‘What do you mean?’
He shrugs and sells me an 18oz Big Barrel Louisville slugger.
I walk back up Sixth Avenue with the bags, the handles straining and cutting into my hands. The lights are mesmerising. Like I’m floating through a fever dream.
When I pass the familiar smoothie cart on the corner the man says, ‘Be careful who you brain with that bat, lady. I don’t wanna be an accomplice after the fact.’
‘Before the fact,’ I say.
He smiles. ‘Goodnight, English.’
I buy as many water bottles and nutrition bars as I can carry from the 7-Eleven.
No noise from Mum and Dad’s room. If they manage to get a few hours of sleep then I’m pleased for them.
I place the bags down as quietly as I can on the end of my single bed, and then I unfold a tarpaulin and place it on the carpet under the bed frame. Just knowing I have a clean surface to store things on lifts my spirits. I stock the water in the corner and set the traps. The bat will rest by my pillow and the knife will sit in my coat, itself hanging from the door handle right by my head.
It’s not a lot but it is something. I’m protecting myself in this room and I’ll be ready if anything happens next door. Mum and Dad won’t be surprised by my purchases. They know what I would say: you can’t anticipate events in a high-density city like this one. It’s like London on steroids. There could be a level five storm system; I’d say it’s not that unlikely. That could then lead to crane collapses, or maybe the windows of surrounding skyscrapers would blow out, shattering jagged shards of glass all over the streets. If we had martial law and curfews for a night or two that could help, but it could also anger the local population. Before you know it you’ve got serious civil unrest in the five boroughs. I don’t have enough food and water to wait out that kind of event, but I will have by tomorrow night.
My twin was killed. My monozygotic twin. We have the exact same face, save for a few minor scars and blemishes. The same body. Everyone knows there are killers who get a kick out of reliving their crimes in every detail. Everyone knows that.
I walk unsteadily down the hostel hall carrying my wash bag.
Nobody around.
The bathroom is small but clean. There’s a shower over a bathtub and there’s a basin and toilet. What kind of person would soak in a bath in a communal bathroom?
I wash my face and clean my teeth and feel more human. The face in the mirror is a ghost of a woman. I return to my room and change into my pyjamas and climb into bed. Bat on my left, knife on my right, hornet spray tucked underneath.
But my eyes will not close. I check my phone one last time: the Instagram photos on KT’s grid, photos of her with her boyfriend Scott, and her with Violet, her best friend. KT looked happy. She looked well last week and now she is gone.
I place my phone on the window sill and charge it. The extinguisher’s right there next to it.
I turn off the light.
Voices from the next-door room.
I hear my dad’s voice but I can’t make out his words. His voice is too deep. It’s muffled.
And then Mum says, ‘We have to tell her the truth, Paul.’
Chapter 7
I wake to a knocking on my door.
My hand reaches down for the bat but it’s sunk between my body and the side of the bed.
I scramble to pull it loose.
Heavy breathing from out in the hallway.
Someone trying the handle.
I drag out my bat.
‘Just me, Moll,’ says Dad. ‘It’s only me.’
I breathe again.
‘Wait a sec.’ I pull on my sweater and check the peephole. ‘What time is it?’ I ask, opening the door.
‘Nine-thirty, sweetheart. Your mother wanted you to sleep.’
I clear the corners of my eyes and recall the words I overheard last night. Must have taken me hours to get to sleep after hearing that.
We have to tell her the truth, Paul.
‘Mum managed to find you a Pret a Manger. Turns out there are lots of them here.’ He hands me a paper bag turning transparent from grease. ‘Chocolate croissant.’ He hands me a cardboard cup. ‘And a latte with one sugar.’
I smile and thank him and take them. He follows me into my room but there is no space in here. Not enough air. I retreat to the window and try to open it but it’ll only budge an inch or so.
‘We already ate breakfast,’ he says. ‘Your mum’s not sleeping much. We thought we’d get off at ten sharp. That OK?’
‘Of course,’ I say, sipping the coffee. ‘Thanks again for this, Dad.’