I tossed and turned violently all night. In his nook, Hugo snored softly, occasionally mumbling unhappily. How could he sleep so well after what he’d done? I expected assassins to at least pace a little after a kill. He’d clearly had practice – how many times had he done it? And Bea had chosen him as my security! Were there no candidates more suitable for the job?
All the certainties I’d formed about my guardians shrivelled to nothing. They were suddenly strangers capable of acts I could not grasp. Consciousness lost to coma around 3 am when exhaustion and stress finally pulled me under. Snippets of my dreams and the story Bea had made me recite from the diary merged and warped in a horribly vivid montage, until I could no longer distinguish between what I’d lived and what was fantasy.
“Finesse?” I rolled over groggily. “Seth.” Someone took hold of my hand, two slabs sandwiching mine.
“You are safe. He cannot find you here. And she is trapped.”
I sculled up through quicksand, eventually waking to early morning gloom. “What are you doing, Hugo?” He’d pulled a chair up to my bed.
“You had a bad night. Very understandable,” he snorted ruefully, patting my hand. I noticed he wore a gold ring on his right index finger that had ‘L&H 4ever’ engraved on its flat, diamond-shaped surface.
“You killed someone.”
“I did.”
“What is Anathema? Bea mentioned them last night.” I didn’t tell him that name had appeared my dreams, as well.
“Not what, who. They are …” He paused, searching for the right phrase. “What would you call them? A cult. A sect devoted to self-gratification, no matter the cost to others. They worship the Crone and do her bidding.”
The Crone? The surreal experience of having others speak of Bea’s yarn and my fantasy as though they were real happened too regularly for my liking. And the so-called witch-demon was not real. It was not possible. Was it? Before I could scrape up the gumption to ask, Hugo shot me a question.
“Are you familiar with the legend of Faust?”
“He was a man who sold his soul to Mephistopheles, the Devil, for extra years of life to do with as he pleased. When the time came to surrender his soul for eternity, regret overwhelmed. Those extra years on earth were worth dust through his fingers compared to what he’d given up. The story is an allegory for the price we pay for taking shortcuts to get what we want, instead of earning it.”
“You are clearly very well read. The price we pay,” he said. “And sadly, it is usually not ourselves who pay. Those we love bear the burden for such failings, such greed and laziness.” His jaw clenched and he was still for a long time, before the words finally ground out between his teeth.
“In South Africa, my father was a great military man, a jet pilot and a legendary soldier. When I was a little boy, I wished more than anything to follow in his footsteps. But I was born small and sickly and short-sighted like my fragile mother.” This frail, flawed image did not gel with the specimen before me at all. “Growing up, I committed to the most arduous training regime, building my body and gaining strength. It was not enough. The Air Force elite commands perfect vision, they refused me.”
Hugo released my hand and slumped back in my reading chair. He was normally so rod-straight, this sagged defeat forecast his sorrow more than any words. I hauled myself up and wedged the pillows against my bedhead.
“My blindness extended far beyond any problems I had with seeing. Anathema track those they consider prime for exploitation. They offered me my greatest dream: to be the world’s best gladiator on the most hazardous of missions. All I had to do was perform tasks on demand without hesitation or conscience.”
“But could they fix you physically?” Was this another fabrication? Another story meant to teach me some obscure lesson? “How is it impossible one moment, and then possible the next?”
“Yes, that should have been the obvious question,” he laughed mockingly at himself. “Barely out of impetuous youth, greed for my promised prize stole common sense. Their deal as a mercenary for hire in exchange for physical rebirth didn’t seem so bad. And Anathema delivered, once I signed their pact in blood.”
“In your actual blood?”
Hugo nodded. “I thought it a silly bit of symbolism at the time. Never did I dream they had such power over any who signed up, that they could be so evil.”
“It worked?” I asked incredulously.
Maybe Anathema were a sect of genetic engineers, who’d tailored a growth serum for Hugo using blood from the page. This explanation was beyond sci-fi, but the other option, the supernatural one, was too incredible to contemplate. Confronted by so many converging, inexplicable accounts, my screaming brain groped for a hint of reason.
“In a very short period, I was stronger and faster and better than anyone who dared take me on. I grew one foot almost overnight. No one could beat me in any trial of physical stamina. I mastered every type of weaponry or war machine with ease and very little endeavour.”
Questions mounted, absent a single adequate answer. Or even one that didn’t demand complete suspension of disbelief. Ill-defined fear chewed at my gut. If I believed him, other shadowy facts would solidify like a huge boulder on my head to flatten sanity. I wanted to shout at him to shut-up, but I had to know and let him go on.
“Years passed. I made a meteoric rise in the military. I didn’t hear from Anathema for a long time and had almost forgotten the poisoned bargain I’d made. And then, they reappeared making small, innocuous requests. At first.”
“You did what they asked?”
“Without hesitation, in the beginning. Of course, before long their demands were not so easy or nice. But by then, the receiver of their generosity is mired in Anathema’s sordid world. They document every deed done and use the evidence against any who try to break the contract.” Hugo pressed his lips in disgust.
“That a being such as the Crone existed seemed the stuff of nightmares. Anathema inhabit an underworld where normal living fades and their rules become a way of life. I didn’t believe their threats, thinking I could handle whatever penalty they threw at me – even jail for my crimes. When I first said no to an order, I learned the truth of their ways too late. For no one ever denies Finesse. There is never a second chance. And so, they exacted compensation for my disobedience.”
“What compensation, Hugo?” I sat forward. Finesse was the Crone to Raphaela’s Keeper, both magical beings that everyone I knew implied walked this very earth. Preposterous as that was, last night I had experienced Anathema’s vileness up close and personal. Finally, I hit upon the idea they were a brain-washing cult whose teachings Hugo still genuinely accepted as true. I wondered if my guardians had been members. “What did they take?”
“My baby sister, Latoya.” His eyes glazed with pain and shame. They were a startling grey-blue, hard to ignore once noticed. “My father called her his little dumpling. My mother was long since dead, and the loss of his cherished daughter destroyed him. A once robust man driven to death by despair. Anathema corrupted Latoya beyond recognition and it is my fault. She is alive, but in their clutches not what I would call living.”
“I’m so sorry, Hugo.” Did I truly want to know the answers anymore? “That awful man last night in the garden? You recognised him before Bea removed his balaclava.”
“No disguise hides them from me. Tate,” he spoke the name as though it was acid on his tongue. “He took her first, when she was thirteen.” It was all he needed to say. “I cannot save her. I have tried and failed, many times. But I will give my life for the innocent life they stole. Nothing will ever be enough to erase my sins. All I can do now is fight on the right side.”
“The right side? What do you mean?”
“The rest is for your minders to impart, Winsome. I have already said too much. Sleep now. Be at peace. I will watch over you and keep you from harm.”
He presumed harm was only physical. “Hugo?”
“Yes?”
“Are you wearing contact lenses?”
He snorted. “I have twenty/twenty vision. I threw my glasses away the moment the signature dried on Anathema’s agreement.”
I mustn’t have appeared convinced. He pulled a wallet out of his pants, extracting a battered photo folded in quarters and carefully unfurled the paper, an act I suspected he’d performed many times. He offered me the sepia image of a scrawny boy of about ten and a pretty white-haired girl, a couple of years younger. She gripped his arm for all she was worth, grinning adoringly at him. Despite the slight build, the boy wore Hugo’s face. Reflected in the lenses of the thick spectacles he wore was the faint outline of a man.
“My father took this. That’s me. And Latoya.”
Hugo retrieved the photo from me, reverentially slipping it inside his wallet – a faded moment of happiness tainted forever by sadness. He sighed deeply, patted my hand, and discouraged me from further talk by getting comfortable in the chair and closing his eyes.
I let my mind drift in nowhere for a while, until Hugo quietly left to carry out his mysterious morning duties. It was still too early for Fortescue to bring breakfast, but my guardians were abnormal crack-of-dawn risers. I needed to hurry if I was to beat them out the door.
In the stark reality of day, last night’s events blurred. I tumbled from bed, heading for my bathroom while gingerly fingering my traumatised ribs. The pain seemed too minimal. Lifting my singlet, unforgiving ensuite lighting over the mirror revealed a vague yellowing smudge that should be the shade of an eggplant. I squinted in confusion.
The occasion had arrived to go and check for proof with my own eyes. If I wasn’t arrested immediately as an accomplice then I’d take a nice long swim in the judge’s pool to ease the tension. I didn’t expect to encounter an obstacle before leaving my room. Fortescue was a retail prodigy, but this time, he’d made an outfit mistake. I didn’t fancy doing laps in boardies, but rifling drawers, I could not find any decent swimwear, strips of fabric functional only for lazing by the pool, and barely that.
Boardies and a white tee offered camouflage. And a strategically arranged towel, just in case. Perhaps the slip-up was due to Fortescue’s illness. Once dressed, I tossed goggles, a cap, a motivating CD from Kasabian and my swipe card in a tote, and crept downstairs.
I did not stop to appreciate the artefact collection or check for new additions as I usually would. It was odd to evade my guardians and the cats so easily; this had not happened before. I skulked out, the door shutting at my rear. My optimism was short-lived. The door clicked ajar again behind me, the ensuing soft conversation loud to my ears.
“No, Hugo, stay. We must let her go this time.”
“But, Mrs Paget, it is too treacherous for her to be alone and unprotected.”
“Winsome needs a chance to process events. She is not alone, help is nearby. This test is not for her. Or you.”
“For him?”
“Yes. For him. One of many.” I paused in the middle of the alley, the rising tide of hidden meanings making me scowl.
“She will get hurt.”
“The risk is unavoidable. A test is essential to establish the bond.”
“He is a snivelling, arrogant pup, too young and immature for this great task. He will cower in the face of the trials to come.”
Mrs Paget’s tone ended the discussion. “I am certain he will not falter. Love is the strongest bond of all.”
“That is what I always believed. Until I learned otherwise,” Hugo said bitterly. “It is for sale like everything else.” The doors clicked shut once more.
Avoiding close examination of their words, I limited my focus to the chore at hand. Mr Jenkins called this “compartmentalising,” the only useful thing I’d ever learned at the Academy. How to be a more efficient delinquent by ignoring distractions or scruples in order to thoroughly finish the job. A job at least one of my guardians endorsed.
It was another fine Sydney day, the breeze soft and sky streaked pink by the rising sun. The expected cordon of police tape and official cars lining the block were absent. I reached the garden, rallying my acting skills. Maybe the investigators had caught a fleet of taxis? I barged through the trellis, memories of the stinging splinters and cuts from last night hurtling back. And yet, I lifted my hand and wriggled perfectly unbroken fingers.
I stood in the vacant clearing and stared at my arms in the glare. Not a scratch, no bruising around my wrist. And no sign of a dead man. I spent fifteen minutes scouring the area for a body and came up blank. There was not so much as a trampled succulent. I burrowed back out onto the path, preoccupied, and headed for the entrance. Could an assailant with a broken neck get up and walk away? Zombies seemed a popular choice in fiction. If there was some logical explanation, I could not find it.
“Well, well. Aren’t you looking … stumpy. Communing with your friends the plants, Win-none?”
Tiffany strutted down the path towards me with a superior smirk, still in the same clothing as the night before. Her hair was ruffled, lips rubbed free of the prominent red lipstick she favoured. She exaggerated the fact she was taller and had to look down at me.
“Shame you didn’t stay last night. Vegas really is a great dancer, especially the slow songs. Things got so hot.” She dramatically fanned herself.
I rolled my eyes. All the ranting and hair tossing caused my neck to go out in sympathy. I continued past her, stubbornly mute. My indifference set her off and she went for the kill.
“I did him last night you know. And he was great! As if Vegas would ever go for a motherless little letdown like you.”
I entered the code and was about to swipe in without comment, when spite got the better of me. “You didn’t pay top dollar for that boob job did you?” I looked at her over my shoulder with my head at an angle. “They’re kinda lopsided.”
If I shoved her face first, she’d probably bounce right back up again like one of those punch-a-clowns. The card swiped and I was inside. But the door didn’t hiss closed fast enough to shut out Iffy’s yell that I was a tiny female dog. Swearing: the insult of the unimaginative. I waved through the glass. She aimed a gobbet of spit at me that got the window, there being no caviar available, and then stomped off along the path.
I repressed the things she’d told me about Smithy. Surely, after everything he’d said last night, dirtying himself to such a degree was not on. What other explanation was there for her presence? I resolved to embrace the calm Zen philosophy and be the immovable mountain. I would get lost in some overdue exercise and not obsess on things I could not control. It was the best approach for every aspect of my situation.
The pool occupied the entire ground floor, deep blue tiles and lazy spirals of steam beckoning. Music pumped, the salt water a balmy temperature as I breaststroked my way through my fifth lap. Something brushed my toes. The pool was laser cleaned, so vacuum hosing wasn’t likely. I stopped, floating in the deepest section, and squinted down. Circling on the spot, there was just a clear expanse of tile. I was so sure I’d felt something, but I was utterly alone. Great! My hallucinations had gone tactile.
I resumed swimming, progressing not more than two arm rotations before a firm hold on my ankle alerted me to the presence of a comedian. I spun to share that I didn’t get the joke and was abruptly wrenched under, the pressure on my foot real and unbreakable. Unprepared for immersion and out of breath, I choked on a mouthful. The water burned my throat and blocked my nose. My traumatised airway protested and I kicked out with all my strength, clawing upwards for the shimmering surface as it steadily receded.
Towed to the bottom of the pool, I would surely drown without even sighting my killer! I stopped thrashing to yank at my pinned leg. Even though my goggles were full and my eyes stung, I stared through a blue haze directly at the place of the vice-grip and nothing anchored me. Yet, I could not get free.
Hysteria took hold and I fought for my life, windmilling my arms to no avail. The pressure to inhale gained urgency and would be impossible to resist for much longer. The glittering dome above made a pretty tomb, my oxygen-starved brain supplied. White lights bloomed in my vision and my head throbbed. I could not stop my from gulping in death, just like a fish on dry land. Liquid flooded my lungs.
My ankle fused in its invisible shackle. It hurt where I’d rubbed it raw and I was so tired. Time to let go and enjoy the bursts of colour and the euphoria that filled my mind. The peace consumed …
