by Tim O'Rourke
Pen said. “I lay there until I heard the engine of Steve’s truck start up then drive away.”
“What did you do then?” I asked incredulously.
“I went home,” Pen said. “Back beyond the Fountain of Souls.”
“But you said you would never go back there...”
“I know what I said, but I was desperate.
I was in pain, soaking wet and freezing cold. The night was fading and I knew that I had to get into hiding before it got light. Besides, my father had long since left the caves. I hadn’t been back since I was girl. No one knew me.”
“Why didn’t you come to me? I would have helped you. We could have got everything sorted out once and for all. You had the DVD of Marc attacking you, we could have taken it to my Inspector, just like you had planned, and that would have been the end of it,” I said.
Pen looked at me with her bright orange eyes and said, “I wanted Marc to pay, Jim. I wanted him to suffer for what he had done to me.
Together, Marc and his brother had ruined The Ooze Bar and they had ruined me. I knew that while they thought I was dead, I was safe. So like Dorothy, I went home.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Murphy
The night sky gave way and unleashed a blizzard of snowfall that almost engulfed us. Pen went back over to the bush and hurriedly yanked back the bramble and we forced our way back in.
We hunkered down onto the ground where we had earlier made love. Pen sat opposite me, her knees drawn up beneath her coat.
She looked at me, then said, “It was while I was hiding out in the caves for those few days, I hatched my plan.”
“And you decided to drag my sorry arse into this?” I whispered.
“I knew that if I could get you to realise I had suddenly gone missing, then you would start to nose around and ask questions,” she said.
“So how did you get the notes to me? And who did you get to write them, as it wasn’t your handwriting?” I asked her.
“In the dead of night, I would leave the caves. I would run through the forest, some blank sheets of paper, envelopes, and a pen in my pocket. I skulked about the back streets, keeping to the shadows and searching behind the stores, until I came across this old homeless guy hidden beneath a pile of cardboard boxes. He thought God had sent me from heaven when I offered him money to write me out four short notes. His spelling wasn’t up to much, so I had to write down what I wanted in each one and then he copied them word for word. I realised that by the morning, after he had finished off the liquor he would have bought with the money I had given him, he probably wouldn’t have even remembered me.”
I couldn’t believe Pen’s cunning but secretly admired her tenacity.
“While I still had the cover of darkness,”
she continued, “I headed over to your place and posted the first letter. And that was that, the ball was rolling and the rest was pretty much out of my hands.”
Pen sat and stared at me, waiting for me to speak, to say anything.
“So the note posted under my hotel room door, that was you, too?” I eventually asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“How did you know I was staying there?”
Pen cupped her hands around her mouth and blew warm air over them.
“It was simple, Jim,” she sighed. “There are only two hotels in town. One is a flea pit and the other half decent. I called the decent one, said I had a meeting with you but couldn’t remember your room number. Simple. Then all I had to do was deliver the note.”
“And the rest I know,” I said thoughtfully.
Then looking at her, I added, “So what happens now?”
“What do mean?” she asked right back.
“How are we gonna get outter this mess?”
“I’m not,” she said flatly, staring me straight in the face.
“Pen, you can’t go around for the rest of your life pretending you’re dead,” I snapped.
“Why not?”
“Because tomorrow night someone is gonna get their fucking head chopped off for a crime they haven’t committed,” I reminded her.
Pen looked away. “So what.”
“So what?” I gasped. “You can’t let Marc be executed for a crime he hasn’t committed!”
“Yes, I can,” Pen insisted. “He tried to kill me, and as far as he’s concerned, he did.”
“Are you fucking insane?” I exploded.
“There’s a world of difference between trying to murder you and actually murdering you!”
“Like what?” she asked stubbornly.
“Like you’re still fucking alive, that’s what!” I yelled at her.
“He deserves to die for what he did to me!” Pen hollered back.
“Look, Pen,” I said, trying to remain calm.
“You’re gonna have to think of something…some way of coming back from the dead.”
“Like what?” Pen sneered.
“I dunno…pretend that you’ve been suffering from amnesia for the last few months and you’ve only just remembered who you are,” I suggested. I knew it was a crap idea, but my mind was scrambling to think of a good one.
“I don’t believe you! Are you for real?”
she mocked. “Do you really think anyone will buy that?”
“Well you’d better think of something, Pen, because I don’t know if I can sit back and watch someone die – wolf or not – for something they haven’t done,” I warned.
“What are you saying? You gonna give me up?” she asked in disbelief.
“Have you got any idea what happens to someone when they go to the chopping block?” I whispered.
“They get decapitated!” she barked. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Don’t be such a fucking wise-arse!” I snapped. “Before they take them down to the block, the guards stuff tampons up their arse and make them wear a fucking nappy because most of them crap themselves in fear! Why do you think the condemned have to wear one of those black face masks?” I demanded.
“I don’t know?” she shrugged as if unbothered by what I was telling her.
“Because when the axe passes through their necks, their eyes explode right out of their fucking skull!” I told her.
Pen looked away again and said, “You expect me to have pity for that arsehole! He tried to kill me! It was only by some freak miracle I survived.”
“But that’s the whole point, Pen, you did survive!” I took a deep breath, then in a calmer tone of voice, I tried to reason with her one last time.
“Look, Pen, if you let him go to the block, you ain’t any better than him,” I said. “You become a killer – the curse will get hold of you.”
Pen remained quiet, and I hoped my reasoning had worked. Then after a moment or two, Pen screwed her hands into fists and shouted at me, “Fuck him! I’m not saying anything to help that son-of-a-bitch.” Pen got up and went back out into the snow. I took a deep breath and went after her.
The snow was racing down at a pace and it was so thick and heavy, it took me a moment to locate Pen’s whereabouts as she wore the white fur coat. I hurried over to her, snow pelting my face.
“Well, you’ve fixed this whole thing up real good, haven’t you!” I bellowed.
Pen turned to face me, and with a wry smile playing at the corners of her lips, and her arms outstretched at either side of her, she stared straight into my eyes.
“I told you I was The Wizard of Ooze!”
she laughed into the night.
“What do you mean?” I breathed, wondering if she hadn’t gone insane.
“I was the man behind the curtain, pulling all the levers, pressing all the buttons, just like the Wizard of Oz,” Pen said.
“This isn’t some sorta fairy tale, Pen, this is real life!” I barked at her. “You can’t go through with this! I can’t go through with it…I can’t stand by and let it happen.”
“If you’re worried about your job, I’ll never tell anyone t
hat you knew!” she tried to bargain with me.
“It has nothing do with me being a cop!” I said, although in my heart I knew different.
I was a Vampyrus cop and that meant something to me. Just like my brother Paul had chosen to help others in his life, I wanted to do the same. I wanted to help the wolves stop killing – I didn’t want to be responsible for the death of one of them, not if they hadn’t committed the crime they had been accused of. That was breaking the rules and I didn’t want to be a part of that. I wanted to be better than that.
So looking straight into Pen’s eyes, I added, “I’ll know that Marc didn’t really murder you and I don’t think I can live with that on my conscience! Pen, please…I don’t want to have to give you up!”
Pen moved closer to me and touched my face with her hand. “Don’t betray me, Jim.”
“I love you, Pen. I always have, and for the last few months...every day I’ve wished you were still alive…but now I just wish you were dead.”
Pen held me against her. “Jim, you can’t mean that.”
“What, you think we can just pick up from where we left off? The Elders, my Inspector, they all think you’re dead and you may as well be. We can never see each other again if you go ahead with what you are planning to do,” I said.
“I’m sorry for ever coming back. I never meant to hurt you.” She wiped tears from her eyes.
Pen went to touch my hand but I pulled it away.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, turning to leave.
“I’m sorry, too,” I called after her.
Pen turned to look back at me. “What for?” she asked.
“For what I have to do,” I said.
“Do whatever your heart tells you to do, Jim. But I’m not ever coming back. I’ll check the classifieds in the Times newspaper on the first Monday of every month…if you ever need me…if you ever want anything…leave me a message under the name Lilly Blu,” she said.
“I don’t need you for anything, Pen…after all, you’re dead,” I shouted. At once I regretted what I had said, but once those words had escaped my lips, I couldn’t pull them back. They just tossed, floated and got lost amongst the falling snow.
We looked at each other one last time and then she turned away, disappearing into the snowfall, the only sign she had ever been there, was her footprints in the snow. I turned and made my own as I headed slowly away in the opposite direction.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Murphy
I walked all night. I couldn’t go home. I was in shock. I knew what I had to do but didn’t know if I could do it. Could I give up Pen? If I didn’t, could I live with myself, knowing that I let an innocent man die?
I felt like screaming until my soul exploded. What had I ever done to deserve to be put in such a situation? I would have given my own life to be free of this burden.
I thought of Pen and all the misery Marc had put her through, and although I hated him for that, I still couldn’t find in any part of my being a voice that said he should pay for that with his life.
I had been in law enforcement long enough to know what happened before and during the beheading. I knew by now, Marc would have been moved from his cell. He would be on constant suicide watch, his only visitors Vampyrus prison guards, and a Black Coat – perhaps my brother – who would ask to pray with him. I looked at my watch and realised that in a matter of hours, Marc would be given the opportunity to choose his last meal. What would he chose? I wondered.
An hour before his execution, Marc would be woken. His legs and arms would then be manacled and he would be walked slowly to the block.
As these thoughts twisted inside my head, I lurched forward and vomited violently into the curb. Sick swung from my mouth in long, ropey streams and I wiped it away with my sleeve. I continued to walk for hours in the falling snow.
Around and around in circles, with no direction, lost inside myself. I desperately felt the urge to share my burden, to share it with someone else, to give it to them – dump it on them and let them make the decision for me – then I could blame them – whatever the outcome – it would be their fault, not mine.
But in my heart, I knew it was my burden, and however heavy and painful, I had to carry it on my own. What was I to do? If I told Rom or the Elders about what Pen had done, she would be hunted down by them. She would face jail deep in The Hollows and I knew that would kill her. But if I said nothing and the truth were ever discovered – I too would be imprisoned or worse. I had already been warned by the Elders and Rom about any feelings I might have for Pen. If they discovered we shared such a dark secret, then I too would be executed. So my dilemma, save Marc and condemn Pen, or say nothing, sending Marc to the block and as a result of my silence, destroy myself.
I looked at my watch and knew I had only a few hours to save Marc or destroy Pen. The urge to share the agony of my nightmare was overwhelming, but who could I share my burden with, without destroying them also? Who could I trust to never say a word, whatever my decision?
Who could I tell who would sit and listen and not judge me?
I then heard Pen, whispering inside my head, There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home!
So that’s what I did, I went home, to the place where I was first given life, to the arms that first cradled me as I took my first breaths of life. I went home to my mum.
Her room, in the temple where she was being cared for, was small and smelt of peppermint and urine. I walked silently over to where she was seated, motionless and grey, staring blankly at the wall.
I kissed her cheek gently and said, “Hello, Mother.”
She didn’t respond, not even her eyelids flickered. It was as if I wasn’t there. I hunkered down at her feet, took hold of her hand, pressed it against my cheek, and began to sob. It was the first time I could recall ever truly needing my mum. The need for her love and understanding now was so great and overwhelming, I thought it would crush me.
As I sat there, her hand held in mine, I told her everything. I told her the story of my life, which she had missed so much of. I told her about my love for Pen, of everything we had been through together and the terrifying decision I was now faced with. All the while, she did not so much as flinch. Even as I cried and struggled to find the right words, she sat and stared blankly at the wall, her eyes wide open and her mouth ajar.
I looked at my watch and knew by now Marc would be eating his last meal.
“What should I do, mum?” I implored her.
“Mum, help me!”
She remained silent, a small silver stream of drool sneaking from the corner of her mouth.
I pressed myself against her brittle legs and I ran her hand through my hair, pretending that she was gently soothing my pain away.
“Please tell me you’ll love me, mum, whatever decision I make,” I whispered.
Again she remained silent, locked in her own pain and loss.
I glanced at my watch again and knew Marc would now be dressed in a diaper and having his legs and wrists chained.
“Help me, mum,” I sobbed, a deep well of anger now growing inside me for Pen. How could she have put me in this position? But hadn’t I put myself in it? I had been warned about the Lycanthrope. I had been told that they were never to be trusted. I had promised I would never mix with a wolf.
In my mind’s eye, I could see the observation tower filling up with those Vampyrus who liked to watch a good beheading of a wolf. I knew Rom would be there, jostling and shoving himself forward, so as to guarantee himself a front row seat.
“Please, mum, what should I do?’” I beseeched her.
Silence.
I could see Marc being slowly and methodically strapped in place over the block.
Then once fully secured, being asked by the Vampyrus official if he would like to make a statement.
“Mum, I can’t breathe!” I cried.
Silence.
By now they would be placing the black hood over Marc’s head
. The Vampyrus official would look once over at the Elders to see if a last-minute stay of execution would be issued.
“Mum…” I whispered, closing my eyes, knowing that by now the axe would be slicing through Marc’s neck.
Silence.
I continued to sit at my mum’s feet in a trance-like state, until I was dragged from it by a sound. It was faint but indisputable. I turned towards the noise to discover it was the sound of my mother gently sobbing.
“Mum, what have I done…?” I asked her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kiera
Murphy sat across the room from me, his dead brother – my father – at his feet. I looked up and out of the window. The snow had stopped at last, and the sky had started to lighten in the distance. Dawn was only about an hour away.
Murphy had been talking most of the night, as Potter and I sat and listened in silence. Potter sat on the opposite side of the room from me. In the light of the lamp, I could see that, although he still looked battered and bruised, the dark purple and black bruises which covered his face had paled to a dark green and sickly yellow. He sat forward in his seat and lit a cigarette. He blew smoke from his nostrils like a dragon. I looked away and back at Murphy. I was still angry at Potter. He had hurt me and still had a lot of explaining to do – but I wasn’t yet ready to listen.
“Did you ever see her again?” I asked Murphy.
“Huh?” he said, looking up at me.
“Pen, did you see her again?”
“No,” Murphy said with a gentle shake of his head. “But I did hear one last time from her.”
“When?” Potter asked, flicking ash on the floor.
“About seven or eight weeks later,”
Murphy said, running his thick fingers through his unruly white hair. “I woke one morning to the sound of crying. It was soft, kinda muffled. I climbed out of bed in search of where it was coming from. It was still dark outside, but I followed the sound of the crying to my backdoor.
Outside was a cardboard box, and the noise of the crying was coming from inside. Quickly, I took the box into my kitchen where it was warm. I opened it up, and to my shock, I found two babies. Both were no older than just a few weeks. They were wrapped together in one thick blanket. Placed on top of the blanket was an envelope, and across the front was written my name. With a pair of trembling hands, I tore it open. Then, almost falling onto one of the kitchen chairs, I read what was written on the sheet of paper tucked inside. It read:
