by Karen Hayes
I jump out of the van and make a dash for my car. I don't give a damn about talking to my father anymore. Could those three thugs have something to do with the dead guy I found in the lane?
I dive into my car and fumble with the ignition. The engine springs to life. The street fills with voices; doors begin to slam, anxious faces peering through the windows.
By the time I pull out, two of the men have already climbed out of the Ford and are running after me. Both are huge - at least as big as I am - and thick-set. One of them raises his gun.
I leave the street and my father's house behind me, desperate to get lost in the traffic. I drive past mirrored shop windows, past the steady flow of passersby, past neon signs and traffic lights. I have too much to take in.
The house. My father. My mother - she was killed, wasn't she? Who might have done it and when? Why? And now this ambush. What the hell is going on?
What I need is an Internet access. I need to look up a few things.
Chapter Three
Sarah
I DON'T DARE breathe. The footsteps in the corridor are heavy and unhurried. The floorboards creak dangerously close to the bathroom door.
I rack my brains for some kind of weapon. A hairspray, a sink plunger, a toilet brush... oh great. How am I supposed to fight back? I feel like a cornered rat: all I can do is shiver and wait to be caught.
The footsteps are close. I break out in a cold sweat. Please, please don't open the bathroom door, whoever you are! You're not here to use the toilet, are you? It's not why you broke in. There's nobody inside, can't you see? The light isn't even on! Okay?
A floorboard creaks opposite the door.
I freeze. My teeth clench on the chewing gum, preventing me from screaming. I breathe in shallow gasps. Shivers run down my spine.
I wait.
The footsteps resume. The man continues down the corridor. Now I need to wait for him to enter a room and get the hell out of here. I have to take the risk. I don't want them to find me.
Noiselessly I slide the backpack straps over my shoulders. My hand closes around the door handle. When the footsteps begin to distance, I open the door ajar and take a peek.
A tall woman is standing in the doorway of my room with her back to me. Do I know her? Short blond hair, broad shoulders, large hands - that's the burly nurse from the hospital. So she's tracked me down, after all.
Mechanically she clenches and unclenches her right fist as if stretching her fingers for a punch. She steps into the room and disappears from sight.
Now.
I slide out of the bathroom on tiptoe and very nearly stumble over Rose's body. She's lying on her back with her arms spread wide. Her hair covers her face, concealing it. A pool of blood is spreading around her head, drenching her red hair. The smell of blood feels sticky on my skin.
I force my gaze away from the blood. I can hear the woman walking in my room, opening drawers. Quietly I step over Rose's legs and steal out of the apartment.
I scurry along the landing, trying not to make too much noise; then I throw caution to the wind and scramble down the stairs, blind and deaf with panic. I shoulder the front door open and rush out onto the street.
It's cold and dark. A streetlight shines me in the eye. I need to call the police. Rose is lying there bleeding! That bitch of a nurse might finish her off! If she hasn't done so already...
I'm torn between the desire to escape and my duty to help. I can't leave it as it is.
I turn a corner and dive into a door under a sign which says, Tam Li's Nail Parlor. The doorbell tinkles softly.
The room is empty. Two rows of tables are crowded with pots and bottles of every imaginable kind of nail polish. Red polish... red like Rose's fingernails... like the blood around her head.
"We're closed!" a petite middle-aged Vietnamese woman is standing in the aisle between the tables with one hand on her hip, the other clenching a mop as if she's about to attack me with it. She's probably the Tam Li from the shop sign.
"There's been a shooting upstairs!" I scream so loud that she recoils. "Someone's got killed! You need to call 911!"
Before she can react, I dart out of the parlor. Luckily, the street is still empty. I run for my life, splashing through pools of rainwater, the backpack slamming my back, the cold air burning my lungs. A minimarket... a parking lot...
Suddenly I realize I'm heading back toward the hospital. Not good. I've got no business there. I need to turn round, and then... no idea.
I keep running until my side is in stitches. I've lost track of all the blocks and streets I've cleared. I'm quite fit, that's for sure. Must be all that ballet training...
I slow down to a walk and cast a quick glance behind me. All I can see is darkness lined by blurred lamplight. A car rattling with loud music crosses the intersection and disappears round the corner, its headlights reflecting off the tarmac. A man with a dog on a leash walks past me. Nothing to set my alarm bells ringing.
I rearrange my jacket, trying to catch my breath. I shouldn't have left Rose alone in that apartment. I walked right over her body as if it were a useless piece of junk. What if she was dying? Then again, what could I do? The burly nurse would have killed me too, as simple as that. My neck still smarts from our earlier encounter.
I pull my hood up, covering my bruised neck. The police and ambulance are probably there already. Let's just hope they don't connect the accident with me. A runaway mental patient attacking her ex-roommate! The nail parlor owner saw my face. Not good. So who is the prime suspect, then? If I were the police, I'd have arrested myself, that's for sure.
I cross a small park and enter a busy street leading to the bridge. The sidewalk is littered with Ben McAllister leaflets. The politician is grinning like a plastic Ken doll in a shop window.
I derive a sick pleasure from stepping on his face. Ben McAllister is probably sitting in some posh restaurant with his posh wife, wearing a posh suit and enjoying a posh meal. He doesn't have to shiver in the night streets like some others do...
What now? I have a phone. There was some charge left in it, too.
I reach into my pocket for the crumpled printout I made in the hospital. I know this number. And the area code. Did Rose say Philadelphia? That's right.
Should I dial it? I have to do something!
I punch the number with numb fingers. The phone is silent at first - why? Did I not pay the bill? Finally, it rings.
As I wait, I reach for more chewing gum. At the moment, it's the only thing that helps me stay calm. A brightly lit shop window illuminates the bald plastic heads of the mannequins. I think about that nutcase in the clinic who spoke to the ceiling lamps in the corridor. If I wasn't so lucky, I could have become someone just like him.
The thought gives me the shivers.
"Yes?" a female voice says in the phone.
I should probably say "Hi Mom," but I can't. The word is wrong. It doesn't feel right.
She's not my mom. I don't have one. This is Grace.
"Hi," I say, my voice hoarse.
"Sarah? Is that you?" she asks, her voice rising to a scream. "I didn't know what to think!"
Funnily, I don't believe her. I always thought her fake, but now it's pretty obvious.
I remember her face: it's tanned and round, her pimpled cheeks pockmarked. A fat bottle blonde. She doesn't look at all like me. Foster parents never do. Still, she's always been posing as a model mother - in the neighbors' eyes at least.
"Wait," I cut her babbling short. "I need help."
"Help? What happened?"
"Someone's trying to kidnap me. I need to get out of the city. Can I come now- oh sorry, bad idea, I know... you think you could send me some money?"
"Sarah, wait. Aren't you in the clinic? The doctor said you'd be there at least for another two weeks."
I very nearly dropped the phone. She knew! They both knew I was there!
"Sarah," she says in a sickly sweet voice, as if trying to make me take some bitt
er medicine. "I know how you feel. You think someone's after you but it's not true. The doctor told me everything about your paranoia. It's probably better if you go back to the hospital. It's only for a few weeks! It's for your own good. Considering your past and your history of anger attacks..."
My past? The sheer thought of it makes my blood boil. I want to smash the phone, the shop window, the mannequins...
I clench my teeth harder, working the gum. Apparently, Grace brings up "my past" every time she wants to get one over on me. She thinks it's my weak spot.
"Where are you now?" she demands.
I hang up.
It was them! They committed me! Can you imagine? They didn't think what was going to happen to me, to my studies, to my dancing dream! I wanted to make it big! I wanted to perform in Radio City! Don't they understand I've been attacked? I very nearly got a shot of some nasty substance! And no one seems to give a damn! The clinic, the police and now my own foster parents - they don't care, do they?
Talking about the police. I glance at the phone in my hand. I need to get rid of it. The cops know how to track these things, don't they?
I scroll through the contacts just to make sure I haven't missed anything... or anyone. Nothing. Can't remember anything. I don't even know where I'm going. I need to do something; I need to lie low for a while but where? Where am I supposed to go?
I feel frozen inside. I can't think straight. I just keep walking as long as my feet can carry me.
I have to come up with a plan. I can't remember any of the other guys from the studio. And even if I did, I don't trust them. Who can you trust when even your own foster parents commit you in broad daylight?
And how about that guy from my vision? Chris, isn't it? I have a funny feeling we're in it together.
Club 116, his message said.
I Google it. No such place. There is an Oshumare Club in a No 116 in the center of Manhattan not far from HK.
The pics take forever to download. Never mind. I've seen the maps.
I switch off the phone and head for the bridge. To my right, subway trains rattle along, their yellow windows a flashing strip in the dark. I give way to a late-night cyclist followed by a couple of tourists hugging their cameras, then walk over to the parapet and slide the phone into the gap between the grill and the safety net. The latter is probably installed against nutcases like myself, to prevent us from jumping off the bridge.
The phone glistens in the floodlights, dropping into the welcoming embrace of the East River. I shove my hands in my pockets and hurry to cross the bridge.
Is it my imagination or is everyone watching me? All eyes seem to be on me: the passersby, the cops in the patrol boat below, even the subway passengers who stare at me through the train windows flashing rapidly past. I just hope the cops didn't see my phone drop.
Soon Manhattan lies before me, its brightly lit towers rising like burning candles in the night sky. The streets are packed with cars and people. Is it Friday today? The city that never sleeps... it's so right, whoever said that.
The city buzz isn't much different from the hum of a full theater house. I smile at the memory. The audience taking their places, dancers warming up, stage hands cussing on the gantry overhead...
I remember the tight fit of a damp leotard, sweat trickling down my spine. The blinding light is hot on my skin; I can't see the audience. Finally, one face comes into focus. A young man's face.
Yes, now I remember. He's in the second row looking at me, hanging on to my every movement. Tonight I'm dancing for him alone. I feel I can take on the world.
The memory escapes me, replaced by disjointed fragments. The grass in the back yard caresses my feet. A dress shirt's starched white cuff and my father's cold, powdered hand in it. The graffiti in the children home's bathroom. How did I get there? I can't remember. I'm not sure I want to.
The river below gives way to squat tall buildings; the bridge turns into a steel-lined sidewalk; English signs are replaced with Chinese symbols. I keep walking through China Town and further on, past apartment blocks and office towers, threading my way along street cafes which turn sidewalks into one-way ant runs.
I'm almost there. Now I need to turn off Broadway into that narrow street crowded with cars and scaffolding...
The crimson haze returns, flooding my eyes.
Chris
I'm back at my father's house. I'm twelve years old. This is my nursery: blue Disney curtains and all.
I'm sitting on the floor leafing through a comic book. Heavy footsteps come running from the corridor. Our maid screams. My mother cries out; my father remonstrates, trying to reason with someone. More footsteps.
I jump up, run to the door and open it a crack, peering out.
Our lounge is full of scary men. Their black shiny heads remind me of monsters from horror movies. They're holding automatics. Not monsters: masked men. Who are they, special forces? FBI? But what would the FBI want with us?
Besides, they're dressed wrong. The strangers are wearing black jackets and blue jeans. They're probably burglars. Scary men, bad men. Five guns and five bad men.
They haven't seen me yet. Three of them are standing in our spacious lounge: one is pointing his gun at our cowering old maid, the other is standing in the middle of the room between my mother who's sitting in her chair and my father in his shirt sleeves who's just looked out of his office.
I can hear my father's subdued voice over the droning TV on the wall. "Chris - run. Run, now."
At first I don't even understand it's my father speaking. He stands frozen in the doorway without even looking at me, the corner of his mouth moving slightly.
I understand. He does it so that the masked men don't hear him.
The one in the middle of the room hears it anyway and turns to me. It's probably their leader.
He's very close to me. A black face, camo fatigues, black gloves, black jacket. He's holding his gun in his left hand. His eyes in the slits of the mask are weird - spooky and cold. Inhuman.
He steps toward me.
"Chris, run!" father screams.
The burglars' leader is almost upon me. I punch him in the stomach.
I'm strong for my age. I can take on a couple of guys from junior high. Okay, I might not win but I can walk away from any scuffle with dignity. My fear, too, adds to my punch. The man doubles up.
My mother lunges at him, screaming, "Run!" Her voice launches me into action.
All hell breaks loose. Our maid screams. One of the thugs punches my father in the face. My mother attacks their leader from behind, pulling at his mask. I don't know what happens next: I shrink back into my room, slam the door and pull the latch shut. Blind with panic, I dash across the room toward the other exit which leads into the dark corridor to the back door of our six-bedroom apartment.
The corridor is empty. I can hear cussing and fighting behind me. As I open the back door, a gunshot resounds through the house.
A short, snappy sound, like an axe hitting a piece of wood. Screaming, I run down the stairs. A door slams open behind me, followed by the stomping of feet down the stairs.
They're after me. I run out into the dark street and run for my life.
Later at the police station, Steve - father's driver - comes to collect me. He tells me Mom is dead. She's been killed by the man with the cold dead eyes. A stray bullet, father will tell me later.
They'll never tell me who the burglars were. Or that's what they were according to the police: just an opportunistic bunch of burglars.
I don't believe a word of it. I remember it too well: both my father's words and Mom's reaction. They came for me. Why? - no idea. If they wanted to kidnap me, why didn't they do it on my way back from school?
Also, the look in that man's eyes... he stared at me as if I meant a lot to them. As if I was a prize in some sort of game. I don't know what it's all about... a nasty secret, a dark mystery... but father won't tell me.
Mother's death is his fault.
> He's always been keeping something away from us. He still is. Two-Face indeed!
No, of course I don't think the attack was his fault - but he could have done something to prevent it. He's made of money, for crissakes! His IT company makes him billions! Why didn't he secure the apartment? Why couldn't he hang the place with cameras? Or hire a bunch of guards and post them at every window and doorway with heavy machine guns?
He must have pulled us into one of his big-boy games - turf wars or something. It was his fault. Simple.
With a startle, I force my eyes open. What's going on? What am I doing here? Ah, yes.
I've fallen asleep in the car. The engine is off but the dashboard is still flashing its colored lights. The radio's on. The key is in the ignition. The clock shows 11.30 p.m.
My neck is stiff. I'm parched. My heart is pounding; the figures of my parents still stand before my eyes the way I remembered them that day. I rub my neck, stretch my back and do a few shrugging movements with my shoulders.
The radio keeps going on about the upcoming elections. Poll results... presidential debates... apparently, Ben McAllister is about to address the crowds in Times Square.
I slap my hand on the dashboard to shut the voice up. Silence fills the car.
The memory of my dream still smarts but I welcome the pain. My brain seems to have awoken from its slumber and is working overtime now, fishing out more disjointed scenes from the muddy pool of my memory.
Gradually my life comes back into focus like a picture in a copying machine. I have clothes on my back; I have a car, a wallet, a driving license and some bank cards - objects that anchor me in reality. I have a father; I used to have a mother. I need to find out more about them.
The car is parked near an Internet café. Yes, now I remember. This was the last thing I did when I left my father's house earlier today: I found the address of this place in the satnav and followed it but crashed out before I could even get out of the car. It felt as if I'd swallowed a whole pack of sedatives - even though I haven't slept much, only about three hours or so. My brain must have needed some rest from all the recent developments, submerging me into a dark, precipitous void. I've lost three hours but at least now I could think straight.
