Jane Doesn't Save the World

by Erin Grey

  Erin Grey

  Jane Doesn’t Save the World

  First published by survivorbunny.com 2020

  Copyright © 2020 by Erin Grey

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  Erin Grey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Erin Grey has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental or a result of the author’s inability to distinguish dreams from reality (they’re really vivid, ok?)

  Illustrations by Erin Grey

  Chats created using geekprank.com

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-0-620-87372-7

  Cover art by Fantasy & Coffee Design

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  For Tim. Are you cute?

  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  1. The bit where I try to die

  2. Before

  3. The bit where I become concerned

  4. The bit where I realize I read too much sci-fi

  5. The bit that turns out to be real

  6. Gwendolyn

  7. The bit where I almost get a handle on things

  8. The bit where the novelty wears off

  9. Before

  10. The bit with clear skies and purple trees

  11. The bit where the sun comes out

  12. Sandy

  13. The bit where the universe hates me

  14. The Myth of Asclepius

  15. The bit about ferrets and hookers

  16. Before

  17. The bit where I discover the Truth

  18. Dooklr

  19. The bit where I nearly fall off

  20. A Story for Children

  21. The bit where, surprisingly, we don’t die

  22. The bit with the pirates

  23. The bit where Aidon is cross

  24. Before

  25. The bit where there’s a snap

  26. The bit where I meet the Thoughtful Rights Activist Group

  27. The bit where we run away

  28. The bit about death

  29. BIOS

  30. The bit where the real Brianus turns up

  31. The bit on the island

  32. The bit about the portal

  33. Before

  34. The bit where I get upset

  35. The bit where I’m tempted to stay

  36. The bit where things get a little out of control

  37. The bit where I want to believe

  38. The bit where we make a plan

  39. The bit where I try to help

  40. The bit where we storm the castle

  41. Jasper

  42. The bit where I pay the price

  43. The bit where I discover something very, very important

  44. The bit where I escape

  45. The bit where Aidon is really mad

  46. The bit with the Dark Night of the Soul

  47. Mitch

  48. The bit where I remember stuff

  49. The bit where I have an idea

  50. The bit where I get nuclear

  51. The bit where I become the villain

  52. Deep Dark

  53. The bit where Aidon won’t let me

  54. A Story

  55. The bit where things don’t quite go according to plan

  56. The bit that hurts

  57. The bit where it all ends

  About the Author

  Also by Erin Grey

  Acknowledgement

  This book would not have been completed without the support of my ridiculously good-looking Tim and the constant input, encouragement, and floof gifs of the Write Fight Gif Club, especially Elsie, Paul, Moss, Ash, Clem, Micah, Briance, Rhi, and DLT, as well as many others in the Twitter #writingcommunity.

  Big thanks to my awesome hawk-eyed beta readers: Martin, Radina, Joy, Ash, Emily, EJay, Hare, Shami, and Elsie (again).

  Special chocolate-coated thanks to Mae, who went above and beyond to help me get this book covered, published, and marketed.

  1

  The bit where I try to die

  Later, when I was hurtling through the galaxy in the wrong direction, I swore never to listen to the voices in my head again. This was all their fault.

  I’m not certain which of the voices turned up first—it feels as though they’ve been around forever—but it was probably Gwendolyn, the good girl, because people like little girls who do what they’re told and don’t try to be clever. She was the least happy about my plans to die, pointing out all the prettiness on the taxi drive from the Cape Town airport to the apartment I’d rented.

  “Look at these lovely gardens!” she said brightly. “You love jasmine, don’t you? It’s blooming all over this time of year.”

  I did love the smell of jasmine—no, jasmine didn’t have a smell; it had a perfume that permeated and overpowered the subtle scent of fynbos and salty air. The delicate white flowers tumbled over trellises like spilled sugar. It reminded me of warm evenings outdoors with the sound of waves filling my ears and the slick condensation from a gin and tonic cooling my hand.

  “You like gin and tonics, too,” added Gwendolyn. “Especially with crushed mint fresh from the patch by the garden tap, how he usually—”

  “I don’t want to think about him,” moaned Mitch.

  “But I love hi—”

  Gwendolyn couldn’t finish her sentence before Mitch drowned her out with his depressing slam poetry. Mitch’s poetry always rhymes because most of it sounds like ‘nerrr hrungh aargh gah’. He’s a mumbler.

  I turned my attention to the other side of the highway, where tin shacks crowded the sandy plains stretching away from the sea. Scrawny dogs dug through mounds of rubbish while ring-necked crows watched for dead things to peck. Mitch groaned from a flood of empathy, the kind of emotion I’d been trying to suppress for years. It hurt too much to care. And it got me in trouble.

  I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, we’d left the city behind and wound along the narrow coast road that cut into the mountainside. On the right, white horses rode the ocean, blown about by the Cape Doctor. We called the south-easterly wind that because it blew the smog and dirt and pollution out to sea, leaving the air clear and the bay a translucent emerald green. If only there was a Cape Doctor for my brain.

  I clutched the ridged leather upholstery of my seat, cringing at the grimy stickiness. I’d always felt sick driving on this road; it twisted and turned so much, and no one ever took it at a leisurely pace, not without a string of aggravated cars accumulating behind. My driver kept his foot on the accelerator and his fingers firmly clenched on the steering wheel
. He was in a hurry to get rid of me and claim his fee. After all, I was the enemy, descendant of the oppressors.

  After passing through a number of small seaside towns, we pulled up at a rundown apartment block. I got out my purse to pay and tip the driver but hesitated when I saw his glare, the one that refused to see past my skin colour.

  Jasper—the voice of rules and regulations—piped up. “It is socially acceptable to add a gratuity when one receives a service,” he said. “Although, his fee is exorbitant and his vehicle not at all well-maintained.”

  I’ve always pictured Jasper as a proper British gentleman with a monocle and walking stick, possibly a waistcoat, while Gwendolyn wears a sparkly pink dress with layers and layers of tulle and puffed sleeves. Mitch’s shape is dark and ill-defined, and his stringy hair hangs in front of his face, probably because he’s always hunched over or curled up in the foetal position. I made up these images to entertain myself, because I never see the voices. I only feel their thoughts.

  “His car stinks,” said Sandy. “And he’s being a jerk.” Sandy is my rebellious rocker chick: tattoos, multi-coloured hair, studded leather collar. She’s kind of an anti-Jasper. Maybe an anti-Gwendolyn. Sandy’s pretty anti-everyone.

  I shelled out a couple of bucks, but the driver’s scowl didn’t soften. He was pulling away before he’d closed his hand on the notes. I wondered if there was anything I could have said or done differently to change his opinion of me.

  “Suffering blinds people and causes them to hate,” said Jasper, matter-of-factly. “One can only control one’s own behaviour and hope the situation will improve.”

  But it was too late for this country. Hate had tipped the tables. My family and I weren’t safe here anymore.

  I pushed through the doors into the apartment building, a backpack my only luggage. The lady at the front desk smiled and said a friendly ‘hallo’ in a Malawian accent. My shoulders—taut from the endless riots in Johannesburg—relaxed slightly at the familiar sight of her chitenge cloth dress. As a foreigner, it wouldn’t matter if she’d lived here 20 years—she was as much in danger of losing everything as any European residents of 200 years. We were in the same boat, which instantly made us allies.

  Mitch moaned and sent a twinge of guilt down my spine. Would this kind-faced woman be the one to discover my corpse? I smiled as I took the key from her, hoping my plans didn’t show in my eyes.

  The moment I opened the door to the dingy apartment, Jasper began cataloguing its faults. “It does not look hygienic,” he griped. “One might contract any number of infections from the floor alone.”

  “Whatever,” said Sandy. “There’s a bed. And no one will care if we throw wild parties or chuck the TV out the window.”

  “Under no circumstances may you defenestrate any furniture or appliances,” ordered Jasper. “It would be deducted from the security deposit.”

  “Buzz kill,” said Sandy. “I hope there’s a minibar! With vodka in it.”

  “Oh, but I don’t like the taste of vodka,” said Gwendolyn breathily. “And it makes me dizzy. I’d rather have a Shirley Temple.”

  “You realize that a minibar is not an actual bar, right?” said Sandy.

  “Oh.” Gwendolyn sighed in the manner of a disappointed Marilyn Monroe.

  “Neither of you will be able to satisfy your alcoholic desires as this is an apartment, not a hotel room,” said Jasper. “Apartments do not come with minibars.”

  I dropped my backpack beside the double bed and started slipping out of my shoes.

  “I strongly advise against walking barefoot upon this carpet,” said Jasper. “Must I list the potential fungi, bacteria, parasites—”

  “Bonehead,” said Sandy. “She can take her shoes off if she wants.”

  “Infection and the ensuing sepsis is no small matter,” Jasper carried on. “Not to mention the likelihood of amputation as a result, or the possibility of a parasite migrating to the brain and causing seizures.”

  “Ok, ok,” I hissed. The shoes stayed on.

  Mitch roused himself from his silence. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “All be over soon.”

  It’s difficult for him to talk because of all the anxiety and empathy and despair he carries. Mostly I feel him like an ache in my bones.

  “Ugh, you’re such a downer,” groused Sandy. “Why can’t you shut up?”

  “Oh, Sandy, don’t say that!” murmured Gwendolyn. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”

  Jasper sighed. “I do my best to keep Mitchell quiet,” he said. “Otherwise we would never accomplish anything constructive. However, he is most unmanageable at times.”

  I dropped onto the edge of the bed, carefully avoiding the olive-green stain on the comforter. The material had probably started out a cheerful sunshine yellow, but time and use and the harsh African sun had left it a sickly beige. I traced the threadbare damask pattern and breathed in the pervading stench of a thousand cigarettes sucked to ashes.

  “Where is that rumbling coming from?” asked Sandy. I shivered and flicked a non-existent bug off my shoulder.

  “The Deep Dark,” said Mitch.

  “No, don’t let it out,” said Gwendolyn. “It frightens me.”

  “Too late,” said Mitch.

  I reached for the plain silver studs in my ears. I’d never liked wearing jewellery—it was a noose around my neck, a weight on my finger, a pang in my earlobe. I did it because it was expected. I always did what was expected.

  Until I couldn’t anymore.

  I removed the studs, along with the eternity ring that wasn’t for eternity and the matching white gold band. They stuck at my knuckle, not having been taken off my left hand for some years. I left the elastic that held my dark hair out of my eyes, even though it pulled on my scalp; I needed to see what I was doing. Then I picked up the no-smudge ballpoint pen I’d brought (Jasper’s suggestion) and carefully marked the veins I would need to cut.

  “I still think jumping off a bridge is a better idea,” said Sandy. “At least we’ll go out with a bang.”

  “I’m scared of heights,” said Gwendolyn.

  “This method has a high success rate,” said Jasper. “We ought to stick to the plan.”

  “We drove over a high bridge a couple of kilometres up the road,” said Sandy. “I’m just saying.”

  My phone dinged, and I peeked at the notification. No, I couldn’t read the message, not one from them. It might make me change my mind. I was doing this for the face on the lock screen and my mother and father who had no options left. The land expropriation laws would go into effect in a few weeks, and they’d be forced to flee. With my life insurance suicide exclusion clause newly expired and all hope of peace in the nation thoroughly crushed, now was the perfect time to end it and give them enough money for a new start.

  But if I thought of their faces, thought of them as anything other than ‘them’, the feelings would be too much and I wouldn’t be able to go through with it. I couldn’t afford to fail. They couldn’t afford for me to fail.

  “There’s that rumbling again,” said Sandy.

  “Don’t fit in,” said Mitch. “Never fit in.”

  “It’s not really about the insurance, is it?” said Sandy.

  “Too stuffy in here,” said Mitch. “Can’t breathe.” My chest tightened.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” said Sandy. “We can check out that bridge.”

  “We did not plan for the bridge,” said Jasper gruffly. He does not approve of upending plans.

  “Too hot,” whined Mitch. “No air.”

  I can’t ignore Mitch when he gets claustrophobic, so I burst out of the room and speed-walked past the receptionist, raising my hand in a quick greeting so I wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. When I got outside into the fresh air, I gulped it in like I’d been underwater.

  “The bridge is over water,” said Gwendolyn, gulping for a different reason. “I don’t like dark water.”

  I jogged towards the simple steel structure, body
stiff from the taxi ride. I didn’t mean to climb over the low barricade, but, within seconds of arriving, the metal poles were against my back and I was looking down at the tea-coloured river, stained by one of the world’s most diverse biospheres.

  “Well, if we must deviate from the plan, we ought to at least ascertain whether the distance is sufficient for our objective,” said Jasper. “BIOS?”

  BIOS’ voice had the mechanical quality of an automated recording, mixed with a series of electronic tones and the sense of words appearing on a screen.

  >Calculating distance_

  >Calculating trajectory_

  >Calculating weight_

  “Rude!” said Sandy. “Why is it always about weight?”

  >Calculating velocity_

  >Probability of death on impact: 98%

  “Please don’t do this,” begged Gwendolyn. “Things aren’t that bad, are they?”

  “Bad,” said Mitch. “Very bad. Can’t anymore.”

  I nodded, blissfully cold towards the emotions that might stop me from following through, memories of my family, visions of how they’d react when they discovered what I’d done.

  “Listen,” said Sandy, nerves pushing her towards Gwendolyn’s line of thinking, “I don’t think this is such a good idea. I haven’t even gotten a tattoo yet. Or been in a drag race.”

  “I still want to go to a ball,” cried Gwendolyn.

  “Too late,” said Mitch sadly. “Nothing works. Never will. Have to end it.”

  I tried to loosen my grip on the iron bars, but my fingers wouldn’t let go. I glanced at the balustrade, then back at the water, and a wave of vertigo washed over me.

  “Wait, does anyone else hear that sound?” asked Sandy.

  “Oh, not the Deep Dark again,” Gwendolyn keened.

  “No, this is different,” said Sandy. “It’s a sort of high-pitched whine. Like that time the fridge was broken but Jane was the only one who could hear it.”

  I detached one hand from the bars and shuffled forward on the ledge.

  “No,” wailed Gwendolyn.

  “Yes,” said Mitch.

  “It’s getting louder,” said Sandy.