Jerome tried to temper the anger that was heating his skin. Why did Emily think it was fine to just take off like that, knowing that he couldn’t go after her? He’d learned months ago that if Emily had set her mind on something, it was best to see how you could help rather than hinder her—no matter how much danger she was about to put herself in—but he’d hoped that after being abducted, put into a coma, experimented upon, and almost murdered, that she might have learned a thing or two about safety procedures in dangerous situations. For a person that could come across as quiet to the point of withdrawn at times, Emily certainly had a surprising amount of gall. It was a quality that impressed and frustrated him in equal measures. Like now for example—here they were, trapped inside a house in the middle of the New Forest with a maniac on the loose, and Emily Swanson had seen it fit to run off alone. It was obvious she was onto something but couldn’t she see how much it made him worry? Did she even care?
He glanced down at Helen. Her chest rose and fell in slow bursts. The fresh bandages he’d applied were holding out but they would need changing soon. What if it was Emily who lay unconscious on the sofa right now, a hole in her head the size of a large marble? He doubted she would learn anything new from it—except next time to duck.
He was distracted from his thoughts by Pamela. She stood in the doorway, staring at Helen.
“No change?” she asked.
Jerome shook his head.
“Here, I’ll take over.” She swapped positions with him, gently resting Helen’s head in her lap. She nodded towards a cherry wood cabinet in the corner. “There’s whiskey.”
Jerome took out glasses and a bottle of Glenfiddich single malt. He poured out two generous shots, handed one to Pamela, then held his glass up to the light. Tipping back his head, he drained it of its amber-coloured contents. A fire ignited in his belly, burning all the way up to his chest. He refilled his glass, then watched as Pamela tended to Helen.
“We’re almost out of bandages,” he said.
“Well, we’ll have to improvise. There are clean towels in the closet—through that door, then second on the left.” Pamela went still. She looked around the room as if she didn’t recognise it. “Where’s Emily?”
“Upstairs. She went to fetch something from her room,” he said, annoyed by his loyalty.
“She shouldn’t be wandering around alone. It’s not safe.”
“You’d have better luck convincing Jason Voorhees.”
“Who?”
Jerome shrugged a shoulder. “I’ll get those towels.”
Taking his whiskey with him, he made his way through the door and towards the hallway closet. Incense hung heavy in the air, making him nauseous. Taking a pile of towels from the shelf and carrying them under his arm, he took a slow walk back to the living room.
Pamela had propped Helen’s head up with cushions and was now stood in front of the window. The rain continued to fall, clinging to the glass. The darkness beyond was infinite.
“I hope they’re all right out there,” Jerome said.
Startled by his voice, Pamela turned to face him. Her eyes were red and sore-looking. “I hope so too.”
She looked towards the living room door.
“Emily has been a long time. What is she doing?”
A good question, Jerome thought. “I think she was going to change her clothes. There was blood on them from when we found...”
By the window, Pamela’s shoulders tensed.
“I’m sorry about Sam,” Jerome said. “I don’t understand how anyone could do that, just take away someone’s life as if it meant nothing. Is it really that easy?”
“The most awful things in this world are done at the hands of people,” Pamela said, her gaze hardening. “You shouldn’t be surprised by that. People kill people. It’s been the same since we were given birth to on this planet and it will remain the same until we incinerate ourselves. Survival is our greatest instinct and our greatest downfall. We cling to the notion of our existence so desperately that we’re prepared to destroy any threat to it, even if it means killing our own kind. Somewhere along the way, we seem to have misconstrued survival as control. To control the world and all that lives in it gives us a greater chance of survival. Isn’t that what war is really about? Yes, it’s about money-making. Yes, it’s about power, but doesn’t that all translate as survival?” She stared into the glass, swirling the whiskey around. “It’s ironic. We care so much about survival, we fire missiles and shoot guns and detonate bombs, and in an instant, we steal the breath of anyone we perceive as a threat. That’s the great tragedy about the survival instinct. It only goes so far as here.” She tapped the fingertips of one hand against the palm of the other. “Our survival really means my survival. Such is the way of people.”
Jerome took a moment to absorb Pamela’s words. It was an uncomfortable speech that filled him with deep-rooted anxiety.
“But what about all this?” he asked, waving a hand around the room. “If that’s the case, why bother with Meadow Pines in the first place?”
“Because if I can help people to free themselves from suffering, doesn’t that make the world an instantly better place? For them at least.”
“I like to think I have faith in the human race,” Jerome said. “Yes, there are terrible people in the world. People who do awful things. But the majority of us are not monsters. The majority of us are good and kind.”
“But selfish,” Pamela said. “There is enough food and water to feed every single person on this planet and yet children die in poverty every single minute of every single day. There’s no need for it and yet it happens relentlessly. Why? Because it means thinking about the survival of others, not just our own.” She paused, meeting Jerome’s perplexed face. “I know what you’re thinking. Why is she reacting so heatedly to the problems of the world when her whole ethos is not to react but to observe? I can meditate for twelve, thirteen hours a day and in that time, I can detach from my ego. But the rest of the time, Jerome, I’m a human being living in matter, and that matter doesn’t give two hoots if I’m enlightened or not.”
She looked away from him and towards the living room door. An uncomfortable silence filled the air. On the sofa, Helen groaned and turned her head.
Her eyelids flickered.
“Helen?” Jerome rushed to her side. “Can you hear me?”
Just as quickly as her eyes had opened, they closed again. Hope sinking in his stomach, Jerome got to his feet. His eyes found the door.
“I’m going to check on Emily.”
Pamela returned to the window and peered outside. “It’s a cruel world in which we live, Jerome. The best we can do is free ourselves from its grip, then help others do the same.”
Reaching the door, he pulled it open.
“Lock it behind me,” he said.