Eight months later…
Tiny people rush around like ants on a warm, summer night, watched from the penthouse overlooking Central Park. Cars drift idly between lanes, slotting into gaps like tiles on a puzzle. In the park itself, the early evening moon reflects off rippling water and makes the trees and bushes glow with life.
Lydia sips peppermint tea and turns her attention back to the photograph pinched between her fingertips, the one that always soothed her to her core. Her nails are shorter than they used to be, smooth, rounded, painted soothing cream rather than her trademark scarlet. She lifts her other hand and runs it softly over her swollen belly.
A knock at the door interrupts this peaceful moment. Lydia places the photograph face down on the table, hauls her considerable self to her feet and waddles to answer it.
“Lydia, darling!” Lydia’s agent Donna, perfectly coiffed curly hair and a blue silk power suit, grasps Lydia’s arms and pulls her into the most superficial of embraces. “You’ve done it again!”
“Come in, Donna.” Lydia laughs, holding the door open.
“Pre-orders are through the roof,” Donna gushes, shuffling inside. “I’d wager this one will stay at the top of the bestseller lists even longer than the last!” She pauses to look Lydia up and down. “Goodness, you’ve gotten big, haven’t you?!”
“Thanks.” Lydia grins and rolls her eyes.
“In a good way, of course, darling, you know I’m over the moon for you. When is the little angel due?”
Sudden flashes of both Alex and Finley flash through her mind as she clutches her stomach. “Next month,” says Lydia, sinking down into her chair again.
“Oh, how thrilling,” Donna gushes.
“Yes, if only Alex was here to actually help raise his child,” Lydia coldly states, feeling a stabbing coming from down below as Donna awkwardly tiptoes around the comment.
“Not taking too much time off, are you?” She glances at Lydia anxiously.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Lydia replies, smiling. “I’ll let you know.”
“Oh.” Donna looks disappointed. “Well, in your own time, dear, of course. Anyway,” she checks a gaudy gold watch, “I can’t stay. Just wanted to drop by in person and let you know how wonderful you are!”
“Right…” Lydia’s face falls, her gaze drifting out of the window.
“Something wrong, dear?” Donna asks, carefully.
“It’s nothing.”
“Well it’s obviously something!” the agent replies, her chin wobbling slightly. “Come on, you can tell me.”
“I said it’s nothing,” Lydia says sharply. She picks up her tea and stirs it with a petite silver spoon.
“You’ve been thinking about him again, haven’t you?” Donna gestures to Lydia’s bump.
Lydia forces a fake smile. “I just need some time.”
“I’m going to say it one more time,” says Donna stubbornly, “are you sure you don’t need counselling? It’s very good these days you know. Not just for crazies anymore.”
“I’m sure,” Lydia replies, stiffening a little, “but I can take care of myself.”
“Well if you’re sure…” Donna looks doubtful. “Darling, this isn’t about those idiots, is it? You know, the ones who…”
“Think I’m a liar who staged the whole thing?” Lydia finishes the question for her. “No, those people are idiots. I couldn’t care less.”
“Well, quite right,” says Donna primly. “I mean the police found his DNA didn’t they, all over those… poor people.”
“Yes,” says Lydia flatly, keen to get away from the subject.
“Did they… ever find the body?” Donna asks, hesitantly.
“No…” Lydia sighs. “I don’t know why. Like I said, he was definitely dead. I smashed his face in with a piece of metal and then he fell a hundred feet into a frozen river.”
“Goodness me, darling!” Donna fans her own face. “How you can say it so casually I just cannot fathom.”
Lydia shrugs. “That’s what happened.” Her stomach lurches as she remembers the promise that she made to Jason, to keep the truth about him and Finley a secret. A promise that she had made in good faith. But the world had a right to know, she’d decided.
“Of course,” says Donna. “Of course.” She pauses. “You don’t think, you know, he might have had an accomplice?”
“No,” says Lydia flatly. “There was nobody else there.”
“Alright!” says Donna, holding her hands up. “I’m just looking out for you, darling. Don’t want some lunatic slaying my best client!”
“I’m touched.” Lydia smiles.
“And what about the copycats?”
“Donna…” Lydia closes her eyes and sighs.
“I’m just asking!” says Donna, defensively. “I heard that there’s a whole cult of them using your book like a kind of Bible!”
“That’s just a crazy story,” says Lydia, wearily.
“Alright then, if you say so.” Donna checks her watch a second time. “I’d best be off then. No rest for the wicked!”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Lydia mutters under her breath, hauling herself to her feet again to show Donna out.
“Maybe you could write a book about becoming a mother?” suggests the agent.
“One step at a time,” Lydia replies. “Let me have the thing first.”
“Of course, of course. Well, goodbye, darling!” Donna embraces Lydia again and gives her a gentle squeeze.
“Goodbye,” says Lydia, smiling. “Thanks for stopping by.”
She closes the door and waddles back to her chair, flicking her long, golden locks back over her shoulder. She settles herself and picks up the photograph again, turning it over and touching the smiling face of Alex Gilbey with a soft fingertip, willing herself to feel something. But she feels nothing. No love, no guilt, no sadness. Just a great, gaping void where those emotions should be. Emptiness.
Lydia sits back and strokes her belly again, her ruby ring glinting softly in the fading evening light as she ponders what sort of child it will be? Boy? Girl? Blonde? Brunette? Brown eyes? Blue eyes? Good? Evil? Lydia hesitates at the thought, the dread, but then realises it does not matter, for she plans to love the child, no matter its origin. Whether Alex or… otherwise. “It’s just you and me now,” she whispers. “Just the two of us, alone in this terrible world. But don’t worry, I’ll protect you. I’ll keep you safe. Always.”
She reaches for the stereo remote, points and clicks, and The Ronettes burst into life. ‘Be My Baby’. How beautifully ironic.
Lydia takes one last look at the photograph, then drops it back onto the table. Flat. Now looking outward. She won’t forget about Alex, she knows, but life goes on. Even if she hasn’t found happiness in love, the world still has plenty to offer. It’s time to turn the page. Time to write a new chapter. She has a future, she knows that now. In many ways, her life is just beginning…
*
Waylon Warrington, former inmate at Mortem Asylum, has been strapped to a creaky gurney on this plane for hours. This had not been a part of his plans, nevertheless, here he was. His temple racked with pain, mind tumbling from turbulence that makes him sick, engines roaring in his ears and salty sweat trickling into his tired eyes. The tranquiliser they administered before take-off has all but worn off and Waylon is, regrettably, awake. And he wants off this ride.
Half a dozen of Uncle Sam’s finest soldiers, lips sealed and triggers poised, guard Waylon and his three fellow inmates, all strapped up tight and muzzled as he is. That they think him so dangerous makes Waylon smile. They’re right, of course, but it’s still nice to be appreciated.
Is the plane descending now? Hard to tell when you’re lying horizontal until the wheels touch down with a bump. Then the gurneys are rolling again, jolting bones, boiling blood, across concrete and then something softer, through the cold night and then…
WORMWOOD FACILITY
Tall, white letters on a dark, grey wall. Waylon’s heart thumps a little faster. Through endless, lifeless corridors, over metal grates, past barred windows through which the occasional glimpse of monsters in glass tubes makes Waylon’s adrenaline spike. Finally, they reach a kind of holding area, and one by one are wheeled through the doors ahead. First Hillary, then Henry, then Holly… and now it’s Waylon’s turn for judgement. Is this the afterlife? A purgatory state? Is it too late for redemption?
The guards roll him inside. Blinding bright light directly above but shadows all around. Silhouettes of people. One woman with spiky shoulders hovers nearby, flanked by two more holding some sort of utensils.
“Patient number forty-three,” says a voice so sterile as to be terrifying, “Waylon Warrington.” The spiky woman steps forward, but not close enough yet to reveal herself.
“Begin the procedure,” she barks. Masked doctors step into the light wielding the most gruesome instruments of torture Waylon has ever seen. He yelps helplessly into his muzzle as they begin to slice, probe, jab, saw. The last thing Waylon Warrington ever sees is that strange woman turn away, as a silver syringe pierces his right eye.
Hell has come at last.