She glared.
Tom knew the answer, some days she wouldn't shut up about them.
'Listen, my little girl is missing. This bit of paper is telling me she can be found, okay? I can't do it myself, there's fuck all else I can do. Listen I'm... I'm sorry for barging in here and fucking with your night, and for the state of me, and for... bleeding. But if you could please look up case reference MP-751627-2015. It's a big case, Inspector Harris would want to hear about this. Please...'
He clasped his hands together.
Kim huffed through her nose and typed the reference into her computer. She raised an eyebrow and picked up the phone as requested.
Tom smiled.
HA, he thought, burning a hole through Derek's face in a magazine rack down by the seats.
He smirked.
Of course, he was somewhat premature with his internal yippee, because Kim came back and told Tom that Inspector Harris had forgotten all about the case.
‘Give me your number, and he’ll phone you on Monday,’ Kim said.
Tom started screaming.
He kicked things.
He was thrown in a cell.
Afterwards, Kim picked up the piece of paper with her thumb and forefinger - as though she were dealing with used toilet paper - and discarded it in the bin.
~
Thirty-Nine
Beautiful Kids, Getting Ready to Die
(apparently)
Nice clothes, hair and make-up were things of the past. I missed them.
I had only ever seen my band in two outfits: the clothes The Judge kidnapped us in and the alternate attire provided so our clothes could be washed.
I only knew these guys based on those two outfits. It was like I had been at school with them for a year and saw them only in their school uniform, and then they show up to the Christmas dance all tarted up beyond recognition.
Mute entered the room with a collection of clothes on his back. He hung them on the door and left in one motion. Shortly after, he returned with a case of shit to help put ourselves together. Make-up, hair product, razors (oh my god razors!), straighteners, the lot. For about an hour, I was encouraged to be a girl again. I'm surprised I remembered how.
One hour later, we stood in the middle of the living space, huddled around a bottle of champers that Mute brought down with a note from The Judge (break a leg!).
We looked sexy - like we had the world ahead of us. We let ourselves forget they were the last clothes we would ever wear. But hey, everyone should die looking so good.
The boys dressed in tuxes, all black-and-white, all clean-shaven. Lovely, bald jawlines, swept-over hair and charming smiles; they did well.
Nothing on Vox and me, mind you; they didn't stand a chance. Our dresses matched in all ways but size. Both slinky and black, all boobs and shoulders and neck. We differed in legwear because bare legs and heels were never going to work behind a drum-kit. Boots and tights for me, thank you very much.
'Looking sharp, everyone...' Six announced, deciding to open the champagne.
'Yes, we scrub up well,' Keys added, adjusting his tie.
I didn't have enough pages back in the good books to talk.
Six, while he tried to suss out the cork on the bottle, gave Vox and me an extra nod. 'Ladies, looking especially lovely.'
We faux-ruffled our hair in perfect unison.
'Aw, thanks Six.' Vox smiled.
The only one of us who didn't bask in the glow of our beauty was Bass. He stood in the corner of the room, leaning on a crutch. His eyes were puffy and he was white as a ghost, bordering on blue, actually.
He needed to know his family was okay.
He needed to see a doctor.
No amount of tuxedo was going to make him feel better.
~
At ten minutes from show time, we stood in silence.
The members of my little basement band all clutched glasses of champagne with only the sip following 'cheers!' missing from the top.
Mine was empty.
The glamorous atmosphere had died. There was, at that moment, only the clock above the door, counting down.
In ten minutes, Mute would arrive and march us back up the stairs to play music for three hours. After that, for the first time in a year, we didn't know what was coming. We didn't have a schedule on the wall or an end-game to practise for.
I appeared to be the only one who had enough of a problem with it to speak up. The band stood around in either clear acceptance or explicit denial of what came after the show.
My whole band were about to die, again.
It didn't sit well with me.
~
I blame the glass of champagne for everything that happened next.
~
'Fuck this, guys. Come on,' I blurted. 'This isn't happening. When we get up there, we walk on one side of the stage and run clean off the other side. Let's do it.'
'Cora...' Keys shook his head.
'Fuck you, that's not my name. You can call me Cora once we're out.'
'We'll talk about it once we've played the show, Cora.' Six put his hands in his pockets, talking almost casually.
'After the show he'll, at the most, chuck us back here until we're executed. We can't escape from down here, remember? We need-'
'Not happening.'
'Why the fuck are you like this?? You know I'm right! We're all walking to our deaths here and you want to play music for our executioners first??' My judgement lapsed for a second, and I'm sorry. 'Bass! You don't even have a family anymore!'
'CORA!’ Keys wailed.
Bass's heart broke again. I saw it happen, but I couldn't stop. I didn't notice Vox taking me by the arm. I kept going. 'What have you got to lose, man?! Come on!' Vox dragged me off, and I can't remember what I was yelling about at this point. I swore a lot.
Vox pushed me into the bathroom and followed. The last thing I heard before the door closed was Six screaming something about me being a poisonous bitch.
Vox pressed herself against the door.
Words spilt from me. 'Vox, help me out here.'
'You named us by our roles in the band, and then enforced the rule because of what happened to your last band, right?'
'What?'
'You don't even know our real names, but wanna put our lives over your family?'
'My family can take care of itself.'
'Well so can we.'
'Ughhhh...' I collapsed onto the toilet, slapping my head into my hands.
'Listen, maybe we are about to die, but it's up to us.'
'You're all idiots,' I said from between my fingers.
'Thanks. You owe Bass an apology.'
'Yeah...'
Lifting my head, I looked at her. Always a mistake. I let myself collapse into some of that sweet, stomach-flutter eye-contact. Big brown eyes, bouncy black curls and a smile that cared.
Oh fuck it, I was about to die anyway.
'You look... lovely, Vox.'
She grinned. She shrugged. 'Aw thanks, you too.'
No, but.
'No, n-no. I wasn't being polite, I was being gay. I fancy you.'
Her smile dropped. 'Oh.'
'Yeah.'
'I uh- I didn't ehm, I didn't know. You're-'
'Very much so. Like, I wanna put you in a sundress and-'
'Kay, well, I'm flattered, but... not?'
'Yeah, it's fine.'
'But thank you!'
'No, it's cool. Well, you've never... specified, and-'
'Well, no. But I thought that-'
'Yeah, but no.'
'Right.'
Silence.
'Wow.'
It hadn't happened to me before, it likely wouldn't happen again. It felt nice, though. For a second I had other options.
'Listen, I don't want to be weird about it or anything, I figured we've got like four hours to live so why not.'
'Yeah, right.' She leant back against the door again, and then we let the moment hang in the air, making us uncomforta
ble.
I tried to explain. 'I... a girl broke my heart out there, in the world, y'know? And I started to drink and, kind of black out the world and... I always figured I was entitled to my meltdown or something? Like, old Cora would be there to get her shit together when I got over it. But then I woke up here, and I killed everyone, and I had to become this new, third Cora, and she wasn't allowed a broken heart, and she couldn't love anything, she only gets to repair the shit that the heartbroken Cora did. But she failed too, and there's still this first Cora who has feelings and shit and, and-'
'Right, right, I think I got it.'
'Right, okay.'
The silence came back.
In a minute, Vox would break it, and tell me the words that would push me a little bit further - just enough to plant the seed, just enough to put me at the edge of the stage.
I sat on the toilet with my heart on my sleeve and my guts all over the floor and waited for anything to come along and make it better.
'Listen, that second Cora. The heartbroken one?' Vox asked.
'The arsehole?'
'Yeah, her. She didn't do anything wrong. She was trying to dodge pain and keep herself alive. She wanted to be that first Cora again. She tried to make it happen.'
'Right...'
'Like, this Cora, this one you are now, she doesn't want to save herself. She wants to save everyone else because of something that Rabbit guy did, and she's willing to die to do it? That's mental to me. You get to live.' She shook her head. 'I'd rather deal with the arsehole, I think.'
'Heh... well, you never met her.'
As Vox stared me down with those pretty - albeit, judgemental - eyes, Keys entered and told us it was time.
~
Mute showed up a minute later.
We lined up for him. He walked by carefully, spending time on each of our faces. He made sure - wordlessly - that we knew the stakes.
He wanted confirmation we weren't dumb enough to try anything.
Unfortunately, that was the case.
We'd all walk upstairs and play The Judge’s damn music for him, before coming all the way back down to wait for execution.
I waited at the back of the line.
He spent extra time with me, staring. This wasn't the third superhero staredown because I didn't look back. I didn't feel like he was my nemesis. I felt like he was the guy with the whip. I cowered from him. I even gave him a compliant nod. No hassle from me, sir.
And off we went.
Upstairs, by the stage, we waited for our lengthy introduction by Judge Rabbit to end. He slurred his way through it, telling his people that he had scoured the island for its best musicians and produced a band that any wedding would pay through the teeth for.
We ruled, to be fair.
'Ladies and Gentlemen! The RabbitFootFour!
Applause, applause, and Mute ushered us on. Up the steps at the back of them I went, out onto the glossy wood of the stage.
I remember thinking how loud it was. I remember being confused as to how a sociopath like Judge Rabbit had amassed so many friends. From the dining table backwards, the room was absolutely crammed with colourfully-dressed Court members.
I shielded my eyes as I worked my way back to the kit and sat down.
The applause died.
I picked up my drumsticks and rolled them in my hands.
When I lifted my head, The RabbitFootFour waited on me. Instruments ready, fingers poised to play. But I waited for them. I waited for a sign that maybe they had changed their minds.
The chances of escape were cripplingly low. The room was full all the way to the back, getting through would be near impossible, but it had to be better than the alternative.
The alternative where I counted four and started playing.
The alternative where we played for three hours and died.
Any signal from any of them, and I would have been over that drum-kit in a heartbeat.
But they just waited.
I counted four.
~
Forty
Tom and Bars
'Oh Tom...' Smug Derek said from absolutely nowhere. 'Fucked it this time, haven't you?'
Tom groaned and pressed his face against the cell door.
Unsurprisingly, he had spent time in the cells before, but never sober. Usually, he would climb into the little bunk and sleep it off. As knackered as he was, he didn't have the time. He rattled the door, screaming jibberish about the paper they took from him, begging someone to drag Inspector Harris to work.
Anybody who heard him ignored him.
An hour passed.
It was karma. Karma didn't give a fuck about his destiny, no sir. Karma wanted to give him the kicking he rightly deserved for abandoning Grim.
Yep, Tom created the problem himself.
He figured Grim missed his send and got the sack for it; he was probably dead already.
Could Tom have helped?
Definitely.
Tom didn’t know that it was only Derek with a broken back who showed up. There didn't exist a universe where Tom couldn't handle him. Tom would've put the ugly git on his arse and taken Grim away with him to the police station. Grim would've been much more diplomatic when speaking to Kim, he wouldn't be in jail if Grim were there to do the talking.
He stepped back from the door and sat on the bunk provided. He wondered how long he'd be kept for. How long before they let him out, just to put him back in when he resumed his ranting. The cycle would repeat until Inspector Harris showed up on Monday.
Tom was stuck.
~
Later, some keys messed around in the lock.
Tom sat up quickly, having lain down to build a strong (and polite) case for his release. He saw the cell door open and the silhouette of Inspector Harris appear in its frame.
Inspector Harris was a tall man, an imposing figure with a full beard and horn-rimmed glasses. Tom had met him frequently over the past year and been intimidated on each occasion. He was shaped like an inverted triangle - all chest and shoulders plunging down to two little feet on the ground.
His voice, even at indoor levels, boomed. 'Mr Quinn.'
Tom didn't know what had happened to bring in the investigating officer on his case, and he didn't care.
He stood up. 'Alright mate. Thanks for coming. Listen, I think I've sussed out the missing fourteen. It's-'
'Can I tell you about my night, Mr Quinn?' Inspector Harris entered the cell and shut the door behind him.
Something was wrong.
'...Not really, this is pretty important.'
'Glad you think so. More important than a Friday night with my wife and kid? We've been having trouble recently because of how much time I spend here, ha...' he stroked his beard with one passing clasp of his hand. 'She said I spend too much time with strangers, not enough time with her. Says I'm becoming paranoid - obsessive, even - about a case I... Ha…’
'You forget.'
'Everybody does. Forgetting tragedy is easy. It's going to cost me my marriage.'
'Everybody forgets, Tom...'
'Right, well you're getting your hole tonight. I know where those kids are.'
Inspector Harris approached. 'Used to be a guy with us who everybody looked up to. Big, old, angry guy with a big fucking stick who lived and breathed for this job. Criminals burned his house to the ground and killed him.’
'Are you listening to me?'
‘Mr Quinn, I tried to ignore your call, I tried to go back to my night, but...' He stopped shy of Tom, casting a long shadow.
Tom wouldn't have been so intimidated had he not let his physique slip a tad. ‘Did you see what I brought in? The paper? The-'
'Mr Quinn, I got a second call about you. Kim called me not half an hour after the first to say a Mr David Hunter came in with some video footage of two men breaking into his office.'
Tom shrugged. 'Right, well aye. I did.'
Inspector Harris put a full, engulfing hand on Tom's wet little shoulder.
'Are you alright, Mr Quinn? Because you walk into our police station, covered in blood, ranting and raving about conspiracies and missing people and then confess to a crime. You don't seem to care that you're wasting my time, either. Should I be worried about you?'
~
Remember when Tom said he would try diplomacy?
~
‘WHO GIVES A FLYING FUCK, HARRIS? Kids are missing, remember? I'm telling you that office I broke into contains a full cabinet of info about the people that are away! IT'S THEM. Wonderland Talent! Go! Take a fucking squad with you!'
'Mr Quinn.'
'Did you read the paper I brought? Did you read the name on it? Lisa, fucking, Reid.'
Inspector Harris recoiled.
'Aye... You know that name, don't you? If you've been so obsessive about your work, then that name should ring some giant fucking bells.'
'You read it in the papers.'
'This case hasn't been in the papers for months.'
'You remembered it.'
'How the fuck would I remember it, huh? How, of all the people taken, am I going to remember one name I’ve never heard before when there's a fucking magic spell making everyone forget?? How? How the fuck did I manage that!?'
'Calm down, Mr Quinn.'
'Right. FINE. Arrest me! I don't care, but it's your duty to visit the fucking crime scene! Go investigate the damage I did. Go do your job. While you're there, have Mr Hunter open up the filing cabinet in his office and gut the fucker out, because that's where I got the slip with her name on it. There'll be plenty more, go on!'
Inspector Harris ran another hand over his beard and growled a little, but he didn't talk.
Tom didn't need him to talk. He needed him to get in a car and go visit a crime scene.
Inspector Harris left the cell, but before he shut the door, he spoke. 'A filing cabinet?'
Tom nodded, and Inspector Harris left him alone, clattering the cell door shut at his back.
Tom let his legs buckle out from under him and planted himself back on the bed. He would love to have been relieved that Inspector Harris agreed to investigate, but a thought tainted his victory.
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