“Wish they'd given us someone a little bigger, you know?” said Tim, scratching his brown stubble with nicotine stained fingers. The light from the twenty four hour cafe behind him barely glinted off his nails.
“Bigger like older or bigger like –?” His companion, Stew, raised a hand to his chest and gestured obscenely to demonstrate. He grinned and ran the other through his straggly blond hair.
“Both would've been good.” Tim laughed, pressing a cigarette between his lips and sucking in its smoke. “But I'd prefer a snack that didn't make me feel like some kinda ped– ”
“– Like that?” said Frank on Stew's other side, smiling widely enough to show most of his blackened teeth.
He nodded in the direction of the person walking towards them. A full length, soft leather trench coat obscured their figure and a pair of black sunglasses hid their eyes despite the distinct absence of sunlight. They had glossy black hair tied into a low ponytail with several strands hanging loose and the rest tucked beneath the collar of their coat. The stranger passed them without a glance, their full lips pressed into a neutral line, and turned into the cafe.
“I dunno, man. 's hard to tell with all that stuff in the way,” said Tim. He threw away his cigarette and stamped on it with a meaningful grin. “Wanna find out?”
Stew glanced at a house further down the road. “Guess it should be fine if we're quick about it.”
Despite their doubts, they followed the person into the building without hesitation. Their target's voice was so low even the cashier had to lean forward to catch their order and then the temporarily genderless person settled down at the far side of the cafe with their back to the door. Relaxed. Clueless. The men requested quick drinks and a panini before throwing themselves into chairs set around a table right next to the person they had tailed.
“God, it's been a long day, right?” Stew smiled, revealing teeth as straw coloured as his hair.
“Yeah. There's nothing like sitting back and relaxing after a day like that.” Tim folded his arms behind his head in a stretch, peeking at the sandy-skinned stranger around the veil of his bent elbow.
They had soft yet well defined nose and their jawline was a wider than he liked but he knew the eyes would be the deciding factor.
“Some people are so relaxed they haven't even realised it's winter,” chortled Frank. “Or night time.”
“Oi! Stop being rude.” Tim thumped him on the arm and leaned sideways on the table. “Sorry about that.”
The stranger shook their head, silently dismissing the apology, so he stood up and approached them.
“This guy's just high all the time.” He waved a hand at his friend before placing it on the table top beside theirs. “Doesn't know what he's saying half the time.”
“Then maybe he should stay quiet until he does.” The person with sunglasses had a low, heavy voice. The kind that told stories in a language few truly understood.
“Oh my god.” Irritation buzzed behind the Tim's sternum. Shock knocked him back half a step. “Are you actually a guy?”
The stranger glanced up at him before turning to the waitress. He thanked her as she set down his Matcha tea and hurried away with a pinker face.
“Mate, guys like you should come with a warning sign,” said Stew as he placed a hand on the back of the man's chair and indicated non existent placard with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “Cute but with ba-”
“Guys like you should sit back down and enjoy their food before it gets cold.” Though he did not move, they all followed the direction of his words towards their table where three mugs and tandoori chicken panini on a pristine white plate beckoned to them.
“What the hell? No need to be rude, man. We're just messing around.” Tim's orange fingers brushed the shoulder of his leather jacket. “It's not our fault you Asian guys looks like girls –”
A hand closed around his wrist and he tried to wrest it free for several seconds before he found himself face down on the table, the white cup of Matcha tea dangerously close to his nose.
“If you really want to do this, it'll have to be somewhere else.” The stranger's hand, clad in black fingerless gloves, darted in and out of view. The tea cup vanished and Stew cried out.
All around, other customers twisted in their seats and some started to stand as the danger level escalated. There was a young couple, possibly on a late night date. An exhausted man in a suit with a briefcase resting against the leg of his table. A young lady on her laptop with textbooks piled next to it. They needed to leave before anyone began taking out their mobile phones and recording. Frank seemed to think he could take advantage of the long haired man's occupied hands, going for him even as Stew staggered back.
“You should'a just stayed there looking pretty, dude,” he growled, throwing a fist directly at his face.
The stranger dodged but not completely. His sunglasses clattered on the tiles. He turned back to his attacker and opened eyes that resembled occupied caves. Dark brown, almost liquid black, but writhing with movement from an unidentifiable life source. Behind him the cafe staff spoke urgently to each other and someone approached them, presumably to intervene. As Frank swung at him again, he cracked the empty teacup across the vertex of the other man's scalp and dropped the intact handle before using the same hand to land a swift uppercut to his chin.
Before Frank could recover, he pulled Tim up from the table and held him close for a moment.
“I'll see you outside,” he murmured into the man's ear, shoving him into Frank. “Don't keep me waiting.”
He swept his glasses up off the ground, twisting into a roundhouse kick as Stew tried to tackle him from behind and knocking him off his feet into another unoccupied table. He put his sunglasses on and walked past a nervous-looking staff member who had clearly been about to get involved, reaching into his jacket as he approached the till. The cashier seemed both scared and impressed, her eyes flitting between him and the mess he had left in the corner of the cafe. He placed a five pound note on the counter, paused, and then added a twenty pound note on top of it.
“For the tea,” he said softly. “And the damage.”
He pressed a finger to his lips and offered her a faint smile, crossing the cafe and leaving it without a backward glance. The door barely missed the soft trail of his black coat as it closed behind him with an oddly loud bang –
– that woke Satara up. Her eyelids parted at once and she rolled over to face the rest of the room. Her bedroom door was shut as were the balcony windows. She pushed her phone and its screen activated, piercing the darkness with a set of numbers: 00:34. A sibilant whisper echoed in her ears, travelling from the distant dimension of her dreams.
He's coming for you …
The voice sounded like her own. Who is? she asked it. It wasn't the first time she had spoken to herself but this time was different. She had spent all evening going over the facts of her family's murder. Everything the police and carers had been allowed to tell her. The possible motives and all that she could remember from before it had happened.
The aftermath of the strange man's uppercut tingled up her arm and the flat weight of Brian's chest continued to stick to the back of her fingers and knuckles. As if she had been responsible for both. She squeezed her fingers into a fist and one of her therapists spoke through a doorway leading to her past. They reminded her that dreams often reflected suppressed feelings or things the dreamer had experienced during the day. That they were the mind's way of solving problems and simulating emotions it may have to deal with one day. I nearly killed a guy. And then I dreamt I was watching another guy beat up someone else. Or beating them myself. She massaged her brow with her knuckles, hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to force a smile onto her unwilling features. I wonder what the therapist would make of that.
She was out of bed and on her balcony in a matter of minutes, swathed in a woollen, midnight blue dressing gown. The rails around the balcony assisted her as she half pushed and half pulled herself up onto the roof. She winced as the midnight chill bit into her feet as though she weren't wearing socks. As though she were barely wearing her own skin. Rolling over, she manoeuvred herself carefully over the gutter and across the tiles, choosing to sit at a safe distance halfway up the roof.
Friday evening. In other parts of the town, the streets would have been clogged with people welcoming the weekend. Drinking. Dancing. Eating out. She closed her eyes and blocked out the rows of houses surrounding her on all sides like the bars of a massive cage, listening to almost inaudible waves of music. It sounded impossibly like the soft notes that had been playing in the cafe she dreamt of. She could almost hear the crash of bodies landing against tables and the anxious murmurs of the other customers. Could almost smell the tandoori and cheese panini as it was crushed underfoot.
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That was a dream, wasn't it? She opened her eyes and the stars were obscured by stubborn grey clouds. Like Saytarnia. These are all just manifestations of – of my overactive brain. None of it's real. I don't have a murderer for a sister. I didn't – I didn't kill anyone. Today or back then. And I don't know that guy in my dream either.
Like her non existent sibling, his face was familiar. Like her own but rounder in some places and sharper in others. Seeing his eyes had been like stumbling upon a mirror unexpectedly.
But what if he is real? Does that mean someone else's after me now? And what if those weird signs I get aren't just in my head and they actually mean something? She had watched enough of those movies with Mr Lang. They were the only kind he seemed to enjoy. Psychological thrillers. People with dissociative identity disorders. Killers who hid in plain sight. Disturbing plot twists. What if I'm the one who did that to my family but they couldn't arrest me because I was too small? Or because they couldn't prove it?
It didn't seem possible. No matter how well she performed at her MMA class, it would have been impossible for a nine year old like her to commit such a perfect crime. She had another reason to believe it wasn't possible. One she had avoided looking at but remained excruciatingly aware of whenever she changed her shirt. If she had been comfortable with wearing low necked outfits, it would have forced her to change her dress style.
She pressed her fingers to the curve of her neck where a slightly raised, misshaped lesion separated her throat from her shoulder and proved she was innocent. The only physical mark the murderer had left on her. Proof that she had deliberately been left alive. Why would a stranger do that? For fun? What she had done to Brian today had not been for fun but it also could have been a fluke. Carl certainly seemed to think so. Otherwise he probably would have cancelled the exam tomorrow. If anything, he had seemed more determined than ever that she should attend it.
But what if I didn't? She pressed her foot a little harder against the curved tiles beneath her. Their instability somehow lifted a weight from her spine. Somehow lightened the air in her chest. The edge of the roof was too close all of a sudden. The distance between it and the front garden below deceptively short. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and a patch of light leaked from its screen onto the blackness. It highlighted the heaviness of her breathing and the forward tilt of her torso. She pulled the phone out with an abruptly unsteady hand, swiping a finger across its surface to reveal a text message from Jason.
Reckon if I send Nigel to the hospital tomorrow, Carl will think we planned the whole thing?
Satara huffed through upturned lips and the fingers of her other hand tightened around the grainy, red clay tiles. She realised how deeply the cold had reached through her night gown and straightened up, replying to his message.
Go to sleep before Nigel sends you there first.
Her phone vibrated almost instantly, the words accompanied by a winking emoji with its tongue sticking out.
No, you.
If I stop going to classes with him after school, what would Jayce do? Her eyes narrowed against the light. Against the questions she hadn't considered the day before when she had still been certain Saytarnia was out to get her. Would he keep going without me? What about the Langs? What'll they do? The tip of her thumbs battered the screen for several seconds and she sent the message before she could persuade herself it was a bad idea. That it would open a door she had nailed shut the moment they met.
Why do you do MMA?
He took so long to reply she thought he had taken her advice seriously. After long moment, her phone lit up again. A sentence too short for the time it had taken to type. Too heavy for its simplicity.
So I can beat people up for you too.
Satara shoved the device back into her pocket and left the roof, returning to the safety of her bed. Ignoring the vibration beside her pillow even though the question shivered behind her eyelids.
What about you, Tara?
<><><><><>
She sprayed extra deodorant the next day. Packed her black and red hand fan. Considered telling Mrs Lang she wasn't feeling good and staying home. But her foster mother kept asking where Jason was and if she wanted to make her own way to the class without him. And Mr Lang was actually home for the weekend, albeit holed up in the main bedroom as if he were waiting for her to leave the house.
After her near run in with their mirror the night before, the idea of staying home and ruining any plans they might have made was inexcusable. So when Jason texted her to say he was outside, she made sure she was already downstairs putting on her shoes. She tried to understand the expression on Mrs Lang's face when she first told her the MMA exam had been moved to the weekend. She had almost offered to come home straight away but realised it probably wasn't what the older woman needed to hear at the time. Instead, she had opted to stay silent and go to her room.
“Good luck with the test today, Satara.” Her foster mother came out of the living room, holding something that looked like a ring of keys. “Just remember to do your best.”
“I will.” She attempted a thankful smile but couldn't lift her head high enough to show it. “Carl said it wouldn't be long. But we're not allowed to leave until everyone's done.”
“Oh, okay. The boy that was hurt yesterday. Are they letting him participate too?” Dissatisfaction crawled across Mrs Lang's tone like a tiny slug.
“I don't think so.” Like her expression the day before, Mrs Lang's interest in Brian's health was confusing. Aside from Jason, she had never paid any attention to the other members of the MMA group.
Is she trying to show me just how much she doesn't care about me any more? Satara tied her laces and stood up, lifting her bag onto her shoulder. That's probably a good thing. It didn't feel like a good thing. Instead, it rested at the base of her stomach like bad food she needed to throw up. Like an eyelash in her eye.
“Good. They're responsible for all of you children. It's their job to make sure you're safe.”
No one can make sure anyone is safe, Mrs Lang. She grunted as if she agreed and opened the front door, pausing to wave. “I'm going now. See you later.”
“See you later, Satara.” She smiled but gave no indication of when she expected Satara to come home. “I'll let your dad know you've gone.”
“Thanks.” Satara closed the door softly behind her and joined Jason at the front gate.
He opened his mouth as if he were about to ask her for an answer to his message the night before but then pointed towards the bus stop down the road.
“Ready to go and clean the training hall?”
“I'll try not to make it messier instead.”
<><><><><>
“Brian's alive, by the way,” said Jason once they had both changed and started making their way to the hall as they had the day before.
“How do you know that?” The colours in the building seemed different today. More vibrant. As if to contrast her grey mindset.
“Heard it from a friend of a friend of Nigel.” He shook his head. “Apparently him and Brian were posting hospital selfies at four in the morning.”
“I guess he doesn't care about falling asleep in the middle of the test.” She yanked open the door to the hall and it hit the opposite wall with an unpleasantly loud bang. Jason jumped beside her.
“Holy crap!” he hissed under his breath. “Bet that woke everyone up.”
She pressed her palms together in an apology as Carl looked her way. Disapproval tinted his glare before recognition and she waited for him to nod before approaching the rest of the group. They were standing around like a flock of sheep. Half of them greeted her with smiles less ghostly than usual. The other half pretended they hadn't seen her come in, except for Nigel who watched them through half lidded, furious eyes.
“Everyone sit down,” said Carl, checking his watch. “The examiner will be here soon.”
“Examiner?” asked someone aloud. He wasn't the only one looking at their instructor, features drenched by a tidal wave of anxiety. “We're not sparring with each other?”
“You spar with each other all the time. It'd hardly be a test.” Carl rubbed the side of his head, fingers grazing his closely cropped brown hair.
Benches had been assembled on the other end of the hall in two rows, set at a safe distance from the mats. Satara sat down at one end and Jason joined her. We never use benches.
“What about you? Can't you test us?” asked one of Nigel's friends.
“As your instructor, my judgement might not be impartial so I have to remain in a neutral position.” He was talking a lot more than usual and his vocabulary seemed too complex for a class of teenage boys. One of the things she had appreciated about him from the beginning was his lack of unnecessary conversation. “To measure the extent of your skills, you have to test them against someone whose methods aren't familiar to you.”
Unsatisfied and nervous voices rippled across the hall as the boys sat down. Nigel looked like he was going to sit behind her but Satara stared at him until he continued walking towards the other end of the back row.
“Brian's gonna crush you when he comes back,” he hissed as he passed behind her.
“Crush her or crush on her?” asked Jason, twisting in his seat with a blatant smirk in his voice. “Wouldn't want him to have another heart attack now, would we?”
“You're lucky you're not fighting me today.” Despite his antagonistic response, Nigel had waited until he was several steps away before speaking. “I was looking forward to dropping you again.”
“You would've been disappointed either way, mate.” Jason turned to face the front before he could answer. “Yesterday was a fluke. I'll prove it to you next time, all right?”
Nigel took a step towards him but Satara leaned back, curling her fingers around the back edge of the bench. She sighed impatiently without looking at him.
“Hah, sure,” he muttered and his footsteps faded.
I won't be able to concentrate with you breathing down my neck like an angry cow. And I can't win if I don't pay attention to my opponent properly. She blinked. Wait ... I want to win?
“Remember this is a grading exam,” said Carl, clapping his hands until all eyes were on him once again. “This test decides which of you can progress to the next level and who gets held back.”
“Held back where? It's not like we're at school,” murmured Jason, genuinely confused instead of scathing. “Thank god.”
I should invite him over today. Another surprising thought. He's the only one who's stuck around all this time. Without wanting anything. I should treat him like a friend sometimes, I guess. The leaves in the courtyard beyond the floor to ceiling windows were a vivid green flecked with the occasional grape red bush. The Langs too. Today I should treat them like parents. Even if –
“Oh, and to all those who asked about him.” Carl looked her way for a split second, as if by accident, before continuing. “And those of you who don't know already, Brian's still in hospital but he should be fine. I'm not sure when they'll be discharging him though.”
The absence of palpable relief in the room should have been depressing. Instead Satara pressed her fists to her mouth to hide the upward tilt of its corners.
“Hey, lets go get some food afterwards,” said Jason, his smile stiff as if he had just remembered her lack of concern yesterday. “My treat.”
“Even if we lo – fail the test?”
“Yeah. You had to come to school on your birthday.” He grimaced but there was something off about the brightness of his stare. “So let's eat out today to make up for it, okay?”
How many times have you gone to school on your birthday? she asked him silently. How many times have your parents forgotten your birthday? Once? Never?
“Okay. Where do you want to go –”
“Since she demonstrated such … efficacy during her last fight, we'll be testing Satara first.” Carl motioned to her before waving towards the mats. “The rest of you will stay where you are until the fight's over. Do you understand?”
“Efficacy?” Jason grinned at her and she cleared her throat, her cheeks flushing as she stood up. “That's one way of putting it, I s'pose.”
The group rumbled uncertainly after their instructor's direction. They never left their seating positions anyway, even during their daily sparring matches. Unless someone accidentally bowled them over with a misplaced step or an destabilising shift in their centre of gravity. None of them would intentionally disrupt an official match like the one they were about to have.
“I can't hear you.” Carl's voice seemed to flash like his stare. “No matter what, you're to remain in your seats during the examination. The inspector will not tolerate any kind of misconduct or intervention, whether it's deliberate or not. Do. You. All. Understand?”
The response was considerably louder and significantly more tense. At least this atmosphere takes the attention off me. Satara stepped forward onto the mats and the day felt like pieces of various puzzles that wouldn't connect no matter how she positioned them. The short stretch of wall space above the windows was pale green and she wondered why she hadn't noticed that before. Probably because I've always had my eyes on the people against me during matches. And outside of them too. The door to the training hall opened and Carl turned towards it in sync with the eyes of his students.
“Ah, here … she is.” He slurred over the pronoun.
But Satara couldn't pay attention to his word choices.
Because at that moment the air rippled and she had to stop herself from covering her ears with both hands.
And the older girl walked in through the doorway.
Only she wasn't a girl any more but a grown woman. Her hair now hung all the way to her waist instead of down to the middle of her back. Her glacial expression ran ice cubes along Satara's spine and her movements were quieter yet more profound than they had been in her nightmares for the last six years. But as she stopped and lifted her head, letting the door close softly behind her with a thud that rocked Satara's bones, her eyes were the same.
Saytarnia still had a murderer's stare.