Angel's Fury (13 page)

‘I just don’t want to touch the gun.’ There were tears in my eyes.

‘What if I do this?’ The Doctor strode across the room towards an iPod in a docking station on the wall. At a gesture from the Doctor music flooded the room.

Kyle had said the recording was rare, but she’d got hold of it
in less than an hour. My muscles tightened and I trembled as the notes floated around me.

Then I reached for a piece of the disassembled weapon.

The music vanished and I stood in front of the table with a gun in front of me.

It’s a Karabiner 98.

The knowledge floated in the forefront of my memory, then was gone.

The Doctor was looking at me, her eyes glowing. She had a stopwatch in her hand. ‘You did that in less than a minute.’

I tottered backwards until I folded on to the chair that had been pushed against the wall. There I stared at the weapon as if it was going to turn on me.

How the hell did I put a gun together?

‘W
ell.’ The Doctor stroked the edge of the table. ‘It seems we’ve found your talent.’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

She nodded towards the gun, needing to add nothing more.

‘But I’ve never even seen a real gun before.’

‘Part of you has, and you’re beginning to access that knowledge.’

I thought of Zillah and a sob hiccupped from my closed lips.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Seth gets to sculpt, Kyle’s a musician, Pandra draws and what’s my special talent?’ The words exploded like water from a dam. ‘Putting together murder weapons.’

The Doctor fondled the rifle. ‘I imagine there’s more to it than that. Your talent will extend a long way beyond just assembling a gun, so I’d better have a range built on the grounds.’

My hands tingled and I rubbed them on my thighs. ‘You want me to shoot?’

‘Although you’ve not done it before, I believe you’ll be an excellent marksman. Do you think Lizzie came here knowing how to carve? She didn’t have a clue what a wood veining chisel was, but she picked it up immediately.’

As a wave of dizziness overwhelmed me I clutched my head with one hand and the chair with the other.

How can I even
consider
shooting with the same weapon that killed Zillah?

‘I can’t do it,’ I blustered.

The Doctor raised her eyebrows. ‘We can start with other weapons if you prefer.’

‘Other weapons?’ I blinked.

‘Of course. A skill tends to be honed throughout lifetimes. If you’re that talented with a gun, you’ll have used many more primitive weapons with equal proficiency.’

‘Like . . . knives?’

‘I expect so, but also a bow, sword, quarterstaff, that sort of thing. I’m going to need to track down an instructor for you to spar with.’ She rubbed her hands. ‘It isn’t the kind of talent that will let me into your head like the others, but it is very interesting.’

* * *

I stumbled out of the office, made my way to one of the casement windows in the rec room and lowered myself on to the bench. I felt as fragile as porcelain.

In a corner of the grounds the tennis courts stood empty. I wondered where the range would be built and thrust my hands under my arms to control the tremors.

Sickened with myself I tried to picture a future that wasn’t shaped simply by nightmares and failure.

‘What are you
doing
?’ The voice was outraged and I jumped.

Did I fall asleep?

I lifted my hand to feel for drool and only then saw the chisel I was holding.

W-where did I get a chisel?

‘What are you doing, Cass?’ The voice was gentler now and I fought my alarm to look up at Seth.

‘I d-don’t know.’ Flustered, I followed the direction of his appalled glare. Engraved deeply into the stonework of the sill were my initials.

My graffiti had knocked off a piece of carved flower and I covered my mouth with a horrified ‘oh’.

His hand was round mine, prising the chisel from my fingers. ‘I didn’t . . .’ I started to protest but Seth’s grip was firm.

‘Let’s get this back to Lizzie’s workbench.’

He helped me to my feet and I looked at what I had done. A thrill went through me:
now they’ll always know you were here
.

And I was sure the thought wasn’t mine.

For a whole week I couldn’t even look at the windowsill that bore my initials. I watched the shooting range go up at the end of the grounds, attended increasingly bizarre therapy sessions and started going to the gym. There I ran constantly, attempting to exhaust jags of rage that boiled from nowhere and disappeared as suddenly.

At night I suffered through Zillah’s death in ever more vivid detail. Each time I woke I thought the nightmare couldn’t get any worse, but each time it became more real until finally, almost inevitably, I started to wake outside of my bed, dazed and wondering who and where I was.

After one nightmare I woke in my bathroom staring into a mirror crazed with a web of cracks. My hairbrush was lying on
the floor by my feet and in the fractured reflection my eyes were hysterical.

By the end of the week I felt as if I’d been shipwrecked. Phantom bruises covered my bones. I was exhausted. Moreover, whenever I was alone hopelessness overwhelmed me and drove me to tears.

Surely I’m not meant to feel like this.

I tried to ask the Doctor, but she waved away my concerns.

‘You’re doing very well. Remember what I said about getting your “ghosts” to realise they’re dead and that this lifetime is yours? Well, a part of you is grieving. In the meantime, we need to make sure you release all the guilt you’ve been carrying for their mistakes.’ She licked her lips, slightly smearing her crimson lipstick. ‘If you can do this, you can start to experience your nightmares like other people watch horror films. They’ll be thrilling, not terrifying.’

‘Th-thrilling . . .’ My eyes flicked over my hands, seeing a red haze.

Her voice made me raise my head. ‘Not all the deaths you are dreaming were your own. It’s your guilt that makes you experience them the way you do. You must let go of the remorse.
Embrace the actions you took.’ She walked around the desk, automatically avoiding the light fitting that would have brushed the top of her head. Her shadow pinned me against the door. ‘I’m very pleased with you, Cassie. Your progress has been excellent.’

‘Excellent how?’

‘You are opening up to your talent, your most recent past life is close to the surface and so will soon be in a position to accept that your life belongs to you. Furthermore you are unlocking your other past lives with increasing rapidity.’

I nodded dumbly.

It sounds like progress. But it doesn’t feel like it.

The Doctor rested her hands on her hips. ‘You are aware that Pandra is helping me with additional research.’ I nodded even though there was no question in the Doctor’s tone. ‘I think you would now be a first-rate subject and I’d like you to consider joining one of my experimental programmes.’ As alarm altered my face she gestured to the card sticking from my jeans pocket. ‘Extra credit would, of course, be added to your account.’

That would help Mum and Dad.

I licked my lips. ‘What sort of experimental programme?’

I heard Mum’s warning, quiet as a sigh: ‘
We didn’t want you to become a science experiment
,’ but the Doctor’s reply drowned her out. ‘You should know that I am close to a method of eradicating your nightmares.’

T
he gun burns and the weight of the barrel bears it downwards. Spent shells litter the ground like autumn leaves; as I take a step forward they clink and roll.

I freeze and for a moment after they stop moving there is silence. Even the birds have fled.

Then the cries of the survivors reach me.

The others gather shovels from the back of one of the trucks, but Hans and I move into the field with our guns.

It is time to clean up.

I jerked awake, freezing cold. The bed was saturated and the room stank.

I’ve wet myself!

Tears of shame burned in my eyes. With a sob I pressed the red button and immediately a red light blinked on. Someone was coming.

* * *

The next morning I lingered in the bathroom, unwilling to go to breakfast.

Everyone’ll know I wet the bed and I can’t face being a joke. Not here.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

Maybe if I didn’t look so awful . . .

Perhaps it was time to try some of the make-up I bought on the way home from Germany. The little pots and tubes lay in the bottom of my washbag, untouched.

I fiddled with the tube of tinted moisturiser. The lady at the counter had said it would even out my complexion. I dabbed some on. Then I leaned closer to the mirror.

More confident, I applied some pale brown eyeshadow and a slash of lipstick. I considered the near-stranger in the glass, decided the lipstick was one step too far and wiped it off with the back of my hand.

Then I straightened my shoulders and shook out my hair. I’d never look as good as Pandra, but I was ready to face breakfast.

On my way down the hall a nurse stopped me. Embarrassed, I tried to sidestep without meeting his eyes but he caught my shoulder.

‘Cassie. The Doctor wants you to go to room 3a rather than her office for this morning’s appointment.’

I looked up sharply and the nurse nodded, satisfied I’d got his message. Then he walked away. There was no condemnation on his face. Either he didn’t know what had happened to me last night . . .

. . . or he doesn’t care. Maybe bed-wetting isn’t a big deal here.

At the door marked 3a I stopped and wiped suddenly sweaty palms on my jeans.

Whatever this experiment is . . . if there’s any chance the Doctor can get rid of my nightmares, I’m doing it.

I opened the door and had to squint. All around the room fluorescent light reflected from white ceramic tiles. The glare made the room look like a temple of celestial judgement.

One wall was taken up by a large internal window, but as I stepped inside my gaze went directly to the console beneath it.

Although I could only see a single switch and dial, they seemed ominous. The dial was set into a spectrum that ranged from the blue of a swimming pool to the red of clotting blood. As I wondered what it could be for, there was a click.
Swiftly I tried the door. It had locked behind me.

I took a steadying breath, turned back and looked through the window on to another, much larger room.

Although the walls were as white as mine, the empty floor was a grid of lurid squares that matched the colours on the dial.

I jumped back from the window as a speaker set into the corner hissed for my attention. Then the Doctor’s voice filled the space, echoing from the tiles like the voice of God.

‘Sit on the stool, please, Cassie.’

I found a white stool under the console and her voice continued, brittle as ice. ‘One of the reasons people suffer nightmares is repressed violence. In everyday dreams the mind allows man’s subconscious to carry out actions that are against his conscious will. For example, I am sure you can imagine a henpecked husband who dreams of killing his wife.’ There was a pause during which the speaker grille simply hummed and I tried to get my head round what she was saying.

‘In your case however it isn’t
repressed
violence that’s the problem, but
remembered
violence. Your mind is recycling your worst past-life memories.’ I nodded to show my understanding, certain the Doctor was watching me. She carried on. ‘I believe you
experience these
memories
as
nightmares
because society allows you no other outlet for the rage and guilt of your subconscious. And, because you are unable to deal with the feelings your past lives evoke, you repress them and the nightmares become worse. It’s a vicious circle. The idea of this study is to see whether acting out a certain level of violence in real life will mean that you do not then need to do so in your dreams.’

I shifted uncomfortably. ‘What do you want me to do?’ I couldn’t see anything dangerous in the room, just the dial and the switch.

‘In a moment, one of your peers will enter the other room. He believes I am exploring psychic abilities among your group. Each time you hear the bell you are to turn the dial in front of you to a different colour. He will then choose a square to stand on. If he gets the colour wrong, you are to administer a mild electric shock by throwing the switch.’

My eyes flicked from the dial to the switch to the window.

‘The window you are looking through appears to be a mirror on the other side. There is no way for the subject to know who is throwing the switch. He can neither see, nor hear you.’

I imagined giving electric shocks to one of my new friends.
Seth’s face floated in front of mine. ‘I don’t want to hurt anyone.’

The speaker sizzled as if angry. ‘We can stop whenever you want, Cassie, but just remember this may help you and your friends.’

I touched the dial.

I have to get rid of my nightmares. And, anyway, I can stop at any time.

The door to the other room opened and Lenny walked in. My heart rose; I almost relished the idea of giving
him
a few mild electric shocks. His feet were bare. I cracked my knuckles in anticipation.

‘Let us begin,’ the Doctor said.

The bell rang.

Immediately I turned the dial’s pointer to yellow and a buzzer sounded in the other room. Lenny looked up with a constipated expression. I almost laughed out loud: he was trying to read my mind. After a moment he stepped on to an orange square.

I reached for the switch then hesitated.

What if this really hurts him?

The speaker hissed into life. ‘The research requires that you throw the switch, Cassie.’