The Masked Truth(52)

“Which was the right thing to do. We’ll go back together. Carefully.”

I nod and we start for the door. Then I turn and look back at Aaron. At the gun.

I take a deep breath. I don’t want that gun. I really do not. But we don’t get to make those choices here. Not if we’re going to survive this.

I go back for the gun. I look at Aaron’s penlight, still shining on him, but perversely, I can’t take that—it feels like stealing. So I take the gun and then I reach down and brush a piece of hair off his forehead, and close his eyes and whisper, “I’m sorry,” and then we leave.





MAX: LUCIDITY


Lucidity: the ability to think clearly, especially in the intervals between periods of confusion or insanity.



Max’s doctor says that he’s almost always lucid. Which Max supposes is true, if you consider a lack of lucidity the true descent into madness. He doesn’t spend much time in that realm, but it seems he circles the edges far too often, peeking over the border and judging the distance between it and himself, waiting for a burst of insanity to knock him clear over the line.

He has to think hard to recall the last time he’d trodden as close to the edge as he did a few minutes ago, when Riley came in the room. He didn’t even hear her enter. What he’d heard was his name in her voice, the horrified way she whispered, “Max?” and he looked up to see her crouched beside Aaron’s body, and it was like before, when Ilsa walked in on him with his hands around Justin’s neck.

No, it was not like before. Not exactly. As much as he’d fancied Ilsa, it had been one of his usual fancies, rather like spotting a new pair of boots in the vintage shop and saying, “I wouldn’t mind a pair of those.” He was a young man who had little trouble winning young women, and that was like being a young man with a full wallet. He spent his charm freely, on this girl or that, never promising more than a bit of fun.

And no, not that bit of fun, not yet. He’d seen too many blokes fall down that particular rabbit hole, convinced they were just having that fun, until they had it with a girl who expected more and they felt like rubbish. Then there was his friend Harrison, whose bit of fun resulted in a pregnant girlfriend and an early exit from sixth form, because he was a decent bloke and had a sprog to pay for. No, Max spent his charm freely and widely—take in a film or a row down the river, maybe a romantic picnic, because girls seemed to prefer that to an evening in a noisy pub, and it’d win him easy kisses and often more, but before it went far, he’d lose interest and wander off. Next girl, please.

That was Ilsa. A girl he’d had his eye on and planned to invite to a film and perhaps a picnic if the film worked out.

That was not Riley. When he’d seen the horror in her eyes as she crouched beside Aaron’s body, it was worse. So much worse. Because he cared about her. Really cared. And in that moment, he was certain he’d done it. That he’d hallucinated Aaron tinkering with the gun, as he’d hallucinated Justin’s demons, and he’d shot Aaron. Somehow he shot Aaron, and Riley knew it and—

And then she’d hugged him, and he’d realized her horror was for Aaron’s death. Of course it was, you self-centered prat. But that hadn’t made him feel any better, because once he got the idea that he might have shot Aaron, he couldn’t shake it, not until she convinced him—with logic and reasoning and proof—that he had not. Which was exactly what he needed, and she’d known it, and that makes him feel …

He waits for his inner voice to mock him for how he feels about Riley. It doesn’t. The shock of Aaron’s death has silenced it. Which was, these days, his version of lucidity. When he steps back from gazing into the realm of madness. When he stops doubting which side he truly stands on. Those rare moments when he says, “Stuff it,” to the monster that has taken over his life.

Sod off, schizophrenia. We’re taking a little break here, you and me. Ta-ta, old chap. I need to focus. You can come visit later. I’m sure you will. You’re not going anywhere. I know that, and right now I don’t give a toss.

While he goes to check on Brienne, he leaves Riley safe in a room with the gun. He suspects she’ll be checking the weapon, making sure it won’t jam when they need it most, but she doesn’t say so—she won’t mention it after what happened to Aaron. She doesn’t stay behind willingly, either. But he insists, because he finally realized she was injured.

Injured? No, Riley has been shot.

He takes a deep breath and tries not to think about that. “Injured” is, in this case, if not the technically perfect word, the safest one, the one that won’t get his heart pounding, thinking of how close she came to taking a bullet through the femoral artery.

But she hadn’t. The injury is … he hesitates to say minor, because no gunshot wound is minor. She calls it a scrape. It is not a scrape. It is small enough to be manageable, for now, and also large enough to give him cause to leave her in that room.

“Gray might come back,” he says. “To check on Brienne if he didn’t before, and if he does and we have to run, and your leg gives way …”

“Then you’ll keep running.”

“No, I will not.”

“You have to. That’s the pact I had with Brienne.”

“Too bad. The one you have with me says I’ll stop if you fall, and if I fall, you will not stop.”