The Dead and the Dying (21 page)

Today

Paula Clarke

"Are you ready?"

I stare at the tools on the workbench. There's a set of pliers, and various knives, and three different hammers of varying sizes. My eyes are drawn, however, to the bone-saw; with its serrated round blade, it's the most horrific thing I've ever seen. The noise it makes when it cuts through bone is horrific, like something from hell, and the mere thought of using that thing again is filling me with fear.

"Paula. Are you ready?"

I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. I'm not sure how long I've been standing here like this, but I know I'm delaying the inevitable. I'm in far, far too deep now. According to Dr. Huston, I've already killed four people, even if I don't remember doing it. I wish my memory was more reliable. Other people can remember the things they do, but I seem to be blocking the recognition of my crimes. Still, Dr. Huston has told me in great detail about every murder I've committed, and I have no reason to doubt her. I guess I just have to get on with this and make sure I don't make any mistakes. The last thing I want is to let Dr. Huston down.

"Paula. Look at me."

Turning, I see her standing nearby. She has a concerned, almost motherly look in her eyes; it's not an expression I've seen very often in my life, at least not on people who are looking at
me
. The truth is, Dr. Huston is the first person who's ever really seemed to understand me, and she's certainly the first person who's ever cared. She's clearly putting herself in danger by being here with me, but she wants to help me and - without her - I'd probably be in an even bigger mess. I need to ignore my own thoughts, and focus instead on doing what I'm told. Dr. Huston's smart. She'll make sure that everything's okay. I trust her implicitly.

"Do you realize that you're on the verge of something exquisite?" she asks. "You're going to finish the murder that Sam Gazade started twelve years ago. Joanna Mason has had twelve extra years of life that she should never have been given. Most people, when they copy the murders of another artist, are forced to aimlessly mimic the things that have already been done. You, though, have turned this into the most wonderful experiment, and now you're going to fuse your own deeds with those of Gazade. He's your inspiration, and you're going to complete the job that he started all those years ago. Aren't you proud, Paula? Don't you feel as if you've been called upon to perform a great service for the world?"

I swallow hard.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"I don't understand," I say after a moment, trying not to let her realize that I' m close to tears. "I don't get why we're doing this."

"But you trust me, don't you?"

I nod.

"You trust me with your life," she adds. "
Don't
you?"

I nod again.

"Say it."

"I trust you," I say, even though my voice is trembling. "I trust you with my life and all my heart."

"Don't be scared," she continues, stepping closer. "The first cut will be easy. You just have to find the scar from where Sam Gazade cut her, and re-open it. Your master has literally left a mark on this woman's body, showing you where to cut. Do you see what I mean, Paula? It's almost as if he knew you'd be coming along eventually." As she stares at me, her eyes seem to be alive with excitement, as if she's keenly anticipating the moment of truth. "You know he's still alive, Paula? Sam Gazade will learn that you've finished his job for him. Can you imagine how proud he'll be, as he waits for his execution? He'll never be forgotten."

I nod, even though I'm starting to feel nauseous. Dr. Huston keeps telling me that I've done this kind of thing before, but if I don't remember it, I can't draw on that strength. It's as if this is my first time all over again. I still don't feel like a killer; it's as if that switch hasn't been flicked in my heart. Still, Dr. Huston says that's exactly what I am: a killer. I guess she knows best.

"You want Sam Gazade to be proud, don't you?" she asks.

I nod.

"Is that what you want?"

I pause, wondering whether this is a trick question. "Yes," I say uncertainly, even though I immediately realize that I'm not quite sure what she wants to hear.

"That's the wrong answer," she says with a sigh. "Paula, the man is a misogynistic pig. His pride will quickly be swept away when he realizes that the person who completed his work is a woman. You know Gazade's views on women, Paula. He hates us. He thinks we're inferior. And yet a woman is going to do what he
couldn't
. It's the ultimate repudiation of his view views. His pride will be replaced by a kind of blind fury." She places a hand on my shoulder. "Come on. Be brave, Paula. Just a little longer. I wouldn't have brought you to this moment if I wasn't absolutely certain that you've got what it takes."

Even though my hands are shaking, I gather up the tools and allow Dr. Huston to lead me over to the door. In the next room, Joanna Mason is tied to a table, still unconscious. It's hard to believe that I'm the kind of person who could ever do something like this, and yet according to Dr. Huston I've done it many times before. I've stepped over the line and into the darkness, and I've already got blood on my hands. Besides, this is all part of Dr. Huston's work. She's my teacher, and I'm her student, and together we're conducting the most important study into criminality and sociological response that has ever been dared.

"Does that have to be on?" I ask, looking over at the video camera that's recording every moment of these events. The little red light seems to be staring at me, and I can't help feeling uncomfortable as I imagine the image being recorded at this very moment.

"Of course," she replies. "We need to be able to go over the footage, Paula. This is a scientific study, and we'll need to examine these events repeatedly. Besides, we'll also need to include the footage when we write up the reports. There'll be people out there who won't believe that we were capable of doing all this, because we're women. We'll have to show them that they're wrong." She pauses. "Don't worry, though. I'll be watching from the other room. I'll just be a few meters away, ready to step in if you need me."

"You're not coming in with me?" I ask, turning to her. I was just about getting used to the idea that I could do this with her help, but the thought of not having her by my side is shocking. There's no way I can do this alone.

"Sam Gazade worked alone," she replies calmly. "We have to replicate his methods as much as possible, don't we? The camera's hooked up to my laptop, so I'll be with you every step of the way. You can do this, Paula. The only thing to fear is your own sense of doubt. If Sam Gazade could do something like this, then so can you." She pauses. "Do you still not remember all the other times you followed in Gazade's path? Do you not remember your other victims, Paula?"

I shake my head. The truth is, even though I've tried hard to remember what it's like to kill someone, I wouldn't even know about those murders if Dr. Huston wasn't constantly reminding me. Apart from Harry Gillespie, at least; I remember killing him, but that's probably just because Dr. Huston's hands were on mine, helping me to drive the blade into his body.

"She's dreaming," Dr. Huston says, as Mason makes a slight groaning sound. "The chloroform will wear off soon. You need to get on with this, Paula. Just remember to look for the scar and cut in the same place. After that, you need to use Gazade's notebook and follow his original plans step by step. Complete his work for him and make him see that a mere woman can do everything that he couldn't. Take his crimes away from him."

"Can't you stay?" I ask.

"Don't be weak," she replies firmly. "You're not a scared little girl, Paula. You're a strong, independent woman who can do this without having someone to hold her hand. I'll be watching from the next room."

I open my mouth to tell her that I'm scared, but at the last minute the words catch in the back of my throat. As Dr. Huston heads through to the next room, I stare at Mason's prone form and realize that I have to face up to my responsibilities. I'm not the kind of person who turns and runs from a challenge. Dr. Huston's right: I'm going to prove that a woman can get the job done, and I'm going to make that misogynistic asshole Sam Gazade see that a woman has done the one thing that he was never able to do. I'm going to kill this Joanna Mason woman, and then...

And then...

I guess I'll have to wait and see what Dr. Huston thinks I should do next. For now, I just need to focus on the task at hand. With the bone-saw in my shaking hand, I walk over to the table and look down at Mason's unconscious face. Twelve years ago, Sam Gazade came within seconds of killing her. Today, I'm going to go one better.

Joanna Mason

When I wake up, the first thing I realize is that my head is pounding. I open my eyes, but it's as if someone's running a jackhammer through my brain. There's also a strong metallic taste in my mouth, which I immediately recognize as the tell-tale sign of a certain type of chloroform. I've tasted it before, a long time ago, and it sends a wave of panic through my body. It's the same stuff that Sam Gazade used to knock me out. Trying to stay focused, I sit up, but something's hold me down.

My hands and legs are tied down.

Just like before.

I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm even though I can already feel the panic taking hold. So far, this is
exactly
how things were twelve years ago. Staring up at the ceiling, I see a corrugated tin roof, as if I'm in some kind of shack. I pause for a moment, hoping against hope that this might be a nightmare, but as I struggle with the ropes, I realize that this is no dream. Still, there's no way it can be happening again. Sam Gazade is still in his cell, which means...

I hear a sound nearby.

It's not loud, but it's definitely there. It's as if someone is shuffling across the floor, and despite the daze from the chloroform, I'm immediately on alert, my mind racing as I try to work out how the hell I'm going to get free.

"Hello?" I say, my voice sounding frail and scared. It's been a long time since I sounded like that. "I know you're there, so..."

Silence.

Trying to stay calm, I pull at the ropes, but they're tied securely and I seem to have been tethered to some kind of table. I try again, but there's clearly no way to get loose. This is exactly the same as before. It's as if someone has created a kind of tribute to Sam Gazade's barbarity, and I'm the main part of the recreation.

"What are you waiting for?" I ask, hoping to get some answers. There has to be a way out of this situation. I found a solution twelve years ago, and I'm going to find a solution this time too. Sam Gazade wasn't able to kill me, and this copycat sure as hell isn't going to do any better. In fact, as I wait for the bastard to reply, I feel my panic being replaced by anger. How the hell does someone figure they have the right to do this? Pulling harder and harder against the ropes, I finally let out a gasp of frustration.

After a moment, I hear someone coming closer. Seconds later, a cold hand lifts my shirt before slipping the side of my trousers down. It's as if they're trying to find the scar from where Gazade cut into my pelvis. I try to twist away, but it's no use.

"What do you want?" I ask, even though I already know the answer. I try to look down at whoever's doing this, but my neck is tied to the table and I can't get a proper view. "Sam Gazade talked, you know! He didn't tie my neck, either. You're doing it all fucking wrong! Do you realize that?"

I feel the cold hands brushing against my scar, before a single finger traces the line. I've never let anyone touch my scar, but this time I'm powerless to resist.

"You need to at least let me see your face," I continue, desperately trying to buy some time so that I can think of a way out. "Gazade was a hell of a talker. What's wrong? Haven't you got that in you?"

Seconds later, there's the unmistakeable sound of a bone-saw starting up. It's a sound that has haunted my dreams for more than a decade, and the thought of that serrated circular blade spinning near my flesh is enough to tighten my chest with fear.

"No!" I shout, trying to pull free once again. "Stop!"

As I continue to struggle, I brace myself for the incision. I know it's coming. I still remember, like it was yesterday, the feeling of that spinning blade as its teeth ground into my bone. All I can think about is that I have to get out of here, but as each second passes without the blade entering my body, I feel my fear being ratcheted up a notch. This bastard is taunting me, teasing me with the prospect of my own pain. I've spent the past twelve years trying to get past this horror, and now some lunatic is about to send me straight back to hell. This can't be happening.

"Stop!" I scream, finally losing the battle to keep myself under control. "I'll do anything! Just stop! Please!"

I wait.

No reply.

Just the spinning of the blade.

"You don't want to do this," I say finally, figuring that my only chance is to try talking this person out of what they're about to do to me. "I can tell. You're not like Gazade. Not really. He enjoyed killing people. He lived for the moment when he could take another life. I saw his eyes as he was working on me, and I could see the ecstasy. I can't see your eyes, but if you let me, I'm certain I won't see the same hatred." I wait for a reply. "At least let me see your face. If you're really determined to kill me, and if you really want to copy Sam Gazade, then you have to do what he did. You have to look me in the eye."

I can hear someone moving nearby, but the blade is still spinning. I wait breathlessly for some kind of response. Sam Gazade would have started cutting by now.

"You don't want to do this," I say again, starting to believe that it's true. "You really don't. You're forcing yourself, pushing yourself, but all this killing and torture and pain... it's not you. Not the
real
you, anyway."

I wait for a reply.

"Let me see you," I continue, and then finally I decide that I have to take a risk. "Paula?" I ask, thinking back to that weird girl I met at the university campus. I'm not certain that she's the one holding the saw, and it could just as easily be Dr. Huston or perhaps even someone else entirely, but I have to go with my instincts. After all, it's my instincts that have saved me so many times before. Dawson hates it when I make these huge leaps in logic, but sometimes I feel a thread of truth and follow it. I don't even know how it works. I just know that, most times, I'm right. "Paula, it's okay," I add. "There's a way back from this. You don't want to kill me. Put the saw down and we'll talk."

I wait. My heart's pounding, as if it might burst out of my chest at any moment.

"At least let me know if I'm right," I say. "Gazade always faced his victims at the end. If you can't do that, you're nothing like him. You're not even close. I need to see your face, Paula. You owe me that. I dare you to look me in the eye."

Seconds later, I feel her cold finger brushing against my scar again. It's as if she's still trying to trace the line, to locate the perfect starting point. I swear to God, I've never let anyone touch the scar before, partly because the skin is still so sensitive, even after all these years, and partly because I don't want to be reminded of what happened.

"Look at me!" I say firmly, starting to let my anger show. "Look me in the fucking eyes!"

I feel the tip of her finger run across the smooth ridge of the scar, feeling the tiny ridge of skin.

"Look at me!" I shout. "Don't just -"

Before I can finish, I feel the tip of the bone-saw plunge into my flesh, ripping the scar apart as the blade spins furiously through the meat until it starts to grind against my pelvis. A flash of pain rips through my body and I can't help but scream. It's as if none of the past twelve years have happened, and I'm still back on Gazade's table, strapped down and ready to die. This time, however, the bone-saw is going deeper, and I can feel the vibrations passing all the way through my skeleton. Still screaming, I feel hot, wet blood on my skin as the saw's angle changes slightly. If this is Paula, she's going further and deeper than Gazade ever managed. Last time, I'd managed to get free by this point, but as I grip the sides of the table and try to fight the pain -

Suddenly I feel it.

The table leg is loose, just like last time.

In fact,
exactly
like last time.

For a fraction of a second, I don't react. It's as if I can't believe that the same thing could be happening again. Then again, I don't believe in coincidences, so for some insane reason this has to be intentional. Before I know what's really happening, I start pulling on the leg and manage to get it loose; seconds later, I manage to swing it down toward my attacker, and I feel it make contact with a human body. The bone-saw is still grinding into my pelvis, but when I reach down, I realize that no-one's holding it. Somehow, despite the fact that I'm starting to feel light-headed, I manage to pull the saw away, before using it to carefully cut the ropes that are holding me down. Finally, I sit up and see that Paula Clarke is stumbling over to the door, holding the side of her head. Looking down, I see that the bottom of the table leg is bloodied, which I guess means I hit her hard.

Freeing myself from the last of the ropes, I slide off the table. I'm bleeding heavily and I know it's only a matter of time before I pass out. I grab a rag from a nearby bench and try to staunch the flow of blood, but my head feels dizzy and I'm convinced I've only got a few seconds left. As I stumble across the room, I spot a video camera pointed straight at me, with a bright red light on the front indicating that it's recording. Nearby, I spot my jacket, and when I hurry over and go through the pockets, I find that my phone is in there. I quickly turn it on and bring up Dawson's number. It's hard to believe that the exact same thing could be happening again, but as I drop to my knees, I realize that this is how it was always supposed to be. The copycat, for some reason, was copying every aspect of Gazade's crimes, even down to the failure to kill me.

She
wanted
me to escape.

"Where have you been?" Dawson asks as he answers. "I've been trying to -"

"Help me!" I splutter, with blood in my mouth. "It's happening again!"

"What's happening again?"

"Track my phone," I whisper, before dropping the handset. I try to get to my feet, but the effort is too much and I collapse onto my side. I can hear Dawson's voice screaming at me from the phone, but I can't make out anything that he's saying. Closing my eyes, I feel myself drifting deeper and deeper into darkness, much deeper than ever before, and finally I realize that maybe, this time, no-one's going to find me in time. At least this way, I went out fighting, which beats dying of cancer any day.