Unnatural Journeys: Second Night

By John Ezzy

Unnatural Journeys Second Night continues John Ezzy's vast and compelling journey into worlds haunted and dark, humorous and uplifting, powerful and merciless. it is unique. Combining novels and short fiction it is an uncompromising work of the imagination. This is the second of four volumes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450289658

John Ezzy

John Ezzy is an Australian author.

Book preview

Contents

Twenty-First Step

The Key

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Twenty-Second Step

The Eternal Spring

Twenty-Third Step

Blazing the Sperm Express

Twenty-Fourth Step

Luck of the Devil

Twenty-Fifty Step

Watching for Monsters

Twenty-Sixth Step

Knightfall

Twenty-Seventh Step

Blue Stone

Twenty-Eighth Step

With an Enigmatic Smile

Twenty-Ninth Step

The Gift She Couldn’t Accept

Thirtieth Step

A Suitable Match in Scattlethrottle

Thirty-First Step

The Key

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Thirty-Second Step

The Polish

Thirty-Third Step

Knight-Time

Thirty-Fourth Step

How to Beat the High Cost of Living on a Friday Night at Gilbert’s

Thirty-Fifth Step

The Double Life of Lincoln Green

Thirty-Sixth Step

Knightfall

King of Water

Thirty-Seventh Step

In the Service of a Higher Power

Thirty-Eighth Step

Burning Green Moon

Thirty-Ninth Step

Little Lamb

Fortieth Step

Another Meeting with Epiphany

Twenty-First Step

I take a step, and then I’m somewhere else.

Which is pretty handy, because it was dark in that other place.

The sand is toasty salvation, a new sacrament. Paradise arcs away into distance, wonder-wide and wonder-white. The sky is baptism. The sun is tender communion; it descends with the grace of smug angels. The ocean? As blue as creation, as calm as a prayer, as vast as unshakable faith. Behind me there are honest-to-goodness palm trees, at the edge of a creational garden, Eden without the rotten apples. I can hear parrots, and their voices remind me of cheerfully stupid hymns. This world is very okay, right now, and sometimes I kind of forget that I’m an atheist.

Yep, here I am beside the sea. Beside myself, beside the sea.

I’m also naked, which is both appropriate and delightful. A little uncomfortable, too, and let’s not understate the risk of sunburn.

I take another step, breaking the symmetry with my footprint.

It seems a shame, really. This place will never be so pure again. With each step, every small displacement of the sand, I create a different world, less composed and less gentle.

So, will these footprints remain forever? An immortal indictment? Just waiting there, like some size nine sphinx, for an intrepid future explorer? What would this hypothetical fellow make of my tracks? Would he just scratch his head and say: ‘Who the fuck did this? What was it all about? Was there some religious significance, perhaps?’

Which would be taking a few random footprints far too seriously, I guess.

But, yeah, I like to think it’s all about the gods, in a secular sorta way.

Not that I’m pretentious, or anything.

Another step; more disruption.

But I don’t feel guilty, not really. Beauty only counts for so much, after all. If I must defile this paradise, and it really seems that I must, then it’s my responsibility to form individual patterns, my own, to feel and cherish and change the sand between my toes, to make these footprints worth the desecration. It’s my responsibility to not give a shit what you think of this book, dear reader.

Yeah, I’m obnoxious right now. (But I am mostly a nice guy; ask anyone.) Fuck you with a limp dick. Go write your own book, if you’re unhappy with mine.

So, welcome aboard. That previous tirade doesn’t apply to anyone who enjoyed Unnatural Journeys Part One. You are fine, special people, and naturally I care very much about your opinions; may all your dicks be enormous and fully erect.

I can’t pretend that my journey is a natural one. Why would I want to? Writers are naturally unnatural. Don’t listen, if they claim to be just like regular folk. (And so many of them do try to pull that shit.) Writers are gods, but you sure as Hades shouldn’t worship them, because they all have, ahem, issues. Trust me, we are no kind of normal.

Anyway, this beach, as you might appreciate, is far from happy with my presence. It would prefer a more sun-bronzed, muscle-rippling god.

Sorry to disappoint, beach.

I’m an indoors person, if absolute truth be known, and I’ve never once walked naked on a beach before. (Truly sad.) I can’t even swim, and when it’s hot I burn within half an hour.

All of which is kind of embarrassing, when you’re a god.

But don’t hate me, beach. Seriously, don’t. I may be a flawed deity, with pale skin and a bit of a gut, not really your type of creator at all, but I do intend to honor you. Yeah, don’t scoff. Perhaps, by the time this unnatural journey is finally done, you won’t think so badly of me. Or maybe you’ll think very much worse. Okay, it’s a risk.

And now I’m talking to sand.

The woman who waits for me, basking in a green bikini, her umbrella drink an identical color, is Suzy Hopkins. Hello, old mate. Her usual greeting. So where the fuck have you been?

Into some dark places, my friend. The usual reply.

She yawns, not surprisingly. "Yeah, I read that bit where you questioned your own reality, at the end of Unnatural Journeys Part One, and how you needed at least one reader to make you real. A bit pathetic, in my opinion."

Your completely unsolicited opinion. I squat beside her. Would that be the opinion we speak of?

If there’s any soliciting going on, you’re hardly the ideal candidate. She sips her drink.

I’d say something really cruel, if you weren’t so physically attractive.

Of course we’ve slept together, several times. Suzy is, arguably, a figment of my imagination, but it isn’t an argument that either of us would prefer to address.

Why don’t you go swimming in the ocean? she says. I’d recommend sticking to the shallows, which is always where you’re most at home.

I see, that’s a bit like an insult.

Kind of. So what’s with this whole naked thing? She pulls sunglasses from the top of her head, pokes them firmly over her eyes. Don’t tell me it’s some tiresome metaphor of intent?

Okay.

Got it, exactly, didn’t I?

Well, a bit. I’m going naked for all the world to see, kinda.

Gross.

Uncovering the works, every dark corner. Physically, emotionally, psychologically.

Sordid.

Attempting to shame those cynical bastards who only care about cash.

I’m sure the twelve or so people who read this book will be impressed by your supposed integrity. She twirls the umbrella through her potent-seeming cocktail. Blows against the empire? Sheesh! Do you think the empire even notices you?

That’s beside the point, immaterial.

Oh, now you have a point? Madonna told us exactly what kind of world we’re living in, by the way, and it’s not an immaterial one.

Whatever. I pick up a handful of sand. Then I tilt my fingers, let it fall. Changing. I happen to think that I’m doing something of originality and courage, at a time when many are fearful of taking a single risk. I’m the hero of my own personal quest, my own unnatural journey.

She laughs. It’s funny ‘cause it’s you.

The journey has not always been a happy one. Sometimes the road is dark, my friend, and scary. I like being grave and self-important around Suzy; it really irritates her. But look where we are now, at the beginning of the second volume. So let there be light, as another god might have put it.

Yeah, the setting is an improvement, at least. I had to get out of that fucking attic, old mate. Suzy refers to the house on Milos Street, where we took up residence for the first part of Unnatural Journeys. I needed to feel the sun, smell the salt, taste the gin.

Hey, it gets my vote. But am I already starting to burn? Maybe my writing will take on a different character, out here in the hugely blue open.

I certainly hope so. Another female voice, as familiar as my guilty conscience.

Hello there, Keiko.

Hi, John.

She has materialized to my left, lavishly delightful, even more attractive than Suzy. Keiko wears a blue bikini; her umbrella drink, of course, is the same color.

Sometimes it’s fun to be a god.

Keiko looks at me with fond accusation. She is displeased at some of the roads I took in Unnatural Journeys Part One. (Just about every road, come to think of it.) Now’s the time for you to simply choose, at a basic level, light over darkness.

And now’s the time for me, at a basic level, to blow chunks of vomit. This from Isha, who also appears out of nowhere. Red bikini, red drink, stunning. Isha sticks a shapely finger down her own throat, withdraws it, pretends to gag. We all know that the muse won’t stand for any sugar and spice crap. So bring on the yummy desolation, John, because that’s where every path inevitably leads.

Not always. But I don’t look at her. I’m sure that some of these new stories will please the muse, and some of them probably won’t.

Yeah, good. She laughs, stretching, sexy, languorous. So the muse should be expecting a backbone, this time?

Yes.

Yeah, good. So you’re the god now, not the disciple?

Yes.

Yeah, good. And you won’t be groveling constantly to the muse, begging for her to walk all over you?

That’s right, I won’t.

Ha ha. The muse really likes that begging part.

I’m serious.

Ha ha. The muse really likes that walking part.

"I hate you so much. And I really hate the muse."

Yeah, good. Ha ha.

Come on, don’t even listen to this bitch. Keiko stirs her blue drink with a finger; she gives me a look of intent expectation that twangs my guts. How do you see yourself in ten years, John? Seriously, think about it. Will you still be giving yourself to the darkness? Is that an acceptable future? Is it inevitable? I don’t think so. This is your choice, entirely. It comes down to fighting perverse and destructive addiction, on a daily basis. Write to be proud. Write about happiness, even at the expense of truth. You owe that to yourself, and your readers.

So, what you’re suggesting, as I understand it, is that he sells his soul? Isha knocks her blood-red cocktail back, a yummy and violent affectation. "You want John to worship the foulest of all demons, compared to which his muse is virginal: self-censorship. To accept that abominable notion – writing so as not to offend the sensibilities of others, or your own sensibilities, for that matter – is completely dishonest. It’s a philosophy for cowards, despicable. Should Joyce have rewritten Ulysses to make it more palatable for prudes? Should Shakespeare have toned down the lust and the brutality? Look, no reader is entitled to make moral demands upon the writer; simply go elsewhere, without complaint, if you don’t like what you’re experiencing. The reader sure as fuck shouldn’t demand self-censorship from an author; that is book burning by stealth, espoused by people who simply have no balls. You may hate John’s muse, but don’t give me this moral superiority shit. Keiko, your vision of floating clouds and blueberry muffins is more resolutely evil than the muse could ever be."

Do you seriously believe that freedom of expression excuses every crime, including crimes against yourself? Keiko, the pacifist, looks like she wants to whup Isha’s ass. "Because I think John’s work should have a positive message I’m evil and opposed to creativity? Tell me, how is darkness more honest than light? It isn’t, and never has been. No one tries to restrict John more than the muse. Don’t you dare tell me she’s a force for purity of vision."

Sun good, says Suzy Hopkins. Arguments bad.

Keiko and Isha glare at each other.

I smile, enjoying the company of these three beautiful ladies. So, does anyone else think it’s okay to mention me in the same breath as Joyce and Shakespeare?

Laughter follows.

This new world is so wonderful, despite what Isha might say, or even what Keiko might say, with fresh, juicy possibility, both light and dark, in every grain of sand.

I’m pleased to be back, I tell them. "It’s been years since I completed Unnatural Journeys Part One, the longest break from writing that I’ve ever taken. Jesus, I had planned on finishing the whole mad project by now, all four volumes. It was hard to resume – some very bad things happened, and I had no energy – but I was finally rescued by a woman named Sara. She gave me back my own wonder, and I’m absolutely ready to go."

Then just get into it, old mate. Suzy is more supportive than usual; perhaps this tropical weather is making her mellow. In the end Keiko’s and Isha’s opinions are only opinions. Write, now, and let me sunbathe.

It’s a terrible old cliché, that one about journeys and destinations, so let’s pretend I didn’t bring it up.

Now we return to my novel The Key. This is the third part. Probably I should give a synopsis of what has gone before, but I’m not going to. I would advise those who have read Unnatural Journeys Part One to reacquaint themselves with previous events, and those who haven’t read it should probably do so before continuing here. But that’s only a suggestion, mind.

Always follow your own course, I reckon, regardless of what anyone else might wish; then you have the possibility of finding a worthwhile destination.

Or at least a different one to the usual tourist traps.

I get up, walk towards the water. Another step, and the sand is once again moving between my toes.

The Key

Part Three

CHAPTER EIGHT

I woke to the utterly gruesome sound of someone pounding on my bedroom door.

Get up, Erica. My father smashed that frigging door again. You’ll be late for school.

School? How could it be morning already? God, I felt like complete shit, as though I had run two marathons in scuba gear. Every part of my body totally ached. Those sunburned legs were so bad; I was sure they had swollen to the size of bridge pylons. Worse still, my head felt like a jagged lump of concrete. Conventional headache tablets would not do the trick here; I wanted a guillotine.

Dad went for that door a third time. How could one fist coming into contact with wood make so much noise?

At what repulsive hour had I finally gotten home last night? Good question. I remembered lying on the floor of Meredith’s transformed apartment, sobbing, loathing myself. At some stage I must have taken the decision to leave, but I had no clear memory of doing so. I couldn’t even recall getting home. Everything was such a blurry ache.

Except for Lilly Jensen. That lovely, slaughtered woman was a part of me now, my responsibility.

Come on, Erica. Bang! Bang! Bang! Out.

Right, I had to stop this aural assault, before my head popped like an overripe zit. (So not an attractive thought.) I opened my eyes and discovered that daylight was made out of razor blades. Ouch. I clamped those suffering little orbs shut and groaned tragically.

Maybe this was what a hangover felt like. If so, why did people actually drink? I never wanted to experience this kind of yuck again. There was no way I could even contemplate going to school. I’d just have to stay home in bed. Sleep. Forget about everything.

Sure.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Arrrrrrrggggghhhhhhh.

Get moving, Erica. His voice sounded like a jet fighter using my ear canal as a runway. Do you have any idea how late it is?

I’ll just be a minute. Even talking hurt. Ugh. I had no intention of moving, but I so needed to get rid of him. Look, I’m getting up. Now go away. Please.

No, Erica. Scolding parent megaphone. You have to be there in thirty-five minutes.

An agonized tilt of my head confirmed it; I hadn’t been compos mentis enough to set the alarm. Oh well, that was only a problem if I actually intended going to school, which I surely didn’t.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Stop it, dad. Man, was I getting pissed off. "That is so annoying."

It’s me, Erica. Salv. Sorry I’m so late; I got distracted by the news.

Okay, come in. I had forgotten that he was dropping around for breakfast. What’s so fascinating on the damn news?

Haven’t you heard about. . ? Salv walked in, stopped. Christ, what’s up with you, Erica?

Evidently I looked as bad as I felt, which was some achievement. Then I noticed that I was on top the bed, rather than actually in it. I’d fallen asleep fully clothed and unwashed. Okay, file that one under a big stinky oops.

Guess I pretty much went into a coma last night, Salv. I tried to smile at him, but my lips weren’t keen to cooperate; it felt like they were covered with glue. I must be quite the vision of loveliness, all messed up and burnt raw.

You’re always beautiful. He absolutely meant it, I knew, even then. But this probably isn’t your number one finest hour.

Yeah, not exactly an extract from the Book of Revelation there. I’m soooo sick.

What’s wrong? He walked on over to my bedside.

Don’t really know where to start with that. It was probably best not to say anything, or the whole insane story might just rattle out. Anyway, I won’t be getting up for breakfast, or going to school.

It was a huge fucking ordeal last night. He stroked my hair sweetly. (But Salv didn’t know a tiny fraction of my personal ordeal.) I couldn’t sleep much, and then the news this morning utterly freaked me out.

Come on, what news?

They found something in Lowry Park.

What kind of something? Fear churned through me like flooding rapids. Not another body?

Well, not exactly.

"Tell me."

A skeleton.

A skeleton?

That’s right. Salv’s fingers brushed my cheek. It was dumped by the fountain, right where we were standing last night.

But. . ? A skeleton?

Yes. He bent over to kiss me on the forehead. It’s female, apparently. Dead for some time. The head has been removed, which I guess makes positive identification a bit difficult. There’s speculation that it might be Meredith Blascoe.

****

I chased the headache tablet with insanely strong black coffee. The prospect of eating made me want to throw up, but I resolutely poked a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. I was showered and ready for school. Big, big, big effort.

Hurry, Erica. My father bit off a corner of toast, chewed it officiously. He had reverted to his old irritating self, without Vanessa Amberson to bring out the softness. You’ll be very late.

"Okay. Okay. Sunlight through the window sizzled my retinas. I looked at Salv and did the eyebrow thing. Jesus, my father is a walkin’, talkin’ cardiac arrest."

Salv hid his smile behind a mug of tea.

I’m sorry, Erica. Dad was in full and appalling parent mode. I must apologize for caring about your education.

Apparently that was supposed to make me feel awesome guilt. Keep your hair on, what little of it remains; I’ll be ready in five.

Dad was wearing his best work finery. He had been making quite the sartorial effort, since Vanessa first showed up at Simpkins and Symonds. Are you feeling alright, Erica? You do look a bit pale.

I’m absolutely fine. And how big a lie was that? Still, nice of him to finally notice. So, a quick subject change was required. Why didn’t you tell me that Vanessa was so terrific?

I did tell you.

Which was a valid point.

Yeah, like I was ever going to trust your judgment without meeting her first. Another slurp of caffeine. Consider my approval given.

That’s wonderful. He was pitifully pleased, which distracted him from my corpse-like state. (Mission accomplished.) Thank you, Erica.

She does seem kind of wild and wacky, for a lawyer. Salv had nearly finished his cereal. Usually he ate a big pile of bacon and eggs for breakfast, the whole deal, but there wasn’t time. I mean that in a good way, of course; wild and wacky is good.

The front door buzzed.

That will be Ripper, said Salv. He promised to drop us off at school this morning. I could see we had no chance of making the bus.

My father got up to answer it. At least that saves me a detour.

But it wasn’t Ripper.

Hello there, young miss. Errol Simpkins held his briefcase in one hand and a paperback in the other. Hello, Salvador.

Hi, said Salv.

What brings you to these humble lodgings, Errol? I winked at my father’s boss. Important legal shit, I’m sure, that would bore me into a thousand stupors.

Undoubtedly true, but boring legal shit will not do itself, I’m afraid. Errol liked me so much, but not in a creepy way. I’m sure he saw me as some kind of surrogate daughter; the old guy never got married. He handed over the book. I’ve also brought along a little present, Erica, for you.

Errol must have been about sixty, tall and bony-faced, with this stretchy, really ugly neck. (Never much of a chick magnet, I reckoned.) His white hair was pretty woolly and thick, for someone so old, and he wore it a bit too long. The best thing about Errol was his smile – damn engaging and a bit silly. You felt like he got a joke that no one else understood, but he was benevolent about this secret knowledge, not in any way arrogant.

The book was called The Cipher by someone named Kathe Koja. Nothing I’ve ever heard of, Errol. Is it good?

I only buy good books, young miss. Big, loopy smile. Enjoy.

What’s it about?

A deep mystery hidden in a mundane place, said Errol, and human weakness.

Okay. Sometimes I liked his taste in books, and sometimes I really didn’t. He had given me several, over the years. I’ll let you know my authoritative opinion.

Yes, I certainly hope so. He patted dad on the shoulder – boss summons underling, but kindly delivered. And now I’m afraid we must depart, sail away on the adventurous legal tide.

Can’t think why I don’t book passage on that non-stop party ship, I said. Thanks for the book, Errol.

You’re very welcome, young miss. He waved to me and Salv, then made for the door. Goodbye now.

Dad hurried after him. I might be a bit late tonight, Erica. Vanessa is taking me shopping.

Sure. Have fun.

They left. It wasn’t unusual for Errol to come calling on dad in the mornings before work. I sometimes wondered why he didn’t phone instead, or simply hook up at the office. Hell, it was probably just an excuse to see my pretty face – in heavily inverted commas. Everything seemed to be about Erica Chisholm, these days.

So, I said to Salv, do you think it was Meredith’s skeleton in the park?

How could I even guess?

Yeah. The subject wasn’t helping my digestion much, but frankly nothing would have. I’m prepared to bet that it isn’t her.

Why?

Just a feeling. I could be wrong.

Easily. Otherwise that sick piece of shit killed someone else we don’t know about.

And people disappeared every day, across the city, sometimes people who were never missed. How could we know, for certain, that he hunted exclusively in our neighborhood?

Horrible shame took me again, like a last, exhausted, sliced-into-silence breath. But I couldn’t afford to think about Lilly Jensen, not then, or I’d just fall down and die myself, useless to anyone, a disgusting, gutless failure.

At least it wasn’t a new body, I said. Not much consolation, to be honest. So what message is this bastard sending out? I don’t know, but I do recognize mockery when I see it. He’s laughing.

And we were there, said Salv. The killer stood in that exact spot, no more than a few hours later. Maybe even minutes. Jesus, he might have been in the park all along, watching us.

Shiver. Shiver. Fucking shiver.

Tell me something, Salv. What do you know about Greg Behan?

There was another knock on the door.

That will definitely be Ripper. Salv hopped up. You’d better get your stuff together, Erica.

I shuffled off to collect my bag, all kinds of unwelcome thoughts jigging around my head.

When I came back Ripper was sitting in my chair, hands behind his bald head, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt advertising some bloodthirsty manga comic. He looked happy and sparkly-eyed. Have you recovered from our field trip last night, Erica?

No, I answered honestly. What do you think about the skeleton, Ripper?

Real good question. He tapped his bloated fingers on the table. It goes against all my theories, I’ve got to say. The police will be watching Lowry Park more closely again, and I wouldn’t have thought that’s what he wanted. A new victim I could have understood, but the skeleton is just confusing.

It is.

We were close to catching this lunatic, said Ripper, all bubbly enthusiasm. Maybe we should try again. Not right away, of course, but in a few weeks.

I vote for never, said Salv. Forget that shit.

It’s not happening again, Ripper. I slung my bag over my shoulder and led them out of the apartment. We’re not going back to Lowry Park.

But I knew that I did have to go back, eventually. There was no alternative.

****

Hey there. It was Adam Rose, walking towards us with that inevitable guitar perched on his shoulder. Don’t forget about your lesson, Erica.

I won’t. Of course I had, completely. Learning to play guitar wasn’t a huge priority right then, but I didn’t want to disappoint him. It’s my first step on the sparkly road to stardom, after all.

Exactly right. He slouched on by, a barefoot bohemian prophet. Hopefully I’ll get some mention in your autobiography.

You might even make the dedication page.

Better and better, he said. Now, I must carry my music to the masses. Or a small portion of the masses, at least.

Adam went out the fire escape.

That guy has a pretty fucking sweet life, said Ripper. I know he works freelance, and all that shit, but he’s out there playing guitar for hours, just about every day.

I nudged his arm with my elbow. Would that be jealousy I’m hearing?

Of course.

Obviously.

Yeah, obviously. So, he’s going to give you music lessons, Erica?

Yep.

Okay.

I thought Ripper was about to say something more, but he didn’t.

We went down to the underground garage.

Thanks for helping us out here, Ripper, I said. I couldn’t stand the thought of being late for school, as I thirst for knowledge.

It sounds to me like you thirst for bullshit, said Salv. But hey, we appreciate the taxi service, Ripper.

Maybe I could become a professional chauffeur, said Ripper. But would it match the glamour and excitement of working at Lambert’s DVD? Surely not.

So tell me something. I tried to sound all casual. What is Greg Behan like to work with?

He’s okay. Ripper looked at me, sort of frowny and suspicious. Where’s this coming from, Erica? You don’t really think he’s the killer, do you?

Well, who honestly knows?

I couldn’t tell him that Lilly Jensen had walked into Lowry Park with Greg, on the exact night that she was murdered. He would want to know how I knew, and I couldn’t give an honest answer without sounding like a mental case. Greg had also been there last night, in Lowry Park. He came at me from the darkness, without saying one word. Who did that? So maybe – big chill down the fucking backbone – I was very lucky to be alive.

Forget that, said Ripper. It isn’t Greg.

But you can’t absolutely know, not for certain.

You’re obsessed with him, said Salv. Look, the lunatic might be someone we know, but I’d bet every cent I own that it’s not Greg Behan. Does he seem like a predator to you?

"So who do we know that is a predator? I acted as though I were giving that real, brain-tickin’ thought. Say, maybe it’s actually a woman. Amy Van Dyne, possibly."

That shut Salv up pretty quickly, and made me feel like a total bitch. Okay, my entire body was aching, but still.

Ripper led us to his car. He actually held the front passenger door open for me, all old-fashioned and gentlemanly and everything. I climbed in, while Salv spread out in the back seat.

Ripper started up, drove out, waited for a break in traffic. I’ll get you to that glorious seat of learning with the speed of fifty gazelles.

Wouldn’t the speed of one gazelle be faster? I used my scholarly voice, pilfered from Sonya, who had the advantage of actually being a scholar. Fifty gazelles must surely get in each other’s way, slowing the whole herd down. That’s my theory.

Overanalyzing much? said Salv. I assume that he means the combined speed of fifty gazelles.

Still, it would take research to determine how fast, exactly, is the average speed of fifty gazelles.

Jesus, Erica, said Ripper. I wish I had never mentioned the goddamned gazelles.

And for a while, despite everything, in the spirit of friendly foolishness, I almost felt happy.

But it didn’t last.

CHAPTER NINE

What’s wrong with you, Erica? Well, many things are wrong with you, a self-evident fact, but there would appear to be something else again, over and above all those usual problems. Sonya settled herself against the tree where she and I hung out most lunchtimes. Out with it, nincompoop. I insist upon knowing.

I’m sick, you silly slut. I had eaten only half a peanut butter sandwich, and felt like hurling that up. My head was still crumbling to dust and my eyes would scarcely stay open. I’ve already mentioned that little fact, like three or four times.

And?

What do you mean ‘and’?

Don’t play stupid. Sonya unwrapped her chocolate bar, took a delicate bite. Though it is a role that comes naturally to you, it must be said.

Get fucked.

I might well, if there were any superior examples of manhood in the vicinity. She practiced her come-hither look. But, as we are patently lacking in that department, I’ll have to content myself with finding out why you’re lying.

I wouldn’t lie to you.

And that’s another blatant falsehood. Sonya tapped my chin with her nibbled chocolate. You are lying by omission. I want to know what, exactly, is being omitted.

Maybe you’re wrong. It happens sometimes, astonishingly enough.

To other people, perhaps. She took hold of my hand, pumped it vigorously. Hello, my name is Sonya Wong. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m the person who knows Erica Chisholm infinitely better than she knows herself. So, knock off the crap and tell me what’s up.

Let it go, Sonya, just this one time. Please.

I don’t think that’s going to happen, do you? She reached over and poked a strand of my hair back into alignment; it had always frustrated Sonya that I wasn’t supernaturally neat. I’ll keep pestering until you crack, and you will. I’m a persistent little vixen and I always win. Just quit now, avoid the bloodshed. Tell me, Erica.

Can’t say I’ve ever noticed that you were persistent.

Sarcasm is not an effective deterrent. She pinched my wrist. Spill the proverbial beans, right now, or suffer.

I can’t, Sonya. Please, I can’t.

You can; you will.

No.

Yes.

Look, it’s none of your frigging business.

Your business is my business.

Why haven’t I ever strangled you?

Because you wouldn’t wish to deprive the world of my wit and wisdom. Sonya was like an amiable juggernaut; those wheels kept right on rollin’ and screw any obstacles. Open your mouth, Erica; let the words flow free. Save yourself endless hours of badgering, especially when we both know I’ll get my way.

She was right, of course. You’ll think I’m insane, Sonya.

I already think that.

But you don’t realize the Mariana Trench depths of my insanity.

I beg to differ. Sonya put a hand on my knee, got real serious. Erica, I can tell that something is very much troubling you. I want to help. I will help. Now stop wasting time. Tell me what’s wrong.

And in that moment I knew I had to confess, let it all out. Everything might have been up to me, but who said I couldn’t confide in my best friend? Okay, I’ll. . .

But then someone else arrived, someone way unexpected. Excuse me.

The girl who stood over us was tall, blonde and conventionally attractive. Her arms were folded tight and she looked furious. It was Amy Van Dyne.

What do you want? Of all people at that moment I could not deal with. Sonya and I are having a private conversation, just in case you missed the fucking obvious.

I’d like to talk to you about something, Erica, she said, in private.

Then you’re going to be pretty disappointed. I had seen her getting all close and whispery with Salv earlier today, making my blood turn to burning coals, and white hot ones at that. Sonya happens to be someone I actually like talking to. You, on the other hand, are less important to me than dog shit. So, to put it politely, piss off and die.

Sonya gave me a questioning, horrified, but still kind of impressed look. She knew that I despised Amy, but I had never been so openly hostile before. Without knowing the whole story – I hadn’t told her about Salv’s decision yet – Sonya must have thought I was seriously overreacting.

And I probably was, but didn’t care.

God, what is your major problem, Erica? Amy didn’t leave, despite my kind invitation. Look, I’m sorry to interrupt, but this really is important. Please.

I had never heard Amy use the ‘p’ word before. It sounded totally unnatural, forced, coming out of her mouth.

No, I said. Just go away.

Not until I’m done. She tried to sway the fair Ms. Wong, which I knew would be fruitless. Could you maybe leave us alone for a couple of minutes, Sonya? I’d appreciate it. This won’t take long, but it is private. Okay?

Not okay, said Sonya. Look, Amy, you really should leave. I don’t know what this is about, what the problem is between you two, but Erica has made her feelings absolutely clear.

Too bad. Amy kicked – like a petulant baby – at the ground. "Tell me something, Erica. Just who the fuck do you think you are?"

That was too easy. I’m someone who recognizes a shallow, worthless cunt when she sees one.

Then maybe you should look in the mirror. Salvador deserves so much better than you.

How sweet that you’re looking out for his welfare. I conjured up my very best sneer. Who does he deserve, I wonder? Would the answer be you?

Yes, actually.

Amazing. You really do think you’re better than me?

I know it.

"Listen, Amy, I don’t want to hurt your little feelings, so I’ll save my belly laugh until after you leave. It’s so hysterical that you think you’re better than anyone."

Aw, just bite me, you bitch. Amy’s face had gone all blotchy red, and that effortless beauty just peeled away. I can’t think why Salvador puts up with your shit.

Well then, let’s see how long it takes him to get sick of your shit, I said. Okay, you’ve got him for the minute, but I wouldn’t be too confident about keeping him. Salv isn’t stupid. He’ll eventually get bored with a dimwit like you, no matter how many times you spread your legs. Nothing could be more certain, trust me. Don’t fool yourself into believing this is about anything other than sex. He just wants a body to fuck, and you’re available. That’s the whole story. So have fun, cunt, while it lasts.

What? Sonya’s eyes nearly vaulted out of her head. "Salv is with Amy? When did this happen?"

Today, officially, I told her, but she’s been working the moves for a while now.

"I’m not with Salvador! Amy bellowed so loud that heads turned throughout the schoolyard. Yes, I want him! Yes, I’ve been trying to get him! No, I’m not with him!"

But. . ? Salv told me. . .

Seriously, what have you done to that guy? Her voice dropped in volume, but only slightly; we were drawing lots of attention. You treat him like crap. You treat everyone like crap. I hate you, Erica. You’re such a totally selfish ass, but Salvador refuses to see it. He loves you, God knows why. And now I’m not even allowed to hang out with him, because he doesn’t want to embarrass you.

What? But I thought. . .

I hope someone really messes you up one day, Erica, just like you’ve done to him.

Hey, I never. . .

"Bullshit. She spat on the ground, right at my feet. Hear this, you stupid, arrogant virgin. I’ll back off for a while, but don’t think I’ve given up. I intend to have Salvador Jones, and eventually I will. It didn’t matter too much before, but now it’s a point of honor. So, bitch, you piss off and die."

Amy twirled around and went.

Interesting. Sonya took another little bite from her chocolate. Well, that will require a long and involved explanation, possibly with the assistance of diagrams. Please tell me what’s happening here.

I’ll tell you a lot of things, Sonya. Using the tree for leverage, I got to my feet. But first I’m going to find Salv.

****

It took a while, but I eventually tracked him down. Salv had parked himself against the rear wall of the library, alone and very somber.

Hey there. I sat beside him. So, how’s it going?

Terrible. He looked straight ahead, at some guys trying to brand each other with a tennis ball. And you?

Intrigued, I would say. Not to mention confused.

Really? He avoided my eyes blatantly. Why so?

I just had a visit from Amy Van Dyne.

Oh.

Steam was coming out of her ears, and every other orifice.

Oh.

Is that all you’re going to say?

Probably.

I grabbed hold of his earlobe and pulled hard.

Owww. That made him look at me, finally. What are you doing?

It seemed like the only way to get your attention. A tennis ball bounced off the wall not far from my head – a very wayward throw. Some meathead mumbled an insincere apology, as he came to collect it. I just glared at him until he retreated out of earshot. "I’m a bit perplexed, Salv. Last night you were determined to get all naked and dirty with Amy. Today I find out that isn’t going to happen. Okay, it’s your call, but that’s a pretty major change of mind. Understand my confusion? I also discover that you don’t even want Amy hanging around you anymore, for fear of embarrassing me. Did you really tell her that?"

Yes. There was something quite odd and unfamiliar about his eyes, kind of distant, unfocused. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?

Hang on now. This has never been about what I want.

Answer the damn question, Erica! He shocked me by thumping the brick wall. You don’t want me to be with Amy, do you? Just for once, tell the truth. I know it’ll be tough; lying comes so easily to you.

That was harsh, hurtful, and accurate.

Of course I hated the thought of Amy as your girlfriend. Even now, with Salv so miserable, the strongest emotion I felt was relief. When did I pretend otherwise? Don’t blame me for your decision. You wanted Amy, and I accepted that. Any rethink is entirely down to you, Salv.

Really?

Yes, really. I could see that he thought otherwise. Look, this surprises the living shit out of me. I saw you and Amy with your heads together, just before the first class this morning. It all looked happy and flirty.

It was, he said. Amy told me about some of the things she planned for our first date. Sexual things.

Spare me those gruesome details. One mental landscape I so didn’t want to explore. I’m sure it all sounded inviting, and stuff. So what happened?

He looked away again, which was so annoying. The realization that I’d rather make you happy, even if doing so makes me miserable. That’s absolutely pathetic, but it’s also true. If I can’t have you, Erica, then I’m going to have no one.

Salv. . . I tried to take his hand, but he wouldn’t let me. I can’t promise you anything. I’m not going to lie.

I had told plenty of them already, and they led us here.

Well, three heaping cheers for belated honesty. There was such spite in his voice, something he had never shown me before. People say I’m reasonably good-looking. Do you think so, Erica?

Yes.

Hooray. But let’s not get too carried away with the physical. He was in such a strange mood. Would you say that I’m also a good person?

No, you’re Adolf Hitler. Where was he going with this? Of course you’re a good person. What does that have to do with anything?

Maybe not much. He continued the irritating game of twenty questions. Do you think I’m reasonably intelligent?

Yes. Is that the answer you want? Is this all about boosting your ego?

Do I have an okay sense of humor? Do I make you laugh?

Keep this crap up and I’ll be giggling my guts out. Okay, he might have been feeling bad, but really. Just stop it, Salv. If you’ve got something you want to say just fucking say it.

I’m getting there. Maybe he had rehearsed this whole thing. It always seems kind of inadequate, when people explain why they love someone. They trot out all kinds of clichéd stuff – I’m in love with his mind, she’s so full of life, he’s so creative, she’s so kind – and it just seems like a great big stinking pile of bull. I’m actually pretty good at knowing when people lie, Erica, despite what you may think. Anyway, I’m sure that love is a whole lot more primal than we in polite society would ever like to admit; it exists for its own reasons, against all surface logic, or common sense. Love is a shorthand word for certain types of need. I need you, Erica. It’s not reciprocated.

What could I say? Nothing, seemed best.

That’s simply a fact. Salv ploughed on. I can’t fool myself into believing otherwise. Still, things could change, given time. I want Amy, physically, but I really don’t need her. So, I’m going to wait for you. Even if it’s completely, hopelessly impossible, and I think it is, I’ll keep right on waiting.

Salv. . . I started to speak, with no clear idea of what I actually wanted to say. Maybe you should. . .

Pablo told me, about the kiss.

Oh my God. That total prick.

He grabbed hold of me, Salv, uninvited. That much, at least, was true. Then I smacked his stupid face. End of story.

"So why didn’t you tell me?"

I don’t know. Maybe I thought you’d get upset, do something mad.

Pablo says you kissed him back.

Fuck. I hit him. Twice. Then I ran away. Do you think that makes me a willing participant?

Pablo tells a slightly different story.

He would. I was going to kill that bastard. Your brother is absolute scum, and he never had any chance in the whole fucking world with me. Got it?

I’m not the one you need to convince, Erica. He looked down at his palm, scratched it noisily. I wonder if you have to convince yourself.

Salv, I don’t. . .

Shut up! He hit the wall again, harder. The fact is that you don’t love me. Nor do you feel any sexual attraction towards me. Right?

That’s not true. Well, not entirely true. Just mostly.

One more lie, Erica. He examined his knuckles. They were grazed. You always lie to me, but it makes no difference. Go ahead and screw my brother. I don’t care – honestly. Do anything you like, and it will make precisely no difference. I’ll love you regardless. I’ll love you no matter what.

I reached out to touch his arm, but Salv grabbed my fingers, and squeezed.

Jesus! I tried to pull my hand away, but he just tightened his grip. It hurt. Let go, Salv!

No, I don’t think that I will. And the expression on his face was scary, animalistic, so not Salv. You think that you’re in complete control. I just exist for your amusement. I’m so weak, and you’re so strong. True? That’s what you believe, isn’t it, Erica?

No. I made another attempt to yank myself free, but he squeezed harder still. I had to stop fighting, for fear that he would break my fingers. Tears spilled out of my eyes. The pain was so bad. Please, Salv, stop this. Please.

You’re just skin and bone, Erica. He released my hand. Easily broken.

What is this shit? My hand was absolutely throbbing, but the shock of what he had done was way worse. "Are you threatening me?"

No, I’m pointing out a basic fact. We don’t control anything, not really. Salv was crying, too, with anger. All it takes is a slip on the stairs, a small lapse of concentration while you’re crossing the street, a random disease invading your body, or even a madman’s knife cutting through your jugular. Ask Elizabeth Harrower and Lilly Jensen about human fragility. Ask Polly Gregorious.

Shut your fucking mouth!

No. And then he said something that needed to remain unsaid. He didn’t just kill them, Erica. No one talks about it, but we all know what happened next. He wanked over their dead, naked bodies, and loved it.

Shut up. I covered my face, but the tears pushed through my hands. Why are you doing this, Salv?

Because I love you, and I hate the world. He was sobbing now, worse than me. "We’re taught to believe in human decency, that we’ll be rewarded for being good people. It’s so much shit. The worst and most ruthless are the ones who get rewarded. Women are a joke to my brother, but he can fuck virtually anyone he chooses. Even the killer gets to have his fun, take whatever he wants. So where’s my reward, Erica? Tell me. Why is it so impossible for me to have the one thing I want?"

I couldn’t answer him. I didn’t answer him.

He got up and walked away.

I sat there sucking my fingers. If anyone noticed my distress, they ignored it. People were frightened of pain; you couldn’t blame them. But things that were ignored didn’t just disappear.

When Lilly Jensen died, this neighborhood changed completely. A gate was opened, and insanity leaked through like water. Now everyone was getting thoroughly drenched. And things were going to be worse still. I felt the certainty of pressure building, just on the other side of a very thin, cracking wall. Someone had to block the holes that were forming, or we were all going to drown. But there were too many holes, and I didn’t have enough fingers.

CHAPTER TEN

Erica, you cannot enter that room again, not by yourself. Sonya spooned sugar into her tea. Just don’t.

Okay. I finished my third doughnut – very definitely a comfort food sugar fest – and burped. So, you don’t think that I’ve gone completely nuts?

Too easy an explanation, I’m afraid.

We had fled to Emma’s Coffee Shop, in the mall on Carmichael Street. Our not so friendly waitress kept looking at us with disapproval – clearly we had skipped out of school – but she served up unhealthy treats just the same.

So, what does it mean? I had told Sonya everything, literally, and desperately wanted her to give me a simple answer, something obvious that I had missed. What is happening to me?

I don’t know. She stirred her tea, kept stirring. Look, it’s not out of the question that you are a little, shall we say, mentally confused. Perception is a funny thing, and Polly’s death affected you badly. But then what about the notes? And the key? I’m sure you could show me those readily enough, if we went back to your place. They are real, tangible. Someone left them for you to find, Erica. So, I don’t think you’re insane. Well, no more than usual.

I saluted her with my espresso. Thanks, Sonya. Seriously.

For what?

Coming here. Listening to me.

What else would I do?

God, I’m such an evil influence. I smiled for the first time in several hours. I’ve dragged you away from your education, Sonya. How unspeakable of me. Have you ever taken a personal day out of school before?

Never, as you well know. Sonya looked all stern and unhappy, but only for a brief moment. I feel a bit rebellious, actually, kind of like a female James Dean.

I owe you heaps, Sonya, so I’ll refrain from saying what a truly ridiculous statement you’ve just made.

For which I will always be grateful.

After my encounter with Salv I had headed back to the tree, still crying, still a total mess. Sonya hugged me while I bawled on her shoulder, then demanded answers. I told her that we needed to leave school, immediately. It was a fair walk to Carmichael Street, but I had a fair story to tell.

Oh freakin’ yeah.

I want to know something, Sonya. There were far more important questions, right now, but I put this one to her anyway. Were you aware that I had a thing for Pablo Jones?

Of course. She licked her spoon, put it down on the saucer. For ages.

Ouch. I had been so sure that she didn’t, that I was completely subtle. Just call me Ms. Transparency.

Personally, I prefer to call you a silly cow. Either name is applicable, I guess.

I’ll ignore that, for now. If it was so obvious, why didn’t you say something?

We need our secrets, and frankly I didn’t want to embarrass you, said Sonya. So I kept quiet, assuming, and seriously praying, that you would never act on the desire.

Correctly.

Good.

One hundred percent correctly.

Are you sure?

Yeah.

Good.

"Everyone knew, as it turns out. Mary. Salv. Even Pablo himself."

You must be a terrible actress. Sonya patted my hand. (The one that wasn’t bruised.) Honestly, I didn’t realize the others knew. I just considered myself to be amazingly perceptive.

Well, I consider myself to be amazingly fucking stupid. I really needed another doughnut, but decided against. Sure, I kissed him back, momentarily, but then my brain kicked in and I went whammo. There’s a big difference between walking on the edge of the cliff and actually taking a flying leap.

Good. Sonya peeled a sliver of her own doughnut and pressed it into her mouth. The bad boy thing is so overrated. I’d rather fuck an orc than Pablo. Okay, they might be the scourge of Middle Earth, but those guys are still more humane and sensitive than Pablo Jones.

I’ll bet you have a thing for Legolas. Those goody-goody elves would be just your scene, I reckon.

This from the girl who wants to party with Sauron.

Screw you, my precious.

Okay, enough Tolkien references for one day. She steered the conversation back into less comfortable regions. It’s hard to believe that Salv went berserk.

Trust me. I held up my injured hand. Exhibit A.

Unrequited love is a powerful and scary thing, she said, which isn’t an excuse for what he did to you. Salv has never been violent before, ever, or not that I’ve seen.

It was just one moment of passing madness, I’m sure, and won’t happen again. But how could I really know? Poor Salv.

Yes. Lines crinkled their way into the perfect skin of her forehead. I’m worried about him.

Me too. I watched a bunch of fashionable young businesswomen swirl into Emma’s. I’m worried about several things, as it happens.

Understandably. Sonya changed paths again. I’ve been thinking about your vision. It was like you were actually inside Lilly Jensen’s head, living her life. Right?

Yes and no.

What does that mean?

Sorry, but it’s really difficult to explain. I tried. I was split into two separate personalities. Yes, a part of me was Lilly, intimately. At the same time I was also aware of myself, as Erica Chisholm, and I knew that Lilly was going to die.

That must have been so terrifying.

You think? No excuse. "Look, I was a total coward. I could have seen the killer’s face, but I just ran away."

Self-preservation isn’t cowardice, Erica. There’s a vast, vast difference.

But I wasn’t in any physical danger. My body was far removed from Lowry Park, in space and time. I had nothing to be afraid of, really.

We don’t know that. Sonya tapped her bottom lip with the rim of her cup. What happens when you experience another person’s death, from inside her body? On what evidence do you say there was no danger? Erica, I think you absolutely did the right thing.

I didn’t. Nothing could have been more evident, to me. "I was supposed to stay there, suffer all her fear and pain. I was supposed to see."

Says who?

Says fucking me. I slapped my chest. "Everything is up to me. You saw that message in Mr. Judd’s shop."

And we don’t know who left it there, or what their agenda might be.

I feel compelled, totally, to trust them.

Based on what?

Based on a strong feeling.

I’d want more than that, personally. She took a lingering sip, swallowed.

Sonya, I think I know who wrote those notes, and who gave me the key.

Hm. Okay, share.

"This will convince you that I am crazy."

Tell me anyway.

So I did. Meredith.

Meredith Blascoe?

The very same.

Ah, I see. Sonya drew her fists together on the table. This would be the Meredith Blascoe who is missing, presumed, by some, to be dead?

Yep.

Ah, I see. This would be the Meredith Blascoe whose remains were possibly found in Lowry Park this morning?

Yep.

Ah, I see.

I’ll bet you don’t.

Correct. So why don’t you explain?

Meredith is using me to stop the killer, I said. "To stop her killer."

Sonya was silent for quite a little while. I didn’t think you believed in ghosts, Erica.

Yes. I shrugged, sort of self-conscious now. That mightn’t stop them from believing in me.

****

You have it, and you don’t even know. Sonya picked a short black dress off the rack, contemplated briefly. Meredith said that, to you, just before she disappeared?

Yes. I couldn’t find one item of clothing that appealed to me. For the first time in recorded history I was bored with shopping. Look, Sonya, I think her brother is somehow involved, too. You were there yesterday, when he acted even weirder than usual.

Yes. She replaced the dress – though I thought it suited her – and selected another. Do you think George is communing with his sister’s ghost?

Maybe. You don’t really buy this ghost theory, do you?

I wouldn’t dismiss anything. She held the second dress against her body, rejected it quickly. But no, that isn’t an explanation I’m prepared to accept easily. I’ll believe in the supernatural when we’ve ruled everything else out.

Look, seriously, there are only two options here. I led us over towards the shoe section. Either there is some kind of supernatural influence, or I’m suffering from a severe mental disorder. And, don’t worry, I still think the latter is a strong possibility.

Maybe we should do some research, said Sonya. Let’s find out if Greg really was at Burnin’ Fever on the night Lilly Jensen died, and if he did actually meet her.

Alright. Only I was way frightened of finding out the answer, be it positive or negative. We should make absolutely certain that my strange little brain didn’t invent the whole thing.

Sonya nodded decisively. Yes, that’s our first step.

It might be a little awkward. We quit shopping, headed for the Carmichael Street exit. How do we raise this jolly ol’ topic with Greg Behan? It’s not like either of us know him very well. Maybe Ripper could help – they work together, after all – but he would want to know why. I’m not ready to share my crazy theory with anyone else.

I’m sure Ripper is exactly the person who would take this seriously. We walked out into the sunshiny, almost deserted street; lunch crowds had scuttled back to work. A woman in gray track pants and a sloppy white T-shirt sneered at us for no apparent reason, then went back to smoking and peering into the bakery window. But I understand why you don’t want to involve others at the moment, Erica. There may be another way.

How?

Ring Greg up. She took out her phone. Don’t give your name, of course. Stay utterly anonymous.

Good-o. I retrieved my own phone. But what do I say?

Just ask if he’s ever met Lilly Jensen, and take it from there.

You make that sound easy. He’ll ask who I am, assuming he doesn’t recognize my damn voice.

So lie. Put on a husky accent. Use your acting skills. She fussed with her hair, even though everything was in precise alignment. Tell him that you’re Cynthia Harrison.

Who?

Cynthia Harrison.

And who the fuck is Cynthia Harrison?

A person I just made up, said Sonya. This fictitious Cynthia Harrison was a good friend of Lilly Jensen. Okay? Someone told her that Lilly was dancing at Burnin’ Fever, with Greg, on the night she died. Cynthia wants to know if he remembers anything that might help the police.

It could work. I balanced my cute little phone on top of my knuckles. Why don’t you call him, Sonya? I’ll probably mess things up. You think more quickly than me, after all.

I will, if you like. She gave me that stern look. But I really think it’s your responsibility. ‘Everything is up to you’, remember?

You’re right, I said. Bitch.

When have I been wrong? Now, it’s time to track down the number for Lambert’s DVD.

Good plan, truant girl.

We found it easily enough.

An old lady gave us a gorgeous smile, as she pushed her shopping cart packed with grocery bags. Two weedy guys in designer running gear checked Sonya out, in a really obvious way, as they jogged past; she was used to that kind of thing, and probably didn’t notice.

Here we go. I punched in the number, as big butterflies, with teeth, jittered about inside me. Jesus, I hope Ripper doesn’t answer. He’d know my voice for sure, no matter how husky I made it.

Lambert’s DVD, said a young, not very confident male voice. Tim speaking. How can I help you?

Is Greg there? My best sexy, non-Erica voice.

I’m sorry, Greg has the day off.

Shit. Oh, I guess I’ll need to ring him at home then. Do you have his number?

"We’re not supposed to give