Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
“I think I’m losing my mind,” I tell Una and Pierre.
Una stares at me over the top of her mint-laden mojito as Pierre rolls an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
“More so than the rest of us?” she asks.
“Definitely,” I reply.
“Is it the dreams still?” Pierre slides the cigarette behind his ear and picks up his pale ale.
“It’s not just the dreams.” I exhale loudly.
They eye me over the small round table of the new bar in town called Octavia.
Pierre had been the one to choose tonight’s venue, an aptly named underground bar on Octavia Alley. Una and I eyed each other as he led us down the stone steps into what felt like a dungeon, and I expected to see half-naked staff with dog collars on. But we arrived in a swanky-looking room with warmly lit tables, plush velvet seating, and a guy perched on a stool softly playing the saxophone.
“At what level can you condone murder?” I ask.
Una stops swirling the ice in her glass as Pierre puts his drink down.
Una is the first to answer. “I don’t think you can ever condone murder.”
Pierre presses his lips together. “I disagree.”
She flashes him a look. “How can you say that?”
“If someone had shot Hitler when he was younger, I’m sure history books would have been a lot nicer reads.”
“But that’s with hindsight. No one could have known what he was going to do,” Una argues. This is the type of debate she loves. Something to get her teeth into, a corner to fight in, a cause to rally for, and she will not back down.
“Okay, say someone had killed him halfway through his murderous rampage. The world would still have been a better place. And he’s not alone. There are plenty of barbaric people out there who deserve to die,” Pierre says.
Una opens her mouth, about to launch her counter defence, but then she stops and looks at me. “Wait, why are you asking us this?” She arches a heavily pencilled eyebrow, the ruby dangling from her choker wobbling with every word. Her cabaret goth look is one of my favourites.
There’s no need for me to answer this question. If I leave them long enough, they’ll work it out for themselves. Even though they weren’t working for the Gazette when it happened, everyone knows about my brother and what went down at Fortunato Casino ten years ago, and they’ve all heard the rumours about Valdemar’s release.
“Wait, is this to do with your brother?” Una asks.
I’m tempted to congratulate her on getting there before Pierre, but it would be in poor taste.
“Is this to do with Valdemar Montresor?” she pushes.
His name doesn’t sound right coming from her mouth, and I’m suddenly possessive of it. I fight the urge to say something, to acknowledge him as mine.
Pierre leans in. “This isn’t some therapy technique, is it? Where they suggest you forgive the person who killed your brother to seek closure?”
Una glares at him. “You can’t ask her if she’s seeing a therapist. That’s none of your business.”
“I didn’t ask,” he shoots back.
“You implied,” she says.
“Hey, it’s fine.” I shake my head. “I did see a therapist when it happened—fat lot of good it did me—but I stopped going a few years ago. I think I’m beyond therapy now.”
“Then what is it?” Una urges.
After contemplating my next disclosure, I take the leap. “I’ve been to see him.”
“Valdemar Montresor?” Pierre’s hand hovers over his glass.
“Yes.”
He whistles. “Jeez, you’re braver than me, girl.”
Una squints. “Why? How?” And I can see the hurt already brewing behind her heavily made-up face that I’m only telling her this now.
“I needed to. I thought it was time.” I don’t want to tell them that he asked me to—it’ll only raise their suspicions, and I already feel like I’m telling them too much, but my mother’s empty silences have started to take their toll. It’s time to talk to the living.
“Time for what? Wait.” Una rests her hand on my arm. “You’re not planning on killing him, are you?”
She laughs, not a real laugh but one of confusion, but I don’t, and neither does Pierre.
“Shit, Evangeline, you’re not, are you?” Her eyes widen.
“No.” My eyes flit between them. Their stares are hard, their faces like stone. They don’t know what to do with this information, don’t know what to say because there’s no rule book, no guidance on what to say to a friend who’s visited the man who killed their brother. “No—don’t be daft. I just needed to understand.”
“Okay, this is starting to sound like some therapy technique,” Pierre says. “It’s not some pathway to forgiveness, is it?”
Una flashes me a worried look. “I hope you’re not contemplating forgiving him.” Her eyes darken. “That would be worse than contemplating killing him.” Although Una wasn’t working at the Gazette when it happened, she knows what I’ve gone through in the last ten years, five of which she’s known me for. She’s been the only person who I’ve confided in about the pills, the depression, the times when I felt like life was just too difficult to navigate, and she’s been there for me through all of it. So, I hear her concern when she asks me this, because why would I forgive the man who destroyed my life and took my brother’s?
“No.” There’s little conviction in my delivery. “It’s just….”
“Just what?” she says. “He killed your brother in some shitty shoot-out at a casino. That man is fucking insane and should never be let out.”
Silence sweeps the table, and Una is the first to pick up on it.
“You know they’re letting him out, don’t you?” she says.
I nod.
“Shit,” Pierre says. “I can’t even imagine how you’re feeling.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, even though it isn’t. “I’ve kind of got my head round it now, and it’s the reason I’ve been to see him.”
“Captain confirmed it the other week, that he was being let out and that we would obviously have to run a story on it,” Una explains, and I don’t like that they’ve all been keeping this from me, but I know it’s because they care. They want to protect me, shield me from the bad guy.
“I still don’t understand how they can be letting him out so soon,” she adds. “It’s been how long?”
“Ten years,” I answer. “He pleaded guilty.”
“They will have taken into account good behaviour as well.” Pierre swipes at something invisible in the air.
“But still,” Una protests.
“He knows people, doesn’t he? I bet he’s greased a few palms for an early release,” Pierre guesses.
“And people wonder why there’s no faith in the justice system.” Una puts her hand over mine. “I wish you’d told us. Visiting him must have been really difficult.”
“Yeah.” I feel bad for not telling her, but judging by her reaction so far, I think I made the right call.
“I take it seeing him hasn’t helped you understand?” Pierre presses.
“In some ways it has, but it’s left me in even more of a mess,” I confess.
“Why?” Una’s face is flooded with concern as her hand tightens over mine.
“I can’t go into details, but all I can say is that now I understand why he shot my brother, and it’s horrifying because I’ve started to wonder that if it had been me holding the gun, what I would have done.”
Two pairs of widened eyes stare back at me as Una releases my hand.
“No wonder you feel like you’re going insane,” Pierre says, clearing the uncomfortable silence as Una glares at me like she’s seeing a different version of me, one she didn’t think existed.
“Are you saying you forgive him?” she demands, her black-and-white version of the world being tested.
“No. I’ll never forgive him. He killed my brother; that’s unforgivable. What I’m saying is that I understand why he killed him.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” Una says. “Murder is murder, no matter the reason for it. He pleaded guilty and never gave any explanation as to why he did what he did. And I get that you might want answers, to be able to understand it, but please don’t forget who that man is—a killer.”
“Shit, this is heavy stuff.” Pierre runs his hand through his messy hair and plucks the cigarette from behind his ear.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag the mood down,” I apologise.
“You don’t need to apologise,” Una reassures me. “I wish you’d told us sooner. I would have helped you through it. Pierre and I both would.”
“Oh. My. God!” he says suddenly, each word dropping from his mouth like the first blobs of heavy rain before a storm.
The room stills, and I’m aware I’m staring at Pierre as the unlit cigarette hangs from his mouth even though he has no intention of lighting it in the bar.
“The dreams you were talking about the other week,” he mumbles, the cigarette sticking precariously to his dry lips.
I can see the pieces of the puzzle falling into place in his brain, and I’m dreading the last piece going in.
He plucks the cigarette from his mouth and points it accusingly at me. “Have you been dreaming about Valdemar Montresor?”
My cheeks blaze as a thin layer of sweat coats my back.
“Holy fuck,” Pierre says slowly, each syllable emphasising just how messed up this is.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Una repeats, her face paler than the white powder she’s dusted it with. And her reaction is exactly why I didn’t tell them both. Because, right now, Una is looking at me with such disgust I can feel it on my skin. She’s never been able to hide her emotions, never been able to keep back her opinions no matter who’s involved.
“Because it’s just so fucking weird and odd and wrong and disturbing.” Even as I say it, I feel like I’m betraying Valdemar, as when I’m in the dream, nothing is disturbing about it. That feeling only comes after, when I wake up having been consumed by him.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Pierre taps the end of the cigarette on the table, a mischievous look clouding his face. “What’s he like?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows and smirking. “Hung like a horse?”
Una whacks him on the side of his arm.
“For God’s sake, Pierre,” she says.
He holds both hands up in defence. “I’m just trying to lighten the mood, and rumour has it he’s supposed to be insanely hot.”
“Would you stop it already?” Una closes her eyes momentarily before returning her gaze to me. “I apologise for the insincerity of our colleague here. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“It’s fine, honestly. I could do with a laugh,” I say, relieved that Pierre is trying to douse the tension around the table.
“I’m sure the dreams are just because he’s on your mind. People dream about sleeping with other people all the time, even when they’re happily married,” Una tells me.
“Do they?” Pierre asks.
“You’re telling me you’ve never had an erotic dream about a co-worker or a friend who, in real life, you wouldn’t touch with a barge pole?” she asks him.
“Now you mention it, I have.” Pierre leans in. “I dream about you, Una, every night, with your skull earrings, black lipstick, and ripped tights.” He gnashes his teeth like a dog tearing at a chew toy.
“Not funny.” Una glares at him, unable to let the importance of this situation be batted away with jokes. She returns her attention to me. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure there’s anything I can do. He’s being released, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Do you feel safe, knowing he’ll be walking the streets again?” She places both hands around her glass.
I don’t even need to think before I answer. “Yes.”
What I don’t tell them is that I’ll feel safer than I ever have in my life. How would they even begin to understand that when I don’t understand it myself?
Tipping my almost empty glass to the side, I stand. “Who’s up for a refill?”
Una rises. “I’ll come with you.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I got these.”
She sits back down, and the pair of them eye me like I’m a priceless vase balanced on a precariously high stand that could topple at any moment.
Heading to the bar, I try not to think about what they’ll be saying about me. I wonder what their reaction would have been if I’d told them everything. That Valdemar Montresor can visit me in my dreams, that I’m now addicted to the way he touches me. What would they say if I told them that I sleep with his T-shirt on, that he occupies my thoughts twenty-four hours a day, that I can’t sleep without knowing he’ll be there, how his words and his touch make me come every single night, and the sadness that swamps me because none of it is real?
I’m unsure as to what level of sanity I’ve reached by justifying what’s been going on these past few weeks, but having said it out loud, I realise how it sounds, how it is.
Una is right. This is fucked up. All of it is fucked up.