I no longer have the piano wire but, since his throat is already weakened, instinctively continue at his neck. He smashes me in the head before I manage to get my arm around him, some sort of awkward chokehold, struggling to get a firmer grip, but now it’s no use. He shed me once and he’s confident he can do it again, fingers in my eyes, fist smashing against my teeth too fast for me to bite and I lose my grip, my foot connecting with his stomach only once, with every ounce of my strength, before he has me by the ankle and I’m on the ground in front of him. Then a security guard rounds the corner and it’s done.
Only a few hours later I’m on a bus, all the money I have in an elastic band in my pocket. Once they had me in handcuffs, which a security guard first had to go fetch, the bastard again repeated his spiel about letting me go with no questions asked. He didn’t know why I wanted him dead, but there were lots of people who wanted him dead, for all sorts of reasons, many of them valid. As he was telling me this he was wiping the blood off his face and hands with an endless series of handy wipes from a box another guard also had to go get. At one moment he thinks to offer me one, then realizes my hands are cuffed behind my back and thinks better of it. He’s regaining his composure as he speaks. It’s like I’ve barely fazed him. And as he calmly explains that if I am ever seen in his vicinity again he will have no choice but to send me to jail — the kind of jail where you disappear forever, where they put a bag over your head and place you in infinite amounts of pain — I start to shake and then start to cry. I am not crying because I’m afraid of torture. I’m crying because I have failed so completely and I can’t stop, sobbing more and more violently. If he has the ability to send me off to some secret prison why doesn’t he do so now, why let me go, why take the risk. Because he wants to humiliate me, show me I’m no real threat, that he can take me any time, that he’s not afraid. He says maybe I did this because I wanted to become famous, but he’s not going to let it go public, not going to make me famous. He’s simply sending me away and I’ll disappear, remain as anonymous as I’ve always been. In a moment I’ll be gone like nothing had even happened.
On the bus I stare at my wrists, which I’ve hastily bandaged with some gauze and tape. I look like a suicide attempt. If others here look at me, that’s most likely what they think. I barely even know which way the bus is headed. I did ask when I got on, and learned the journey lasts fourteen hours. I wonder if I’m in too much pain to sleep, look down at the dirty white gauze lying limp in my lap, and my phone rings. It’s Emmett. He begins to explain that he has a plan, a plan he’s been working on for many years, and he needs my help. He has commissioned a computer virus and I’m the only one who can insert it into the system. The procedure will be extremely similar to the one I used to break open my pass. If everything goes well, and if I agree, he believes my actions could destroy the company almost entirely, or at the very least force the board to fire our target, replace him in their panicked search to curtail the disintegration. He goes on to carefully explain detail after detail, completely oblivious to the enormity of his bad timing as, once again, I begin to cry.
Part 2
1.
I had hired a detective to trace his history, find out who he was and why he had attacked me. It was then I learned that Emmett had also hired a detective, from the same agency, the agency we most often use. We had both hired practically the same detective to find out about the same man, only Emmett had done so two years before me. How did they know each other? How does a concert pianist turned under-the-table dishwasher possibly meet an Ivy League operator like Emmett? I still have no fucking idea.
At first I spoke openly about the attack, laughed it off, said it reminded me of my days fighting other kids on the block, that I missed those days, was still up for a good rumble when the opportunity arose. But when I joked the reactions were rarely jovial. I realized there must be rumours. Who would want to attack me and why? Other companies looking to gain an edge? People I’d fucked over, former employees? My suspicion was this: as they speculated on where the attack originated, they simultaneously realized just how many people in the world had reason to desire my injury or death. Then it was no longer funny. It was as if there must be something wrong with me if I had so many enemies, had pissed off so many different kinds of people. I was tainted. If, off the top of your head, an endless list of possible avengers leap to mind, does that still leave me as a valid option? What evidence is there that I’m the one who should keep running the show? So I stopped mentioning the attack and no one else mentioned it either. And yet I could feel it was still in the air, worried I was becoming paranoid or, worse, that something had actually changed.
I still haven’t told anyone about the connection between the attack and Emmett. Everyone liked Emmett, and if they had to choose between me and him, who knows. Even I liked Emmett. For years after he left, I barely thought of him; it was as if I had thrown him out of my mind, and now I find myself thinking about him constantly, every day. What is the connection?
2.
I get off the bus and find a cheap hotel near the station. I lie on the bed with all the lights on, staring at the ceiling. My life is over. I have failed. I sit up, reach into my pocket, peel the elastic band from the slightly damp bills. My calculations are rough, but I think it might be enough to last about six months. It is everything I earned working for the people I hate, and the idea of spending it makes me feel absolutely sick. But there’s no point putting money in the garbage, and my disgust will certainly not aid me in making good decisions. Will I go back to washing dishes? Can I possibly stomach the idea of teaching children to play piano? Are there even children, or parents, who still care enough about playing classical piano these days that they are willing to pay someone properly to instruct them? I lie back down and instantly fall asleep. I don’t know how long I sleep, have no dreams, or none I can remember, and am awoken by the maid loudly knocking at the door. I yell that I’m still sleeping and she goes away. I believe she apologizes first but can’t quite hear her. I haven’t yelled at anyone in years, and fear my voice sounded angrier than I meant. The maid clearly doesn’t deserve my rage. And those who do are already far away.