'Why?'
'Because I want you to understand what I saw. Think back, there's a memory that's not your own.'
I thought back to the night Raffmir and I broke into Porton Down, to the people we had killed and those we had saved.
I remembered the rooms with glass walls reinforced with iron wire. I could see myself taking the key from the nurse's hand, the swish of the blade, the spatter of blood across the glass, the slowing ooze as the blood ran down the glass, black and glossy in the dim light.
Strangely I can see both sides of the glass.
I remember the sudden trepidation that the dark figures would kill me too, followed by the realisation that we were being set free. These were not my memories. I could see myself through another's eyes; a shadowed outline under the faded safety lights.
The key is turned; hope outweighs my fear while my heart pounds in my chest. I edge closer; the overwhelming urge to touch. My hand finds its way to his cheek. I am momentarily blinded, a piercing light — so much brightness — then darkness and an afterimage, a rising sun. The sun will rise, and they shall fall. I can hear myself saying it.
The image of the sunrise is burned into my retina. My logical mind says that it could be a sunset, but my power knows different. I stumble away down the corridor, away from the man. I can barely see. My eyes fill with a searing light that hasn't happened yet…
I blinked, vaguely disorientated by the foreign memory. I couldn't escape the feeling that something alien was planted there.
'How can I have your memory? Can you remove it?' I said.
'The memory? Now that would be interesting, wouldn't it? If I could make you forget things, how could you trust your mind? I could make you forget why you're here, where you came from, who you are.' She shook her head, 'No, I can't remove it.'
'You could have just told me.'
'Do you know what it means?' she asked.
'Some of it. The light could have been me. There was a helicopter spraying bullets onto the roof. I created the light to destroy it.'
'I saw the aftermath when I left. What about the rest of it? The sun will rise and they shall fall. What does it mean?'
'I was hoping you were going to tell me,' I said.
'Come with me.' She went into the hall. 'Come on, I won't bite.'
I followed her upstairs, careful to keep the sword where I could draw it if I needed to. There was a landing at the top, a bathroom and two bedrooms. At the front of the house was a closed door. A small sign on the door said, Caution! Woman at Work.
She stood with her hand on the door. 'I was a writer, you know? Freelance; mainly brochures and advertising copy, before all this.'
'All what?' I asked.
'The facility at Porton Down. Did you know I volunteered? Initially they took volunteers. We were treated better than the other inmates, though that changed towards the end.'
'I'm surprised you went, given that you must have known what would happen there.'
'Oh I had a fair idea what they meant to do, but it was that or be taken there. It was going to happen anyway. Easier on me if I went willingly. It's all in here.'
'What is?'
'See for yourself.'
She pushed open the door and stepped back, leaving me room to come forward. It opened into a small room at the front that had been converted into a study. There was a desk and chair, a pile of books and notepads — an ancient looking computer and keyboard had been pushed to one side. A desk lamp stood on one corner angled down so it wouldn't dazzle.
The walls were covered in notes of every size, colour and shape. Every patch of wall-space had been tagged with stickynotes of different colours, pieces of ruled paper pinned to the wall, fragments torn from pads. I pushed the door open further. They were on every wall, as high as she could reach.
'What's it all for?' I asked.
'It starts on the wall behind the door,' she said. 'See for yourself.'
I hesitated.
'It's OK,' she said. 'I won't lock you in there. There'd be no point.'
I stepped into the room and pulled the door back from the wall, trying to discern what I was looking at. Some were scribbled notes, others inscribed in calligraphic letters. To begin with, most were notes on lined paper, carefully cut from the page, but as they progressed around the room they degraded to pages torn from books, scraps of newspaper, napkins, pieces of cereal packet.
There were random images scattered amongst the notes. Some were instant scribbles, like the moon and stars on a sticky-note, others carefully sketched, like an engraved medieval sun, shining down beneficently. Initially it was chaotic, but then themes started to emerge.
The phrase, the sun will rise, was scattered throughout, but as the notes became more frantic, the writing became less legible.
After that the fragments became more diverse with pieces I recognised. The words, Gauntlet Runner, written over a newspaper photograph surrounded by pictures of rabbits cut or torn from magazines — cartoon rabbits, rabbit symbols, photos of rabbits. In another there were dogs of all different shapes and sizes. One section had spikes, nails and all manner of pins and the distinctive curve of horseshoes.
'What's it all for?' I asked her, where she stood outside the door watching me scan around the room.
'I've written nothing except this since I came back,' she said, 'I can't pick up a pen without this coming out. I dream it, I find myself repeating it when I'm cooking, I end up humming it to myself. Nails, rabbits, stars, the rising sun. It's all I can think of since I touched you.'
Her manner was becoming more anxious. Her tone was clipped and she pushed her hand through her hair. 'It's in my head and I can't get rid of it, God knows I've tried. I need you to tell me what it means. I've been waiting for you to come so you can tell me what it means.'
She was rubbing her hands together, dry-washing them.
'I don't know what it means.'
She must have heard the slight hesitation in my voice. 'But you suspect.'
'I recognise some of it. I doesn't make any sense, though.'
'Tell me.'
'I'm not sure it helps.'
'Tell me!' She reached for me and my sword was in my hand. We faced each other, her outstretched hand close to the edge of the blade. She met my eyes.
'Are you going to use that on me?'
'If I have to.'
'You can't imagine what it's like. It's driving me to the edge. If you can tell me what it means then maybe it will leave me alone. If you're here to kill me, then do it. It'll be a mercy.'
'I'm not here to kill you.'
'Then tell me what you know, or you might as well use that sword before I kill myself.'
I glanced again at the walls. 'A lot of it is about me, I think.'
'What about you?'
'The rabbits — I'm called Rabbit by some, Dogstar by others…'
'Sirius — that's the dogstar isn't it? I have a picture of Orion on the wall there. Sirius is below it — look there.'
'There's a ceremony with nails and horseshoes. It's an ancient ritual.'
'I have nails — horseshoes too, what's it got to do with you?'
'I was involved with it, last year. It was going wrong but we fixed it.'
'This is all about you…' her eyes tracked around the walls.
