2. Liliana
A lcohol burns my throat as I knock back what must be the tenth shot of the night and then that hit of sweetness makes my mouth feel almost clammy. God, what I wouldn’t give for a nice, sharp, bitter whiskey.
But then, whiskey is sadly not the drink of choice for an evening like this, and seeing as I’ve not managed to get past the heaving bodies to where the bar is, I should really be grateful for anything I’m offered.
“I can’t believe she did it.” Mia whispers in my ear, her voice barely audible above the heavy bass.
I give her a warning look, but Frankie plonks himself the other side and says way too loudly, “More fool her.”
“We’re meant to be celebrating.” I remind them. True, this is technically a work night out, but that doesn’t change the basic facts.
“Right, just like we’ll be celebrating their divorce come Christmas.” Mia retorts.
It’s hard not to roll my eyes. Hard not to agree with them either. I glance at the newlyweds in question, Rosie is, as usual, dolled up to the nines, with perfectly dyed blonde hair falling in big waves over her bronzed shoulders. In one hand, she’s clutching a glass of champagne and the other is busy flashing the massive vintage diamond ring for everyone to admire, like we haven’t been ogling it all evening.
“Even if they do divorce, she’ll be set for life.” I state, and the cynic in me says that’s got to be the main reason she married a man like Lou Rogers, because let’s face it, his personality is not his strongest asset.
Frankie snorts, gulping down more of his drink.
“I just don’t get it.” Mia mutters, tossing her long-braided hair over her shoulder. “They barely know each other. It’s been, what, six months?”
“Maybe that was enough?” I reply. Though I have no idea why I’m defending the couple. It’s not like me and Rosie are friends, hell, I’d go so far as to say the only thing we have in common is our place of work, and even then, she barely acknowledges me most days, not that I particularly mind it. I can’t deal with people like her, people who live off drama.
“Seven,” Frankie grins. “It’s been seven months.” He tilts his head, studying the woman further. “Maybe she’s preggers.”
Before I can reply, someone shouts out for another toast and a new shot glass is shoved in front of everyone.
The happy couple stand before us and everyone ‘awws’ as they start shoving their tongues down each other’s throat .
Frankie pulls a face, Mia sniggers, and after knocking back another disgustingly sweet drink, I decide that I’ve had enough and head to the bar, pushing through the crowd of people.
But my eyes land on Rosie again. On the way she’s clinging to her new husband, on the way they look genuinely happy. Sure, it could all be the alcohol, or simply the honeymoon phase and in a few months they may decide they hate everything about each other, but some silly, old romantic in me wants to root for them anyway. Wants them to defy the odds.
Jesus, I’m getting old.
And then my mother’s voice suddenly echoes in my head, that old taunt about how men don’t want women with careers, with ambition—women like me.
No, men want women who are simple, who smile, who know how to behave.
Rosie is the walking definition of that. She’s beautiful, even under all that makeup, and she’s obviously willing to dull herself down, to make herself small, to fit that neat little box of ‘polite, respectable, obedient’ even. In a way, I almost envy her, that she can be content to bend, that she can be so comfortable folding those parts of herself away and pretend that they don’t exist.
I’ve never been that.
I’ve never wanted to be that.
To be a trophy wife, to hang off someone’s arm, and wait patiently in the confines of a house while they’re out, truly living and I’m stuck in the kitchen bringing up their brood of crotch goblins.
No, I wanted to be there, I wanted to live, to see the world, and to change it too. I wanted to know that on my deathbed, I’d made my mark, that everyone would remember my name. That every newspaper would have my death published as news, that people would mourn me, that I’d have awards in my honour, prizes named after me. That’s the legacy I wanted. Not just children, not a cookie cutter life.
No man I ever met, no man I was ever in a relationship with, wanted that future. Wanted my sharp edges and intelligence. They wanted the smiles, and submission, superficial parts of me and yet they were all things I wouldn’t give.
It’s why I don’t date, why I don’t waste my time. If I want to fuck then fine, I know all I have to do is head down to a bar, find someone who ticks the boxes on the attraction scale and then head off to a hotel for the night because in no rational world would I ever let some stranger into the sanctuary that is my apartment.
I don’t want more, I don’t look for more.
On a certain level, I’m content with that, happy with that. I have my work, and my books, and my space. Why would I rock the boat? Why should I be so greedy as to want more?
My stomach grumbles, bringing me back to the present and I’m half tempted to order some food, but it’s late, I doubt the kitchen is even open. A nice little spread was put on for when we arrived, but those canapes feel so long ago now. God, what I wouldn’t give for a kebab.
“Liliana.” James, my editor’s voice rings out at the exact same moment I get the bartender’s attention.
With my best fake smile, I turn to greet him, biting my tongue before I correct him for the millionth time that my name is ‘Ana,’ not ‘Liliana.’ We’ve never really gotten on. Oh, he likes me well enough, when I’m bringing in the accolades. When I’m bathing his paper in the glory, but our outlook on life is so at odds.
We have different politics, different views—at least that’s the polite way of defining it because he classes any unmarried woman in their late thirties as a raging, feminist lesbian, and one as outspoken as I am must be doubly so. If he had his way, there wouldn’t be any women at the paper at all, except the young ones, in tight little skirts to make his coffee while he pats their pert behinds and murmurs on about ‘the good old days.’
As he meets my gaze, I can’t tell if he actually wants to talk to me or is simply forced to by circumstance. His mouth is turned down, his face showing that same disgust he always has when he looks at me, but he still drops his gaze, lets his eyes linger a little too long over the curves of my body and it makes my stomach turn.
“Did you want something?” I ask, clutching my bag just that bit tighter, as though I might need to whack him firmly around the head with it—although that would almost certainly get me fired, wouldn’t it?
“You did a good job on the Zani Trial,” he says. His voice empty, flat.
I nod in return. That was over a month ago. Yeah, it was headline news, but I’ve had numerous big hitters since then. Is that really all he can think to talk about?
I cast my eyes about, landing once more on Rosie. “This is a nice evening.” I state, more than aware that my attempt at small-talk is, apparently, just as shit as his is.
He grunts back, adding that, “It’s nice to see people do still settle down these days…” and it’s all I can do to bite back the retort. I order a drink quickly, focusing instead on the barman and all but pretending James isn’t really there.
And then, my sub-editor appears, wrapping his arm around me in a far too-familiar manner.
“Ana, may I borrow you for a moment?”
“Sure,” I smile, letting Saul lead me away and once we’re out of earshot, I thank him politely before shrugging off his touch.
“Don’t mention it.” he says with a knowing look.
For a second I believe he really was just rescuing me, but he murmurs again about needing a word.
“What are you working on right now?” he asks.
I frown, with the glass poised at my lips. “Why? ”
“Tell me it’s not that story?” he says before casting his eyes about like he’s afraid someone might overhear.
I don’t know how he knows. I certainly didn’t tell him, but it makes me nervous all the same because some one knows. Someone has clearly been talking.
“It’s none of your business.” I murmur.
“I am sub-editor of this…”
“It won’t be published in the Gazette.” I state. Like I’d be stupid enough to take that route. I’d be the one dispatched before the copy even got sent for proof.
His jaw tightens, as does the hand that wraps around my wrist. “Ana, I know you’re not an idiot, but…”
“Then why are you talking to me like I am one?” I retort, my pride overriding my more rational thoughts. Oh, I know it’s a failing, I know I should work on it, but hell, when you’re constantly surrounded by egotistical a-holes who seem to bathe in their entitlement like it’s an artform, well, it’s hard to not to dial up your own sense of worth to match it.
“Ana,” he says, before leading me further from the crowd. “You know I care about you…”
“This has nothing to do with us.” I half-hiss, half-whisper. As if what we are, what we stupidly were is even relevant. Besides, there is no ‘us,’ there never was. One stupid mistake does not change that. “This is about doing what is right.”
“What is right is keeping your mouth shut.” He snaps. “What is right is turning a blind eye to the things that could get you killed.”
“What about the things that have got others killed?” I retort. “What about the fact that everything we do, everything we think we have is a lie? What about that?”
He tuts. He actually just tuts. “Ana, you can’t be seriously considering this.”
“Do you know why I became a journalist?” I ask .
He rolls his eyes like this is old news, tedious news, something not worth his time. “I know, the music teacher.”
“Yeah, the music teacher.” I say, my mind already going right back there, to when I was fourteen, when I witnessed something horrific, something no child should know about, and then when I’d spoken up, I’d been told I was wrong, mistaken. That Mr. Brett was a great teacher, a great man, respected. That the kid involved was a bad kid, from a bad family, that no doubt they’d lied to me, and I’d been confused and misunderstood the situation because it was all above my tiny child brain.
Only, I knew I hadn’t.
I knew what I’d seen.
And it took another five years, five years of that man abusing more kids, getting away with it all until it finally ended. Only, he didn’t serve time. He wasn’t prosecuted. No, he got to die peacefully, pain free, just went to sleep one night and never woke up.
And as everyone told stories of what a great man he was, I swore I would do something about it. I would be the one to give a voice to those who get ignored, those who are too poor, who don’t have the right background, or the right family. Those everyone ignores and laughs at.
I know people think I’m self-righteous, stuck up even, that I’m on some moral crusade, but I’ve seen what this world does, I’ve seen how it chews people up and spits them out and no one is more culpable than the Brethren.
“I can’t just sit by and…”
“You can, Ana, you can.” Saul states as if he has enough authority over me that he simply has to snap his fingers and I’ll obey him.
I glower at him, wondering if he’s even listened to a word I’ve just said.
“Look, it’s been a long night, why don’t we go get a drink, talk about something else? ”
I shake my head at the tone he uses, the hint of a beg underneath it. I know what he wants, what he’s after. One stupid night, months ago, we hooked up. It was nothing, purely physical on my part and mostly fuelled by alcohol. I thought it was the same for him, but clearly he wanted more. Still wants more.
“I’m good.” I say withdrawing, as that voice inside my head chastises me for that stupid reckless mistake I made so many months ago. “I’m actually gonna head off, get some sleep.”
“Let me walk you out,” he says, so keenly.
“No,” I say, clutching the bag, putting a firm boundary between us, “I’m good.” I repeat darting quickly into the crowd, praying that he won’t follow.
Out on the street, it’s pissing it down with rain. I did bring a coat, but in my haste to escape I left it behind. If I’m lucky someone will see it and take it for me, but if I’m not then I guess that’s another item of my belongings lost forever.
I groan, wrapping my arms as best as I can to conserve heat. The bulk of my bag presses against my ribcage and I silently curse the weight of the damned thing.
There are no taxis to be had and the queue of people waiting for one, looks like it goes around the block. At this rate, I’ll still be stood here when Saul comes out and then I’ll be stuck, in that same pointless conversation again, so I make the snap decision to walk. It’s only twenty minutes from mine so it’s not unfeasible and perhaps I may be able to catch a taxi further down the road.
My heels clatter annoyingly on the curb, rainwater slithers between my frozen toes and I grit my teeth against the unpleasantness of it. I’m half tempted to ditch them entirely and just go barefoot, but the streets are filthy and besides, it’d only mean another thing for me to carry.
Cars seem to speed past, leaving a torrent of water splashing everywhere. My bleached hair sticks to my forehead, and I know that I look as far from my usually put together appearance as I can get.
I’m half tempted to stop in a kebab shop and get some chips, but as I walk from one street to the next, they all seem shut; it can’t be that late, can it? Normally those places stay open right up until sunrise and I know there’s at least a few hours until then. Muttering under my breath, I continue on. I must be ten minutes away now, that’s halfway there. Just gotta keep going.
But as I cross over from one barely lit street to another, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly pick up. I pause, using the cover of an overgrown bush as some sort of cover and I glance back, checking to see if I’m overreacting.
I don’t know what I expect to see, but there’s nothing. Not a soul. The only movement is the rain hammering down. And yet…
I narrow my eyes, squinting. The streetlamps are sporadic enough to create great chasms of darkness in-between. It’d be easy enough for someone to lurk there, to hide just as I am, and remain unseen.
Water trickles down my back, I curse under my breath and suck in the gasp that threatens to give me away. I’m being silly. Stupid. Imagining monsters now where there are none.
No one knows what I’m up to.
No one has a clue.
I turn, picking up pace and continue on, just as my conversation with Saul replays. The question is can I trust him? Can I truly believe he will keep this to himself? And more importantly, who the fuck told him about it? Only me and Ronin, my source, know. That’s a pretty small circle. If Ronin spilled a peep of what was going on, his head would be on the block beside mine. No, it’s not him. So who the fuck is it?
I mull that thought over and over, wondering if I need to take action already, wondering if instead of going home to sleep, I need to be racing home to pack and disappear ?
By the time I get to my place, I feel like I’m teetering on a knife edge, completely and utterly exhausted and yet hyper-alert. I half expect my apartment to be ransacked, to walk in and find a burly man dressed all in black with a gun pointed at my chest.
But there’s nothing, no man, no carnage, just my neatly organised space. For a moment I pause, staring at my belongings, trying to figure out if someone has been in here, if they’ve rifled through and then left everything neat and tidy so I wouldn’t notice.
My skin prickles, goosebumps spread along my arms. Am I being paranoid, or do I need to actually listen to my gut?
All that alcohol fizzles out in my brain. I go from hazy drunk to horribly sober in a matter of seconds.
I place my bag onto the marble counter and kick my shoes off, feeling the softness of the carpet massaging my dirty, frozen feet. The couch looks so inviting, half of me wants to curl up in a blanket and just sleep, only, that feeling persists, as if it’s a chime, getting louder and louder and louder.
And that voice in my head repeats over and over that ‘someone knows.’
Someone knows.
There’s a target on my back.
If I sleep, if I hesitate now, I might as well pull the trigger myself and all of this, all this work, and this risk will be for nothing.
So I force myself to move, force my body to keep going and I grab a bag, stuffing it with essentials, the basics, underwear, T-shirts, comfy clothes. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, how long I’ll need to lay low, most likely I’ll be watching my back in some form or other for the rest of my life and though that thought does alarm me, on some level there’s a sense of belief that I can do this. I can disappear, go off grid, hide in the wilderness and be free of the bullshit constraints that we’ve convinced ourselves are necessary to normal daily life .
There’s a stash of money I keep under the floorboards, and it takes an annoying amount of time to prise the wood up and wrench it out. I always told myself I was being ridiculous in needing such an option, only now, this feels like I need to give Past Ana a good pat on the back.
When I get to the bathroom, I bag up the bottles, the toothpaste, all my toiletries and soap bars that I’ve squirrelled away at the back of cupboard, having liberated them from one hotel or another.
And then I catch a glance of myself in the mirror. My mascara is smeared down my cheeks, my hair looks a tangled nest that will take hours to sort and I know I don’t have time now. I need to be going, to be moving, to be fleeing this space before the inevitable catches up with me.
“Come on, Ana,” I half-whisper, as if I need someone to give me courage.
As quickly as I can, I peel off the sodden dress and towel dry my skin. Then I yank on a pair of thick leggings and a hoody, tucking my hair up to conceal myself further.
With my bag hanging over one shoulder, I cross the living room and head to the balcony, telling myself not to look back, but my eyes do it anyway. They cast over all the little treasures, the trinkets, mementos, moments of my life that are now meaningless. I prided myself in being independent, I prided myself on travelling, on seeing the world, on doing all the things my mother and her ilk would sneer at. What does it mean now? What is it worth? Surely it would be better to have never tasted such things as adventure, and freedom when they’re going to be ripped so savagely from my grasp?
I let out a gasp, but it could be a sob too. I worked so damned hard for this. I sacrificed everything to get where I am. To have to run now, to have to essentially kill that part of me is not just hurtful, it’s offensive .
But what else can I do? I can’t just stay here and hope like some stupid fool that everything will be okay. I have to run. I have no other choice. It’s that or I kill myself. Plain and simple. Only, I’m not ready to admit total defeat. Maybe a few weeks from now that might be my only option, but I have to try first. I have to do something.
I slip out of the window, sneak along the balcony and clamber down the fire exit, ensuring I avoid the security cameras. If someone is coming for me, I want them to at least work for it. I want them to think I’m still here, sleeping off a heavy night and by the time they realise I’m not, I’ll be miles away and hopefully way ahead of them.
It’s only when I get to the carpark that I realise I can’t simply drive out of here. I groan at my own stupidity because of course my plates would be trackable. I need another option, an anonymous option.
I huff over to where the bike shed is. With a pang of guilt, I twist the code into the lock for my neighbour’s bike. He used to let me borrow it every once in a while, only, tonight I won’t be borrowing, I’ll be stealing.
“Sorry, Bill,” I murmur, as if that might make up for it.
With the bag slung as securely as possible over my shoulders, I clamber on but a hand comes out of nowhere, pulling me back and I smash into the brick wall. Another hand silences my cry and I’m turned roughly around to face my attacker.
“Ronin?” I mumble, feeling shock and relief at seeing his face. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Come to think of it, how the fuck does he know where I live? But then, the Brethren know everything, don’t they?
His eyes dart about like he’s expecting the place to be packed, like he’s expecting the shadows to grow claws and come to life.
“They know,” he says. “They know. ”
I gulp as my stomach drops. Somehow, hearing it from him, having him confirming it makes this situation feel all the worse. I can’t pretend it’s a misunderstanding, I can’t pretend that this might all be forgotten.
The Brethren know.
And they’re coming for me.
“What do you think I’m doing?” I reply, raising my shoulder to highlight the bag on my back.
He tilts his head, the stress evident on his normally attractive features. “You running?” he mutters. “Good. Always thought you were smart. You’ll need that, need those brains, need them to keep you alive…”
“Aren’t you?” I ask as he trails off.
He pulls a face I can’t read, looking over his shoulder once again. “Don’t tell me where you’re headed.” he says. “Don’t tell anyone. You need to disappear. Get far away from here. Be a ghost, Ana, be a ghost, and they can’t find you.”
I want to ask if he’ll be okay, if he has a plan, if he thinks they know about him, but he just shakes his head, steps back into the shadows, and then sprints away like the devil really is on his tail.