The Flooding Page 5

  He can’t see me yet, but when he does, he’s in for a surprise: I don’t have long, curly red hair anymore (I cut it short when Mother went to bed) and am wearing clothes too big for me, clothes I pulled out of the attic last night and adjusted as best as I could, clothes Father used to wear when he was younger and thinner, but was just as cruel; these include a dusty, old, flat cap.

  Remaining in the shadows, breathing his familiar stench of alcohol, tobacco, and sweat, I say, “No, Father, Mother’s asleep.” Then I step into the dull light, my face expressionless and calm, head tilted and to the side. “So if you want to fuck me, now is a perfect time.”

  It takes a moment for the words to sink in, my strange appearance as well, but when they do, his face contorts into an ugly snarl. “What is this?” he asks, thinking he’s talking to a frightened, weak little girl, someone he’s been able to abuse and dominate for eighteen years with nothing but feeble pleas opposing him—pleas that soon stopped—when in fact, he’s staring into the eyes of his worst nightmare, unaware I’m the last person he’s ever going to see.

  In this life, at least . . .

  I move closer. Every cell in my body, every person I’ve ever been, every person I’m yet to be, tells him that this is the end of the road; we see through his brash, confident businessman act, and we know who he really is: a sorry, pathetic creature who feeds on the suffering, fear, and pain of others, one who needs those things to survive. He’s a true servant of The Demiurge.

  Thinking, I’ve met your kind many times before, I say, “You disgust me,” interested to see how he’ll react to that.

  I almost laugh as the look on his face goes from one of perplexed anger to disbelieving shock, his cheeks flushing red as he attempts to strike me with his left hand, the other hand still holding the lamp. I bring my forearm up to block before landing a counterblow, slapping him hard, making his spectacles fall to the ground, and I think, That’s on behalf of you, Mother. I spit in his face, thinking, That’s for you, Elsie. Then I say, “You like it rough, don’t you, Daddy?”

  He launches for me, clumsy, drunk, and heavy, roaring like a moron. I lean back and pivot, using his momentum to my advantage. He trips and reaches his hands out to brace himself against the lower stairs.

  The lamp smashes, and flames erupt; there’s more oil in there than I thought.

  Mother . . .

  As if to punctuate the moment, there’s a crack of thunder. A storm’s brewing. It’s going to be a big one.

  Mr. Farish stands, but rather than deal with the fire, which I don’t think he’s even noticed, he turns and surges for me again. Same as before, I drop a shoulder at the last moment. Sixteen stone of man hammer into the front door as I whip my coat off and turn to smother the flames. Within seconds, he launches another attack. Whatever happens, I can’t let him pin me down. Elsie’s body isn’t equipped for that kind of close combat yet. Relying on my instincts, I use my hands to push myself off a stair while simultaneously extending my left leg hard and fast, hearing the bridge of his nose snap as he stumbles back, the fire still burning behind me. I can feel its heat . . .

  The anger in Mr. Farish’s eyes has been replaced by fear and confusion. Blood is gushing out of his nose and between his cupped fingers. He’s also making a strange, guttural sound, giving me time to think. I need to end this quickly so I can stop the house from burning down. The fumes are already making it harder to breathe.

  I’m standing on the bottom step, so I hop over the banister to avoid the encroaching fire. The man I am going to kill advances again, more carefully this time.

  He wipes his bloody face with a sleeve. “Little bitch, wait till I get hold of you.”

  I take in my surroundings: flaming stairs to the left, wall to the right, man who wants to murder me ahead. I momentarily turn toward the kitchen, only to discover I left the cupboard door open after I finished cutting the raincoat, and now the door is blocking my way. I don’t like being hemmed in, so I keep as much space between us as possible, considering my options while watching the pedophile edge forward, his hands out in front to grab me as he says, “You’ve been possessed; that’s the devil inside you.”

  If he lunges or does something else rash, I’ll be able to use his size and strength to my advantage once again, breaking his neck this time.

  “The only thing inside me is your baby,” I say. It’s a lie, one designed to antagonize him so that he comes for me. The truth is he couldn’t get me pregnant if he raped me a thousand times. The reason is simple: I am barren. It’s a curse I carry across the ages. Ashkai believes it to be the result of an emotional trauma suffered in one of the lives I lived before he awakened me. If he’s right, it’s something I have yet to remember.

  “You’re lying,” Mr. Farish says, taking another step, wiping his face once more. “And even if you are with child, you won’t be for much longer.”

  I get a rush of blood then—anger, fury, and bitterness emboldening me—causing me to feel protective toward a baby who does not exist, and I think, Breaking his neck would be too kind, too quick, too merciful, as an idea forms. I know instantly it’s one I should ignore.

  I hear You can do this; you can do this; you can do this repeated in my mind. Before I know it, and even though there’s nothing from my past that suggests I’ll be able to pull this off, I’ve extended my right arm and spread my fingers wide, hearing that same inner voice start to shout, ordering me to do it and do it now!

  Who else but Elsie? Wanting to give that poor girl something to smile about, for her to feel strong for a change, I close my eyes—a big risk—and visualize the inside of Mr. Farish’s chest and lungs. I imagine an ethereal version of my hand, a limb of light and power, bridging the gap between us, then passing through shirt and skin, muscle and cartilage, rib and sternum, eventually feeling the contours of his dark heart, clasping it like a ball, squeezing.

  At the same time, I attempt to connect with the molecules, atoms, chromosomes, and cells that comprise his human body, appealing to the intelligence of his DNA, showing it the evil nature of the man, asking for help to constrict lungs and windpipe as I apply more pressure to his heart.

  I hear a strange noise and I open my eyes. Father is struggling to breathe, holding a hand to his chest, his face pale and drawn, afraid and desperate, hearing Elsie say, “Yes, yes, yes!” as she assumes total control. Elsie remembers how he used to sneak into her room when she was a little girl and climb on top of her, saying it was their little secret, that Mummy wouldn’t understand, and that he only did this because he loved her so much.

  The more ancient part of my soul gets out of the child’s way, watching from afar as she squeezes tighter, then tighter still, forcing Mr. Farish to his knees, his mouth gasping for air and eyes begging for mercy. He keels over and falls to the ground. I hear a sizzling sound and realize, when the smell hits, that the flame-heated floorboards are cooking the right side of his face.

  I’m in a sort of dream state, reveling in his pain and suffering until I’m startled by a high-pitched scream coming from the top of the stairs. It scrambles my brain, and all of a sudden, I’m not sure what’s happening or where I am. I feel hot and disoriented. Hearing a loud banging from somewhere, I slowly regain my senses, remembering the fire—dear god, it’s out of control—remembering Mrs. Farish.

  She’ll have to jump.

  I’m about to tell her to go to my bedroom at the back of the house when I hear that thudding again. It’s people outside trying to get in, asking if we’re okay.

  Our neighbors must have heard the fight and Mother screaming.

  Next thing I know, they’ve broken the door down, and Mr. Kirkenham from across the road is telling me to go outside. It’s pouring rain, and he’s soaking wet. I feel dizzy and have a burning sensation at the back of my throat; I cough as I say “Mother . . .” He promises to save her and turns his attention to that task. I notice another man grabbing the heels of Mr. Farish’s body, dragging it to safety, the thing total
ly unresponsive now, a slab of charred meat.

  I hear Mr. Kirkenham tell Mother to stop screaming and listen, that everything will be okay. There’s no attention on me, so I grab my bag and slip out the back door into the storm.

  Part of me knows what I did was wrong as I cut across the garden, coughing and wiping smoke from my eyes. I regret leaving that poor woman a childless, bankrupt widow. I’ll get some money to her somehow. I wish I had an ounce of Ashkai’s patience and understanding. How I envy his ability to always meet hate with love and darkness with light.

  Another part of me thinks, You did her a favor; you did Elsie a favor; you did the world a favor.

  That part feels good.

  When my eyes eventually open, I’m utterly drained and aching all over. I spot the woman with the white cap gliding across the lake’s shimmering surface. I imagine what it would be like to take my clothes off and dive in; to immerse myself completely; to feel the cold and see the sun’s rays splinter, dance, dazzle in the water; to breathe that radiance deep into my lungs and forget everything.

  For eighteen years at least . . .

  I hear somebody approaching from behind, ripples of charged energy crashing into me—not a good sign—and turn, ready to fight when . . .

  . . . is that Eyeliner?

  All doubt is erased when he shouts, “Where the hell’s my bike?” I’m trying to work out how he found me while I pack everything and stand, my back to the lake.

  He comes to a halt on the other side of the bench, looking flustered and annoyed, saying, “I want my keys, I want my helmet, and I want to know where my bike is, as well as anything else you’ve nicked.”

  He must have a tracking device on the moped, I think. Although why does he need me to tell him where it is?

  As I’m mulling the puzzle over, Eyeliner juts a hand out, obviously wanting it filled with keys. He’s got a serious, no-nonsense look on his face. He’s wearing jeans and a black leather jacket (iPad mini sticking out of a pocket) and is currently telling me what a bad person I am, how all he’s done is try to help. He reminds me that he put a blanket over me when I was cold, fed me, and gave me a place to sleep. He trusted me, only to be stabbed in the back. He finishes his self-righteous rant with, “I bet that whole seizure thing was just an act, all part of the scam.”

  That pisses me off. “What are you talking about?”

  “You coming over all mysterious and vulnerable, so I’d let you in my house. How you pretended you were knackered so I’d leave alone while you helped yourself to my stuff.”

  “I didn’t steal anything . . .”

  “Don’t even bother.”

  “I left a note . . .” I begin, but he interrupts.

  “Since last night you’ve passed out on a bus, randomly shaved your head, stolen my bike, and vanished into thin air, so why would I believe a stupid message you left? You were probably just buying time so I wouldn’t call the police.”

  “I was going to bring it back.”

  “If that’s true, why didn’t you just ask if you could borrow it? That’s what normal, law-abiding people do.”

  “You would have said no.”

  “Of course I would have said no! I’ve only just met you. What about insurance, you thought about that? You have a license? You even care?”

  I don’t answer, and he mutters something about having enough shit on his plate. Then he looks left, right, and over his shoulder. “Where is it anyway? Don’t tell me you sold it?”

  I ignore his questions. “How’d you find me?”

  He shakes his head and sighs. “Thank god I did.”

  “How did you find me?”

  Again, no answer, and it’s obvious from his body language he’s hiding something. I’m about to ask a third time when he reaches for my bag on the bench.

  “The hell are you doing?” I ask, yanking it close, feeling a shooting pain in my head and worrying about that while Eyeliner says, “Chill out, just need to grab something.”

  “What?”

  He points to a side pocket. After a pause, I open the zip and stick my hand in, surprised to find an iPhone in there, especially as I don’t own one.

  “You planted this, didn’t you? And used that iPad to find me?”

  “None of this would have happened if you hadn’t stolen my bike and disappeared.”

  Normally something like this would make me angry, but I’m sort of okay about it, I guess because I can tell Eyeliner didn’t mean any harm. And in a strange way, which I don’t understand yet, I’m happy to see him.

  “Let me get this right,” I say, unable to resist cutting him down a peg or two. “You have the audacity to accuse me of stealing when you’re nothing but a creepy, lowlife stalker?”

  His face flushes red. “I wasn’t stalking you. As if . . .”

  I hold the phone up. “What do you call this then?”

  “You’re unpredictable and weird,” he says, part of him clearly ashamed, the rest frustrated and defensive. “I was worried you might disappear and wanted to be able to find you if you did.”

  “What I said. Stalking.”

  He leans over, grabs the phone, and shoves it in a pocket. “Just gimme my keys and tell me where my bike is.”

  I reach into my pocket and hand them over. “Go back to the road. Turn left; it’s about a hundred yards along. Can’t miss it; helmet’s in the seat.”

  He nods, wishes me a good life, and walks away.

  It might be because he’s shown me kindness in the past, because I’m worried about having another seizure, or because I’m an idiot, I’m not sure. All I know is I don’t want him to go yet.

  “How come you lied to me?” I say.

  He stops and turns. “Huh?”

  “About your name? It’s not George, is it?”

  That surprises him. “You nick my passport as well?”

  “No, you’re just a terrible liar.”

  He smiles, and I can sense things softening between us.

  “But a pretty good stalker, it seems.”

  I reply, “The best,” and am about to say Don’t worry about it. None of my business, but he gets in first, saying, “I didn’t want you to judge me.” There’s a hint of shame in his eyes.

  “Because of your name? How bad can it be?”

  He looks at the floor, then off into the distance before coming back to me. “I thought you might recognize it, especially after you thought we knew each other when we met at the bus station.”

  “You famous?” I ask, at the same time remembering the pills he tried to hide from me, wondering if that’s connected.

  “More like infamous.”

  “Kill someone?”

  “Nah, not yet.”

  “You wanna tell me?”

  “What my real name is or what I did?”

  “Both. Either. None. Up to you.”

  He looks at his watch. “It’s a long story, and I’m cold.”

  “What’s the time?”

  He glances at his wrist again. “Quarter to one.”

  “Wanna get a bite to eat?” I ask.

  “You hungry?”

  I smile and say, “Lunch time, isn’t it?” Then I say, “You mind if we go back to yours, though? I’m getting a headache and don’t want to take any chances.”

  Eyeliner looks concerned, so I reassure him, explaining I’m fine, just better to be inside if things take a turn for the worse, which they won’t.

  When that conversation runs its course, I ask what he thinks of my suggestion.

  He winces, takes a deep breath, and looks out across the lake, making a show of thinking it over. He gets his phone out and says, “Let me just call ahead, tell my housemates to lock up the silver.”

  SIX

  Eyeliner, who’s carrying my bag on his back, says when we reach the scooter, “You okay getting the bus? The NW3 goes by mine, and there’s a stop up that way, it’s how I got here. Or I could order an Uber for you?”

  “I’ve got a better idea,�
� I say, sticking a hand out, wanting a break from all the serious, heavy stuff. “Hand over the keys.”

  “Why?” He narrows his eyes, the edges of a disbelieving smile forming.

  “Why’d you think?”

  “So you can nick it again?

  “Very funny. So I can give you a lift home.”

  “But I don’t need a lift home. Besides, we only have one helmet, and even if we had another, you’d be my passenger.” He pats the seat of the Vespa. “You know this belongs to me, right?”

  “I do, yes, but it’s not far, and I’m a great driver. Come on, live a little.”

  “Live a little? That’s a good one. Anyway, you said you’re not feeling good. What if you start having a fit? What do we do then, die a little?”

  “That’s precisely why I want to drive; it’ll give my brain something to focus on. That always helps, so just hand over the keys and stop worrying. We’ll be fine; put your arms around me. I promise you’ll be safe.”

  I can tell he likes the sound of that. Putting his arms around me, I mean.

  “Have you even got a license?”

  “No. But I’m a natural.”

  “That’s reassuring,” he says, pulling the keys out. “Just don’t kill us, all right, and stay off main roads; I know a good route.”

  I take the keys, open the seat, and offer the helmet.

  “You wear it,” he says.

  “No thanks,” I say, getting on and starting the engine. “It smells bad.”

  He smiles. “That’s because I like to shit in it.” The two of us chuckle as he fixes the strap under his chin and gets behind me, putting his arms around my waist, and says, “Hey, slow down” after I set off faster than I should.

  We’re heading east toward Archway, sticking to back streets, less than two miles from our destination. Eyeliner gives directions and reminds me to concentrate, saying that if a police car sees us we’re screwed. My stalker is freaking out because he can hear a siren in the distance.

  He’s saying other stuff back there, blabbing on as usual, but it’s difficult to hear everything, especially on the longer stretches of road where I’m able to open the throttle as far as it will go, appreciating how refreshing the cool air feels against my face.