"Is she going to wake up soon?"
"Mr. E, she's lost a lot of blood! It'll be a miracle she wakes up today."
"What about Mrs. N?"
"She's fine. She woke up after we bandaged her head, and is now asleep."
"Where is Ms. R's grandma?"
"Ms. E is trying to calm her down. She thinks Ms. R is dead. She is old, child, like me. She needs to rest."
"But how to we tell Ms. R about what happened? She'll be horror-struck!"
"Aren't we all, Mr. E?"
I managed to open my eyes as Mr. I left. I was in my room, at home, at Hampstead village. I saw my homey purple walls filled with the hundreds of quotes I had written beautiful handmade frames. I saw my old wooden bookshelf, the histories and classics arranged on one shelf, the fiction and romances on another. At the other end, near the door, I saw Michael sitting on a chair, his eyes closed and head resting on the wall. I could tell he was in deep thought.
I wanted to get up, but then I remembered what the Mr. I had said. I had lost blood - a lot of it. And that was true. I tried lifting myself up a bit, and I felt like I had lost ten kilos I couldn't afford to lose. I realized that my chest was heavily bandaged and ached dully.
Excellent. I was bedridden.
Michael opened his eyes and looked at me. "Finally," he said grinning. "You've been unconscious for the past three days."
"But -" my voice sounded so hoarse. "How - what - ?"
"We were able get you and Mrs. N some first-aid before we boarded a train back to here. Somehow we managed not to get you hospitalized by the train conductors. When we reached here by five o'clock, Mrs. N woke up and was sent back home to her husband. You, here."
"Did we manage to find out-?" He shut me up in the middle of my sentence by pressing a plastic glass of water to my lips. I obliged.
"Mr. A, Mr. O, Ms. M and I went to the other Dunaway's office after you - you fell." He looked at me sheepishly, and continued. "We found lots of stuff - Mr. Hiden was right. Arthur Dunaway is selling unmanufactured oil to Iran, and refined jet fuel to Iraq for their military jets."
"What?" I growled through gritted teeth.
"Yeah." He said. "We collected all the evidence we could against him, and his brother. We made it to Mr. I as fast as we could, but..." he paused, his eyes far away.
"You said that something horrible happened, and I would be horror-struck if I found out. What was it?"
He looked at me, surprised. "You were listening?"
"Only that much." I said, then, with a playful smile, "Why?"
"Oh, err..." he seemed to hesitate. "I made a phone call earlier, to my mum... I hope you didn't hear me calling her 'mummy'."
I laughed, then winced as my chest hurt. Michael leaned closer.
"Take it easy, will you?" He said. "Why on earth did you open that hatch anyway?"
"Jessica Horton was supposed to do that." I said. "Apparently, people drop from heights a lot, because no one even asked me how I was. They were barely looking at me."
"No, they weren't, because Mrs. N set fire to the pipes just then. They were more concerned about themselves than you." He shook his head. "I think you were unconscious for fifteen minutes before she did. And why were you stupid enough to go after her in the fire, Eve?" He was suddenly angry. "What, were you trying to become a hero? Trying to show how brave you were and how you could save lives and how you would have save your parents' lives if you were there? Do you have no concern for your friends and family?"
Again, I turned defensive. "No, you idiot. I tried to get her out because she was my responsibility - didn't you hear Mr. I? If I let her die, I would be ousted from Ministerio Iustitia! I wasn't trying to be a hero, or showing everyone how good I am at saving lives! I'm not mad!"
Michael didn't back down. "That was still ridiculously risky, Eve. Given your condition, I doubt the organization would hold anything against you, and -"
"Get out." The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.
He looked taken aback, dropping his stance. "What?"
"Get out of my room, Mike. Move!"
"But listen to -"
"Go, will you?!"
He jumped up at the volume of my voice. He sighed, nodded and left, closing the door.
I sighed and sat up straighter, feeling incredibly guilty. My legs felt fine, but I still used the four-poster bed to get up. I walked slowly to my mirror, and gasped at the yellow bag of bones staring at me, her jaw dropped, her hair now messier than Consuela Horton's, her knuckles and knees knobbly and her eyes weak and colourless. She seemed exhausted, even though she didn't feel any exhaustion. She looked like she had lost at least fifteen kilos, and it would be surprising if she didn't collapse right that very second.
I turned away from the mirror, really hoping that the others wouldn't think of me as the zombie that I thought I looked like.
I climbed the stairs carefully - and even that height made me dizzy. So I had to grab the railing with both my hands and walk down slower than a snail. When I reached downstairs (thankfully), I heard voices from the living room.
"Michael," said my Gran's worried voice. "How is she? Is she awake? Did you talk to her?"
"She's fine," said Michael, dully. "At least, fine enough to shoo me out of her room."
"She asked you to get out?" Asked my aunt, surprised.
"Yelled." Corrected Michael. "It was my fault, anyway."
"Did you tell her about what happened?" asked Mr. I.
"We didn't get there," he said.
"Oh," said my grandmother's panicked voice. "Oh, she's going to be so devastated. She risked her life - her precious life. Oh..."
"Now, now, Ruth," said Mr. I placatingly. "If anyone is strong enough to handle it, it is her. You should know that. You haven't seen that side of her. The fierceness that she has - she could stare down a lion. But we need to tell her that Dunaway escaped."
"What?!" I yelled and rushed into the room, for once ignoring the pain in my chest. "Dunaway's escaped?! What? How? When?"
Michael was the first to calm down after the interuption that had caught them all off guard. He raised his hands pacifyingly. "I know - I'm shocked too. Arthur Dunaway escaped while we were coming back. He shot two guards and knocked out the inspector, who is now in the hospital because of the serious concussion. We have submitted the evidence, and now, the police are looking for him. There's nothing we can do, Evangeline."
Tears came to my eyes. "So he's gone? We did everything in vain?"
"Oh, darling," said my Gran. "Please don't say that. You did so much! Now we can get him arrested as soon as he is caught. Please calm down."
"Calm down?!" I yelled. "You're asking me to calm down?!"
"Easy, Evangeline," said Delilah firmly. "Dunaway will be caught. You need to rest - you're crying."
"Ms. E, take her upstairs." Said Mr. I. "She is in shock. She'll come about in a few hours."
Furious, but tired, I let my aunt take me upstairs. The last thing I heard as I left was, "Maybe she isn't as strong as I had thought. Not anymore, anyway."
The first thing I did after I woke up was to check the calendar.
August the fifth. Merely twenty-six days before college started. Excellent. A statewide manhunt lasted at least a month. And if the police were efficient, Dunaway might get caught. And that was a very big might.
I checked my fracture and wound, both in the early stages of their healing process, and climbed down the staircase. I didn't see my Gran, she was probably asleep, and I didn't want to wake her up, so I stayed downstairs and made my own porridge, turned on the radio station, and listened to Elvis Presley depressingly singing about some lover who abandoned him and left him broken and whatnot.
But, in the melancholy music, I found my own peace of mind. One of his other songs, 'You Were Always On My Mind,' got me singing a bit myself, something that I almost never did.
'Maybe I didn't treat you
Quite as good as I should have
Maybe I didn't love you
Quite as often as I could have
Little things I should have said and done
I just never took the time..."
Next thing I knew, I was singing perfectly in tune with Elvis, spinning slowly in the living room, knocking into things. Listening to him was so much better than listening to Mozart. My fractures stopped hurting, my gaze turned sharper, my sullen face stretched into a smile, and I was dancing in and out of rooms, sipping into my orange juice in between. After my friend finished this one, he started with 'Jailhouse Rock,' and I started tapping my spoon to the beat.
I should have listened to music more often, because after fifteen minutes of songs, I had almost forgotten about Dunaway. I was living in the moment. I laughed with the fun songs and cried with the depressing ones. I danced to 'Sway', and sang to 'I Have A Dream.' For an entire hour, I was at peace. After a month of dangerous ordeals, I was content.
The radio jockey ended her session with the song, 'Words,', and I ended my dance with a twirl on the balls of my feet and a laugh broke out from my lips. It echoed loudly in the empty house.
It struck me then that it was eight-thirty in the morning and there was still no sign of Gran.
I walked up the staircase and knocked on her door. "Gran?" I called. "It's Eve. Are you awake?"
No response.
"Grannie?" I knocked hard, but she still didn't open the door, so I did it for her.
One of the things I liked about my grandmother's room was that it was very well-furnished. Beautiful pictures of her daughters, her husband and her hung from the walls - ten-year-old mum and nine-year-old Delilah holding cones of ice cream, Gran and Delilah holding a baby kitten, Gran holding a bunch of flowers with Gramps having his arm slung over her shoulders, Gramps with his two daughters on each shoulder. And, on the other side, my parents' wedding picture, and next to it, my mum in the hospital with an ugly, red baby in her hands, my dad standing over them, smiling at the camera. The pictures were near Gran's bed, which was mahogany-colored four poster, much bigger and more well-polished than mine. Another thing I liked about her room was the old lavender soap smell. I didn't know what kind of air freshener she used, but it usually made her room feel very homey.
But despite all of that, it didn't, because she wasn't there.
I checked the bathroom too. She had completely disappeared.
Panic seized me. Where would she go without telling me? To the supermarket? No, that wouldn't be right, would it? I mean why would she go to the...?
My train of thought stopped abruptly when I saw the cassette on her bed.
It seemed like an ordinary cassette, like the one Michael had when he was a kid and played his favorite songs on his cassette player. But it seemed completely out of place on the bed where my Gran should have been sleeping.
I opened one of her drawers, took out her player and inserted the cassette in it, my heart hammering against my broken ribcage. I pressed the play button.
The lyrics of a song came pouring out.
'Softly, I will leave you softly,
For my heart would break if you wake and see me go
So I leave you softly, long before you miss me
Long before your arms can beg me to stay
For one more hour, and one more day
After all the years I can't bear the tears to fall
So, softly as I leave you there
(Softly, long before you kiss me)
(Long before your arms can beg me to stay)
(For one more hour) and one more day
After all the years, I can't bear the tears to fall
So, softly as I leave you there
As I leave you there
As I leave you there...'
I took out the cassette and checked the name-tag on the cassette.
'Say something, and she dies.'