Traumaland

17 POLLYS

17

POLLY’S

The truth.

It’s a funny thing. Or not, I suppose. Depending.

People’s relationships with it can definitely be funny, though. And by funny, I mean deceitful. Now isn’t that a mind fuck? A deceitful relationship with the truth.

I admit I’ve been deceitful. With my parents. With Lucas. With Melinda. But not with the truth.

I hope you can see that. All my plans, my side project, are geared towards it. That is the ultimate goal. The plan is to find the truth. It ends there – this journey. I hope it does. Because it’s really the only thing that I want.

Hindsight is also a funny thing. Depending. Because now I know about the lies – the lies that are not mine – I can see them very clearly.

I can feel them. Sense them. Hanging in the air in my house, in the boxes in the attic, in the perpetual scent of lilies that fills the hallway. It exists in the space between myself and my family. In their tiny exchanges of looks, their careful pauses before replies.

I thought it was me. I thought it was all me.

Their lies are not little like mine. I know it.

Mum and Dad used to tell those – little ones – and it always made me uncomfortable. There was a time when I fell while playing with Lucas on the driveway. I must have been six. He was teasing me, like he always did, and then he kicked the back of my foot. I landed face down on the gravel and my tooth went through my lip. Mum made me promise to tell people I’d tripped. And so, I did.

Then when Dad would come in from his meetings. His important meetings in the city. Sometimes I’d sit at the top of the stairs and hear him talking to Mum late at night about how everyone lies in politics and how it’s important to be seen a certain way.

And his drinking. He lied a lot about that. I could smell something strong on him after work. Sometimes before work. Dad said it was his cologne, but I knew he was lying.

There is something else. Something that has become clear to me now. That night I mentioned – the night Dad left in his Cadillac and came back tired and upset and didn’t want to go to the hut with me the next day. Well, that’s not the truth. Not really. I omitted things. I lied by omission. I must’ve blocked them out or chosen to forget.

That night, after he left, I heard Mum on the phone to him. Yelling. Telling him to come home immediately. When he returned, he was drunk, which wasn’t unusual back then. I heard him and Mum having a fight. A big one. I could hear them trying to keep their voices down, but Mum was fuming. There was lots of shouting and tears, which was unusual. Even Lucas went down and got involved. At one point I heard him crying too, which was very unusual.

I just put my headphones on and kept painting.

In the morning when I asked them about it, they said they were watching a romantic thriller on the TV. But they all looked a bit grey like they hadn’t slept a wink. Then I noticed my yellow bike that I liked to circle around the driveway for hours was missing. I was absolutely gutted. Mum said Dad broke it, which was weird, but I didn’t question it. And it was never spoken of again.

I can feel fear now. It’s so potent. So wretched and painful and very, very confusing.

I asked for it. I pursued it. I desired it.

I’d forgotten what feelings do to you. I can’t help but wonder if it was better before, when I was numb. But it is true. It’s the truth. Finally, things are real. Only, it’s not what I thought it would be.

Welcome to your worst nightmare .

It’s not my handwriting. The tattoo. A blotchy, hastily done stick and poke, just like Roadkill Man said.

It’s hard to tell from this angle in the bathroom of Polly’s Diner, but I know I can’t have done it. The two words are located along the skin above the protruding bone at the base of my skull behind my ear. It would’ve been near impossible for me to do it.

Which means someone else must have done it, which also seems impossible. But then, most of the past few hours seem impossible.

My vision goes hazy as I stare at the two words in the circular make-up mirror I’m holding up in front of my face, reflecting them from the mirror above the sink behind me. I asked one of the waitresses for it – said I needed to find an ingrown hair. This request definitely grossed her out. This was exactly what I wanted because she handed it over without asking questions.

I can see two words now. A reflection of a reflection of a memory I don’t have.

REMEMBER JACK

I’d take a picture of it, but I don’t have my phone. Or my bag. They’re both still with the stern woman back at the club.

Not having my phone made finding Polly’s Diner difficult. Due to my brain being mangled like a piece of mashed-up Blu-Tack, I didn’t make much sense when I asked people for directions. They either ignored me or moved away, thinking I was blind drunk. One woman actually asked if I was homeless and needed support with drug addiction. She said she could call social services, or my parents, if I wanted. I just cried. It felt so strange, because this is what I’d wanted, but it was awful.

No, don ’ t call my parents , I told her. I said I was twenty-one and I was fine. She just shrugged and said something like people are so lost these days .

I was lost, but not in the way she meant. Although, maybe. I cried because everything hurt. It still does. I’ve been struggling to align my thoughts, to make them make sense. I need to remember every detail of the story. Jack in the hut, my dad saying I ’ ll take it from here . The matching tattoos. But the pain is so new, or so old, that I’m struggling to make sense of it.

When eventually I found the diner, down one of those side streets off Old Compton, the waitress at the counter said I couldn’t sit inside because I smelled funny. But then she saw I was crying and rolled her eyes and said come on in . Just don ’ t be a nuisance . I can ’ t deal with more chaos tonight .

And I thought you have no idea .

Polly’s Diner isn’t the classiest of establishments, all squeaky floors, strip lights and the strong, persistent smell of bleach. The other people all look like I do – pale and sick – which is useful because I can blend in. Late-night pissheads munching on their end-of-night scran. Exhausted taxi drivers. A table rammed with a group of women desperate to keep the last dregs of a hen-do going in a mess of pink wigs and glitter.

But it’s quiet in here. In the bathroom.

REMEMBER JACK

Jack.

I didn’t remember him in the meeting on Zoom, but I was drawn to him. There was something about him I liked. His energy, maybe. His sadness. I felt like I recognised it. But not his story. That I didn’t recognise. He said he’d tried to end his life by jumping off a bridge. He said that was what he’d been told, but he had no memory of it.

He was honest. That’s what I liked. I liked his honesty.

He said nothing made sense. He said that’s just the truth. Blank and numb. I remember how he said the only thing I really feel is that something is missing . A sort of longing . That’s how I’ve felt – or not felt, sensed – for so long. That sort of longing.

I don’t know if I liked him because he was saying the exact same things I was thinking, or if there was something more beneath it all. No, no , that’s ridiculous. This whole thing is insane. Nisha will give me some rational explanation.

As I stare at those two blurry words, I keep thinking of a quote from Mum’s book in the downstairs loo. The one I read over and over as I tried to calm the residue of the thunderclap headaches. I can’t remember all of it, or who wrote this specific one, but for some reason the quote is churning round in my brain.

There are no coincidences and there are no accidents—

The bathroom door smashes open, startling me. I clip the mirror shut as a man in a white vest and denim shorts stumbles past me. ‘Don’t let me stop you putting on your lippy, hun. You’re in Soho, be free,’ he slurs, then sways towards the urinal.

Be free .

I turn to the tap and scrub my hands and face with soap, then take a proper look at the hoodie Nisha gave me. It has NIRVANA on it in yellow letters and a faded picture of a woman with wings. It’s warm and there’s the faint smell of something sweet and clean. The joggers are pink and tatty where the elastic is, or was. They keep falling down around my hips.

Who is this girl?

I push the swing door and step back into the diner. I’m met with the screech of laughter from the hen-do table as one of them attempts to balance a burger patty on her forehead. I make my way towards the frazzled waitress at the counter.

‘Here.’ I hold out the mirror she lent me.

‘That’s OK, sweetheart. You keep that,’ she says, while crossing something out on her notepad. ‘I have a spare.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

‘Did you get it out?’

‘Get what out?’

‘The ingrown—’ She stops, looks back down. ‘ Damn it .’ She shouts through the kitchen hatch behind her. ‘Ben, it’s four waffles, not three! Sorry!’ She begins to type something into the touchscreen on the counter.

She looks up and notices I’m still standing there. ‘You OK? You seem a bit confused.’

I’m more than a bit confused. ‘I’m just … waiting for someone. She said you know her? She comes in after work.’ The waitress frowns. I want to say Nisha’s name, but I don’t know if it’s the right one. ‘Twenty-ish. Arty type. A bit emo—’

‘Nisha?’

‘Yeah. That’s it.’

‘Ah, we love Nisha.’ I assume when she says we, she’s including me. ‘She usually comes in to do her studying after work.’

‘Studying? In here?’

‘Are you…?’ She stops and frowns.

‘Am I what?’

‘You know…’ No, I don’t know. ‘Never mind.’ She observes my puffy eyes, clearly assuming that I’m some forlorn ex-boyfriend here to beg for Nisha’s love. ‘Well, she takes that table round the corner where it’s quieter. It’s free. We keep it for her.’

‘Um… Yeah, sure.’ She looks at me funny. ‘Oh, shall I go now?’

She scrunches her eyes, slots her pencil into the rubber band holding her messy ponytail and smiles kindly. ‘You’re not OK, are you, sweets?’ I don’t answer. ‘Well, whatever it is that’s happened, it’ll all work out.’ She thinks I’m broken-hearted. That Nisha broke my heart. ‘What do you want? Coffee?’

‘Vodka.’

The smile leaves her face. ‘Sorry, it’s after hours. And don’t you think you’ve had enough tonight?’

‘I haven’t had a…’ Being drunk is a better explanation than I was in a locked room and saw a story about me that took place from inside someone else ’ s head . ‘Coffee is good.’

‘I’ll bring it over.’

As I head in the direction she pointed, past the kitchen and the smell of sizzling fatty food, I try to make myself as invisible as possible. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

Except Nisha. I need to talk to Nisha.

She’d better come.

The table is half hidden behind a dying potted palm. It’s quieter here and the lighting is less harsh. My brain likes it.

The photograph .

I push my way past the brown leaves and sit, lean down to my sock and take it out. I place it on the table, flatten out the creases. I feel tears welling in my eyes as I stare at it. At some point the waitress places the coffee in front of me. I say thank you, but I don’t look up.

Don’t forget. Never. Never forget. You can’t – please – remember him. Shave your head.

The more I stare, the more my brain begins to unravel again. I try to shut it off by studying my hands. My cracked and bloody nails. The bird tattoo on my wrist. Stick and poke, like the tattoo on the back of my head. I think of my drawing. The drawing of myself, but different, more muscular, well built. It wasn’t me. The drawing wasn’t of me. He said it in the story. Jack said it. Matching tattoos . The drawing was of him .

‘Hi.’

I look up. It’s Nisha. Hair tied back, coat wrapped around her, eyes glaring. For a moment we stare at each other. Me with my hands face down on the table, her chewing the inside of her lip.

‘You can’t scream at me like you did back there. If you scream like that again, I’ll leave. And if you follow me, I’ll call the police.’ Her voice is firm.

‘I’m not going to scream.’

She nods, then pulls out the chair opposite so it grinds against the lino floor. She clears her throat. ‘So, what is it that you want?’

‘What is it that I want?’

‘Yes.’

‘You asked me to come here.’

‘Because you were causing a scene and I needed you out of there.’

‘But…’ I consider the myriad questions I have for her, deciding to lead with the most urgent one. ‘What the hell is happening?’ I can hear my voice shake. She doesn’t answer me, just studies my face. Fine. I’ll try a different question. More specific. ‘Why were you at the bus stop that night? Were you following me?’

‘What? No. I knew nothing about you until you robbed me and began to make my life hell.’

‘I’ve made your life hell? I’ve just been to hell, Nisha, and that’s because I followed you .’

She recoils. ‘You followed me?’

‘No. Yes. Does it matter?’

‘Um… If I’m getting stalked then yes, it matters.’

‘I followed the rabbit. The sticker on your phone.’

She frowns. ‘Coincidences—’

I cut her off. ‘Don’t say that. There are no coincidences and there are no accidents.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ Ask something else. ‘Where does TraumaLand get those stories from? I need you tell me, now .’

‘Keep your voice down,’ she hisses. She glances through the leaves towards the other diners chatting loudly at their tables, all mashed off their heads.

‘They can’t hear us,’ I say. ‘Look at me. Please, look at me .’ She flinches and I see it – a flash of fear – then she turns her head.

My mouth opens and begins to spill words. ‘I need you to help me, Nisha. I assume that’s your real name, but at this point I don’t give a shit. I need you – whoever you are – to help me, OK? Good. I’m Elias. I’m seventeen years old and I used my brother’s ID to get into TraumaLand because I wanted to feel alive. That’s what it promised and that’s what I wanted.

‘Last year I was in a car crash and I have no memory of it. I have no memory of two months of my life and my brain has stopped working properly ever since. I’ve felt numb, blank, nothing – until today. Until I entered that room called BUCKET. I ended up there because of you . On Thursday night I was waiting at the bus stop and I took your phone – granted, not brilliant, but I have apologised. Somehow, out of all the people at the bus stop I could have chosen to rob, I chose you .’

I lift the photograph off the table and hold it up to her, my hand shaking. ‘Look at this. This is my family.’ I turn it over so the writing on the back is facing her. ‘And this is a note to me, from me, that I have no memory of writing.’ I watch her eyes scan the words, then turn my head and point behind my ear. ‘ Shave your head . I did that and this was on my head. See?’ Her eyes remain fixed on me, unwavering. ‘ Never forget Jack . I was in his story, doing things I have no memory of. And I don’t remember him.’

‘Elias—’

‘I met him earlier today, in a group support session for victims of head trauma. I thought it was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on him. But it wasn’t. That story suggests, proves , that I have seen him –’ felt for him – ‘before today. And you’re going to tell me how the hell—’

‘ Elias —’

‘Let me speak. I need to speak.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘And not only that, my own dad was in that story. He was doing something terrible – or about to – and I have no idea why. And now I don’t know what’s real and what’s not, and I’m scared. I know that the people in that story aren’t actors. And unless I’ve had a complete psychotic breakdown, which at this point I’m sure some people wouldn’t put past me…’

She keeps staring at me, unblinking. ‘I need to see more of the story. I need to go back to TraumaLand. I’m aware I probably look mental to you right now, but you have to understand that I’m very, very certain. I’m certain that I can’t trust anyone. I’m certain that I’m actually not crazy. Whatever happened last year changed me. It made me this way.’ I point at her, my finger trembling. ‘And I’m certain that you know more. You have to tell me what you know. Whatever’s happening, it’s not right. It’s bad. Really bad. Fucked up is an understatement. But you know that, don’t you?’

Her eyes flicker, but she holds my gaze. There’s something she’s keeping back. What isn ’ t she telling me?

‘Pancakes?’

I turn to see the frazzled waitress. Nisha keeps her eyes on me. ‘Nice to see you, Nisha, love,’ the waitress continues. ‘You look knackered. Here’s your coffee.’ She places a steaming mug down on the table.

‘Cheers,’ Nisha says. ‘That’s great, Polly.’

‘Kitchen’s closing soon. You want your usual?’

‘Not eating tonight, thanks.’

Polly looks at me. ‘What about you? Hungry? Pancakes?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘OK. Well, it seems like you two are having a bit of a moment , so I’ll leave you to it.’

‘We aren’t going to be here for long,’ Nisha says. ‘Are we, Elias?’

‘Hopefully not,’ I say.

Polly glances at Nisha in a way that says, you want me to get rid of him?

Nisha shakes her head. ‘It’s fine, Polly.’

‘You know where I am if you need me.’ She turns on her heel, clearly confused. We sit in silence until she’s disappeared round the corner.

Nisha, what do you know? I hold her gaze as she lifts up the mug of coffee and takes a gulp. Her hands are shaking too. The coffee spills on her, but she doesn’t react.

Something burns in my stomach, a need to persist. ‘Why did you ask me to meet you, Nisha? You must know something or you wouldn’t be here. You clearly hate me, so why did you tell me to come?’

‘ OK ,’ Nisha snaps, looking straight at me. ‘OK.’ She exhales slowly. ‘OK.’

‘You’re going to need to say more than that.’

She leans back. ‘I watched it.’

‘What?’

‘I watched Jack’s story.’

‘You watched it?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘Two minutes. Like you said. It’s all I could manage without getting caught.’

That’s enough – two minutes is enough . ‘And?’

‘And I believe you.’

I slump back down into my chair. ‘Why didn’t you lead with that, you absolute nutter?’

‘Elias, you haven’t given me a second to speak.’

‘That’s not…’ OK, maybe it is true. Move on. She believes me . ‘So, you went back in and watched it?’

‘You seemed very upset and convinced . I’ve never seen anyone react like that before. And I just wanted to see if—’

‘See if I wasn’t completely batshit?’

She nods. ‘Yeah.’

‘So, you saw me in the story? You saw that it’s not actors?’

She glances over at the other tables. ‘Yeah, I saw,’ she whispers. ‘It was you.’

‘And you always thought it was actors?’

‘Yes,’ she says quietly. ‘But clearly…’ A look of concern crosses her features. ‘Clearly it’s not.’

‘Oh my God,’ I say, putting my head in my hands. ‘ Oh, thank fuck .’ I feel like I might float away or evaporate entirely. As the tension disintegrates from my muscles, I’m aware that what I’m feeling is relief . Relief, for the first time in so long. I’d forgotten how light, how incredibly light , how warm, how bright it is. This is the first proof I’ve had that I’m not actually losing my mind. That I’m not completely off my rocker – well, maybe slightly – and it’s so freeing .

‘I know Jack,’ Nisha then says.

It takes me a moment to compute her words. ‘Sorry? What did you just say?’

She leans forwards across the table, her voice barely a whisper. ‘I said, I know Jack.’ Her eyes are darker. ‘I recognised him. I know him, Elias.’

‘Hold on. What? You know Jack?’

‘Yes.’

‘But…’ My brain stalls. How? How? ‘How?’

‘We were…’ She shakes her head. ‘Years ago, Jack and I were in foster care together.’

‘You what ?’

‘You heard me.’

‘You were in foster care together?’

She frowns. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

‘What? No, I’m not saying…’ I don’t know what I’m saying. It came out all wrong. ‘ When? ’

‘When we were about fourteen. Well, I was. He was a little younger than me.’

Oh, my brain. My mangled brain.

‘OK… But…’ I feel a tightening in my stomach, my chest, like I might cry again. It’s so raw, so intense, that it makes me feel – feel – that I am here . I am here and this is real. ‘Where?’

‘In Brighton.’

‘Brighton?’

‘Yes. We were both in foster care in Brighton.’

‘I lived in Lewes.’

‘Not far.’

‘Not far at all… This is insane.’

‘Yeah, it is.’

‘So, we actually agree on something.’

‘Seems that way.’ A smile flickers on her face.

Hold on. ‘Does this mean we’ve met before? Me and you?’

‘No. I have no memory of you.’

I don’t know if that really means anything. ‘Is this all linked? Me, you, Jack… How? ’

Nisha shakes her head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Are you being honest?’

‘Yes, Elias.’

‘I need to trust you.’

‘That’s your choice.’

We sit in silence for a moment and I watch her bite her lip as she thinks. I can see that she’s also—

Scared. Confused. Lost.

In pain, somewhere beneath it all. But honest.

I exhale, my breath quivering. ‘Can you help me?’ I stammer. ‘ Will you help me… To understand…’

‘I…’ She pauses. ‘We need to be careful.’

‘Why? What’s there to be careful about? We should go to the police.’

‘No.’ I see fear – more than fear, terror. ‘No, we can’t.’

‘Why not?’

She lowers her voice again and practically mouths the word, ‘Casimir.’

‘Casimir. The man from the holding bay at TraumaLand.’

She nods.

‘Paul.’

‘Well, yes, but you shouldn’t know that.’ Fear, again.

‘Paul is also Boss, right? The man in the car. He’s your boss.’

‘Yes.’

‘He was the one who texted your phone after I stole it? Telling me he’d kill me?’

She chews her lip. ‘Yes.’

‘But he seemed so nice in person. Friendly.’ She raises her eyebrows a fraction, in a way that says no . No, he is not. ‘Can we talk to him? Tell him? Figure out what the hell is—’

‘No.’

‘Why not? Stop being so—’

‘So what?’

‘Obstructive to the plan.’

‘The plan?’ Her eyes widen. ‘Elias—’

I hate that. ‘It’s Eli.’

‘Eli, listen to me. Casimir is a very…’ Her eyes dart around like she’s searching for the right word. ‘He’s a very particular man.’

‘What kind of particular? Dangerous particular?’

‘Maybe.’

‘That’s encouraging. Who is he?’

‘He just owns the place.’

‘Well, he’s clearly off his nut and dark as hell, owning a place like that.’

‘It’s very popular.’ She leans back in her chair, folding her arms. ‘You’re not the only person who’s ever felt numb, you know.’

‘But this is different.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I was in one of the stories !’ I slam my hand on the table. Anger. Yep. That’s definitely anger. She frowns, keep your voice down . ‘Something happened to me. It was against my will and everyone is lying to me.’

‘I’m not lying to you.’

‘Has he known who I was all along? He acted like he didn’t recognise me at the bar.’

‘You look different to how you did in the story.’ Her eyes take in my shaved head, my pale make-up. As she picks up her teaspoon and starts to fiddle with it, I notice the chapped skin around her nails – from the cleaning, the bleach, all the vomit she’s scrubbed off the floor. ‘They vet the names on the door and your ID said your brother’s name. He won’t have been looking out for it.’

‘You’re scared of him.’

‘I don’t want to get on the wrong side of him and neither do you.’ Her eyes move to the scar on my temple. ‘Is that from the crash?’

‘Apparently.’

‘It’s right where the man hit you in Jack’s story.’ She bites her lip. ‘Who was he?’

‘A man named Karl.’ Karl. Karl who I knew as a child, with his military boots and moustache and thick south-London accent. Gentle Giant . ‘My dad’s driver for years.’

‘And your dad was the man who came in after? With the balaclava?’

I feel a jolt as I remember. ‘Yes.’

She picks up the photograph and turns it over. ‘Your dad’s a famous politician.’

‘I’m aware…’

‘Very famous. People love him.’ She seems annoyed at this.

‘Also aware…’

‘Well, some do.’ Nisha leans back in her chair again. ‘When did you say the crash was?’

‘A year ago.’

‘And you have absolutely no memory of it?’

‘Some flashes – small things – but mostly only what I’ve been told happened.’ I lift up my top, showing the burns on my stomach. ‘And these.’

Her eyes hover over my scars. ‘I see,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’ For a brief moment something crosses her face. Pity, or some kind of understanding.

‘I don’t have a nipple either.’ I go to lift up my top. ‘Wanna see?’

‘I’m good, thanks.’

‘So, you’re going to help me?’

She bites her nail. ‘You are the strangest person I’ve ever met.’ It’s so matter-of-fact, so candid, that for a moment I really like her. ‘My life has become very fucking strange since I met you.’

‘I could say the same for you. Although mine was already all over the place.’

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Mine too.’ She then looks like she wants to take the words back.

I lean forwards. ‘Have you ever needed something so desperately that you’d do anything to get it?’ She doesn’t reply, but there’s something in the way she shifts in her chair that makes me think she has. ‘In response to your first question, what do I want? the answer is this. I want the truth. Are you in the business of finding it? Because if you are, I need you to tell me what you know.’

And then I say something my dad once told me. ‘We are only as sick as our secrets. We should be free of them.’ I feel strange using his language now, but it’s true. She hesitates, conflicted. ‘I know you’re a good person, Nisha. I know you are. Please. Please help me.’ Come on .

I suddenly realise something. It sends a shock through my body, raising the hairs on my arms. ‘Nisha, if my story is real, doesn’t that mean all the others are too?’ She looks up at me, her eyes wide. I think of Amy with her mangled leg, Bella in the hotel, her brother Sam, hiding in the bath. ‘They’re awful, Nisha. Horrific.’

She takes a sip of her coffee, her gaze fixed on me. Then I see something change inside her like a switch has been flicked. She picks her bag from the floor, unzips it on the table and takes out a screwed-up backpack – mine. She hands it to me, then stands. ‘Your phone’s inside.’ She turns and walks past the dead palm tree. ‘Follow me,’ she says, without looking back.

I take my phone and pull my bag over my shoulder.

I have to run to keep up because she’s fast, which I already knew. I soon realise we’re not going back to TraumaLand. We’re going somewhere else. We wind through the streets, dodging people stumbling out of bars and clubs, food delivery drivers on bikes, until she stops.

I feel an overwhelming sense of dread when I look up at the building in front of us.

We’re on Tottenham Court Road, right outside Melinda’s office, right by the bus stop where I first saw her.

‘Why are we here?’ I glance up at the fourth floor and find the room where I meet her every Thursday. Melinda.

Nisha looks up and down the street, checking we haven’t been followed. She breathes out shakily.

‘I need to show you something.’ She turns and begins to walk down the little street round the side of the building.

Why here ?

Wait. William S. Burroughs. That’s who wrote the quote. There are no coincidences and there are no accidents . And I can remember the end of it now. Nothing happens unless someone wills it to happen .

‘Eli, come on.’

I follow Nisha into the shadows.