Cold (Working Title)

            Cold.

            Unaware of almost every part of her body, not yet feeling the pain that would soon seep through her like some slow acting poison, all she felt was searing, frightening cold. Her body tightened, as though trying to move less to conserve what little heat it had, but the cold pierced her, making even her fast, raspy breaths burn in her chest. Her fingers were aching with the overwhelming chill and her legs, held in place by the manacles she had been put in, felt like old rusty hinges if she even attempted to alter their position. The cold was already inside her brain, slowing her thoughts and muting the pain that would inevitably kill her.

            Strangely, even though she had been left outside for such a dangerous amount of time, and even in her clogged mind she knew that death was close, her consciousness was quietly coming back to her. Awareness tugged at the corners of her brain, forcing her to move, trying to push an empty, hollow croak from deep inside her belly up through her already raw throat, and although no sound would come, part of her was trying. Another part despaired, seeing the darkness in the corner of her vision, feeling her own stomach spasm violently. She was sensitive to the fact that at some point, she had been sick, but her senses were so dulled that she could no longer smell its stench or feel the wetness upon her skin as she had when it had first happened.

             She didn’t know where she was. She knew that it had been a long and painful struggle to get here, and that the suffering she had endured would be all over the news when she was found. In some deep and quiet part of her mind, she thought of her parents, of what it would be like for them to know exactly what had happened to her. She didn’t want that, but the voice in her mind was so quiet, so very far away, that it wasn’t long before she forgot it had spoken at all.

            Slowly, and to her immense surprise, her body was taken over by pain. Every inch of her body began to ache, not only with the disfiguring cold, but with the multitude of injuries that she had sustained over the course of her murder. She felt the low, dark pain of her broken arm, the splintered bone just visible under the waxy skin. Her body heaved forward, overcome with the agony of death and she closed her eyes, willing it to be over now. This was the first time she had entertained the thought, but now it danced before her eyes, light at the end of the darkest tunnel. Surely it wouldn’t be long now.

            Each time her body lurched forward in its death throes, a new wave of pain overcame her, a new memory of what had happened to bring her here. She felt betrayed; deceived by a world and by people she thought would protect her. She was so young, not even begun her life, and here she was dying before her very eyes. The death she was praying for seemed to come more quickly, and panic rose in her. She did not want this. She never had. The consciousness that had been finding its way back to her now frightened her in its clarity. She was not finished. She couldn’t be.

            She heard her own breath forcing its way through her lungs and her beaten body, struggling to stay awake. The pain was fading now, receding almost as quickly as it had thrown itself upon her. Her hair was wet, plastered against her alabaster cheek, almost frozen to her skin. A sob heaved in her chest, remembering how she had loved her hair once, how important it had been. Now it was the only sensation she had, her tangled hair pushed against her to remind her that although she was still alive, she wouldn’t be for much longer.

            An alarm began to ring in her mind, urgent and loud and her consciousness laughed at the absurdity of that, that her brain had chosen the last sound it ever heard to be an alarm, what sounded to her like an air-raid siren. It rose and fell, terrifying, the call of death. Her tired body ached and began to fit. She could hear the snow crumbling underneath her face as she convulsed, and she felt renewed pain as she broken bones tried to move as quickly as her brain was telling them to. She cried then, deep inside her mind, cried in her last moments as death reached forward to take her from her unendurable suffering. It was too much. It was always going to be too much. With one final cry, she closed her eyes and did what she never believed she would do. She succumbed.

When they found her, there was no great fanfare, barely any sound to accompany the discovery of the girl they had traveled so far to find. There was a gentle crunch of snow under the thick boots of the young policeman as he rounded the corner. He looked, as he had with every other mass of snow he had looked at since they arrived, swept his eyes over the scene and saw nothing. He sighed. He began to walk, tragically slowly, to where she lay, even though he of course did not know. He did not know he was inches away from the discovery that would change his life, alter his career, and haunt him for the rest of his days. He perhaps would never have known, never have taken those last few steps to a point where she was in view, but it was at that moment that she uttered her final cry, her acceptance of death. He whipped his head around, trying to locate the brief and quiet noise. He began to run, and it was seconds before he stumbled, almost literally upon her twisted body. He exhaled, frightened hot air creating a cloud before his eyes.

            “Jesus,”

            He knelt down, pulling at the thick padded gloves upon his hands. When they would not easily slide off his fingers, he bit them, yanking hard between his teeth until the hand came free. Not pausing, he pulled off the second glove and threw them both into the snow.

            “I’ve found her! Get an ambulance!! I found her!” his voice rose to a cackle, and he heard the snow around him being trampled as his colleagues rushed to the sound of his voice. He pushed his fingers into the waxy, slightly wet hollow of her neck, feeling desperately for a pulse, but there was none. Fear flushed through him; he had heard her cry out, she had to be alive.

            He leaned her as flat he could with her broken bones and chained hands and feet, and began to methodically pump on her naked chest. He felt her ribs crack underneath him, a wet, sickening sound, but he did not relent. Every few beats, he would lean forwards and breathe his own hot air into her cold mouth, willing her to breathe. Eventually, another policeman knelt beside him, and breathed into her mouth continuously. The cold made her skin difficult to grip, but her pumped on her beaten and bruised chest as much as he could. He reached to her throat again. The pulse was there, barely there, and desperately slow, but she was alive. He resumed his pumping until the ambulance crew arrived. They fought for her hard, sending an electric shock through her chest within seconds of arriving. As they lifted her to transfer her limp body to the waiting helicopter, her heart stopped, and they once again knelt in the snow, fighting to start her failing heart as precious seconds flew by. The policeman who had found her watched silently, begging her to respond. After an agonising ten minutes, they once again lifted her and ran as quickly as the monitors keeping her alive would allow, to the waiting helicopter. The policeman stood and watched them fly away, and he wished she lived, wished he had found her quickly enough, wished with all his soul that he got the bastard who had done such sadistic things to that young girl.

            The slow, unremitting beep filled her brain, the only sound that she could ever hear, might ever hear again. She was dead, she had died in the cold, and the beep was a sound that would accompany her through eternity.

            Beep, beep, beep

            Slowly, as the pain that had encompassed her in the cold had come slowly, agony overcame her. She remembered only pain. There was a dull, sick feeling in her chest, which ached as though it had been split open. Her head throbbed ominously, as though waiting to haemorrhage at any moment, and her eyes would not open. This could not be heaven. This was worse than anything she had experienced in life.

            Beep, beep, beep

            Suddenly, with a cacophonous roar, thousands of other sounds assaulted her ears. There was a hum of noise she could not identify, a dull, metallic drone that hovered in the background of her consciousness, screaming for identification, but she had none. She heard voices; they were far away and sounded as though they were under water. She heard the sounds, but no words, and her brain howled, trying to desperately make sense of what was happening. The pain rose inside her, increasing as her panic did. Her blindness was terrifying, she was trying to open her eyes, but nothing would happen. She wanted to see where she had come. Suddenly there was a sound beside her, and she felt contact on her skin. Something had grabbed her hand, but she had neither the strength nor the will to pull herself away. She tried to cry out, but her throat felt blocked, as though someone had deigned she would be both blinded and silent forever. This time, as the fear rose, she let it overcome her, and she fell into oblivion, a sweet dark reprieve from the terror that threatened her.

            “Alisa? Alisa, can you hear me? I want you to blink if you can hear me.”

            This was easy. The voice was so warm, so reassuring, and yet authoritarian. Her body responded before her brain had a chance to remember what it was trying to escape from, what had happened to her before. She wasn’t even aware that she had blinked.  

            “That’s good. Do you know where you are? I want you to blink once for yes, and twice for no.”

            She did not know. She did not want to know. She could still hear the relentless beeping, the metallic hum and the fear was seeping back into her veins quickly, reminding her of every moment of terror.

            “Alisa, you haven’t answered my question. Do you know where you are? Blink once for yes, and twice for no.”

            Her eyes were open wide now, and she saw for the first time where she was. Directly in front of her was nothing, just enveloping whiteness tinted with garish yellow. She could see nothing else, no source of this voice demanding information, and somewhere in the back of her brain was a dark memory of the last time she had been in a situation like this, and how it had ended. Was she still there? Had she not even escaped in death?

            “Ok, Alisa, because you haven’t answered me, I’m going to assumed you don’t know. You’re in a hospital in North London. You have been here for the past three months. You were very, very sick when you got here, but you’re going to be ok. For the most part. You are safe here, I promise. Do you understand me? Blink once if you do.”

            She blinked. As the voice had been talking, she’d swivelled her eyes around the room, and relief had poured over her. She’d seen medical equipment, posters, and a chair, but not much else. Her movement was severely hindered, and she couldn't understand why. The pain was still there, worse than ever before, worse than when she had been dying in the cold.

            “My name is Doctor Aidan Willis. I've been treating you, and as I say, you haven’t been well at all. Now, since you’re conscious, and you’re breathing on your own, I'm going to remove your breathing tube soon. But you won’t be able to speak for a little while, and I have to warn you, breathing will be painful. When you were first brought in, your heart stopped several times, and we had to cut your chest open and manually make your heart move. Not only that, the policeman who saved your life broke your ribs as he performed CPR, and your body hasn’t been in the best state to be knitting itself together as efficiently as it could. But now you’re awake, this will all happen much more quickly.” 

23.07.06 © Nicola Pearce

Anything But Twilight

This is the beginning of a vampire story that I wrote seven years ago, at the age of twenty. Now, before you judge me, please know two things: 1, Twilight didn't exist when I wrote this story. Had it existed, I wouldn't have been inspired to write it. 2, If anything, this story is a homage to The Last Vampire series of novels written by Christopher Pike. I adored these books growing up, the stories of love and fear, immortality and faith....I know. I was young, and these books inspired me. I wrote several variations on the theme. This story is the voice of the protagonist, an ancient vampire looking back on her beginnings, meeting the man she would love and who would be her damnation. Vampire or not, that's something I reckon we could all identify with...

            Somewhere, to all of us, there is a place of ultimate safety. We go there when the world is too much for us to take and we need comfort and reassurance that, despite all the raging evidence to the contrary, it won’t always be like this. For most of us, it’s somewhere from our childhood, or a place that contains our parents or friends. Or lovers, of course. The memory of the love of one so beautiful, so compelling, so utterly spellbinding that we cannot help but find within ourselves that echo of peace and turn it into a roar.

            You turned my echo into silence.

            Loving you was my greatest achievement and my most crushing defeat. I loved a monster, and instead of my love moving you to become something better, I let your love turn me into a creature of unspeakable horror. There is blood caked into the skin of my delicate hands, and I can never find in me the safe place I might go to promise myself that I will never again travel this dark and poisonous path. There was a time when I was life, and when the thought of you brought me into the light. Time and endless, endless suffering have made me nothing but death, and nothing but yours. In the two thousand years since my own death, this has never ceased to be true.

           

            In the months before it began, I can’t say I wish for more than the life I had carved out for myself. I was, at that time, eighteen years old, safely cocooned in my little home with my father, one of the town’s preachers. My people were worshippers of the sun, and as it beat down on our earth and darkened their skin, they would raise their faces to the light and give thanks. When my father was young, he would lie in the sun, letting the light pour into his skin and colour his mood. He met my mother by one of the cool water pools. He was twenty six, and she twenty nine, old for marriage and parenthood. Many lived only to early to mid-twenties, but he, filled with the divinity of his faith, was healthy for his age and my mother, my mother was something altogether different. She was nearing thirty, but her soft olive skin and wide set, chocolate brown eyes made her look half her age. My father would often tell me that he saw the light of immortality glittering behind her eyes, that the gods had sent her to earth as a great gift, and it was a greater gift still that she had chosen him to love. When I think now of his sweet words, it fills me with sadness. The gods may have sent her, but they gave up on her the moment I began to sleep in her belly.

            When they realised she was pregnant, no one expected her to give birth to a healthy baby. Despite her apparent youth, there was no denying that she was too old to carry a child and for both of us to make it through to the other side.

            But my parents, numbed to reality by their love and certain that they would be protected by the gods, were optimistic. They ignored the words of the medical men and soothsayers, and spent their days in the sun, making love, and preparing for my birth. I used to ask my father if they were afraid that it was all too much for my mother, if she showed any signs of faltering in those months her belly grew heavy and her body grew tired. He would look at me, sadness filling his face, and he would smile.

            “She knew what had to be done,” he would say, “She knew that you were coming because of our love, and if losing herself meant that you would make it here, then she knew-we both knew-that it was the only thing we could possibly do.”

            When she awoke in the darkest moment of night eight months into her pregnancy, her body shuddering with pain as it knifed through her, I find it hard to believe she did not regret her decisions. She must have sensed this pain was wrong, that it was too soon, that neither she nor I were ready yet. By the time my father had returned with help, it was already looking dire. Her blood, the first of so much for me, filled the room, and me, half-born and already staring death in the face, I was the choice to be made. She could be saved, or I could. Or maybe neither one of us would see the morning. My father, on the rare occasion he would talk about that night, says the choice was not his to make. My mother knew even then so he said, that I was destined for otherworldly things. She wrapped her fingers around my father’s hand and whispered in his ear that they should let her go. She had come to life to love him, and to produce the child she was about to bear. She was already halfway to the light, and this was the only road she could travel now.

            So I was born, and as they lay my crying body on my mother’s silent chest, they prayed for my soul and my protection. They should have prayed louder. No one spoke to my father about my milky white skin or blond hair. They eyed each other nervously as they looked into my bright, clear, blue eyes. I was like nothing they had ever seen before, nothing they could comprehend. Already I was an outcast. I should have stayed that way, kept to the shadows, never allowed to speak to anyone blessed by the sun. But my father was a holy man, trusted and respected, and perhaps more importantly, my fragile mother’s death had almost destroyed him. His people, friends of them both, welcomed him back into their lives and with him, his strange white-skinned baby. My father, overwhelmed at what he now had to face, a world where he had to raise his daughter and adjust to losing the only thing that could have given him the strength to do it, never saw the uneasiness that I caused, the prayer from those who did not understand how I had come to be, with my sapphire blue eyes staring into their brown ones. I too did not understand. I was just born, and the echo of my mother’s death still clouding me, her ghost clinging to my soft infantile skin. The first of so many ghosts, of course. 

            So we lived together in our little home, and as the years passed, the rawness of my mother’s death was soothed for both of us, and the general suspicion with which I was often treated also began to ease. I was as beautiful as my mother had been, with a strange ethereal grace and lithe and slender limbs. I was clever too, and my father would often take me out preaching with him, and I would learn about nature, and I developed my vocabulary past that of many of the older and wiser who lived amongst our people. I kept much of this knowledge secret, as I knew that the slightest hint of my true intelligence would have me branded our equivalent of a witch.

            It was when I was ten years old that I first noticed my father starting to wilt. At thirty six, he was an old, old man, and his strong body had, over recent years, begun to bend as his spine weakened and he struggled to face his beloved sun. His eyes still sparkled but undoubtedly he was struggling. The seemingly endless travel to heal and speak to those who needed to be healed wore him down, and although he never spoke a word of complaint, his face would betray the effort it took him to handle such things. Very often, I would stand beside him, allegedly to act as a second speaker but in truth, he was braced against me as he could not stand for any great length of time. His age brought him wisdom and infinite respect, but his body grew weaker with every passing day.

            My father was giving a speech in our village on the eve of the summer solstice. There was a feast prepared, and the air seemed pregnant with the endless promise of summer. In my many summers since, I have never once failed to notice this sensation as it returns and fills the world with anticipation. We all feel it fill our bodies with excitement and then allow it to rise within us, this feeling that we can do or believe anything. The magic of the summertime and so many of us revel in that feeling. Not me, though. It feels me only with the memory of that first summer. The summer that I gave my life to the darkness, and made a promise to a monster that cost so many lives.

            My father was extremely ill. In truth, I wondered whether he would make it to see the solstice morning. He was completely bent double, and coughed incessantly, his thin hair hanging down over his shoulders, where the bones protruded painfully. The stick that he used to walk was doing a pitifully insufficient job, and he could take no more than a few steps without having to rest. I washed him with cool water as I noticed that his skin, although as thin as a leaf, was hot to the touch. As I ran my cold hands over his face, he caught my eye.

            “It will not be long now, my beautiful daughter. My body aches, and my soul is ready to fly. Soon you will be facing this without me, although you will not be alone.”

            His face was peaceful, his fate accepted. My wide blue eyes welled with tears. I could not lose my father. My life had no meaning were it not for him. I gripped his hands as though I were trying to pull him back from the light he was sauntering so casually towards.

            “You are strong, stronger than this. You will make it through, father. You and I, we will make it through.”                       

            He shook his head then, and it was probably the only time he knew more about death than I. So I helped him up and shuffled his tired body out of our home, where the people waited for him to teach them absolution. I stood close by, watching his face, checking to see if he needed support or rest as he spoke. But he needed no help that night. He was filled with vigour, as though accepting his imminent death had given him a renewed jolt of life. And I, at only ten years old, felt as though it were my heart that was slowing its beat. A life without him, I thought, is no life at all.

            And then I saw him.

            In the crowd of people, faces I knew well and had grown up with, there was a man I had never before seen. He was like me. His skin was a soft, milky white and his hair, although dark, was long and silky smooth, not coarse and heavy like everyone else’s. And he seemed…sinister, I suppose. There was an empty circle around him, as though those nearby did not dare get too close, and he carried the air of a predator. Even to my ten year old eyes, there was something alluring and passionate about him. I had never before had a sexual thought about a man, but even from twenty feet away, I felt heat rising within me and my heart find its beat. When he looked at me, it very nearly stopped again. His eyes were not brown, like every pair of eyes I had ever found myself looking into. His eyes were, once again, like mine. But where mine were a dark blue, the colour of the deepest ocean, his were light, the colour of the sky on a clear day. And when he stared at me, he was not just looking at me. He looked into me, and his eyes might have been bright, but there was something dead inside them. His eyes felt like an invasive touch, perverse and assuming. I did not want to hold his eye, but I could not pull myself away. Fear and desire rose inside me, and I did not know what to do. He looked to be about fifteen years my senior and he should not have been looking at me that way.

            When that thought passed through my mind, a smile crossed his lips and all I could think was that I wanted to have those lips upon my skin.

            My father chose that moment to collapse. There was a cry of surprise from the crowd, and I was shaken from my reverie. I darted forwards and rushed to pick him up. He was heaped on the floor, his body trembling as it fought for air. I rolled him over, willing him to fight and knowing he couldn’t. But I wouldn’t have him die to an audience. I bundled up his tiny body and an ache broke inside me as I realised how little he weighed. The sea of people parted to let us through as I carried him back to our home.

            The thoughts of the stranger had flown from my mind the moment my father had fallen to the ground. As I carried him I could no longer feel him fighting for breath, his racked body clutching on for life. I had kidded myself into thinking he would fight long enough for us to have a proper goodbye, but as I lay him upon his bed, I expected him to have already flown. But he had not. His greyed skin was sunken and his eyes closed, but there was still the quietest of heartbeats keeping him on this earth. I leaned over and kissed his cheek, giving a silent prayer that I would at least be able to say goodbye. I hadn’t realised I was crying until I lifted my head and saw his skin was wet from my tears.

            I was ten years old. No matter how old he was, this shouldn’t be happening.

            The grief tore into me like a knife ripping through silk. I could not bear the thought that tomorrow when I woke, my father would not be here with me. Without him, I had nothing but his memory to keep me safe and happy, and it would not be enough. I was not yet ready to be alone. Tears fell upon tears as I tried to accept what was happening before my eyes. I wailed incoherently as the sadness bled into me. I was not aware of even my father now as I struggled to face his death. I certainly was not aware that he and I were not the only people in the room. This is why I cried out in fear when my tears were interrupted.

            “I can help him.”

            The words were spoken calmly, and not loudly, yet I heard them even over my own noise. I swirled round, and even before our eyes met, I knew it was going to be the stranger from outside. He was even more compelling up close. His perfectly chiseled face was hypnotic, and his blue eyes were frighteningly entrancing. He took a step towards me, and his body moved quickly, fluidly, in a motion I have not only come to relive, but have experienced many times over the course of my cursed life. Probably too many times.

            He crouched down beside me, and for an instant, my brain forget my grief and my body reacted to him being so close to me. Then he reached forward and touched my dying father’s skin, and my father shuddered as though electricity ran through his veins. The stranger turned to me.

            “I can let him go, or I can bring him back to you. It’s your choice whether he lives or dies.”

            I stared at him, not knowing what to say. My father was old, for our people, and had been dying for some time. Bringing him back was probably the most selfish thing I could do. But I couldn’t contemplate a world without him, and this man in front of me vibrated with a darkness and light that my ten year old mind could not begin to grasp, even if I sense it. His blue eyes bore into me. My voice trembled as I spoke.

            “Save him.”

             The stranger smiled. Obviously, I had passed an important test. He once again put his hand on my father’s skin, although this time, his reacted was far more muted. He was turned away from me as he gave me his last instruction of the night.

            “Leave us. Do not return until morning, and he will be well. And expect to see me once again. We are destined for more than this, you and I.”

            He turned to face me then, and we shared a moment. His eyes poured into mine for just a second too long, and I found myself leaning in to kiss him. But he moved his face away, and I stood to leave.

©Nicola Pearce

             

Harry Is A Dead Man

This one is also a few years old. It's a bit frantic, but stay with it. It's in a different voice to my usual writing but I always enjoy reading this, and most likely for this reason:

Harry is a dead man.

He is running through the streets now, run Harry, just run a little faster and you might get away, but he knows, sure as he knows his heart is beating too fast and he knows the heat rising through his veins is slowing him down, he knows he is trying to run from the inevitable. And he is a fit man, young and trained for just such an event as running for his life, but he is being chased by an assassin so silent and so skilled that his run is for his benefit only. In his pocket rests the evidence that has damned him, damn it, and he has no intention of throwing it away. He carries a photograph of his wife, his now dead wife, and the small memory stick which took her life and now threatens to take his.

But there is more to Harry, as you might well imagine, than this frantic, desperate, and ultimately fruitless tirade through the city. And yes, it is fruitless. There is no way Harry can make it to the acknowledgements at the back of the book. Like I said…

Harry is a dead man.

Harry

If I had known, when it was starting, that it was starting, then maybe I wouldn't have tried so hard to get involved. I was at the top of my game, highly sought after and known in the business as capable and discreet. Reliable and efficient. The business cards wrote themselves- not that you use anything so crass in this business as advertisements, but then again, I didn't need to. Being a government trained assassin turned ‘native’-a term I always loathed-it was well known that I was the best of the best. I don’t doubt for a moment it was also known that my fingerprints were on the government databases as ‘Do Not Intervene.’ Basically, untouchable by police should I ever be so careless as to leave a thumbprint at a crime scene, and let me tell you, it’s been a hell of a while since I've done that. But I was known as well to have a conscience, and to pick my work based on more than money-again a rarity in this business, but it earned me something of a reputation for being elitist, for picking only the best jobs. I didn't discourage people from thinking like this-it had a tendency to leave more money in my pocket anyway, because people offer more when they think they’re one of a few.

And I had just gotten married, which was having a strange and worrying effect on my morals and priorities. Suddenly, I gave a shit. And don’t get me wrong, I had known there were some changes happening to me-after all, I had fallen in love with my wife before I married her, but I had spent our relationship convincing myself that I could have walked away when I wanted to, that I didn't need her, that she didn't need me, and that if the money was right, I could put a bullet in her if I had to. I'm not a bad guy for thinking this. I'm an assassin. It’s no different from the cop who accepts that they’d arrest their own kid for taking drugs or the bank manager doing a loan for his brother in law who wants an RV but got convicted of drink driving a year ago so can’t get shit.

I was wrong about it anyway. I couldn't have hurt her had my life depended on it. And the terrible thing is, when you start thinking like that, that’s very often what it comes down to. Her life or mine. Anyway, I'm skipping ahead. So, I had just got married to Karen Stenowicz. I always joked with her she only married me to get away from that hell of a surname, but she would always look at me so seriously and tell me she’d have married me no matter what my surname, and then I’d get all choked up and have to look away from her, wishing I hadn't brought it up.

My marriage was having a strange effect, too, on my workload. Being the perfectionist I am, I very often worked alone, but I did do some work with The Company-notice the upper case. This was serious shit. The Company dealt with high profile cases, often involving politicians, celebrities or members of various royal families. At any one time, The Company held no more than five active members, one of which was always an older assassin, who assigned cases and deemed the targets worthy of The Company’s attention. If you knew anything about the world, to be accepted as a victim of The Company was almost as prestigious as being chosen to work for them. Since I had become a husband, I had not received a single phone call from my colleagues there. This was mildly concerning to me, because three of the five other members were married and their spouses were not given a second thought. If anything, I’d have thought my peers would be glad I was no longer trading my wares across the continents as I had been before. Nothing says domesticated like child maintenance payments.

I’d been married for a year when I got the first call. It was from a man known to me only as Gray, a British former marine, and my main contact within The Company. The last time I had seen him, we had been stood over the body of an English Minister I had just killed, and we were cleaning evidence. I remember getting a paper the following morning and reading the Minister had died from a severe heart attack. I had smiled to myself. Murder by natural causes. It was one of my specialties.

When Gray called, I had never heard the Brit sound so frantic. It is a call of our profession that we are not easily panicked, but Gray was clearly on edge.

“Harry. It’s me. Have you heard? Have you spoken to any of the others? Ah, shit. Is this line secure?” His pause was only to let me answer. I could still hear his rapid breathing down the line.

“Of course it’s secure. What’s going on? I haven’t heard anything. No one’s been in touch with me for over a year. Jesus, Gray, what’s wrong with you?”

“We need to meet, mate. Today. Away from your house. Away from my fucking house. Can you get to New York by tonight?”

He already knew I could. 

Telling your wife you’re going to meet your contact in the association you work for which murders people by trade is never an easy conversation to have. Fortunately, my lie had been securely in place from very early on in our relationship. As I mentioned before, I often worked alone, and my jobs for The Company were only a small part of what I do. I did contract work mostly, and that very often took me away from home for a few days. I told my then girlfriend I worked in blood and organ donations, and although I could for the most part regulate my work, there was a certain peripatetic element. Of course, I worked in the administrative side of it all, locating possible recipients rather than having any medical knowledge. It’s amazing how quickly people buy your lies, and then lose interest completely. Karen was by no means materialistic, but I know she’d only have started asking real questions had the money stopped coming. It’s human nature.

“Ok baby. When do you think you’ll be back?” She’d been making coffee. In her left hand she carried a small leather handbag-not her own. She’d not long come home from work, and she was winding down for the evening. Fortunately, she hadn't been home when I’d gotten the call. She played with the strap of the bag absently as she poured water into her mug.

“Where did you get that?”

She’d stared at me blankly then, her wide brown eyes innocent. “Oh, my god. I never even asked you. Did you want a coffee?”

I’d smiled and moved across the kitchen to be closer to her. Her skin was cool and soft, like always, and her chocolate skin was glowing in the early evening light. She smelled of coffee and something else. An echo of the perfume she’d most likely sprayed over herself at lunchtime, lingering on her, not wanting to leave her skin. I could empathise.

“I didn't mean the coffee. I meant the bag.”

She’d smiled too, dropping the bag on the table. “Oh, this? Well, it was the strangest thing. This morning when I went to my car, it wouldn't start. You’re gonna have to have a look at it for me honey, before you go. So I had to take the subway. And there was this woman, just staring at me the whole way there.”

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. “This morning?”

She nodded. “Well, I haven’t been on the subway since I graduated from college, so I don’t know; I figured this was how people act on the subway. Maybe she was amazed to see a black girl wearing a suit and flashing a badge.”

I rolled my eyes. When I’d first met Karen, she’d been investigating a murder for which I was responsible, but it was a Company job, and I’d been required to stick around to make sure the cops made the right mistakes and thought it was a suicide. Karen had been the only black woman on the job, and she was Detective. Being such a high profile case, she’d interviewed me four times. By the end of the first interview, I was hooked. She wasn't the first black woman I’d dated-hell, I’ve dated pretty much every race God has to offer-but she hadn’t made a big deal about her skin colour. She very rarely did. Her father was white, and she’d grown up with plenty of prejudices, but she was tough and smart, and had no time for people judging her on how she looked. It had taken me all of two dates to fall in love with her. And all of two years to admit it.

“And what then, baby? This woman throws her bag at you?”

Now she rolled her eyes. “No, Harry, get this: she was on the subway home as well. She sat herself next to me, but never said a goddamn word to me. Then she got up the stop before mine, but she left her handbag on the seat. Well, at first I figured it was a bomb, but I had a look inside and there’s nothing in there. There’s a Kleenex and a tampon, but that’s pretty much it.”

“Ouch. Hope she doesn't get those two mixed up. Either way, it’d be pretty messy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I wasn't going to bring it home, but I was thinking, y’know, maybe she knows I'm a cop and she’s trying to get a message to me, like her husband’s abusing her, or she knows something about a case.”

Or she knows I'm an assassin and she’s trying to trap you. “Did you recognise her? Have you questioned her about anything?”

She thought hard for a moment, the skin between her eyes tightening as she concentrated. “I don’t remember her, no. And I'm pretty good with faces.”

This story had my back raised, although I couldn’t pinpoint why. Years of lies and lying, I guess, should have made me better at judging when there was falseness to a story. Not that I doubted Karen, no, my wife, despite her profession, saw innocence everywhere. But the tale was strange, and I should have known that Karen wasn’t safe. That I wasn’t safe. Like I said, if I’d have known it was starting, I wouldn’t have gotten involved. At that moment, standing in my kitchen with my wife, we were already involved, but dammit, it was our last chance to step away.

“Harry?”

I was far away, thinking about her story, wondering if there was anything I should do. No, I thought, I'm just rattled by Gray. That stupid son of a bitch has got me seeing shadows around every corner. I tightened my arms around her. “What, baby?”

“You’re gonna miss your flight, honey. Isn't someone waiting on a kidney and you’re standing here grilling me about this handbag?”

“Right. Shit. I gotta go. You want me to look at the car on my way?”

The eyebrow was raised again. I didn't give her enough credit. She was a cop after all, and I was lying to her on a daily basis. Maybe she knew more than I realised. There was a beat before she answered.

“Only if you have time, Harry. It can wait. I’ll take it to the shop tomorrow.”

“Hey, hey. I got time. The flight isn't for another forty minutes, and the kidney, well, it’s still with the donor at the moment,” she wrinkled her nose at this prospect, “So I got five minutes to look in the car and see what’s burnt out. But only five minutes. Don’t expect me to take off my shirt and starting rooting around in there.”

Her smile turned wicked. “You still talking about the car?”

I slid my hands down her soft arms. “If you wanted, I could leave the car and put my five minutes to better use?”

She was back to playful. “Five minutes? I’ll wait until you get home, baby. Then I might get the longer show.”

I let my hands drop. “You definitely will. I’ll see you in a couple of days, honey.”

She kissed me quickly on the lips, but neither of us lingered. I had to get out, I wanted to see Gray and find out what had spooked him. On my way past, I popped the hood of the car and peered inside.

It was one of those moments you relive so many times and wonder if you had just done this one thing differently; the outcome of almost everything else would have been different too. The oil cap of the car had been screwed off. I screwed it back on, and as I did, I saw a hanging cable which looked severed on one side. Now, I've disabled cars before. I know what each cable relates to, and there is no way in this world that the cable I saw hanging was the severed brake cable. Of course, the police report said that it had been ‘clearly and systematically destroyed’. But the last time I saw that car, the brake cable was perfectly intact. The wire that was severed was the indicator light.  

©Nicola Pearce

Another Slightly Grim Story

The sharp taste of his own blood swung him back around into consciousness. He blinked, and tried to move his head into the direction of the light, but as he did, a wave of blackness threatened upon him again, and he stopped trying. His lips were cracked and dry, and the blood seeped into the rivets in his skin like water through the desert. He coughed, and sparkles of light seared his vision as his head shook.

He might be a bit of a rookie detective, but he had the distinct feeling that this was not good.

His mind flicked back to its last moment of coherent thought before he awoke to his own blood in his mouth. He had been here, on the brink of possibly the most significant deduction of his short professional career, about to ambush the woman he thought was responsible for the murder of three young, healthy professional men. All three had been abducted and tortured before their untimely deaths, and the general consensus was that they were murdered by one big mean monster of a guy, but he had had other ideas from day one. The fact that he was correct, at this very moment in time, served him no great comfort.

He closed his eyes slightly and listened for the sound of life in the darkness. Was she here, watching him, waiting to see if he awoke so she could begin toying with him for his life? Or had she incapacitated him and gone off for her next victim? He knew he wasn't her usual type of prey. He was young, yes, but unlike the other victims, relatively uneducated and definitely not wealthy. He might have been pretty highly regarded among his professional peers-he had a knack for putting the pieces of a crime together that few could rival-but the other dead men had been graduates of some of America’s finest universities, and had gone into careers which meant that their bank balances left little to be desired. He was just some cop, twenty six and pushed to the front of the professional queue. She wouldn’t waste her time on him. Not normally, but seen as he had broken into her house with the intention of arresting her for the murders of which she was responsible, he could understand how he might have thrust himself into her spotlight.

Wallis. He had told Wallis where he was going. His partner, older and far wiser than he, had thought it was a dead end, but he knew. He knew he was there. As the night drew on and he didn’t return, Wallis would raise the alarm. The older man was pretty decent in looking out for him. If Susanna called the station asking why he wasn't home yet, Wallis would know to come here. Trouble was, he didn’t have any idea what time it was. He might have arrived here an hour, or a day, ago. And was this even the house he had broken into in the first place?  And, God, what if Susanna didn’t bother to call? She was checking on him less and less these days.

Shit.

In the darkness, he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening and soft footsteps on the wooden floor, although they were making a concerted effort to remain silent. His head felt hot, as though the wound that had been dripping down into his mouth had become infected, and another wave of darkness threatened him as he tried to concentrate on the room’s other occupant. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to lose the small element of surprise he had over his attacker. 

She drew closer to him and he knew it was her from the lightness of her footsteps, and as she came close enough for him to tell, the gentle scent of her perfume. Although his eyes were closed, he knew she was only centimetres away from his face. He could feel her breath on his skin. For just a moment, Susanna flickered into his mind, and he wondered whether he would ever see his wife again.

“Hello Jimmy,” she said into the darkness, and it took every ounce of his self restraint to not react to the surprise of her voice. She began to trace her finger over his face, and had he not known better, he would have thought it was the touch of a lover. As it was, it felt like the hands of death.  Her fingers danced over his skins, cupping his cheek slightly and running her hand, almost gently, though the day-old stubble that shadowed his face. He kept his face lowered, still maintaining his alleged unconsciousness, but when she lifted her hands through his hair and plunged her fingers into the wound on his skull, he lifted his head and howled in her face.

She kept her face only inches from his, her bloodied fingers wrapped around his matted hair. “Did you think I didn’t know you were awake, Jimmy? I have night vision cameras in here, you know. You’re my little pet.”

There were streaks of lightning rushing through his vision, and the steady stream of blood into his mouth had returned. He looked deep into her hazel eyes, expecting her to be devoid of any emotion, but he could see how much pleasure she was getting from this. Although undeniably beautiful, her loveliness was robbed by the insanity which overtook her delicate features. Her olive skin was soft, but was covered in flecks of his blood and her full lips were curled into a snarl.

“What were you doing, coming here? This isn’t even my home. You walked right into my…lair, I suppose. Right into the den of the wolf. You must have known I would kill you. And I liked you, you know? So handsome, and funny. One of the best cops I’ve ever worked with. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it was you who figured me out. I just wish it hadn’t been.”

He looked down and saw his badge in her hand. Was that how she had known he was coming for her? He’d never dropped it before. She flicked it open for him to see.

Oh, Godammit.

It wasn’t his badge. Although the words were too saturated with blood for him to read it clearly, he could make out one corner of Wallis’ face. His partner had come for him, and it had cost him his life. The older cop wasn’t really all that old. Forty three only a month ago. He still had a young son in high school, less than ten years younger than Jimmy himself. And now he was dead. Jimmy looked up into the eyes of the woman that he knew was going to end his life, and spat in her exquisite face. She never even turned away, never made a move to wipe her cheek. In fact, she allowed a brief, beautiful smile to cross her lips.

“It wasn't my fault, Detective. I never sent him here. I think you’ll find that was you. I wouldn’t have killed him had it not been for you.”

She said these words quietly and calmly, and Jimmy knew they were true. He could have waited, could have gotten backup or called it in, but he hadn’t. He’d called Ian Wallis, who’d told him he was a stupid bastard and that no ninety pound forensic examiner could be responsible for three murders.

Four murders.

And now Wallis was dead, and he was, he reckoned, only minutes behind. He had a strong suspicion that if left alone long enough, the head wound which was pulling at the threads of his consciousness would take his life, let alone whatever wounds he was undoubtedly about to receive.

She flicked the badge wallet closed again, and placed it at his feet. Her hair fell over her face slightly as she did so, and Jimmy leaned forward, testing the strength of his weakening body. A kick might disable her, he thought. He was a strong guy, ran every day, and he liked to think he had a certain level of resolve. Injured or not, he might be able to knock her out until help arrived. That was providing there was help coming, of course. Wallis might not have called it in, tried to cover Jimmy’s back and ending up getting them both killed. Jimmy was never going to know what was happening out there. All he could do was try. All this ran through his head in adrenaline filled seconds. He might not get another chance like this, and he knew he had to take it.

            He pushed his body backwards, preparing himself to issue her with a kick that would knock those perfect teeth out of her pretty little mouth. She was still looking down at the picture of his fallen partner as he lunged forwards, ignoring the pain that ran through his skull and the blood that clouded his vision. He propelled himself at her and she fell, but the impact very nearly stopped him, too. She took the brunt of the fall as they landed, but recovered far more quickly than Jimmy himself. He lay on the floor, trying to breathe through the pain that invaded him as he realised that although the head wound was probably his most sinister injury, it wasn't his only one. He had at least two broken ribs and his ankle was soft and mushy. How he had managed to run at her was a mystery, but he knew he had little chance of getting up anytime soon. He closed his eyes, willing the pain away. She scrambled to regain her footing, but Jimmy lay on the damp wood of the cellar floor, no threat to her now.

            “Nice try, Jimmy. More than any of the others have tried. More than Ian tried.” Her voice was smug, triumphant, but more than that. Every time she spoke, there was a hint of sexual allure in her voice, a flirtation. Jimmy had heard it plenty when she was talking to him-in fact; the tone was nothing new when it came to the way women spoke to him. He was no fool, and he knew his good looks went a long way in getting female witnesses to be that bit more helpful than maybe they would be for other cops.

            “It is a shame that I’m going to kill you. I’m not a complete monster, you know. It’s been a shame for all of them, in their own little way. But for you, and for Ian, it does seem that little bit more tragic. Ian, because it was your fault and not his. And you,” She leaned down so that her face was, once again, close enough to kiss, “You because you’re so handsome, so good, and you have that little wife of yours who adores you and a baby so newborn that you’ll only ever be a tragic hero to her. A face in photographs that she’ll never know.”

            He lifted his face to hers then, anger blazing in his eyes. Numb from his pain for a moment, he pushed himself up so that their skin touched.

            “She will not lose me,” he hissed, “You won’t take me away from them you psychopathic bitch.”

            Once again she smiled. “Oh, Jimmy,” she murmured softly, “I already have.”

© Nicola Pearce

19.02.2008 

Saviour

So. Here's the beginning of a novel I started about five years ago. Five years? That's terrifying. It feels like yesterday I wrote this. Anyway. The context you'll need is that I had an idea about a cult believing that a particular child was their Messiah, their saviour, and that the mother had no option but to relinquish her newborn son. I haven't actually read this back for years, but I think it's decent. Better than anything I write these days, anyway! I hope you like it-if you don't like the content, I at least hope you like the style; my voice. Enjoy

Nic x

            The wind whipped severely around a cluster of battered trees, which bent and coiled in response. Tessa, standing at the window, watched them and felt a strange sense of empathy. I am the trees, she thought, I bend to the wind and let it control me. She watched again as one of the trees, the one she would have believed to be the strongest, relinquished a branch to the onslaught of the gale. Sighing thoughtfully, she began to turn away when her body was gripped in an almost vice-like pain. Bending her knees, she grasped on to the heavy oak table beside her as she was lifted by a pair of strong hands.

            “Do not drop to the floor like that. You could hurt yourself,” he said, practically dragging her across the thick carpet. Tessa, still staring out of the window, tried to claw away, but the pain was too bad. There was an array of glittering stars in her vision, and she inhaled deeply, trying to clear them. She knew something was wrong. It shouldn’t be this bad.

            “Please,” she begged, “I can stand. I want to stand by the window.”

            The man was unrelenting. “You’ve been standing there for over an hour. It is a little unreasonable for you to think you can do this standing up. You don’t have long left, I think. You need to be examined by the doctor.” He bodily picked her up and put her on a chaise long that was barely wide enough to fit her pregnant frame. As soon as he let her go, Tessa stood again, wobbling a little on her feet, but standing nonetheless. She looked again around the room, a lavishly decorated study, with a mahogany bookcase, several pieces of precious art adorning the walls and a moose head on a plague above the door. She had no idea where she was, no way of escape. The only concession she had been granted was the view from the window, and now she’d lost that, too. She looked at the man in the room with her. She knew his face well, of course. He had been following her for months. He was stunning, a beautifully chiselled face, a strong jaw and piercing blue eyes. His dark hair rested just on the nape of his neck, showing his broad shoulders. She didn’t know what he did in the time he wasn't following her, but she could see from his physique that he was a runner.

            He was also right about her not having long left in her labour. Her waters had broken almost seventeen hours ago, and she knew that it was coming to an end soon. He body felt wrung out, and she could feel it preparing to give birth. Her child, her beloved child, so wanted, so loved, was arching its body to free itself from the safety of her womb, and her body was ready to let it go, even if she wasn’t.    

            “What are you…” she began, but paused as another, much stronger contraction gripped her. She inhaled sharply and bent forwards, trying not to show the pain on her face, but she knew how unsuccessful she must have been. The pain was terrible, a dark creature controlling her body, tightening it, pulling at her edges. She tried to fight it, but was forced to let it overcome her like a disease. Eventually, it subsided, and she sat for a moment recovering. He watched her with curiosity, like she was a rare animal in capture, his blue eyes scanning her face as she dealt with the pain.

            “Ok now? You ready for me to call the doctor yet?” He asked, marching across the room and picking up his mobile phone, the only modern commodity in the room.

            Tessa sat back a little, still shocked by the intensity of the pain. “Is he a real doctor?”

            He seemed to consider this. His handsome face paused before he answered. “We would not put you or your baby in any danger.”

            Tessa smiled wryly. “Guess not, then.”

            “Your baby will not be in any danger,” he repeated, not taking his eyes off her.

            Your baby, she thought. No mention of the father. That seemed appropriate.

            She knew that denying the presence of the doctor would be moot soon anyway, because she was so close to giving birth. She sighed, feeling the wave of pain rising in her again.

            “Call him, if you must,” she said uncomfortably, as the contraction hit.

            As Tessa writhed in agony on the chaise long, she saw him flick open the phone and make the call. He said simply, “You’d better get in here,” before flicking the phone shut again. Tessa closed her eyes, enjoying the last few moments that would be alone, although the pain inside her was horrendous, like the baby was clawing to get out. She clenched her teeth, feeling her jaw crack at the pain overtook her. She tried to push herself further back on the chaise long, trying to prepare herself for what she knew was very, very close. She arched her back and tried to breathe, praying equally for this to be over soon and for it to never end.

            The doctor could not have been far away, because he entered the room in a matter of seconds after the call was made. He didn’t speak to her, simply lifted her knees and moved her nightgown over them. Her companion moved backwards, so that he was somewhere near her head. He didn’t touch her, and Tessa wished he would, wished that one of these men would show her some compassion. Another man had entered the room, a man she had met only once, six months before, and he was as silent and foreboding now as he had been then. Tessa tried not to look at him.

            The pain was not stopping, and Tessa was having difficult understand why there was seemingly no end to the contraction, when she felt the overwhelming urge to push. She began to bear down, and again, none of the men spoke to her, or even acknowledged her presence in the room. The so-called doctor began to help her guide the baby out, but his contact was cold and unfeeling. Tessa reached up and grabbed the shirt of the blue-eyed man.

            “The window,” she hissed, “Let me look out of the window.”

            He looked up at the doctor, who glared at Tessa as though she was a petulant child. He looked over his shoulder at the silent man, who shook his head once. The doctor turned back and said to her, “Of course not. Don’t be stupid.” His accent was quiet, South African, and in another life, Tessa would have loved to hear it, but now it cut her to the bone.

            The pain rose inside her again, and Tessa cried out. She felt as though she was being ruptured from inside, the pain burned and pulled at her. She felt the urge to push again, and she did so, letting out a scream as she felt something extremely strange pushing out of her. She looked at the doctor. “Is it out?”

            He gave her the same look again. “Does it feel out? You’re still having contractions. You have delivered head and shoulders. We still need you to push. Stop asking questions and do it.”

            Tessa closed her eyes, feeling a pain in her deeper than the labour, the sear of grief. She had never felt so alone, so overwhelmed, and she felt like a fool for letting these men take from her the best thing that could have happened. She should never have listened to them. She should never have believed their lies.

            She bent herself backwards, finally working with her body, instead of fighting the pain. The contraction did not subside but still ripped at her, but Tessa felt as though she was no longer associated with her aching body. Her thick blonde hair, usually so styled, was plastered against her cheek and neck as she gritted her teeth together. She barely was aware of herself pushing, but she felt the release as her child was pulled from her body. Immediately, her body eased, and she rested for a second.

            The room seemed eerily silent, waiting for the baby to cry. Suddenly, noise erupted from the doctor’s hands, the strong and powerfully incessant cry of her child. Tessa swore that in all of her days, she would not forget that noise. She sobbed, overcome by emotion, by her imminent loss.

            “Is it a boy or a girl?” She begged, trying to get the attention of all three men, who were crowding around the screaming child. They ignored her, so she tried to stand, but her knees wouldn’t hold her weight. Fear rose in her, sheer panic that she would never get to see the baby, never even touch it.

            “Let me see it!” She screeched, hysteria and terror blatant in her voice. The doctor looked up in surprise, and Tessa saw the face of her child.  Although it was screaming, she had never seen anything more beautiful, or more pure. The baby had wide set blue eyes, and bore her some resemblance, but it hurt her heart that the child was not an echo of her. She would leave no mark on this baby’s face, no sign that they had ever once been the same person. She cried again, reaching out for the infant.

            “I want to hold it,” she said softly, “I will not let you take this away from me yet.”

            Obviously reluctant, the doctor handed her the now swaddled baby. As if by magic, the child’s cries subsided as Tessa took hold of it. She pulled at the swaddling cloth gingerly, not wanting to make the baby cold.

            A boy. He was a little boy.

            Tessa could not stop the warm tears spilling down her face as she held her son in her arms. She brought him close, inhaling his beautiful scent, and she kissed him on the cheek. He had begun to cry again, but she pulled him close, soothing him gently. She too was crying, but she held on to him, easing his tears and ignoring her own. She murmured softly in his ear, letting him hear her voice, telling him that she loved him more than anything in the world, and that what was happening was not her choice. She pulled him closer as the doctor leaned forward to remove him from her arms.

            “You won’t hurt him, will you? You won’t let anything happen to him?” She knew her voice was desperate, but she was beyond the point of caring. The doctor was back to ignoring her, and he turned away with the child. Her companion, the handsome man who had been with her since the start of her labour, shook his head.

            “Of course we won’t hurt him. We have been waiting for him.”

            Tessa began to sit up. “Won’t you need me, for a while, for breast milk? That’s important for his health. You’ll need me to stay.”

            He looked Tessa in the eye. “Yes, you will stay here for two more weeks. We will get you a breast pump. You will not see the child again.”

            Tessa found that she still couldn’t stand. Something was happening inside of her. “But if I’m here, what harm will it do?”

            There was no reply to this. Tessa was momentarily preoccupied with the strange pain emanating from her belly. She thought for a moment that she was still in labour. She looked up just as the doctor was leaving.

            “Wait! I'm in pain. Something’s happening.”

            The doctor paused for a moment at the door, and then turned back. The expression on his face was of extreme exasperation, as though Tessa was one problem he had no interest in dealing with. He glanced up at the silent man, as though contemplating handing the baby over to him, but then thought against it. He handed the baby to the other man, and then came over to examine her. His exam was brusque and unpleasant, but Tessa felt her pain ease as he removed something from inside her.

            “The afterbirth,” he said, as though that were obvious. “You’ll be fine after you sleep.”

            The doctor walked back towards the baby, leaving Tessa in a pool of her own blood on the chaise long. There was nothing in her left to cry, and she could only watch as he took the baby out of the room. The child’s cries echoed down the hallway, and Tessa closed her eyes, imprinting the sound on her brain. As he left, a woman, not much more than a girl, entered the room. Dressed all in white, she was clearly subservient to the men, and her head was lowered. She came over to Tessa as both the other men left the room. As soon as the door clicked shut, Tessa broke down, not caring what this girl thought of her for doing so. So was surprised when she felt the cool, small hand of the girl on her arm.

            “Don’t be upset,” she whispered, as though not wanting to alert anyone that they were talking. “You have done a great thing.”

            Tessa thought this girl was as insane as the rest of them. “I let them take my newborn son away from me.”

            The girl smiled enigmatically. “You don’t know what you’ve done. It’s a shame you don’t know.”

She began to clear the blood from the leather. She gently eased Tessa up, making sure she wasn’t still bleeding, giving her something to drink. Tessa realised this girl must be medically qualified, here to do the job the doctor wasn’t capable of. After a few minutes, she phased out, thinking only of the strong, sturdy weight of her son in her arms. She closed her eyes, knowing that exhaustion would soon let her slip away into unconsciousness, and that there she could dream that this ordeal had never happened.

Softly, and with dreams of her beautiful baby boy, and not his horrific birth, Tessa succumbed to blessed darkness, where she knew she would always remain.

One Year Later

          The streets of New York city, often written about, well cited as inspiration for the most stunning, darkest, and most provocative of creations was, to Tessa, like a huge monster, sucking the life out of its inhabitants, whilst giving them the belief that they lived in God’s greatest kingdom. She was as addicted to it as every other person she passed in the street, and yet she knew she could, and should, live without the impact it had on her life. But Tessa had yearned for anonymity, to disappear from the world, and there was nowhere better to do that then here.

            Tessa walked into a Starbucks opposite her home. The Starbucks was small, and quite quiet, away from the hubbub of the city, and Tessa liked it specifically for this reason. The motif on the walls was subtle, earthy tones and quiet, unobtrusive music, and Tessa spent many evenings here, looking out of the window, considering her greatest mistake.

            The weather outside was electric, calm and cold, waiting for a storm to break. The sky was eerily bright, and the air was expectant, knowing soon the downpour would come. Tessa sipped her coffee, settling herself in by a window, trying to snuggle as much as possible into the thick, velvet seat. She was always cold these days. It had been many, many days since she had known warmth.

Tessa looked down at the notes and papers she had strewn upon her lap. Since arriving in New York eleven months ago, she had forced upon herself some distance from the life she had known before. Before she had come to New York, before the reason she had to leave- Tessa had been a student of philosophy and belief. She had taught in a community college in Seattle, and loved her life. Now she had come home, back to the place she had been born, and partly raised, and taken a job as a secretary to a small-time lawyer, a man who dealt with business affairs and compensation claims. The work was simple and mind-numbing, but Tessa needed to numb herself from the memories that followed her. The papers on her lap were some simple administrative notes, work that she could have done in the office, but she always took some work home with her. She didn’t like having free time.

She gathered up the papers and set them aside, knowing that once she got home she’d be glad of having something to do. As she did so, she knocked the coffee cup over, sending almost an entire cup of coffee onto the counter. The hot brown liquid slid across the table, just as the waiter was passing with a tray. He stopped, and began to wipe up the coffee. He smiled up at Tessa. She knew him well, she was here almost every day, but she never spoke to him, never met his eye. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from apologising for the spillage. He chuckled, his eyes creasing at the edges.

“Don’t worry about it. That’s what I’m here for. I’ll get you another coffee if you want it.”

Tessa shook her head frantically. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

He smiled again as he stood. “No trouble. It’s on the house, so long as you don’t go bragging about it,” he winked as he headed back to the coffee machines.

Tessa nodded, only half sure she should accept. The last thing she wanted was to encourage him, because she didn’t want to invite conversation. He seemed to be busying himself making her coffee, and Tessa left him to it. She would gladly pay him for both cups of coffee, so long as he left her alone.

“Tessa? Tessa Drake, is that you?”

Tessa froze. She stared forwards, hoping the voice would leave her alone if she didn’t respond.  She turned herself away from the noise, praying inwardly that she wouldn’t have to talk to whomever it was that was calling her. She heard nothing for a moment, and she relaxed her shoulders slightly. She was safe for now. When she felt the fingers coil upon her shoulder, Tessa screamed and almost rose completely from her chair. She turned; smacking her forehead against the elbow of whomever had reached out to her. Tessa screamed again as the woman began to apologise profusely.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-Tessa, that is you, isn’t it?”

Tessa resigned herself to the fact that there was no escaping her having a conversation with this woman. She looked at her properly for the first time and saw it was Melanie Stokes, someone she had known both in high school, and by coincidence, they had both gone to the same college. Melanie’s almond shaped brown eyes were narrowed in concern.

“Are you okay? You didn’t answer when I shouted you.”

“Yes, I-I’m sorry about that. Sorry about your elbow.”

Melanie slipped into the seat beside her. Her long body had filled out slightly since the last time Tessa had seen her, but she looked better for it. Instead of looking boyishly lean, she looked curvier and more comfortable with her body.

“Oh, don’t worry about my elbow, Tessa. I smacked you in the head. You okay?”

Tessa was about to respond when the waiter returned with her coffee. Tessa managed a smile for him, but was thankful she didn’t have to embark upon a conversation with him now that Melanie was at her table.

“To be honest, Tessa, I wasn’t even sure it was you, you look so different,” Melanie said, making no secret of the fact that she was looking Tessa up and down, and Tessa couldn’t blame her. In the past twelve months, she had undergone a radical appearance change. She had always been curvy, but her appetite had long left her, and she was now skinny, almost bony. Her pelvic bone jutted out as did her shoulder blades and ribs, and although she didn’t look ill necessarily, she certainly looked different. Her hair, always blonde, was now a deep shade of chocolate, but she had been unable to change it so far as to shorten it, because more than even she had wanted to hide behind her tresses. Her clothes were dark, always shades of brown and black, anything to avoid being noticed,  because her newfound hollowness had given her cheekbones, had made her wide green eyes even more appealing,  and her lips, always plump, look surgically enhanced, and despite her desire to be unnoticed, her clothes had done little to hide her from the world. Melanie was looking at her strangely, and Tessa shrugged.

“Yeah, I just, y’know I felt like a change.”

Melanie nodded, and smiled. “Well, I know what you mean. After college, I think my hair must have gone through hundreds of different colours and styles. My stylist was sick of seeing me. I was trying to find myself. Such a cliché.” Melanie laughed, and motioned for the waiter to bring her the same as Tessa was having. “I love the brunette though, it suits you. Really brings out your eyes. And you must have lost a hundred pounds! Not that you needed to lose an ounce, but still, you look great.”

Tessa nodded, and picked up the coffee in front of her. She actually had no idea how much weight she’d lost in the past year. It didn’t seem important.  She felt she ought to respond, and Tessa smiled for Melanie.

“You don’t look so bad yourself. In fact, you look amazing.”

Melanie smiled, but Tessa could tell she loved hearing the compliment. Not that Tessa had minded telling her; the truth was that she did look happier, and her eyes were lit up, her skin glowed, and she was a lifetime away from the moody kid she had been when they were both teenagers. It’s funny, she thought, we all have our demons to battle.

            Melanie swept a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks Tessa. I do feel, I don’t know, more comfortable with myself. You remember in college, I was all hands and feet, so tall and skinny? I hated my body. But, I guess as I’ve gotten older, I’ve accepted myself a little. Plus, I got married last year. His name’s Scott and he’s a cop. Would you believe it? I married a cop.”

            The source of Melanie’s happiness was so obviously her husband that Tessa couldn’t stop herself from smiling. Melanie proffered her left hand and showed Tessa her sparkling rings. There was something innate in Tessa to respond to jewellery, and she couldn’t stop herself letting out a small cry of appreciation at the glittering stones on Melanie’s engagement and wedding rings.

            “Oh, they’re beautiful. You’re so lucky.”

            Melanie beamed, and Tessa once again felt a surge of sympathy for her. When they had been in high school and college, they had been friends, and while Tessa had been beautiful and outgoing, and popular with boys, Melanie had been sporty and self-conscious, and had very few boyfriends. They had been close until they had graduated, and despite both of their best intentions, they had drifted apart.

            “You’ll have to meet him. He’s not a beat cop anymore-that’s how we met, he’s a detective now.”

            Tessa raised an eyebrow. “You met him when he was a beat cop? What were you doing?”

            Melanie laughed, just as the waiter came over with her coffee. She crossed her legs and pulled herself closer to the table. “My purse had been stolen. Some junkie, I guess, I don’t know. Anyway, he was on a street corner as I was running after the guy. You know me, Tessa, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s running. So, I come around this corner at fifty miles an hour and run straight into Scott. We both end up on the floor, and I’m screaming at him to go after this guy. By the time we’d got ourselves off the damn floor, the thief was long gone, but you know what? I cancelled all my credit cards, and met my husband, so I guess the kid did me a favour.” She took a long sip of the coffee, closing her eyes and savouring the flavour. Tessa stared at her, wondering how long it would be before she would be able to appreciate something as small in her life. Everything was a battle for Tessa, everything reminded her of what she’d lost, or frightened her into remembering the ordeal of giving up her son. She shivered as she thought of him, of how old he was now, and how much she had already missed. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to wipe her memory clean. Her heart often betrayed her like this, throwing the memories at her when she thought she was doing okay, that she might just be able to make it through the day.

            Melanie placed the mug back on the table. “So what about you? Are you married?”

            “No, I,” Tessa paused, realising her voice had come out strangled. She cleared her throat.

            “No, not married. I’ve been close, once, but…things happen, you know? I’ve been single for a while.” She held up her naked left hand.

            “Looking like that? How are you still single?” Melanie smiled, not patronising, but encouraging. Tessa smiled back, knowing that Melanie would never know why it would be a long time before she let a man touch her again.

            Although she had only had a small sip of the coffee, Melanie pushed it away, obviously finished with it. She cleared her throat slightly, and then looked Tessa right in the eye.

            “I’m going to have to head off now. Scott’s outside in the car, I told him I was getting something to go,” she laughed slightly at herself. “Although he’s probably not surprised it took me twenty-five minutes. Look,” she said, reaching in her handbag for a pen and scribbling her phone number down on a napkin. “Call me. I’ve missed you, Tessa. We were such good friends, and I loved seeing you. I want you to meet Scott. You will call me, won’t you?”

            Tessa stared down at her cup of coffee, wishing it could swallow her up. Her friendship with Melanie had been a lifetime ago, a time when she was a different person. But Tessa was lonely, and she was bruised from being hurt and alone for so long. She closed her eyes. Surely an old friend, one she knew was safe and wouldn’t hurt her, surely that would be okay?

            Her hesitance was not lost on Melanie, who took a step away from her. “It’s okay,” she said, her tone colder now, “You don’t have to.”

            Tessa stood up, afraid that if she let Melanie go she’d never take the first step back into enjoying her life. She reached out for her friend, touched her arm. Tessa felt the softness of Melanie’s linen jacket, her arm underneath. It had been so long since she’d touched anyone or anything, so long since she’d felt her numbness lift out of despair. She knew she needed someone to lean on.

            “I won’t have to call. Let’s arrange something right now.”

            Melanie’s face broke into a smile, just as she had years ago in college when she was upset and Tessa had soothed her pain. If only Melanie knew how much Tessa needed the favour returning now.

All content © Nicola Pearce