I remembered singing in a restaurant with a girl that looked ­remarkably like me. It confused me so much, because I didn’t even ­remember I was a twin. Most of the time I had no ­memories at all.

  Or at least, I didn’t remember until the day I saw Jasmine again. I was walking down a cobbled street when her image suddenly appeared like a projection against the low-hanging grey sky, her face filled with shock. She was holding a wooden doll in one hand, and there were wooden cupboards behind her. At first the vision terrified me, and I tried to run from it.

  And that’s when I was able to remember everything about my life before being abducted.

  JASMINE

  Three events have happened over the last few weeks that changed everything.

  First, simultaneous attacks with battery acid and bombs took place on the subways of New York, Tokyo, and London. Thousands of commuters were killed or maimed. Official newscasts contrasted ­images of ­passengers, limbs blown off and faces ­melted ­beyond recognition, with those of balaclava-clad CCT ­members pumping their arms in the air and claiming victory while threatening further attacks if countries closed their ­borders to the ships packed with climate-change refugees currently afloat on the world’s oceans, including three ships packed with Australians. There were rumours of other videos, ones with climate-change advocates asserting they weren’t responsible for the attacks, insisting they would not physically hurt civilians, that theirs was a moral war with the governments of those countries and cities, not the people, but those were quickly blocked by the government.

  Second, Sandra Smith’s work-for-welfare-and-rehab program rolled into action. Anyone ­sleeping rough was mandatorily enrolled in the program as well, and there was an immediate stop to the ­murders and ­disappearances. Images were ­broadcast every ­morning throughout the city, showing rows of ­mostly men dressed in grey jumpsuits with the words To Serve and Protect Toronto emblazoned on their backs, ­working on the roadways, fixing solar ­panels, and checking transport trucks at the tolls to stop ­immigrants from coming into the city. To ensure the dignity of the ­workers, their faces weren’t shown. I found that a bit weird, since they were supposed to be doing such a great thing for the city. Smith also ­declared she will not allow Toronto to be destroyed like LA. If it comes to it, she said, she’ll impose ­martial law, and anyone rioting or inciting terror will be locked away immediately, and she’ll seek the death penalty for any CCT ­terrorists if attacks happen. “Inciting terror” includes any media sites broadcasting CCT ­videos that ­haven’t been authenticated by government ­officials. Her ­ratings have soared.

  In the wake of all of that, while I recovered from the attack and tried to figure out whether seeing Raphael had been real or I was actually losing my mind, the video of the battle between me and Jamie Linnekar went viral, and the media descended on us like a flock of hungry vultures. Not only was I being touted as some kind of teen superhero, but they’d also managed to dig up last year’s coverage of Jade’s reappearance five years after her initial abduction from our front yard. We were quickly dubbed the “miracle twins.”

  “They’re camped out in front again,” Jade says. She’s sitting on a stool at the living room window of our apartment, staring down at the entrance. “I wish I could drop something on their heads.”

  Mom sighs. She’s curled up on the opposite end of the sofa from me. A cup of chicory she’s been nursing for the last hour is balanced beside her on the worn fabric of the sofa arm. The skin under h
er eyes is puffy and discoloured. I haven’t seen her look this exhausted since her last lupus flare.

  “We’re going to have to speak with them eventually. You’ve missed nearly a week and a half of school because of this nonsense, and Jasmine, you’re well enough to go to school now as well. And I’m sick of feeling like a prisoner in my own home.”

  My video phone pings.

  “Mr. Khan’s on his way here now,” I say, reading the message. Mom’s right. We are going to have to face the media at some point. Mr. Khan’s brought us food for the last two weeks, allowing me to recuperate in peace and buying us time. Behind the scenes, he’s told me the Protectors are meeting daily, trying to come up with something to say to the media that will hopefully both satisfy them and make them leave us alone.

  There’s a knock at the door. Jade rushes over to let Mr. Khan in.

  He enters, fabric grocery bags in hand, tiny rivers of sweat rolling down his face. Dark patches stain the underarms of his shirt. “One of them nearly got in with me. Honestly, those parasites don’t give a toss about privacy or trespass. Unbelievable.” He puts down the bags, wipes a hand across his forehead, and gives us a lopsided smile. “You need to move to a lower floor. The stairs are too much in this heat. I’m not as fit as I was when I was a young woman.”

  “The only place we could move to is a cardboard box on the streets,” Mom says. “I’m barely able to make the rent as it is.”

  So much for Mr. Khan’s attempt to lighten the mood with a playful nod to his gender reassignment.

  “All that really matters,” I say, sitting up, my stomach rumbling uncomfortably, “is that breakfast is here. I’m starving.”

  Mom gets up. “I’m going to change and freshen up before we eat.” She’s stayed in her kimono since showering. More and more, she’s acting like she did when she was sick. It’s worrying. Even the way she moves is slower, more deliberate.