The bullet left the gun with little fuss. The noise, though terrific, was absorbed by the snow-covered trees. Only a familiar tinnitus remained in Tolsdorf’s ears, buzzing like those questions—rattling bone-like—and he still could not read the future, still could not be sure whether he had won or lost.
Tolsdorf knew that the bullet had passed through the left breast pocket of the jacket. He watched his target shift down (a man slumping to his knees) and forward (a man collapsing, dying on his face).
He slid the rifle’s bolt. He did not regret the kill. By habit, he remained in his tree. He discovered a need to urinate, to drink, and to sleep. The quietened drives of his body were clamouring. However, he did nothing but curl his finger back into his glove, to warmth. The unanswered questions faded now, as all questions must fade. Never was his age further from his thoughts. In his chain of duty since overturning that smoking piece of fuselage, every link had held. He was proud.
After a time, Tolsdorf climbed down the tree. The movements were economical. His feet found well-remembered places and his hands, taking no weight, passed from friend to friend until he dropped the last half-metre into soft snow at the base.
Tolsdorf slipped the rifle from his shoulder. He was prepared to shoot from the hip else club with the stock. He approached the hut. He stepped slowly. New questions arose. What if the man was wearing body armour? What if the jacket had been a decoy?
He glanced at the hut. He wanted to talk with this woman. She must have answers—some, at least.
There.
A touch of yellow-orange in the gloom. Tolsdorf had been favouring his left eye, which had kept its night vision, but now he stared at the jacket, both eyes open, and all the demons of his doubt and helplessness returned.
Question: What made you think you were good enough?
The jacket had been sprung on a low branch. It still bobbed from the impact of the shot. The bullet hole had drilled perfectly through the green cross on the lapel. It was the jacket of an emergency worker.
Before Tolsdorf could formulate a thought beyond contempt at the ease of this defeat, he made out a shape in the darkness. A man was standing less than five metres away. As Tolsdorf turned his rifle, the doubts rose again. Why didn’t the man move?
Something struck Tolsdorf in the belly before he could fire. He looked down and swore. His rifle had been broken in two. He was holding each half. The stock dropped from his left hand: there was no longer any power in his grip. He looked up helplessly as the man stepped forward. Sudden moonlight highlighted the essentials of his expression—curiosity, pity—and Tolsdorf felt his anger return.
This could still be a victory. He could undo his foolishness and
mirror, mirror
defeat the Ghost just as Saskia
the corpse
had told him.
‘It can only work once.’
‘How?’
on the wall
Tolsdorf turned, holding his belly, and poured the remainder of his life’s worth into his legs so that they might carry him to
mirror, mirror
the
on the wall
No more. A second bullet, silent, struck his back before he had reached the space beneath the hut. It was like the darkness coming in.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jem looked at herself in the mirror. She reached out, hand to hand, and pressed the surface. It clicked and swung open to reveal a cavity. She dropped to her knees and cried out. Saskia’s eyes were filled with blood. The lids were swollen and ripped. Her jaw had dislocated and a safety pin had been pushed through her cheek. Her left arm was broken and its hand missing. A rust-coloured bandage had been wrapped about the stump. Toes—wearing the nail polish that Jem had applied—poked out from a blanket of sacking.
Air moved through the shell of a ballpoint pen in her throat: sssssssssssssssssssssss.
‘Oh, Saskia.’
Jem took the folded jeans from the foot of the cot. She pressed away her tears on their empty pockets, folded them, and put them back. On a stool was Saskia’s neoprene wallet, some chewing gum, house keys, a handkerchief, receipts, tampons, and a folded wedge of pink paper.
Jem put her hand on the paper.
Unfolded it.
Remembered the disappointment in Danny’s expression.
On the table, her phone rang. Jem backed out of the anteroom without looking away from Saskia. She picked up the mobile.
‘Hello?’ she said. Her voice was quiet.
‘Bitte rufen Sie die Polizei! Eine Person ist in Lebensgefahr und–’
‘Saskia, is that you?’
‘Please contact the police. A woman is in danger and needs your immediate help. You will be rewarded.’
The caller identity information was missing. Yet Saskia’s voice was clear in the earpiece. Jem leaned towards the cot. Saskia had not moved. She was clearly unconscious.
‘What… how do you feel?’
‘It’s dark.’
Jem looked at the closed, blackened eyes.
‘Sweetheart.’
‘Did you die too?’ asked the voice. ‘Are we ghosts?’
Ego: ‘When you reached out for her, it was the device that took your hand.’
‘No.’
‘Saskia’s hand itches. She wants to scratch it herself, but she can’t.’
‘Which hand?’
‘Her left.’
Jem looked at the bandaged stump, but did not move to scratch it. ‘How’s that now?’
The voice sighed. ‘Better.’
‘Saskia, I want you to listen to me. I don’t know how much you remember. My name is Jem and I’m your friend. Once, you helped me. Now,’ she said, a tear running onto her lip, ‘I am going to help you. Do you understand?’
‘The woodsman helped too.’
Jem drew Saskia’s fringe through her fingers, as though weighing it for a snip. ‘Am I talking to a computer? Are you like Ego? What can I do?’
‘Find help. But be careful.’
‘That’s why Saskia’s still here, isn’t it? She’s hiding.’
‘I’m sorry. It may be too late already. We’re dying.’
Jem looked at Saskia’s chest. It was still. Had it been moving at all?
‘No!’
Cory put on his jacket and approached the hut from the higher ground at its back. He looked at the woodsman, who had died face down after a crawl of two or three yards. Cory moved over him and located the smouldering hole in the man’s coat. He held the gun above it. There was a brief tent of fabric, then the coat tore and the bloody pellet rejoined the heel of the weapon. Mass restored: Cory watched it melt into the stock.
Cory crouched and considered the puzzle of the man’s outstretched hand, which had gripped the edge of a blue tarpaulin. He lifted the sheet and looked into the hollow beneath the hut. His ichor processed the darkness. As it brightened, he saw five pairs of beer bottles. They had been wrapped in foil and placed on a metal tray. Behind them was a stack of newspapers. Cory took a pen from his fluorescent jacket and dipped it into one of the bottles. He touched the pen to his tongue. Salt water. A cable, secured with duct tape, led to an upright tube. Behind that was a battery. The apparatus was a homemade capacitor, probably for a television. But why had the woodsman crawled here? Cory moved further inside. His zero-light modifications chewed the dark until it was an overexposed blaze, and still he could not discern a weapon.
Cory was still thinking when a radio signal stormed through him. It was a high-strength burst from a mobile phone trying to contact a tower and it came from inside the hut. He sighed as he rose. The old wounds in his chest leaked. He pressed a hand to them and walked to the front of the hut.