Authors: Jeannie Waudby
One of Us (39 page)
The back door slams, and Greg's door opens. My heart plummets as Oskar jerks the key out of the ignition. He throws it onto the floor near the driver's door, in the dark where it would take precious seconds to find. I force my brain to think. Why did he do that? Why didn't he just shoot Greg, and me?
His face turns to mine. I feel my back weld itself to the seat.
“Bye-bye, K.” Oskar smiles. “It's good that your Hoody boyfriend is here too. You can be remembered together, for your bomb in Gatesbrooke, when they round up all the other Hood scum.”
“Oskar.” My voice is a whisper. “Don't do this. You don't have to do this.”
Oskar steps with one foot into the car, onto the pedal. Then he reaches across and moves the gearstick into neutral. He points the gun at me. His hand isn't shaking anymore. “Oh, I do,” he says. “I was trying to save citizens that day. I should have left you under the train at Central Station.” He smiles at me. “I would have, if I'd known what you really were. But then you gave me the perfect way to put things right with Col. A Hood who nobody would miss, another
suicide bomber to kick-start the Strife again, to put the Hoods back where they belong.”
That's why he wants it to look like an accident, a lovers' suicide pact. He still thinks he can get away with it, and somehow redeem himself with Col and Ril.
How could his smile ever have made me feel safe? How did he veil the hate before?
Oskar's voice changes. It takes on a friendly, conversational tone that sends terror trickling through me. “I quite liked you at first,” he says. “I even thought about pulling you out, that time in the woods? Maybe I would have, if you hadn't gone native so quickly. But it's not too late.” He bares his teeth in a grin. And even now, his eyes are smiling too. “You can still help me out.” He glances at the gun. “I don't want to use it. But I will if I have to. By the way,” he adds. “Thanks for the idea.” Then he slams the door and disappears behind the car.
“I stopped you before, Oskar,” I whisper.
He begins to push. Nothing happens at first. I know thatâit took me moments to get the wheels turning before I pushed Oskar's car into the canal. In front of the hood I see the lip of a curb, a few feet away. It'll slow him down a little. I wait. Slowly the car starts to move. Once it begins, it rolls under its own momentum.
T
IMING. IT WILL
all rest on timing. I force myself to remain still.
My fingers long to jerk up the hand brake. But I need to wait for the right moment.
Now. I lick my lips and purse them and try to whistle. It's not working. My mouth is not working. Concentrate. The car is moving now. I close my eyes and think of Raymond, calling him back to me in the woods, and a whistle bursts from my lips.
From the floor Greg's key ring beeps and flickers. I lean toward Greg, under his face, until I feel the key in my hand.
Don't drop it. Don't drop it.
Carefully, slowly, not breathing, I put it in the ignition.
As I pull myself back under the steering wheel, something drips onto my face.
Don't, don't think about that.
The car rolls toward the sea, faster now. The front wheels bump against the curb.
Now. Now. Now.
I sit up and take the envelope out of my backpack. I open the door and hold it outside, clinging to it with both hands as the wind tugs.
“Oskar!” I yell. “You forgot this! Everyone will know it was you!”
Oskar's face shifts from effort to surprise, and then to a snarl. He lets go of the car and runs toward me, reaching into his jacket. I slam the door and press down the central lock.
I push Greg's head up and back and climb over the gearstick and hand brake onto his lap. It takes an agonizingly long time. My limbs feel like they're not moving. I'm wedged under the steering wheel, but I reach my feet down until they find the pedals. Pain sears through me, but then a wave of adrenaline sweeps it away and I slam my foot down on the clutch as I turn the key in the ignition. Gear into reverse, lift up on the gas, slowly, carefully, point of balance.
There's a crash next to my ear. The window shatters. Oskar, right there, by the broken window, pointing the gun. I stare into the side mirror.
Come on, K. Greg's not dead. He isn't dead, but you must get him away. You've almost done it.
The car vibrates. Then I slam it backward, down the narrow road.
I duck to look in the rear mirror, and I see the rock wall. I'm going too fast. I lift my foot off the gas a little.
Keep going. It's going to be OK.
Oskar is in front of the car now. He's raising his arm. I twist the steering wheel away, toward the sea. The windshield shatters in a shower of silver flakes. I feel the bullet whip past.
He won't miss next time.
The car stalls.
Get it started again. Now.
I lean forward. Turn the key. Start the engine. Moving now. Oskar's face, lunging at my window. Turn the steering wheel, look into the rear mirror. Rock wall. Too fast.
Oskar's hand is on the door handle.
Don't worry, it's locked.
But it's opening. It's opening!
The door flies open and Oskar seizes my arm. I scream into his face. My foot tries to find the gas, but Oskar is pulling me up and out, crushing Greg. He's trying to yank me out of the car. I wedge my legs under the steering wheel, but he's too strong. My body is being dragged out of the moving car. My legs twist under the wheel as Oskar pulls me out. I fall on to the ground. Oskar hauls me up with one hand, and his other arm jerks back to hurl the gun into the car.
The car crashes into the rock wall. Greg flies forward and back, and forward again.
From the road comes the whine of sirens. Too late, too late. Oskar drags me toward the steps down to the sea, where spray plumes up and over the wall.
I'm not afraid of deep, dark water.
And I don't know why, but in this last long moment, between the car and the sea, I notice how the headlights shine into the water on the road, and how a rainbow glows where oil has leaked from Greg's car.
I stretch up and seize Oskar's arm.
Then my feet slip in the oil, sliding and lurching away, and Oskar and I are falling and then there's a little
crack
.
Then nothing.
I'
M AWAKE
.
I lie still, eyes closed.
I can't hear Greg's heart beating, or feel his breath on my hair. There's something I don't want to remember. But I remember it anyway.
A howl tears out of my mouth, and once it starts it just can't stop.
Hands are on my bare arms, a voice is hushing me. I open my eyes. A woman in green hospital clothes leans over me.
“You're awake!” she says. “Lie quietly.”
“Where's Greg?” I shout. “Where is he?”
“I'm so sorry,” she says. “So sorry for your loss.”
I try to sit up. “I want to see him. Where is he?”
“Shh,” she says. “Your friend . . .” She stops. “I'd better get the doctor.”
She hurries out of the cubicle. I sit up, even though
my head throbs. I'm dressed in a hospital gown.
I hear the nurse talking softly to someone just on the other side of the curtain. “She's come around.”
A man's voice replies, too low for me to hear.
“No,” says the nurse. “She's in no state to identify bodies.”
I strain my ears, but I can only hear that their hushed voices are arguing.
“Your investigations will have to wait,” the nurse says. Her feet clip away.
I swing my legs over the edge of the gurney until my feet touch the cold linoleum, and my bandaged ankle splits into shards of pain. I make myself stand up, holding on to the cabinet. I reach for the curtain and pull it open.
The nurse turns from the console and rushes toward me. I try to push her away, but she propels me back to the bed and I fall onto it. She sits beside me, holding me there.
A man in white clothes comes in. “I'm very sorry,” he says.
“No,” I say. “Greg didn't die.” The gunshot missed him. The car was moving slowly. He's young, he's strong.
The doctor looks into my eyes. “Your friend is dead. His head injury was too severe. We tried to save him.”
I manage to push the nurse away and sit up. “Where is he? I want to see him.”
They look at each other and then the doctor nods slowly. “All right. But you'll have to wait until a police officer is available.” He looks at the nurse. “You see, the assailant is also on this ward.”
Noise roars into my head. “Oskar is here?”
They both stand up. “You're lucky he ran out of bullets,” says the doctor. “Wait a minute. Someone will be along shortly.”
They pull the curtain closed. But I can't wait any longer. I get to my feet and look out. I guess immediately where Greg is lying, because there's a policeman guarding a cubicle on the left: Oskar. All the other curtains are open except for one, only several feet away. I bunch up the curtain between my space and the next one and climb through, holding on to the fabric to support myself. The next bed is empty.
But the one beyond it is where they have put Greg. He's lying on the hospital gurney. The white sheet is over his face.
The roaring is too loud. I step forward and put my hand on the side of the gurney. “Greg,” I say. “Greg.”
I collapse onto the chair beside him. I want to see his face. I want to tell him I love him. But I can't move.
Until I lift the sheet I can put away the realization that waits for me, in the corner of the room, like a dark sack ready to spill open. For precious seconds I can pretend he's only sleeping.
From beyond the curtain I hear voices and footsteps moving toward us. And the rattling of a gurney.
I lean forward, and take the corner of the sheet, because now I know I am running out of time. And I never told Greg how much I love him.
A man's voice speaks. “Take this one first. Then you can come back for the Hoody murderer.”
T
HE WORDS SEEP
slowly into my brain.
Hoody murderer.
Hoody murderer? I look at the shrouded figure on the bed. I pull back the sheet.
It's Oskar.
I'm frozen, gazing at his face.
It is calm and still, his eyes closed. There's no injury or wound, but beneath him the bed is damp and the damp is pink.
Where is Greg?
She said “bodies.”
He said the assailant is still on this ward.
I stumble to the end of the bed and tweak the curtain apart. Someone is pushing a metal gurney toward me. There's a policeman outside this cubicle, with his back to me, and at the end of the room I see another policeman sitting on a chair outside a closed curtain.
Greg.
I let the curtain fall, but underneath it I see the policeman's feet.
I hear another male voice talking quietly. I can't hear what he says. Then a new voice says, “Yes, sir. Until they take him away.”
The rattling noise stops outside. I hear the word “mortuary.” They're going to take Oskar away.
They want to take Greg away too. Now I have one thought in my mind: to reach him first.
I wait for the roaring in my ears to calm. Then I crawl under the curtain, past my bed, and into the next space. There's someone on the gurney, but
they're asleep. The next cubicle is empty. I slip under the curtain into the last one.
There's no sheet over Greg. He's lying on his back. His eyes are closed. His face is the same waxy color as Oskar's and his eyelids are sealed shut, as if they've never opened. You couldn't guess now, if you didn't know, that underneath were liquid brown eyes, flashing light and fire.
He looks so like Greg. But so still. His silky brown hair is hidden under a bandage. He looks so much as if he's sleeping. He looks slim and young, like a boy.
I bend my face down close to Greg's. “I love you,” I say. “I always loved you. I love you, I love you.”
I hear the rattle of the gurney outside. They're coming to take him away.
I lean down and kiss Greg's lips. And they're soft and dry.
S
OMEONE SIGHS GENTLY
.
I look up.
Greg's eyelid flutters.
I lean closer.
At first I don't believe it. Then it twitches again. I've never seen anything so beautiful. I stare at his eyelid, waiting.
His eyes open.
Greg's eyes are dazed and fuzzy as they focus on mine. He tries to speak, but his voice is too quiet. I want to listen, but instead gulping sobs storm out of me.
“Hey,” says Greg, into my ear. “I knew it was you.
No one else is so noisy.”