Visioness (26 page)

PART THREE

The Distance of a Mind

Adabelle took a furtive step
across the street, glancing up and down the road before she crossed. Now was
the time when she could make the most movement freely. Now, before the police
began their search for her, before they would hunt her down as the main
suspect; before they locked her up away from her sister.

I can still watch her from
afar,
she
thought, as she glanced up and down the street, keeping an eye out for the
police’s uniform.
So long as I am free out here, I can watch her closely.

Of very few things Adabelle
was certain, especially now, but she knew for the time she had to avoid the
Halls of the Oen’Aerei. She had to keep a distance from there, else risk being
seen there by Lady Morphier or one of her people. She was to be a wanted woman;
she had to keep to the shadows.

She paused on the roadside,
stopping to take a look at the University building. The once brilliant square
building on the corner of the street was now a blackened mess. The stone bricks
were tarnished with ash, windows blasted out from the heat, the dead husk still
billowing with smoke. The steps upon which her mother had left here were dusted
with ash, the front doors broken from their hinges. That place, that once
sacred spot, was now a ruin. As if Therron could take any more from her. She
wiped aside a tear and raced up the street, gaining some distance between her
and the shelter.

Adabelle ran towards the
Odilla Bank, a tall sandstone building, with mighty pillars and friezes
depicting ancient gods doing battle. One of the oldest buildings in the city,
the bank building was two floors of stone and glass, ornately decorated with
images of brilliance and grandeur.

When she entered through the
huge open doors, she was greeted with the rabble of people discussing their
funds. There were tellers sitting behind glass walls, checking ledgers, and
reams upon reams of paper. Adabelle approached the nearest teller, who looked
up from her desk as she approached.

“Hello, my name is Adabelle
Blaise,” she said, a little quietly so as to avoid being heard. “I have lost my
bank book. I was wondering if I’d be able to draw out some funds?”

“Of course,” the teller
said. “Do you have some form of identification on you?”

“None, sadly,” she said. “I
was in that fire at the university last night. I needed to get some money out
to look after my sister, and I lost most everything.”

“Well in that case, I’ll go
get the ledger. If you can provide me with some details, we should be fine.”

The woman left to collect
the ledger, returning with a tome marked in gold on the spine, “BLA-BUL,” and
began searching at the start of the ledger.

“Your name?”

“Adabelle Blaise.”

“Parent names?”

“Nynette Blaise and Therron
Blaise.”

She hardly considered him a
father now, except on paper.

The questions continued,
piling one on another, until she said, “Those are all fine. Now,” she turned
the page,” I’ll just check the current balance.” Her finger ran down the page.
She paused, turning the page, looking somewhat concerned.

“I’m sorry, Adabelle, it
appears there are no funds in that account. It was complete emptied this
morning by…”she ran her finger across the page. “Your father Therron. He
emptied it not an hour ago.”

Adabelle’s heart sunk deep
into the pit of her stomach.

“But how is that possible.
He’s dead. He’s been dead for years.”

The teller examined the
book, checking a short list at the top. “Names are kept on accounts; they are
permanently attached. On this account are Mr. Therron Blaise, Mrs. Nynette
Blaise, Miss Adabelle Blaise and Miss Charlotte Blaise. That is your family,
yes?”

Names on accounts even after
death,
Adabelle though, confused.
That seems like an awfully odd flaw.

“Yes,” Adabelle said
sharply. “What kind of security do you keep in order to insure transactions are
done correctly?”

“Well we have signature
samples, we check identification, papers, letters, handwriting. From the looks
of things, Therron was checked with signature samples, paperwork,
identification. He hasn’t dealt with this account for at least fifteen
years…no…eighteen! In cases like that we require that form of identification.”
She pulled out a file draw on the opposite wall, taking out a small card.
“Here’s the signature.”

Sure enough, there was the
name, Therron Blaise. How had he managed that?

“Does it say who dealt with
him?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll go and
ask.”

“Can you please just find
out what he looked like?” Adabelle said. If there was an agent of some kind on
her trail, she needed to know what to look out for.

“I’ll be back shortly.”

Adabelle’s mind reeled as
she stood there, shocked. She wondered how he could have managed such a brave
feat. It was dangerous, she realised, to even be here now. The police…detective
Olin would surely begin his search soon for her. Once they knew she hadn’t just
gone out for a short walk.

The teller returned. “He was
a tall man. Thin, bald, pale skin, green eyes. Wore a suit.”

Well that’s not father at
all.

“And you’re certain the
account has been emptied?” she asked.

“Absolutely. The verifying
signature here states that it has been emptied.”

“But it hasn’t been closed?”

“No, not closed. Just
emptied. In order to close it he would need the verifying signatures of all
account holder names.”

“Very well,” Adabelle said,
containing her anger. She wanted to scream at the woman, at the bank itself for
performing such a foolish action. She wanted to enter the Dream, chase her
father down and kill him where he stood. But she couldn’t; those kinds of
actions would go nowhere. She had to be a different kind of strong today. She
had to be quietly strong, and stand tall where Therron wanted her to waver and
break, like a tree in a storm. “Thank you,” she said, containing her anger
boiling deep below. She left.

Stepping out onto the
street, she glanced towards the setting sun. Night time would come shortly, and
she still had nowhere to sleep. Quickly considering her options, she found a
handful of coins in her pocket and bought herself a blanket for the night from
one stall, and a loaf of bread from a bakery. The bread was dry, but a welcome
addition to her stomach, and the blanket scratchy and thin, but it was all she
could afford. She had a handful of coins left in her pocket for later on, when
she would require more food.

Night fell and the street
lamps illuminated themselves, basking the rues and avenues in a golden,
electric glow. Within one of the many thin alleyways, she found a shadowed spot
between some bins and settled down upon the hard, uneven surface to sleep. It
wouldn’t be an easy night, but here, in the shadows, she might find some
modicum of safety.

There was a struggle falling
asleep on the firm cobbles, but she eventually managed some thin vestige of a
rest there on the cold ground. The alley was cold, but her blanket was warm
enough to fight away the bite of the breeze.

She awoke cold, her stomach
grumbling, her back sore. She quickly decided she would never take a bed with a
mattress and blankets for granted again. She had survived her first night on
the street, and that alone was an achievement to be proud of. When she stepped
out on the streets, where the first few collections of people were beginning
their ways to work and about their chores, she realised the real hunt for her
would begin. She imagined wanted posters with her likeness appearing about the
city. She had to change at some point today. She had to become a new woman.

In the bins outside a closed
restaurant, she found a blunted knife, old and stained and a little cracked
from where an angry chef had let out his anger at his broken tool. With that,
she sliced away section after section of hair, hacking through her ebony
strands, watching it come away in clumps. Sawing through the mass, she
eventually stood before a pile of black hair, glistening with crystals of her
own tears. Her face and dress were dirty, the blanket draped around her
shoulders like a shawl, her hair uneven and clumped; she was a mess. But she
was also unrecognisable from the woman she was before. That would be her
protection.

Sure enough, by that
afternoon, wanted posters had begun to appear about Odilla, down every rue,
avenue and boulevard. Her beautiful face stared at her, printed in
black-and-white. That woman there had shoulder-length black hair, smooth dark
skin, brown eyes and a soft nose. The girl who stared at the picture was dirty
and ill and cold.

I’m unrecognisable,
she thought.
But it’s
what I need to be. It’s what I have to be.

Later in the afternoon, she
found a homeless shelter that was handing out soup and a bed for the night.
They were only open twice a week, due to minimal funding from outside sources,
but Adabelle was quick to decide that two nights a week were better than none.
She went inside and found the room bustling with men and women, all of them
bedraggled, all of them dirty. There was the hint of human body odour present,
but Adabelle could barely smell it over her own, yet stronger than that was the
scent of food. Bread rolls and a rich, vegetable-filled stew sat atop a gas
stovetop, as a set of five people ladled out the food. Adabelle’s eyes lit up
at the sight of the food, and she quickly got in line.

“Good evening, miss,” said
the lady handing out bowls and spoons.”

“Good evening,” Adabelle
replied.

“Will you be taking a bed
here tonight?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” Adabelle
replied, nodding, eyes still fixed upon the food.

“Well if you’ll please write
down your name here,” she handed her a clip board and a piece of paper. “We
just have to track who’s coming and going to make sure we have enough beds.”

“Yes,” Adabelle said. She
scribbled down the first name that came to mind—Nynette Therron—she did it
without hesitation so as to not rouse suspicion.

“Very good,” the lady said.
“Now here’s a bowl and some bread. Enjoy your dinner.”

Adabelle welcomed the bowl
of soup and bread. It was warm and spicy, and the vegetables soft from sitting
in the warm broth. She finished the first helping, by which time they announced
there was enough for everyone to get a second helping if they desired. Adabelle
did so, knowing this might be the last time for a while she would sleep with a
full stomach.

Once that was done, the
people who were staying the night helped shift the tables and chairs aside. It
was at this point she realised that some of the people who had come for dinner
were families who had homes but couldn’t afford food. The hall quietened with their
leaving. With the furniture out of the way, cots were set up in rows, with the
women and the children that remained on one side of the hall, the men on the
other. Adabelle felt sad at her own situation, but in many ways, this was her
own choice. Some of these people had no other option.

Growing up a child of the
street,
she
thought, noticing how many of these children still seemed happy somehow.
I
can barely fathom any of it.

That night she slept
soundly, keeping her own blanket close to her alongside the thick one they had
supplied her. Curled up on the soft cot, she slept deeply and without any
dreams to stir her.

When she awoke, she found a
supply of toast in paper bags on the counter. It was cold, and scraped with
butter, but it was better than nothing so she ate it gratefully. Yet as she sat
on the edge of the cot, she looked about the room and found her eyes settling
on one figure, that had only just entered the room and had begun to speak with
the lady handing out toast.

“Detective Olin,” she whispered,
getting up suddenly. She grabbed her blanket tightly in her grasp, and began
her way to the door, attempting to look as casual as she could. Somehow—she did
not know how—she managed to slip past the pair talking without a second glance
and out the door onto the street.

They know I’m on the run,
then,
she
thought, as she raced up the street, cold toast in one hand, blanket in the
other.
They’re searching for me.

The wanted signs spoke of a
dangerous woman who had committed murders and arson, and yet if they saw her
now, they would see a frightened woman. She was nervous and jumpy and exhausted
from running, yet she had to run. So long as she ran, she was safe from the
authorities and safe from the father that hunted her.

In the back of her mind, she
kept a checklist of things she had to be wary of.

Detective Olin, my father, a
tall, bald man with green eyes.
All of these she had to remember, all of these she had to
avoid if she were to remain safe.

Yet beside that list was
another, of those things that bound her to Odilla. Most would argue that
leaving the city would be the safest option. Eventually, if she evaded them
long enough, the scale of the search would grow to a national level. But for a
little while—a
very
little while—she would find some peace elsewhere.
But she had Charlotte to think of, and Rhene. She had to stay close to them,
remember them, so that when a chance for freedom arrived, she knews they were
close.