He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. His assailant obliged. He gagged as the serrated edge of the blade was pushed into his lower back. At first there was no pain, only the cold feeling of despair, failure.
As the chokehold loosened, he dropped to his knees feeling the blade twist slightly as he fell. As if in slow motion he crumbled onto his side, unable to move. He refused to pass out. Then the pain came, and he began to fade away to a soft voice in his ear. ‘No need to thank me, Nicolas. I just pray death is all you hoped for.’
York tried to reply but no sounds left his mouth.
‘I’ll see you on the other side.’
From his perspective on the ground, he watched as the killer walked casually away free from pursuit, his footsteps rescinding into the darkness, the serrated blade dripping with blood.
His blood.
Moments later the alley vanished, and he slipped into the silky black place he’d visited many times before.
*
Leanne.
Frasier.
His family was with him, their beautiful faces forming. From the shadows they emerged, evaporated. Emerged.
Something was different this time. He was standing at an odd perspective, almost oblique. Like he was closer to them in some way, nearer.
Still they couldn’t hear him. His lungs bellowed out the words he needed them to hear but only silence emanated, as though they weren’t meant to hear him, or weren’t permitted.
He closed his eyes and watched the faces of his loved ones dissolve away again. When he reopened them, the blurry definitions of the dark alleyway reappeared, disappeared.
Leanne again, standing at the kitchen sink wiping plates, bubbles clinging to her soft hands. Frasier runs into the kitchen, holds up a drawing he’s finished, his face full of pride. Look, Daddy, he grins, it’s our house. Leanne turns to see, her smile broadening. She flicks bubbles at Frasier and he squirms away giggling like any other child. Any other child.
The scene dissolved again, and the alleyway reappeared. His back felt warm and damp. He decided there was no cause for optimism. Blood was escaping his body at an alarming rate.
‘Keep your eyes open,’ a soft voice whispered into his ear. ‘Help is on the way.’
A woman’s face appeared into his line of sight, blonde. All other details were lost in the haze.
‘Remember this, Nicolas,’ said the voice. ‘Remember me.’
He tried to ask her name but his vocal cords refused to operate. Something was being slipped into his jacket pocket.
‘Keep your eyes open,’ the voice said again. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go to sleep.’
The only thing to follow was the click of heels as the mysterious woman hurried away. Despite her advice, five seconds later he slipped into unconsciousness.
Leanne.
Frasier.
He liked it here.
*
Why have I come here? Nothing has changed.
I stand at the head of the driveway eying the soulless structure. It seems smaller now, but no less threatening. The inhabitants have long since departed by various means, the remnants of their legacy standing firm amidst overgrown bracken and ivy.
My father is gone.
My mother is dead.
I am a different person now, and without prejudice or discrimination I function in the real world with unique qualities. Ordinary people will know my name, but it is not notoriety I seek. Ordinary people will be sickened and disturbed by me. Ordinary people will fear me as I have feared the waking day.
In each hand I hold a canister, the contents sloshing as I advance upon the house. I place them on the steps and peer through the stained window into the hall. Nothing remains, not a chip of furniture. The floorboards are bare, as they always were.
I empty the first canister over the porch and steps, the flecking paint crumbling away as if thankful. The second canister I splash over the side of the house, the rich scent of gasoline dominating the air.
I haven’t brought enough, though the house is an amalgamation of flammable materials. I stand back and strike a match, tossing it into the cloying pool of golden liquid at the foot of the steps. The house erupts in a burst of orange, the blast of heat forcing me backwards. Beyond the far corner of the structure, I spy the briefest glimpse of the frame at the foot of the yard. For no longer than one frigid second, I contemplate returning with extra fuel and razing the diabolical monstrosity to the ground.
The notion passes, and I quickly become consumed by the blazing spectacle before me. Already the chimney has collapsed. Inside, a fallen crossbeam hangs ablaze across the stairs. Once more I ask myself why I came here. One by one, memories will burn, childhood scorn will perish, and I will be left standing.
My father is gone.
My mother is dead.
Ordinary people will know my name.
33
Somewhere in the Indian Ocean, 2011
Abbey forgot where she was. In the stuffy heat of the tent she rolled onto her back. Here last night, the girl was now missing. Slipping into a shirt, she poked her head through the blankets and scanned the sand. Halfway along the bay was Sol, the obnoxious Australian, lying face down and unconscious on the sand. Nobody else was around.
Last night’s fire kicked out only smoke, its flames long since dead.
Crawling onto the sand, she stood and stretched, the perfect blue overhead making it hard to believe there’d ever been a storm. The vestige of wind was barely enough to stir the fronds.
‘I’m guessing you must be Abbey,’ said an unfamiliar voice at her back.
Startled, she turned to see the injured man in the pilot’s uniform, blankets drawn up around his tent. The man’s skin was ashen and
