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The ceiling was low, the shelves on either side of them overstuffed and appearing to lean right over them with the threat of imminent collapse, but somehow their footsteps still echoed. It should be impossible in the cramped space and the mismatched rugs covering the ground, but despite the apparent cosiness the place felt cold, impossibly empty. Jon had always been comforted by the sight of so many books, and Martin felt the same way – both of them had once sported overstuffed shelves not unlike these ones at home – but now that comfort had vanished, replaced with a deep sense of lonely dread.
“Could easily get lost in here,” Martin said, with a nervous laugh. It wasn’t the first time he had made such an observation. “You do know where you’re going, right?”
“Yes, Martin,” Jon said patiently.
“This is like how big the library seemed to me when I was a kid,” Martin said, glancing down an aisle as they passed and then quickly averting his eyes for reasons which he wasn’t quite sure of. “Suppose everything would have looked a lot bigger then, huh?”
“Understandably so,” Jon said. “It’s a bookshop, by the way.”
“Huh?”
“Not a library. A bookshop.” Jon paused, and then smiled. “Though I suppose they do look mostly the same.”
“Right. Well.” Martin gave another nervous laugh. “Could have fooled me!”
“It won’t be long now,” Jon said sympathetically. “I’m taking us by the quickest route, but unfortunately that’s still rather long.”
“This is—well, it’s obviously a… domain, right?”
“Correct.”
“It’s the weirdest one I’ve seen so far,” Martin said, “and let me tell you, there have been some weird domains.”
“It’s weird, but it’s relatively harmless,” Jon said, frowning slightly. “I can’t quite work it out.”
“You can’t—what do you mean, you can’t work it out?” Martin asked, a little too quickly. “Is there—I mean, if there’s going to be some messed up monster around the corner, I’d like to—”
“Nothing like that,” Jon interrupted hurriedly. “No, it’s not—there’s nothing overly dangerous or unpleasant here, Martin. Not for us, anyway, and I mean that more so than usual. We won’t have to watch anyone being mauled or burned to death or anything like that – it’s just a bookshop. It’s what’s in the books that will hurt, but that’s what I can’t work out.”
Martin gave the bookshelves a new and much more alarmed glance. “What’s in them? Like—like the Leitners?”
“More or less, I suppose.” Jon glanced down an aisle, seeing the vague outline of a figure down at the shadowed end. They were hunched over, a book open in their lap, and Jon’s gaze lingered on them for several moments after he had passed the opening by. “The thing is, if I’m correct in my assumption, this place shouldn’t… really exist. I mean, there’s no need for it to exist.”
“Jon,” Martin said. “None of this should exist.”
“Yes, yes,” Jon said, a little irritably. “You know what I mean.”
“Not… really?”
“It all seems to be aligned with the Eye,” Jon said. “But the whole world now belongs to the Eye. Why would it need its own specific domains within this?” He paused. “I suppose it isn’t impossible, but I just didn’t expect it. I thought the whole world acted as its domain, but I suppose there are… different ways of being perceived. Different things to fear.”
“Well, the whole city is like that now, isn’t it?” Martin asked. “Didn’t you say London was just—well, all like this? You saw all those cameras.”
“Yes,” Jon admitted, “but this is just… oh.”
“Jon? What is it? Jon. That’s your dangerous oh. What’s oh?”
“I don’t know if I… ah.” Jon stopped, standing at a cross-section of several aisles, the shelves leaning so close to one another at the top that they practically touched. “Um, Martin?”
“What?”
“A moment? If you will?”
Martin stared at him. “Now? What were you saying oh for?”
“Yes, now,” Jon said, annoyed. “I don’t do it on purpose, Martin.”
Martin sighed. “Sometimes it seems like you do. Why is it always slap-bang in the middle of the creepy domain? Why not somewhere where I can wait for you outside?”
“It’s not like getting tired while Christmas shopping, Martin,” Jon grumbled, swinging his bag around so he could fumble through it. “You can’t just exit this domain and wait for me in the food court.”
Martin made several varied sounds of outrage, but by the time Jon straightened up, tape recorder in hand, he seemed to have resigned himself. He looked around warily, shooting distrustful gazes at the maze of aisles, and then let out another long sigh.
“I’ll just… go and wait for you, then.”
“Thank you.”
“You weren’t saying oh about anything… too bad?”
“No,” Jon said shortly, before taking a deep breath and turning to Martin, his tone softer. “No. It’s alright, Martin. Just don’t look in any of the books.”
“Right,” Martin said. He nodded, taking a couple of hesitant steps backwards. “Alright. Cool. Um. Have fun?”
Jon gave a tired smile, managing to restrain himself until Martin had disappeared into the gloom between the shelves. Then, breathless, he hit record and stumbled over to the opposite aisle, quickly losing himself in the muted colours, the familiar scent of old books. It was a comfort now, though he was aware it had more to do with the tape recorder in his hand than any fleeting feelings of nostalgia.
Jon slowed his pace, and began to speak.
It’s strange to think now, but Marina realises she didn’t actually notice what had happened to her at first. She can’t exactly blame herself, because she used to spend so much time hiding out in places like this anyway, but it’s still surprising that she didn’t notice at all. As she wanders down aisle after endless aisle, she starts to get frustrated with herself. If she had only thought about it a little more; paid more attention to her surroundings, perhaps she would have noticed that there was no way that a shop could go on for as long as this one had. And for that matter – how had she even got here in the first place? The last thing she remembers is being at home, thinking about putting the dinner on. She’s sure she didn’t live far from this place, even though she isn’t sure where this place is, exactly. She knows it still feels like London, mostly, and she’s sure – when she strains her ears and really concentrates – that she can hear the familiar sound of traffic on the road outside, the hiss of buses stopping, the endless clamour of horns and engines. It’s almost a comfort, until she tries to walk in its direction, and then she realises she doesn’t know the way towards it and she is hopelessly lost in this impossible place, and she feels the fear again. She places her hands over her ears and tries to concentrate on the rushing of her own blood instead.
There are only two things to do in this place, and Marina quickly realises she hates both of them. She can walk, as she is walking now – aimless and exhausted, each aisle looking so depressingly similar to the last. The only thing that changes are the books on the shelves, different sizes and different colours, ones she recognises and many she does not. It should add some variety, but it doesn’t. Eventually it all blurs into one, the same thing at the root of it all – just shelves upon shelves of books. It’s infuriating and boring, and when the boredom finally drives Marina past what she can take she resorts to the second of the activities available to her.
She reads a book.
The need is there now, the boredom growing to be too much. Marina had never been the kind of person capable of putting up with boredom. Even the slightest lull in activity could make her irritable, and if it went on for too long she would feel herself becoming suicidally depressed – quite literally so, much to the disbelief of parents and teachers. It had been that way ever since Marina could remember, and there had once been a time where she had sincerely believed that there was nothing worse than being bored. Now she knows otherwise.
Her footsteps slow, and her breaths become difficult to get. She doesn’t want to reach for a book, because she knows now exactly what it will be. There are worse things than boredom, worse things than wandering with no goal, with no end, with no food or sleep. Her feet ache in her shoes – they had always been too tight and too flat for her feet – and she would like nothing more than to simply sit down for a while, but this is not the kind of place where she can just sit idle. She must walk, or she must read. She knows this, and yet she still tries to resist it; still tries to force her aching, bleeding feet into one more step. As soon as she stops she will have no choice, but so long as she can just keep going…
She has to stop, and before she can even finish resigning herself to the fact, her hand is reaching out for a book.
Even now, with all of this impossibility occurring around her, Marina still feels embarrassed. It’s a ridiculous situation to be in, standing there in the middle of a bookstore, her hand reaching out to grab the nearest book as though acting independently of her, and what must she look like? Standing there, her hair wild and tumbling loose from its ponytail, framing her face in an almost girlish way that might perhaps make it seem like she was young enough to be pouting like she is, her bottom lip trembling like a child’s as she tries to resist the urge to cry, to take the book. In the end she fails on both of these accounts, and the tears fall thick and fast as she slumps to her knees, the heavy book open across them.
Marina knows how it works. She will not be able to move until she had finished the entire horrid thing, and this one is a tome indeed.
The front cover looks like any regular hardback book without its dust cover – it could be any recent bestseller. It is a pleasant grey, with the title embossed in deep red. Upon it there is no author’s name, but there is a name – a single word, all in capitals: RUDY. Marina reaches out and traces her finger over the name, the lump in her throat increasing. The tears are impossibly hot on her face, and she is still somehow surprised to feel them increase in intensity. She thought she had cried all of her tears for Rudy four years ago, when they broke up for that final, incomprehensible time. Oh, she knew it had been a long time coming, but until this moment she has believed, falsely, that it was as close to amicable as a relationship of six years could ever end. They had been adults about it, after all. It had been nothing serious. They had just grown apart, decided that they wanted different things from life, and as a result they had each begun to irritate the other. That was all. It was natural that they should decide to separate; that they should give one another brave, teary smiles and wish the best, make assurances to be friends even while they each both knew it would be a clean severance. Just platitudes to make them feel better in the moment, but nothing either of them believed. As far as breakups went, it had been… good.
Marina has been lying to herself for four years and she knows it. She knows why they broke up, the real reason, the true reason that a decade of her life is so shameful to her that she tries not to think about it, to speak about it. Perhaps that is why she still feels so young – it’s as though those ten years weren’t real, and her brain struggles to comprehend the aging on her body. How can it be? A lie lived should not count towards the total. It’s unfair. For ten years she suffered for that bastard, in one way or another, and now she’s expected to reach almost forty and be alright with it? Marina wants to scream. She can feel it building up in the back of her throat, a raw and animal thing, but she swallows it down. She had heard many such screams rent the air of this shop, and she has always felt nothing but pity and embarrassment. I’ll never be one of those people, she had assured herself. Whatever is in these books is bad, I know it, but I’ll never let them make me scream like that.
She had survived the book bearing the title CLAIRE – her high school best friend. She had survived the book entitled MANDY, the boss she had always been trying so desperately to impress, and BEN, the first boy she had ever had a serious crush on, when she had been thirteen years old. BEN had been a slim volume, painful but nothing she wouldn’t expect from kids of that age; MANDY had been a little tougher to get through, but at the same time it had been excusable. There had been some good points raised. Marina was capable of admitting her flaws, and yes, she had been a little too desperate to be liked. It had been embarrassing. It had been a little sad. She had been able to breathe through that one, to come at it from a place of logic, like a performance review that she knew owed her a stern bout of constructive criticism.
CLAIRE had been the most difficult one so far, and also the largest. She had read the first two thirds of the book fondly, finding it contained nothing but flattery and fond memories, and then she had reached the tumultuous period of high school and realised the depth to which Claire had used her. Claire had always been the prettier one, the smarter one – at least in Marina’s opinion. She had always felt so stupid next to Claire, and while Claire had been liable to rolling her eyes or making fun of her ignorance she had always helped her out in the end. Only then, crouched on that floor with that dreadful book, did Marina realise why Claire had kept her around; the extent to which Claire’s narcissism had been fuelled by poor little Marina’s constant missteps and mistakes. It was easy to look good, Marina realised, when there was always somebody on hand to look worse.
She knows that RUDY will destroy her; that reading about the betrayal of her childhood best friend will be nothing compared to reading about the man she loved – the man she still loves, despite her best efforts. The unwelcome truth begins on the very first page and grows only worse, a relationship built on lies, a love that was only ever ridiculed behind her back. She had known there was another woman, of course, and that was the real reason she had let them drift apart – so they could break up quietly, and she might never have to know. Now she has no choice, and at times she can barely see the page. All of those memories she thought she was making with him, he had been clenching his teeth to get through them; preparing to recreate them with her. All of those moments she had shared with him, so warm and content and happy in their little bubble, had been a lie. She had been nothing but a bank account, a place to get what he wanted when the other was unavailable. How many of their holidays had she paid for? How many times had they made memories together in a place where Rudy had talked of bringing her? Now she understands how he knew those places so well, how he could describe the hotels and their surroundings, the day trips they would take. He had been there before, with this other woman, and Marina doesn’t even want to know her name but this is a place where she has no choice but to know everything.
It’s all there. All the lies, all the secrets – all the thoughts. The thoughts! They alone take up hundreds of pages, every resentment and ridicule, every critique of her body, her personality, her interests, her views. Marina reads every single one of them, each one chipping away at something she thought she knew, that she thought she was secure in. She wants to hurl the book away from herself but she cannot bring herself to move her arms.
All she can do is rock back and forth, and read, and begin to scream.
Jon let out a deep breath, and – there, he can just about hear her. She sounded so impossibly far away, just a distant keening, something he could easily ignore if not for the guilt pooling in his gut and forcing him to keep at least a little of his attention on it. He had hoped to cure himself of this habit by this point, this strange sense of responsibility he had for the people he had watched, but really he had always known he would be wasting his time. He felt just as wretched as he always had.
He hoped Martin hadn’t stopped walking for too long.
*
Martin had told himself that his plan would be to not wander too far; to only venture to places where he could still hear the distant murmur of Jon’s voice. The place was so silent – aside from the occasional frenzied screaming or outburst of sobbing or assortment of rage-filled curses – that Martin figured it would be easy enough, but he had forgotten about the sound cancelling effects that a lot of books boasted. Even with the amount of aisles running parallel to where he was sure Jon had gone, it didn’t take Martin long to lose him.
He tried not to worry about it too much. Jon would find him again, much easier than Martin could ever hope to even stick remotely close to Jon. Still, it was unnerving being out there on his own, with nothing but the increasing dread in the pit of his stomach and the ever-alluring pull of the books.
“Really,” he muttered. “If you were so keen on having me read you, you shouldn’t have made me want to do it so badly. I mean, come on. Every horror story ever, the character goes on and on about how oh, I just couldn’t help it, it had such a draw to it, I had to look – give me a break. If you wanted me to look you should have just minded your business. Now I feel like I want to, I won’t.” Martin shot the closest shelf a reproachful glare. “I don’t like being manipulated. I’ve had enough of it lately, thank you very much.”
“That’s the thing with stuff like this,” came a voice from uncomfortably close behind him. “You don’t get a choice.”
Martin let out an undignified noise, somewhere between a yelp and a curse, and spun around. Standing only a few steps behind him was a man not far from Jon’s age, pale and with dark hair almost as unkempt as Jon’s had become. The major difference, of course, was that this man wore his hair down, and at the top of his head his roots showed a mousy, dishwater brown. He was dressed from head to toe in black, with boots so heavy that Martin wondered just how on earth he had managed to sneak up so close without being heard.
Most striking about him was the tattoos, of course – the eyes covering every knuckle of his hands, the one visible peeking out from behind the man’s choker necklace. He watched Martin studying him without comment, only folding his arms defiantly across his chest and chewing irritably at his lip ring.
“Gerry Keay,” Martin finally said.
“Yeah?” Gerry asked.
“You’re—Jon said—”
Something about Gerry’s stare made Martin fall abruptly silent. He didn’t think he had ever seen anybody care less. For a moment the silence resumed, awkward, and then Gerry raised an eyebrow.
“So,” he said. “Hope I’m not interrupting that conversation you were having with yourself. You know you’ll have to read one eventually, right?”
“No,” Martin said, a little haughtily even to his own ears. “I don’t—it doesn’t… work that way. For me. For us, I mean.”
“Ah,” Gerry said scornfully. “Well. I suppose it’s alright for some.”
“Are you—I mean, are you trapped here?”
“Yes,” Gerry said. “We’re all trapped here, in one way or another. Lucky that the place is so big, right?” He laughed, but there was absolutely no humour in it. “And there’s plenty to read.”
“You’re—I mean—wow,” Martin said, uselessly.
Somehow Gerry’s eyebrow managed to arch itself higher. “Do you want an autograph, or something?”
“No, I mean—I just—it’s weird,” Martin said hurriedly. “I’ve heard a lot about you, and uh. I didn’t expect to just run into you here? Though I suppose I should probably ask if you want to like, I don’t know, murder me horribly or something.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Just once would have been plenty of times,” Martin said. “Look, it’s—what are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” Gerry asked.
“I mean, this is where you… ended up?”
“Everyone’s gotta go somewhere.”
Martin blinked, trying desperately to glean any clues from Gerry’s words. He delivered them in a way that could almost be totally disinterested, like a grumpy teenager receiving a scolding from an exasperated teacher, but there was a venom laced through the words that Martin couldn’t help but feel targeted by. He had no idea why this man he had never even met might hate him so much, but watching how Gerry held himself and how he glanced around, Martin got the impression that Gerry’s contempt was for the entire world, and that it had been for some time. Not that Martin could blame him, exactly, if even half of what Jon had said was true, but it was still unnerving. Jon had said that none of these creatures or entities or avatars could harm them, but he hadn’t said anything about what would happen if somebody decided to just punch him in the jaw. Martin could think of no reason why Gerry would want to do that, but looking at him, he got the increasing impression that Gerry wouldn’t need a reason.
“You did beat up Leitner,” Martin said suddenly.
Gerry looked at him. “What?”
“Jon told me, uh—when he was talking to you, you mentioned that you thought you beat him up once but then you realised it was just some old man?”
“Right,” Gerry said.
“Well, when Jon was talking to Leitner – I guess he forgot to mention this?”
“A lot was going on.”
“Right. Yeah. Obviously.” Martin laughed nervously. “Well, Leitner apparently told him that once, he was walking down the street and some Goth kid beat the hell out of him?”
Martin didn’t know if he was being hopeful, but he was sure that the corner of Gerry’s mouth pulled up in a small smile.
“Whatever happened to that fucker, anyhow?” Gerry asked.
“Um,” Martin said. “He uh, died, actually. Elias… beat him to death with like, a metal pipe?”
For the first time, Gerry looked genuinely interested in what Martin was saying. “No shit?”
“No,” Martin said, with another nervous laugh. “It was a bit of a mess, actually.”
Gerry grinned, so genuine that for a moment it seemed to make him look ten years younger. All too quickly it faded, and Gerry gave an irritable sigh.
“So, you gonna pick up the book, or what?” he asked.
“The book—what?” Martin turned in the direction of Gerry’s thumb, which he had suddenly jabbed at the shelf. Next to Martin’s elbow, a book had slid itself out from the shelf, as though caught in the act of attempting to nudge him. “Oh. No way. Jon said—”
“It would be quicker and easier for both of us if you just took it.”
“I’m not going to take it,” Martin said firmly. “Whatever’s in it, I don’t want to know.”
“Exactly,” Gerry said flatly.
Martin looked at him, and then swallowed and looked back at the book. His fingers felt strange, tingling as though he had been out in the cold and abruptly returned to a room that was far too warm. He clenched his fists and unclenched them again, before shoving them deep into his pockets and shaking his head, but still the thought would not leave him.
“It doesn’t work that way for me,” he said, practically gritting his teeth.
Gerry laughed, and there was only malice in it. “Really? Forgive me. I didn’t realise you were oh-so special.”
“What do you care, anyway?” Martin snapped. “Why are you so invested in it? You know, it’s a real dick move to want someone else to suffer just because you’re having a bad time.”
“Oh no,” Gerry said blandly. “I’m so mean.”
“What is your problem?”
“Do you think I have a choice in this?” Gerry suddenly snapped. “Will you just get it over with?”
“No!” Martin said. “I’m not going to—”
“Gerry?”
The aisle was narrow; only when Gerry stepped slightly to the side and turned around did Martin catch a glimpse of Jon. He felt his shoulders slump with relief, smiling nervously as Jon looked from Gerry to Martin questioningly.
“Archivist,” Gerry spat, and before Martin could do a thing to stop him he had pulled his fist back and punched Jon square in the mouth.
*
Jon had no time to register what was happening – there was just pain, and the taste of blood in his mouth, and then a lot of yelling. Jon stumbled back several steps, reaching up instinctively, feeling warm blood dripping through his fingers. His lip felt as though it was on fire, and hesitantly he pressed his tongue against his teeth, relieved to find that they were all still present and accounted for. He had a brief opportunity to think about straightening up, but another blow hit him directly on the ear and sent him stumbling against the bookshelves, where he was able to regain his balance and look up just in time to see Gerry being lifted bodily off the ground by Martin, who had his arms clasped quite firmly around Gerry’s chest. Gerry seemed unconcerned for the moment, still spitting obscenities and kicking out wildly in the hope that Jon would miraculously come into range; Martin spun him around and threw him quite unceremoniously against the ground with enough force that Gerry’s cursing broke off in a sudden and painful oof. Leaving him wheezing on the floor, Martin darted to Jon’s side, flushed with what Jon knew was anger rather than exertion.
“Jon? Are you alright?”
It was several moments before Jon could answer – Martin was turning his face this way and that, pressing his thumb against the cut on his lip.
“I’m fine,” Jon finally managed. “Really, it’s – it’s healing already.”
“Good,” Martin said, breathless. “That’s good.” He paused. “I’ve never been in a fight before.”
“You’d be good at it,” Jon said.
From behind Martin came a muffled curse; Martin turned, keeping Jon a half-step behind him, as Gerry stumbled back to his feet. Thankfully it seemed as though the urge for immediate violence had left him; with a reassuring look at Martin, Jon stepped forward, Martin reluctantly moving his arm from where he had braced it against the bookshelf to keep Jon out of Gerry’s immediate reach.
“Gerry,” Jon said again.
“Fuck you,” Gerry spat.
“You’ve made that sentiment quite clear,” Jon said, pressing his finger against his lip again. It was no longer bleeding, but he could feel his pulse in the swollen flesh, and when he talked he could feel his lip in new ways he was not comfortable with. “I suppose we parted on worse terms than I initially believed.”
“Oh, we parted fine,” Gerry said. “It was just the whole ending the fucking world thing that did it for me.”
“Yes, well,” Jon said uncomfortably.
“How does everyone know about that?” Martin asked, annoyed.
“It wasn’t difficult to work out,” Gerry said shortly. He turned back to Jon. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Believe it or not,” Jon said, “I didn’t do it on purpose. I know everybody seems to think I did this deliberately, for some great laugh at everyone’s expense, but I actually would prefer it if the world hadn’t ended.”
“Yeah, right,” Gerry snorted. “I know what your lot are like. You do want to, don’t you? Deep down? Even through all the horror and the revulsion, you wanted to see what would happen.”
Jon swallowed. He didn’t have anything to say to that. He hadn’t even considered it at first – his horror and revulsion had been overwhelming, and it still was. When he thought about what had happened, he was incapable of focusing on much else. Now Gerry said the words, he realised it was true. It had always been true. As much as he had been horrified over what he was becoming, there had been a part of him that had been curious, even delighted. Something new, something interesting – something that nobody else had ever or could ever do, and it was his. There was a flicker of pride there, a flicker of gratifying satisfaction.
“Yeah,” Gerry said, curling his lip in distain. “I thought so.”
“You’re not here as a victim, are you?” Jon asked quietly.
“No,” Gerry snapped. “I’m not.”
Martin looked at Jon, and then at Gerry, and then back to Jon again. “Wait. He’s—he’s an avatar?”
“This is his domain,” Jon said bluntly. He tried to hold on to the disbelief, to the shock, but it faded too quickly and left nothing behind but despair and guilt. “Gerry. I’m sorry.”
“Fat lot of good that’ll do,” Gerry said.
“How is it his fault?” Martin asked.
“Oh, uh, let’s see, maybe because he ended the fucking world?” Gerry demanded. “If it hadn’t been for that dickhead—”
“If it hadn’t been for Elias, more like,” Martin interrupted. “You do realise that Elias turned out to be Jonah Magnus, right? And for like, two hundred years he’s been sitting in his office rubbing his evil little hands together and planning this? How often were you in the Institute? If you were so good at working all this apparently easy stuff out, why didn’t you go up there and stab his eyes out or something?”
“Martin,” Jon said wearily.
“What?” Martin demanded. “Why didn’t he? Jon, don’t look like that. You don’t honestly think this is your fault, do you?”
“Oh, my mistake,” Gerry said sarcastically. “I forgot you could just walk in to the omnipotent dude’s office with the intention to maim him.”
“Worth a shot,” Martin fired back. “But I suppose punching Jon is easier, right? Just like punching old men.”
“I’ll try my chances with you and all,” Gerry snapped.
“Do it,” Martin said.
“For God’s sake,” Jon said. “Listen. Gerry. I am sorry. I didn’t want this for you, and if there was anything I could do—”
“You could kill him,” Martin muttered.
“Martin,” Jon began, but Gerry laughed.
“Yeah, Archivist,” he said. “I’ve heard you can do that.”
Jon sighed. “Do you want me to?”
“Would you do it, if I asked?” Gerry asked. “Would you be capable of that? It’s different, when you hate them.”
“If you asked me to,” Jon said tiredly, “I would do it. I owe you that, at the very least.”
All the energy seemed to have left him. He felt his shoulders sag, the weight of his backpack suddenly three times as much. He didn’t want to kill Gerry. That was the last thing he wanted – all he had ever wanted to do was help him, but he hadn’t even managed to do that. He had tried, of course, but it had been too difficult in America, and there had been no opportunity, and then he had had to go back, there had been the Unknowing… he had never forgotten Gerry, but it hadn’t been as though he’d been close by. Jon had worked on various ideas, but it was always on the backburner, second to whatever other disaster he was having to deal with.
Now he had to face the facts that even if he had somehow managed to free Gerry from the Hunters, he wouldn’t have been able to protect him from this. Jon would have doomed him along with everybody else, and judging from the way Gerry was staring at him, he knew it well.
“This is where I should say yes,” Gerry said. “I’m tempted, just to go out knowing I punished you at least a little.”
“You little shit,” Martin said.
“Martin,” Jon sighed. “I get it.”
“I’m not going to,” Gerry said finally. “Do you know why?” He paused, and then laughed. “Stupid question, really. You know everything now. Catch Martin up, Archivist. What’s the deal with this? My little slice of the apocalypse?”
Jon closed his eyes. In the momentary silence he became aware that he could no longer feel the throbbing at his lip – it had already healed. A sudden wave of sickening shame forced him to open his eyes again, and when he spoke it was in an exhausted monotone.
“Here is everything you don’t want to know,” he said quietly. “Knowledge as a double-edged sword: the satisfaction of knowing, the excitement of being privy to something that many people simply pass by, membership in the elite group that has seen too much and now has to face the world knowing what they now know. The inherent loneliness in that; the lies that people tell themselves to avoid it; the gut-wrenching grief that comes from realising that a life has not been what it seemed; the dizzying horror that comes from facing a world that made sense a moment ago and now no longer does.”
“Very poetic,” Gerry said.
“This would have been yours anyway, Gerry,” Jon continued. “You know that. You were too deeply marked. You made your choice in increments, but you still made it.”
“Shut up,” Gerry snapped. “Don’t you think I know that already? I don’t need to hear it from your mouth.”
“I did the same thing,” Jon said. “Piece by piece, question by question. I sought it out. I wanted to know. I thought the price would always be worth it. So did you.”
Gerry glared, but he caught his lip ring between his teeth again, nibbling at it erratically.
“If I’d known…” Jon said.
“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have made the same choices,” Gerry snapped. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have still chosen this.”
“No,” Jon said. “We both know that isn’t true. I would have tried harder, in America. I would have—I would have tried to give you some freedom, before you lost it forever.”
Gerry stared for a moment, his face carefully blank, and then he shook his head.
“Whatever. Look, you know why I won’t ask you to kill me?”
“Why?”
“Because this place tells me things I don’t want to hear as well,” Gerry said. His flippant tone was betrayed by how he crossed his arms across his chest again, his hand tapping restlessly off his elbow. “They say that when you’re sick, part of your survival chances are your attitude. It’s not like how those essential oils quacks will tell you, mind over matter, manifesting health or whatever – but it’s true that when you reach a certain point you can give up on life, and you can decline quickly, and you can just… die. Sometimes you’re up against something you can’t fight against, but sometimes, if the odds are there, however slim? You might make it, if you’re stubborn enough.
“That’s what happened to me. When I was sick, when I was in the hospital after those seizures, after the operation, I could have died. I could have done, and I did think about it. I was so sick, and the road to whatever recovery I had the slim chance of making would be tough and god-awful, and then I had some serious medical debt to look at, and the whole thing was just a mess. I didn’t have much to live for, and I thought you know what, I’ll just die. Close curtain, you know? I told myself I didn’t know why I didn’t die in the end; told myself it was just sheer luck, one of those things. But I know now it was because I realised that that was the only choice in my life that had ever been mine. To live, or to die. I thought, I can choose. There was nobody making my choices for me in that moment. For the first time in my life I was free, and it was standing on that threshold. Now, it would have been worth it to die knowing that – I would have been content enough. But now that freedom was there; now I knew it was possible? I wanted to see if there was more of it. I wanted to go after it. So I chose to live.”
Gerry paused, and then gave a cruel, humourless laugh.
“And then I went to the Hunters’ captivity, and then to this. Pretty stupid, huh? I should ask you to kill me now – that’s a choice, right? But I won’t, because I know – even though I don’t want to know, I know – that deep down inside me I still want to fucking live.”
Jon swallowed. “Gerry, I—”
“Get out,” Gerry snapped. “Just leave.”
“I’m sorry,” Jon said helplessly.
“You’re sorry?” Gerry asked. “Then fix this mess. Put everything back. Then maybe I’ll consider it.”
“I’m trying,” Jon said. “We’re trying. We’ll try to work something out. Whatever it is, we’ll try.”
“Right,” Gerry said dismissively. “Good luck with that. Because I tell you what – this looks pretty irreversible to me.”
“That’s something you don’t know,” Martin said. “That’s something neither of you can know.”
“You really think you’re gonna catch a break like that, after everything that’s happened?” Gerry asked. “After everything you’ve seen, and you still think this is going to have a storybook ending?” He laughed. “I wish I could still believe that shit.” He turned back to Jon. “Goodbye, Archivist. If you survive to slink back in defeat, don’t come by this way.”
Jon watched as Gerry turned, quickly vanishing into the dim shadows of the aisles. He stood for a long time afterwards, too, until finally he felt Martin place a hand gently on his arm, and he allowed himself to be led away. He turned his head slowly, hoping for one last glance of Gerry – for what, he had no idea – but nothing moved. The aisle remained dim, and motionless, and heavy with the scent of books.