by Rachael Craw
“… coordinates for the car? … very good … you make my job easy, Miriam …”
“… cleaners will find him in the trunk.”
“Excellent.”
“He was young,” Miriam says. “I hate it when they’re young.”
“You can’t look at it like that …” Carolyn, brisk and schoolmarmish. “… mercy … kept him from a nightmare life … a monster. Think of the lives you’ve saved, the families you’ve kept from heartbreak.”
“I don’t know that Phil’s wife would thank me for saving him.”
“The next Spark might have been a good man, a good woman. Don’t regret your gift, Miriam. You save lives.”
“A hair’s breadth of a chromosome and you’d have needed someone to save the world from me.”
Sick realisation dawns on me. I recall Miriam’s fierce eyes when I came round in the bedroom at the governor’s, the way she questioned me. She’d been afraid I was a Stray.
“These are common feelings post-assignment,” Carolyn says. “They’ll pass.”
A chair creaks, fabric brushes, a plastic clipping sound.
“I’m overdue,” Miriam says, like she’s answered a question. “I can barely feel it.”
“Hence the delay in your signal registering. I should’ve checked on you sooner, Miriam, updated your tracker. I’m sorry to have put you at risk. If you wish to make a negligence complaint, that would be fair.”
“No. Of course not.”
“If you’re certain. Tip your head.” An electronic beep follows. “Something’s not right.”
I dig my nails into the back of my hand. My ears pop and I lose the conversation as fear floods in. She’s sensed me. She will be up the stairs any minute. I can’t hear past the static in my head. She has some kind of signal scanner and the reading is wrong because I’m up here confusing reception. Frozen, I wait for threatening footsteps on the stairs. They come into the hall. The jingle of keys. Miriam’s voice. A response. The front door opens then closes. Silence.
I sit up in bed, heavy in head and limb.
Car doors open and close.
Two slams.
The engine revs and the car pulls away.
Two slams?
Heaving the blankets off, I rise shakily to my feet and shuffle past my waiting-to-be-unpacked boxes. I pause at the door. “Miriam?” I take cautious steps out onto the landing and lean on the rail. “Miriam?” No reply. Afraid to fall, I strangle the banister, forcing my lead-heavy legs downstairs, but I can tell she’s gone. The house is empty. I’m alone.
At a total loss I stand in the hall, staring into space. I turn to the front door as though I expect it might open again and Miriam will appear and start explaining things. There on the wooden crossbeams hangs a yellow sticky note. She’s written only one word, “WAIT!” The capital letters and exclamation mark, full of promise and warning. She’ll return soon and I mustn’t do anything stupid.
I pull the piece of paper off the door and shuffle into the living room, flicking the lamp on, slumping in the old wingback. Buffy looks up from the couch, ready to forgive me for the sake of a warm lap. I let her come and jump onto my knee, stroking her with my good hand. I stare at the sticky note and Miriam’s familiar hand writing. I can do as I am told, can’t I?
But after a couple of hours, I’m not so sure.
My thumb aches. I run my tongue over a bite inside my lip, raw, coppery. The lump on the back of my head is tender when it bumps against the headrest. The clock on the mantelpiece reads half-past three and the undertow of bone-deep fatigue pulls at me, but I can’t let myself fall asleep. I finger the sticky note, waiting with my stitches and my horror and a mouthful of unasked questions. I relive the Governor’s Ball detail by detail, linger over Jamie’s smile, his embrace and my humiliation. If I close my eyes and really concentrate, can I remember the smell of his skin? I shake myself. As if anything like that matters any more. Miriam’s singleness now makes total sense. Mom had blamed her pickiness, her crazy schedule, but really, what hope is there for romance when your life is ruled by mutant DNA?
It’s like manning a valve, allowing my mind to trace back on the night without letting emotion overwhelm me. Kitty’s face blazes, interspersed with flashes of Miriam’s alley memory and the stitching of my skin. I catalogue every male face I can remember from the party, casting them in the role of lurking psychopath. It doesn’t help. I mistrust every one of them, from obnoxious Richard to helpful Aiden. How many people touched her, hugged her, or shook her hand in one day?
Behind all this surges the enormity of my new life, the genetic mistake that runs in my blood, the wrongness of me in skin, muscle and bone. I wait for Miriam. I need Miriam but I want Mom. The longing and the pointlessness of it wring me out. Tears escape the valve and I quake in my seat.
I let it take me for a while, let the pain pull me along, slam me up against the “why me?” over and over until I think I might start screaming and tear the place apart. Eventually, sheer exhaustion closes the valve. I sniff and swipe the back of my hand across my face, my swollen eyes, disgusted with the waste of time and tears. I lift Buffy to the floor; she growls and sits disconsolately as I push up from the chair. I can be grateful at least that the Fretizine has worn off and I have full use of my muscles again. Miriam wants me to wait? Well, she has until I’m showered and dressed to get back and tell me whatever else I need to know. Then I’m going to the hospital to find Kitty.
Upstairs, I lean towards my reflection above the bathroom vanity, looking for a sign that I’m still in there, that the shell of skin is still mine. I lick the edge of my finger, wipe the last smear of mascara and frown. Yesterday’s makeover has washed away in the flood, but there’s no shadow beneath my eyes. They’re a little puffy and red but there should be shadows. Trenches.
I drop my gaze and stall.
My boobs.
“Holy–” I turn side on and run out of exclamation. It’s not the lighting, the tank top or the mirror – my boobs are bigger. I reach for the hem of my top, pulling it over my head, careful of my bandaged hand, feeling immediately the weight of my breasts without the support of Lycra. I slouch, straighten and turn, checking my reflection from every angle.
My small Bs are gone.
These are definitely a step up the alphabet.
I tug my pyjama pants from my hips and peer back over my shoulder to see if there are any other changes. My butt looks the same.
Just the chest.
“Miriam.” I close my eyes and I’m crying again at yet more evidence that my body is no longer my own. Helpless tears, messy, unhinged sobbing, tapping wells of grief old and new. I weep for Mom and leaving home and feeling utterly lost and alone. I weep for Kitty and the Miriam I never knew and even the boy in the alley. I weep because I am so afraid, so hopelessly, agonisingly afraid of what I have to do. Worse is my fear that I won’t be able to do it.
WARD
The moment the elevator doors open, it hits me – I can almost visualise the tether reaching from my bellybutton like a magnetic cord to the thing that matters most, where she lies in the private room at the end of the ward. Just like the feeling from Miriam’s alley memory. I grip the handrail, afraid to step into the corridor as my spine zip-zaps and my heart claps its valves. That my aunt had felt this for a total stranger blows my mind. The elevator chimes, its doors about to close. I nip through the gap and freeze in the T-junction. A cleaner guides a boxy polisher, buffing the linoleum to a high sheen.
I have to batten down my suspicion as instantly as it rears. The man is well into his sixties and almost as wide as he is short, straining the seams of his coveralls. I don’t need to see his ID to know he isn’t Kitty’s stalker disguising himself for a sneak attack.
Calm down.
Hadn’t Miriam told me the hospital was a safe place? Too busy and unpredictable for a Stray to make an attempt? But as I draw near the nurses’ station, the desk sits empty. I don’t know whether to be outraged no one is
on watch or relieved that it will be so easy to slip by unquestioned. Where are the medical personnel I pictured patrolling the corridors, filling it with their Stray-deterring presence?
I scan the whiteboard with its list of room numbers and patient names and see “Kitty Gallagher” written in green marker, but I could find her room with my eyes closed.
My pulse sprints as I make my way up the corridor, soundless in my trainers, sweatpants and hoodie. It had seemed more responsible to dress for ease of movement, plus my sports bra is the only one that fits, but really, what do I think I can do? I’m not ready for anything. In the ten seconds it takes me to reach her door, a thousand insane thoughts shoot through my brain. What if someone threatens her right here? Can I protect her? Am I fast enough? Strong enough? I curse Miriam for leaving me so unprepared.
It’s barely seven in the morning. I had waited in Miriam’s car in the visitor’s parking lot for almost two hours, debating what to do, afraid they would turn me away. I’m not family. It’s not visiting hours. Who do I think I am, expecting to barge into a hospital ward in the early hours of the morning? Now, here I stand outside Kitty’s room, the tether vibrating, too afraid to knock.
The door opens fast and wide, the gap filled by Jamie, glowering and disheveled in last night’s suit. His expression makes the quicksilver adjustment to surprise. “Everton?”
“Evangeline?” Leonard stands at Jamie’s shoulder. The similarities between father and son have grown more startling in the three years since I last saw them side by side. I glimpse Barb sitting beside the bed, pale with fatigue, Leonard’s suit jacket over her gown. Clearly none of them have been home.
“I’m sorry,” I say, keenly aware of violating a private situation. “They wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone.”
Jamie stares. Leonard pushes his glasses up the ridge of his nose, glancing past me, looking for someone. Barb rises from the bedside, frowning.
“Where’s Keith?” Leonard’s low aristocratic voice almost sounds menacing. “They let you come up here?”
I have no idea who Keith is but I gather he’s in trouble. “There was no one on the desk. I’m sorry. I was worried. I couldn’t sleep. I thought if I came up …”
Leonard’s expression softens. He steps out and squeezes my shoulder. “Forgive me, Evie, and excuse me a moment. There’s supposed to be a security guard.” He marches up the corridor to the nurses’ station.
I catch a brief glimpse of Kitty asleep in the bed, her neck braced, bruises on her face, her right arm held in a sling. Rage twists my insides and tears prick my eyes. I want to kill someone. “Kitty,” I squeeze her name out. Jamie still stands there, staring at me. Barb draws close beside him, petite and blonde like her daughter. She’s unpinned her hair. I’ve never seen Barb without makeup and I wonder if hers also washed away with tears.
“She’s asleep,” Barb says. “We don’t want to wake her.”
“No.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Of course not. I – I wanted to see her, make sure she’s okay. I mean, obviously she’s not okay, but if there’s anything I can do.” I wish Jamie would say something.
“Is Miriam here?” Barb looks out the door.
“No.” I tuck my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt, wincing as I bump my thumb. Jamie’s eyes finally move from my face, flicking to where my bandaged wound hides. “She doesn’t know I’m here. She wanted me to wait.” Neither statement is a lie, but I feel the heat in my face, pressure in my chest, and an unwelcome tear slips the corner of my eye. I lower my head. “I’m sorry. This was a bad idea. I should have waited.”
Jamie’s wide warm hand grips my shoulder, producing the distinct charge in electricity I felt in his arms the night before.
“Everton,” he says. “It’s all right.”
I look up and he slides his hand behind my neck, squeezing briefly at the base of my skull before letting go. He turns his face away as though suppressing his own wave of emotion.
“It’s been a long night.” Barb brushes her hand up and down my arm. “She’ll recover but she’s had a terrible fright. You can come and see her. We just need to keep our voices down.”
The room is big enough for three chairs and even has a window. Kitty’s blue chiffon gown lies folded neatly on the table at the end of the bed. There are no flowers or get well cards yet, but I know the room will be full of them by the afternoon. Everybody loves Kitty. Seeing her lying there makes my insides twist. “She’s so small.” I blink through my tears, realising too late I’d said it aloud. I blush and wipe my eyes. “I mean …”
“I know what you mean, sweetie.” Barb moves to let me draw closer to Kitty’s side. Jamie stands opposite, staring at me again, his face impossible to read.
Kitty groans and we all freeze. Her head moves but the brace holds her still. She winces, opens her eyes; the left one is so swollen it makes her look like she’s mid-wink. She spots me. “Hey,” she rasps, lifting her good hand, searching.
I bite the inside of my cheek – please don’t let me pass out – and clasp her hand between both of mine. Magically, nothing happens even though my heart thunders like it will lift out of my chest. “Hey. I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
She tries to shake her head and grimaces. “This thing blows.”
“That thing’s keeping your brainstem attached to your spinal cord.” Jamie leans over her. “Lie still.”
She grumbles and squeezes my hand, brushing the bandage. “Oh, how are you?”
I give her an incredulous look. “Don’t worry about me, Kit. I’m fine.”
“You hit the floor pretty hard. I was worried you’d cracked your skull.”
I shrug.
“You remember Everton fainting?” Jamie says, fully alert.
Kitty makes a face. “Don’t get excited. I told you, everything after I left the party’s a blank.”
“You don’t remember anything?” Disappointment winds me. What had I expected, a name and address for the sick bastard who’d hurt her?
“A shadow.” She closes her eyes. “But I guess that’s a bit stupid. It was dark.”
A shadow. I shiver.
“You don’t have to go over it now, darling,” Barb says. “The police will review your statement later this morning. For now you need to rest.”
Kitty screws her nose up. “There goes summer.”
“Jamie, why don’t you see Evie out?” Barb says.
“Come back, though. I’m stuck here at least a week,” Kitty says. “Barb, will you tell the desk that Evs can come whenever she wants? None of this family only bollocks.”
Barb purses her lips.
Jamie frowns.
I feel the pressure to say I’ll stay away and let her rest, but my need to keep close overrides social rules. “I’ll be here every day, Kit.”
She grins. Jamie and Barb exchange looks. I feel awkward and a little hurt. I can understand Barb, the over-protective mother, but what’s Jamie’s problem?
“I’m sure short visits won’t hurt. I’ll tell Keith.” Barb opens the door.
Jamie waits for me to step out into the corridor ahead of him.
Down at the nurses’ station Leonard is speaking with the security guard. Judging by the guy’s face, he’s getting the message. I feel the same immediate suspicion towards him as I felt towards the cleaner. Paranoia? My pins and needles burn and static crackles in my head like a badly tuned radio, but I sense no threatening shadow. I conclude Keith isn’t a murderous lunatic, but I also decide he’s too weedy and unfit for the job of security guard – though I doubt an entire SWAT team built like Jamie would satisfy my idea of protection.
“You got a sec?” Jamie nods towards a small sitting area by the stairwell exit, and I walk beside him, distracted by the pull of the tether stretching behind me.
Thinly upholstered chairs sit around a coffee table littered with out-of-date magazines. We take seats at right angles and I cross my legs to keep from bumping his knee. Jamie leans on his elbows,
one hand covering the other, his mouth pressed to his knuckles. Stubble shades his jaw, and I can’t help but notice the strong angle of the bone where it curves beneath his ear. I recall the warm scent of his skin. Quit it, you pervert. Am I really checking Jamie out in the middle of the greatest crisis of my life – his sister’s life? Besides, he doesn’t want you here.
“Look,” he squints up from beneath his furrowed brow, “I don’t know that it’s a good idea for you to come up here every day.” He reads my face and drops his gaze. “It’s nothing personal, but things are complicated and Kitty needs–”
“Complicated how?”
“Until there’s someone in custody for this.” He opens his palms, choosing his words with care, “We need to keep the environment … contained.”
I can’t agree more, but there’s no way I’m giving up my free pass. “Kitty’s one of my best friends, Jamie. If she wants me here, I’m here.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“I can sit in the corridor. I won’t get in anyone’s way.”
“It might not be safe.”
I swallow. “You think the attack was personal?”
Jamie chews the inside of his lip. “Where were you?”
I stall at the sudden change of course.
“After the police came, I went upstairs to find you and Miriam but you were gone.”
My mind races. I have no idea how Miriam got me out of the governor’s mansion in the middle of all the hubbub. Did she sling me over her shoulder? “Um, Miriam took me home. I don’t really remember. She said she messaged Kitty.”
He searches my face, his expression so intent I can’t look away. Flecks of charcoal, smoke and shadow, eyes to get lost in. “She never got to her phone.”
I groan. “If I hadn’t fainted–”
“It’s not your fault. I didn’t mean to imply that.”
“I should’ve stayed home. I’d been dizzy all day. I haven’t been sleeping well since Mom–”