The archivist, p.6
The Archivist, page 6
I run for the window, bathroom key in hand, and smash it with a clenched fist. I throw the key between the iron bars and it falls through the dark, down five floors to the ground.
Richard’s behind me, swearing so much the words blur into one. There’s a long shard of glass left in the window. It’s calling me. Wants me to take it, spin around and drive it fully into his neck. I push it out and, like the key, it falls to the ground where it shatters. I can’t kill Richard. I keep telling myself this, but dear God, do I want to.
Richard throws me to the floor. I try to stand but he sits down so heavily on my stomach that I vomit.
‘Sun, we both know a locked door won’t stop me. I’m the one who taught you to pick locks, remember?’
He runs a hand down my cheek and his fingers play with my lips. I try to bite them, but he knows it’s coming and pulls away.
‘It didn’t have to be tonight. You forced my hand. In a way, I’m thankful. Surely this is your blessing. I hope you know that I’ll take care of little Laure. We won’t be here in the morning. But for now…’ he turns to the door, ‘I think we can all agree I’ve waited long enough.’
He holds my shoulders down and kisses me on the forehead.
‘Bye, Sun.’
He gets off, but I still feel his weight. The door locks and I know he’ll have left the key in at a quarter turn.
I hear him cursing. He can’t find his lock picks or anything that’ll make a good substitute. They’re all in here with me.
I manage to stand but quickly fall over. The bathroom door may be solid, fireproof like all of the doors up here, but it’ll only delay Richard, not stop him, so I don’t have time for this shit and my body should know it. On my second attempt, I stay upright long enough to collapse against my wardrobe.
I pull out the bag I’d hidden in the bottom and meticulously, but quickly, lay everything on the floor. There are four vials, 20 ml each containing ten percent by volume. I’ve looked this up. I’m just under seven stone so what I have should be more than enough.
I slide the syringe into the top of the first vial and draw out the full amount. I don’t have the time to be squeamish and jab the needle into the skin behind my elbow, before pressing down on the plunger with my thumb. As soon as it’s done, I pull the needle out and empty the second vial before that too enters my arm.
I’ve spent enough time in the hospital to know what I’m doing. An overdose of potassium chloride will cause a cardiac arrest with an asystole rhythm.
It will stop my heart.
I taste the tears on my lips before my face feels them. I’m doing this for Laure. To save her. To save us both. I repeat this like a mantra. I’m doing this for Laure. I’m doing this for Laure.
Third vial. This feels so right. So perfect. Fourth vial. For the first time I feel like I’m in control. I can’t help but smile as I wait to die.
Chapter Seven
‘He must know it’s wrong,’ Gary says.
‘He doesn’t care,’ Geraldine replies.
‘Then make him care.’
‘I’ve tried, but…’ Geraldine looks out the window.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means I need to pick my battles, Gary. This isn’t one of them.’
‘He’ll only do it again. How many children are you going to let him hurt before you do something?’
‘Please don’t be like that.’
‘I’m not being like anything,’ Gary says. ‘It’s a genuine question. How many times will he get away with acting out before it’s not OK anymore? I understand that he needs time to deal with his frustration, but it can’t go on forever.’
‘You don’t get it!’ Geraldine cries. ‘Luke is five years old and his dad is dead. He doesn’t know how to process that. So yes, he’s going to lash out and he’ll probably hit a few more kids. If that means I get dragged into school to deal with the head teacher, then that’s absolutely fine. But what’s not OK is for you to sit there and criticise my parenting when you’re the one who’s not there!’
‘Can you please move closer to her?’
I’ve tried to extricate myself from the conversation as much as possible, so it takes a moment before I realise he’s addressing me. I slide towards Geraldine, sat at the other end of my sofa. She looks up at me and sees her husband, maybe even smells him. Tentatively, she leans her head against my shoulder, leaving it there for as long as she can stand. She cries a little as she straightens up and I move away as Gary whispers a thank you.
‘I’m sorry, Dee,’ Gary says. ‘I can’t imagine what it’s like.’
‘I’ve been close to telling them so many times. Two nights ago, Katie was inconsolable. I so wanted her to know you’re still here, but I held back. If I told her she’d expect you to come home. She’d never understand this ghost timeshare.’
And like that, everything I am is reduced to something akin to a holiday scam. I try not to dwell on it.
‘We paid for a long time. One day the children will be old enough to see me.’
‘After they’re over you. Once their lives are back to normal.’
‘And after you’ve found a new man?’
Geraldine shakes her head. ‘No. It was you when I was thirteen and it’s still you now, even if you are corporeally challenged.’
‘It means a lot to hear you say that, but you’re a yo—’
His face vanishes, taking the voice with it. Something else is coming, sidling its way into me. Facets fight over themselves as they surge along the thread that extends from my chest. The one that connects me to Sun.
They push into me, storming through my body towards my head. Parts of her face grip mine like desperate fingers reaching from my neck. It is not a fully formed thing and, in the reflection from a window, I can see Sun’s face conquer mine in tiger stripes.
As soon as she’s in, Sun’s body pulls her back and I manage to stand. Geraldine has thrown herself against the far side of the sofa and clutches a cushion to her chest.
‘Gary? Where’s Gary?’
I’m off the sofa and out of my flat, the thread in front of me glowing against the darkness of the night. It is made from the facets of Sun that I took when the connection was formed. I run past an old couple struggling with their shopping and across a road, following Sun’s memories, knowing they will lead me to her.
Another surge. An influx of Sun’s facets suddenly inside me.
She is dying.
A car has stopped at traffic lights. It’s blue, low profile. Looks fast. I get in.
‘Drive!’ I shout as I force my face to cycle through those I have within me, each one bursting from the mouth of the one who came before.
The driver, young and stupid-looking, hesitates at the red light before the car lurches forward with such ferocity I’m thrown back into the seat. I quickly slam the door shut and take the wheel. He lets go instinctively and it suddenly becomes more of a struggle to hold back the effect I have on him, but the last thing I need is an unconscious driver.
Sun’s face is back, slowly claiming mine. The driver keeps glancing at me and whimpering, but to his credit, he doesn’t slow. I’ve never driven a car before and after we mount our seventh curb, I get the sense he can tell.
I feel another surge; this one is weaker. There isn’t much of Sun left. I pull down the visor and look in the mirror. Her face creeps over mine from the edges. She has no nose or philtrum, and her eyes are partially blended into mine.
The thread shoots through the roof of the car. I tell the driver to stop and he does, slamming on the brakes and skidding to an awkward stop. His eagerness wasn’t necessary as we’re still a few streets away, but I thank him for the ride and get out. The thread extends into the sky, leading to a tower block. The driver is out of the car too, shaken, and looks at me as if he should follow. As if this will be the start of a thing.
It’s not.
I leave him by the car. Sun’s facets continue to trickle into me as the thread that connects us flickers.
I run for the lift to find it out of order. The stairs are my only option and I push my way up, fighting the urine-thick miasma with every step. The thread vanishes as I run through its frayed end, the last of Sun’s facets fleeing her body.
Ahead of me, a group of boys or men, I’m unsure what to call them, hang over the side of the railing. One of them reaches for something hidden from sight in the waist of his trousers. Another stops him.
‘That’s Richard’s girl,’ he says as I run past their music and smoke.
I jump over a pile of bin bags, most of them torn and spilling their contents, past flat after flat with no clear idea of where I need to be.
‘Please stop him.’
Sun’s voice. I have all of her. Can feel her essence inside me, lost and confused. I try to order it, slotting it neatly among the others.
‘You’re on the wrong floor. You need to go up,’ Sun says. ‘There are more stairs at the end. Two more floors.’
The stairs are a struggle. I’m thin, but it’s not through exercise. Sun talks to me as I climb. She explains where she lives, about a man named Richard, her sister, Laure, and what she needs me to do. She planned this after the first night we met. The only thing she couldn’t be certain of was whether I would help, or if I would remain at home, sat on my sofa as I gradually took possession of her essence and left her body to die.
The proof that her gamble paid off is my hand as it takes the handle to her flat and opens it.
‘Save Laure first. Keep his essence. If there’s time after that, try to save me. I left you instructions.’
I run to the locked door on the right, the one Sun told me opened to her room. She screams at me to save Laure and I pull her back as I unlock the door to find her body on the floor. There’s blood around the back of her head and over her face, but that isn’t what killed her. A note written in neat handwriting lies face up next to her left hand, and around that are four empty vials of potassium chloride and a used syringe. Next to the empty syringe are a further five vials. These are full.
It’s been three minutes since I took possession of Sun’s complete essence. The moment her heart stopped, the final surge of facets were flung off and her body was left an empty shell. I can return her essence, but if the body is not alive, then it cannot attach. The presence of Sun’s essence alone will not bring her back to life.
The instructions are precise. I inject the epinephrine first, then the four vials of sodium bicarbonate solution. I perform ten quick chest compressions, hoping that will be enough to pump the medication into her heart.
I press my forehead against Sun’s.
I have only ever taken life, never returned it. Sun is inside me, wound up tightly like bands of elastic. I push every thought Sun has ever retained, every feeling that made her cry or shriek with joy, every aspect of her personality back into her body.
The ball of potential held within the essence explodes inside her, firing the facets to wrap around her muscles and bones and veins and brain. Not everything is in the right place, but I can change that. Sun bequeathed her essence to me; that gives me control.
I close my eyes to witness the confusion in body-form that lies below me. My ethereal arms extend and manipulate, bringing order to the chaos. I move quickly, doing as much as I need to but not as much as I should. The rest will sort itself out, that or my efforts to restart the heart will fail and she will grow cold as the final flicker of light departs.
I leave Sun. There are four more doors. Three are open: a kitchen, a bathroom and an empty bedroom. A bloodied saucepan lies on the floor. I pick it up and move to the closed door, listening for hints of what I may find inside. A subdued cry. Heavy breathing. I open the door.
A young girl, Sun’s sister Laure. Only twelve, she lies on a bed wrapped in a towel. She is on her front, her long hair is wet and clumps together in lazy curls. She stares at me, scared, trying not to look hopeful. Sitting on the other end of the bed must be Richard. He massages Laure’s calf. Rubs his fingers down her naked leg. He is not how I imagined; young and well turned out. Most people would consider him handsome. They wouldn’t expect that someone who looks like him would massage the leg of a partially naked child. In their minds, that pursuit is reserved only for the ugly, old or tragically unloved.
‘You’re a new face,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to forgive me for not greeting you properly, but this poor girl was in the bath when her leg cramped.’ He focuses on Laure again, running his fingers along her calf and the back of her thigh. ‘Now that’s interesting,’ he says. ‘I’ve completely forgotten what you look like.’
‘I suggest you stop touching her.’
‘I don’t want to offend you, but I can manage this myself. If you’ll just wait outside, Mr…?’
‘Archivist,’ I say.
‘Of course you are! Well, Mr Archivist, how about you have a seat in the living room, and I’ll be with you shortly.’
His lack of concern is unsettling. He should shout and rage, or ply me with self-pitying excuses, not surround himself with this wall of unflinching confidence.
I raise the saucepan, ready to strike, but halfway into my swing Richard leaps from the bed. I have no time to react before his foot sweeps my legs and I crash onto my back, expelling every breath inside me in a violent burst.
‘At least that clears up what you’re here for.’ Richard’s voice is calm. ‘Let me guess, you made friends with the little Korean whore. I’ll give you some advice: she’s not worth it. If you leave now, we can forget this ever happened and I won’t have to kill you in front of my daughter.’
I struggle to my feet, gasping for breath. Richard has the saucepan now. He’s more practised with it than me and I feel it strike my arm only moments after I see it move. He may appear small, but he knows how to use what little weight he has. I stagger backwards, the arm he hit useless and on fire. I consider running, but what would that achieve? Despite his composure, I saw something I wasn’t supposed to, and I expect there is little chance I will be allowed to leave with that knowledge.
Richard drops the saucepan. He’s smiling, like he’s enjoying this. There’s a small bookcase by the bed on which sits a lamp designed for a child of four and a grubby coaster. He picks the bookcase up and hurls it at me. I turn as it catches me in the back, the corner digging into my hip. Books scatter across the floor and I slip on them as I struggle to escape, falling across a desk covered with neat piles of paper and rows of pens.
Richard’s keeping his distance; he knows what I am.
‘Sun isn’t my prisoner. Take her and leave. You would be doing me a favour.’
I’ve allowed myself to be pulled too far into someone else’s problem and can’t climb out without some form of resolution. I remove my gloves and lurch forward, aiming for his neck. Richard reaches into his pocket and withdraws a flick knife. One second I see it, the next, its cool blade slides into my stomach. He quickly lets go of the handle and stands back. Blood swells around the wound and soaks my shirt.
I stagger forward, trying to fall on Richard, but he’s too fast and I collapse on the floor. Hot blood runs into my trousers and the pain finally announces its presence. I hold back a moan through gritted teeth.
‘Something like you is too good to die for her.’
I lie on the floor, bleeding. Richard moves closer, ready to gloat or finish me. Laure is still on the bed. We block her escape and there are bars over the window. She’s watching me, frightened, but not looking away or covering her eyes, even though she must know what is about to happen.
A flash of flesh between Richard’s sock and the hem of his trousers; my arm shoots out and takes it. His facets brush against mine and he stops moving. I take his hand as I pull myself up, blood running around the handle of the knife buried in my stomach.
He can feel death. Can smell it, taste it, hear it, see it. Every sense screams at him that finality is approaching and all he can do is stand rigidly as colour deserts his face and his heartbeat quickens in fear before it beats slower and slower, as if aware that soon it will be time to stop forever.
My forehead is against Richard’s as I extract the facets tightly bound to his brain. They pass through his skull but do not bring the rest with them, unspooling themselves and surrendering to me in isolation. I lean forward to remove more, but they too leave the collective instead of carrying it away from the body.
Richard moans and one side of his face falls. He is a healthy man and, despite what I’ve convinced his mind, he is not near death. His essence and body are entangled and all I manage is to tear off fragments while the whole remains secure.
My own essence shudders, reorganising itself as facets push through my hands, my shoulders, my back, many pairs of arms nothing more than glowing filaments of silver that are seen only by me. They dive into Richard’s body, attacking his chest and legs and arms and head. They scour his internals, dredging the facets that stubbornly cling to him with barbed hooks that rip and wrench. I remove him piecemeal, my facets firing into him and grabbing what they can before darting out to present their prey. He twitches, then convulses violently before collapsing.
I have killed many times. It is not just my livelihood; I was born for it. We are all approaching death, each moment that passes bringing us fractionally closer to that instant when we will cease to exist. Every time I take a person’s essence, I do so before that moment. I terminate them prior to their designated end, and yet until now I have never truly felt like I have comitted murder.
Richard’s body at my feet changes that. The body of a man who, despite his outward appearance, had what most people would consider evil inside him.
