Page 5 of Deviant

“Tell me it’s notthatstory?” he says before casting his eyes about like he’s afraid someone might overhear.

I don’t know how he knows. I certainly didn’t tell him, but it makes me nervous all the same because some one knows. Someone has clearly been talking.

“It’s none of your business.” I murmur.

“I am sub-editor of this…”

“It won’t be published in the Gazette.” I state. Like I’d be stupid enough to take that route. I’d be the one dispatched before the copy even got sent for proof.

His jaw tightens, as does the hand that wraps around my wrist. “Ana, I know you’re not an idiot, but…”

“Then why are you talking to me like I am one?” I retort, my pride overriding my more rational thoughts. Oh, I know it’s a failing, I know I should work on it, but hell, when you’re constantly surrounded by egotistical a-holes who seem to bathe in their entitlement like it’s an artform, well, it’s hard to not to dial up your own sense of worth to match it.

“Ana,” he says, before leading me further from the crowd. “You know I care about you…”

“This has nothing to do with us.” I half-hiss, half-whisper. As if what we are, what we stupidly were is even relevant. Besides, there is no ‘us,’ there never was. One stupid mistake does not change that. “This is about doing what is right.”

“What is right is keeping your mouth shut.” He snaps. “What is right is turning a blind eye to the things that could get you killed.”

“What about the things that have got others killed?” I retort. “What about the fact that everything we do, everything we think we have is a lie? What about that?”

He tuts. He actually just tuts. “Ana, you can’t be seriously considering this.”

“Do you know why I became a journalist?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes like this is old news, tedious news, something not worth his time. “I know, the music teacher.”

“Yeah, the music teacher.” I say, my mind already going right back there, to when I was fourteen, when I witnessed something horrific, something no child should know about, and then when I’d spoken up, I’d been told I was wrong, mistaken. That Mr. Brett was a great teacher, a great man, respected. That the kid involved was a bad kid, from a bad family, that no doubt they’d lied to me, and I’d been confused and misunderstood the situation because it was all above my tiny child brain.

Only, I knew I hadn’t.

I knew what I’d seen.

And it took another five years, five years of that man abusing more kids, getting away with it all until it finally ended. Only, he didn’t serve time. He wasn’t prosecuted. No, he got to die peacefully, pain free, just went to sleep one night and never woke up.

And as everyone told stories of what a great man he was, I swore I would do something about it. I would be the one to give a voice to those who get ignored, those who are too poor, who don’t have the right background, or the right family. Those everyone ignores and laughs at.

I know people think I’m self-righteous, stuck up even, that I’m on some moral crusade, but I’ve seen what this world does, I’ve seen how it chews people up and spits them out and no one is more culpable than the Brethren.

“I can’t just sit by and…”

“You can, Ana, you can.” Saul states as if he has enough authority over me that he simply has to snap his fingers and I’ll obey him.

I glower at him, wondering if he’s even listened to a word I’ve just said.

“Look, it’s been a long night, why don’t we go get a drink, talk about something else?”

I shake my head at the tone he uses, the hint of a beg underneath it. I know what he wants, what he’s after. One stupid night, months ago, we hooked up. It was nothing, purely physical on my part and mostly fuelled by alcohol. I thought it was the same for him, but clearly he wanted more. Still wants more.

“I’m good.” I say withdrawing, as that voice inside my head chastises me for that stupid reckless mistake I made so many months ago. “I’m actually gonna head off, get some sleep.”

“Let me walk you out,” he says, so keenly.

“No,” I say, clutching the bag, putting a firm boundary between us, “I’m good.” I repeat darting quickly into the crowd, praying that he won’t follow.

Out on the street, it’s pissing it down with rain. I did bring a coat, but in my haste to escape I left it behind. If I’m lucky someone will see it and take it for me, but if I’m not then I guess that’s another item of my belongings lost forever.

I groan, wrapping my arms as best as I can to conserve heat. The bulk of my bag presses against my ribcage and I silently curse the weight of the damned thing.

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