Dead in Time

Chapter Twenty-One

Joss frowned. Movement in the doorway, and he made to turn around, impaled on his own guilt.

“It’s only me. Did you find anything?”

He returned his attention to the page. “Yeah.”

Her presence flowed into the room, soothing him without the need to see her. The ink danced in front of him, deceitful and mocking. Fucking Damon. Joss jumped at the sound of a cassette player, the crackle of a microphone, the clearing of a familiar throat.

“One. Two. One-two.” The sound of Day taking a last pull on a cigarette, amplified rustle of him leaning forward to drop it in the ash tray. “Uh… yeah. Untitled… for now. I’ll get it. Take three. Two, three, four….”

Joss spun on one heel, almost falling. “Jessie! Shh! Turn that off, someone’ll—”

She stood by the desk under the window, drifts of detritus, her head tilted to the side. Her hair—cut to the middle of her back now, half the length it used to be—hung down, her neck a curve of alabaster. She glanced back at him over one freckled shoulder, her long green dress patterned with pink flowers, and she smiled.

“It’s all right.”

“You’re s’posed to be watching. What if—”

“No one’ll come up.”

She turned back to the desk, rifling through the tapes and papers like a jumble sale, no care for what order she put them back in. Joss moved towards her, ’cos they had to be careful how they did this, how….

“Jess?”

The tape played on: Damon’s voice atop an overdubbed acoustic part, sketching the melody. A clean electric line, supple and soaring. Joss could hear what he was going for… what he so nearly had. The Gibson’s mellow burr, the swoop and the glide, working in and out of the notes.

“What’s that on your hand?”

She looked quizzically at him as he reached for her. Soft skin smeared red.

“Jessie?”

Blood on her frock too. Wet, the fabric crinkled across her stomach.

“Jess, what have you done?”

“You were right,” she said, her voice low and her eyes unblinking. “It isn’t fair. He hasn’t got a thing you haven’t. And pride always comes before a fall.”

Joss searched her face for any kind of explanation, anything at all other than the suspicion that now slipped down his back, cold and slimy. He turned, darted from the room, bare feet out onto the landing, where the bathroom door stood ajar. There hadn’t been anyone up here, surely. Everything had been quiet. All the doors shut.

He looked at the world through crowded eyes, hand reaching for the doorknob, and the breath choked off in his throat.

Holy shit.

Joss stared at the mess. Blood on the floor, slick and bright, bright red. Far brighter than he’d ever seen it. Pale skin pink-streaked where the thicker, redder smears didn’t reach. Body oddly bent against the vinyl.

“What… oh, God. Oh, Christ, Jessie…. What did you do?”

She padded up behind him, arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder, sweet breath on his neck. “He was stoned. Really gone. Nobody ought to get into that state. See? He hit his head.”

She hugged him tighter, the stain of Damon’s blood on her frock wet against the back of his shirt. Joss’ stomach flipped.

“He’s d— Oh, fuck. Fucking hell! We should call an ambulance. We need to…. We can’t just leave him like this. This is… fuck it, Jessie! Close his eyes, can’t you? He’s… oh, Christ, it’s horrible.”