by Amy Cross
"Abigail?" Benjamin asks, and the image fades.
"What?" I ask.
He eyes me suspiciously. "Are you okay?"
I nod, trying not to let him see that something's wrong. "I'm fine," I say. It's weird, but I feel like I'm experiencing someone else's memories.
"Patrick is incapable of love," Benjamin continues. "In all the years I've studied him, admittedly from afar, I've never seen any indication of an emotion that comes close to love." He pauses for a moment. "He needs things. Sometimes those things are people, but that doesn't mean he loves them." He sighs. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't say things like this to you. If you take a look at that book, it should fill you in on the history of the vampires. If you have any questions -"
"Does he love me?" I ask, interrupting him.
He pauses for a moment. "Love is a human construct. It doesn't apply to creatures such as Patrick. He needs you, just as he needed your mother. But love? No. He's incapable of love. Don't blame yourself. He can't love anyone. Don't make the same mistake your mother made. She trusted him. She fell in love with him, and she believed he reciprocated that feeling. It was this error that led to her death. She was romantic and naive."
"How did she die?" I ask, feeling as if there's a lump in my throat. I'm scared of the answer he might give me, but at the same time I feel that I have to know.
"Learn about the vampires first," he says, turning and heading to the door. "When you understand their history, you can start to understand where you fit into the story."
"So you won't tell me?" I say.
"As I indicated," he replies, "the answers are in the books. It's best that you read the history of the vampires first, so that you understand everything. In order to understand what you are, you must first understand where you come from."
"Am I a vampire?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I wish I could give you an easy answer. You're something new, something born of a union between two different species. As far as I know, nothing like this has ever happened before. We'll have to wait and see what happens as you develop." He smiles. "We have an excellent archivist who can help you find the answer to any question you might have. I have to go and check on some things, but I'll make sure Constance comes and introduces herself to you."
I take a deep breath. "Do you know where Shelley is?" I ask. I've been wanting to speak to her, to ask her about my parents and about the past, but she seems to have disappeared.
"I think she went out for a few hours," he replies. "I'm sure she'll be back soon. Don't worry. You have everything you need right here."
"Great," I say with a sigh, as he leaves. Looking through the book, I find that it seems to be some kind of long, drawn out history book that goes into great detail about events that occurred hundreds of years ago. There's mention of loads of names and places and things that mean absolutely nothing to me. Picking a page at random, I try reading a passage out loud:
"When Gothos chose his new homeland, he commanded his slaves to build a grand palace. It took them nearly a century, but finally the work was complete. Finally, Gothos named this great building after himself, and it is here that he was buried when his long life eventually came to an end."
I flick forward a few pages:
"Cassandra's heart was prized by all the children. They kept it on display, and from time to time they taunted her with it. She never failed to be moved to tears, nor to try to snatch it back, but the children were too cruel to let her go so easily."
Closing the book, I stare across the room at the many shelves that contain other volumes. It's kind of daunting to think that I've got so much to learn. At the same time, I feel as if I'm never going to learn about myself by reading dusty old history books. It's almost as if Benjamin is trying to shut me up, to distract me by encouraging me to spend my time reading. As time goes by, I'm starting to have more and more doubts about whether I can truly trust that guy.
Walking over to the shelves, I slide the book back into place. What I really want to be doing right now is coming up with a plan for how to get Patrick free. Sure, that might be the worst idea in the world, but I can't accept that my father is some kind of monster who needs to be kept in this place. If my mother loved him, there must be a good side to him. I don't want to learn about myself by reading books; I want to learn about myself by spending time with my father and talking to him, and getting to know the limits of my own existence. Anything else is just marking time.
"You must be Abby," says a voice nearby. I turn to find a woman standing by the door. She's young, maybe in her early twenties, and tall, with blonde hair curled tightly into a bun on the back of her head. She walks towards me. "My name's Constance. I'm the librarian here. My job is to handle the archives for the Watchers, but Benjamin has told me to help you with any questions you might have. It must be a little overwhelming to see all these books, and not to know where to start."
"I'm not sure I need a book," I reply. "I need to speak to my father." An image flashes into my mind: I'm in an old house, like some kind of country mansion from hundreds of years ago, and there's a woman staring at me. She's wearing old-fashioned clothes.
"Let me show you something," Constance says, and the image dissipates. She walks over to another of the shelves and pulls out a large book. "Everything you need to know is in here," she tells me. "The Watchers have kept detailed records for hundreds and hundreds of years. There are no mysteries. At least, not if you know where to look for the answers you need." She places the book on a table over by the wall. "What do you want, Abby? Whatever you need to know, it's all in here."
"That's exactly what Benjamin said," I tell her, feeling as if she's been primed to come in here and reinforce his message. I'm definitely being encouraged to spend my time in this part of the facility, reading, which makes me want to do the exact opposite. It's almost as if Benjamin wants to put me on a shelf, so he can come and get me later when he needs me. Figuring I might as well pretend to be interested, I decide to see if I can find a book that will give me some basic ideas. "What's a Tenderling?" I ask, figuring I might as well begin with something I've at least seen.
"I have just the book for you," she says, walking to another shelf and pulling out a large, dusty tome. "This is the complete history of the Tenderlings, as collated by generations of Watchers." She smiles as she hands me the book. "Why do you want to know about them?"
"I saw some," I tell her.
"Where?"
"At a diner." I put the book on the table. "Loads of them."
"You must be mistaken," she says. "Tenderlings hate one another. If two of them met, they'd rip each other apart."
"That's what Todd said," I tell her, "but they were swarming all over the place. It was like they were working together."
Constance stares at me for a moment. "Things must be changing," she says. "I suppose it's only to be expected as we move into the Age of Chaos." She turns to the books, with a worried look on her face. "A lot of the archive will have to be rewritten. Perhaps I'll need an assistant." She glances at me. "Are you interested in a part-time job?"
"Not really," I say. Opening the book, I find it contains lots of illustrations that show the little red creatures that attacked the diner. "You should digitize everything," I tell her. "It'd make it easier to add changes."
"Maybe that's something you can help me with," she replies.
I shrug. The thought of hanging around here long enough to help with a big project doesn't really get my blood pumping. Still, leafing through this book about Tenderlings is kind of fascinating. It's hard to believe that these creatures could exist without being noticed by the 'regular' world. I can't imagine how the destruction of the diner got reported by the local news, but I suppose they came up with some kind of explanation. If only people knew the truth.
"I mean it," Constance says as she turns to leave. "I could use some help around here. I've got a new spider husk to catalog, and it's not an easy job. If you change your mind and you want to keep busy
, just come and find me."
As soon as she's gone, I close the book. I feel like every second I spend here, I'm getting dragged deeper into their world and I'll find it harder to leave. I have to go and free Patrick so that he can take me away and help me learn the truth about myself. Maybe setting him loose is a bad idea, but he's my father and he's in pain, and I want to talk to him. Something tells me that Benjamin and his pals are going to keep Patrick confined for as long as possible, and I don't think they're being entirely straight with me. I can't really explain it, but I have this overwhelming desire to help my father. It's almost as if he reached into my mind and showed me where my loyalties should be directed. All my life, I've struggled to fit in. Finally, I've found someone who might understand me, and I'm not going to let anyone keep me from him. I'm going to find a way to get him out of here.
Shelley
Dedston, Today.
It's getting late, and I should be going back to the facility so I can see how Abby's doing. She's going through a lot, and she must have so many questions. Still, I guess I can always talk to her tomorrow, and right now she can spend some time with 'uncle' Todd. Tonight, I really need a drink, so I'm sitting here in a bar in downtown Dedston, staring into a pint of beer and drowning my sorrows. There's a part of me that wants to just get the hell out of this place and forget all about the past, but I know I have to stay. I have to help Abby, and I will. I promise. I'll start tomorrow.
"Why not today?" I imagine Sophie saying. All day, I've been having imaginary conversations with her in my head.
"She's fine," I imagine myself replying.
"She's not fine," she replies. "You can't trust those people. You've seen what they're doing to Patrick. They'll do the same thing to Abby."
"They won't," I imagine myself saying. "It's different. You know what Patrick's like. They can't trust him. You trusted him, and look how that worked out."
"Patrick would never hurt Abby," she continues. "He'd hurt everyone else, but never her."
"I'm not so sure," I reply. "Maybe Benjamin's right when he says that Patrick's out of control. Maybe Patrick's lost his mind." I sigh. "Maybe I've lost my mind. After all, you're not really here, are you? You're just part of my imagination."
Suddenly I smell something really foul, and I feel someone bump into my shoulder.
"Hey, good looking," says an old drunk guy. "You want some company?"
I shake my head.
He stares at me for a moment. "I remember you," he says eventually. "You used to hang out here as a kid."
"That's right," I say with a heavy heart.
"What was your name again? We used to call you Jackson."
"Lovely."
"You know why we called you that?" He laughs. "It was 'cause you'd do anything for a twenty dollar bill." He leans in closer, and I'm almost overcome by the stench of alcohol, cigarettes and body odor. "I don't suppose you're still in the same business, are you?" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out some notes. "I've got two tens."
"No thanks," I say, almost gagging as I get a whiff of his gross breath. "I've retired."
"Come on," he continues, clearly not getting the message. "One for the road?"
"Leave her alone," says another voice. A familiar voice. The drunk guy turns and shuffles away, and as I stare at my glass, I hear someone else sitting next to me. I turn and smile as I see Dave.
"Was that guy bothering you?" he asks.
"I didn't think you'd show up," I reply.
"Of course I showed up," he says. It's been sixteen years since the last time I saw him, and he's aged more than I expected. He looks like an old, tatty man now, with most of the hair gone from his head. He's only got a few teeth left and he looks ill, with several layers of bags under his eyes, and wrinkly, slightly yellow skin. I can't help wondering if he's got some form of liver disease. "I got your message," he continues. "Why wouldn't I come?"
"You want a drink?" I signal for the barman to bring us two more beers.
"So how've you been?" he says. "You look good."
"I'm fine," I say. "I mean, I've been in New York, sort of working in design and fashion. Nothing major, but enough to pay the rent." I smile. "It's pretty cool there, you know?"
He starts to laugh, but ends up coughing. "Actually, I don't know," he says eventually. "I've never fucking left Dedston in my life."
"Well there's your first mistake," I say as the beers are brought over. I hand the barman some cash. "You've got to get out and see the world, Dave. There's more to life than this stinking old place. Have you seriously just spent the last sixteen years hanging out in this shit-hole?"
He shrugs. "It's not so bad."
"You could have done more," I say. "What happened to that band you were in?"
"Too late now," he replies. "I'm an old man." He smiles, flashing me his gap-toothed grin. "I've got..." He pauses for a moment. "I've got lung cancer anyway, so I can't really go too far, you know?"
I take a sip of my beer, making sure to show no sign of emotion. "How long?" I ask.
"How long have I had it?" He smiles. "Found out about a year ago."
"And how long have you got left?"
"No idea. I take it as it comes. I was getting treatment, but I couldn't really afford the good stuff and it was just making me feel worse, so I decided to come off and let God decide my fate."
"Are you serious?" I ask, shocked that he's just sitting here, waiting to die. "How much is the treatment?"
"A lot more than my insurance could ever cover," he says. "Don't worry. I'm fine. I'm not scared. If this is how it's gonna be, then this is how it's gonna be. I don't wanna spend my last years hooked up to machines. I'd rather have a good final year, rather than five years of feeling like shit."
"But you've never -" I pause for a moment. The truth is, his life has been terrible. He's never left this crumby town, and he's never really done anything of note. When he dies, no-one's gonna really care too much and it'll be like he was never here. A whole life, lived in such a way as to make it completely pointless. "Fuck," I say under my breath. "You never even smoked."
He smiles, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a packet of cigarettes. "I started after I was diagnosed. I figured, fuck it, I might as well have some fun, you know?"
I reach into my pocket and pull out my last packet. There's no way I can carry on smoking now, so I slide them over to him. "Enjoy," I say.
"You want to finish me off?" he asks as he takes them and puts them in his pocket. He smiles. "So why'd you stay away so long, Shelley? I kept thinking you'd show up, but you never did."
"I wanted to get away from Dedston," I tell him. "I didn't want to be around here."
"I figured," he says, taking a sip from his beer. "I heard about your friend Sophie. It was in the paper years ago. Did they ever catch the guy who killed her?"
"Not really," I say, figuring it'd be too complicated to explain the vampire nailed to a wall a few miles out of town.
"Fucking tragedy," he replies. "She was a nice girl. I remember when I used to see you and her playing in the park when you were kids. You were, like, best friends."
I smile, remembering what it was like when Sophie and I were children. We were inseparable, spending all day together. Later, there were times when we didn't see each other so much and we drifted apart, but in high school we came back together and we were a good fit. If she'd lived, we'd have been friends forever, I'm certain of that. We were a great team, and I miss her every single day.
"You got a man in your life?" he asks, interrupting my train of thought.
"No chance," I say with a smile. "I mean, there have been men, but nothing..." My voice trails off. "Nothing serious, you know?"
"Kids?"
I shake my head.
"Never wanted any?"
I take a deep breath. "Couldn't have them, actually," I say. Damn it, why am I telling him this stuff? I hate getting personal with people. "I got pregnant a few times," I continue, "but it always sel
f-destructed. I had tests. The chances of me ever having kids are small. Something about a misaligned womb or some medical bullshit I didn't really understand." I think about Abby, and I realize it's probably a very good thing that I never managed to have children of my own. I'd be a terrible parent. Not as bad as Patrick, maybe, but still terrible. Sophie would have been a good mother if she'd lived, though. Damn it, she'd have been brilliant. "I've got to go," I say suddenly, realizing that I have to check on Abby. Besides, these friendly, heart-to-heart conversations have never really been my kind of thing, especially not with Dave.
"You off so soon?" he asks.
"Sorry," I say, standing up. I push my half-empty beer over to him. "I'm a busy girl these days, Dad. You can have the rest of this if you want."
He nods. "Got a hug for the old man before you go?"
I pause for a moment. I don't want to hug him. To be honest, he disgusts me and I'd rather not touch him at all, but I figure I owe him something, so I give him a quick hug.
"Look after yourself," he says.
"You too, Dad," I tell him.
I turn to walk away, but he grabs my arm. "You not gonna ask about your Mom?" he says.
I take a deep breath. "No," I reply, pulling my arm free.
"Your uncle Joseph died," he says.
I feel my chest tighten, as if someone just whacked me with a hammer. "Good," I say.
He smiles. "I figured you'd say that. Shelley -"
"Seeya around," I say, interrupting him. With that, I walk out of the bar, out into the cool night air. It's weird, but when I was a kid I felt like I belonged in seedy bars like this, and I thought I'd still feel at home here after all these years. But something's changed in me. Looking over at the curb, I imagine Sophie standing there.
"I need you to go and make sure Abby's okay," she says.
