THE BEAST ─ five hargreeves

[ 038 ] and nothing but the truth

XXXVIII.

a n d n o t h i n g b u t
t h e t r u t h

—FIVE AND ZARA faced one another, seriously inconveniencing a woman trying to get a look at a mannequin perched on the stand. Yet they were conscious of nothing but each other. Five was staring at her like a man suddenly awoken from sleep.

He said: "It's you, dammit."

"Indeed it is." Zara cleared her throat. "Hello, Five. You look awfully pale. Seen a ghost?"

"Ha ha," returned Five, without any sign of amusement. "Is that an attempt at humour? Very funny."

"Thank you. I've been waiting for an opportunity to use that one."

Five did not reply to this. He looked her up and down. It's always a shock to meet someone whom you haven't seen for a while, but who has been very present in your mind during that time. Seeing her felt completely unreal.

The first thing he noticed about Zara was the scar—a thin white mark that ran down her cheek in a serpentine curve.

She was wearing black, and that, in some curious way, startled him. Many other women in the department store were wearing black, but Five got it into his head that it was definitely mourning—and it surprised him that Zara should be the kind of person who did wear black—even for a near relative.

"I've killed your mother," said Five.

"So it seems," said Zara.

"Is that why you're wearing black?"

"Yes."

She stood so still that she might have been a waxwork. That stillness of hers made him a little uneasy. He had no clue what she was thinking.

If only, Five thought, he could know what was going on inside her head. This—This was agonizing. What on earth was he supposed to do? Feel? Say?

"Well," said Zara, passing him a piece of red liquorice, "tell me. Is she really dead? Are you absolutely certain?"

Five took the candy and chewed it slowly. "You eat when you're stressed."

She gave him a sharp glance.

"And I eat when I'm not stressed too. What's your point?"

"My point is that you're worried about something—something you have to tell me, probably?"

Zara didn't reply. She went on eating her liquorice with a slightly squirrel-like feverishness.

Five paused a moment and then said irritably: "I see. So you're not the victim here?"

"That's an interesting question," said Zara, though she didn't look in the least interested. "Aren't we all victims in this cruel, cruel world? A question for philosophers, I think . . ."

He interrupted her impatiently.

"Are you going to tell me why you're alive?"

Zara was silent for a minute or two.

"I could tell you," she pondered, "but I'd really rather hear what you've got to say. Any theories?"

Five looked puzzled. "Didn't The Handler try to kill you?"

"My mother?" Zara arched a brow. "She's not behind this. That's good, though. I figured you'd say as much."

"Cha-Cha, then? Hazel?"