by Jodi Taylor
I was surprised to find that despite the pain, I was enjoying myself. No – more than that – I was loving it. I could feel the strength running through me and I gloried in it. There was nothing I couldn’t do. I could feed on their fear. Use it to give me strength. For the first time, I tasted the exhilaration of power. No wonder people killed for it. All these years I’d kept so quiet – creeping through my life like a little mouse. Why? Why had I done that when I could do … this.’
I watched the general’s notepad wobble and lift itself off the table. That didn’t go so well. I needed more emotion to harness. Strong emotion. I needed to be angry. I thought of Michael Jones dying in Sorensen’s cold basement. I looked at the uncomfortable wooden chair which was, apparently, all I was worth. I thought of Ted and how he had saved me. I looked at Sorensen and what he’d done to us all.
An empty chair jerked itself slightly and then fell over. I hadn’t quite got the hang of this although to be fair, it’s not something I could have practised beforehand. Someone screamed a warning. Behind me, I felt a movement. An unseen man shouted, ‘Hands in the air. Down on your knees.’ No, that wasn’t going to happen. Not in a million years. I heard a thunk as his gun hit the ceiling.
Even through the blinding pain, I could feel the exhilaration. It was like the excitement of riding a bike full-speed downhill. No more inching my way cautiously round the bends with the brakes on all the time. Now I careered downhill at breakneck speed, the wind in my face. Flat out. No stopping. Always in control. Sowing the storm and reaping the whirlwind. They were afraid of me. Again, I experienced that heady rush of power. They were afraid of me. All of them.
Slowly at first, I picked things up off the tables. Pens, pencils, notepads, glasses – all small stuff but you have to start somewhere. They wobbled a little at first and then, with a flick of my wrist, I gave them movement. Round and round they flew. Faster and faster as I prepared to bring their world down around their ears.
The more I did, the more it hurt. The pain in my head was beginning to overpower me. My stomach churned. Any minute now I was going to be horribly ill. There’s a price to pay for doing this sort of thing. There’s always a price to pay, but I was happy to pay it today. There was nothing left for me in this world.
I could hear the door rattling behind me. I had no idea whether people were trying to get in or trying to get out but it didn’t matter either way. No one was leaving this room alive. There was shouting on the other side but it was all very far away and of no concern to me and the thing inside my head smiled, stretched luxuriously, and said, ‘At last.’
They’d all grouped themselves in the farthest corner where, presumably, they thought they would be safe from the whirling maelstrom of office equipment. Time to give them something else to think about.
I started with the furniture. I concentrated on Sorensen’s chair first. There was a moment when I groped clumsily and then I had it. It lurched across the floor. A little bit zigzaggy at first, while I got the hang of control, but eventually I was able to lift it high and let it smash it into his table. It was a heavy office chair so it didn’t shatter, but it didn’t do the table any good at all.
Small objects were still spinning around the room. Papers, a stapler, pens, a plastic in-tray hurtled past, scattering its contents in its wake. A low hum filled my ears. The world began to take on a red hue. With every fresh evidence of my power, I felt a huge anger welling up inside me. Fires that had been tamped down for so long all began to explode into life. Power fed on fear which increased the power which made them even more afraid. It was limitless. I could go on for ever. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t do. I felt a fierce exultation. No longer would I stand in the shadows and hide. No longer would I stay out of the way. This was me. I was here. This was what I could do. It was the world’s turn to stay out of my way.
Now a table began to move and I was hardly even trying. Pleased with my success, my mind reached for the cabinets, which were much heavier than I expected. I couldn’t hold them. One tilted back against the wall and I lost the other one completely. It fell over with a crash. Sorensen and the others were all crouched down in the corner, gazing around them, shielding their heads, terrified. Now, the bookcase lurched. Books tumbled from the shelves and flew around the room, their pages flapping like giant birds. That was quite funny.
I stood in the centre of a vortex. My old wooden chair smashed into a wall and shattered. Jagged lumps of wood, books, pens, all whirled around the room at lethal speeds. A whirlwind of office equipment. Really, it was so funny. Why was no one laughing?
The whirlwind was spinning faster and faster. I saw the civilian hit across the shoulders with the remnants of a chair. He fell to the ground and stayed there. The other two tried to protect their heads. One of them had already been hit by something heavy. Thick red blood was running down his face. Things spun faster. The room was filled with a rushing wind. The woman’s hair was streaming out behind her. She clung on to Sorensen, using him as a shield. He crouched, arms wrapped around his head, shouting at me.
The crew-cutted soldier was the first to go, picked up by that old cliché, the unseen hand. I lifted him, screaming, into the air. His feet kicked wildly as I thrust him into the vortex where he was funnelled upwards with every turn. I wondered idly what would happen when he reached the ceiling. The other army man went next, waving his arms and shouting as he rose into the air. He was helpless. It was so funny. I moved my arms and the two of them collided with a very nasty crack – bad steering on my part, but to be fair, it was my first time. At least their shouting stopped. Both hung limply and now there was quite a lot of blood, spraying around the room in great arcs. Every wall looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.
This is fun, said the thing. And it was. I considered crashing the two soldiers together again, just because I could, but the pain in my head was becoming rather severe. I put my hand to my face and it came away thick with red blood but whether it was theirs or mine I didn’t know and really, did it matter?
I stood, arms raised, head back, riding the storm as easily as the ice giants ride the glaciers which will one day end our world.
The sound of the vortex had risen to a scream. The speed was such that I could no longer make out the individual components. Or people. Everything was flashing past in a blur. The colours of the world mixed and mingled in a kind of grungy grey. The fire extinguisher was the only bright spot in the room. Speaking of which … With only the lightest of thoughts, it wrenched itself off the wall, straight at Sorensen, hitting him square in the face, crushing bone and cartilage, and suddenly, everything was red.
The furniture was beginning to disintegrate. Occasionally a table leg or anonymous piece of metal would escape from the maelstrom and thud into the wall, shattering even more plaster which, in turn, was sucked into the whirlwind. I spared a moment to wonder what was happening to the very much softer and squishier people.
I clenched my fists above my head, feeling for all the world like the ringmaster in some sort of bizarre circus and above me, the ceiling cracked like a pistol shot. Dust and plaster joined the maelstrom that had once been an ordinary basement room. I made one, final, huge effort that flashed sick white pain behind my eyes. The entire vortex seemed to blow upwards and then the whole boiling mass whirled up, up and away. I have no idea where it all went.
My head felt as if it was on fire. My eyes were bulging with pain. I couldn’t do this any longer. I was losing control. I had lost myself in a red orgy of revenge and destruction and now it was all getting away from me.
And the thing that had lived in my head for so long, turned on me with a gibber of triumph. Something exploded behind my eyes. My world turned red. And purple. And black. Time to end it all. Shrieking words that were lost even to me, I spread my arms and let the wind take me away.
Chapter Thirty-One
I was a snowflake, floating in a blizzard of white, soft and weightless. Around me were other snowflakes, dancing in the
bright light.
And then I hit something cold and hard, knocking all the breath from my body. I lay on my back as the angry snow sought to engulf us all.
‘Open your eyes, Elizabeth.’
I did as I was told. Evelyn Cross bent over me. I felt no fear – just a quiet acceptance of my death.
‘Have you come for me?’
Her voice was soft and sorrowful. ‘I am sorry. I cannot help you.’
I tried to lift my head but the cold snow had me in its grip. ‘Why not?’
‘You have damned yourself. I cannot help you.’
Cold washed over me. All the iciness of the world was claiming ownership of me.
‘You have unleashed something you cannot control.’ She gestured at the never-ending angry snow. ‘You are doing this. This is you. Your hatred. Your fear. Your rage. Your desire for revenge. You have passed beyond me. I cannot help you now.’
Now I knew real fear. ‘Don’t leave me here. Please don’t leave me.’
Because now I was alone. I knew I was. The thing in my head, unleashed at last, given free reign at last, was gone. That old biblical phrase – gone to seek what it might devour.
‘I must.’ She bent over me. ‘I would help you if I could but I cannot.’
‘Don’t leave me here.’
‘You had a gift. You have used it to hurt people and make them fear you.’
I could feel the cold seeping through into my bones. I knew I would never get up again. I was being slowly buried in my own punishment.
‘Goodbye, Elizabeth.’
‘Help me.’
‘Elizabeth.’
‘Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.’
‘Cage? Can you hear me?’
What?
‘Open your eyes.’
I didn’t want to. What would I see?
‘Cage.’
I opened my eyes. I was lying on my back on the hard snow, looking up at a sea of faces looking down at me. I stared in bewilderment. The sun was shining brightly. Some of these faces were children. My head hurt. My back hurt. Was I dead? I could feel the cold snow through my clothes. I could hear screaming but these were screams of pleasure. From children. I could smell the delicious smell of hot dogs and frying onions.
I was struggling to understand what was going on when the circle broke up and Jones was there. Right above me.
‘Are you all right, Cage? You came an awful cropper. Don’t try and move just for the moment. Move up, boys, give the lady some room.’
I lay still, trying to work out what was happening. Jones was alive. I wasn’t lying among the ruins of the Sorensen Clinic. No one was dead because of me. The world wasn’t disappearing under a blanket of white death.
‘Can you get up?’
‘Yes, I think so. Nothing’s broken.’
He helped me to my feet. I clung to his arm and stared, dazed, trying to understand where I was and what had just happened.
‘Do you know if you lost consciousness?’
I couldn’t answer him. To have him here again when I thought I had lost him.
I said, stupidly, ‘You’re not dead.’
‘No,’ he said cheerfully, ‘not yet anyway. Can you remember what happened?’
I shook my head. I knew what hadn’t happened. Sorensen. The clinic. Clare. His death. None of that had happened. Had it?
‘Are you sure you’re all right, Cage? Don’t you remember? Someone lost control of their sledge and cannoned straight into you. You went flying. Are you sure you weren’t unconscious?’
I said I didn’t know, but I must have been, surely. To have dreamed all that. And in such detail. I’d been in another world. One that – at this moment – was more real to me than this one. I could still feel the pain in my head. And the metallic taste of blood. My heart was still pounding with shock, and fear, and the violence of my feelings. My legs were weak and I was shivering.
‘I think you’re a bit shaken up,’ he said and I was. Hugely shaken up. And not just by the fall. I tried to tell him it was all right and that I was fine, but I was shivering so hard the words wouldn’t come.
Nearby, two little girls were in tears. Their mother didn’t look much better. I gathered they were the ones who had hit me.
‘It’s all right, sweethearts,’ said Jones. ‘Not your fault. She stood right in your path.’
I had no knowledge of doing any such thing but nodded anyway. Actually, I had no knowledge of anything. I stared around me as if I’d never seen any of it before. A world that was far less real to me than the one I’d just left.
‘Who’s a concussed little girl then?’ said Jones, supporting me with one arm as we made our way out of the park.
‘I don’t remember hitting my head,’ I said slowly, although it was throbbing.
‘Well no, Cage, that’s kind of the point when you have concussion. Let’s go and get you checked out at the hospital.’
‘No,’ I said, more out of fear of what they would find than actual stoicism.
I don’t know why I bothered. I was talking to myself.
A&E was full of people apparently unable to keep their feet today, but they saw me quite quickly. I answered questions, went off for an X-ray and was admitted for an overnight stay.
‘I’m quite all right,’ I said, and no one took any notice.
Jones stayed a while, talking to me, and then they brought the evening meal round. He inspected my plate, told me it was a punishment for being too stupid to stand on my own two feet properly, that he would take my stuff back to my own house for me, and collect me in the morning and take me home.
I did sleep a little, but not much and they woke me at regular intervals anyway. Apparently, there was nothing the matter with me because I was released after breakfast with instructions to take it easy for at least the next forty-eight hours. Jones promised I would never be left alone for one moment, cross his heart, and took me home.
We walked slowly through the dirty streets. Far from being the civilisation-ending snowy wilderness I’d dreamed about at the Sorensen clinic, in true British fashion, the snow was rapidly turning to muddy slush. I could hear dripping water everywhere.
I wasn’t sure what I would find behind my own front door. I waited anxiously at the bottom of the steps as Jones took my key and opened the door. He stepped back. ‘Aren’t you coming in?’
I took a deep breath and slowly climbed the steps. Nothing terrible happened. I walked past him through the front door and looked around. Nothing was out of place. Everything looked just as it had the last time I’d been here. My suitcase was by the door and my lovely red bowl stood on the coffee table.
‘I brought all your stuff back while you were snoring your head off in hospital. Looks good, doesn’t it?’
He meant the bowl.
I pulled myself together. ‘It does.
Thank you.’
Brilliant sunshine slanted through the window, highlighting the fact I hadn’t dusted recently.
‘Would you like me to take your suitcase upstairs?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Well, take off your coat, sit down and put your feet up. I’ll put the kettle on in a minute.’
‘I can do that.’
‘No, you can’t. Just sit down. And don’t fall asleep,’ he added, as if dropping off in the middle of the morning was something I did all the time.
I felt so tired. I sat down with a sigh. It was still only the day after Boxing Day. I’d only been gone just over two days. It seemed a hell of a lot longer. I could hear Jones moving around upstairs. I closed my eyes for a moment and then opened them again in case I was accused of malicious sleeping.
I looked around. It was good to be home. This was my home – my house, and it welcomed me. My first home had been my parents’ house and my second had been Ted’s. This was the first house I had ever owned all by myself and I loved it. I looked around at all the familiar landmarks of my life so far. My books sat in orderly rows on the shelves.
My beautiful red lacquer bowl sat on the coffee table, brightening the room. My picture of Ted was still on the shelf. His flowers in the vase nearby were drooping. I must go out tomorrow and buy some fresh ones.
I stood up to take the vase into the kitchen and found myself picking up Ted’s picture instead. Remembering that other world, I wiped the glass and the frame with my sleeve, and whispered, ‘Thank you for what you did,’ and whether I was thanking him for our years together or for saving my life, I wasn’t really sure. Whichever it was, he deserved my thanks anyway.
My fingers were sticky. As I replaced the picture a tiny snail trail of something hung briefly from the frame. Taking the picture to the window where there was more light, I turned it over for a better look.
A long crack ran across the glass and into the right-hand side of the frame. This picture had been broken. Two small, clear beads of something had oozed from the crack. At some point this picture had been broken and then glued back together again.
Unbidden, that other world came rushing back. A picture came to my mind. A moment of terror and desperation. Of grabbing at the picture and in the same sweeping moment, hurling it at Jones. Of him carelessly batting it away with his arm. In my mind, I heard the crash as it hit the wall. Heard the glass crack. Saw the two pieces of frame fall to the floor.
Someone had mended this.
I scratched at one of the beads of glue. The exterior was hard, but a tiny piece crumbled away. I touched it with my thumb and it was soft.
I stared down at my thumb and then at the picture, my mind racing. I couldn’t take it in. The picture had been broken and then repaired again. At some point in the very, very recent past, this picture had been broken. And I knew how. Again, I saw Michael Jones striding towards me, impassive and detached as he beat me. Again, I saw the picture fly through the air. Hit the wall. Fall to the floor. It had happened. It had all happened.
My stomach crawled with fear. There were two worlds. Two versions of events. One was normal and believable. The other apocalyptic and horrifying. Which one was true? Had someone been doing something with drugs? Confusing me. Was that manipulative bastard Sorensen messing with my mind. Was this real? Or was this the dream? Were these my last thoughts as I lay buried in angry snow? Or was everything a lie?