The Flooding Page 6

  There’s a T-junction ahead, and Eyeliner tells me to go right when we reach it; we’re almost there. I’m about to say, “I hope you’re a good cook” when his body tenses and he starts saying “shit” and “fuck” over and over, losing it because a police car has appeared from the intersection we’re approaching.

  I’m caught off guard by how quickly my flight response kicks in, the surge of adrenaline forcing me to turn and head back the way we came. I tell Eyeliner to cover the number plate with one hand and hold tight with the other.

  “No way, don’t be crazy. What the hell are you doing?” It’s a very good question.

  But it’s too late for regrets because we’re already running, sirens blaring to our rear, lights flashing. It dawns on me how much of an impulsive idiot I am; after all, what could the police have done? We hadn’t crashed; nobody had been hurt. I could have just smiled and told them we were sorry, that my boyfriend was giving me a quick lesson on a quiet road. They might even have let us off with a warning.

  So why did you run?

  Because I’ve been doing it for so long, because it’s all I know . . .

  Something strange starts happening to my peripheral vision, the very fabric of reality flickering, distorting, and bending around me. Electrons, photons, and subatomic particles rearrange themselves into different moments from my long past. Memories and scenes morph in and out of each other, becoming clearer, more convincing, sucking me in . . .

  I see Demaris of Sparta, dress torn, muddy, and wet from the rain, being chased down by three Persian warriors, their army raping and pillaging after victory on the battlefield; then Red Cloud of the Kickapoo tribe fleeing on horseback across the open plains, her trackers distant specks on the horizon; Yamato of Hokkaido, northern Japan, hiding in a mountain cave, snow falling outside, shivering, hungry, and afraid; Necalli, the young Tlascalan virgin, just hours from being marched to the summit of Tenochtitlan’s Great Pyramid to have her heart cut out—an offering to the gods—somehow slipping through the bars of her fattening pen before dawn, swimming across Lake Texcoco, vanishing into the jungle, defying all odds.

  Why can’t they leave me alone? I think, remembering what happened the last time I ran, how Ashkai was taken from me after I saw him collapse on that rooftop, how I wanted to help but was not able to, and how I was forced to run even when I was ready to stand and fight.

  I hear an urgent voice cutting through the white noise, getting louder, saying, “Sam, fuck sake, stop, just stop, it’s not worth it,” the words pulling me back into twenty-first century London, seeing the tarmac and houses, the police car still on our tail.

  There’s a red mini approaching, so I take the next right to avoid it while Eyeliner tells me to pull over, that I have no choice now. There’s a delivery truck ahead blocking the entire road; guys are pulling furniture out. I glance in my wing mirror as those blue lights come flying around the corner, hemming us in. Deciding on a change of tactic, I slam the brakes and lean into the resulting skid, executing a perfect 180-degree turn before fully engaging the throttle again, seeing an Asian lady behind the wheel of the police car, a bald, white guy next to her, my eyes telling them to make a decision: move or kill two teenagers.

  At the last moment, the female officer yanks the wheel to one side and smashes into a parked Jaguar, leaving enough of a gap for our scooter to jink through. I know that by the time she gets over the shock of the impact, we’ll be long gone.

  I wait for Eyeliner to tell me what a crazy bitch I am, how he wishes we’d never met, but he doesn’t say a word.

  Five minutes later, I pull up outside Eyeliner’s house, turning into a free space when he says, “Get off, I’ll do it,” the first words he’s spoken since we lost the police car.

  “Okay,” I reply, leaving the engine running and standing beside him. In an attempt to lighten the mood, I say, “Bet you wish I’d taken the bus, huh?”

  He slides forward but doesn’t respond. I tell him I’m sorry, but all I get is more silence.

  “Come on, I know you’re dying to say something?”

  He looks at me, his face expressionless and cold in the helmet. “You’re right,” he says, eyes forward when he adds, “Goodbye, Sam,” and pulls away, leaving me standing there like an idiot. I realize he’s still got my bag on his back. I’m running now, shouting after him, but it’s too late.

  The jewelry box!

  Watching my belongings vanish around a corner, I tell myself not to overreact, that he was so pissed off he obviously wasn’t aware he had it. I’m reasoning he just needs to blow off steam, which is fair enough. He’ll be back in ten minutes tops. And if he’s still sulking then, fine, I’ll take my bag and get out of here for good. I’m not sure what the hell I’m playing at anyway, wasting time like this, and for what?

  I glance at my watch and take a seat on the low wall outside Eyeliner’s house, my back pressing into an overgrown bush in his front garden. I look at the brown and yellow leaves lining the pavement, piles of them bunched around the wheels of cars.

  What if he’s gone back to the police officers to see if they’re okay? What if he brings them here? What if he looks inside my bag? What if he throws everything in the river to spite me?

  I’m starting to feel the cold and don’t want to risk another headache, so I stand up, go through the squeaky metal gate, and knock on the door, deciding that if he’s going to make me hang around, I might as well do it in the warmth of his bedroom.

  The hipster answers. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a tight-fitting maroon shirt fastened to the top, looking ridiculous because he’s not as slim as he thinks. Remembering what he said to Eyeliner about ogling my breasts, I jostle past, saying, “Hiya,” with a big smile on my face, acting as if I have every right to be here. I’m about to head upstairs when he says, “Oi, what’s goin’ on? You can’t just come in my house. Who are ya?” He sounds like he’s from one of the home counties, Essex or Kent maybe.

  I stop and turn, about to explain that I’m George’s friend when I remember that’s not his name. I improvise. “You know who I am.”

  He glances at my shaved head. “The bird Tammuz met on the bus?”

  “Told you,” I say, hiding my surprise, which isn’t easy considering Tammuz is the Sumerian deity of spring and harvest, an ancient symbol of death and rebirth.

  “You nicked his bike. He’s out now trying to find you.”

  “He succeeded,” I reply.

  He laughs. “Which means you failed.”

  “You’re very rude, you know that?”

  “I’m rude?” he says, pointing at his chest, getting agitated while I think more about Eyeliner’s real name, shocked by it, but with no idea why he’s “infamous.”

  The hipster continues: “You nick my mate’s motorbike then barge in ‘ere like you pay rent and I’m rude? That’s classic, that; this has got to be a wind-up.”

  “The stealing thing was a misunderstanding. We worked it out; why else would I be here?”

  There’s a pause, and I can tell he’s not sure how to handle this.

  “Hold up,” he says, poking his head out the door. “I can’t see his bike.”

  “That’s because he’s on it. Einstein.”

  “Why ain’t you with him?”

  “I needed to use the bathroom. He’s just popped to the shops to grab stuff for lunch. He’ll be back any minute.”

  “I’m calling him,” he says, pulling his phone out.

  “Good,” I say. If Tammuz answers, I’ll hijack the conversation and tell him to bring my bag back.

  “Mate, it’s Jamie. That bird who nicked your bike is ‘ere, just barged in, reckons you said it was okay, but I wanted to check ‘cos it don’t make sense. Call me back, yeah.”

  Jamie hangs up and tells me I need to wait outside, and if Tammuz phones and says it’s okay, he’ll let me know. I tell him that he doesn’t have to worry, Tammuz and I are cool, and I add, “Anyway, it’s cold outside; where’re your manners?
” He’s not convinced and doesn’t care, explaining I have to leave because “birds,” however fit, aren’t allowed in unsupervised, so I tell him that’s fine, but only if he makes me. Then, for some reason I’m not sure of, I lift my top with one hand and pull my bra down with the other.

  “That’s to save you the trouble in case I have a fit and die.”

  The look on his face is priceless, somewhere between shocked and aroused, which is an improvement on smug at least. I turn and head upstairs to Tammuz’s bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

  I’m sitting on the floor next to the bed, meditating. I’ve taken my jacket and boots off.

  I am absolute existence. I am a field of all opportunities. I am the universe.

  I’m disturbed by the front door opening and closing downstairs. Moments later, I hear people talking. I recognize Jamie’s voice, then Tammuz’s . . .

  Why didn’t I hear him pull up?

  I’ve still got my eyes closed, but the light within is fading fast. I know I’ll be forced to let the feeling go soon. I’m bracing myself because somebody is bounding up the stairs.

  Tammuz blusters in, and a tense, negative energy crashes into me, along with his words. “Get out,” he says, which is when I open my eyes, seeing my only friend standing in the middle of the room with my backpack hanging off a shoulder. Relieved about that, I watch the look on his face go from angry to bemused.

  “You meditating?” he asks, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen.

  I smile, determined for this not to turn into an argument, beaming love and compassion at him. “Yes, wanna join?”

  “You’re so weird . . .”

  I ignore that and say, “It suits you.”

  “What does?”

  “Your name, Tammuz. I like it.”

  He shakes his head, letting me know that’s totally irrelevant. “What are you doing here? You trying to take my life over or something?”

  “I was waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “The bag you stole from me.” I smile so he knows I’m only kidding.

  “I didn’t steal it,” he replies. “I forgot I even had it. Anyway, why didn’t you wait outside? What makes you think you can come in here without me? I only met you a few hours ago.”

  “I was cold,” I say. “And I didn’t know how long you’d be.”

  “That’s such crap.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “If you were so cold, why’d you strip in front of my mate Jamie? He said you flashed him.”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “What reasons? Do you fancy him?”

  I laugh. “As if . . . He’s a cretin.”

  “You’re properly mental, you know that?”

  “Seems to be the general consensus in this house.”

  “You on the run?”

  “From who?”

  “The police. Is that why you shaved your head and nearly killed us both?”

  “I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have reacted like that; I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He passes a hand through his hair and glances out the window. “Sorry isn’t gonna get my bike back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just dumped it on a housing estate.”

  “Why?”

  “The police might have my number plate. Now if they turn up, I can play dumb, say it was nicked.”

  “Didn’t you cover it like I said?”

  “I had other things to do, like trying not to die.”

  “If the police don’t show by tonight you can get it back, or tell me where it is and I’ll grab it for you.”

  “That’s a big if, especially if they see you here. My face was mostly covered by the helmet, but you they got a proper look at. That’s why you have to go. They could turn up any second.”

  I uncross my legs and pull my boots on. “You’re right.”

  I stand and grab my jacket from the bed, pulling it on as I step closer to Tammuz, letting him know I want my bag. He holds it in place while I maneuver around to slip my arms through the straps. When I turn to face him again, I’ve ended up in his personal space somehow (or is he in mine?). It’s awkward and charged, and for a moment I think about rising on my tiptoes and kissing him, but it’s a stupid idea, so I ignore it.

  I take a step back. “Before I go, you mind telling me something?”

  “Depends what it is.”

  “What are you ‘infamous’ for?”

  He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

  “I guess not.”

  “My surname is Hartman. Google me.”

  “Thought you were supposed to be my stalker?” It was meant as a joke, but his capacity for humor still hasn’t returned.

  “Thanks for everything,” I say. “You’re a good person, and I’m glad I met you. Sorry for messing your day up . . . see you around, maybe?”

  I’m walking toward the door when he says something unexpected: “If not in this life, maybe the next.”

  I stop and look at him. “Why would you say that?”

  He shrugs again. “What?”

  “About seeing me in another life?”

  “Dunno, just an expression, why?”

  I study Tammuz’s eyes to see if he’s hiding anything, but it doesn’t look like he is.

  “No reason,” I say, writing it off as a coincidence, even though I know there’s no such thing. “I’m just interested in that stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Reincarnation, past lives.”

  He laughs. “No wonder you’re not scared of dying.”

  I stare at him, I don’t know why, and things go quiet as we look at each other for longer than we should. I’m pulled in by those blue, intelligent eyes, sensing a deep vulnerability in them.

  “Take care, Tammuz,” I say.

  He nods, and I head downstairs, surprised at how fast my heart is beating, even more surprised that I’m thinking about him when I should be focused on what’s inside that jewelry box—and, of course, my master.

  It’s the side effects of your Flooding. In a few days, everything will be okay.

  I’m opening the front door, about to step outside, when I hear Jamie’s annoying and unmistakable voice.

  “Hey, B cup,” he says. “Check this out.”

  I turn, and he’s standing in the hallway, hands on hips, a stupid, smug look on his face, massively pleased about something.

  I’m about to ask what he wants, but then I glance down and see it.

  “Now we’re even,” he says.

  I lunge forward as if I’m going to attack, and he flinches. The house idiot looks pathetic, standing with his dick hanging out. I turn and walk away.

  SEVEN

  I leave Tammuz’s house and head southeast down Holloway Road. The perfect blue sky hanging above, deep and peaceful as a lake, feels like it belongs to a different time and place, one that boasts green fields, rolling hills, and sunsets to take one’s breath away. But instead, it presides over this corner of north London that has scratchy pubs, dilapidated pawnshops, and unpleasant city smells (exhaust fumes and rotting food the most prominent). The locals, who look poor and tired, are black, white, yellow, and brown, a rainbow of sorts, only one that has nothing to offer its observer other than a dirty look.

  They are all meat robots, I think. Alive but not living, conscious but not awake.

  I walk into a McDonald’s and cut across the large, brightly lit canteen, weaving between huddles of school kids, shop assistants, and workmen in fluorescent jackets, all of them scoffing burgers and fries and slurping milkshakes. The sickly, sweet smell of the food is making my stomach groan, which is when I remember I’ve only had toast today. I slip into the disabled toilet in the far corner and tell myself to be patient; I’ll grab something healthy and nourishing soon as I’m done.

  The walls are a dull, dirty yellow, and the floor is old, worn-do
wn linoleum. It also smells bad, so all in all, the vibe isn’t great, although at least I’m not hungry anymore. I rest my bag on the cistern. Then I lower the toilet lid and wipe it thoroughly, using dampened paper towels, and only sit when I’m satisfied it’s clean and dry. I grab the backpack and place it on the floor between my feet, catching myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. I look tired, pale, and weak. I make a mental note to start getting my strength up, which means lots of good food and regular, strenuous exercise.

  I reach inside the bag, pull the jewelry box out, and open it. I remove the enclosed package, heavy with jangling metal, and rest it on my lap, placing the wooden container on the floor. After unraveling the thick, rubberized fabric, I’m finally confronted with what I buried all those years ago.

  The first thing I see is the sparkle of gold, silver, and amethyst rings as well as a beautiful necklace made of freshwater pearls and cameo shells, all of it cold and slightly damp. There’s also an emerald pendant, a gold and enamel locket, a pair of diamond drop earrings, and a collection of Victorian coins: gold sovereigns, half crowns, guineas, shillings, and farthings.

  That’s what I’m looking for, I think, delving my fingers into the pile of precious metals and stones, unearthing and pulling out a second, much smaller parcel, just two inches by two inches.

  I take real care to untie the string and then remove the pieces of paper inside, gently unfolding each one until I have four leaves, each the size of a postcard and very thin and delicate. While the ink from the dip pen I used all those years ago has run, smudged, and faded in places, most of it is okay and legible, which is a huge relief.

  Physical objects such as these often act as portals, giving me direct and immediate access to key moments from the past. That’s why, when I look in the mirror opposite me, I’m not surprised to see a clear image of Elsie Farish hunched over her father’s desk in the early hours of the morning, working by candlelight, just twenty-four hours before she committed murder and ran away. Pretty red ringlets brush against pale cheeks as she carefully records, in that neat, flowing handwriting, everything she could remember that felt important.