The Colours of Death

  ‘You heard me, didn’t you?’ he asks, eyes intense. ‘Last time.’

  Isabel has to keep herself from leaning away. His tone, the implied intimacy of it, makes her want to be as far away from him as possible. He doesn’t look away from her. Doesn’t so much as blink.

  ‘Don’t you have to ask my permission before you do that?’ he asks. ‘You’re not allowed to look in my head without asking for my permission, right?’

  She has to tread carefully here. What did he think? That she’d tried to steal thoughts right out of his head when she’d been there?

  An accusation of that kind would be enough to get Isabel thrown off the case. Maybe suspended. Possibly fired.

  ‘Gabriel,’ she says, crossing her legs and shifting forward, resting her arm on the table and peering at him, ‘it was a handshake. Not an open door into your mind.’ Well, she thinks to herself, not quite. ‘And you’re right. We need to get your consent before doing anything like reading your thoughts.’ She leans closer across the table. ‘You said you wished you could’ve been of more help. Gabriel, is there something that you know that could help us?’

  He breaks eye contact, shaking his head, and sighs. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – it’s just Luisa isn’t coping well. This is all really getting to her. She told me that you know about her classification.’

  ‘That’s true. But I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘she’s just scared. I’m worried about her and I don’t know how to help. The press – you know what they’re like when it comes to anything related to Gifted. And now with the announcement of Julio’s death and the connection being made to Dr dos Santos,’ his mouth settles into a grim line, ‘I’m not sure Luisa could take it if her name gets dragged through the press. She hasn’t been coping well with high-stress situations and she knows she’s still a person of interest in your investigation. If this gets out . . .’

  ‘She hasn’t been named a person of interest.’ Even though, Isabel thinks, she very much is. ‘Gifted people have never had it easy,’ she goes on and folds her arms on the table. ‘Sadly, it’s something a lot of us have learned to live with.’ She wants to know where this is actually going.

  Isabel can’t quite read the look Gabriel gives her then.

  ‘You don’t get tired of it?’

  ‘Yes. But that doesn’t change anything. A lot of people like the status quo. People that run in the same circles as Gil dos Santos, like Julio Soares and his father. Like yourself even.’

  Gabriel stares down at his hands. ‘Not all of them. Some of them are actually trying to help. Their research is important. Maybe one day—’ He cuts himself off and shakes his head.

  ‘Maybe one day what?’

  Gabriel sighs. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not important.’ When he looks back up at her the sense of softening is gone and he’s just a mask of politeness. ‘Professor Soares really was trying to help, in all that he did. He’s a huge loss to the research community. If I can be of any assistance, I’ll be happy to help.’

  Isabel tilts her head. ‘Even if that means it might not be helpful to Luisa?’ She leans forward. Because the conflict of interest alone would mean that they would have to take any information from him with a pinch of salt. ‘Gabriel, what aren’t you telling me?’

  The door opens and Voronov walks in. It’s hard for her to read his face.

  Gabriel looks up at Voronov.

  ‘I think I’ve taken up enough of your time, Inspector,’ Gabriel says to Isabel and stands. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  Isabel stands too, inwardly cursing, and nods in acknowledgement. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Inspector Voronov,’ Gabriel says and then walks around him and leaves.

  Voronov stands at the door watching him go, then turns back to Isabel. ‘What was that?’

  Isabel pushes her fingers through her hair and expels a long breath.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Chapter 42

  Michael is sitting on the step by the gate to Isabel’s building when she arrives. He’s got one hand stuffed into the pocket of his coat and his phone in the other. He hasn’t seen her yet.

  Isabel stops in front of the gate, trying to keep the wind from unravelling her scarf. She contemplates turning on her heel, going to have a drink and not coming back until she’s sure he’ll be gone.

  But she’s tired. Bone-deep tired, and drained from having to work through the worsening headaches.

  She continues the climb up.

  The tram bell rings behind her, signalling its ascent.

  Evening has settled and the streetlights cast wide pools of yellow light down the steep street. Because the universe is a bitch, it just makes Michael look even sleeker than usual and makes her aware of what a mess she looks right now, at the end of a long day and without decent sleep. It feels like the bags under her eyes could drag down her cheeks under their weight.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ Isabel says, stopping in front of him. She leaves enough distance so that they don’t have to be in each other’s space. Her keys jangle as she plays with them inside the warmth of her pocket.

  Michael looks up from his phone, hazel eyes looking more like brown in the dark. ‘I tried calling,’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ Isabel says, ‘I saw. Did you notice I didn’t pick up?’

  Michael sighs and looks away, rubs a rough hand over the back of his head. Then he stands and looks at her once more. ‘Yes. I did. I still want to talk to you.’

  She does not have the time or the energy for bullshit right now. ‘I’ve had a long day. I’m not up for whatever it is that you’re doing here.’ Isabel unlocks the gate and steps through. His hand closes over her upper arm and she flinches back, slaps his hand away and backs up, glaring at him. ‘Don’t do that,’ she says, tone flat. Because the pills have faded and she’s too tired to maintain her walls. She’s burned out, needs food and space so she can regroup. She doesn’t need this arsehole touching her and making it easier for her to pick up his thoughts. She doesn’t want him in her head like that. Never did.

  Michael looks stunned. Then pissed off. ‘God Isabel what the hell did you think I was going to do? I’m trying to talk to you.’

  ‘And I’m telling you to fuck off.’ She throws her hands up in the air. The pulsing in her head is worse, so much worse. ‘I’m telling you I’m tired. I don’t want to do this. I really, really don’t. You can’t respect that?’

  Something must come through in her voice because instead of having another go at her over his poor wounded ego, he seems to look at her properly, eyes zeroing in on her face.

  Then he makes a show of looking around them, but all that’s making its way towards them is the tram, rising steadily up the street, still packed despite the hour, the last of the commuters having squeezed themselves in.

  ‘Is it the headaches?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Michael watches her for a moment longer. Then he straightens up and his jaw sets, eyes narrowing on her. ‘Come on, let’s get you inside.’

  Isabel groans and lets her head fall back. She stares up at the sky and wonders what she’s done to deserve this. ‘I don’t believe this. Can’t you just leave?’

  ‘You’re tired, you want to get inside. Let’s go. The sooner I check on you, the sooner I go.’

  ‘I don’t want you coming in at all. It’s pretty easy to understand, Michael. Don’t think I can say it any clearer.’

  ‘Why do you always have to do this?’ he asks, the anger coming back into his voice. ‘Why do you always have to make everything more difficult than it needs to be?’

  Isabel laughs, incredulous. She turns on her heel. Fuck this. She’s not standing out in the cold doing this.

  She hears him shut the gate behind her and resists the urge to brain herself on the door. She has seen what that looks like only too recently and doesn’t want to go there.

  She flips the lights on as she goes in, yanking th
e scarf off her neck.

  Michael follows behind her, not saying anything as she goes about turning on the heater and the TV. She tosses her scarf on the sofa and forces herself to take off her coat. The apartment is cold from being empty for so long and it’s going to take a while for it to warm up.

  When Isabel goes into the kitchen, Michael follows.

  She doesn’t ask him if he wants anything, since she doesn’t want him there at all.

  ‘Where’s the kettle?’ he asks when she starts pouring water into the small pan she uses for the tea.

  ‘It broke,’ she bites off. He’d bought the damn thing when they’d been together. It had broken. After she threw it at the wall. But he doesn’t need to know that.

  The pan clangs against the stove when she sets it down too hard. Isabel pushes past him to get the bag of lemongrass out of the fridge. She makes quick work of washing a section of it and then puts it in the pan.

  Once the heat is up Isabel turns to face him, crossing her arms and legs as she leans back against the counter.

  ‘Hurry up. I have things to do.’

  For a moment he’s quiet. ‘What are you going to do about the pills?’

  Isabel shifts in place. ‘Look. Thank you for what you’ve done for me. But what happens from here on out isn’t any of your business.’

  ‘You came to me just last week and asked for my help.’

  ‘Yeah, well. I think it’s probably best if I deal with this myself.’

  ‘And when they find you out?’

  Isabel stills, then tilts her head and really looks at him. ‘Is this you telling me you’re planning on ratting me out, Michael?’

  ‘No. I’m not going to do that.’

  Isabel doesn’t comment. She doesn’t trust him. The only thing that she knows guarantees his silence on this is that if she goes down, he’ll be going down with her. Failing to report her and supplying her with the S3 to begin with makes him complicit.

  ‘I’ve been taking care of myself for this long.’

  ‘With my help, yes.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Isabel says, ‘I’ll manage.’ Not that she has any idea how she’s going to do that. One thing is certain though: even if it weren’t for the revelation of what he’s been doing with her sister, he can’t help her any more.

  The S3’s effect on her is wearing off, which means soon it won’t work at all and all of those voices will come rushing in. And that’s where the real problem lies.

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Is this what you came to talk about? Because if it is, then rest assured, I’ve got it handled. You can leave.’

  Michael bites off a curse and steps back, turning his back on her. He rubs a hand down his face. Frustration pours off him and Isabel has to make a concentrated effort to keep her walls up and not hear whatever is going on in his head. She’s relied on the S3 to help her keep her Gift tamped down for so long that when it wears off, she’s struggling to adapt.

  ‘No’ – he blows out a breath and turns back round – ‘it’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to apologise about how you found out. About me and Rita.’

  Just hearing it makes Isabel wish she had the kettle back. Then she could break it again. On his face.

  Michael comes further into the kitchen. Not a smart move. It’s small enough as it is and if he comes any closer she might have to give in to the urge to knock him out.

  She doesn’t want him near her, doesn’t want him in her space, period.

  Michael leans a shoulder against the wall. ‘We hadn’t spoken in a long time. When you come over to the clinic we don’t talk. There was never a right time. And Rita asked me to let her be the one to tell you but . . . it just never happened.’

  ‘I know now, so it’s all good.’

  Michael sighs. ‘Isa.’ He looks at her. ‘We were over, had been for a long time and we . . . I like your sister. I really like her and I respect her. It just . . . snowballed.’ He stops, and she can hear him swallow. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ She can hear the water start to bubble behind her.

  He’s staring at her. And the worst part? He looks sorry. He does.

  He looks like standing there and saying these things to her is causing him pain. Because he’s looking at her like he always did when they were together and something had gone wrong that couldn’t be fixed.

  I miss you.

  His thought slips in and, God— Isabel sucks in a sharp breath as hot and cold rolls over her, the unexpectedness of the feelings wrapped around that thought leaving her winded.

  And as Michael takes in her expression, he looks confused at first. But she sees the realisation start to dawn.

  Isabel turns her back on him and opens the cupboard. She pulls out a mug. Just the one.

  ‘You need to leave,’ she says.

  ‘Isa.’ His voice is shaking. ‘Isa.’ His hands close on her shoulders and when she tries to shrug him off, he just tightens his grip and forces her to turn around. His eyes are wide when she meets them. ‘Isa, you can – you heard me?’

  Isabel shoves at his chest, hard. He stumbles back, still staring at her in that way. ‘I said you need to go. And don’t touch me. Don’t put your fucking hands on me. Do it again and you’re not going to like the way this goes.’

  ‘You never—’ He looks lost. ‘You never told me you could – is it because of the pills? Because they’re not working? Was this always—’

  ‘Michael. I need you to listen to what I’m saying.’ She enunciates each word slowly. ‘Get out. I don’t want to talk to you about my Gift. I don’t want to talk to you about my sister. I don’t want to talk.’

  His face closes off then and she can see him withdrawing. ‘You never did. Wasn’t that part of the problem?’

  ‘No. I talked. You just never listened. But it’s fine. You’ve found yourself another Reis who can give you what you want. You’re getting married, remember? And I don’t think Rita or my mum will be too impressed if they find out you’ve been by to visit.’

  He flinches back. ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘You’re right. It isn’t. So it’s best if you leave and don’t come back.’

  Isabel waits for him to do as she’s asked, can hear the water boiling in the silence that follows.

  Then quietly, he says, ‘I’m not the only one still in this.’

  And the fact that he can say that, and that she feels the hurt, makes her want to snap something in two. So instead she looks him dead in the eye. ‘Yes, you are.’

  She watches as his jaw tenses, skin going white around his mouth. But then he’s nodding and taking a step back.

  ‘Listen,’ he rubs his hand over his mouth, ‘don’t be stubborn. If you need anything, you know. Just. Come by the clinic.’ When he looks at her again, his shoulders sag and sadness is etched into the lines of his forehead and the downturn of his lips. ‘I’ll never turn you away. You should know that.’

  He leaves then, shutting the front door quietly behind him.

  Isabel takes the water from the stove and turns it off. The smell of lemongrass fills the small space. She hadn’t even noticed.

  She pours herself a mugful, brow puckered against the pain radiating in her head.

  She ignores the wetness of her eyes.

  Chapter 43

  Despite the tiredness that had had Isabel itching to collapse the second she got home, she can’t stay in the house after Michael leaves.

  She gets out an old T-shirt and a pair of jogging bottoms instead. Her running trainers are like most of her other shoes, beat-up and soft. She tugs them on and pulls her hair up into a ponytail, though the majority of it escapes from the bottom. She zips up her jacket, leaves her phone behind and grabs her keys before making her way up the steep road, stretching her arms and legs as she goes.

  When she gets to the top, her breath coming out in white puffs that fade in the air almost as soon as they materialise, she pops in her earbuds and puts on a playl
ist that is purely instrumental, a low-fi hip hop that never fails to relax her and keeps words out. She doesn’t need more words.

  She’s sick of words and other people’s emotions.

  She wants her own slice of peace.

  Isabel briefly stretches her calves, a lone figure at the top of the hill thrown into stark relief by the streetlight directly above her, and then starts jogging, her pace slow but steady. The warmth of the exercise slowly easing into her muscles until eventually it’s throbbing in her cheeks, her chest, her forehead, her face flushed with it and her muscles protesting.

  The cold night air keeps her alert though, crisp and unforgiving, as she settles into a rhythm. She sticks to the narrower roads, avoiding those filled with light and people, working her way along to the calm beat in her ears.

  Every time her thoughts start to slip back to the conversation in her kitchen, to Michael’s face and the way he’d looked at her, she pushes herself a little more, drags her mind away from it and into the aches in her calves and upper thighs instead, into the way her breath wheezes in and out of her lungs and leaves her throat feeling iced over from sucking in such cold air.

  It’s an hour later when she finally slows down, having come full circle to where the tram is parked at the bottom of the street.

  She stands there for a moment, staring at the uphill climb back to her house, hands on her hips, head back and chest heaving as she tries to slow down her breaths. It takes her a few minutes before she’s ready to start making the climb, pressing her hand into the wall along the way to steady herself.

  Isabel glances at the empty tram as she passes. She can’t help peering inside it every time now, just in case. But as usual, there’s nothing but the darkened seats and the play of shadows from the streetlights.

  She keeps climbing, her head down. The weight of the day is in her every step, but the soreness grounds her.

  When she’s close to the front of her building she looks up.

  She stops.

  Someone is standing in the exact same spot she had stopped to stretch just an hour ago. They’re directly under the streetlight, the light washing away any discernible features.