~~ Interlude ~~

I kill approximately one person per week. Sometimes more. Sometimes fewer. A message comes to my cellphone twenty-four hours before I am needed, along with details of the convicted’s crimes. That is part of my contract with the United States Department of Justice. I want to know who I am killing. I want to know the reason I am taking their life.

Exactly a day later a car comes. An unadorned car, black, white or silver in colour, always a different make and model, neither expensive nor cheap. It pulls up outside the house and makes no noise. I know it is them because the timing is impeccable. I know it is them because the driver gets out and opens the door.

I walk out, I walk in, I sit down, I close the door. It takes approximately 8 seconds. The risk of outside contact during this period is low, though not negligible. But the man in the car will not open the door until he can see that there is no one present on the footpath. The contract ordains so.

I am driven to an airport, a private jet. The car pulls up to the mobile passenger stairs and I get out, walk up, close the hatch, sit down. The cockpit door is locked and there is no one save the pilot aboard. We take off in silence and land in silence and I stay seated the entire time. Were there to be an emergency, I know where to find the exits, life vest and parachute.

The plane lands. I stand up, open the hatch, walk down the stairs and into another waiting car. Again I am driven. The car twists and turns and pulls up at that day’s prison. There is an empty hallway, a waiting door. My door is opened, the driver stands clear, I step outside. I see no one, speak to no one, my path clear from beginning to end.

Save for the dead man.

Usually they are men. Rarely women, though not never, and when they are their crimes are the worst imaginable. I read all of them through. I think about all of them, about their victims, imagine how it must have felt, how they suffered. I force myself to envision every image, every detail. He who imparts justice must understand crime. I am not a mindless tool.

When I step into the final room I meet responses of many varieties. Confusion, realisation. Anger, fear, hatred, acceptance. Contempt. Some of them plead, some threaten, some bargain. Some say nothing, like if they do not consent to my presence then I cannot end their lives. None of it matters. I do not say a word. I look at them, and I picture their atrocities, and when they draw their final breath beneath my fingertips it feels just.

*

I read when I am not killing people.

I read books. Every Tuesday, when Emily comes, I receive new books. A book is a window to another world, another life.

I no longer read newspapers. Once, when a newspaper was being delivered, it was thrown through my front window, and the telekinetic American teenager who had been delivering it came to my door to apologise. Had coincidence pulled but a few more strings, I could have accidentally touched and killed him. I cancelled my subscription that day.

I do not read catalogues, pamphlets or flyers. At one time I experimented with having no mailbox in an attempt to avoid receiving anything of that nature, but those distributing promotional material soon began slipping it beneath my door. I now have a mailbox. It is a condition of my contract that whoever transports me on the way back from an execution empties it of unsolicited material. If they did not, the box would get full, and people might start bringing fliers to my door again. I cannot risk that.

I read the Internet. It is an endless, teeming ocean of new ideas and information. Sometimes I even write on the Internet too, communicate with other people, though never openly and never using the name Qiang, or my surname, or anything else that could identify me. On the Internet, everyone is equal. People speak freely or, well, freely enough. I read about things that interest me. I read about other places in the world, about life and death. I read discussions between real people in real time. I feel like I am there, like I am one of them, like they care about me, like I am learning. Like they will notice when I am gone.

I find myself reading the Internet more and more.

*

It is Tuesday and I wake at 5am.

I do not rest further, nor do I wait for my alarm to sound. I check the cameras, confirm the house is free from intruders and get up. I run on the treadmill, I listen to Schubert’s Fantasie in F Minor. I shower, I brush my teeth, I apply skincare products, I dress, I button, I pull on my gloves. Today is my best shirt, the pink one. Salmon. I have read on the Internet that women are attracted to modern, educated men who are well-groomed and confident enough to wear non-traditional but not garish colours. Over the shirt I don a suit jacket, black to match my gloves. It makes me sick to think that perhaps they look unusual, but there is nothing I can do about it. The black jacket hides them best, makes them seem coordinated rather than frightening. Let her think I am cold. Please, let her just think I am cold.

I check my buttons no less than 15 times, because today is the day of highest risk and I must not, I cannot, fail at this juncture. Vigilance has its heart in repetition.

I re-check the cameras. I descend. I have breakfast. I clean my plate and then I sit in silence in the living room, staring at the crack around the edge of the curtains, watching the empty footpath, the front lawn. I wring my hands together in my lap, tap my feet without meaning to. I cannot summon the concentration to read. I know it is irresponsible – that I should be using this time to better myself – but I cannot resist. I have to wait.

“Morning,” I whisper to no one, “Morning. Morning. Morning.”

Finally, at 10:17, her van pulls up on the street outside. I clutch both arms of the chair, throat suddenly tight. I hear her footsteps on the path, on the one-two concrete steps. I hear her shuffle some boxes down. I hear the doorbell.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

I close my eyes and count to twelve. Then I rise from my seat and go to her.

I open the door.

“Morning,” she says, and she smiles at me, and in that moment, just that moment, all is well.

“Morning,” I reply.

Emily. Perfect Emily. She is half an inch shorter than me, fair-skinned, with dimpled cheeks and a splash of freckles beneath her radiant eyes. Her hair is thick and wavy, red and brown the colour of potter’s clay, flowing free beneath her cap and down her back in a waterfall of autumn. A neat white smile spreads up through her doll-like features, and her emerald eyes sparkle with life.

She hums as she walks; I’ve heard her. She is well-rounded and strong, carrying every box she brings without complaint. I imagine she was raised on a farm, running through wheatfields and dust clouds. I do not know her power but sometimes, in my dreams, I imagine her shaking off her drab olive uniform and unfurling blue gossamer wings in the morning sunlight. Her arms, like always, are bare. Her voice, as always, is warm.

“Got a few coming in today don’tcha?” she says. I don’t know whether this is a question or a statement so I just try to smile and nod. It does not seem to perturb her.

“Do you want to start on those ones and I’ll head back to the truck?” She peers up at me expectantly, not two feet away.

“Of course,” I manage to respond. She turns and for a moment all I can do is watch her. Then I catch myself staring and panic and, feeling sweat building inside my gloves, bend to pick up the boxes she has deposited. Fruit and vegetables. Supplies, sundries. Books. Emily is my sole link to the outside world, beyond my journeys to the prisons. She is the only thing keeping me alive.

I carry the first two boxes into the house and to the kitchen. Emily brings the next two, I take those, then the next. When it is done I come back to the door to stand opposite her, heart churning. Now comes the riskiest part.

I reach into my suit and pull out a long white envelope. I hold it out, directly at her, my gloved right hand grasping only the barest tip. She smiles at me, reaches up and takes it. She opens the envelope, counts the money, then looks at me with a small, wounded smile, with disbelief.

“You’ve gone over again.”

“For your trouble.”

“Come on, you’re too generous Mister Q-”

“Quinten, please.” An Anglicised name, easier, more palatable.

“Quinten. I don’t need this. It’s too much.” She smiles, looking a little amused, a little embarrassed.

“There’s a lot of boxes.”

“It’s not that many. It’s my job.” She puts a hand on her hip and shakes her head.

“What am I going to do with you?” she asks, bemused. She slaps the envelope business-like on her wrist, then slides it into her back pocket. “Trading must be going well then.”

I have told her I am a trader. She has not asked what I trade. She can never know the truth.

“About the same.”

“Yeah? Did you see the Callaghan thing on TV the other night?”

I hesitate. “I, uh… I don’t have a television.” I resolve immediately to purchase one.

“Really? What do you do for fun?”

“I, um… I read.”

Emily laughs. “You don’t say.” She points with her chin to the space on the porch where the boxes had been. “I had a look at this week’s. I saw The Amber Spyglass? That was the only one I know.”

“You know it?”

“Yeah. Have you read the first two?”

“They should all be in there.”

“Aww.” She makes a face and holds a gentle hand over her heart. “It’s so sad. I won’t spoil it. But it made me cry.”

I don’t know what to say. Emily pauses; then she grins up at me, mischievous.

“Your English is getting better.”

“I… thank you.” My heart skips a beat. “Emily.”

“Please; Em.”

“Em.” She fixes me with a warm smile.

“Same time next week?”

“And every week,” I answer, breathless. Emily laughs.

“At least until l get a better job. See you.” She turns and flicks a wave behind her as she strolls back down the pathway, towards the brown delivery van waiting on the road. I watch her go. The engine starts, and just like that I am left standing alone in my silent doorway.

Just like that, Emily is gone.

*

It is 6:42pm. My eyes blur and my head hurts. I have been staring at the computer screen for hours, reading all that I can. 10 Tips for Approaching Girls. 5 Conversation Secrets I Wish I Knew. At first my free hand made notes, but now the paper lays cast aside. I despair. The more I read, the sicker I feel, more disgusted, more ashamed. No normal man must read this. No normal, complete person ever struggles with these basic fundamentals of human interaction, elusive only to failures and freaks. The more I learn, the more the depths of my inadequacy – the breadth of the chasm in my being – becomes obvious. It is unbridgeable. I have missed my chance. I am broken. I cannot be fixed.

Ding-ding. Ding-ding. My phone rings. I glance at the screen, suck a deep breath, gather my feelings, and answer.

“Hello Liang.” For the first time this week my mouth speaks its native tongue.

“Brother.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Hmm.” I am his junior by three minutes, yet often I feel the older. “What news?”

“Nothing. It is simply my usual call.” Silence. Even in Cantonese, the conversation is stilted.

“How is Hong Kong?”

“Raining. You can’t step outside without getting drenched.” Pause. “How is America?”

“It is…” I hesitate and look around me. At the bookshelves laden high, the plush carpet, the expensive furniture. At emptiness, the cold and aching night. “It is the same as anywhere.”

“Yes. Understandable.” More silence. “And you… are you well? Generally?” I hear him sound resentful even to ask.

“I am fine,” I respond, the words cool, “I see you are in Hao’s photos again.”

“Yeah. We had a few drinks. It was his birthday.”

“There seem to be many birthdays.”

“It’s just an HK thing. It is hard to explain. They are all low-key.”

“Of course.” I feel my fingers kneading together. “And you don’t… they don’t…?”

“Of course not Qiang,” my brother snaps, “How would I? Why would I? I am perfectly safe.”

“Of course.”

The phone falls silent. Eventually, Liang’s voice retreats from its defensive position.

“I am sorry for the length of time between calls. Work has been busy.”

“Yes, no, of course. It is like that for me too.”

“I have been meaning to come and visit you.”

“Of course. Truth be told my schedule has little space anyway. And I am reading so much that time often gets away from me. There are barely enough hours in the day.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Well that is good.” Pauses drip, drip, drip into the conversation. “Oh, I suppose you should know. I am seeing a girl.”

My heart stops for a moment. “That’s… how wonderful.”

“It is. I think I have fallen for her.”

“What is her name? Where did you meet?”

“Melody- well she goes by M. We met… ah, a social engagement. The Chamber of Commerce. Very dull.”

“That is nice for you. She has a nice name.”

A momentary lull. “She wants to be a singer.”

“Does she have a good voice?”

“Lovely.”

“Hopefully she will succeed then.”

Another pause. Liang does not ask if I am seeing anyone. He has at least that much sensitivity.

“Well… keep well.”

“You too. Be safe.”

“Of course.” A click, and the call ends. I put the phone down and stare blankly at the wall. I do not know how long I sit there. I do not know what time the tears start trickling from my eyes.

~~ End Interlude ~~