Pull

by Anne Riley

  But it isn’t two years ago and New Paul wouldn’t take kindly to such a comment.

  “Want to talk?” I say carefully.

  He hesitates for half a second. My heart lifts with the possibility he’ll say yes—but then he barks out “Nope,” and clomps upstairs to his room. His door slams so hard it rattles the light fixture over my head.

  “Alrighty.” I turn back to Big Brother. “Good chat. Glad we got everything worked out.”

  I could stay in all night instead of venturing out to the pub with a guy who may or may not be slightly dangerous; after all, there is bad reality television to be watched and flannel pajamas to be worn. But Paul probably won’t come back downstairs, and Dad will probably spend the evening staring at a cup of cold tea. Mom and Nana will warm up one of the ten thousand casseroles brought over by friends and neighbors, and then they’ll eat it without speaking to each other because there’s nothing left to say.

  I’ll try to talk to Paul one more time. If he lets me into his room, I’ll stay home. But if he doesn’t, I’ll go to the pub to get whatever answers I can get.

  I take the stairs two at a time and knock on his door. “Can I come in?”

  Silence.

  I try the knob. It turns, but something has been propped against the door from the inside. It won’t budge.

  “Take a hint,” Paul growls from inside the room. His voice is muffled; I bet he’s in bed. And once my brother goes to bed, there’s no getting him up until he decides he’s ready.

  Rolling my eyes, I slog back down the stairs and into the kitchen. Mom and Nana are cleaning out leftovers from the refrigerator, stacking disposable containers and foil-covered casserole dishes on the counter. I’ve only seen a few sympathizers come and go, but judging by the amount of food in Nana’s freezer, half of Blackheath has stopped by to offer condolences.

  “Mom,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, “is it okay if I go down to the Hare & Billet for a while?”

  She looks up from a Tupperware full of withered salad. “The Hare & Billet? Why?”

  “Let me guess,” Nana says. “James has asked you out again?”

  This is, in fact, the story I had planned to go with. “Yep. We’re meeting in just a few minutes.” I look back to Mom. “Is that okay?”

  She smiles. “Sure, I think it’s great you’re going out with him again. I’ll drive you over.”

  The weather is unseasonably cool by the time Mom and I crank up Nana’s bright yellow Citroën. She hardly ever drives it, opting instead for the extensive public transit system, but we use it occasionally when we’re in town. It’s fun, sitting on the wrong side of the car and watching Mom try to adapt to a stick shift.

  “So,” she says as the car stutters down Camden Row. It almost stalls, but Mom punches the gas pedal with her Nine West peep toe just in time. “You like this James guy, huh?”

  Guilt bubbles in my stomach at the relief in her voice. “Uh, yeah. He’s pretty great.”

  “Good. I’ll have to meet him sometime.”

  I wish I didn’t have to lie, but here’s the thing—my parents ask a lot of questions. Especially about boys. So if I told them I was going to meet a guy named Albert— someone they don’t know at all—they would ask me where I met him, and I would have to lie. Then they would ask me about his family, and since I don’t know anything about them, I’d have to make up something to satisfy their inquisitive minds. Then they would ask Nana if she knew him, and of course Nana would say no, and then they would probably be so overcome with curiosity that they would tail me to the pub and introduce themselves.

  And I really can’t have that.

  Mom drops me off at the sidewalk with instructions to call when I’m ready to come home. She idles at the curb until I open the door of the pub, then eases away with a wave and a hint of a smile.

  I can’t decide if I’m glad to be alone, or if I’m on the brink of bailing on this whole operation. But Albert has answers—he’s made that much clear. And if I don’t like the way the evening progresses, I can always call Mom to pick me up.

  It’s a Tuesday night, so fewer than half of the tables are occupied. A circle of older men roars with laughter as I walk in, eyes sparkling and pints of beer sloshing in their hands. In the center of the pub is a group of younger guys reenacting highlights from some soccer match. Not many girls out tonight, just three of them tucked into a corner, examining something on one of their phones.

  I zigzag through the room. Albert isn’t at the bar, and I don’t see him at any of the tables; maybe he decided not to come. A strange blend of relief and disappointment stirs in my chest at this possibility. But then I spot him at a small table in the dimly lit back corner, reading a tattered copy of Catch-22 with a pint glass in front of him.

  “Hi,” I say when I reach him.

  He looks up and snaps the book shut. “Hi. Someone walked with you, right?”

  “My mom drove me.” I sit down across from him. “Maybe you should have asked me to meet you during the day, when it’s safer.”

  He arches an eyebrow and nods. “I would have, but I was busy.”

  “Oh, right. With your errands.” I mirror his arched eyebrow. “What were they, again? Grocery shopping? Dry cleaning?”

  A wry smile creeps across his lips. “Something like that. They were so dull, I hardly remember. Would you like a drink?”

  I hesitate, remembering the unfortunate Just Coke episode. “I don’t know. What are you having?”

  “Coke.” He holds up the glass of dark liquid.

  My mouth twists. “Just Coke?”

  “Just Coke.” He gives me a suspicious look. “What? Why is that so funny? Would you prefer I do tequila shots or something?”

  “No, it’s just that you look old enough to drink. I’m surprised that’s not a beer.”

  He looks at his glass and runs a thumb along its side, leaving a transparent trail in the condensation. “I’m eighteen, so it could be. But I don’t drink much.”

  “You’re only eighteen?” My eyes run over his powerful shoulders, then up to his face. Maybe it has something to do with the scar, but I would have pegged him at more like twenty-two. The idea that he’s the same age as some of my gawky, potty-humor-loving classmates is laughable. “You look older.”

  He looks up from his glass. “So I’ve heard.”

  “So, then,” I say, gesturing at the Coke, “why the abstinence policy?”

  He leans back and crosses his arms. “Sometimes I find myself in situations that require sharp thinking. Alcohol’s not exactly the best choice when you need to be clear-headed.”

  “Situations that require sharp thinking,” I echo.

  “Yeah.” He grins—the kind of grin that hints at a secret. I know he’s got secrets; I’ve witnessed his peculiarity firsthand. But when his eyes lock on mine and one corner of his mouth twitches, a thrill goes through me anyway. He puts his hands on the table and pushes halfway out of his chair. “Why don’t I get you that Coke before you launch into a full-scale interrogation?”

  “Fair enough,” I say, and he saunters up to the bar.

  The bartender—same girl as last time—leans on the counter as Albert orders. She nods with half-lidded eyes, as if to say Oh, I’ll pour you a couple of Cokes, baby. But as she starts to fill the glasses, Albert turns his back to her and smiles at me. I smile back. The bartender looks at me like I’ve just crawled out of the Thames with dead fish stuck on my clothes.

  “She seems to like you,” I say as Albert returns to the table.

  He sets my Coke in front of me and plops into his chair. “Matilda? Yeah. I kind of helped her out one time.”

  “And by ‘helped her out,’ you mean…” I glance at Matilda, who’s watching me with obvious hatred. If only she knew her jealousy was completely unfounded.

  Albert shrugs. “Similar situation to the girl you saw on the heath. Some tosser tried to rob the place when she was here alone. She normally wouldn’t have been closing by her
self, but the other bartender had gotten sick and left. The robber waited till she was closing up, then pulled a knife on her and demanded all the cash in the place. She refused, and he held the knife to her throat.” He looks toward the bar. Matilda’s face lights up instantly. “That’s when I happened to come back for my wallet. I handled the situation and she hasn’t forgotten about it.”

  Clearly.

  Albert looks back to me and takes a sip of his drink. I lean forward, putting my elbows on the table. “So now that your errands are done and it’s not raining, are you ready to talk?”

  He snort-laughs into his Coke. “God, you made me sound like a diva just then.”

  “Call ’em like I see ’em.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” He eyes me while running a finger over his chin. “Tell me again what you saw Saturday night on the heath.”

  “You mean the first time?”

  He laughs. “I knew this conversation was going to get a bit sticky. Tell me what you saw both times.”

  “Okay.” I clear my throat and shift in my seat. Then I tell him what I experienced that night—the mugging, the vortex, and the attempted mugging repeat. “And then you came out of nowhere and beat up those two guys,” I finish.

  “I didn’t come out of nowhere,” he says indignantly. “I was standing by the church, in the shadows.”

  “Well, that’s very cool and mysterious, but where you were standing isn’t really the point, is it?”

  A smile twists the corner of his lips. “No, it isn’t.”

  “So?”

  He opens his mouth, but it’s a few seconds before he says anything. “When you say that you felt like you were getting sucked into a black hole, did you feel…like you were turning inside-out?”

  “Yes! Like I was imploding.”

  “And was there anything else?” His eyes narrow a fraction. “You mentioned a noise.”

  “Yeah. Like a bunch of vacuums turned on at the same time.”

  “Huh.” He licks his lips. “And just before the scene started over, did anything else happen?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking. “A flash of light. Blinding, as if a giant flashbulb went off in my face.”

  When I look at him again, he’s staring at me with a mixture of fear and intrigue in his eyes. “It’s true, then. You really can feel it.”

  “Oh, I felt it. Whatever it is.”

  He stares at the space in front of him, twisting his watch around his wrist. Then he nods. “All right, look. I’m going to talk low and fast, so you gotta keep up, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Go.”

  He props his elbows on the table. I keep my eyes pinned on his so I won’t miss a word.

  “What you experienced on the heath that first night, and again last night when you were attacked, is called the Pull. There are only a few people in the world who are capable of Pulling, and I’m one of them.”

  I blink at him. I’ve heard the phrase before, but not like that. English guys talk a lot about being “on the pull” and “pulling a bird”—both of which mean hooking up with someone.

  “Pulling, huh?” I lift my eyebrows suggestively. “Funny, I didn’t notice anyone trying to make out with anyone else during either of those fights.”

  He laughs. “No, it has nothing to do with kissing, although the name does lend itself to jokes here and there.”

  “No kissing.” I heave an exaggerated sigh. “Too bad.

  What is it, then?”

  He leans back, still grinning. “Basically, I can rewind time and replay a scene that’s just happened. If I want to change something, I change it. That’s what you felt when you thought you were getting sucked into a black hole— me rewinding the scenario.”

  I stare at him, feeling numb. All the jokes I was making up in my head about the term “Pulling” have evaporated.

  “Please say something,” he says.

  I sort through the jumble of words in my head, hoping to find at least a few that make sense. “What do you mean, you can rewind time?”

  He shrugs. “There’s really no other way to say it.”

  “How far back can you go? Days? Weeks?”

  “Only a few minutes at a time, and I can only do it every few hours. It requires a huge amount of energy and focus.” He glances at the table next to us. A couple more girls have walked in and are draping their jackets over the chair backs.

  “So it’s like you’re time traveling?” I ask.

  He wrinkles his nose. “Sort of, only I’m not going anywhere. I’m pulling time back into itself, if that makes sense. Everybody time travels. Everything goes back. Not just me.”

  I blink at him. “Everyone? As in, everyone in the whole world?”

  “Everyone. But most of them have no idea anything happened. A handful of people, if they’re near the spot where the Pull originated, might have a sense of déjà vu. But you’re the first non-Servator I’ve ever met who feels what we feel.” He pauses. “The first any of us has met, actually. We didn’t think people like you existed.”

  My mind latches onto the one word in his speech that didn’t compute. “Servator? What’s that?”

  “It’s a name for people like us,” he says in a low voice. “People started using it sometime in the Middle Ages.”

  “So it’s a relatively new thing.”

  He grins. “Do you always make jokes when you’re uncomfortable?”

  “Yes.” I cover my face with my hands. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. It’s a lot to take in. Frankly, I’m shocked you’re still sitting here.”

  “Me too.” I sip my Coke. “Who’s ‘us?’”

  He frowns. “Sorry?”

  “You said I’m the first non-Servator any of ‘us’ has met that can feel the Pull.” The word “Servator” strikes me in the same way the word “Mortiferi” did at the hospital— meaningless, yet somehow intriguing.

  “Ah, right. ‘Us’ would be me, my twin sister Casey, and my two mates, Dan and Isaac. Dan thinks he’s the world’s greatest comedian; Isaac tries to kill people by staring holes through their heads. You remember Isaac from the park, I’m sure,” he goes on. “Charming bloke, really warm and friendly.”

  I smirk at him. “Be honest. He cares for stray kittens in his spare time, doesn’t he?”

  Albert’s head tips back as he barks out a laugh, and I like the way his eyes come alive in the moment, like he’s been holding back until now. It feels good to make somebody laugh. Nobody in Nana’s house so much as cracks a smile these days.

  “Kittens,” he echoes. “Not sure I’d trust him to keep anything alive, honestly. Casey, maybe, unless it did something to annoy her. But not Isaac.”

  “Is it just the four of you?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “There are others out there. We’re the only ones in London, but there are more in Paris, Madrid, Dublin…nearly every major city in the world. But—” he grabs the napkin next to his arm and folds it in half, then in half again “—there are only a couple thousand of us worldwide.”

  He matches the edges of the napkin with precise movements, folding until there’s no more room to fold. Then he flicks the square toward the wall and laces his fingers together. This little ritual would probably tell me something about him if I knew him better, like how Stephen always fiddles with the hem of his shirt when he’s worried.

  But I’m not supposed to be thinking about Stephen.

  “And do you always use the Pull to save someone who’s in trouble?” I ask. “Or can you use it for anything you want?”

  “We can use it for anything we want, but most of us only use it to save a life. I’d be gutted if I Pulled for something stupid, but then needed to save someone a few minutes later and didn’t have the energy.” He sips his drink; it’s more than halfway gone. “And anyway, it’s not wise to Pull unless you absolutely have to. What if I changed too many little things and ended up altering the entire course of a person’s life? Or the entire course of humanity?” He shakes his
head. “It’s a bit risky, tampering with time.”

  “So I would think.”

  His story makes sense with what I’ve experienced twice now. I’ve felt the Pull; I’ve seen it in action. There’s no other explanation. Except that I’ve lost my mind, of course.

  Since Albert obviously operates in a different reality than I do, it’s possible he would have some insight into Papa’s mysterious words to me in the hospital. He may not know how I heard Papa speaking to me inside my mind— if that’s really what happened—but at the very least, I could ask him if he’s ever heard the word “Mortiferi.”

  “Hey,” I say. “Do you know the word—”

  I stop. Albert’s gaze has flown to something over my shoulder. Alarm flashes in his eyes.

  “What?” I start to turn around, but then—

  Gunshots.

  Dozens of them. Hundreds. Shattering the air like missiles. Screams explode from the girls next to us, from the group of guys recapping the soccer match, from my own throat.

  Albert shouts, “Get down!”

  I scramble to escape my chair. I can’t make my arms or legs function properly. One of the girls at the next table hits the floor. I see the hole in her chest, watch the blood puddle around her and seep into the cracks between wooden planks—but I don’t understand it.

  I’m frozen in place. Paralyzed. And I’m only halfway out of my chair.

  Hands on my shoulders. Albert’s voice in my ear, shouting at me to get down. He shoves me under the table. I huddle against the wall, curled up on my knees with my forehead pressed into the floor. My hands grip my skull as if they can stop a bullet. I have no protection other than this table.

  I peer up at Albert. He’s staring at his watch.

  Boots come into view through the chair legs. Black, leather, covered in dust. The old men are tangled in a heap, arms and legs flung into unnatural angles. The faces of several of the younger guys stare blankly at the floor or ceiling or wall. Some of them are still alive, hunkered under tables like we are. How long do we have left? A minute? Twenty seconds?