The hummingbird killer, p.26
The Hummingbird Killer, page 26
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
‘It’s about Mortimer.’
Her legs are shaking. She halts the treadmill and leans against the console to steady herself, looking him full in the face. ‘What about him?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and he almost looks it, though she’s sure he’s secretly delighted to bring her whatever misery he’s lined up this time. Maybe he planned it, whatever happened, so that he can be the one to break it to her.
‘Get on with it,’ she snaps, already braced for impact. She wants it over with, before her stomach sinks any more, before the dread catches up with her. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Hummingbird.’ The tiny glimmer of sympathy in Ronan’s expression looks disgusting and alien on his face. ‘Isabel, they came for him.’
31 DISFALI (TO COLLAPSE)
Isabel can’t breathe. The world around her rocks forward, like she’s still standing on the treadmill, but her legs have crumpled beneath her, and she’s hunched on the floor next to the machine. ‘No.’
‘They were waiting for him when he got home. His shop’s been smashed to pieces.’
‘Is he…’ She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence. Not Mortimer. Not now. No.
‘He’s not dead. Yet.’
A shuddering breath and her lungs are rejecting the oxygen, ungrateful for the gift she’s giving them. She forces herself to take another and another, until she’s on the brink of vomiting. ‘But he’s hurt?’ She should have known they’d come for him eventually. And she wasn’t there to protect him, because she’s here.
‘Badly. They beat him with broken furniture. There are splinters in the wounds, and he’s unconscious.’
Isabel swears viciously, because she can’t cry in front of Ronan. ‘Where is he now?’
‘In hospital. Daragh’s looking after him.’ Maybe he thinks that’ll reassure her, but all she can think is Daragh cares too much to have to watch Mortimer die. ‘I know he’s Free Press, Isabel.’
She looks up, expecting a threat or an ultimatum to follow, but none comes. She says, ‘Is that why they attacked him?’
‘No,’ says Ronan. ‘It was because of you.’
Normally, she’d expect those words to come with satisfaction, vicious glee, sadistic pleasure, but Ronan’s simply stating a fact. He crouches beside her and holds out a piece of paper. No, not paper, a photograph.
‘They left this at the shop,’ he says, and Isabel takes it from him with shaking hands.
It’s her. It’s grainy security-cam footage, but it’s clearly her, standing over the bodies of Hummingbird’s admin staff, knives in her hands. She knew they’d take their revenge, but she didn’t think they’d take it out on Mortimer.
Why didn’t she think they’d take it out on Mortimer? He’s never been untouchable, and it isn’t hard to guess that he’s somebody they could use to hurt her. She hasn’t hidden their connection: she’s always going to and from his flat, telling herself it didn’t matter because nobody cared about her. But they care now. Because she broke into Hummingbird, and massacred their agents, and made herself a legitimate target.
Made Mortimer a legitimate target.
And she’s not even done making them angry yet.
Isabel drops the photograph. ‘They didn’t kill him,’ she says numbly. ‘It was Hummingbird, but they didn’t kill him.’
‘I suppose they thought this sent a stronger message.’
It does. It tells her that they want to cause her pain, but they want to drag it out, watch her dance at the end of the rope for a little while before they finally yank away the chair.
‘I’m not doing this assignment,’ she tells Ronan. ‘I know you’ll do something awful to me if I don’t, but I can’t. And Hummingbird are angry enough; it’ll only make things worse.’ And she’ll lose everything she has left of herself.
‘The job needs doing, Isabel,’ he says, and she knows why he told her about the attack, and why he’s pretending he cares. He might not be lying about Mortimer being hurt, but he’s still trying to break her.
‘Why?’ she asks. ‘Why does it need doing? She’s a child, she’s not—’
He cuts her off. ‘I don’t have to justify myself to you,’ he says. ‘It’s a message that needs to be sent.’
A message. A child’s death is a message, an opening gambit in whatever conflict’s about to erupt between the guilds. She doesn’t want to be the piece that starts a war. She doesn’t want to do this at all. ‘Then get somebody else to send it. Because I won’t. Not like this.’
Ronan purses his lips and regards her. She feels very small, hunched against the wall, sweaty clothes clinging to her body. ‘How many of our agents do you think would be willing to do this job?’ he asks, after a moment.
‘Offer them enough money, they’ll do anything.’
‘Will they? Even those of them with children? Even those who remember what it was like to be twelve?’
Isabel remembers what it was like to be twelve: bloody and desperate and terrifying. ‘Then why me? What makes me different to them?’
‘You’ve got no morals left to compromise.’
So that’s how he sees her.
It takes great force of will to spit out the words: ‘Go away, Ronan.’
‘I don’t care whether or not you feel like doing the job. Work through it and get it done.’
She never said she’d do it. She never signed for the fucking file. He’s just assumed this whole time that she’s scared enough to do what he wants, because she’s never given him any reason to think otherwise.
‘I can’t,’ she says, turning her face away. ‘Not when Mortimer’s in hospital. Not like this. You’ve got to give me more time.’ Like that’ll help. Like she’ll be able to find a way out if she has another day, another week.
‘No.’ He stands. ‘We’re treating Mortimer because Daragh offered to work unpaid overtime to ensure he could be looked after at Chadwick Green. But he’s a civilian and a known Free Press collaborator. It would be very easy to have him transferred or discharged.’
So that’s the threat. Putting Mortimer’s medical care in her hands, twisting the noose tighter. He’s not only trying to destabilise her, he’s making it impossible for her to back out.
‘You can’t,’ she says. ‘He’ll die.’
‘Maybe,’ Ronan acknowledges. ‘Seems like it would be in his interests for you to keep us on your side.’
This is her fault. This is her fault. She pushes herself upright and climbs back onto the treadmill so that she doesn’t have to look at him, blinking back tears and sublimating her sobs into her rasping breath as she runs. Maybe Daragh was right when he accused her of running away from her emotions.
She can’t do this again. Because it’s not just Mortimer – it’s Grace, and Toni, and Emma, Emma, Emma, who came back for Isabel, and ended up dying for her. Who’s next? Daragh? Laura? Which of them will she bury first? She can’t face another funeral.
‘I know you’re upset,’ begins Ronan, but the sound of her feet smacking against the machine drowns out the rest of the sentence.
‘Fuck. Off,’ she tells him, her voice breaking. Her vision is so blurred that she hardly registers Ronan leaving. She wonders if he’ll force her out of the building tomorrow with a knife in her hand, out on assignment like a remote-controlled assassin with a chip in her head.
When she eventually slows and puts her head in her hands, her whole face is wet with tears.
She attacked Hummingbird, and they bit back. Mortimer’s dying. Her body, finally released from the frenzy of exercise, is beginning to shake, and a chill spreads through her in the air-conditioned room. She needs to shower and warm up, but she can’t bring herself to move. Somehow, she’s sure that if she tried to walk right now she’d collapse again.
Isabel’s not sure how long she stays there, waiting for the shaking to subside so that she can trust her legs to hold her weight, but it’s long enough that her teeth are chattering with cold, and every muscle is stiff and painful. She makes her way down the corridor, clinging to the walls to stay upright, and eventually stumbles into her room and its tiny bathroom.
The ritual is familiar, but she doesn’t feel like herself, because the Moth doesn’t have this huge pit of emotion yawning inside her. Comma agents aren’t supposed to.
You know this emotionless act won’t stop you getting hurt, don’t you? And it hasn’t. Her feelings are a wolf ripping her insides to pieces: her gut torn, her heart savaged.
Ronan will kill her if she doesn’t complete tomorrow’s assignment. She’s certain of that. He will take her from this room, and he will kill her. He might not do the job himself – he might give her to the mercies of Hummingbird or Espera – but he’ll watch her die, and he’ll enjoy it.
And she doesn’t want to die, but what kind of life is this that she’s living? If she’s never going to be free, if every breath is paid for with somebody else’s blood, is that really worth the cost? Don’t die, said Laura, because she doesn’t know the price Isabel would have to pay to obey that order.
But Mortimer is dying, and if she refuses to do the job, Ronan will take away the only hope he has left.
Isabel’s life may not be worth much to her any more, but Mortimer’s is. Ronan knows that. He knows everything that he can use to hurt her.
The towel Laura packed for her is abrasively soft against her skin, which feels like broken glass. When she wipes the condensation from the mirror to see her reflection, she half expects to see blood, but there’s nothing there except the familiar scars and tattoos.
Wings. As if she has anywhere to fly.
She’s glad to slip into her pyjamas and watch the art disappear beneath the fabric, but her emotions are less easily hidden. The bed is uncomfortable and the pillow flat, and she lies awake for some time despite her aching, exhausted body, her fears running through her mind on repeat.
She thought she had nothing left to lose, but there’s always more the world can take from her.
Of course Mortimer would be first. He was in that building when they raided Katipo and must have got himself on a few records. Add to that years of writing for the Free Press and helping them distribute this book of theirs, it’s amazing he wasn’t already on a hit list.
It’ll be Laura next. She might be a civilian, an innocent, but Isabel knows full well that won’t keep her safe. Daragh’s too well protected, deep in the heart of Comma; Hummingbird wouldn’t risk that. But Laura’s an easy target and an obvious choice, and as long as Isabel’s here, nobody’s watching her flatmate’s back.
Everything you’ve done, it’s been to protect your friends. Mortimer said it like it was something praiseworthy. Maybe that means he’d forgive her for doing the unforgiveable, because if she doesn’t, he’ll die, and Laura will be next, and Isabel can’t lose anyone else.
She was kidding herself, really, if she thought there were ever lines she wouldn’t cross when it came down to it. No time for morals when she’s already a monster. When she’s already broken beyond repair.
Isabel closes her eyes and pretends to sleep, and eventually manages to make it real enough to fool herself.
Her dreams are full of Hummingbird agents burying alive everyone she cares about in the coffins Mortimer made, and when they run out, they break down his bookshelves and cabinets and use those instead. When they get to her, she doesn’t have the strength to fight back. All she can see is the dirt pouring down on her, frozen by the knowledge that she’ll never dig her way out.
She wakes up sobbing, and doesn’t get back to sleep.
32 MORTIGI (TO KILL)
The canteen is almost empty first thing in the morning. Isabel helps herself to a plate of meat and eggs, stabbing each sausage with precise thrusts of the knife and eating them as though she’s being timed, washing it all down with black coffee. She’ll need protein and caffeine if she wants to pretend she’s actually slept.
Ronan sits down opposite her. ‘You look better than I expected,’ he says.
All traces of tears and her rough night have been taken care of, concealer smoothing away the dark bags under her eyes and the haunted look the creases in her forehead have given her.
‘Like you said,’ she tells him, ‘I’ve got a job to do.’
He smiles. ‘The Moth’s back, then,’ he says. ‘We were seeing a little too much of Isabel Ryans.’
Isabel Ryans is curled in the shower tray waiting for the running water to drown her. Isabel Ryans is shaking by the side of the treadmill. Isabel Ryans is grieving and afraid.
This is not Isabel Ryans.
‘Is there somewhere I can work?’ she asks him. ‘Planning seems a higher priority than physical training, at this stage.’
‘I’ll find you an office.’ She wants to knock the smug satisfaction off Ronan’s face. She wants to beg him to promise her that Mortimer’s care is assured. She won’t do either, because her feelings are safely under lock and key, pressed down deep inside her.
The room he gives her to work in hardly warrants the name of ‘office’; it might have been a broom cupboard in a former life. But it has a desk, and Isabel is used to planning jobs while sitting on her bed with papers strewn across her duvet cover, so it’s a step up in that regard.
She starts by reading the file in full, in case there’s anything she missed. The description of the mark is sparse, and there’s no photo or name. Just her date of birth, haunting Isabel. Whenever she closes her eyes, she can see it there, printed behind her eyelids.
It’s not that different to sixteen, she tells herself, but it is. She’s different, older – older than she ever really thought she’d be, when she was twelve and in this girl’s place.
One from Hummingbird, one from Comma: two broken children, facing each other, and all the weapons are in Isabel’s hands, but she doesn’t want to use them.
Too late for that.
The only mercy she can offer is to make it quick. Bloodless, too, if she can manage it. She favours a knife most of the time, but that feels like a violence too far, in this particular case – too visceral and savage. Isabel suspects she knows the solution, and she doesn’t like it.
Poison.
She never uses it. The papers don’t report on cause of death, so nobody’s noticed this about the Moth, but if they looked at the mortuary reports, they’d see it: no deaths from poison in two and a half years. It’s hypocritical, perhaps, to maintain this particular rule, refusing to do to others what was done to her, as though a bloodier death is a kindness. But it’s a rule she’s kept nonetheless. Poison was her father’s gift, and Isabel has no interest in sharing it, nor in allowing herself the illusion of distance from the harm she causes.
At least when I’m holding the knife, I’m being honest with myself.
But she isn’t. She lies every day that she tells herself she isn’t turning into her parents, because each step she takes away from her father’s work only serves to confirm that she’s already become her mother. A killer so remorselessly efficient that even a child is a legitimate target.
Maybe she could never have been anything else.
She knows she can’t poison the facility’s food supplies – there’d be too much collateral damage. The file is sparing on the details, but it does note that there are other children in the building, and a handful of grown agents training and supervising them. Infiltration would likely be impossible even if she had time to try, because Hummingbird know her face, so no cover would hold. She’ll have to get access to the mark’s room directly, and make it quick enough to avoid any struggle that might rouse the household.
For several long moments, Isabel sits and dredges her father’s lessons from the dark recesses of her mind, where she’s let them sink into oblivion. Then she closes the file, goes to the office down the corridor, and tells Ronan what she’ll need.
His expression is impassive, and if he’s noticed a departure from her usual modus operandi, he says nothing. ‘It’ll be ready for you,’ he tells her. ‘Anything else?’
She shakes her head. She’s not giving herself a backup plan. Either this works or it’s over.
After nightfall, she calls by the armoury to collect the items she requested, refusing to second-guess the decision she’s made. Ronan offered her transport to and from the job, but she wants the mental preparation time, so she takes the tram, watching the city go by through the scratched windows. It looks the same as always: a serene, malevolent giant, stifling in its familiarity. If the Free Press is inciting revolution through its publications, there’s no sign of it in the streets: it’s as quiet as ever, as though nothing will ever change.
Her destination is a small facility, barely more than a house. It’s very different from the complex of buildings that housed Cocoon amidst other Comma training facilities and record offices, but looks can be deceptive; based on the intel Ronan gave her, it’s only a small part of Project Emerald, which is dispersed across the Hummingbird boroughs to avoid attracting attention. The guild is relying more on secrecy than strength to protect their young recruits, the security subtle, but she suspects that will change once news about Project Emerald hits the papers. If Ronan wants this done, it’s got to be now.
One side of the building blazes with light. The other is in shadow, blinds drawn and lights off, and Isabel knows from the floor plans that this is where the recruits are sleeping. The most difficult part will be reaching the mark’s room without alerting the rest of the building or setting off any of the cameras and tripwires that surround the facility.
Isabel looks up at the house, assessing the situation. The file gave her a reasonable sense of the security, but it’s possible the intel was out of date, so she can’t take anything for granted. Her shoes are flexible and quiet, perfect for climbing, and it looks like she’ll need them: the ground-floor windows are barred, and a glance at the front and back doors confirms the locks will be a nightmare to pick, especially as they’re likely alarmed.
