~~ Interlude ~~

Every time you look at her you see a corpse.

She does not know and she does not notice. There is nothing dead about her now, no pallor on her lips or empty greyness in her eyes. Her touch is warm and her movements fluid, and when she rises on top of you she sways with the same frenetic energy that stopped your heart and stole your breath. Yet in every moment now you watch for it. No matter how alive she seems, how vibrant, all it takes is a single moment of stillness and you know for certain she is dead.

She whispers in your ear and you hear hissing rainfall in the alley.

She kisses and you taste vomit on her lips.

You close your eyes and shut it out. You close your mind but inevitably-

Moonlit shadows twist upon her face as you writhe together. Suddenly the body beneath you is decayed and rotten, the red scratches drawn across your back gouged by the broken fingernails of a corpse.

The truth is an infection you cannot cure.

But you have ways of making yourself forget.

Every night, every bar in Hong Kong welcomes you with chemical anonymity. You dance until your feet bleed, until sweat drips through your silk shirts, until you are febrile with mirth and intoxication. Drink gurgles down your throat, powder fizzes up your nose, tablets dissolve beneath your tongue. A dead man and a rainswept alley hound your thoughts, and the only way to make them flee is to destroy your capacity for thinking.

Every morning you awake in a cold sweat and wretched nausea. You start pouring hair of the dog on your waking nightmares, and Melody laughs and calls you a fiend. You cannot stand to turn on the news for word of the murder being discovered. You recoil at every knock on the door, be it for pizza, medicine or work. You do your job in silence, eyes averted, aggressively sober and deliriously certain that the government knows, that everyone knows, that the truth stalks you, waiting to come out.

You give life almost as an afterthought, counting down the moments until you can behold Melody again; until you can know, relieved and certain, that she is still warm and beautiful, that she still rests above the ground.

*

I cannot live like this.

It is Tuesday and I have not slept. I can feel that lightness in my bones, the blur at the back of my vision, but now sunlight creeps beneath the curtains and I know the time has passed for sleep. I must get up. I have spent the whole night thinking about how to prepare for this morning, mind churning over and over words and movements and scenarios. I can do this. I have to do this. Liang has gotten away with it, Liang suffers no consequences, and if he can kill without meaning then surely I can just speak… surely I can have one moment…

I am already moving long before my alarm sounds. I barely glance at the cameras, because there is no one mad enough to intrude here, and I do not run on the treadmill for fear I might fall. I shower, scrubbing furiously with soap and gel. I struggle to recall in which order I apply the skin products. I dry every inch of me, hurriedly dress then check, check, check and check. Every button is sealed. There are no holes in my gloves. I am clean, I am clear, this is the best suit I own and I… I can do this, I can do this, I will approach her. Just one tiny step. Just one sliver of time.

Please God, let me have this.

I can do it. If I am prepared, if I am ceaseless in my vigilance, if I just keep my distance then it will all be fine, no worse than going to work or any other… people do this, people talk to one another, it can happen, it will be alright.

I sit in the kitchen, gloved hands splayed atop the marble benchtop, unable to eat, unable to drink. Eventually, I manage to force down some water, which seeps into the cracks beneath my lips and teeth and churns dangerous nausea in my stomach. There is no thinking of doing anything but steadying myself. There is no thought of anything but the plan. My place is set. Her place is set. Glasses ready in the cupboard, cold water in the tap.

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

Finally, 10:15, her van pulls up. My hands clench so hard it feels as though the tendons are going to snap, like my entire body will rip to pieces. Breathe, I tell myself; try to breathe. My forehead trickles with a single, traitorous droplet of sweat.

The doorbell rings.

I close my eyes and count to eight. Then I force myself to swallow one last breath and rise from the kitchen stool, striding down the hallway to meet her.

I open the door and there she stands, the same as ever, radiant.

“Morning,” she smiles, and it is all I can do not to collapse.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Morning.”

She glances down at the boxes she has started stacking by my door. “What’s in these?” she asks, “They’re heavy today. At least some of them.”

“Weights,” I answer, rushing in almost before she’s finished the sentence, “For the gymnasium. Exercise. I’m working on getting stronger.”

“Aww,” Emily laughs, “That explains it. Felt like I was carrying rocks. You don’t need it though Quin, look at you!” She playfully taps me on the arm, over the fabric of my coat.

The world tumbles. The window of skin beneath my shirt where she touched me heaves with sensation, burning, and I could swear it almost glows. It is like my entire arm has gone numb. My first true human contact in over ten years. I struggle not to fall.

Emily does not notice. “Well guess your workout starts here,” she continues, turning back to her van, curtain of thick red hair flicking behind her, “I’ll bring them over if you want to move them inside? Or are some going in the garage?”

“Here, please,” I murmur, and it claws out more like a gasp. Emily remains unperturbed.

“Okey-dokey. Back in a sec.”

She hums as she walks away, and the moment her back is turned I reach out to the doorframe for support. Causal touch, just like the forums talked about. She likes me. She likes-

My head is thundering and my chest is about to burst. A high-pitched ringing screams through my ears. I realise I am watching her go, staring at her like a madman, and it is only through ceaseless vigilance and panic that I am able to break my gaze, turn back to the boxes which to appear normal I must continue to move inside. I cannot let her know the effect her touch has had on me. I cannot let her realise I am a freak.

Load by load, I move the boxes into the kitchen. Emily returns to the doorstep in several trips further. Always having more ready for me whenever I come back out, a perfect synchronous little relay. Already in tune with each other.

“Phew,” she says when we are finished, wiping sweat from her brow. She smiles at me with those soft pale dimples, those beautiful emerald eyes. “That’s the lot of them.”

“Thank you,” I manage to get out, “You’re so helpful. Really, thanks.”

“Aww shucks, don’t mention it. You’re doing half the work. Half the folk I deliver to want me to carry stuff all round their houses.”

Somehow the moment seems right. I extend my hand back through the doorway towards the kitchen, heart pounding in my chest. I can do it. Controlled risk.

“Can I offer you a drink?” I say, doing my best to smile without seeming sinister, to be approachable and kind, “A glass of water?”

“Oh, that’s nice of you Quin, but I don’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be. Really. It’s hot. I’d feel rude otherwise.”

Emily laughs. “A true gentleman. Well alright, just one.”

“Only if you want to,” I stumble to add, the words tumbling out before I can stop myself, “It’s okay if you’re busy, I know you’ve probably got other-”

“Water would be great,” she smiles, and I think she genuinely means it. She steps inside, past my outstretched arm, and I panic not to recoil as she comes close.

It’s happening. Oh my God it’s happening.

Mechanically, as if in a dream, I follow Emily into my home, watching with trembling hands as she sits down at a stool against the kitchen bench. The house is bright – the curtains all open. Sunlight streams, safe and serene.

“Such a nice place you’ve got,” Emily remarks, her gaze wandering over my cabinetry, the interior pre-arranged and immaculate.

“Thank you,” I manage. I circle around the island, giving Emily a wide berth, placing myself opposite her on the counter. “I have a lot of time to clean.”

For an instant I curse myself for exposing my pathetic lifestyle, but Emily just laughs, seeming to take it as a joke. I force myself to smile, trying desperately not to sweat. I turn around, shaking hands opening the kitchen cupboard.

“You could teach me a thing or two. My place is a pigsty.”

“Maybe we should live together,” I murmur and only a moment later realise what I’ve said. My fingers clench around the glass.

“Sorry? What’s that?” Emily glances up.

“Nothing. I mean, I’m sure it’s not that untidy.”

She laughs. “Well, you say that.” A brief pause as my trembling hands press the glasses to the fridge, the cold water dispenser. One, gurgle-gurgle. Two. “Oh aren’t you a star. Thank you.” I turn, one glass in each hand, and force my face into a benevolent smile.

“You’re very welcome.” I reach forward, placing Emily’s cup upon the benchtop, the filtered water sparkling pure and clear.

And then it happens; in the space of a second.

Instinctively, she reaches forward to take the glass from me, to be polite and shoulder some of the burden. My eyes flick up at the movement, and my mind, so focused on setting the glass down and immediately backing away, explodes in a sudden surge of panic. Instinctively I recoil. Instinctively I flinch. And as Emily’s fingers brush the top of the glass my own gloved hand slides from the bottom, and the vessel drops like a stone onto the benchtop.

KRISSSH

A cascade of crystal noise, shards and water flying everywhere. Panic suddenly consuming every part of my body, screaming humiliation, incompetence, retreat. My gloves are wet, the bench is wet, water sprays onto Emily and there is a stinging in my eyes, heat rushing across my face and I look like an idiot, a fool‑

“Oh my god!” Emily explains. She stands up. “Oh my god, Mr Q, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to- I’m so‑”

“No!” I almost shout, reeling back, desperate – desperate to undo, unable to believe my own carelessness, my ineptitude, slick gloves hands fumbling behind me for a cloth. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, this isn’t what she was supposed to think- “No, it’s not your fault, it was me, I’m sorry-”

“Let me, hold on-” She’s already reaching across the bench, pulling off some sheets of paper towel, “Let me, I can do it, just give me a second I’ll-”

“No! Please, no, just stay where you are, it was me, I can-” I turn back to her, suddenly terrified. “Did it get you? Are you okay?”

Emily shakes her beautiful head, almost laughing. “No, seriously, I’m fine, it’s just water, I’m so sorry, I’m so clumsy, you were trying to be nice-” I can barely hear her, the words, the shame burning all over as I reach across the counter, frantically mopping at water and glass. My gloved hands slide near her. Then suddenly Emily gasps.

“Quinten- oh no! Your face!”

And it is like time itself freezes. I look up, my arm part way across the benchtop, and I see Emily gazing across at me, her features arranged in a bouquet of exquisite sympathy that makes my very heart want to weep. Her emerald eyes glisten in the morning sun. Light trickles atop her freckles and luscious autumn hair. I am a measly creature before her, grovelling as she deigns to reach across. As my heart stops, I assume for some reason that she is reaching for the cloth I am holding.

She is not.

And before I can move Emily reaches over, and with bare fingers brushes the cut on the side of my face.

~~ End Interlude ~~