'They raped her mummy and dragged her away, screaming, to an airport just outside London.'
'Oh… oh god…'
'They loaded her onto a plane with a dozen more, all crying, and shipped them to a shitty little airport outside the Big Apple.'
He moaned, knees giving way.
'And you'll never guess who was waiting for them, with a kind word and a silly costume, to ferry them off to see a nice old man.'
'…no no no no no…'
'Bella told me… Bella told me it wasn't my problem. I wonder if she knew you'd be waiting there, at the other end?'
Tears oozed out of his eyes, falling in thick blobs to the floor of the corridor.
'I wonder if she knew I'd make it my problem?'
His lips parted.
'Wait. please! Just, w…'
And I shot him in the head, through the centre of the tattoo over his eye, and watched as smoke coiled up from the hole.
Then I stepped into the Comms room with a clear head.
Her diary was there.
The goons had moved it all to one side. Bits of old detritus, files and notes and sheets. Enough paperwork to keep anyone busy for months. They'd swept it all aside and got-on with preparing the place for John-Paul. On the TV above the control board the withered old man died, mid-confession, over and over again. Stuck on a loop.
Her diary was there.
I almost didn't see it. Almost mistook it for just another book of notes, more tedious laboratory results to be communicated back to New York.
I bought her that diary. It was just… just this stupid thing. An idea for Christmas, one year. We gave each other notebooks, wrote down all our thoughts, everything we'd done, all the stuff we'd seen and said… then swapped them back at the end of the year.
Seems daft, now. It's not like I would've been allowed to write down half the stuff I got up to.
But hers… Hers were always full. Fat with notes.
My heart almost exploded. Her handwriting. Neat little letters, unjoined, in neat little columns. Page after page. Different pens, different colours. Dated at the top, and always the same beginning:
My darling.
My eyes went fuzzy.
She'd been here. She'd been here once, but how long ago?
My fingers were clumsy, suddenly. Pages stuck together, paper tore. I scrabbled through the tears and shakes to the last pages, blinking at each date in turn.
Towards the end, she'd started using a page per week.
Then per month.
Space was running out, as the back cover nudged closer. I didn't read a word, just let my eyes dance from date to date, not understanding, flicking further and further back.
The last two entries were separated by six months.
The last one Oh…
– the last one was made three months ago.
I was on the floor, then. Not understanding. Lights in front of my eyes.
Panels clicked and lights flickered on the consoles. My head swam.
This room. This was where she contacted me. This was where the signal started.
This was where my journey began.
And the greatest revelation of all, the one that all the others presupposed, but that somehow took far longer to settle; that blew them out of the water one by one and left me curled in a ball, head in my hands, teeth grating together, choking on dry sobs.
She's alive.
Oh, god.
She's alive.
Above ground, the Clergy ignored me. In my robe I was just another figure, and they had more than enough to be worrying about.
Wailing and screaming at the death of their master.
Hunting for Iroquois warriors, as their rusting ferry was sabotaged – listing in the water – and distant rumbles shook the island.
Some were taking over-optimistic potshots at the canoes and rowing boats just visible though the smoke, dodging between flaming patches of scummy liquid. The rest were just sitting, watching, waiting. They'd all seen the broadcast. They all knew.
It was over.
Soon, I'd swim out to the Iroquois in the boats. Nudging aside fiery drifts and scalding slicks. Maybe the Tadodaho was expecting me. Maybe I'd get medical treatment and food and thanks for my help.
Maybe not. Who cared?
I took the diary and the papers, bound-up neatly in a folded pile. I stepped past arguing clerics and screaming soldiers, and let the world turn-on around me.
She's alive.
The sun was setting. Through the settling QuickSmog it was a distant spotlight, misted and artificial, and by its waning glow I read through the final pages of my lover's life.
Find me. The last page said. Come and find me, my love.
The fires of Lake Eerie burnt around me, and the sky choked-up with smoke and haze, and I flicked through pages and found Yes. There.
– found where to go. Found where to find her.
And smiled.
Don't you fucking give up, soldier!
Sir, no sir.
