by Ryan Ramsay
She breathes lightly on her end of the line. I find myself panting, the heat under my heavy jacket getting to me. A cleaner walks by and sweeps some stray popcorn off the carpet. Mia clears her throat.
“All I want is to make you smile again sis. It’s all I have wanted ever since I knew you were angry with me.” She pauses. “Come to the States. I promise you this will be the surprise of a lifetime. And for the first time since we were kids, I will make you smile, even if for just a moment.”
“Interesting pitch. Insurance, huh?”
She giggles softly. “Yeah. Insurance.”
I consider her for a hard minute.
“Okay. I’ll come see this surprise. But I’m not flying to the States. If I’m coming to you then I have some terms.”
“Anything,” she squeaks. “Where do you want us to meet?”
“Italy,” I breathlessly say. “It has to be Italy.”
**
The room is clear. She’s gone. Her things are still here, so I guess that’s a good sign.
The magic wand is on her bed though. Clean, thankfully.
I notice a letter on my changed sheets and changed pillow. I reach out for it. Well, it’s more of a note.
“Sorry you had to see me like that. I promise I wasn’t looking for the book. I was trying to clean the drawer for once and start being a better roommate and then it just dropped out of it and looked interesting and so I started reading it and then… sorry. You really do have excellent taste in literature. I changed your bedding and will have them in the wash by morning, just like last time. I’ll make you some breakfast too, if you’d like. Gone out with Shireen and the gang for a drink. I might come back. Don’t wait up. Don’t lock up either though. Love you.”
I bend a knee and check the compartment where we have our separate drawers. Pulling the drawer out, I see the truth. She was right. My drawer broke into hers. It was a simple mistake.
It’s all in the little things I suppose.
I drop onto the bed hard.
“I’m going to Italy in the morning,” I say out loud.
It doesn’t sound like me, but the girl in the mirror says otherwise. I don’t know whether to be excited or scared.
Excited because I will live out my fantasy with Silencio Jorge.
Scared because I think my sister’s a spy, and I am on my way to recruitment or something out of a torture movie.
Extreme, I know.
But how else would she know where I was at that exact time?
Only one way to find out.
I tuck the book back in its place and find solace in the fresh surface of my sheets.
Chapter 7
Arnold
There is nothing but silence here. In this silence a bountiful number of questions arise. None of us has an answer to these burning sentiments, and for once in a lifetime, we are equally stumped.
My two best friends stand next to each other watching me. I watch them while seated at the drawing table. I kick at the bags beneath my feet. It has been a lengthy two weeks.
“He told you how much he was proud of you, and what he knew about your stint with his recent secretary. Your father forgave you and knew it was a youthful mistake. He still gave you his blessing even after you knew you had ill thoughts about her and secretly saw her more than a handful of times. If he had known you would bring his business down because of a simple affair between a young man and an older woman your father would have bequeathed his business to a charity of his choice. Luckily, you were too good for his watchful eye. He died. And you learned your lesson, didn’t you? You swore off women. Well, at least in the physical sense. Remember three nights ago when you were on the rig in your room and had that particular video running on your computer while you jacked off upside down? I don’t know what the heck that is about, but I have the clip. I can give you a sample of the audio if you’d like.”
That was how the voice introduced itself to me two weeks ago. It, she, knew details about my past that no one knows till this day. I chose to follow its will, regardless of those details not hurting me now as they would some time ago.
I could not help but think what else they could have on me that could be doctored to seem real. It shook me to the core so hard that I needed to call Peter and Shem.
Then they told me they were on the hook too. And I knew then, as I know now, that we’re fucked.
“It’s not terrorists,” declares Peter a little too hard. “Pierre assured me there was no trace of any phone call or message on our lines. It’s as if they weren’t really there.”
“And how does that assure you these aren’t terrorists?” asks Shem strongly. “Like you said, it’s as if they were never really there.”
“They could be hacktivists looking for some kind of willful cause for all I care,” Peter snaps at him. “These kinds of people only want money and then they’re done.”
“So what now?” I rise from my seat, my ass buzzing with excited anxiety. “We said we’d be here. They aren’t. And now I think we’ve been made fools of for trying to hide our miniscule sexual history. How do you think this looks if we’re being recorded right now?”
“It doesn’t matter,” shimmies Peter with a slap on my back. “Like you said. It’s in the past. Whatever they think they have on us cannot surely hold up in any court. None of it was illegal. It’s just a mental scare tactic to gather the top one per-centers under one roof. And here we are.” He pauses. “I still don’t understand the letters.”
“No one does bud,” I add while removing mine from the back of my pocket. They each withdraw the parchments from their pockets and place them forward, on the table.
“See, they used some kind of ancient art to emboss the paper. I researched it,” says Shem. “This technique died with the Ming dynasty.”
“How about these ink patterns?” I ask. “They skate above and along the words as if actually done by hand. The ink smells of an old apothecary I once visited in Greece. Rare. Something expensive. Organic. Most likely from an animal.”
“Then there are the words themselves. They offer no clues. They just state the obvious,” argues Peter.
“What if we read the words out loud? Maybe there’s something in there that we’re not seeing just yet?”
The two look at me like I just invented cheese puffs and shrug. It couldn’t hurt any more, could it?
“Welcome,” we chant. “You have been selected to be a part of something greater than anything in your generation before, or after. You will join the Collective and be a part of the greatest human experience. We know you. You do not know us. It is better this way. Come packed for a weekend away at these coordinates. If you do not avail yourself, all our evidence of your sedentary lifestyles will be posted on all online platforms, including the charities your foundations support. Good luck, and may the best man win.”
“There!” I declare. “Good luck, and may the best man win. Is this a test?”
“It’s a game,” answers Peter, his eyes watery and glazed.
I follow their trajectory. My heart and belly sink. It’s a black limo. And it’s headed our way.
The vehicle gets out of the sun and smoothly curves our way under the hangar. It stops quietly. The driver pulls out of his side. The driver pulls out of her side. She is dressed in black, her face stern behind a set of thin sunglasses. An earpiece joins her ear to a device behind her superbly white collar. I notice the baton and holstered gun before her curves.
She marches noiselessly to the side of the car, stops and looks us over, then proceeds to the trunk. She pushes a button. The thin metal rises to reveal an empty compartment. Her poise does not waver.
“No.”
Peter is surprisingly hardheaded. However, ten years of martial arts and a gun do not compare. I place my hand upon his shoulder, which feels tense, rigid, and calm him down.
“It’s okay, bro. It’s just for the luggage.”
He does not loosen up.
We each pick our bags
and throw them into the trunk under the watchful gaze of our silent companion. She moves a few over to make room and locks the compartment. Then, she walks over to the door and opens it, standing by its side, waiting.
“Fuck,” says Shem audibly. “This is it, huh?”
“I guess so,” I whisper roughly. My throat’s closing up.
I have no idea where we are headed. The best scenario is this is a prank from one of our associates. The worst is that we’re headed halfway across the world with bags over our head and charged cables to our nuts.
I start.
It’s roomy in here. The leather is black, of course. The windows are tinted. There is a small screen at the end of the driver’s compartment. I grab a fistful of seat and move over, giving room to the rest.
Shem’s eyes glaze over as the door is shut. I hear the driver walk in a calculated manner towards her side, opens her door, gets in, shuts it, and revs the quiet engine. We slowly cart off through the private hangar’s gates and onto hard tarmac.
The tension is real in here. It’s as if none of us wants to breathe or be the first to state what we’re all thinking.
I am afraid. I haven’t been so for years. I was only a boy when I realized the truth about the world. Dad made sure to give me a firsthand lesson in street economics.
We were walking past the ice cream shop on a random weekday. He was in his work slacks, just gotten from work at the factory. I was beside him, having helped carry his tools and lunchbox. We were dirty but pleased.
And so we turned a corner, right after he had bought me enough ice cream scoops to fill the strange appetite of an eight year old. He asked me to wait for him on the steps to a backdoor to some decrepit building.
I did as I was told. Until it took too long. And so I followed the sound of his voice.
I found dad switching bags of money for an envelope. Those men had the calmest bunch of faces I have ever seen to date while punching a child in the guts. I spat out every little ounce of ice cream in me as my father begged for my life.
They thought I was a spy. I thought dad was a good man. Turns out one of us was wrong.
The screen lights up. It gets fuzzy for a moment before really sharpening out the features on it. A woman appears. She is dressed in pure white, her background a bed of flowers, roses. Thorn roses.
Her face is calm and perfectly clear. Her full facial features are of Asian origin, and she is magnificently beautiful.
She smiles seductively, yet professionally, the way you would expect your high school Spanish teacher to. And then she begins to speak.
“You made it. Thank you for coming.”
It’s the fucking voice from before. I realize I’m not the only one shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“You can relax now. My name is Mia Ling, and I welcome you to this great human experience. What you are about to embark on will be challenging to most social norm. It is expected that you feel resistance at first. But you will soon see what it all means by the end of this journey.” She pauses. “You have questions.”
I just realized it is not a recording. She can see us.
“What do you want to do with the information you have on us?” I ask.
She turns her head slightly towards me. Fucking eerie. Ever seen a painting’s eyes seem like they are following you all over the room? Same thing.
“Nothing, I assure you, Mr. Arlington. What we have on you is inadmissible at best. It was just a way to gather your attention. You would be surprised how hard a commodity that is.”
“Then why, pray tell, are we here, Mia?” Peter asks.
She beams.
“Just like you said before you were boarding this limo, it’s a game. A treasure hunt, just in time for the Christmas season, for you to win a very pleasant Christmas gift! The details are quite simple really. You three have all paid good money for the pleasure of participating in a contest. Whoever finds the golden broach wins.”
“What’s the catch?” asks Shem with a bit lip.
She answers him as if honey dripping from a spoon.
“The winner takes the virgin. It’s as simple as that, gentlemen.”
Chapter 8
Ashley
It is a quiet morning here under a gloomy sky. The windows are all open. Some candles are blown out.
The incandescent smoke rises and dissipates in the air in its own time, making the room smell sweetly and woodsy. The drawers are half-emptied. The carpet recently cleaned. A bag of Starbucks coffee and crumpet crumbs are stuffed in the garbage bin.
Sandra is dead asleep, her feet dangling over the edge of the bed. Her face looks to the wall, her jacket reeking of cheap liquor and grade A Mary Jane.
She did not completely forget about her misgivings yesterday, and I guess in her drunken state had asked me to come to the room with breakfast at 3 in the morning. I was obliged.
I took a walk early in the morning. It’s the weekend, so a lot of activity makes the place a haven of safety every once in a while. I needed to clear my head after a long bout of insomnia. I needed to think.
Mia is the oddest equation of my life. I choose for her to be that way. But a trip to Italy, on one of the most famous islands on such short notice…is that normal? I fear she’s gotten herself mixed up in things she shouldn’t have. I fear she wants to rope me into it. I fear she needs my help.
But how can I help? I’m just a girl in line to graduate soon and get on the postgraduate program. Maybe even fast track it to my doctorate. I know nothing of the underworld. I know nothing of friends in low places.
The best I can do for her right now is being there, I thought. The only thing I can muster right now is the courage to be where she wants me to be. That’s the least I can do.
Resolved, I walked past the ATM and heard love noises coming from behind the bushes. I hurried past, and dashed into the local bakery for some bread and candy for my sweet tooth. A few guys made a move on me. I simply pulled out my taser.
The walk back was sobering enough. At least for me. I met Sandra at the front door trying to fix her key in. To say she was ‘fucking’ drunk would be the understatement of the decade.
Fast forward a few hours into the morning, I pulled her shoes and socks off and made her lie on her side, in case of anything. I packed some clothes and then some, in case of anything. I also did not forget my novel, in case of anything.
And now, after a quick shower, I wait.
My sister is still at the back of my mind as the hour approaches. 9 o’clock she said. Who even says o’clock anymore?
I look around and swallow hard. I just hope to come back and get on with my life. The tick, tock of the joker-faced clock above Sandra makes me nauseous. The hands align at a perfect angle when I look up. It is time.
The phone rings. It’s a text.
I let go of my grip against the edge of the bed and pick it up.
“Meet me outside at the vending machine.”
I suppose I should totally be creeped out by the fact that she knows exactly where I stay. She could be playing it safe. I don’t know anymore.
I stuff the phone in my purse and have one last look over in the mirror. The girls staring back at me has her hair pulled back in a sophisticated ponytail. Her blue flowery sundress feels comfortable enough.
Her skin is exfoliated and lotioned, the extra layers of sunscreen not visible. She is scared. She is more scared than she has ever been in her life. She has no idea what awaits her through that door, and wishes she could have some kind of assurance that this is not a mistake. She begs me to stop and think. To not go because my sister just called and asked.
But I blink her away. I focus on the smile she forces. I look at how much she has grown. She is beautiful. She is smart. She will go see her sister. She will try not to be a bitch.
I leave a note by Sandra’s bedside table. Man, I hope she wakes up okay.
“There’s three aspirin by the bathroom sink. Drink lots of water. I’ll be back after the week
end. Lots of love,” I say on the thinly scrawled Starbucks wrapper before shutting the door behind her, and starting my epic adventure.
**
The cab ride is intensely quiet. I guess this is gonna be the norm for the day.
Mia’s handwriting hasn’t changed a bit.
“I thought it best to get you a driver that doesn’t speak. You loved sign language back then. I hope you’re not rusty. Plus it doesn’t get more low-key than a cab. The plane is primed and ready. See you when you get here.”
I fold the manila card neatly and shove it next to my purse and cards. The man on the wheel’s eyes are keen on the road. I try remembering what saying ‘hello’ was like. It comes to memory and I sign it. He beams wide, nodding in response.
“How stupid of me. You’re driving.”
He moves his head side to side, making me aware that he can hear but not speak.
“That’s alright. I love the awkward silence. You have any cool music?”
He nods and pushes the radio player on his side. Soft jazz plays in the background. I lean back and cross my legs.
Damn it. He better not have noticed.
**
It is raining by the time we are at the airport. The driver has a purple see-through umbrella he uses to usher me and my luggage through a secluded lounge area. I don’t sign in. I don’t get checked. No one even asks me for my passport. Jesus Mia. What are you into?
He stops by the side of a plane, a jet by the looks of it, and smiles as the steps illuminate.
“Is this it?”
He nods and points up. The captain stands at the entrance in full uniform.
“Welcome Ashley Ling. This is your flight to Italy. I am your captain,” he hollers over the subtle wind. “You may join us in here.”
Us?