The Last Witness

the glass sliding doors and the veranda: inky blackness beyond, only a faint moon picking out part of the lake and the ring of trees beyond. Her eyes had been naturally drawn there upon first walking in, a relief from the stark room-light after her hours in the dark.

‘Well, now you know a bit about me. Such as it is,’ She lightly chewed her bottom lip, turning back towards Georges. ‘I heard quite a bit about you from your stepparents, the Donatiens. They’re very proud. But there was a lot we — ’ She suddenly froze. At that moment all the lights went out: all-enveloping blackness, the distant moonlight on the lake the only visible light.

Almost like being back inside the blackened visor, except that now she could hear her son’s uncertain breathing along with her own.

Faint sound of footsteps and movement from deeper in the house, and after five seconds some weak emergency lights came on and Russell’s voice trailed from near the top of the stairs:

‘Looks like a general power outage. The lights on a minute ago at a cabin to the west seem to have gone too. Steve’s just sorting out the generator — should be up and running in a few minutes.’

Behind them, Chac’s head had peeped out of the kitchen. ‘Okay. Keep us posted.’ Then with a brief nod towards them he went back in.

She relaxed again. But as she continued talking, she could see that Georges was still on edge, eyes darting, listening out for every small noise downstairs — he was hardly listening to what she was saying.

‘What was that?’ he asked at one point, tuning back in.

‘…Just I was saying how difficult it must be for you now with your fiancee, Simone. You obviously still have strong feelings for her. Sergeant Chenouda mentioned a note that — ’

More alarming noises suddenly rose: heavy scuffing footsteps and muffled shouting, then a bang that they were still pondering whether or not was connected with the generator starting when Russell’s repeated shouts rang up the stairs.

‘Gas… gas! Get out… oouuu.’ His pounding footsteps petered out halfway up, stumbling.

Georges jumped up, his eyes narrowing. ‘You brought them here, didn’t you? You brought them here!’

Chac was already three steps out of the kitchen, gun drawn. ‘Come on! We gotta go!’

‘What?’ She was disorientated for a second. Then suddenly her heart was in her throat as it dawned on her what Georges meant. The threat that was upon them. ‘No… no,’ she pleaded, reaching out to him. But as she rose, she felt her knees buckle, something sweet in her nostrils and at the back of her mouth, her head suddenly light. And Georges was already out of reach, heading towards the veranda doors.

She wondered for a moment whether this was like the day at the Baie du Febvre convent, and she was just fainting with the upset; or maybe she was still lying on the convent floor waiting to come around and everything that had happened in between had been a cruel nightmare.

But as she saw Chac crumple only two yards away, choking for breath, and Georges sink to his knees as he opened the terrace doors, she knew different. The house was rapidly filling with gas. She saw him get the door half open and partially raise to try and stagger out — but at that moment she felt the solid punch of the carpet on one cheek and everything spun into blackness. She didn’t see whether he made it.

Nicola Ryall’s hand was shaking as she put down the phone; a shaking that became more pronounced as she reached for the bedside drawer and the gun.

‘I’m sorry to call so late. It’s about your daughter, Mikaya…’

It was an antique gun, a pre 2^nd World War Luger. She tried to remember how the end screw-top worked, put there to make it look like a replica and avoid licensing problems. Unscrewed or pulled out like a stopper?

‘…She’s okay now, stable. But a minute later with her roommates returning and it would have been too late.’

She fumbled for a second and in the end pulled it out. She checked it for ammunition, almost dropping it at one point with her hand shaking so wildly: it was fully loaded. He’d always said it was, in case of burglars. And she remembered him mentioning that he’d test-fired in the fields at the back last summer.

‘…Still, we’re sure that it was a real suicide attempt — not just a cry for help. Your daughter had no idea her friends would be arriving back at that time.’

The call was from one of Mikaya’s tutors who’d gone to the hospital with her. Mikaya was heavily sedated and asleep now, but there might be the chance to talk with her in four or five hours time.

Suicide. Nicola thought of all those years she could have done something, at least tried to stand up to him. But at every turn she’d pushed it away — took another pill or shot of gin.

My God. She’d even seen him with Mikaya one night, but still tried to convince herself that nothing was really happening. That with the heavy shadows, she just thought she’d seen more than she really had.

She raised the gun slowly towards her.

All the time the veiled threat that he’d spill her little secret. ‘We’ll just live our own lives, do our own things from hereon in. No questions asked.’ He’d stopped sleeping with her soon after he’d discovered she couldn’t have children — but still it must have been a shock to him coming home unexpectedly a day early from a business trip to find her in bed with another woman. A strange, sly smile had crossed his face, though she wasn’t to fully fathom why until later when they adopted Mikaya. A lesbian scandal would be like a napalm bomb dropped amongst her little village knitting circle of Church fete organisers and charity do-gooders, and he knew it: he had the hold over her he wanted.

She blinked for a second at the gun barrel as it came to eye level, then slowly turned it towards her as she held it out by her head.

Still she should have said something. Should have done something. Her precious village-circle reputation in exchange for what had now happened with Mikaya? She closed her eyes, shaking her head. All those years Mikaya must have silently suffered. A feeble, pathetic trade-off. And poor Lorena was no doubt now suffering the same. Each time the pain wormed deeper: the pills and gin needed to numb it increased. She was at her limit: she couldn’t face the pain or guilt a second longer.

She levelled the gun by her right temple, her hand shaking so wildly that she was worried she might miss at even those few inches.

She remembered hearing about a famous political couple where the wife had developed lesbian preferences later in their marriage. They’d stayed married for the sake of image, and the husband had responded by playing away from home — except that unlike his wife it surfaced and hit the headlines. For a while that had made Nicola feel better about herself, not such a freak — but it was little consolation now. And the husband’s playing away had been with twenty-somethings, not little girls!

A slow tear trailed at the corner of one eye, and she scrunched her eyes tighter shut as she tensed her finger against the trigger, her pulse pumping a wild tattoo. No other way out. No other! Too much pain. Gently squeezing, thinking how poor Mikaya must have felt in that same moment… but at the last second she suddenly eased her finger, her held breath rushing out in one. Her eyes blinked slowly open again. She’d been a coward all the way through, and now this was the coward’s final way out.

If she pulled the trigger, still she wouldn’t be doing anything: she’d be making a pathetic gesture, not a stand! He’d just look at her body and sneer, the final proof that she never had the guts to stand up to him. Worse still, poor Lorena would be left alone with him: there’d be nothing left then to stop him.

She lowered the gun. And where was he now? Lorena’s first night back, and still he hadn’t been able to resist sneaking along to her room.

She got to her feet, her legs shaking and her head so light that she thought she might topple over for a second; then with a brief pause to get her head clear and a last swallow of resolve, she started her way uncertainly towards Lorena’s room.

Roman’s breath rasped heavily as he ran around to the front of the house, echoing back at him within the gas mask. The night-sight vision also took some getting used too: a strange grey-green with a slight blur left in the wake of any movement. With the jolting as he ran, almost everything ahead had a blurred edge.

Everything had gone well at first. They’d got to the back of the house before the generator came back on. Funicelli had cut a whole in the back door glass pane, slipped the latch and slid three gas pellets into the