by Amy Cross
Scrambling to my feet, I check my arm as I turn to him. It's not broken, but it hurts like hell.
“Let's start again,” he says with a broad grin, “and this time show me some goddamn respect. Now.” He clears his throat. “Hey Clay, what do you want this fine Christmas Eve?”
Taking a deep breath, I realize that I've caught him on a bad day. He's a smart guy, and he likes nothing more than making fun of his customers, and when he's bored he tends to go over the top. Right now, he's got the upper hand since he already has my money in his pocket and I know that he'd be more than willing to send me away with nothing.
“Make me want to make you happy,” he says eventually, patting one of his pockets. “I've got what you want right here, but what I haven't got right now is the desire to give it to you. Why should I give a damn if some street rat gets high tonight or not?”
“Please,” I reply, trying to stay calm, “it's not for me. It's for someone who really needs it.”
“So? I don't give a shit, it's all the same to me. I've got your money, girl, so what else are you gonna offer me to make me part with a little of what I've got?”
Sighing, I realize exactly what he wants. It's the same thing he always wants, the same thing everyone wants. I look back across the parking lot and see that there are still a few guys in the shadows, while a black car is just turning off the main road and edging past the mall's over-lit Christmas tree. Looking back at Carl, I can't help but notice the expectant look in his eyes. With a shiver, I figure that there's no point dragging this out any longer.
“Okay,” I tell him, forcing a faint smile that I hope might appease him a little. “Sure. Why don't I, er...”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I mean, if you want -”
“Hold on,” he says suddenly, looking past me at something that seems to be worrying him.
Turning, I see that the black car is coming closer.
“What's this shit,” Carl mutters, clearly worried.
The car stops next to us, but the windows stay up for a moment before finally they slide down to reveal two men wearing sunglasses.
“Hey Carl,” the nearest man says, “what do you want for a pound of the good stuff?”
“I dunno, man,” Carl replies, “maybe we could cut a deal.”
“Yeah, maybe,” the man replies, “how about I open the negotiations?”
With that, he reaches down and grabs something from his lap.
“Fuck!” Carl shouts.
Before I even realize what's happening, the man in the car holds up a gun and fires several shots straight at Carl. Ducking out of the way, I swear I actually feel a couple of the bullets whizzing past me, but by the time I hit the ground I can already hear the car's engine revving and then its wheels starting to spin. I'm certain that I'll be shot at any moment, but finally I hear the car speeding away and I turn to see it racing across the parking lot, its tires screeching as it launches out into the road, almost colliding with passing traffic along the way. Nearby, the guys from the shadows have already scattered. For a moment, all I can do is watch helplessly, and then I turn to see Carl slumped against the wall.
“Jesus!” I shout, stumbling to my feet and hurrying over to him.
“Fuck!” he grunts.
Crouching next to him, I can already see from the look in his eyes that he's losing consciousness. In the low artificial light, it looks as if black oil is leaking from a hole in his chest, but I know that it's blood.
“Fucker!” he shouts, clearly in pain. “God damn them to hell, they fucking...” His trembling hands reach down to the bullet wound in his belly, but blood is erupting from the wound and flowing freely. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck have they done to me? It's Christmas for fuck's sake, it's...” His voice trails off and he winces in pain as he tries to lift the front of his t-shirt to see the wound.
Realizing that I need to get out of here, I reach into his coat and pull out the money I gave him a moment ago. Fortunately, there's no blood on the notes, so I stuff them into my pocket before searching through the rest of Carl's coat in case there's anything else I can use.
“Are you robbing me?” he asks breathlessly. “Holy fuck, are you robbing a dying man on Christmas Eve?”
Ignoring him, I pull out several small plastic bags containing drugs, as well as a lighter. I sort through the bags and discard everything except the weed. My hands are shaking like hell and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest; I know I have to get out of here before the cops show up, but at the same time I can't miss this opportunity. When I check his inside pocket, I find a gun, which I quickly slip into my pocket before turning to run.
“I'm sorry,” I tell him, “but you know how it is, right?”
“No!” he shouts, grabbing my arm and pulling me back. “Don't leave me!” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Fuck, bitch, if you're gonna rob from a dying man, the least you can do is stick around with him while he fucking -” Before he can finish, he lets out another cry of pain.
“I'll call an ambulance,” I tell him, trying not to panic. “There's a payphone over by the store. I'll call them. I mean, it is Christmas, right?”
He shakes his head.
“Let go of me!” I shout, trying to pull away.
“Stay with me!” he hisses, yanking me closer. “Come on, bitch, don't make me die alone.”
“I can't be here,” I tell him, with tears in my eyes. “Please, you don't understand what happens when people die near me.”
“Fuck,” he whispers, looking up at the sky.
“Please,” I whimper, still desperately trying to get free from his grip. “I'm not being a bitch, I swear, I just can't be here when you die. Trust me!”
Instead of replying, he continues to stare straight up as he takes a series of increasingly heavy, rasping breaths.
“Please,” I whisper, trying to force his hand from around my wrist. “I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, but -”
Suddenly I realize that he's stopped breathing. I pause for a moment, desperate for some sign of life, but his dead eyes are just staring straight up at the hazy starless sky.
“Don't be dead,” I whisper, reaching out and checking for a pulse. “Please don't be dead, please...”
It's too late.
He's gone.
For a few seconds, all I can do is stare down at him in horror. I know what's coming next, but that doesn't mean I have to just sit here and accept it. Turning, I look all around, expecting to see it already, and finally I spot something moving in the shadows, and I hear its faint snarl. After pulling free from Carl's grip, I scramble to my feet and run across the parking lot. In the distance, police sirens are already getting closer, but they're the least of my problems. It's been so long since someone died near me, and I'd almost allowed myself to believe that it would never happen again, that I could protect myself. Now, no matter how fast I run across the lot, I know that it's only a matter of time.
A car screeches to a halt, almost hitting me as I race out into the street. Barely even slowing, I rush through to the park on the other side. I have to keep running. After ten long years, I can't stop now.
Ten years ago
“You mustn't be sad about Beatrice,” my mother says calmly as she sits behind me and gently brushes my hair. “It was just her time, Clay. Everyone has their time.”
“I know,” I reply, staring out the window and watching as the gardener makes his way across the lawn. Sometimes I wish I was the gardener. It seems like a nice, simple job, the kind of thing I could do when I grow up. “Like Daddy,” I whisper.
“That's right. Your father had his time, and Beatrice had hers.”
“Ow!”I say as she tugs at a knot in my hair. She starts untangling it, and I force myself to stay still.
“It's not something to be scared of,” she continues. “Without death, there wouldn't be life. Instead of focusing on the fact that Beatrice is gone, we should all just take a moment to remember the good times we shared with
her. I was thinking of looking through all her photo albums later and trying to sort them into some kind of celebration of her life. Would you like to help me do that after you've been with Mr. Kenseth?”
“Maybe,” I mutter.
“Only maybe?”
“I might be busy.”
“Doing what?”
I turn to her, and for a moment I actually consider telling her the truth.
“Nothing,” I say eventually. “Just playing.”
“You spend too much time playing,” she replies, turning my head back toward the window so that she can finish brushing my hair. “Sometimes I think I should make you stay inside more, so you can spend more time on your studies. You're not on some kind of perpetual holiday, you know. Just because we're here, young lady, it doesn't mean you're done with schoolwork.”
“I know,” I say quietly. This is yet another of my mother's little lectures, but I know full well that she'll never back it up with actions. I guess it's just her way of making herself feel better about bringing me here in the first place.
“So have you thought about what you're going to say to Mr. Kenseth today?” she asks, absent-mindedly rubbing the scar on her wrist.
I shrug.
“It's important, Clay. I think he likes you, he asked to see you specifically.”
“Then shouldn't he be the one who decides what we're going to talk about?”
“It doesn't quite work like that,” she replies. “We have a lot to be thankful to him for. Without him, this hospital wouldn't run nearly so well, and people like me...” Her voice trails off for a moment as she continues to brush my hair, which I figure should be all brushed and ready by now. Still, she always takes much longer than necessary. “Well, you know how it is. Mr. Kenseth works so hard for all the patients, and we have to give him a little something in return.”
“But if everyone has their time,” I reply after a moment, “then why does Mr. Kenseth bother? Shouldn't he just stop interfering and let everyone's time come when it's ready?”
“You don't understand, Clay.”
“Then explain it.”
“You're too young.”
“I'm almost ten.”
“You're still too young. There's no need to rush and try to grow up too fast. You'll be a big girl before you know it, so trust me, just enjoy being a child while you've got the chance. Now why don't you be quiet for a bit so I can finish your hair, okay?”
“But Mom -”
“Be quiet, Clay,” she continues, with added emphasis. “Mr. Kenseth says we should all learn to enjoy silence, so let's give it a go. Stop with all the questions.”
Realizing that there's no point arguing with her, I sit quietly and wait for her to get done. As the minutes tick past, I can tell that she's just brushing the same parts over and over again, almost as if she's caught in some kind of a trance. The problem is, if I interrupt her, she'll just start all over again. It always happens like this. I swear, sometimes I feel like she wants to keep me with her for as long as possible, so that I don't ever get to go and see Mr. Kenseth. But that would be crazy, because she's the one who brought us here in the first place, and she's the one who says Mr. Kenseth is so brilliant.
Today
“Fuck!” I mutter as I try to scrub my hands clean in a sink at the public bathroom.
I've been in here for a few minutes now, and under the bright glare of the artificial lights I can see that Carl's blood has covered not only my hands but almost most of my shirt and trousers. I can feel sticky wet fabric clinging to my body, but I don't have a spare set of clothes so I figure I just need to wait for them to dry. Besides, I'm wearing mostly black, so at least the stains won't be too visible, and tomorrow I'll rip some fresh clothes off from a charity shop or something.
The bigger problem is the blood on my hands, which just doesn't seem to want to come off. It's deep in the lines of my knuckles, and under my fingernails, and I feel as if I could scrub my hands until they're raw and I still wouldn't be able to get them clean. Hell, I've been scrubbing them so hard, some of the blood might even be mine by now.
Glancing over my shoulder, I look at the door. It's still pitch black outside, and I'm terrified that I'll be interrupted at any moment. I know how this goes, and there's no reason to believe that it will have changed over the years. That thing will still come for me.
Still, I can't shut the door.
Not ever.
Turning back to the mirror, I catch sight of my eyes, and for a few seconds I'm struck by how old I look. I try to avoid my reflection most of the time, and I usually end up forgetting that I'm not that same little girl who discovered her powers at the hospital when she was just a child. Now I'm in my early twenties and the passing years are etched onto my face. My eyes, in particular, seem heavy, loaded with the weight of everything I've seen. Sometimes I wish I could just go back to being a kid again. Sure, my life was completely messed up, but at least I was happy in my naivety.
“Oh shit,” says a voice suddenly.
Looking back at the door, I see that a party-girl has stopped in her tracks, apparently shocked by my appearance. She's dressed up for a night out, but if she was drunk, the sight of me covered in blood has obviously sobered her up.
“Halloween costume,” I tell her.
“Oh. Okay.”
She pauses.
“It's, like, Christmas Eve,” she points out.
“What do you want?” I ask, already trying to work out how to grab her and make sure she doesn't raise the alarm.
“Nothing,” she replies, taking a step back. “Sorry...”
I stare at her. Normally I'd have run over to her by now and knocked her out cold, but something feels different tonight. It's as if everything is finally catching up with me. Maybe tonight's the night I should stop running and just let it catch up to me.
“Sorry,” she mutters again, before turning and hurrying back out into the night.
“Wait!” I call out.
In my mind's eye, I see myself grabbing her by the throat and smashing her face against the side of the door, before tossing her to the ground and kicking her in the head. That's what I should do, to make sure she keeps her mouth shut, but somehow I've left it too late. Besides, the one time I ever actually got into a fight, I got my ass kicked. I'm not a fighter, I'm a runner.
“Fuck,” I mutter again, realizing that I need to get out of here fast.
Turning the hot tap on all the way, I wait a moment until the water is steaming, and then I force myself to ignore the pain as I run my hands through the heat. After a few agonizing seconds, I look at my skin and see that some of Carl's blood is still there. I've had to wash blood off my hands before, of course, but it's never been this difficult. Then again, I guess it might be some kind of marker, a way for him to find me again. He's going to track me by the scent of Carl's blood.
“Damn it!” I shout, leaving the tap running as I hurry over to the dryer on the wall and give my hands a quick blast.
Stumbling back to the mirror, I take a moment to double-check that the blood stains aren't too noticeable, and then I head to the door. I have to get to -
“Hold up there,” says a cop, suddenly stepping into view and shining a torch straight in my eyes. Behind him there's another cop, a woman, and it's pretty damn obvious that the dumb party girl tipped them off about me. I shouldn't have let her get away.
“What?” I ask, trying to slip past him. “I was just -”
“You look like you're in a bad way,” the female cop says, stepping in front of me as a voice crackles from her radio. “Have you been taking any substances tonight?”
“I'm fine,” I reply, forcing a smile. “Just a big night out, you know?”
“And what were you doing in there just now?”
“Guess,” I mutter, before realizing that sarcasm probably isn't my best option. “I was just going to the toilet,” I continue, trying to seem normal and relaxed, which probably just makes me seem weirder. “I'm no
t sure where my friends have gone. I guess they must have headed on to the next club. Typical, huh?”
“Patrol four-twenty,” she says, speaking into her radio. “We've located a young Caucasian female acting suspiciously at the St. John's Wood public bathroom. She appears to be incapacitated in some way. Will advise.”
“I need you to step back against the wall please, M'am,” the male cop says humorlessly.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not at this time, but I must insist that you step back against the wall. We're just here to help you.”
I take a half-step back toward the door, as the female cop takes a torch and shines it straight in my face, almost blinding me.
“Okay,” the male cop says, putting a hand on my arm and then examining his fingers, which are now bright red with Carl's blood, “can you explain this substance to me?”
“I can't see a damn thing,” I tell him, shielding my eyes as I take a step back. Looking over toward the forest, I imagine that thing rushing straight toward me through the darkness. It has to be out there somewhere, coming for me.
“Is this your blood?” the cop asks.
“Is what my blood?”
“It's in your best interests to answer my questions directly,” he continues. “Is this your blood?”
“Are you hurt?” the female cop asks. “We're only trying to help you, but first we're going to need a few things. Why don't you start by telling us where this blood came from? It is blood, isn't it?”
“I don't know,” I reply. “Maybe I leaned on something, or brushed against something... I mean, this is London, right? There's blood everywhere.”
“It's all over you,” she continues, briefly casting a suspicious glance at her colleague before turning back to me. “I don't see any injuries, though. Can you tell me your name?”
“Clay.”
“Clay?”
“Yep,” I reply, still shielding my eyes from the light of the torch. “Could you turn that thing off? It's burning the hell out of my retinas.”
