I thought back. “He . . . said he was sorry,” I began, slowly. “And she said it wasn’t his fault, or mine, or hers. My sin brought you to Her attention, so She would not let you go till you had served Her ends once more. But I can make sure She never touches you again. . . .”
And then I was back there, for a split second, watching Mrs. Whitcomb’s ghost slide her hand inside Sidlo’s chest, arm stiffening to the elbow, squeezing something. Saw Sidlo gasp, lift his head and smile, then slump sideways, blind eyes fixed; thank you, his lips shaped, silently. Mrs. Whitcomb remained motionless, fist still sunk wrist-deep between his ribs, as though reluctant to release whatever she was touching.
You have to do it, Lois, she told me. Find the film. Destroy it.
“I understand.”
She will not make it easy.
I remember opening my mouth to respond, maybe snap something stupid, like and why am I not surprised? But something suddenly stopped me, struck me hard, a punch to the stomach so deep it made me physically unable to breathe: light and shadow folding together, deep beyond the blinds’ narrow-thread window, like the flicker at the end of a tunnel. Vibrations in my feet, heralding an approaching train.
“Is there . . . something . . . behind you?”
Sister, this much is certain: something lies behind everything.
Under the veil, once more fallen shut, Mrs. Whitcomb’s skull seemed to smile, sadly. Light mounted, wiping her features away.
“Yes,” I managed, tongue dry to cracking. “But, what I mean is—is that—?”
(—Her?)
Yes. Which is why you should wake up.
Now.
I emerged from my fugue to find Safie snapping her fingers near my right ear, quick but discreet—eyes intent on mine, trying to catch my gaze without making a scene. “Miss,” she was saying, low and worried. “Miss, Miss Cairns, hey. Lois?”
“Here,” I replied, at last.
“Um, good. What just happened?”
I shook my head, to clear it. “Not all too sure. Harrison said I might have episodes, like little drop-outs—sort of petit mal, but not a big deal, comparatively. Sorry to worry you, if I did.” She restrained herself from questioning what had happened. “Okay, so. The film’s in custody, right? And we can get it back now that they’re no
t gonna charge us with anything . . . They do have to release it, right? The reel belongs to us, after all—to you.”
“Yeah, ’course. We can go down right now, easily.”
I nodded. “And then we destroy it. We don’t watch it, don’t file it, none of that. Just burn the bastard up till it’s gone, pure and fucking simple.”
“Co-fucking-signed,” Safie agreed, without blinking. We shared a sort of mutual half-grin, well aware how our lives had morphed into some unlikely genre mash-up—Quentin Tarantino does supernatural giallo, maybe, or a Guillermo del Toro sitcom, both with a CanCon twist.
And then we were in a cab, me voice-texting Simon as to where we’d gone, him responding almost immediately: Wish you’d told me first but okay, love. And then we were getting out in front of 54 Division, Safie leading me by the sleeve, like the world’s largest five-year-old. And then we were talking to a constable on the front desk till, eventually, Detective Correa appeared.
“Miss Hewsen, Ms. Cairns,” she greeted us, polite as ever. “You look—better, overall. What can I do for you?”
“I’d kind of like my stuff back,” Safie said, which was an almost exact précis of what we’d already told that relatively nice-sounding uniform now busy answering the phone a few feet to our left. “Didn’t know who else to talk to about it, really. So.”
“Hmmm,” Correa replied, not seeming particularly put out. “Well, as it happens, things are slow right now. Wait here.”
Safie ushered me over then went to get us both more coffee, not that we needed it. I sat there for what seemed like longer than necessary, listening to the station’s din like it was a really extended John Cage piece; the coffee, when it arrived, was hot, grainy, Java-flavoured water. Eventually, I heard Correa’s sensible shoes tapping back down the hall, and sat up straighter.
“I have some rather disappointing news,” she told us.
Tired, holy Christ, so tired. It’s a long time since I’ve had to think about all this deliberately, or with any sort of genuine detail; at least the bulk of two years since I’ve even allowed myself to, and part of that is mere self-protection—for the child of two actors, amusing enough, I’m a remarkably shitty liar. Which means I basically have to all but convince myself whatever agreed-upon fable I’m currently parroting is true, in order to even attempt to put it over on anyone else.
I don’t know who I expect to see this, or when. After I’m dead, maybe. But then again, how plausible is it, really, except as a litany of hallucinations and existential crises—the testimony of a woman who lost both her sight and her mind, at least temporarily, while getting caught up in forces far beyond her own control? It doesn’t even have to contain anything truly supernatural if you just consider it from the correct angle: already under intense psychological pressure, I experienced a series of sad but explainable traumatic events while researching a similarly eccentric and unstable woman who held odd, creepy beliefs which caused her to attribute every bad thing that happened in her life to a long-dormant monster goddess’s malign influence. A type of transference occurred, thus causing me to develop a version of those same odd, creepy beliefs myself. QED. And all that’s without even going into Wrob Barney’s contribution to the whole affair. . . .
Oh yeah, right. I should probably start doing exactly that.