* * * *
The next morning Janine has a fight with Suzanne about who gets the last piece of bread. They stand in the kitchen shouting at each other for fifteen minutes until Janine storms off to her room without breakfast.
She cries for a while, trying not to make any noise. Then she spends the rest of the morning reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. She goes to uni early, lines up to use the email terminals, types her password with shaking hands.
She closes her eyes as the messages download. Please God, let there be one from Pablo. But there isn't. Only stuff from the library and porn spam.
She searches for him on the web and finds only references to his basketball career at Brisbane State High. Then she searches the Courier-Mail website, and finds nothing.
A guy she knew once told her that whenever a train is delayed by more than about twenty minutes, it's because someone has thrown themselves in front of it. That's how long it takes them to clean it up, and to get a new driver for the train because the other driver is too traumatised to keep working.
Janine wonders if this is true.
She shoulders her bag and walks to the lecture. He must have died. Otherwise he would have answered her. If a message had been there, it would have proved that the numbers don't mean anything, that she was wrong about her mother.
She takes the long route and ends up being late, so she slips in up the back as quietly as possible. Beowulf this week.
After a while she stops taking notes and watches the people in the theatre, noting their deaths. Dr Briggs has thirty-five years left, and he's already over fifty. He could probably teach this course sixty more times before he dies, if they kept running it in both semesters.
This must be a form of insanity. There must be a name for it: numeromania. Maybe it's caused by a chemical imbalance, something congenital that doesn't show up until a certain age, or until something triggers it off. It would make more sense if she'd had an obsession with numbers as a child, or if she'd had an aversion to numbers, or ... something.
Perhaps she has just manifested her latent psychic powers. Psychic powers aren't supposed to show up in numbers, though, they're supposed to be auras in pretty colours and visions and feelings. But this could just be the way that her brain processes the input, turning a newly-acquired death-sense into a numerical read-out, like the way synaesthesia makes people taste colours.
Or she's just crazy.
Then she notices two girls who have, respectively 0.417 and 0.426.
She puts down her pen. She watches the figures drop, every 86.4 seconds.
Maybe it's because of God. Maybe there is such a thing as God, who has given her this knowledge.
For a moment this thought is simply too frightening. Her head drops into her hands and she listens to her own breath flowing in and out of her nostrils.
There has to be a reason for it. It has to be so that she can help people, do her own preventive diplomacy to stop death in its tracks.
She looks up. The girls are not the sort of people she would normally hang out with. The small thin one has lank black hair and wears a torn yellow T-shirt over a black top. The taller and heavier one has a faded pink tracksuit top and long brown hair done in tiny plaits. Tryhard somethings, she doesn't know what.
When the lecture finishes, Janine walks up to them and says to the shorter girl, “Hi, I was wondering if I could photocopy your notes from that lecture. I was late and missed the first part."
"Oh,” says the girl, looking a bit stunned. “You can if you want, but Sarah takes better notes than me."
"I don't mind if you copy mine,” says the taller girl. “Do you want to walk to the biol sciences library now?"
"Sure, thanks.” Janine's heart is pounding. The three of them file out of the theatre and amble down the road. “My name's Janine, by the way,” she says, putting on her sunnies.
"I'm Adeline,” says the shorter girl.
"Sarah,” says the other.
When they reach the photocopier, Janine tries to make conversation. “Are you guys enjoying the course?"
"Not really,” Adeline says, hitching one hip onto a desk and swinging her leg under her patchwork skirt. “I love the literature itself, but I think they take the wrong approach to it."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, I mean, I guess you have to ask what Beowulf is really about.” She actually looks at Janine now, eyes bright. “I mean, what he said today about all the gift-giving and the importance of the hall and everything, don't you think it's just a bit irrelevant?"
Janine doesn't remember anything about gift-giving. “I don't know. What do you think is the important part?” She opens the lid of the photocopier and turns the notes over to the next page. The line of green light passes under her fingers.
"I think it's all about death, actually."
Janine swallows. “How so?"
"Well, I mean, Grendel is this monster, and I think he represents death. He is death. He's just so dark and unknown and forbidden."
"And what about his mother?” Sarah says. “She's kind of like a sort of death mother, like the Hindu goddess Kali. Or like in Aliens."
"Gee, that's really interesting,” Janine says. It's working. Get them talking, listen to what they have to say, make sure they don't do anything dangerous, watch over them.
She hands the exercise book back to Sarah and gathers up the warm copies. “Thanks for that. Do you guys want to get a coffee downstairs or anything?"
"We're too poor for coffee,” Adeline says. “Our place is just near here. We're going to go home and drink some red wine. You can come too."
Janine had planned to go to the library and prepare for her exam tomorrow, but this seems more important. She doesn't ask how wine could be cheaper than coffee.
The three of them cross the oval and walk off the campus. Green grass beneath Janine's runners, fluffy clouds dotting the sky, jacarandas just about to shower the world with their purple. She is doing the right thing.
Adeline and Sarah's place is in a block of brick flats only five minutes’ walk from uni. Adeline unlocks the flywire door and lets them in. The kitchen, just inside the door, smells of unwashed dishes and a sink of dirty water. Sarah walks through to the dark living room (heavy curtains drawn over French doors, no other windows) and gestures to the brown couch.
"Take a seat. Do you want a glass of water?"
"Sure, thanks.” Janine sits on the couch obediently, and finds herself facing a small TV on a cardboard box. There are two other chairs: inflatable plastic ones, translucent green and pink; posters on the wall (Escher, Einstein, unicorns) and clothes on the floor.
"It's a pretty cool place.” She tries to sound enthusiastic.
"It's our place,” Sarah says proudly, bringing over two glasses of water and sitting with a squeak in the green armchair.
"Thanks.” Janine sips the town water, wondering what happened to the red wine.
Adeline emerges from one of the other rooms, holding a slim red and white paperback. “Here.” She hands it to Janine. “You should read this, it's the most brilliant book, very profound."
"Thanks.” Janine takes it from her. “Catcher in the Rye. I've heard of it, but never read it."
"It's just about my favourite book of all time."
Adeline goes to the kitchen and comes back with a box of matches. She lights six candles of varying shapes and sizes on the coffee table. Janine hopes she'll open the window and let some air in, but no such luck.
"What's it about?” she asks as Adeline sits down at the other end of the couch.
"Basically, it's about this kid who doesn't want to grow up. He spends a few days walking around New York and wondering what to do with himself. And he thinks everyone he meets is a phony."
"Sounds interesting."
A long, awkward silence follows and Janine opens the book and pretends to read the first page. Maybe the silence is only awkward for her. Maybe Adeline and Sarah spend a lot of time starin
g at candles.
She closes the book and looks up at them, hoping for inspiration. Their numbers are 0.375 and 0.384.
"You can borrow it if you like,” Adeline says.
"Thank you.” A mark of trust if nothing else. Janine slips it into her backpack. “What other courses are you guys doing?” she asks, and this sparks a few minutes of conversation, before silence takes over again.
Janine glances at Adeline and sees that her face has fallen into lines of deep melancholy.
"Hey, Janine,” she says, getting up. “Do you want to see something cool?"
"Sure."
"You have to close your eyes and hold out your hands."
Janine obeys. Green afterimages of candle flames float before her eyelids. She hears Adeline's footsteps go into the next room and then she hears the door close.
She waits, and Adeline takes ages. So Janine's mind wanders, from the girls’ impending death to the exam of tomorrow to her mother, where it gets trapped. Her mind fills with an image of her, sitting opposite Janine in the café and eating chicken caesar salad, pouring a third cup of Earl Grey, dark and tanniny, from the stainless steel pot, fixing Janine with her bright, searching gaze.
Further back, in year twelve, there is the memory of her mother's high heels on the verandah as she was getting home from work. The look of subdued disapproval she used to have when she stood at the threshold of Janine's room and looked down at the piles of library books and newspapers on the floor. The sound of her muddling her way through Chopin when she could be persuaded to play, frowning and pausing at least once every page to comment on her rustiness.
Adeline returns and drops a heavy metal object into Janine's hands.
"Adeline,” Sarah hisses.
The object is very cold. Janine closes her fingers around it and recognises a half-familiar shape. She opens her eyes. She was right. She is holding a smooth black handgun, like every one she's ever seen in the movies.
Sarah looks worried. Adeline is smiling, self-satisfied.
"Pretty cool, hey."
Janine looks at it, lying on her palms. “Yeah."
She feels suddenly very cold.
"Haven't you ever seen a gun before?"
"Sure,” Janine says, the kind of guns that people have on farms to shoot snakes and roos and noisy miners, not the kind that are for shooting people. “Is it loaded?” She looks up at Adeline, then looks quickly back at the gun, as if by keeping her eyes on it she can contain it.
"Of course it's loaded.” Adeline laughs. “It wouldn't be any fun if it wasn't loaded.” 0.372.
If Janine knew how, she could take the bullets out, but she doesn't.
She never should have come here. This thought hits her in the stomach with a thud.
"So, what do you guys do with this?” she says.
"Aw, this and that. Whatever we feel like.” Adeline giggles again.
Sarah's face is frozen. 0.361.
"Can I borrow it?” Janine asks.
"What for?” Adeline says. “You wouldn't go and do something naughty, would you?"
A wave of revulsion comes over her. The thing in her hands almost pulses, a black instrument of death. “I just want to show it to some friends,” she says. “You could take the bullets out, if you want."
Adeline's lips thin in a reptilian smile. “I think you should give it back to me, now, Janine."
"Oh, really. Why is that?"
A pause. Janine's heart beats double time.
"It's my gun,” Adeline says. “It was given to me."
Janine grabs her bag and leaps from the couch. She runs around the right side of the couch, away from Adeline. She reaches the flywire door and wrenches it open, but Adeline's hand is already on hers. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"
Janine turns and presses the barrel against Adeline's T-shirt. “You let go of me,” she says quietly.
Adeline doesn't move. She holds Janine's other hand, squeezes it painfully. “You'd never do it.” She spits in Janine's face.
If Janine shoots Adeline, then takes the gun, Sarah might live.
She can feel Adeline's breathing, her ribcage rising and falling against the barrel. She is going to die anyway, so what difference does it make?
Behind her, Sarah stands frozen. Her number is 0.362.
Adeline's eyes are an icy blue, ringed with heavy eyeliner. Beneath the freckles, her face is flushed. But her number is 0.371. Her death is hours away.
Adeline grabs the gun and wrenches it away. “You get the fuck out of here!” she cries, turning the barrel towards Janine.
Janine opens the door and thunders down the stairs, almost slipping as she goes around the landing.
She doesn't stop running until she reaches Clarence Road.
At home, she sits on her bed for a while. She is alone.
After about half an hour she goes out and washes the dishes. The blank eye of the TV stares at her. There is no sound except for the distant traffic and the slosh and clink of the dishes. When everything has been dried and neatly put away, Janine sits on the couch, with her knees pulled up against her chest, and thinks long and hard about going back to the girls’ flat.
Eventually she gets the telephone book out of the cupboard and looks for Cubilla. There are only three listings. She carries the book over to the telephone and sits on the carpet.
The first one doesn't answer.
The second one says, “Pablo? We don't have any Pablos in our family."
The third one says, “I'm sorry, who are you?"
"My name is Janine Elston, I'm a friend of his from uni."
It's the voice of a young woman, a very tight voice. “Pablo passed away."
Janine can't bring herself to say anything.
"It was allergies. Anaphylactic shock."
"I'm so sorry,” she manages, at last.
The woman sounds like a receptionist. “I'm sorry I couldn't help you."
* * * *
It's on the radio the next morning. Two young women, aged seventeen and eighteen, were found dead in their St Lucia apartment. Neighbours called the police after hearing gunshots. They were identified as Adeline Watson and Sarah Moffat.
"Oh my God,” Suzanne says. “Oh my God, that's just so near here. Just think, that could have been us. Doesn't that terrify you, Janine?"
"They said it was probably suicide."
"Did they? Well, that's a relief."
Janine throws out the rest of her toast and goes to her room. It couldn't have been us, or certainly not Suzanne, who has decades left to enjoy.
She opens her backpack and takes out the books she doesn't need today. There is the red and white book, Catcher in the Rye. She opens it. Adeline has written her name in curly handwriting on the first page. She should really take this to the police, tell them what happened, but not now, not today.
Stupid girls.
Then she is crying uncontrollably, and this goes on for some time.
The exam starts at ten a.m. and Janine doesn't get to uni until ten to. At the door to the room, an old woman gives her a little card with a number on it. She dumps her bag at the back of the room and finds her desk. She doesn't take off her sunglasses.
The room is filled with one person tables set in uniform rows with uniform spaces between them. She fills out the paperwork and puts her student card on the desk. Chairs scrape loudly as the room fills. Ballpoint pens scratch on paper.
"You have ten minutes perusal, beginning now. During this time you may not write in your exam book."
Janine opens the book and pulls out the green sheet with the questions on it. She knows that she should understand them, but she doesn't.
One of the supervisors picks up her student card and her identification slip.
"Put your waterbottle under your chair, dear,” she whispers.
Janine does so. She looks up and sees 0.006.
Will the woman have a heart attack and keel over right there?
Janine watches her move
to the next person in the row, a bearded, serious-looking guy with thick black glasses, no more than twenty-five years old. Also 0.006.
She scans the room. The number is almost the same for everyone, except at the front of the room where some of them are a little higher.
So, the end of the world? No, it couldn't be. She's seen too many large numbers. A bomb, then, or an earthquake, a fire, a bolt of lightning?
She watches the others make essay plans in the margins of their green question papers. The numbers reach 0.003.
Janine turns in her chair and looks around the room. They all have low numbers, only minutes left. Not a single person she could save.
Save. But save from what? Save how? Suddenly the concept loses its meaning.
0.002.
Around her they are all writing, biting the ends of their pens, frowning in concentration. She closes her eyes.
She opens them again. 0.001. With a screech, Janine pushes back her chair. She leaves the pens, student card and waterbottle and walks to the door.
The old woman stops her. “I'm afraid you can't leave yet,” she says, “it's not allowed."
Janine shouts, “Everyone needs to get out of the room. Or we'll all die!"
The woman looks at her in horror. Everyone stops writing.
"Call security,” the old woman says to the man at the front of the room. “Now, you be quiet and sit back down."
Janine pushes past her, breaks into a run. There is shouting and movement as she throws open the door. She runs out the corridor, round the corner, and into the open.
She shouts, “Get away from the building!” but her voice is drowned out by a boom from behind. A wave of heat hits her back. She runs and runs, through the tables of the refec courtyard and up the steps.
When she looks back, people run past her, screaming and crying, faces contorted. A cloud of smoke and dust rolls towards her, rises from the building. There is a tremendous crash. She wonders what those people looked like at the moment of death, a whole room of 0.000.
There is another crash. More people run past her. Some of them have very low numbers, so will probably be dead in some hospital before the next morning.
Someone trips on the steps, a young pregnant woman in high heels (17880.048), clutching a spotted little bag. Janine helps her up, then watches her run off.
Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #211 Page 14