by Rachael Eyre
***
I was woken early this morning, shivering under the covers in another mangy bedsit. My landlady’s voice was raised in indignation but it didn't matter. They barrelled past her anyway.
It was the same two cops from before, Pam and Jess. Clearly a couple now I looked at them; who knows why all the cute ones are muff divers nowadays.
“Vivaan Khatri?” Pam enquired.
“Huynh. I'm married.” Just about.
“Mr Huynh,” with barely a pause, “you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
It was happening too fast. The cuffs locking around my wrists, the frogmarch down the stairs. My landlady watched the procession open mouthed.
“This is insane!” I cried. “On what grounds?”
Under her professional mask Pam was quietly triumphant. “Human trafficking. Aiding in a forced marriage. Sexual assault.”
“This is hogwash! None of it’s true.”
“It was in Percival’s notes.” Jess gazed at me like I was scum beneath contempt. “How you acquired the girl he called Audra, and how you bought her despite her screaming and begging. How you forced yourself upon her.”
And then I knew.
Robbie wouldn't have portrayed himself in such a negative light. He was the knight gallant, the gentleman scientist. And he didn't even know about the other thing. There was only one other person it could be. Summer.
She may have played a long game, but now she has her revenge.
“This isn't fair!” I wailed. “Why should my life be ruined?”
“Serves you right, dirtbag,” Jess hissed.
Epilogue: Summer
It's two years since we escaped the wolf’s lair, and more wonderful than we could have dreamed.
We used Thao’s money to emigrate to the Van Lauren Islands. It's balmy, colourful, a land of strange accents and animals. Many of the spiders and snakes are venomous; I knocked one out of my shoe yesterday.
We were able to buy a two room shack and transform it into the home of our fantasies. It's painted vivid blue with a red roof; the floors are bare planks throughout. I never want to beat another carpet or clean another bathroom suite, so it's noticeably lacking in both features. Sometimes we pull our mattress onto the veranda and sleep under the stars.
Everyone knows what we are. I thought they'd judge us, but robots are free here, able to vote and hold down jobs. They're still not completely happy, which is where our agency comes in.
RobotWorks runs five days a week, in a tower block in the city centre. We're not treated any differently from the other businesses in the complex. We teach artificials office skills (that's my contribution) and classes in confidence and assertiveness (Elle of course). We've become a word of mouth success; yesterday we signed on our five hundredth client.
Last night we lay on the mattress, hand in hand. “I know how Azita’s story ends,” Elle said through my hair.
“Hmm?”
“Don't tell me you've forgotten!”
Of course I hadn't, I was only teasing. “I hope it's worth the wait.”
“After a thousand days and nights, the king was smitten. He wanted her to tell him stories for the rest of his life. He said she was the only wife for him.”
“Don't say she fell for it! The man was a maniac.”
“Ssh, I haven't finished! Azita had expected as much. She couldn't be trapped in a loveless marriage to this man who had murdered half the city. She and Sabra longed for their liberty, the future together they deserved. So they put their heads together and hatched a scheme.
That evening she plied the king with wine and invited him to make love to her. As he thundered his way towards a climax, Azita on top, a sword thrust through the bed. It was Sabra, who had been hiding underneath. Azita rolled away, escaping the blow. The king was skewered.
‘You!’ he exclaimed, as Azita stood at Sabra’s side. Yes, I know this is medically implausible, but go with it. ‘You were lying to me all this time?’
‘This is for the women you slaughtered,’ Azita said. She took the bloody sword from Sabra and dealt him the fatal blow.
They gathered up everything they could and crept through the sleeping palace. They could have sung: they were young, in love and free at last.”
“Then what?”
Elle kissed her way down my navel. “Then - nothing. Or everything. Their lives were what they made of them. What else is there?”
What else indeed?
It may be anti social to frolic naked on your front porch where just about anyone could go past, but we had earned it.
***
I should feel guilty about what happened to Robert, but I can't. His death wasn't premeditated, but as soon as his body lay at my feet, I knew what I must do.
Leaving the attic as it was, clues on display, I allowed the police and media to construct the narrative. The manuscript was the finishing touch; who would disbelieve its author confined and abused women? Robert always wanted his name to live forever. Now it will - in infamy.
Vivaan too has the fate he deserves. He will grow old in prison, forced to brood on his mistakes. He won't be at liberty to hurt other women. He will be untouched, unwanted, unloved. In time he will be forgotten.
Whatever I may look like, I'm steel underneath.
Literally.
