Short fiction and serialised novellas of GJ Fairlamb

Archive for August 2014

Savage Writing: A One-Year Man

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The theme for this week was “Heat”


A single droplet of water curved down Mollie’s neck, slipped over the two creases of folded flesh, and raced the rest of the way to her chest in the time it took her to say ‘Huh?’

One week until semester started. We’d packed everything into the new flat, and it would be just the two of us until Jessica would move in on Saturday. So, we took a celebratory trip to the pool – or more accurately, the sauna. It had the kind of heat that sits easy in your lungs and on your skin, unlike that summer’s burning sunshine.

‘We broke up,’ I repeated.

‘Really?’ she said, cocking her head further. ‘But you two seemed so happy together!’

I curled up and clutched my legs, trying to ignore how my bones dug into the wooden seat.

‘Yeah, well,’ I said. ‘You know how it goes with some people. He was a one­year man.’

‘What, like there was a natural time limit to him?’ she scoffed.

‘Yeah, kinda. It’s like a season, I guess. When it’s over, it’s over. Not much you can say about it.’

She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. For the fourth time that day, I wished I could be like her. To walk around the pool with her suit clinging wet to all the contours of her torso, and be utterly uncaring. To slouch in the sauna, when she and everyone knew that that girls with any fat should never slouch. She had scarlet cheeks, a sweaty nose, wet hair flat and unflattering on her forehead – and yet she sat, without any indication that she noticed her transgressions of attractiveness, or cared. Like a baby, or a puppy: unaware, blissful. She did not constantly monitor herself from an imaginary third person eye. She merely was, in a way I could only hope to be.

I rested my chin on my knee, and was surprised to find my knee the colder of the two. Some things in life are surprising, I thought, but in hindsight, the break­-up shouldn’t have surprised anyone. Mollie had a long­-distance boyfriend of two years, and they worshipped each other like the sun. She couldn’t understand a time­limited relationship, but that was how it had been with Andrew and me. He was a one-­year man.

Autumn, last year. Mutual acquaintanceship made at a late summer barbecue, refreshed into mutual interest during a fresher’s week pre­-drinking session. Autumn has always been my favourite: the cooling air holds a promise of fresh, new things. Andrew had hair the colour of summer evenings, and his eyes and laughter lines creased when he smiled, and in the autumn days when the leaves crushed or slushed under our boots, he held a weight of novelty and potential in every word, every gesture, every brushing of his hand against mine. Once I grasped it in my own, I thought I could only ever be happy.

I have bad circulation. My fingers and toes are always ice-blocks, once it drops below fifteen degrees. Andrew, though, he was fire. He was a skinny guy, one of those naturally thin guys whose metabolism was cranked at full capacity, a furnace underneath twig ribs. He was my heat as we lapsed into winter: rubbing my fingers in his as if he was trying to make a spark from them, swearing when I put my feet on his calves in bed. Bonfires and mulled wine cooled over time, but the warmth of his skin on mine never ceased.

‘It’s more fun to have someone to go to these things with,’ he said, of seasonal dinners and events, even as his eyes roved over hair and down cleavage at seasonal drinks and parties.

I felt him slipping away with the long nights, as spring appeared. Missed meetings. Misunderstandings. ‘Monday, not Sunday.’ ‘Sorry, something’s come up.’ ‘You know how it is with my coursework’ – only to see a facebook revelry the next morning.

‘Tell me if you don’t want to be with me,’ I said. ‘Just be honest with me.’

‘Don’t be like that,’ he said, every time. ‘Come here.’

Stuck my hand in the flame, again and again. Leapt in harder after each threat of a cold world without him.

Exams and summer turned into sweaty jubilation. We’d rub our skin red on each other those empty afternoons. And then he wouldn’t text for a week.

Autumn came round again, as it would. I wished we could’ve lasted a season longer. We could’ve ended with a bang on Bonfire Night, instead of a slow, suffocating drain over multiple humid nights. The response to two ignored invitations at the end of July told me simply that he was leaving. ‘It’s been fun.’ Smiley face.

‘So,’ Mollie asked, that day in the sauna. ‘What’s he doing now he’s graduated?’

‘He went to London,’ I said to the thermometer. ‘Like he always said he would.’

‘You going to see him any time soon?’

I shook my head. The warmth of my cheeks disguised the flush of emotion; the sweat and poolwater hid the wetness of my eyes. I couldn’t tell her what I had realised: that there was never a “we” in that relationship. There was only him, and an afterthought. A consideration brushed aside like a cobweb; a moment sticky on the fingers, a tiny struggle to release himself, then nothing. Forgotten.

‘Well, that’s kind of prickish, isn’t it?’

‘I should’ve known better,’ I said. ‘He was that kind of guy. The sort who only sticks around

for a while, until something better comes up.’

I saw myself as he must have seen me: average, dull, clingy. A half-­played game of Jenga, where each missing block indicated a crucial feature I was missing as a person, as a woman. A barely standing tower of holes.

‘Oh, don’t you dare,’ Mollie said.

She stood up, and slouched herself down beside me.

‘Don’t you dare go thinking this was your fault,’ she said. ‘He messed you about for a whole year – he’s the prick here! It has nothing to do with you.’

I hugged myself away from her. Her words were comforting, but I knew the comfort wouldn’t last. We’d go outside into the wind, and the heat of the sauna would be blown away for good, and I would be left with cold toes, cold hands, without even the heat of a one­-year man.


Written by G.J.

21/08/2014 at 10:47 am

Pinwheel 7: Alice Changes the Past

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??T=9K+3D//Found = [[ ]]




The police shoot him when they come.

Their leader sneers at Bertram and calls him scum as they smash the bottles of whisky and rum and gin in a crash of glass and liquid smells. Two years of work on the floor, and who-knows-how-many future years in a cell, and though they can always begin again she cannot undo the damage of their wreckage, and their words. Scum. Tales of sobbing wives and neglected children. Tales of profiteers, of gangsters dumping bodies in the harbour. Accusations. Camorra. Cosa Nostra. Bertram cannot ignore that.

The chief of police wants him to swing. The moment he swings, the bullets fly. The moment they fly, the moment Alice realises bullets are too quick for her power. She does not see them; she cannot catch them. Bertram falls to the floor and she runs to him.

He bleeds and trembles. He dies in her arms.

Alice weeps. When the police step forward to handle her, she grabs the spokewheel from his pocket, and vanishes from sight.


June 1st, 1930

Fort Greene, New York


There is a note on her bed. It has been easily missed, now that she sleeps with Bertram, but as she walks past the open doorway, on her way to the club for the evening, the sunlight from the window falls bright on the paper and shines out to her, begging for attention.

She feels ill at the sight of it, but yet she picks it up. The writing is shaky and there is no name at the bottom.

Bertram will die on 13th day of December 1930 unless you do somethinge.

Please. I want to never exist.

Alice drops the letter as if it stung her. The writing bleeds away from the page, leaving only white space. The air is tense; her head feels as if it was squeezed in a vice. She breathes, and looks at the page again. White space.

The world settles together, and her headache subsides.

She continues on to the hallway, but as she reaches for the door handle, she pauses.


Sits in the hall, head on her knees, arguing with herself – did it say December? This year? It was definitely Bertram’s name written? And “somethinge” – with the cursive loops the extra “e” could have been a mistake – but still, it said “somethinge”…and the writer wanted to never exist…

She can do nothing. She knows this: without more information, she can do nothing. Even if she uses her sight, she cares too greatly about him to see his future. But if only, if only she could…

Her head jolts up with a gasp of realisation. She can’t – but a stranger could. Gift it to someone else, and let them see what will be. It would be a great sacrifice to no longer have that power, but when she considers the alternative – and the state of the person who came back to write that letter – she knows it must be done.

Alice stands, straightens her gloves, and seizes the door handle.

Later that night, she slips out of bed, and has her last consultation with her sight. It tells her of someone who would fit. It tells her what she must do. She gulps down her pre-emptive guilt, and reminds herself of the gibbet, the green silk dress, the lock of his arms around her back.

Alice opens the door and makes her way to Queens.


June 2nd, 1930

Ozone Park, New York


The door unlocks itself at her touch. She waits, tenses. No sound bar her heart, and the voice telling her to go upstairs, first on the right. She slips, clicking the latch behind her, and looks around. It’s a small home, tidy and well-polished, pictures of the Virgin Mary on the walls. Alice cannot eye them as she creeps up the stairs. First on the right. She hears the whistling, full-lunged breath of a deep sleeper inside. The breaths do not halt when she creaks open the door, nor when she steps up to the bed.

He cannot be that much older than her. His mouth is open wide, limbs splayed and weaving in and out of coiled bedsheets, unaware and helpless as one should be in their own home. I have to trust him, she thinks. Have to trust him with this gift – my greatest. But it is greedy to hoard her powers, she reasons, it is cowardice to hold onto her sight rather than do the right thing.

She kneels on the edge of the bed, and the springs protest under her, but no change in the sleeper. She leans over him, and considers what to do. With a hesitant hand, she prises open his eyelid.

He wakes with a start, and before Alice can prepare herself she is shoved away, and falls back on stumbling faun feet.

‘Who are you?’ he says, sitting up, pushing sheets this way and that in an effort to disentangle himself. ‘What are you doing here?’

His voice is a decibel louder than her heart can stand.

‘Quiet, quiet!’ she says, hands forward like she’s approaching a spooked horse. ‘Please, I need your help–’

‘Help? Get out my house, you crazy broad!’

‘Please, you don’t und–’

‘Ma!’ he shouts to the door. ‘Marco! Ma!’

‘Stop it!’ she cries, leaping on him, ‘be quiet, please!’

When he hollers again, she puts her hand on his mouth and tries to pin him down. Words are running out of her, trying to explain, but she barely understands herself, so desperate is she to keep him quiet. Even the scratching at her hand can’t move her. He shoves her again, but she has a deathly clutch on his shirt and they wrestle, jolt, and fall tumbling to the floor.

The floorboards are cold solid, he is a whole man of weight above her. For a strong second, she is in the courthouse cellar again, trying to scream as they stick needles in her thighs. Her muscles fail, the boy rises, and like they did then, he kicks her – barefoot this time, but her ribs ache just the same.

I’ll die this time, a voice within her screams.

He kicks again, softer this time. His breath spurts unevenly in fear.

Make it stop! Make it stop!

She reaches out with her mind, anything, anything to stop a third kick. The mind grasps his thigh, and slips through skin, through muscle – too large, too strong – and, finding a fundamental channel, squeezes, pinches, holds fast.

With a cry, he falls to the floor, grasping his leg in agony.

Alice releases the grip but still he wails like a babe and she is the stranger who can’t think what to do, only knows she must make it stop. Voices run through the house, steps, she has no time left. She scrambles to him, again with fingers stronger than she knows she prises open his eye. Her sight tastes of sweet apples and lime as it rises, and she aches for its passing. Mist falls out of her, collects and spirals down like a tornado into his open eye.

His brown iris blots white. The pupil expands, then contracts like a seismic wave, falling into itself. His eyeball boils, and melts in dribbling mess.

Sam shrieks like hounds have got him.

Feet, up, away, get away! Alice turns and bursts through the bedroom door, sprints down the stairs and out, out into the stifling night, past dogs and policemen and streetwalkers and prowlers, away, away, away. Five blocks down she careens into an alleyway and on the trash cans she retches, and spews, and shakes. Head screams, what have I done? What have I done? God forgive me, how did that happen? She sinks to her knees and slumps back against the brick, hiccuping through her tears and bile. God forgive me, please God I didn’t mean to, God forgive me…

She cannot face Bertram. She cannot face 1930 any longer. The spokewheel takes her from land to land, time to time, but still the sight of the eye boiling in its socket haunts her when she blinks. But the ache in her heart grows stronger than her horror, and when a greater threat emerges on a Tokyo train, she pulls herself back to the one she loves.

Not long after she returns, Bert mentions a crippled man with one eye is working for him now – says he’s got the sight like she does. She tries to smile, and takes great care when visiting the club from that day, so that he will never see her.

On December 1st, Bert tells her that Sam saw a police raid coming, and they need to prepare.

On December 13th, Bert laughs as the police leave in confusion, no trace of illegal activities found in his establishment.

Alice cries heavy relief into her pillow that night, and tells herself it was worth it.


September 8th, 2008

CERN Headquarters, Geneva


It can’t be, Onyeka thinks. It can’t. It must not.

She looks around the office. Grace and Sosuke are nowhere to be seen. Sholeh is staring at her computer screen as if it has secrets it will reveal in time. No-one is there to hear Onyeka’s revelation, and she wishes hard that it was ten years ago, and her father was here, her granny, anyone she could explain this to.

The attachment on the Large Hadron Collider is an upright coffin.

Whoever stands inside will be protected from the supercooling liquids, but will die from the radiation exposure nearly as quickly as hypothermia.

Sosuke’s program, as far as she knows, monitors the temperature, the radiation – but especially the magnetic fields. It is not interested in preventing the person’s death. Only in cataloguing their effect on the particle collision.

She must find Grace, she thinks. She must find her, tell her, get her gun –

Sholeh turns and beckons her over to her computer. Onyeka wants to refuse, run out of the room and do something – but Sholeh’s hand motions frantically, and her face holds a similar fear to Onyeka’s own.

Her screen, she realises, displays Google Translate.

She’s realised as well, Onyeka thinks. She knows, she’s found a way to communicate – since Grace is never here – yes, we can make a plan together. So, calming herself, Onyeka takes a seat beside Sholeh, and gestures for her to type into the machine.

I asked John why we are here. Did not tell me.

Onyeka suppresses her inner groan. Sholeh is a week behind her, so behind, just as everyone is always slower in thinking – but her large brown eyes contain deep worry, asking Onyeka to reply.

Calm. Patient. Comfort her, then find Grace and deal with the real problem. They have two days until the collider is turned on – a whole two days. Only two days.

Onyeka types and Arabic script appears on the screen.

He has not told me anything either.

Sholeh frowns and again and types for a while. Onyeka fidgets. When Sholeh deletes and retypes what she has just written, she wants to scream. But then the translation appears on screen:

Machine section is same size as a person, and I think John wants to kill himself. Possible?

‘What do you mean John wants to kill himself?’ Onyeka says. Her anxiety has doubled. Sholeh’s mouth is firm-set, eyes demanding response. Onyeka types her question, and Sholeh struggles to respond fast enough, searching out keys and flexing her fingers in frustration when she can’t find them quick enough.

Talked to him. He is sick in soul. I am worried for machine plan, for outcome. Said he will bring other element to machine and see the difference, but I think he wants to die and he is the element. I am worried.

Onyeka sits back in her seat, stunned. She hadn’t considered that John would put himself in the chamber. But why would she consider that he has a death wish? She barely knows the man. And yet Sholeh has figured everything out in half the time.

She digs her nails into the cushioning of her seat. What will become of the four of them all, trapped in a different time and country, without him to use the necklace and take them home? How could he be so selfish? And what kind of effect does he think he can have–

Onyeka loses her breath.

Sholeh’s eyes still burn into her, but Onyeka cannot straighten her thoughts enough to type them. Goosebumps creep over her skin as she considers what effect a man who has been jumping through time, who can see the past and future, who learns new languages without intention – what effect something supernatural as that might have on the fundamental blocks that make physical matter when they circuit at close to the speed of light.

Where is my sister, she thinks. I need my sister. I need her to smile, and laugh, and make light of things.

Her arms are heavy as she types:

It is dangerous. Dangerous for all of us. We need to stop him.

She stands before Sholeh can ask any more of her. Her handbag is under her desk. She picks it up, lies it on the table, and has her hand wrapped around its cool metal surface, when the door to the office slams open.


February 13th, 1931

Pinwheel Club, New York.


Three seconds after the door has slammed behind Tessa and John, Alice and Bert break their deadlock. Bertram turns away, and looks at the shadow of his hand on the tabletop. He is struggling to remain calm. Her snatching the necklace away is the last in a series of insults.

‘I asked nothing when you came back, after you disappeared for two months,’ he says. ‘I said nothing when you brought those people into the club, and when you said you had brought them from the future. I have let you do whatever you wanted, without questioning it, against all my better judgement.’

He pauses and clenches his fist.

‘Give me my necklace back.’

‘I can’t,’ Alice says.

Another wave of fury, pushed down.

‘It is mine.’

‘But you want to give it to him,’ she says. ‘You gave me your word that you would let no-one else see it. You broke that promise.’

‘You stole it from me and used it without my consent.’

Alice cannot deny it. Instead, she clutches the spokewheel tighter to her chest.

‘I will allow you to use it once more,’ Bert says, ‘to take those two back to 2007.’

‘I will,’ Alice says, ‘but please – next month. After February is done, I will take them back, and I will never use it again, I swear.’

‘Why wait until March?’

He turns to her. Alice only trembles in response. The chair scrapes loudly across the tiles as he stands up. His fingers drag along the wood as he paces around the table.

‘This is why I don’t go to the future,’ Bert says. ‘What did you learn, leaping around the ages yet to come? The war surely isn’t the end of us, if you went past the millennium and brought back people like that.’

‘Bertram…’ she says. ‘My – my sight…’

‘Don’t lie to me!’ he shouts, slamming his hand against the back of a chair. It falls and skids with a clatter. Alice winces.

Bert takes four deep breaths, and resumes his calm.

‘You know you’re not good at lying,’ he says. ‘And I know that you don’t have the sight any more.’

Alice’s eyes follow him as he paces again. Heavy-lidded movie star eyes, threatening to cry, as the best actresses can do on a whim.

‘I should have known,’ he says. ‘When I heard Sam had the sight, I should have known. I ought to have suspected, at least. What I don’t understand is – why? The blood-reading was my birthday present, remember?’ He laughs bitterly. ‘The first thing you ever gave me. It was grand. It was a real gift. And yet, you gave your greatest power to a complete stranger – and you tore out his eye to do it? You crippled him to do it?!’

His voice is rising again. He must control himself.

‘I didn’t mean to.’

Her whisper is barely audible.

‘Mean to what? Give him your sight?’

‘Hurt him,’ she croaks.

‘Why did you do it?’ he repeats, feeling as if he will flip the table if she does not give him a straight answer.

Old eyes. Old soul. Full of unspoken pain. Alice, poor Alice, as helpless as the day he saved her.

‘All I have ever wanted,’ she says, ‘is to keep you safe.’

Bert’s shoulders slump. His rage leaves him like a slashed balloon.

If one is told one will die by a fortune teller, even if one does not believe them, it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and staring down. L’appel du vide. The desire to know more and the fear of the oblivion in that knowledge collide so hard they give off sparks. He must not ask, but he must consider the possibility. After all, he went to 1944, and in 1944 he had been dead for a year, frozen and shot in the tundra of Attu – his family had pissed themselves at the sight of his living body. If he could change the future…if it was for her safety…

This is why he never goes forward in time. Letting the bad surprises take him must be easier than this eternal struggle.

It is too late to change what has happened. Sam has the sight. Tessa and George are in 1931. Alice has his necklace in her hands again.

‘Keep it,’ he says.

She starts.

‘Once Tessa and George are back home, give it back to me.’

She rushes to him and throws her arms around his neck. The press of her body against his, the warmth of her and her devotion, reminds him of how much he loves her.

‘I will,’ she says. ‘I will, I swear.’


September 8th, 2008

CERN headquarters, Geneva.


‘Gangsters?’ Grace says. He doesn’t know whether she is making fun of him or genuine. She smiles so often he cannot tell.

‘I’ve always thought they were…”cool”,’ he says, trying to pronounce the word they way she taught him. ‘Guns, and suits, and smuggling alcohol.’

‘And killing people?’

He blushes. No need to wonder this time. But when she makes fun, it’s light-hearted, almost…affectionate.

‘No, not that. But the feel of that time…it must be “cool”.’

She looks out the window, to the trees. They are still in the hotel, sitting in the foyer. He should be at work by now, as should she – but they started talking here after breakfast, and somehow they haven’t stopped or even mentioned stopping. Sosuke can’t remember the last time he talked to anyone this long in person.

‘You should ask John,’ Grace says. ‘He came from then.’

‘Really?’ Sosuke says.

‘You can tell by the way he talks, and the clothes he used to wear. But he was poor, and not a gangster.’

‘Oh,’ he says, sinking back down to his usual slouch. ‘I wish I could see it myself.’

A pause. The same second, they turn their heads and look at each other. The same thought crosses both.

‘No way,’ Sosuke says.

‘He said it was the last time he needed it,’ Grace says. ‘Why not?’

‘It’s too dangerous. And he’ll have it in his jacket – he always does.’

‘But he might have left that in the office.’

‘We should go to work anyway,’ he mumbles.

They walk across to the main building. No-one takes notice of the pair as they pass by, but Sosuke can’t help but think of the boys he used to know at school, and the stares and jeers they would have given them: “Why is she with him? Why is he with her?”

‘Why do you talk to me so much, anyway?’

He doesn’t realise he has said it out loud, or loud enough for her to hear, until she turns and laughs.

‘I’m the only one who speaks your language here. I don’t want you to get lonely.’

The thought of someone caring about his loneliness is absurd to him,

The office is empty. It is lunchtime.

The jacket is on the chair.

Grace hesitates.

‘Say it is there,’ she says. ‘We’ll have to be unseen. I don’t want to cause trouble, and someone like me, with someone like you, might get in trouble if people see us – back then.’

Her voice fades as she reaches the end of her sentence. Eyes on the floor. It never occurred to Sosuke to be seen in the 1930s. It has never occurred to him that Grace might host anxiety, or fear, or any weak emotion underneath her loud voice and pretty smile.

A rush of bravery takes him. He fishes in the jacket pocket, and brings out the necklace. It feels no different to a normal necklace, but just touching it terrifies him. He holds it out to Grace.

‘Do you know how it works?’

‘I think so,’ she says. ‘I’ve seen it enough times. We need to hold the spokewheel, and think of where we want to be. Anything we don’t think of, it will make random for us.’

She hesitates another second, then grasps the medallion with her hand.

I am the hero at the beginning of this adventure, he thinks. Chapter one, episode one, call to duty.

He puts his hand over hers, and enjoys the touch.

She smiles at him, and white space consumes them.

Unfortunately, random is not always random. A roulette spin is not random if the table is on a sloped floor. Gravity is like a stretched tarpaulin, with tennis balls and bowling balls sunk in its surface. Add a new marble to the surface, and it will be compelled to roll down to the nearest heavy object. So with time, and the bowling ball, the Jupiter, of February 28th, 1931.



?? February 28th, 19_+_31….[[##??##]]

??[[###Time…##**]] (since ChaNGed….#))



The windows of the club splatter red and the ringing aftermath of shots reels in the air. The tommy guns clatter to the floor as one, completing the pattern: outer circle, dead mobsters; inner circle, guns; centre: John, breathing hard, covered in blood and sweat and fever.

He looks again at Sam’s body, lying beside him. Blood still trickles out the hole in his forehead. His eyepatch is off-centre, revealing a swollen pink lid. John’s face creases, and he turns to the other side, by the bar, outside of the circle. Bert’s leg is bleeding badly – bullet hit him in the thigh. Alice is frozen, one arm around Bert, the other pressed on his leg, blank eyes like a statue as she stares at John, and what he has just done.

John sobs, and picks a pistol from the floor.

‘Don’t,’ Bert gasps. ‘Wasn’t your fault – wasn’t your –’

‘Shut up,’ John says, voice thick with bitterness. ‘You don’t know anything! I could’ve…I should’ve…’

He straightens. All reason is gone from his eyes; he is red-rimmed and wild. He points the gun in Alice’s face.

‘Give me the necklace.’

‘John–’ Bert starts.

‘If you don’t get him to hospital soon, he’ll die,’ John says to her. ‘Give me the necklace, and he might live.’

Alice looks down at Bertram, and shakes her head, still in shock.

‘I thought I had stopped this,’ she whispers. ‘I thought…’

‘Alice!’ John cries, stepping closer. ‘You know these things, right? Sam told me I’d bring people together. He said I’d do good. Is this what he meant, huh? Is it? I make everything bigger, better or worse – but it’ll never get better, will it? I can only ever make things worse!’

The barrel is half a foot away from her head. Still she looks at Bertram, despair slowly bursting forth in her features.

‘John,’ Bert spits, ‘don’t–!’

‘Give me the necklace!’ he demands.

Alice turns to him with a snap.

‘You cannot undo it!’ she shouts. ‘If you return to the past, you will meet yourself – you will make a paradox – you will ruin time! You cannot undo it, John!’

She presses her hand harder against Bert’s wound and breaks down.

John presses the gun against her head. Bert struggles to move through his fainting; Alice doesn’t flinch, trapped in her own depths.

‘I draw everything to myself,’ John says, soft, resigned, like an abused child. ‘And I can’t stop it. So I’m gonna do what he said. I’ll bring them together. Dammit, I’m a hole, a circling drain – I’ll bring it all together. I’ll bring every fucking thing together.’

He presses the muzzle into her temple, half-threat-half-sob. She bends underneath it, eyes screwed tight.

‘So give me that necklace!’

Alice yanks the chain at her neck, and holds it out to him. He pulls it up, and over her head. One last look at Sam, and he is gone.

Written by G.J.

15/08/2014 at 6:23 pm