“B… brother?” Finley whispers, his misty breath disappearing into the night like a ghost. The reflection nods serenely. Finley’s broken face cracks into a twisted smile, then something heavy slams him full in the face, sending him flying backwards to land with a sickening crack on the edge of the bridge. He wriggles frantically like an upside down spider to get to his feet, clutching his torn gut, eyes searching desperately for the source of the blow.
The car’s heavy chrome bumper is in Lydia’s hands, her eyes burning with hatred, and a flicker of doubt crosses Finley’s face for the first time. Doubt… and fear. He was death incarnate, but in his bloodlust he had created something even worse. Far worse.
Lydia grips the makeshift weapon tightly, blood thundering through her veins, heart about to burst through her chest. The whole world turns red. A whole lifetime of pain boiling over. Alex, gone. He did this. She knows what she is going to do, and in this moment, finally, she understands, and hates what the darkness has done to her.
Finley’s shoulders drop. He is beaten. He knows it. Betrayed by his own ego. The irony stings more than any wound. His eyes move again to Lydia’s waist and he smiles a strange smile with open arms, welcoming her. “Alright,” he growls. “I’m ready.”
With a roar, Lydia lunges forward and smashes him hard in the face with the cold metal. For a moment he just stands there, frozen in space and time, eyes rolling up in his head as his spirit begins to leave his body. But Lydia is taking no chances. Summoning every ounce of her remaining strength, she hurls herself at him and wrestles his spasming, heavy body over the edge of the bridge. Finley screams, arms spread wide, a look of what seems like euphoria on his smashed-in face as he plummets to the darkness. Lydia listens for the horrible, cold, distant splash as the body finds its watery grave, then sinks to her knees and sobs. She is a killer now, and always will be. That is a mark she can never wash off.
Still gasping for air and wracked with pain that seems to get worse by the second, she crawls back to the car and fumbles in the glove compartment for a flask she keeps hidden there. Then she pushes the power button on the radio. The rich, dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra spill out across the snow, Under my Skin, echoing off the trees all around and down to the frozen river below as Lydia unscrews the flask and takes a long, greedy drink. The liquor burns her throat, but warms her heart. She looks at her watch. Ten-thirty. Jason must be gone. She thinks of his body burning right now in the dark depths of Mortem, and more tears roll down her frozen, clammy cheeks.
She thinks of Gretchen, beautiful Gretchen, the good doctor she had treated so meanly, but who had shown her nothing but kindness and been right about her all along. She would be at home now, kids in bed, perhaps snuggling with her husband on the couch.
Lydia looks down at her own blood staining the pure, white snow, and remembers the wicked voice of the warden, Winston Shade, threatening her with a fate worse than death. Too late you bastard. You can’t get me now.
She starts to laugh, then splutters and chokes, wincing in pain. Her eye catches her ruby ring, caked in blood. She licks her fingers and rubs it clean until it glints brightly in the moonlight.
Finally, the thought she has been keeping at bay rises to the surface of her consciousness. The thought of Alex lying dead in the attic of that horrible house. The thought that she will never again see his cheeky smile, or hear his soft, kind voice, gaze into his pretty brown eyes, feel his heartbeat with hers. She was a fool; she never could win.
And at last she realises what is causing the escalating dull pain as she lies down in the snow, a cold shaking broken ruby glittering amongst an ocean of white, staring up into the black sky, bleeding steadily from the cuts etched across her body as well as the knife wound in her back. This is the life that she chose, and it has been both a gift and a curse. Finally, Lydia knows. Everything comes with a price. The true question now: was it a price worth paying?
Epilogue
Eight months later…
Tiny people rush around like ants on a warm, summer night, watched from the penthouse overlooking Central Park. Cars drift idly between lanes, slotting into gaps like tiles on a puzzle. In the park itself, the early evening moon reflects off rippling water and makes the trees and bushes glow with life.
Lydia sips peppermint tea and turns her attention back to the photograph pinched between her fingertips, the one that always soothed her to her core. Her nails are shorter than they used to be, smooth, rounded, painted soothing cream rather than her trademark scarlet. She lifts her other hand and runs it softly over her swollen belly.
A knock at the door interrupts this peaceful moment. Lydia places the photograph face down on the table, hauls her considerable self to her feet and waddles to answer it.
“Lydia, darling!” Lydia’s agent Donna, perfectly coiffed curly hair and a blue silk power suit, grasps Lydia’s arms and pulls her into the most superficial of embraces. “You’ve done it again!”
“Come in, Donna.” Lydia laughs, holding the door open.
“Pre-orders are through the roof,” Donna gushes, shuffling inside. “I’d wager this one will stay at the top of the bestseller lists even longer than the last!” She pauses to look Lydia up and down. “Goodness, you’ve gotten big, haven’t you?!”
“Thanks.” Lydia grins and rolls her eyes.
“In a good way, of course, darling, you know I’m over the moon for you. When is the little angel due?”
Sudden flashes of both Alex and Finley flash through her mind as she clutches her stomach. “Next month,” says Lydia, sinking down into her chair again.
“Oh, how thrilling,” Donna gushes.
“Yes, if only Alex was here to actually help raise his child,” Lydia coldly states, feeling a stabbing coming from down below as Donna awkwardly tiptoes around the comment.
“Not taking too much time off, are you?” She glances at Lydia anxiously.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Lydia replies, smiling. “I’ll let you know.”
“Oh.” Donna looks disappointed. “Well, in your own time, dear, of course. Anyway,” she checks a gaudy gold watch, “I can’t stay. Just wanted to drop by in person and let you know how wonderful you are!”
“Right…” Lydia’s face falls, her gaze drifting out of the window.
“Something wrong, dear?” Donna asks, carefully.
“It’s nothing.”
“Well it’s obviously something!” the agent replies, her chin wobbling slightly. “Come on, you can tell me.”
“I said it’s nothing,” Lydia says sharply. She picks up her tea and stirs it with a petite silver spoon.
“You’ve been thinking about him again, haven’t you?” Donna gestures to Lydia’s bump.
Lydia forces a fake smile. “I just need some time.”
“I’m going to say it one more time,” says Donna stubbornly, “are you sure you don’t need counselling? It’s very good these days you know. Not just for crazies anymore.”
“I’m sure,” Lydia replies, stiffening a little, “but I can take care of myself.”
“Well if you’re sure…” Donna looks doubtful. “Darling, this isn’t about those idiots, is it? You know, the ones who…”
“Think I’m a liar who staged the whole thing?” Lydia finishes the question for her. “No, those people are idiots. I couldn’t care less.”
“Well, quite right,” says Donna primly. “I mean the police found his DNA didn’t they, all over those… poor people.”
“Yes,” says Lydia flatly, keen to get away from the subject.
“Did they… ever find the body?” Donna asks, hesitantly.
“No…” Lydia sighs. “I don’t know why. Like I said, he was definitely dead. I smashed his face in with a piece of metal and then he fell a hundred feet into a frozen river.”
“Goodness me, darling!” Donna fans her own face. “How you can say it so casually I just cannot fathom.”
Lydia shrugs. “That’s what happened.” Her stomach lur
ches as she remembers the promise that she made to Jason, to keep the truth about him and Finley a secret. A promise that she had made in good faith. But the world had a right to know, she’d decided.
“Of course,” says Donna. “Of course.” She pauses. “You don’t think, you know, he might have had an accomplice?”
“No,” says Lydia flatly. “There was nobody else there.”
“Alright!” says Donna, holding her hands up. “I’m just looking out for you, darling. Don’t want some lunatic slaying my best client!”
“I’m touched.” Lydia smiles.
“And what about the copycats?”
“Donna…” Lydia closes her eyes and sighs.
“I’m just asking!” says Donna, defensively. “I heard that there’s a whole cult of them using your book like a kind of Bible!”
“That’s just a crazy story,” says Lydia, wearily.
“Alright then, if you say so.” Donna checks her watch a second time. “I’d best be off then. No rest for the wicked!”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Lydia mutters under her breath, hauling herself to her feet again to show Donna out.
“Maybe you could write a book about becoming a mother?” suggests the agent.
“One step at a time,” Lydia replies. “Let me have the thing first.”
“Of course, of course. Well, goodbye, darling!” Donna embraces Lydia again and gives her a gentle squeeze.
“Goodbye,” says Lydia, smiling. “Thanks for stopping by.”
She closes the door and waddles back to her chair, flicking her long, golden locks back over her shoulder. She settles herself and picks up the photograph again, turning it over and touching the smiling face of Alex Gilbey with a soft fingertip, willing herself to feel something. But she feels nothing. No love, no guilt, no sadness. Just a great, gaping void where those emotions should be. Emptiness.
Lydia sits back and strokes her belly again, her ruby ring glinting softly in the fading evening light as she ponders what sort of child it will be? Boy? Girl? Blonde? Brunette? Brown eyes? Blue eyes? Good? Evil? Lydia hesitates at the thought, the dread, but then realises it does not matter, for she plans to love the child, no matter its origin. Whether Alex or… otherwise. “It’s just you and me now,” she whispers. “Just the two of us, alone in this terrible world. But don’t worry, I’ll protect you. I’ll keep you safe. Always.”
She reaches for the stereo remote, points and clicks, and The Ronettes burst into life. ‘Be My Baby’. How beautifully ironic.
Lydia takes one last look at the photograph, then drops it back onto the table. Flat. Now looking outward. She won’t forget about Alex, she knows, but life goes on. Even if she hasn’t found happiness in love, the world still has plenty to offer. It’s time to turn the page. Time to write a new chapter. She has a future, she knows that now. In many ways, her life is just beginning…
*
The Facility
Waylon Warrington, former inmate at Mortem Asylum, has been strapped to a creaky gurney on this plane for hours. This had not been a part of his plans, nevertheless, here he was. His temple racked with pain, mind tumbling from turbulence that makes him sick, engines roaring in his ears and salty sweat trickling into his tired eyes. The tranquiliser they administered before take-off has all but worn off and Waylon is, regrettably, awake. And he wants off this ride.
Half a dozen of Uncle Sam’s finest soldiers, lips sealed and triggers poised, guard Waylon and his three fellow inmates, all strapped up tight and muzzled as he is. That they think him so dangerous makes Waylon smile. They’re right, of course, but it’s still nice to be appreciated.
Is the plane descending now? Hard to tell when you’re lying horizontal until the wheels touch down with a bump. Then the gurneys are rolling again, jolting bones, boiling blood, across concrete and then something softer, through the cold night and then…
WORMWOOD FACILITY
Tall, white letters on a dark, grey wall. Waylon’s heart thumps a little faster. Through endless, lifeless corridors, over metal grates, past barred windows through which the occasional glimpse of monsters in glass tubes makes Waylon’s adrenaline spike. Finally, they reach a kind of holding area, and one by one are wheeled through the doors ahead. First Hillary, then Henry, then Holly… and now it’s Waylon’s turn for judgement. Is this the afterlife? A purgatory state? Is it too late for redemption?
The guards roll him inside. Blinding bright light directly above but shadows all around. Silhouettes of people. One woman with spiky shoulders hovers nearby, flanked by two more holding some sort of utensils.
“Patient number forty-three,” says a voice so sterile as to be terrifying, “Waylon Warrington.” The spiky woman steps forward, but not close enough yet to reveal herself.
“Begin the procedure,” she barks. Masked doctors step into the light wielding the most gruesome instruments of torture Waylon has ever seen. He yelps helplessly into his muzzle as they begin to slice, probe, jab, saw. The last thing Waylon Warrington ever sees is that strange woman turn away, as a silver syringe pierces his right eye.
Hell has come at last.
About the Author
GEORGE MORRIS DE’ATH is an Essex-based author, actor and model with a flair for exploring the dark and twisted aspects of human nature. With his thrillers, George intends to leave his readers with shocks, questions and most of all, wanting more.
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