The Book Eaters(2)
“Cai? Are you awake?”
Silence, then the faintest of shuffles from within.
“No lotion, sorry,” she said. “They were out. I’ll get some tomorrow, aye?”
The shuffling stopped.
Always, she was tempted to go in and offer comfort of some kind. By the three-week mark, starvation would have ravaged him to thinness, his suffering spiraling into unbearable agony as his body began to produce toxins. The madness already gnawed his mind, incurable except through his next feed, and even after feeding, the craving would remain ever-present. He would either sit in a corner, huddled up and unresponsive, or else attack her in a frothing rage.
Impossible to know which reaction she’d get and so, fingers shaking, she checked and double-checked the bolts instead of going in. One on the top and one on the bottom, both solid things she’d installed herself, and one regular lock that required a key. The room had no window, courtesy of its awkward layout in relation to the shop; no additional security needed there. For once.
Someone knocked at the entrance to her flat. She jumped, felt chagrined, then checked her watch. Ten past eight; bang on time. Just as well she’d not gone back for the lotion.
Devon went to let in her guest. He had a name, but she would not allow herself to think it. Better to consider only his role, his profession: the local vicar. He needed to be no more and no less.
The vicar waited anxiously on her doorstep, wearing a black-and-mustard coat that might have been fashionable forty years ago. He had kind eyes, a quiet demeanor, and impressive patience with his quarrelsome congregation. Not touchy-feely with kids and no severe personal problems that she could find after two weeks of intense stalking. Everyone had small vices and little problems, always, but that was a given, and she could cope with the small stuff. They were only human, after all.
“Thanks for coming.” Devon hunched herself smaller. Be uneasy, be reluctant, and above all, be vulnerable. The sure-fire act that suckered them every time. “I didn’t think you would.”
“Not at all!” He offered a smile. “As I told you on Sunday, it’s no trouble.”
Devon said nothing, looking sheepish and fiddling with the compass around her neck. She’d done this conversation or some variation of it so many times, tried all kinds of lines, and found it was better to let them take the initiative. Probably she should have put on something more feminine to look even more unthreatening, but she despised dresses.
“May I come in?” he ventured, and she feigned embarrassment for her rudeness, stepping aside.
His gaze snagged on the dilapidated interior. Devon couldn’t blame him. She gave the usual, awkward apologies for the state of the flat while he gave the usual demurring reassurances.
That ritual completed, she said, “My son is in a bad way. I spoke to him earlier, and he didn’t answer. You may not have much luck, I’m afraid.”
The vicar nodded, lips pursed with concern. “If you are happy for me to try, I will see if I can speak to him.”
Devon clenched her teeth to hold back a contemptuous laugh. As if talking could solve problems like this. Wasn’t the vicar’s fault, she’d been the one to say that Cai had depression, but hysteria crept up on her nonetheless.
The vicar was still awaiting a response. She managed a tight nod, hoping he’d read her emotions for the right kind of conflicted, and led him to the locked door.
“You lock your son in his room?” He sounded shocked, and she could feel the weight of his judgment as she undid each bolt. No doubt he thought she had something to do with Cai’s present mental state.
If only he knew.
“It’s complicated.” Devon turned the key and paused, aware her heart was racing. “I need to ask you something.”
“What is it?” The vicar was wary, his senses alert to a danger that his eyes could not perceive.
Didn’t matter. He’d been lost the moment he stepped inside.
She met his gaze. “Are you a good person?” The question that consumed her, every time. Every victim. “Are you kind?”
He frowned, considering his words. Trying to understand what reassurance she sought, not that he had a cat’s chance in hell of guessing. Still, his hesitation was its own reassurance. The bad ones lied, quick and smooth—or worse, brushed it aside, sometimes with humor. Only those with a conscience would stop and evaluate her question.
“None of us are truly good,” the vicar said, at last. He put a hand on her shoulder, so gently, so kindly, and she almost threw up on the spot. “All we can do is live by the light we are given.”
“Some of us don’t have any light,” Devon said. “How are we supposed to live, then?”
He blinked. “I—”
Devon caught his wrist, wrenched the door open, and shoved him in. The vicar wasn’t frail but Devon was far stronger than she looked and had the element of surprise. He stumbled forward, startled and gasping, into the darkness of Cai’s room. Devon yanked the door shut and held it hard.
“I’m so sorry,” she said through the keyhole. “I’m just doing the best I can.”
The vicar didn’t answer. He was already shouting and thrashing.
Really, it was pointless to apologize. Victims didn’t want your sorry-so-sorrys when you were hurting them, they wanted you to stop. Devon couldn’t oblige, though, and apologies were all she had these days. Apologies, and booze.