It takes her a moment to realize I’ve gotten inside. She jumps up in alarm, and I can see the fear in her eyes as she faces me. She glances around for a weapon, but I hold up my hands quickly.
“Don’t—it’s all right. I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck?” she hisses. “How did you get in?”
“Picked the lock.”
“What? Who knows how to pick a lock, for Christ’s sake? You’re a psychopath!”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that. I just … I freaked out. For some reason I thought you were in here doing something to yourself …”
Her gaze sharpens. “Like what?”
I take a step forward and try to explain. “You’re just … You’re leaking with guilt and regret. I can feel tides of it pouring from your skin, and in your eyes there’s so much sorrow. It scares me. I want to understand and I want to fix it.”
“You can’t fix it,” she whispers. She’s so beautiful. I’ve known it all along, but it strikes me now, abruptly. Tall and slim and delicate. Her features are fine, her lips small and red. Her eyes are the loveliest thing about her; her very own sun and moon, light and dark. Her hair is an incredibly long mess of black.
“Can’t I at least try?” I ask. “I never try for anything anymore. I’ve let so much slip by me. So much is gone from our lives now. I couldn’t … look at a girl like you, with life in her face, and just walk away from that.”
Josephine Luquet crosses the room to stand before me, and then she does something that makes my heart stop. She reaches out and places her hands on either side of my face, and in her eyes there are tears, and in her voice there’s broken glass. “Listen to me. You can’t fix me. I kill people.”
Chapter Three
September 12th, 2065
Anthony
“You told him? Just blurted it out like that?”
“Yep,” she smiles. “Just like that.”
“What did he say?”
She laughs softly, her fingers pulling at the edge of the window seat. “Nothing. For a really long time.”
“So what happened?” I can imagine this man in my mind—he’s already starting to get bigger and take up space. Not as much as she does—not nearly as much. He is her shadow, but he exists now, since she started speaking.
I think I truly believed he was imaginary. I suppose he still could be, but her story is so rich with shape and color that I find it hard to believe she could have made it up.
“Our time’s up, Doc,” she reminds me.
I jerk upright and look at the clock. Ten past five. Grabbing my empty briefcase, I stride for the door.
“Anthony?” she calls and I pause. “Will you call him?”
“You haven’t finished your story yet.”
“Time’s running out.”
I glance over my shoulder at her. She is painfully deluded. I leave quickly.
*
At home I run my hand over the lock and the light turns green before admitting me. I press the food button and wait for my meal to arrive. Every night I press the same button and eat the same thing—frozen and packaged food that has been rehydrated to look fresh. And every night I think about all that Josephine has told me about her life. About the squalor she grew up in, the kinds of places she has lived, all the moving and running and going hungry. We have all read about how it was in the past—several classes of wealth, most of which got by just fine. Now there are only two classes—the poor and the rich. The poor are desperately, heartbreakingly poor. The rich are obscenely rich.
I can order any meal I want and it will arrive within minutes. It won’t be real, fresh food—the drought and disease killed all the crops so that now fresh food is such a rarity that it’s practically black market—but I’ll get the best imitation that money can buy. I will never run out of funds. I have already accumulated enough credits to outlast four lifetimes. That’s what they think you deserve when you work with the criminally insane. I can’t share my wealth with anyone except my biological children. Only my fingerprints can activate it.
This is what I tell myself every night when I think about Josephine’s poverty. I can’t share my money with her. I’m not allowed to. I don’t know why I’m not allowed to, but I’m not. And I am not a man who questions. So I shouldn’t feel so guilty about what I have earned.
I eat at the kitchen table with my case files open on several tablets before me. I try to read, but my eyes keep glancing over the words without properly seeing them. After a while I just switch the damn things off. I look at the photos of Marley on the fridge. I don’t have many—just three. I look at them every night for ten minutes.
And then glumly I go to bed and dream of birds.
September 13th, 2065
Josephine
I have no idea what time it is or where I am when the crying wakes me. It takes me a second, and then I am up out of bed and crossing the small room. On her tiny bed Maria is sobbing violently, just as she does every night. I touch her warily—past experience has taught me to be careful of her thrashing limbs—and narrowly avoid getting whacked in the face.
“Maria,” I repeat until she wakes. Her crying changes as the nightmare stops and reality sets in. This crying is less frightened, but much sadder. I sink down onto the bed beside her and pull her into my arms, stroking her hair as I imagine a mother might do. Since I’ve been in the asylum I haven’t spent an entire night in my own bed. I don’t know what’s happened to Maria or why she’s so frightened all the time—too frightened to speak. But I know that it helps to have someone hold you when the night terrors come, so every night I sleep in her bed with her.
*
Doyle is rougher than usual with me today. His hands around my arms are so tight that I can feel the pain of it long after he dumps me in the doc’s office.
I stumble slightly as he lets go of me. This must be enough to get Anthony’s attention because he jumps up from his desk with a bewildered look on his face. “You mustn’t hurt her,” he says with an odd confusion.
Doyle looks at him impatiently.
“You mustn’t hurt her,” Anthony repeats, like it’s a rule he’s memorised. “It’s not right.”
“So?” Doyle asks with a slight lisp. “She’s an animal.”
“I could have you fired,” Anthony says quietly. He’s not angry, but he seems to know what he should say, which is more than can be said for most drones.
“No you couldn’t,” Doyle says with such certainty that we both stare at him. He smirks and leaves.
I open the window and curl up on the window seat. “This rain has been going on forever,” I comment.
“Does he always hurt you like that?”
I wonder what will happen if I tell him the truth. That my body’s covered in bruises from Doyle. Probably nothing. “It’s fine,” I say calmly.
Anthony moves slowly to sit behind his desk. He doesn’t bother with his outdated pen and paper. He just places his hands in his lap and looks at me expectantly.
I sigh and put my head on a cushion. “Luke and I started working together to—”
“Wait, what happened after you told him you’d killed people?” he interrupts.
“We don’t have time—”
“I want every detail, remember. I only call Luke if you talk. And if you’re really stressed about time we can go for longer than the hour today.”
I blink. He’s never let us go for more than two seconds over the hour, except for last night when he lost track of time. This is totally bizarre to me. Anthony feels like a completely different person, like he’s actually engaging with me for the first time, and really listening to what I’m saying. It’s good, but I wish he’d listen to my other words, my warnings. If he can help me get Luke here at least I’d know someone would take me seriously. Make sure I’m locked up before the blood moon comes.
“Why do you care so much about this?” I ask.
“How else am I supposed to figure you out, Josephine?” he says. ??
?You’re a vault. We haven’t made a single breakthrough in all this time, because I can’t work out what you care about, aside from anarchism.”
I snort at that, but he adds, “Now I know. The moment you started speaking yesterday, I realized—you care about Luke.”
September 19th, 2063
Josephine
We stand utterly still for a painfully long time. His eyes have searched every inch of my face and probed deep into my gaze. He is trying to understand. Trying to work out if he believes me, trying to figure out if there’s anything else I could possibly mean when I say “I kill people.”
“Luke?” I ask eventually. “You okay?”
“Huh?”
“You kinda look like you might have gone into shock.”
“I’m not in shock,” he replies too quickly. “I just don’t … understand.”
I never meant to tell Luke this. It erupted out of me like a volcano. And now he’s going to think I’m crazy, and then he’ll be gone, and I’ll be … well, the same as I’ve always been, probably. Absolutely, completely fine.
“Can I sit?” he asks abruptly.
“Sure. I don’t have any chairs, but go for it.”
He sinks onto my mattress, his back to the wall. It seems overly intimate that he’s on my bed. “Okay, Miss Luquet. Explain.”
I sigh. “Honestly, Luke. It’s probably best if you just go home and forget you ever met me. This next part is the part where I look like a lunatic.”
“You’re too pretty to be crazy,” he says. It’s so absurd that I laugh, loudly and wildly. The sound shocks him and he stares at me until I fall quiet.
“Fine,” I say eventually. I start to pace, not looking at him, searching for words that could make this sound believable. “As far as I can tell, I seem to be fairly normal for most of the year. I mean, you know—relatively speaking. But for one day, on the 16th of September—”
“The night of the blood moon.”
“—yes, the night of the blood moon, I become someone else. I disappear and she comes out to hunt.” I lick my lips, starting to feel sick. “When I wake up the next day, I remember nothing. I’m naked and freezing and some place really weird. My body hurts like I’m no longer human and there’s dread in my gut. Slowly, over the next year, the truth starts to come back in little pieces, little whispers of violence and death. I’ve tried to find proof, but there’s none. And if I hand myself in they’ll cure me. That’s not something I can… I just can’t.”
“If there’s no proof …” Luke trails off apologetically.
“I know,” I forestall. “I thought I was crazy for years. I thought they were dreams. But over time it started to get worse. Much worse. I’d wake up covered in blood not my own. I knew the visions were memories. I can feel the truth of them, Luke, the truth of all the people I’ve hurt. I know what I’ve done. I know what I’ll do again. And I have no way to stop myself.”
Luke draws in a long breath, then he bends over and rests his head in his hands. “Jesus,” he mutters. “So this was only a couple of nights ago? Was that why when we met you were …” He searches for a word and ends up with, “Lost?”
I nod.
“It had happened again?”
Another nod.
We’re silent for a long while. I wait for him to leave; to look at me with disgust or pity or fear. But when he looks up, his eyes hold something else entirely. “We have to find a way to make it stop.”
I’m completely lost for words.
“We’ve got to figure out what’s making you do this, and make it stop.”
I turn and walk the two steps it takes to get into the ‘kitchen’. I pour myself a glass of water and drink the whole thing, then have another glass, stalling for time. Finally I look at him. “There’s no ‘we’.”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”
“Why would there be a ‘we’?” I demand.
“I want to help.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you can’t. There’s no way to stop it, and I’m not dragging you into this.”
“I can’t think of any place I’d rather be dragged.”
I stare at him. “Do you have mental problems? I just told you I’m a dangerous murderer, and you want to hang around?” Why is he doing this? Is he an adrenalin junkie? Does he think I’m some kind of experiment? A problem he can solve? A poor soul in need of saving? I don’t like any of the reasons I can come up with.
Luke stands. “Tell you what. How about I hang around every day except the 16th. Would that make you feel better?”
He’s trying to make light of it. I shake my head. “I don’t need you.”
“Well then what?” he asks suddenly. “You want to keep dealing with this on your own? Want to live in tiny shitholes for the rest of your life, going from crap job to crap job and feeling like death every damn day? Do you want to be completely alone without a single friend to talk to about all of this? Because that’s where you’re headed with this ‘I don’t need anyone’ bullshit.”
I can feel a headache coming on, a slow pounding in the back of my skull.
“Or,” Luke goes on more softly, “we could face this together.”
And it occurs to me suddenly. The real reason beneath his words. He’s just as lonely as I am.
I swallow. “I don’t know who you are.”
“I’ll teach you. That’s the fun bit.”
My eyes are hurting, and my teeth. The glare of the room is too bright and I squint against it. I can barely make Luke out anymore, just his silhouette, swaying eerily before me. “Whatever,” I mutter. “I just … need to have a rest.”
I make my way to the bed, the blood rushing in my ears. As I sink down onto the mattress, the contact hurts my skin and my muscles and my bones. I feel a thousand years old, like a skeleton that has long since decayed. I try not to make a sound but I’m not sure if I’ve managed.
“Josi?” His voice is loud and makes me wince.
“I’ll just sleep a while,” I tell him. I think I tell him. I’m not sure if I’ve opened my mouth. My jaw is aching and I can taste blood. I can always taste blood. It never goes away, never leaves me for one second. I’m so tired.
Luke
It comes over her so fast. She sort of sways on her feet, and then all the color drains from her face. She makes it to the bed, but only barely. I touch her shoulder and she flinches; I speak her name and it seems to hurt her.
I stand and stare at her as she drifts to sleep. I don’t know what to do. I can only imagine that this is some aftereffect of the episodes she has. I will call them ‘episodes’ because that makes it sound like she has no control, and I have to believe she has no control. My brain wars with words and ideas and possibilities as I watch her sleep uncomfortably. Despite what I told her, I have seen a lot of bad things. A lot of violence, a lot of death. It’s not much of a shock to me anymore. Perhaps this is why I’m not freaking out. Why I’m not running. I can’t think of any other reason—I should be running. Josephine is the last person I should be spending time with.
But I can’t leave. Not now, while she’s passed out and clearly in so much pain. I can’t just leave her alone in this awful place after she’s told me such a terrible thing. The idea of it seems simply too cruel.
Carefully I pull a blanket over her, but then I take it straight back off as I feel how hot she is. Shit, it must be a fever. I look around the apartment for anything I can use to cool her off. Eventually I grab one of the t-shirts out of her suitcase and wet it under the faucet. She makes a sound, like a soft whimper, as I place the cold cloth against her burning forehead. She’s grinding her teeth badly—the sound makes me shudder.
In her bathroom I search for something to give her—paracetamol breaks fevers, doesn’t it? She’s got a shitload of prescription pills. I read some of the labels and have no idea what any of them mean. I finally find a packet of strong pain medication.
Getting her to
take the tablets is no easy feat. I stroke her hair for a minute, trying to wake her up enough for her to swallow, but she just moans. I climb behind her, lifting her as gently as I can until she’s propped up against me. She’s so fucking hot it scares me. Her skin against mine is like a flame. I pry open her mouth—her jaw is locked—and put the pills right into her throat. Then I stroke her throat like you do with an animal—I have no idea if this is right, but it’s the only thing I can think of. She eventually swallows the pills and I sigh with relief.
I start to move out from under her but she moans in pain and I freeze. It’s a god awful sound. After a moment I decide to stay put. I keep stroking her hair and soon she relaxes in my arms.
I am scared.
There’s no two ways around it. I can’t remember the last time I felt fear—probably around the start of my job—but I am definitely afraid right now. She feels hotter and hotter with every second that passes. I can’t take her to the hospital—I don’t want anyone to find out that she’s uncured.
I have to do something. Gently, I lift her up. She weighs next to nothing in my arms, a creature so fragile I find it impossible to imagine her hurting anyone. She whimpers and trembles as I carry her into the tiny bathroom. She doesn’t have a bath, so I turn on the cold faucet of the shower and step into the recess with Josi still in my arms. It’s freezing and sudden, but even as I wince I feel her cool off.
The water lasts for five minutes and then the legally required timer switches the faucet off. I consider overriding the controls to get her some more water, but then realize she’s now so cold that she’s shivering. Her lips are blue and her teeth chatter. Her two-colored eyes open drowsily and I can see the delirium that racks her.