The story made the papers. How Celene Cross, wanted murderer and known criminal, made a comeback at Vinter’s party. How there had been rumours she wasn’t really dead, that she was responsible for the murders of a number of mob bosses, but then a dark-haired girl shot her and paramedics on the scene confirmed her death at 9:43 that night.
My emotions are strangers lost in a crowd. They’re too painful to chase after, so I stay away from them, only catching them in the corner of my eye when I’m tired or hungry.
I wanted to kill her, make her pay for what she’d done – not just to me, but to all those other people before. But I’ve killed a part of me, too. The part that knew I’d never hurt anybody on purpose. I have to live knowing I took a life. Two, if we’re counting.
Bolt recovers quickly. They roughed him up, but a few good nights’ sleep and greasy fry-ups get him back to his usual grumpy self. We stay in the Dead Room but I don’t sleep much.
One of the reports about Vinter’s ruined party included a line about a young lawyer who survived getting shot. I like to think they mean Julian but I’m not tempted to check up on him. That’s a can of worms I’m happy to leave at the back of the cupboard.
On the fourth morning of staying in the Dead Room, I start tugging the newspaper clippings from the wall. My mother’s face crumples and the headlines fade before my eyes. They don’t stab the way they used to. I crouch down to scrape the brittle pieces of paper into a ball, crushing them together.
‘Gonna burn them?’
Bolt’s propped up against the wall. I thought he was asleep.
‘Bit clichéd,’ I say.
‘We could make papier-mâché hats.’
‘No glue.’
Bolt smiles. ‘Sometimes rubbish is just rubbish.’
‘Yep.’
I throw the scraps in one of the dustbins down the road, then I go back for Bolt. After prying some nails loose we leave by the front door and get into Bolt’s van.
I don’t look back as we drive away.
Sometimes rubbish is just rubbish.