hands.
‘Stay away from me!’ shouts Kirsten. ‘Stay away!’
‘I have something for you,’ the woman says again.
Jesus Christ. What? A knife? An injection? A cold pad of chloroform to hold to my mouth?
‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ she says, scuttling up close in dirty sneakers. She has body odour: dried figs and BBQ sauce. The stink smacks Kirsten in the face: it’s a giant grey curtain, poised to smother. The woman has some sticky white sleep in her eyes. Kirsten is repelled, nauseated.
‘I’m here to warn you,’ her eyes flash from beneath her blunt-cut fringe. ‘There are people, people that want to hurt us.’
‘Us?’
‘You, and me, and the other four.’
‘Six people?’
‘Seven! Seven! One is dead already!’
Oh boy.
‘He was first on the list. He sang a song. Music man. Now he is dead. We were too late. Now I am warning you.’
Kirsten tries to step around her, but she blocks her way.
‘I didn’t believe it either when she told me,’ she rambles, ‘but she said I had to find you! Had to warn you. Had to give you the list.’
The woman takes her hand, and the feel of her clammy fingers makes Kirsten’s hair stand on end. The woman presses something cold into her palm and closes her fingers over them. A new wave of BBQ BO washes over Kirsten and she almost gags.
‘There is real danger. Don’t go to the police, they are in on it! They are pawns. Don’t tell anyone, don’t trust anyone. Like dominoes we’ll fall,’ she says, softly clicking her fingers. Click, click, click. ‘Dominoes.’ She clicks seven times. ‘Don’t trust anyone! Not even the people you love.’
Kirsten’s heart was banging around in her chest. Her watch alerts her to a spike in blood pressure. The woman turns and scurries away. After a few steps she turns and whispers: ‘Be careful, Kate.’
‘My name is Kirsten!’
‘Yes,’ says the woman. ‘Your Kirsten is my Betty, Kate. Betty-Barbara. Kirsten-Kate.’
Kirsten looks down, opening her hand to reveal a small silver key.
‘Thank Christ!’ says Kirsten as she catches sight of James. Spooked by the delusional woman in the basement, she had called and asked him to fetch her, and was waiting for him in a bright 24-hour teashop around the corner from the bar. She gets up too quickly to hug him and sends her cup and saucer stuttering to the floor where they crack and break apart in slow motion. They move awkwardly to pick up the pieces.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, mid-crouch, eyes on the floor.
‘Me too,’ she says. ‘Well, sorry that we fought, anyway.’
‘Yes,’ he says.
She’s too strung out to catch any kind of public transport, so they walk home. The pavement trips them up, but it’s a small price to pay. Kirsten tells him about Keke’s latest discovery: that there’s no record of her birth.
‘That’s impossible,’ James says. ‘There must be. Just because she can’t find proof … Look, I got your pills for you,’ he takes a plastic bottle of little yellow tablets (Lemon Zest) out of his manbag and hands it to her. After bumping him the prescription from the inVitro offices she had forgotten about it.
‘Thanks.’
He stops her, takes her by her elbows.
‘Kitty, are you okay?’
‘That … that stupid woman in the basement scared me,’ she says, childlike, vulnerable.
‘Creeps like that should be locked up,’ he says, anger grating his voice. ‘Instead of, instead of going around … frightening people. We should report her.’
Kirsten knows she shouldn’t tell him about the silver key but it’s glowing hot in her pocket, in her brain. They are walking over a bridge when she takes it out and shows it to him.
‘I know I should get rid of it,’ she says, ‘but something in me says I should keep it. I mean, I want to get rid of it …’ She feels silly. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I do,’ says James. He grabs the key out of her hand and
‘Stay away from me!’ shouts Kirsten. ‘Stay away!’
‘I have something for you,’ the woman says again.
Jesus Christ. What? A knife? An injection? A cold pad of chloroform to hold to my mouth?
‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ she says, scuttling up close in dirty sneakers. She has body odour: dried figs and BBQ sauce. The stink smacks Kirsten in the face: it’s a giant grey curtain, poised to smother. The woman has some sticky white sleep in her eyes. Kirsten is repelled, nauseated.
‘I’m here to warn you,’ her eyes flash from beneath her blunt-cut fringe. ‘There are people, people that want to hurt us.’
‘Us?’
‘You, and me, and the other four.’
‘Six people?’
‘Seven! Seven! One is dead already!’
Oh boy.
‘He was first on the list. He sang a song. Music man. Now he is dead. We were too late. Now I am warning you.’
Kirsten tries to step around her, but she blocks her way.
‘I didn’t believe it either when she told me,’ she rambles, ‘but she said I had to find you! Had to warn you. Had to give you the list.’
The woman takes her hand, and the feel of her clammy fingers makes Kirsten’s hair stand on end. The woman presses something cold into her palm and closes her fingers over them. A new wave of BBQ BO washes over Kirsten and she almost gags.
‘There is real danger. Don’t go to the police, they are in on it! They are pawns. Don’t tell anyone, don’t trust anyone. Like dominoes we’ll fall,’ she says, softly clicking her fingers. Click, click, click. ‘Dominoes.’ She clicks seven times. ‘Don’t trust anyone! Not even the people you love.’
Kirsten’s heart was banging around in her chest. Her watch alerts her to a spike in blood pressure. The woman turns and scurries away. After a few steps she turns and whispers: ‘Be careful, Kate.’
‘My name is Kirsten!’
‘Yes,’ says the woman. ‘Your Kirsten is my Betty, Kate. Betty-Barbara. Kirsten-Kate.’
Kirsten looks down, opening her hand to reveal a small silver key.
‘Thank Christ!’ says Kirsten as she catches sight of James. Spooked by the delusional woman in the basement, she had called and asked him to fetch her, and was waiting for him in a bright 24-hour teashop around the corner from the bar. She gets up too quickly to hug him and sends her cup and saucer stuttering to the floor where they crack and break apart in slow motion. They move awkwardly to pick up the pieces.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, mid-crouch, eyes on the floor.
‘Me too,’ she says. ‘Well, sorry that we fought, anyway.’
‘Yes,’ he says.
She’s too strung out to catch any kind of public transport, so they walk home. The pavement trips them up, but it’s a small price to pay. Kirsten tells him about Keke’s latest discovery: that there’s no record of her birth.
‘That’s impossible,’ James says. ‘There must be. Just because she can’t find proof … Look, I got your pills for you,’ he takes a plastic bottle of little yellow tablets (Lemon Zest) out of his manbag and hands it to her. After bumping him the prescription from the inVitro offices she had forgotten about it.
‘Thanks.’
He stops her, takes her by her elbows.
‘Kitty, are you okay?’
‘That … that stupid woman in the basement scared me,’ she says, childlike, vulnerable.
‘Creeps like that should be locked up,’ he says, anger grating his voice. ‘Instead of, instead of going around … frightening people. We should report her.’
Kirsten knows she shouldn’t tell him about the silver key but it’s glowing hot in her pocket, in her brain. They are walking over a bridge when she takes it out and shows it to him.
‘I know I should get rid of it,’ she says, ‘but something in me says I should keep it. I mean, I want to get rid of it …’ She feels silly. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I do,’ says James. He grabs the key out of her hand and
Similar Books
