Ren Series Boxed Set

by Sarah Noffke

  Pops nods again. “Did you get yourself put in prison with your scamming? Is that where you’ve been?”

  I laugh suddenly, making him startle. “Oh heavens no. You know no prison could ever hold me. I’d get myself out of there before they locked the bars. Where I’ve been was like a prison, but I stayed there willingly. I made some enemies and had to hide,” I say.

  “And your enemies…?”

  “They’re gone now,” I say, enjoying every time I get to say that, to know it’s true. “How have you been?” I ask.

  My father tilts his head side to side. “Mostly good. Had some hard years after your mum passed. But the town has been there for me.”

  “Good,” I say. “Anything new?”

  He stares around the house, like the answer is written on the ancient furnishings. “Not really. Not that I can think of.”

  We’re silent for a bit. It’s strange that we’ve lost so much familiarity after all these years. “I’m back for good,” I finally say.

  His face now brightens, breaking into a relieved smile. “I wondered the question, but didn’t know if I should have such hopes.”

  I almost smile. “I’ll be in London, but I’d like to stop over on the weekends. Would that be all right?”

  He slaps his knee and lets out a soft chuckle. “Of course, son. Nothing I’d like more. Nothing on this earth.”

  I do smile now. A small one.

  Then Pops’ expression drops, a sudden look of concern. “So are you going to go back to gambling and scamming?” Pops asks.

  “Oh, hell no. I’m going to do something way more repulsive,” I say, and watch as his face morphs through different expressions. “I’ve decided to get a real job.”

  He nods in acceptance. “I think you’ll enjoy that. There’s something honest in working. In giving back to society.”

  I want to tell him that over the last eighteen years I worked in a job where I literally saved millions of lives. Instead I say, “Pops, I get why you chose to live such a simple life. I appreciate it now.”

  He blinks at me in surprise.

  I continue, “I’ve decided to take a page out of your book. What I’ve been doing hasn’t worked. My powers have only ever gotten me in trouble. I’ve decided that it would be best for everyone if I didn’t use my gifts anymore. No more scams. No more mind control. No more hypnosis.”

  He tilts his head like he’s trying to regard me from a new angle. “Whatever happened to you to make you leave, it really changed you, didn’t it?”

  “It did,” I agreed. “But also, since I’ve been using my powers nothing has actually ever changed for me. I’ve always felt my life was wrong, like I was a mistake. That’s why I’ve decided to not use them anymore.”

  “Well, powers or no powers, I love you, son. No length of time has changed that, and nothing you could do would either.”

  I blink back a wave of emotion. I’m certain that can’t be true, but I’m not challenging my father on it. I’ve done many things that would change the way he feels about me, but those are my secrets to keep, not his to shoulder.

  We talk easily for a long hour. I find there isn’t much to say. There are so many things I can’t tell him and so many things I don’t want to. And my pops has lived such a simple life that his stories run out fairly quickly. When it’s time for me to leave I make for the front door.

  “Aren’t you going to dream travel to the GAD-C in London?” Pops says, giving me a look of confusion. “You have to take the train here, but you always dream travel back.”

  I shake my head. “I wasn’t joking when I told you I’m changing, Pops,” I said, sliding my hands into my khaki pants. “I don’t plan to use any of my gifts anymore and that includes dream traveling.”

  “Are you sure you want to go to that extreme, son? Dream travel isn’t the power that corrupts you.”

  “Corrupts is a strong word,” I say, pretending to be offended.

  Pops sees through it immediately. “Oh, you know what I mean. I just don’t want you to deprive yourself too much or make too many radical changes.”

  “Change is what I need,” I say. I don’t know how to reply to the part about depriving myself. I’m doing this all because I think I need to. Because nothing else has ever worked to kill the monster in me. But if I’m honest with myself, then no, I don’t really want to give up my powers. But addicts don’t want to give up drugs either, and yet they must to be healthy.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The office is cramped and smells of old food, like the way a lunch box starts to get that odor about it after a while. Across the desk from me sits an overweight bloke who’s sweating profusely. He introduced himself as Arnold or Johnny or Pete. I wasn’t really listening. His fat fingers flip through my application, which took me a whole minute to complete. With a look of surprise he drops the papers on the desk.

  “Mr. Lewis, the employment history here is blank,” the fat man says. “Did you forget to complete it?”

  “I never forget anything,” I say, leaning back in my chair and crossing my ankle over my knee. “It is blank because I don’t have any employment history.”

  He splays his stumpy hands on the surface of the desk and leans forward. “You’re telling me you’ve never had a job? Not one?”

  I catch myself before I roll my eyes. People are so bloody stupid. I hate having to repeat myself. “That’s right. Zero employment history.”

  “What have you been doing since you graduated from school?” He squints at the paper, checking it. “Over twenty-eight years ago?”

  “Would you believe I’ve been watching the telly and playing video games on my pops’ couch?”

  He eyes me, his forehead wrinkling. This guy has awful skin. “You don’t look like the video game type.”

  I can’t tell this chap that I worked as the Head Strategist for a secret society so maybe he’ll believe this one. “Truth is I can’t provide references because I’m a rich kid who’s traveled the world on my pops’ dime. He’s just kicked the bucket and wouldn’t you know he didn’t leave me a single quid. Apparently he waited till he was dead to teach me a lesson. He was always a bit soft with me. You know, the enabling type,” I say.

  “Didn’t you make contacts with your wealthy and prestigious friends? Can’t you get a better job than this?” the man asks, studying my button down shirt, which is untucked, making me feel half naked.

  “’Fraid not. My pops gave strict orders in his will to all his shareholders. He wants me to make my own way, so here I am,” I say.

  “Well, I have to warn you the job is fairly boring. I’m not sure a bloke with worldly experiences such as you will be happy doing a job like this. The automatic ticket machines have made it so people don’t use booths to buy their travelcards,” Arnold or Pete or Johnny says.

  “I’m not the happy type, so don’t worry about my morale. I want the job and I can do it, I promise you,” I say firmly. In the past there would have been no conversation. I would have made the chap give me the job before the interview even started. But I’m going to land this opportunity the old-fashioned way.

  “I’m just questioning whether it’s the right fit for you. I have other positions that are more challenging. Ones where you can use your mind more,” he says, running his forearm across his forehead, mopping up sweat.

  “I’d prefer to use my mind as little as possible,” I say. I’ve found the perfect job. A clerk in the Underground selling passes. Their booths don’t get much traffic thanks to the automatic machines. And the job is straightforward. But best of all there is bulletproof glass between me and the public. This is more for their safety than mine. I’m pretty certain I’m going to be bombarded by frustratingly stupid questions every hour. The glass will protect the question asker’s fragile little neck from being wrung. I won’t have the misfortune of accidently touching anyone. It’s the perfect position for me. All that I aspire to after holding one of the most powerful positions in the world is to be a
ticketing agent in the Underground.

  “Okay, well, I suspect you can do the job,” Mr. No-Name says. “I’ll give you a shot. I like the idea of giving someone their first job.”

  “What you’re giving me is a second chance,” I say my mind on my mum and her last bit of advice to me.

  ***

  I started work the following week. As my supervisor had warned it was mind-numbing work. Most people preferred the automated machines. But tourists with bad English and fucked up senses of direction loved nothing more than to buy their passes from a real person. I often gave them wrong information to their daft questions and sold them the wrong travel pass. I wasn’t really hurting anyone and it was keeping me sane. A handful of times I berated a snotty teenager for their ridiculous nose ring or awful choice of hair dye. Why anyone with a regular shade of hair wanted to change it to something abnormal was illogical to me. I told them this. Complaints were lodged. I was given warnings. It was all very boring.

  In my first week on the job I’d trained most of the regulars to steer clear of my booth. Even if there was a major queue at the machines, people would endure it if they didn’t have to suffer my wrath. Tourists still bothered me. But they had such poor English that half the time they hardly knew I was insulting them. And I hadn’t used my gifts in over two weeks. This for me confirmed that my bad attitude was permanent, but that didn’t mean that the cloud of doom that hung over my thoughts wasn’t going to dissipate with time. And even if it didn’t, I didn’t trust myself in the “real world” using my gifts. Inside the Institute had been safe, but out here where there were opportunities to deceive and no Trey Underwood to keep me in check I needed to be careful. It was all a slippery slope and I knew I was one scam away from falling into the monster’s mouth again and becoming despicable once more. Then I’d find a new devil and be back atoning for my sins.

  I’m sitting in my booth reading when a woman’s voice disturbs me. I’d actually made it a complete hour without interruption.

  “Can I get a five-day travelcard for zones one and two?” she asks, rummaging through a bag.

  “Use the automated machine,” I say, not looking away from my book.

  “But there’s a ridiculously long queue,” the woman says. She’s a local. They should know better than to bother me. I had a reputation with them. They warned their other local friends about me. The guy who took over my shift was usually bombarded. I was really proud of the strides I’d made in such a short time.

  I lower my book, giving her a cold stare. “Are you allergic to lines? Can you not wait like everyone else?” I say.

  “I was under the impression ticketing booths still sold tickets, what a daft notion,” she says. She has short curly hair and kind of resembles an elfish woman with her willowy build and pointed features. There is a spark of mischief in her brown eyes.

  I lay my book down completely with a long sigh. “What do you want?”

  “Can I get a five-day travelcard for zones one and two?” she repeats.

  “You can,” I say and then sit frozen regarding her with a nasty look.

  She grunts in frustration. “Will you please sell me one?”

  “That will be forty-three quid,” I say, taking her money and handing her a ticket from the dispenser.

  I pick up my book a second after I’ve chucked the travelcard through the receiving drawer.

  “What are you reading?” The woman’s nasally voice echoes through the speaker.

  Obviously she isn’t in too much of a hurry to wait in a queue if she has the time to ask me irritating questions. “A book,” I say, not lowering it.

  “What’s it about?” the elfish woman asks.

  “People,” I say flatly.

  “Are you enjoying it?” the woman says, not reading any of my nonverbal cues.

  I slam the book on the countertop, earning a startled expression from the woman. “Do I look like a fucking librarian? Do I look like the kind of bloke who has a blog about my favorite books? Do I look like I make incessant book recommendations on Goodreads? Or do I look like I want to be left the bloody hell alone?”

  “No, you look—”

  A disturbance twenty feet down on the platform interrupts the lady. An old woman is yelling. Her hands are flying around. “Thief! That man just stole my bag.”

  I just then make out a guy barreling through people, pushing them to the side without concern as he sprints for the stairs next to my booth. They’ll take him up to the street where he’ll be lost in a sea of people. With an irritated sigh, I pick up my book and try to find where I left off.

  “Aren’t you going to do something?” the elf-lady says, her voice rising in panic.

  Without lowering the book I say, “About what?”

  “That thief,” she yells, beating against the glass.

  I nod, a consoling look on my face, although my gaze is still pinned on the pages of my book. “I am doing something. I’m ignoring it.”

  “Call security,” the woman says, swiveling her head over her shoulder as the thief passes by in a sprint. I spy real fear in her eyes when I flick my gaze up for a second.

  “Why don’t you?” I say, still searching for my last place in the book.

  “I don’t have my mobile,” she says, watching the stairs which the thief has probably cleared by now. “You have a phone with direct access to Underground security.”

  I lower the book yet again. “Look, Tinker Bell, it’s not going to make a lick of difference if I call anyone. They can’t get here in time. They can’t do anything about it and the thief is already scot-free at this point.”

  “Because of you,” she says, with a menacing stare.

  “Well, I didn’t see you tackling him on his way through here. You actually flattened yourself to my booth to avoid a confrontation,” I say.

  “How did you see anything with your nose glued in your book?”

  “Do you need a travelcard?” I say plainly.

  She bristles, obviously confused by the sudden question. “No, you already sold me one.”

  “Do you need Underground information?” I say.

  “No.”

  “Well, then may I recommend that you move along since you’re currently blocking other patrons from receiving my excellent customer service,” I say.

  She throws her arm out. “There’s no one else in line.”

  “Probably because you’re making such a scene and they don’t dare come over here. So would you please get on the tube and travel to whatever brothel you belong to,” I say.

  The woman doesn’t give me the punishing look I deserve, which slightly deflates my spirits. I worked hard for that one. Instead she studies me, a strange look in her wise eyes. I don’t like the way this one looks at me. I don’t like a lot of things about her. Finally she blows out a frustrated breath and turns and marches off with her fists clenched at her side.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Undoubtedly parts of London have changed. Technology has reared its evil head and taken over the city more than I’d like. But London is also a city that holds onto its history and preserves places rather than tearing them down. For me that means that my old pub, down the street from my flat, still has its doors open. The interior has hardly been updated, which most would find a bit unpleasing since springs are threatening to poke out of the cushions in the booth seats. But I’m not one of those people. I’m as grateful that this place hasn’t changed as I am that my pops still has the same residence. I had the evening meal here at this pub almost every night I was in London. For almost ten years I patronized this place. I didn’t know any of the other regulars. And I never picked up a woman in this pub. I always considered it bad form to scam in places I wanted to frequent regularly.

  “Have you come to harass me some more?” I hear a nasally woman say as a cocktail napkin is tossed on my table.

  I yank my eyes away from my book to find my waitress is none other than the elfish-disaster-of-a-woman from the Underground that a
fternoon. Without the glass to protect her she should watch her mouth. She doesn’t know that and she’s probably going to get on my case regarding not calling security about the thief.

  I take the napkin and skip it forward off the table to where it lands on the dirty floor. The woman notices and narrows her eyes at me. “Someone is going to have to pick that up.”

  “That someone will probably be you,” I say. “And if I remember correctly, you were the one harassing me today while I was trying to serve the public.” I pause and arch an eyebrow at the woman. She’s isn’t pretty or ugly. She just is. She’s odd in her features and then also completely uninteresting. Short brown hair. Small brown eyes. A little tall, but nothing to write home about.

  “What will you have?” she says, pulling a small notepad from her apron, along with a pen.

  “Note that I’m not going to be a drain on your time and attention while you try and complete your duties. I’m simply going to move along when my order has been satisfied, as you should have done today.”

  “What will you have?” the woman repeats.

  “I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement,” I say. “And also I’m grateful that you don’t purchase travelcards with the wages you make working in brothels. You don’t also work in a brothel, do you?” I then lean forward, appearing curious.

  “What will you have?” The woman now sounds on edge.

  I release a small smile. Good to know I can still get under the hardest of skins. “I’ll have a cup of Earl Grey and the fish and chips.”

  Without writing down a bloody word the woman turns and trots off. “Make it snappy,” I say, realizing she’s already on edge after two altercations with me.

  Seven minutes later, three minutes longer than it should have taken, the waitress hands me a cup of tea. It looks like it was about to rush out of her hands so I help her with it. I’m afraid it’s about to spill down my front, as I’m sure she intended. Unfortunately, the mishap causes our hands to brush and I immediately sense her thoughts. It’s the only gift of mine I can’t shut down. All I can do is hope to never touch anyone and therefore not be punished by their repugnant thoughts. From the waitress I hear her think, This guy really needs a friend.