An end is rarely ever the end. In fact, it is safe to assume that something always follows after. There is a consequence guaranteed.
However, as Peony stares numbly at the high-calibre revolver lying pointedly on the desk before her, it is difficult for her to imagine a situation more likely to be the end.
She doesn’t consider bolting from the office. It is common knowledge amongst every detainee of this building, that when children are called to Mrs Hermosa’s office, there is no escaping. There is also no returning. They are summoned by Mrs Hermosa’s secretary, and wander, white-faced and spectral through the office door... which is then locked. However, in general, they pay little attention to the scrape and click of the lock. In most cases, the click of the revolver’s safety catch is more engrossing.
Even then, they won’t leave the way they came. They generally leave through another door, onto the back-streets outside. And they’re usually dragged.
Willem doesn’t hit the six-foot mark, by any means. However, he is so thin that it doesn’t matter... so pale that he fades into the background easily. The wind runs its bodiless fingers through his auburn hair and he winces, eyes focused on the mass of bodies in the centre of the market square as they move together, breathe and speak together, though more like a tempestuous ocean than one big body. Fluid and chopping like waves, the shouts and cries of children like stormy winds whipping up froth and drowning Willem in insignificance. He spends more of his time in that state than he does sleeping. It’s frustrating.
So one day, he asked himself ‘what is the most effective way of becoming significant?’ And so he stole something. It simply couldn’t go unnoticed. Cue the end of his insignificance.
Unfortunately, that didn’t appear to be the end of it - and here he is, standing on the edge of this bustling market square. The stolen photograph is encased by his bag, a smouldering beacon to the police searching for him as it hangs at his waist. Yet once again, amidst this noise, he is insignificant.
Anything could go on in towering buildings that huddled about this square without being noticed. Anything in the world.
One thing dips in and out of Peony’s mind as she waits.
I am going to die...
The revolver lies cocked and waiting, just like her.
However, her eye is caught. Underneath the revolver is a sheet of paper. Even though it was up-side down to her, it’s easy to recognise the scribble of her name. A name is unforgivingly obvious to its owner, even when written in the most obscure ways.
She takes a step forward (the most voluntary movement that a child has ever taken in this room) one patent leather shoe still fused to the carpet by her fear. Carefully, she reaches out and pivots the paper around. It scrapes the desk underneath the weight of the gun, which twitches with the movement.
Tuesday;
Frances West,
Peony Winterbourne...
That’s as far as Peony’s eyes go.
Willem can see freedom on the other side of the Marketplace: a labyrinth of adjoining back-streets and alley-ways. They buzz with unnoticed criminal activity. He was sure to find people there who would gladly buy the photograph. He wouldn’t have trouble with that... but he might afterwards...
‘Cross that bridge when you get to it’, he thought. ‘Take it one step at a time...’ Clichés can prove useful in stressful situations... but he looks at the crowded square and realises he’ll need more steps than one to cross it.
A man’s elbow hits his bag first. Willem is jostled and tipped like a fishing boat by the waves of people; under-currents of children racing round his feet; sprays of stall-holders shouts as they wield their goods and, at one point, the ugly cast-iron monument that holds the rabble together in the middle trips Willem up with its steps. He frowns at it and continues to battle.
Once on the other side, Willem stands and watches from the sanctuary of an alley for a moment, before turning into the shadows.
Willem smiles. He is a cut above any of the people here – he has a gift that they needed shadows to acquire. Even in the emptiest rooms, he is no better than wallpaper.
He feels the weight of the photograph in its cracked, glass frame and knows, with a pang in his gut, that if things could change, he would turn in a second and hand his bounty over to the police. Without a second thought. However, he’d long given up waiting for a sign.
At the end of the alley, he sees movement. Wondering if he’ll be lucky and someone interested in buying the photograph now will appear, he saunters over, bag clutched at his hips.
“Hey... do you...”
But the sentence is suspended in the air for a moment as Willem sees what the woman is dragging. Limp and lifeless with glazed eyes, soaked a deep red. A child.
He doesn’t think. He doesn’t speak. He swings his bag at the woman, slicing her knees as the shattered glass protrudes from a snag in the material. The force of the frame buckles her and she folds like origami to the floor, not even screaming as her curly black head of hair smacks the grotty stone.
The phone begins to ring and Peony jumps. She knows it can’t be long before somebody comes to answer it. She looks from the phone, to the paper to the door and waits. Footsteps announce a guest as they near the office.
She may be frightened, but Peony isn’t an idiot, so she drops the paper and claws her way desperately underneath the heavy mahogany desk. Boxes and bins obstruct her nicely from view, and reveal the knees of Mrs Hermosa’s young secretary, Peter, as he enters the office.
“Mrs Hermosa’s office... Mrs Hermosa? Where are y...? Oh God. Attacked? Didn’t they arrive to pick up the body? ” (Peony shudders) “Of course I’ll check the other alley but.... And you’ll be ok? Right... hold on...”
The receiver clicks. The knees move. The door to the alley is opened and Peony is alone with the revolver again.
Whatever was holding Mrs Hermosa back has just saved Peony’s life. But she doesn’t waste time contemplating. As the muggy breeze from the open door hits her, Peony gets up, grabs the revolver and leaves with only one thing in mind.
The sea of market-goers engulfs him again. Willem runs, tears making patterns down his cheeks. Maybe it was a side-effect of the shock: he never cries, usually.
The motion of the crowds distract him as he hurries away from all of it... and he makes a big mistake. The strap slips and the bag crunches to the floor next to the iron monument. Of course, Willem doesn’t even notice until it’s too late. He’s on the other side of the square and two policemen sidle over. Unfortunately, by the time he sees them, he’s already made another mistake. Instead of fleeing like a normal person, he pushes and shoves back into the crowds for the hundredth time to retrieve his bag. He’s halfway there and stood beside a wailing child when he has his first real experience of significance: a policewoman glances up at the screaming toddler and sees Willem. He’s still, a look of utter desperation frozen into his features as the other policeman picks up his bag.
He is sure... absolutely certain that this is the end.
Peony hurries down the alley, semi-fresh air bloating her lungs as she goes. She passes dumpsters, rats... until she sees her: Mrs Hermosa is slumped against a wall at the other end, clutching her bloodied leg. There is a pile next to her. But as Peony approaches, it becomes startlingly clear that it isn’t a pile at all. It’s a child. It’s Frankie.
Peony raises the gun and shoots twice.
Two gunshots ricochet through the square and into the ears of Willem and the Policemen. Perhaps they are the only people who heard. More likely, they are the only people to who it is of significance. The policeman drops Willem’s bag, and the pair run through the crowds to the sound of the gun. If this isn’t a sign, Willem thinks, what is?
Peony hurtles down the alley, tossing the revolver into the open mouth drain. She’s ashamed to have used something that has killed so many before. But she knows that Mrs Hermosa was its last victim. She waits, flat against the wall like a poster, waiting, breathless, for her lungs to begin working again. As she stands there, two policemen lope into the alley. Unfortunately for them, they won’t catch the killer. They turn the wrong way and overlook Peony completely. She forgets breathing and runs into the crowds of a marketplace.
Safe in the sea of ignorant shoppers, Peony begins to slip through them to the other side. Her life is waiting.
On the way, Peony bumps into a tall boy. His red hair flicks up, revealing a pale and frightened face which looks to the bag that Peony has just knocked from his shoulder. She bends and picks it up, empty though it was, handing it to him.
“Thanks.”
She smiles. “Yeah.” They part and jostle in different directions, neither one realising how fitting those words were; neither one would be alive if it weren't for the other.
Although, i just wrote high-calibre because i'm from britain, and we spell words wierdly over here!
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