Chapter 39 I Don’t Think He’s Taking Calls From This Postcode
I DON’T THINK HE’S TAKING CALLS FROM THIS POSTCODE
Fighter (Gilead Remix) - Power-Haus
Kookaburra
The sound she makes when I lift the scalpel again is soft and animal, the sort of noise people make when they’re trying not to disturb a god. It shivers through her chest and catches in the back of her throat. She’s shaking so hard the chair rattles.
“Kayla,” she whispers, again, as if maybe this time my name will be an antidote instead of an invocation. “Please. Why are you doing this?”
I tilt my head. It’s a fair question. She’s earned an honest answer.
“Because,” I say, laying the cold flat of the blade back against the soaked bandage on her thigh, “you were going to let them take my baby.”
The word lands between us like a dropped tray. She flinches harder at that than she did at the last cut.
“That’s not—” She sucks a breath through her teeth when I press down. “That’s not what was going to happen.”
“Isn’t it?” I ease the edge in, not enough to deepen the wound, just enough to wake every nerve around it.
Blood seeps through the gauze in a bright, fresh bloom.
“You told me yourself. If I escalated again, the Director would authorise intervention. For the child’s safety.
” I keep my voice light, almost conversational. “And look at me, Doctor. Escalating.”
Her eyes squeeze shut. Tears find the cracks in her skin and sting as they track through dried blood. “Protocols,” she rasps. “I have…protocols. I can’t just—”
“You could have chosen me,” I say. “You chose their rules.” I let the point of the scalpel trace the edge of the bandage, drawing a neat crimson border. “So I’m choosing mine.”
She swallows, throat working around the taste of copper. “Call a code,” she begs. “You’ve made your point. Call for help, Kayla. There are people—”
I laugh. It bubbles up without effort, bright and delighted, the sound I know she hates because she’s heard it on tapes that came with photographs.
“There are no people,” I say. “Not any more. Everyone in the vicinity is dead. Austin, Harry, the jumpy one with the zip ties, the ones who never learned the difference between vigilance and swagger.” I lean in and lower my voice like I’m telling her a secret. “Isn’t it lucky you’re still alive?”
Her whole body shudders. “Oh God.”
“I don’t think He’s taking calls from this postcode,” I say. “But you can try, if it makes you feel better.”
She tries anyway. I watch her mouth the words silently, see the way her jaw shakes, see the way her fingers clench so hard around the armrests her knuckles go translucent. Prayer as muscle memory. How quaint.
“You won’t…get away with this,” she manages. “They’ll send more. The Director will—”
“Yes,” I say, brightening. “That’s rather the point. Messages are no good if no one receives them.” I tap the blood-soaked bandage with the back of the scalpel. She yelps, a small, helpless sound. “You’re my courier.”
“Please,” she says again, the word fraying. “Please, Kayla. I’m begging you. Just…end it. If you’re going to kill me, just kill me.”
The honesty in that almost makes me soften. Almost.
“Oh, sweetheart.” I set the scalpel down, pick up a pair of forceps instead, turning them in my fingers until the light catches on the metal. “Your time will come. I promise. But I’m not finished having fun yet.”
The word fun makes her flinch like a slap.
I take her left hand and flatten it on the armrest. She tries to pull away; I pin her wrist with my palm and slide the forceps between her fingers, prising them apart. Her nails are clean. I did that earlier. Hygiene is important.
“Do you know what I’ve realised?” I ask, easing the tips under the nail of her index finger. She bites down on a scream so hard her jaw tremors. “You and I have very similar jobs.”
She shakes her head, eyes wild. “No—”
“You dig around in people’s heads,” I continue. “Pull out the ugly bits. Hold them up to the light. Ask them why it hurts. I just start a little further down.”
I squeeze. The nail lifts a fraction, a shock of white pain splitting her composure wide open.
The sound she’s been swallowing rips itself free, a strangled, ragged cry that scrapes the walls.
Purposeful. She thrashes, and blood from her thigh wound splashes onto the floor in a little curve, pattering onto the tiles.
“Stop— Stop, please—”
“Answer my question and I’ll stop.” I keep my tone calm, therapist-smooth. “Not that one, the important one.” I shift the forceps just enough to grind the sensitive quick. “How do I access your system?”
She blinks, dazed. “What?”
“Your system,” I repeat patiently. “The computer. The files. The Director’s notes. All the little narratives you’ve written about me. I want them.” I tilt my head. “You weren’t planning on deleting anything, were you? That would be unethical.”
Her gaze skitters to the door, then to the cabinet where her laptop lives, then back to me. “It’s secured,” she says, the remnants of professional pride fluttering weakly. “Two-factor authentication. You can’t—”
“Wrong answer,” I say, and pull.
The nail comes up in a slow, glistening arc, a pale crescent peeling away from pink. Blood wells in a sudden bright sheet. She shrieks, full-throated this time, head snapping back against the chair. For a moment the sound has no words in it at all. It’s just pure, animal objection.
When she comes back to herself she’s sobbing, great heaving gasps that jolt her wounded leg and make fresh blood spill.
I dab at the fingertip with gauze, absurdly tender.
The nail hangs at a cheap angle, attached by a thin stubborn patch of tissue.
Ouch. Removing that is gonna hurt. I almost feel sorry for her.
“Let’s try again,” I say. “Username. Passwords. Security questions. Routes to the Director.”
She squeezes her eyes shut. “I— can’t—”
“You can,” I say pleasantly. “You just don’t want to. There’s a difference.” I set the forceps on the next finger. “Thumbs are messy. We’ll do those last.”
She stares at the instruments, at her hand, at the streaks of blood on my wrist. Then something inside her buckles.
“Fine,” she croaks. “Fine. There’s a main login. My initials and staff number. The password is—” She swallows, cheeks flaming with humiliation even now. “It’s K33pTh3m@liV3. With numbers instead of Es.” Her eyes squeeze shut. “My staff taught me. So I’d remember.”
“Oh, that’s cute,” I say, genuinely charmed. “And deeply ironic.” I fish a pen from her breast pocket and write it neatly along the inside of my wrist, alongside the little tally marks I’ve already made tonight and double checking where the capital letters and special characters fall. “What else?”
She licks her dry lips. “There’s a second layer. For Director communications. A phrase.”
“Go on.”
“Ark…doesn’t…sink,” she whispers. “All caps. No spaces.”
I smile. Of course it doesn’t. Not until someone pokes enough holes in the hull. And yet she claimed that my obsession with the term Ark was irrelevant. I always knew she was a liar.
“And your answers to the nice little questions they ask to prove you’re really you?” I prompt. “First pet, mother’s maiden name, all that delicious identity theft fodder.”
Her eyes flood again. I let her hesitate just long enough to feel the weight of it, then nudge the loosened nail. The tiny movement sends a spike of agony through her. A choked sob tears free.
“Dog,” she gasps. “We had a dog. Milo. My mother’s maiden name was Elaine Chapplefield. First school St Aaron’s. Favourite book Jane Eyre, because I was a cliché, happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” I say, writing as she speaks. “Look at you, Doctor. Sharing. Vulnerable. This is real progress. You should be so proud of yourself.”
She laughs then, a broken, incredulous little bark that dissolves immediately into a sob. “You’re going to kill me anyway,” she says hoarsely. “Aren’t you?”
I consider her. She’s grey at the edges now, sweat-soaked and blood-slick, her blouse plastered to her skin. The bandage on her thigh is sodden, the towel beneath the chair a lake of red. Her fingers tremble. Her pulse hammers visibly in her neck.
“Eventually,” I concede. “Everyone dies. Even Directors. Even me, apparently.” My hand drifts to my stomach, a reflex I catch and punish with a dig of my nails. “But not yet. I told you. You’re my message. I want them to see what happens when they try to turn my body into a community resource.”
She gropes for the arm of the chair, trying to push herself up. Her heel slips in her own blood and she sags back down with a strangled moan.
“Help me,” she whispers. “Please, Kayla. I’m bleeding out. I know you know what that looks like. You can stop it. Compress…call an ambulance…you know the protocol—”
“Oh, I do,” I say. “Pressure. Elevation. Tourniquet if you’re feeling dramatic.” I reach down and adjust the bandage, pressing hard enough to make her squeal, then knot it tighter. “I’ve done you the courtesy of not nicking anything too important. You’ve got time.”
“How much?” she breathes.
I pretend to consider. “Enough to answer more questions if I think of any.” I lean in, resting my elbows on my knees so we’re almost eye level. “Not enough to get comfortable.”
Her chin wobbles. “You want me to suffer.”
I shrug. “I want you to understand. Suffering is a side effect. Take it as a learning opportunity. Everyday’s a school day and all that jazz.”
She stares at me, eyes glassy. “I can’t…I can’t do this any more. Please. I’m asking you as a clinician. As someone who understands pain. End it.”
The phrase as a clinician nearly makes me laugh again.
“You’re still trying to frame this as a consultation,” I say.
“Adorable.” I pat her cheek, smearing a little of her blood there.
“You don’t get to edit the ending. That’s my job.
But I’ll tell you what.” I stand, stretching, feeling my spine crackle like popping candy.
“You’ve been very helpful tonight. Gamely participating in your own consequence. I’ll let shock do most of the rest.”
Her breaths are coming short and fast now, wheezing a little on the exhale. Her skin has gone waxy around the mouth. The edges of her vision are probably starting to blacken; I’ve seen that look enough times. But she still has time.
I move around behind her chair, unplug the landline from the wall, wrap the coiled cable neatly around my hand. She hears the click and flinches.
“What was that?” she asks, panic sharp again.
“Tidying,” I say. “No one to call, remember? You said it yourself – they’ll send more. Eventually. The Director will want answers, especially when you don’t check in for your nightly little tête-à-tête. He’s going to get such a show.”
“The…others…” she says, words slurring. “They’ll kill you when they see what you’ve done.”
“Mm.” I come back to stand in front of her, checking the scrawl on my wrist. Logins, questions, names. Enough to keep me busy. “Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on who gets to narrate first.”
Her head lolls against the back of the chair. She’s slipping. I give her face a brisk little slap. Not hard. Just enough to sting. Her eyes fly open.
“Stay with me,” I chide. “We’re almost at the lesson’s moral.”
Tears spill over again. “Please don’t leave me here,” she whispers. “Don’t…” Her voice shreds. “Don’t let me die alone.”
There’s a beat where something in me wants to say I know what that fear tastes like. I swallow it.
“You won’t be alone,” I say instead. “You’ll have all your men with you. They’re just in more pieces than you’re used to.”
She lets out a broken sound that might be a laugh, might be the start of a sob. It doesn’t matter. Her body is shutting down one system at a time. Heart’s still working. Lungs are still dragging. Brain is still trying frantically to file this somewhere it can live with.
I lean in close, so my lips are almost at her ear.
“I have to go,” I tell her, cheerful as if I’m ducking out of a boring meeting.
“My men will be here soon, and, like I told you, every day’s a school day.
I’ve got a lot to learn before they show up.
” I straighten, smoothing her hair back one last time.
“You rest. Think about your answers. I’ll be reading and poking around inside your brain. ”
She tries to grab my wrist as I step away, fingers closing weakly around air.
“Kay—” she starts, and whatever was going to follow dissolves into a wet cough.
I hop back up onto the cabinet opposite, just long enough to take in the tableau.
Blood. Bandage. Woman. Chair. Camera light blinking its patient little eye.
Then I slide down, turn my back on her, and pad down the corridor towards her other office, the one she thinks I don’t know about – silly girl – armed with her login, ready to read her files, meet her Director.
Behind me, the building breathes around her.
Ahead of me, the world opens.