The Initiates

The Initiates: Chapter Five

As I jog down street after street, I can feel my soul opening up to the world around me. Every breath I take burns a little more, filling me with determination to continue on and on and never give in to those around me. Every dull thud as my feet mark their paths lets me connect more with the stories of the street and I find myself envisaging every person to have found their way along the street- tens of them, maybe even hundreds and yet not a single one of them will have followed the exact same trail of footsteps. The world is littered with stories just waiting to be noticed, remembered, thought of.
The air is crisp and cool, it doesn't feel like springtime, although the lofty smell of cut grass reaches me from somewhere.
Cut grass, parks and graveyards.
My mind flies to Damien- my thoughts spinning and swirling into something new with ever step, every heartbeat, every breath. Estelle would have hated him from the offset, there was something about boys who aren't predictable, aren't stereotypical, aren't perfect, home-grown, well to do boys from well to do families that set her off. Estelle played the part of the perfect, preppy, I-should-be-a-cheerleader sweetheart because, inherently, that is who she was.
I hated Estelle for that as much as I envied her for it. Imagine, envying a dead girl.
But Damien, Damien. Estelle would have hated him and I would never have encountered him had she not gone and gotten herself murdered. Perhaps I should thank her. Imagine thanking your best friend for dying. Imagine I had thrown that in my heartfelt speech. Damien frustrates me. My feet are pounding harder on the ground as I consider it and I draw back a little. Too much energy does not lend well to the insomniac jogger camoflague. I am a master chameleon; my roles include infiltration, spying. I do the covert. If I wish to be unseen, or unrecognisable, or a new person entirely then I do it. I don't need wigs or disguises. My mask is enough. Everytime I wear a new one I get a little thrill, and no-one is the wiser. Not my family, nor Estelle, nor the Company, for the most part, but Damien, oh Damien. He saw right through me from the offset.
Thoughts of heavy forest scents, pine and pure air, the feeling of cold leaves and dirt on my skin, twigs in my hair. A coursing river in the middle of it all, deep blue but ever changing. Through a canopy of leaves, twinkles of stars in a velvet black sky.
My breaths are heavy with anticipation, burning heat searing my throat. I slow some more, not for the camoflague this time. I need to control myself. But Damien.
A curse bites my tongue, as annoyance at him, at me, burns through me faster and hotter than any desire. I will not be waylaid.
I reach the street which hosts Westerfields quickly, silencing all thoughts for the rest of my run. There is a CCTV camera on the corner of the street, so I time my slow down to match my crossover into its view. A young girl, out for a late run, pushing herself too far. I double over briefly and breath deeply twice before straightening and beginning to walk. I allow annoyance to leech into my steps, why couldn't I run better?
"I didn't expect you to be on time."
The first time Marks' quiet, husky voice came out of silent shadows with no warning, I almost jumped out my skin. Now, however, it just soothes; even when he's mocking me.
"Well, first for everything. Updates?"
The street is so quiet you can hear the streetlights buzzing and humming, a clatter of books lands at my feet as Mark's stumbles and drops them as he locks the front door to his shop. I bend quickly and help him collect them, slipping a couple of bookmarks out as I do so.
Everything for the camoflague. We're strangers, I assissted him, I'm helping him to his car. Everything for the cameras, for the busybodies who aren't sustained by sleep, rather by knowing what everyone is doing at all times.
"Lorna's still not been in touch. There was an interesting package in the mail at the shop though, for the attention of Helene Boss."
I frown, Helene was an alias of Lorna's through which she acted as an au pair for one of the Company's clients. "Helene was never associated with Westerfield. Even if Lorna was. Someone knows? Have you informed Them?"
"They don't want to hear it, its nothing we can use. They want more evidence." A delicate shrug of Marks' shoulders puts me in mind of a child, as does the slight spring in his step. He is one of the most genuine members of the Company, yet he wields it as a weapon with absolute efficiency. Estelle learned a lot from him, mimicked him. She loved him. Had he told her no, perhaps she wouldn't have insisted on her pathetic meet-cute. Then there would be no need for Damien, would I be missing out on a wonderful adventure had my best friend not gotten herself killed?
"Well, there were plain clothes at her funeral. I admit, I didn't notice them until leaving, but I was just so torn up with grief. Have we learned anything knew from Jack?"
Marks frowns at me, quickly. His eyes are wide set and his chin a little pointy, but beauty radiates from him in every way, his frown doesn't even change that. "Grief. You? Pah."
I arch an eyebrow at him before he continues, "Jack found out sweet fuck all that we don't already know. They're still watching you, obviously, we knew that, but don't think you're an actual candidate for suspicion. Maybe it's good you didn't clock them. They wouldn't have liked that."
"I also found a candidate, if you care to mention it to Her?"
"Reckon its a good one?"
Damien's shark grin breaks into my mind, cool breath on my face. "He might be just the ticket."
Marks shrugs and unlocks a beat up old Citroen, chucking books into it, and I sigh. Tomorrow night is the one I'm waiting for, the one making my heart beat faster and lighting every nerve in my body. Finally, something, someone exciting. "Back to Helene. What was the package?"

Marks turns to me slowly, hazel eyes serious; serious as I've ever seen them, seen him. Shadows flood the planes of his face, flickering light from the streetlights highlighting the whites of his eyes. The illusion of fear creeps into his features, or maybe its real. Marks isn't frightened of anything though, fear is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He is meant to be elated for the hunt for his missing partner, he is meant to be here to fill me with exhilaration. Fear is wrong, fear does not fit the profile. Fear is not permitted in the Company. "Marks, what was the package?"

"A photograph, of Stell. In the car; bloody, beaten, bruised. Her eyes were backwards but she was still alive, you could tell. There was a person behind her holding a plastic bag, the bag. There's no mask, or balaclava, or distinguishing features. Can't even tell if its a man or a woman. Its incredible cinematography." Marks pauses, a bitter laugh escaping as the image of his protegee wraps itself around his mind and his soul. I can see it happen, a look akin to horror washing his eyes over with darkness. I think of Carmen's text earlier; a similar picture, no mysterious figure in the background. Marks clears his throat, "And a clump of hair. Dark brown, we're choosing to assume that it's Lorna's but They are going to DNA match it."

"Will they be able to? If they've cut her hair then the chances of getting any sort of information is slim-"

That bitter laugh again. "Oh, they'll manage. It's still attached to part of the scalp."

I swallow, feeling a prickling of the same fear that is clouding Marks' whole being. I curl my lip in a snarl. I am not frightened of anything. I do not get frightened. This is all wrong. Estelle's face floats in my mind, not radiant and fluid and alive as she was three weeks ago, not still and frozen and perfect, exquisite ageless beauty laying in a perfect coffin waiting patiently to begin to rot and be eaten by maggots and time; but as she was in death. Wild-eyed and fighting, fighting, fighting. Tooth and nail. Blood clumping, staining, dyeing her hair, saturating her shirt so it hung heavy and close, violent, vile. Cable ties on her wrists, separately, not for any purpose other than to maim, tightened by her tormentor in sick glee until the plastic cut through the skin, scraping her veins, taunting her with a slow, slow death. The final panic, a wild animal desperate to escape by any means, crashing over a cliff just to own its own death. A plastic bag over her head. Removing her dignity. Suffocating, crashing. No leads, no DNA evidence, no idea who could or would commit such an atrocious act. For the first time, the severity of the situation hits me, winding me. Too much, all at once. Not that Estelle is dead, that was always a risk which we associated with the Company, were prepared for, were trained for. Death is the first lesson we learn as initiates. No, the Company has an enemy. An unknown enemy, who may be one person, ten, a hundred. Whoever it is is skilled, knowledgeable, powerful. They know how to remain hidden. They may be the target we were tracking, they may not. All we know is that they exist and are invisible. I let my eyes meet Marks and nod solemnly, clap his back and step to the side to begin my jog home. 

A prickle of fear is still running up and down my spine as I hoist myself back through my window. The unknown enemy knows who we are, undoubtedly, and clearly have no qualms about whether we are alive or dead. I change quickly into pyjamas and sit at my desk, unwilling to sleep, unwilling to look at the information Marks had provided me with in the bookmarks I had swiped. A burning hot lump forms at the base of my throat, constricting, pulling all my muscles tight and threatening to choke me, and for the first time since I was first initiated, a real true sob forces its way from me.