A Place Where There Is No Darkness

Eighteen

I was hit by a bucketful of cold water. I froze, my breath stuck in my throat, but after a few seconds my body thawed and I found my head clearer than before. My back throbbed viciously, but even the fact that the pain registered and I knew where it had come from was an improvement.

I was in a small room, bound to a chair. Evan was in a similar position, sitting opposite me. He looked scared and shy, but also concerned in a way that made me think – for whatever reason – that maybe he was worried about me.

There were three other men in the room with us. One of them was the one who had given me the whipping, the other two I knew in passing, but had never really spoken to. All three of them were big and bulky and standing together the way they were, they cut a menacing figure.

I looked towards the entrance of the room. Orwell strode in leisurely, cloak billowing behind him. With my mind as it was, I thought he seemed as if he were floating just a little above the ground, never touching the stone floor at all. But that was probably only my imagination.

Hands clasped behind his back – in a clear sign of how very relaxed and at home he felt –, he approached my chair. His mask glistened in the poor lighting of the room. He was made only of black.

His hand came forward – black sleeve over black glove – and wiped carefully over my cheek to remove some of the water pearls that had accumulated on my face, imitating tears that hadn’t fallen. He tsked. “Why would you betray me, child?” he said. His voice was quiet, but instead of sounding placating or soothing, he simply sounded ominous. He gripped my chin, moving my face up and forcing me to look at his mask, then shook his head, as if disappointed. “I thought by now you’d know better.”

I glanced at Evan. He looked down, ashamed. Did he think this was his fault, somehow? Was it?

And, more importantly, what had happened to Willy and Mitchell?

Orwell, of course, didn’t throw the punch. When it came, it came from behind and it agitated my mutilated back. Orwell nodded.

“You do understand what happens now, don’t you?”

I had to ask. I had to know. Even though I knew he wouldn’t answer. “Where are they?”

“Whoever do you mean?” Needless to say, it was hard to read someone wearing a mask. His voice didn’t give anything away, either. Maybe he really didn’t know what I was talking about. Maybe he just wanted to leave me squirming in the dark. I strongly suspected the latter.

I looked down. He had me cornered. I couldn’t continue this conversation, because it might reveal identities that Orwell didn’t yet possess. Of course, he would find out eventually who’d got away. Even if it weren’t for his meticulous bookkeeping and his desire to always know where everyone was, it wasn’t a big leap from my involvement in the plan to my brother or to the person I’d spent most of my free time with over the last week …

And how did he even know I was involved?

I glanced back at Evan. He was still looking down, not meeting my gaze.

“Finally putting the pieces together, are you?” Orwell teased. “See, interestingly enough, your boy here talked. I didn’t even have to hurt him. He was happy enough to open his dirty little mouth the second I threatened him. Imagine that.”

My eyes didn’t leave Evan’s face. He flushed, looking even more desperate than before. I could relate so well. I knew what it was like to be in Orwell’s power, and I knew it wasn’t Evan’s fault. I had to make sure he knew it, too.

Later, though.

“Betrayal all around, I see. People are just like that, I suppose. No sense of honour.”

As I looked back at the mask, I felt tears in my eyes, hot and heavy. They wanted to drop, but I wouldn’t let them. If there was something I was not going to do, it was cry in front of Orwell and his men. How utterly stupid and pathetic would that look?

Orwell, of course, didn’t care about that. He continued in that careless, gloomy voice of his. As if everyone he spoke to was already doomed. “They’re dead, my dear child,” he said, shrugging.

“That’s not true!” Evan cried immediately. I, on the other hand, didn’t say anything. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel anything, either. Just numbness all around.

“Oh, but it is.” I could imagine that Orwell was smiling evilly under his stupid, stupid mask. I could see it all now – his twisted features, his sneer, his wicked eyes. For the first time in a long time I saw him as a man wearing a mask – which he was – and not as the mask itself – which he was, too.

He spoke on. “We don’t need them, you see. They were a burden to this society. No special skills. No value. And why would a person like that try to flee, huh? Because someone told them …?”

My throat closed up and I couldn’t get any air. My stomach twisted and I wanted to hurl, but there was nothing to throw up, and I knew. It was me. It was my fault.

It always was.

Why?

This – this finally had an answer. It wasn’t just luck or destiny. It was more. And now, finally, I knew.

It was my fault because I didn’t like Orwell and I tended to do things to displease him. But no matter how far into the future you could see, how much you could predict, he was always – always – a step ahead.

Like now, for example. A huge, horrible, terrible step.

One I couldn’t even consider –

“It’s not true,” Evan said again from his spot and the attention in the room shifted to him. “They got away.”

Orwell bobbed his head in Evan’s direction. One of the men who had been standing behind me walked over and hit Evan in the face.

But the boy – the great, wonderful, brave boy – wouldn’t stop talking. “We were already at the door when they got to us!” he screamed and got another punch for his trouble. One of the men jumped to him with a gag, but he wasn’t fast enough. “They got out!”

A series of punches followed and then the gag was bound over his swollen face, and I didn’t know what to do with myself.

Who to believe? Who to trust – definitely not Orwell, but could I trust a boy I hardly even knew?

I decided that I had to. There wasn’t anything else I could believe if I was going to get through this.

Orwell witnessed the whole thing without as much as a wince. “Well, then,” he said. “Now that we’ve taken care of the lying little bastard, let’s get back to you, shall we?”

“What do you want?”

“Where were they going to go?” he asked.

Now why would that be important if they were already dead?

“How am I supposed to know that?” I said ignorantly.

He snorted in a very non-humorous kind of way. “How are you supposed not to?”

And a punch. It was performed from behind me. Apparently, the backrest of my chair had a hole in it – whether it was part of the design or had simply been cut into the wood was hard to determine from my position. It was also very inconsequential, because wherever the hole had come from, it gave the man behind me perfect access to my still-exposed back. So when he punched, something ripped and I finally screamed.

I did.

And it felt so damn good. To let it out. To let myself be desperate. Why had I ever wanted to keep that inside?

Orwell said, exactly the way he’d said it the first time – as if nothing had happened; as if I hadn’t refused to answer the question before –, “Where were they going to go?”

I realised that it was best not to say anything at all. He’d got the message, after all. I wouldn’t answer. I didn’t have to rub it in. Rather, I should probably conserve my strength.

So I stayed silent.

And it hurt.

***

“Where were they going to go?”

I said nothing.

The man punched me from behind.

I saw white.

***

“Where were they going to go?”

Silence.

A punch from behind.

It hurt.

***

“Where were they going to go?”

My mouth wouldn’t even have moved had I wanted it to.

It hurt.

***

“Where were they going to go?”

Nothing.

Pain.

***

“Where were they going to go?”

White.

***

I couldn’t hear. It was white.

And still, there was pain.

***

The next time I came to, I knew immediately what was going on. As if I had never left the nightmare behind.

I heard Evan yelp.

They’ve moved onto him, I thought. Poor boy.

Evan, of course, had no idea where Willy and Mitchell had gone. I’d been careful enough to keep the information on a need-to-know basis, meaning that Mitchell was the only one who knew the whole plan. Mitchell and me. And it really, really had to stay that way.

I wanted to take some of the pain away – I did –, but the only way that would happen was a way I wasn’t willing to go. Still, my heart broke for Evan. It broke in two. I, at least, knew I had an out. If I wanted the beating to stop, I simply had to say a few words and it would be over. It would never happen; I could never do it without destroying everything inside me, but it was an option.

Evan had nothing. He could only sit and take whatever came at him. And it was because of me. Had I not included him in the plan, he wouldn’t be here right now.

I tried to focus on something else. How long had it been since the whipping? I had completely lost track of time, which, for me, was almost as scary a prospect as the beating itself. I wasn’t used to feeling this lost, having this many questions.

When would the FBI be here? Soon? In a few hours? Days? If so, they wouldn’t find much more than an abandoned building and my body inside. Or maybe only my shackles, leaving behind agents to wonder about my mysterious disappearance. Orwell had a habit of moving immediately after any kind of breach. I wouldn’t have been surprised if his people were already packing and cleaning the place up.

Taking all the laptops and their information with them. Wiping the disks. Destroying any kind of evidence.

This was our only chance. The FBI had to get here now.

And I had to keep quiet until then, for all the good that did.

One of the men noticed I was awake and alerted Orwell to that discovery. The man swam over to me, leaving Evan’s head to rest limply on his shoulder.

“Your timing is immaculate,” the masked man said quietly. “Your friend over there has had about enough for now, I think.”

I could feel the tension building behind my back and I knew a punch was coming.

It never came, though.

Instead, the best words I had ever heard sounded outside the room.

“FBI; put your hands up!”

Orwell, if possible, seemed suddenly tense. He stood, looking at the door and listening, but it was unmistakable. Steps came closer – blessed, beautiful, glorious steps – and Orwell turned, fiddling with a part of the wall before it swung inward, revealing a tunnel.

Of course, I thought. Orwell would never put himself into a corner. He always has a way out.

But he did seem nervous.

“In here!” I screamed, even as Orwell’s cloak disappeared down the tunnel and the portion of the wall swung shut again. One of the three men punched me in the face and took my breath away, but it didn’t matter. The FBI had heard me and exactly three and a half seconds later, five agents barged into the room. I pointed to the door that looked like a simple wall once more and said, “There’s a secret door! He went that way.”

Without as much as a nod or any gesture at all, three of the agents rushed over to the wall. They got it open quickly enough – five to six seconds – and were chasing after Orwell in no time at all. If it were anyone else, I would be convinced that they wouldn’t have a chance.

But it was Orwell.

I couldn’t worry about that, though, because the other two agents had obviously stayed behind to take care of Evan and me. They both pulled out cuffs and stepped towards us with the full intention of putting them on.

“I’m bound to a chair,” I protested weakly, but it didn’t help. The man – almost as expressionless as Orwell, even though his face was uncovered for all to see – undid the rope that had confined me to the chair, but replaced it with his cuffs before I even had the chance to rub my aching wrists.

Then he stood there.

He just stood. And waited. Even though Evan was unconscious and I was close to it.

This has to be a nightmare or something, I thought desperately, but then the atmosphere changed. I heard someone yelling; I heard quick steps that could only mean someone was running towards the room –

And then there was Mitchell.

He took in the scene before him. He only needed three full seconds to fight his way out of his shock and then rush to my side.

“Oh, my god, Elle, what did they do to you?”

I smiled weakly. “Hey, you called me Elle. Mitch.”

He returned the smile sweetly, then turned away. His expression darkened instantly, as if that little piece of beauty was meant solely for me. “Who the hell put these cuffs on her?”

The man standing beside me didn’t budge. Head held high, shoulders straight, face completely blank. Still, in some small way, he seemed to cower before Mitchell’s steely gaze. “I did.”

“And why in the hell would you do that, when you have an injured informant of the FBI sitting before you on a bloody chair?!” he yelled. I would have cringed at the pain his raised voice produced in my head, but the warm feeling in my chest outweighed it all.

He was alive. And here. And fighting for me.

Speaking of which.

I lifted my cuffed hands with difficulty and weakly pulled on his sleeve. Mitchell turned to me immediately, the other agent forgotten. His face changed again, from anger to something much softer, and his voice was lowered as he soothed, “Yeah, Elle, I’m here.”

“Willy?”

He smiled again. It was so beautiful. So liberating. It meant so many things. “He’s fine. He’s with the FBI right now, giving a statement. Waiting for you to come home.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” He tapped my cheek lightly. “Hey, Elle, you have to stay with me right now, okay? At least until we get you to the paramedics.”

I opened my eyes, not even having realised that I’d closed them.

“There you are. Stay with me, okay?”

I nodded. He turned away and I wanted to cry, but I realised I was already doing it. My cheeks were wet and puffy.

“Are you deaf?! Take those cuffs off! I’m not going to tell you again!”

I smiled to myself and Mitchell’s face reappeared in front of my own. “Evan?” I asked now. I felt someone fiddle with the cuffs and then the pressure was gone and I took in a deep breath, because it burned.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Mitchell cooed. “And so is Evan. He’s just been banged up a little, that’s all.”

Good. That’s so good.

Mitchell picked me up from the chair, minding my back. Even still, it hurt. More than that. It burned and ached and tore and it went through my whole body, engulfed it, made it scream. But that didn’t matter all that much. Even hurting – or maybe just that way –, I felt good in his arms. Safe.

This is how it’s supposed to be.

This is all I ever wanted.

I made it all the way to the paramedics. But not because Mitchell had said that I had to. I had to enjoy it as long as I could.

As soon as his warm, warm arms left my cold, cold body, I felt nothing