The Masked Truth (8 page)

Not a guy who lashes out in anger. A guy accustomed to being the target of that anger. Of being beaten, being abused.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t stare at me like that,” he says, and his eyes and voice are so cold, I swallow.

“S-sorry,” I say. “I-I stopped because I heard—”

He catches the footsteps now, from down another hall, and he pushes me toward the nearest side one, muttering, “Bloody hell,” and “Can you warn me next time?”

I would have, if you weren’t freaking out because I tried to shush you
.

We hurry down the hall and into the first open room.

Max can remember the first time he saw the word. He was five, reading something his mother brought home in a stack of books that he could read but couldn’t understand, not really, and sometimes he’d tell her so, when they’d be in a shop and he’d see some wild adventure story with a bright cartoonish cover and he’d say, “Please, Mum?” Always Mum. Never Mummy, because that was for children, just like the books with the cartoon covers, and he wasn’t a child, well, yes, he was, but he shouldn’t be, because children were loud and sticky and silly, and he saw the way his mother reacted in a room of them, forcing herself through a playdate, nearly plastered to the wall, lest one of the children do something mad, like speak to her.

She had a child of her own, but he wasn’t like others. No, no, not at all. Max was clever, much beyond his years, thank the heavens. So she brought home the sort of books he ought to read and he
could
read them, and if he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was reading, then he needed more practice, and if she caught him sneaking those adventure novels home from school again … well, he’d get a very stern talking-to, because Max was a clever boy and that’s all he needed: a stern talking-to. Which also meant he was clever
enough to hide those books, and he did, but they were not where he first read the word “clarity.”

When he didn’t understand the word in context, he looked it up, as he should, and only when he was quite certain he still didn’t understand did he take the question to his mother. She’d tried, with growing exasperation, to explain it to him.

Clarity: The quality of being clear, in particular, the quality of coherence and intelligibility
.

Max eventually came to understand, on an abstract level, what clarity meant, and to also understand that he’d never experienced it, not in any pure form. There were moments when the muddle in his head cleared, but that was not actual clarity, not the way he imagined it, like the perfect tone of a bell, everything else fading to silence. His head was never silent. Thoughts swam and swirled and leaped and sometimes howled, like babies in a cradle, grabbing the bars and screaming for his attention.

Clarity.

He’d come to hold the word as a talisman. Absurdly, perhaps, to focus on it as a way of hoping to gain it. His personal mantra. When the jumble in his head became too much, he’d concentrate on the word until he achieved some measure of it. Not a clear bell in the silence, but Big Ben over Westminster, loud enough to hear above the din.

Clarity, clarity, clarity.

He’d been doing well that evening. Apparently, fear for one’s life is wonderful for inducing clarity—a sudden gust that knocks everything else aside. Which was not to say that his head was always too noisy for him to concentrate. Otherwise, he’d never be able to pull off top grades, thank you very much. Or he had pulled off top grades until the incident, and then, no school for you, Maximus, not just yet, let’s give you time to rest, time to find some clarity, and do
you know what you need? Peace and quiet, so much bloody peace and quiet that you feel as if you’re about to go mad, except you can’t, because you already have. Bonkers. Off his trolley. Crazy, crazy, crazy, only we don’t use that word. No sir, not at all.

He’d been doing so well, so very well, until Riley tried to shush him. When he stumbled back, he’d seen the confusion in her eyes, followed by understanding, and he kept thinking, “What does she understand?” because it’s not the truth, can’t be the truth, that was the deal he had on coming to therapy, that his schizophrenia would remain a secret until he chose to reveal it,
if
he chose to reveal it.

But, Maximus, how do you expect group therapy to help if you won’t talk about your problem?

So I should tell them I’m crazy? That it’s not some temporary bump in the path like theirs? Mine’s an illness, a permanent mental illness. One that can’t be cured, only managed. That’s the term, isn’t it? Managed? Madness under glass?

Had someone broken the rules and told Riley he had schizophrenia? Not if she was sticking with him. If she knew, she’d be running before he lost it and started ranting like a madman.

Now, Maximus, don’t think that way.

What way should I think? Ah, yes. Clearly. Think clearly. If only I knew what that was …

What does
Riley
think? She believes she understands something, so what is it?

Does it matter? Really?

No, it does not, and herein lies the problem. The problem of clarity. That there is a corner of his mind—No, let’s be honest, Maximus, you like to play the madness card, but it’s not just a corner, there’s a whole floor of your mind that
is
clear. It’s the floor that understands you can’t be worrying what she thinks at a time like this. Also the floor that
whispers, quietly and rather politely, that a boy worrying what a girl thinks of him isn’t really madness, or every boy is mad sometimes.

“Max?” Riley whispers, and he blinks hard.

“Are you okay?” she asks as they crouch in the dark room, lit only by the glow of his watch.

“Right as rain,” he says, smiling, and she doesn’t like the smile. It annoys her in some way, perhaps because she spots the falseness. Maybe because she thinks he’s mocking her.
Right as rain. Just a temporary glitch in our evening. Haven’t you ever been taken hostage before?

“We’ll make it,” he says solemnly, and that doesn’t help, because the switch is too fast, and now she’s sure he’s mocking her.
Can’t win, old boy. Can’t win at all
.

“At least you’re taking the situation seriously now,” she says.

“The guns and the blood helped convince me.”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
You truly are an imbecile, aren’t you, Max?
She flinches, as if remembering the last time she saw blood and guns, the death of the couple she babysat for, and he hurries on, “I’m sorry if I was being an arse earlier. I just wasn’t sure it was real.”

Her brow furrows.

Did you just say that, Max?

Of course he did, because he was slipping and sliding like a newborn calf on ice.

Because you’re scared. Shocking, really. Given the guns and the blood and the death. Yes, it’s real. Really, really real, and you aren’t going to snap out, safe and sound in a padded room
.

He pushes on. “I mean that I thought perhaps it was part of your therapy. Force you to confront what happened when you were babysitting, by putting you in a similar situation, except this time you have to face the guns and the bad guys.”

She stares at him, and he feels sweat trickling down his cheek. Then she gives a slow nod. “Immersion therapy. I’ve heard of it. I certainly hope they’d never do that without permission.”

“Exactly,” he says, a little too quickly. “At first, when it started, it seemed surreal. Maybe that was shock. It took me a while to think straight and realize that they’d never trick a minor that way, and it’s likely unethical to do it at all without permission.”

She nods, still slowly. It’s not the best explanation, but she’ll take it.
Confusion and shock, yes, ma’am, that’s all it was. Not that I meant I thought it wasn’t real because I’ve had hallucinations before
.

“So you’re okay now?” she asks.

There’s a split second where reality and his inner monologue merge, and he almost says yes, he’s fine, or so they say, with the new meds, and he hasn’t hallucinated in months. Which is not, of course, what she’s asking at all, and he catches himself and smiles. “Right as—”

“Right as rain,” she says. “Got it.” And she shakes her head, but she smiles too, that slightly exasperated smile, like he’s a bit daft but not really, you know, crazy.

He hears something in the hall, and he looks that way, sharply, then at her, seeing if she noticed it too, because that’s the barometer these days:
If I see or hear something, is it just me?

Except that isn’t what’s happening here, and he’s certain of it, because the scenario has gone on too long, become too involved and too logical—as logical as a hostage situation can be. The meds have been working, and he has to trust that—trust, trust, trust—because while they have their side effects—tremors, difficulty sleeping, dry mouth—the alternative is worse. He can live like this, or so they say, though he hasn’t yet decided what kind of life this is, always
worrying, always wondering. But for now, the meds … the meds …

He swears under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Riley whispers.

“Do you know where they put our belongings? The things they confiscated?”

Her eyes widen and he thinks,
Bugger it, what did I say? I’m making sense, aren’t I?
Because that’s another symptom. He has them memorized, all the unexperienced signs that could pop up and say hello at any given moment. Like disorganized speech—more colorfully known as word salad—where what one believes one is saying has little in common with what one actually says. His doctor doubts Max will ever have that, because his thoughts aren’t truly
disorganized
thoughts, not the way they could be, just, well, not exactly orderly. Organized but not orderly.

“The cell phones,” she says. “Of course.” Then a blazing smile. “You’re brilliant.”

Why yes, yes I am, thank you for recognizing that, even if it wasn’t what I meant at all. No, of course it was. Because: I. Am. Brilliant
.

“Yes, the mobiles,” he says. “If we can get to them, we can make contact. Did you bring one?”

She shakes her head. “You?”

Me? No, I don’t own a mobile. Not anymore. Who would I call? Ah, yes. My friends. Perhaps my best friend, Justin. No, wait … Justin wants nothing to do with me. He’s made that quite clear. And I’m not sure my other mates would take my calls. Not after “the incident.”

No need for a mobile, then, not when I sit in the bloody house all day, reading and studying and pretending I’ll go to uni soon. Of course I will. That’s what Mum says. Just relax, Maximus. There’s no rush. Take some time off. Make sure the meds are working this time
.

You want to go out, Max? I’ll take you anywhere you like. By yourself? Oh, Max, I don’t think that’s wise. Not yet. Yes, yes, it’s been three months without an episode, but still …

But still …

“Max?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t bring mine either. I’m sure someone did, though. We’ll look for a rear door first. That will be plan B.”

“Plan B? Or plan C?” A smile, not really for him, just relief at having plans, but he’ll take it anyway.

“We’ll make it plan B.” He looks toward the door. “Do you hear anything?”

“A couple of minutes ago. Nothing since.”

“Good. Off we go, then.”

Find the back door. Find the cell phones. Back door. Cell phones.

I mentally repeat that mantra as I lead Max down the hall.

I take a better look at the warehouse now as we walk. There are, of course, no windows. Distraction-free, as Aimee promised. Which also means escape-route-free, except for those doors. The locked, thick steel doors. I just pray the rear one won’t be as thick.

I have no idea where I’m heading. We’re presuming the second exit is literally a back door—in the opposite direction of the front one. But it could be at the side, so I’m trying to stick to the edges. The building is a rectangle, which should make the layout obvious, but, like I thought earlier, whoever designed it must have decided a grid pattern of halls and rooms is too easy. Boring. Let’s have some fun!

Halls run maybe twenty feet, past two or three doors, and then end at another corridor. Max and I will head down that one to find a branching corridor, seemingly leading to more rooms, and then it’ll end too. I have no idea if I’m at the far side of the building or not because there are no windows.

And let’s talk about the rooms. So many rooms. Half seem to be locked. At the rate I’m passing doors, I’m going to guess there are at least twenty rooms on this floor alone.

Either I’m turning down the third hall … or I’ve circled back and I’m turning down the first. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised. Every wall is beige. The flooring is office linoleum. The doors are standard-issue, with no numbers or other markings. I began to wish I’d brought a pen or something to mark the corners as we turned them so we didn’t circle back.

When I whisper that to Max, he says, “I’m counting doors and keeping track.” One step ahead of me. I’m lucky to have him. I really am.

The sounds that sent us into hiding seem to have moved on, never actually coming our way. The one noise I listened for most, I didn’t hear: gunfire. Yes, that’s what I listen for, as I move down the hall, the sounds not of rescue but of more death.

You don’t know Maria and Lorenzo are dead
.

Sure, they might have survived the bullets. Only to bleed out on the floor while we race around, helpless and hopeless.

Aren’t you Little Miss Sunshine?

Used to be. Not anymore. Sorry.

The thing is, as horrible and selfish as it might be, I tell myself they’re dead. I have to, or how can I justify creeping through these halls, looking for an exit, while they’re dying a hundred feet away?

I think of Maria. The girl with the reassuring smile and the defiant T-shirt.