by Rebecca Lim
I don’t ask him whether he wept when Lela died, because I know he did. It’s in his voice. And a sudden wave of love and regret and longing threatens to send me to my knees. He’s so … sweet. So very human.
He adds quietly, ‘Karen and Lela will be buried side by side as soon as Lela’s body’s released by the coroner. Should be Monday at the latest.’
Grief roughens my voice. ‘They’d like that.’
‘You speak as if they’re still with us,’ Ryan replies.
‘They are,’ I say, as a door is pushed open further back along the corridor I’m standing in. A young woman shrieks, ‘Tell him to take his clichéd silver evening gown and —’
‘Now, now, Orla,’ interrupts a light, male voice coaxingly. His accent sounds a little like Ryan’s. ‘You know it’ll make all the covers — it’s easily the most stunning evening gown in the entire collection. Your face will be everywhere.’
I don’t hear the woman’s reply because there’s the sound of a door slamming shut, then a loud exhalation. And that light, male voice exclaims behind me, ‘Gia, darling. At last, a sane person. Orla’s on the warpath. Hates both the dresses she’s been allocated. Barely got out alive. Love the boots. So fierce.’
‘Mercy?’ says Ryan. ‘What happens n—’
‘Irina!’ Gia’s voice cuts in.
I turn my head to see her standing some distance away, outside the door marked Studio 1. There’s a slender young man beside her, with a narrow grey fedora pushed back on his head of short, dark blonde hair. He’s the latest word in street fashion, with his skin-tight, distressed indigo jeans bristling with hardware, his narrow, buttoned-up, hound’s-tooth waistcoat over a faded grey, long-sleeved tee with a slogan on it I can’t make out, sharp-looking shoes, wrapped leather bracelets encircling both wrists, bristling with studs. He’s very pale and looks very young. He gives a little wave, blows me a kiss.
‘Showtime,’ Gia says to me apologetically. ‘Wrap it up. You can pick it up again later.’
The young man scans me critically, up and down. ‘Lookin’ fly, Irina,’ he calls out, head on one side, one hand cupping his cheek. ‘Ready to get your freak on, babe? Loads to get through.’
‘Mercy?’ Ryan’s voice issues loudly from the phone in my hand. I look back down at his face. ‘Justine can take it from here,’ he says insistently. ‘She doesn’t need me any more. You just tell me where and I’ll be there. I’ll be there.’
I close my eyes for a second, imagining that world — where Ryan could step onto a plane and I’d be there waiting for him, and we could be together for always, with no complications.
‘Irina?’ Gia says again sharply, and I turn and see a beautifully groomed, middle-aged Italian woman, her dark hair in a sleek, low knot, a measuring tape around her neck, entering the corridor. She’s wearing a gorgeously tailored black suit and low-heeled shoes, and she looks at me, then at Tommy and Gia for a second, before saying, ‘I can start with Miss Sebsebe in Studio 3 …?’
Tommy shakes his head. ‘Irina’s our number one priority now that Giovanni’s gone and arranged a private showing straight after her fitting. We need to get a move on, people.’
‘Give me a minute?’ I plead as my imagined world slips quietly from view.
Gia holds up one hand, five fingers outstretched, to show me that those are all the minutes I’m getting. I turn my back on them, stare into Ryan’s dark, electronically mediated eyes. My own eyes are stinging fiercely. I can’t cry. I don’t do tears. I’m not human. I’m not human.
‘Merce?’ Ryan says tenderly, from out of the palm of my hand, from so far away.
He could be Luc’s brother, he could be his twin. Save that he is mortal, and gentle; dark to Luc’s light, night to Luc’s day — or is it the other way around? I wonder when those things started to become qualities and things that I revere. They’re both so different. But they look so alike. Just another riddle without an answer in my fogbound, floating life.
‘Where, Mercy?’ Ryan insists. ‘I’m already on my way.’
As is Luc, reminds that small voice inside me gravely, always one beat ahead of my waking self. He’ll be here soon. He’ll love you again, the way he used to. You don’t need Ryan any more. And Luc can brook no competition. You know that.
I get instant goose bumps. It’s a law of physics, isn’t it? That two solid objects can’t occupy the same place at the same time. There’s only room for one of them in my life. One of them has to give. As K’el had to give; as Raphael did, in his turn.
Unlike Gabriel, Uriel and all the rest of my erstwhile brethren, I don’t believe that things are pre-ordained, that they will always collapse towards a fixed point like a doomed star. In my view, fate is there to be meddled with. And that will always be the difference between the Eight and me. Why then, does having the right to choose, the simple act of making a choice feel so much like a punishment?
It’s better this way, I tell myself. You’ve only been putting off the inevitable.
Something hard seems to crystallise in me, something sharp. As if my cold heart has been pierced through and is splintering, a piece of it breaking away.
I think I always knew that it would have to end like this; that one day I’d run out of excuses and options. The real world, the unseen world — I’ve felt them converging, drawing tight around me like a shark net, for a long time now. Ever since the day I woke as Ezra after her husband almost beat her to death, and I realised I could do something about it. That I could change her life forever.
Maybe there’s never been the possibility of another outcome, only the illusion.
It may be the last time I ever see Ryan. Grief once more enfolds me in its wings, grasps my borrowed heart in its black talons so hard that I fear it will burst inside Irina’s narrow chest.
I run my fingertip gently down Ryan’s face on the screen. See him frown at the gesture.
How weak must I seem to him?
I remind myself forcefully that feelings are for humans, even though my eyes are stinging and the screen is blurring and Ryan’s leaning forward and saying, ‘Mercy? Mercy? It won’t be long — just tell me where, and I’ll find you. I’m already on the way.’
‘There’s no where, Ryan, no when,’ I reply harshly as my eyes fill, and spill over, and a tear hits his face on the screen. ‘Not for us. That’s past. We’ve had our time.’
‘What do you mean?’ he says fiercely. ‘Are you crying? Why are you crying?’
There’s no answer to a question like that. So I tell him the first thing that comes into my head, because some part of me is still trying to shield him from the truth of Luc’s existence. Ryan doesn’t need to be hurt any more, and especially not by me.
‘Those … people I told you about once?’ I sob, and I hate how I sound. ‘The people that did this to me? They’re coming here. And they’re bringing reinforcements. You know what they can do — you’ve seen it for yourself.’
I see confusion on his face and I shout, ‘Remember Scotland? That “man” who walked on water?’
Ryan’s eyes widen in understanding and I say more quietly, ‘He’ll be here soon — and others just as powerful as he is. They’re coming for me, to move me …’
‘We’ll run,’ he replies breathlessly. ‘I’ll hide you. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you from them, to keep us together. We’ll use the darkness — hang out at gaming parlours and cafés, hotels and nightclubs, all-night service stations, diners — crowded places, dark places, places where no one wants to know your name, your business or your history. We’ll keep on the move, keep to ourselves. We’ll change the way you look … if that’s even possible for … people like you. Power and invisibility are mutually exclusive, right?’
‘Not in my experience,’ I sob.
‘You can’t let them just take you!’ Ryan yells, fear in his eyes and his voice. ‘The Mercy I know would never allow that. Don’t give up on us.’
‘It would never be over!’ I cry. ‘And that’s
no kind of life for someone like you. You don’t deserve any more disruption, any more grief or fear. Not after what you went through with Lauren. Can’t you see that’s the thing I’d never allow? I’m not worth it, Ryan.’
‘To me you are,’ he says violently. ‘Please. We have to try. Once I met you, my old life was over anyway. Without you, everything’s just grey. It’s pointless. I’ve only known you for a few weeks, but you’re in here,’ he taps at his chest, ‘and here.’ He places one hand against his head. ‘You didn’t just free Lauren. You freed me. It’s like you’re part of me now.’
His sweet words just make my tears flow faster. ‘I’m immortal, Ryan,’ I say brokenly. I see the look of stark rejection on his face, feel my heart splinter a little further.
As he shakes his head in denial, I weep. ‘What else did you expect me to say? Met any other girls lately who can take over the bodies of total strangers? I cannot be killed by bullets, I cannot be killed by weaponry. Our kind may only kill and be killed by each other. Being with me would be like a death sentence for you; you would have no choice but to run, or to die. It would never be over. I would never want that for you.’
Ryan’s eyes are so dark in his pale, strained face.
‘What would it mean, “being” with me, anyway?’ I plead. ‘You’re a son of man. I’m one of the elohim, the high ones. Go look that up on your search engines, your internet. We were here before your kind was even a passing whim in the mind of our creator. Even if I were free of this body, I don’t know if you could kiss me, or hold me, or take me to the movies, like you would a “regular” girl. I’m strong enough to kill you. I’m both matter and anti-matter. I was created to govern and to wreak destruction in equal measure. You and me together equals pain.’
I can barely see the screen for my tears. But through them, I see Ryan hang his head for a moment, looking away from me, and that’s how I finally work up the courage to snarl, ‘You can’t come here. I forbid it. Don’t go looking for me in my next life, because I won’t be looking for you.’
‘No!’ Ryan yells, raising his head. His dark eyes seem to blaze out at me from the screen, because he can read me like I can read him and he knows that I’m lying. In my heart, I will always be looking for him. And a little piece of me will always be wishing and dreaming and wondering.
I hang up on him then, and the screen goes black.
So this is what it feels like to have your heart removed from you while it’s still beating. Now, now I understand.
I wrap my arms tightly around myself to hold in the hurt, but it is impossible. I cry and cry, only dimly sensing the others hurrying towards me, Gia lifting the phone out of my nerveless hands and placing an arm around my shaking shoulders.
I tell myself fiercely there’s no point, none whatsoever, to my tears. I’m crying for something that could never have been. But I can’t stop the tears falling.
My cowardice disgusts me. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Ryan how I feel about him, or the truth about Luc. About what Luc would do to him if he caught him here, with that look in his eyes — of love, for me. Luc would destroy him. In a heartbeat.
In the end, maybe it’s not really a question of what I want, or what Ryan wants. It’s a straightforward question of Ryan’s survival. I would never forgive myself if something happened to him. I have enough blood on my hands.
So it’s better this way.
Better to have a world with Ryan in it, than no Ryan at all.
Gia slips her phone back into a pocket of her leather jacket and gives me a gentle squeeze.
With Valentina following us discreetly, she leads me towards the locked double doors at the end of the corridor, which Tommy now opens with a key he produces from a pocket of his distressed, skinny jeans.
Studio 4 is in total darkness. But before anyone flicks on the lights, I can already make out the layout of the room and what’s waiting for me at the far end of it. Surprise stems the flow of my tears.
There are three clothed human forms standing there in the darkness, all unnaturally still.
The bank of fluorescent lighting above our heads flares into life, giving shape to the large, neutral space that’s dominated by two long wooden work tables holding sewing machines and open wooden boxes filled with notions, ribbon, lace and fabric. Shelving runs along one long wall, containing drawer after drawer, each one bearing a neat typed label in Italian. There’s a spacious area on the far side of the room with a raised square podium, or pedestal, in the middle of it. Grouped around the pedestal, two to the left and one to the right, are three life-sized mannequins with blank and featureless faces, hair moulded into a stylised beehive. Each form is clothed in a spectacular gown, and each gown is strikingly different from the next.
The first is devastatingly simple in silhouette: long and lean, with a plunging V-neckline, narrow through the bodice, waist, hips and thighs, but flaring gently from just above the knee so that by the time the gown reaches the ankles it pools in gentle folds upon the floor. The sleeves are long and cuffed tightly at the wrists, and mirror the line of the dress. They begin narrow and fitted at the upper arms, then bell out gently, before the fabric pools a little around each cuff. What makes the gown extraordinary is that it’s covered entirely in square, gold-coloured, metal paillettes, every single one painstakingly hand-stitched on, I’m guessing. From a distance, it’s almost as if the dress is made of molten gold. But up close, the surface of the gown resembles chain mail, or armour.
Gia walks up to it, awe-struck, followed by Tommy. Valentina hangs back, smiling a little with pride.
Numbly, I position myself next to Tommy as he muses aloud, ‘Hair down for this one, maybe with a messy wave through the ends? And a wreath in the hair, or a crown of thorns. Bare feet. A bit Joan of Arc meets Jesus meets lunatic asylum, I’m thinking?’
Gia gives him a sharp, quelling look and Tommy clears his throat and mutters, ‘Let’s move right along to look number two.’
‘Look number two’ is a strapless dress with a tight-fitting black bodice featuring a plunging, heart-shaped neckline that’s highlighted by a central, heart-shaped panel across the front entirely covered in tiny black crystals that catch the light. The skirt is an explosion of swagged black silk. There’s some sort of crinoline underneath it that gives the dress a life of its own. Valentina steps forward and lifts one edge of the voluminous skirt proudly and we see that it’s faced with hot-pink silk. It’s a show stopper, although I don’t see how the heavily beaded, shockingly indiscreet bodice would stay up if I actually went anywhere in it.
‘We’ll go with a black tricorn hat with a face veil,’ Tommy murmurs. ‘A bit American Revolution meets Bette Davis. Maybe some shoe-boots that are part dressage, part bondage. I’ll get Juliana’s team to put something together.’
We come to a stop before the last gown. The fantasy bridal gown Gia spoke of earlier. It has the same killer-chic aesthetic that informs the other two dresses, but it’s a romantic confection this time: tight-fitting lace and intricately beaded chiffon, tight, long sleeves, a high and modest neckline. The upper half of the dress seems both concealing and revealing at the same time; but the skirt is something else altogether. It’s tulip-shaped; layers and layers of hand-draped and swagged chiffon and silk gazar that end at a point just below the knee. It’s a completely unexpected combination of shapes, but it somehow works. I don’t understand fashion in the slightest, but I can see that the wedding dress before us is something quite unique.
‘A simple topknot,’ Tommy breathes. ‘With a miniature tiara sitting just above the hairline.’
As the four of us stand silently in front of the remarkable dress, Gia’s phone rings. She draws it out of her jacket pocket and glances at the screen.
‘I have to take this,’ she says apologetically.
She turns to leave the room and I say, sounding strangely tentative even to my ears, ‘You’ll come back? You’ll stay with me today? However long it takes?’
I don’t t
hink I could bear to be alone right now, in the company of strangers. However kindly they might be.
Gia’s eyes seem to soften as she replies, ‘Your humanity is showing again, Irina. Of course I’ll come back. It’s just management as usual, checking up on you — checking up on me. Be right back.’
As Gia closes the door behind her, Tommy turns to me and places a hand beneath my chin, studying my face for a moment. ‘Who’s this impostor we’ve got here?’ he says gently. ‘Where’s my bulletproof ultra-bitch gone?’
There’s laughter in his light voice; it’s impossible to be offended.
‘Tommy,’ clucks Valentina disapprovingly as she begins carefully removing the first of the couture gowns off the mannequin, the one that resembles golden armour.
When I find myself smiling back mistily at the slight young man before me, he whispers, ‘Now, that’s more like it. Time to play dress-ups, my darling.’
The golden dress has to weigh at least seventy pounds on its own. It’s lucky that I’m strong, and that I no longer really care what I’m doing here. I just listlessly do as I’m told. If the real Irina were here, I’m sure she would’ve thrown at least one bitch-slapping tantrum already and orchestrated a walkout. Despite the so-called stratospheric glamour-quotient of Irina’s life, hers has to be the most unbelievably tedious job I can ever remember experiencing. Even worse than cleaning the toilets or taking out the rubbish at the Green Lantern café, because at least then I’d had autonomy. All I seem to be here is a collection of flawed body parts, and it’s just a never-ending round of requests to stand still.
I’ve been poised on the raised podium for almost two hours as Valentina and two assistants have poked and prodded me from every angle, worrying at the hem of the dress, tugging at the cuffs, reworking the gown’s back fastenings because I’ve inexplicably put on a half-inch around the waist since yesterday morning and a seam somewhere is puckering.
I address Gia over the heads of the reproachful seamstresses. ‘That would be because I actually ate a decent breakfast!’
