Page 9 of Antihero
A whistling wind sifts through the ramparts. A cloud illuminates as it passes in front of the full moon. He won't have a chance to make much of a sound. The cord, thick as my index finger, is too strong to snap, even if he could get his hand on the inside. I squeeze it, feeling the soft leather. There are smooth wooden handles that fit securely in my palms on each end, so the rope never slips out of my grip amid the struggles.
The courtyard is lit only by a single lamp in the middle, and cast into shadow everywhere else. Perfect. There’s a grin on his face, thumb hooked into his belt, flashlight switched off as he crunches his way across the familiar gravel stretch. Probably thinking about the latest resident he's chosen to victimise. He'll get bored of her eventually and move onto the next one, like he has before.
Except this time, he won't.
Every step brings him closer to me, disguised in the shadows on the other side of the door. He’s turning for the steps that leadup towards my corridor. I crouch, and my hand tightens on the wooden paddles. I no longer feel the cold. White Rock’s winter has well and truly set in this week. Small icicles drip off the eaves over the door. None of that matters, not when the moment is this close.
Then… nothing.
No crunching steps, no clanking of his baton against his belt. Just the whistling wind. There are no windows in these doors, I’ll need to open them to see out. I listen again, ears tuned, but nothing I hear indicates he’s still coming this way. Could he have taken a different route?
I swing open one of the doors and face out over the courtyard to look down the shadowed grounds, my eyes still adjusting from the downlights of the corridor.
My target is not there. At least, not how I expected him to be.
He’s on the ground, and at first, I think it’s some kind of animal crouching over him. That’s until the shape straightens.
A man looks up at me.
***
Needler
I don’t know why I'm outside. After midnight. After curfew.
That’s a lie.
I know exactly why. I’m following him. And I know exactly what I’m going to do.
But I can’t admit that to myself. I used the asylum key. After the room check at curfew, I unlocked my room door. I’ve beenwaiting ever since, ignoring the cold, the snow that fell briefly, all my focus on one single thing.
I watch Declan do a circuit. Too early for him, I know. He likes to wait until after midnight to do his ‘visits’. On his second loop, I came so close to him, I could’ve reached out and touched him, snapped his neck right there if I was lucky. But I didn’t. He never knew I was that close. The night is freezing, but despite this, I'm wearing just a thin, dark sweater, dark pants, and thin-soled shoes that barely crunch on the fallen snow.
As he descends the stairs, I linger at the top. It’s not too late to go back, to stay in my room and pretend not to hear the noises. To stay ‘retired’. How little encouragement it’s taken to be here, about to break all of my promises to myself. No more killing, no more feeling.
Nothing. That’s what I should be. Rather than this, here, and what I’m about to do. I should go back to my bed and forget this lapse in judgement, before it’s too late.
That’s when I see my needle.
The icicle is larger than the others, straight, almost the exact size of my old weapon of choice. I see it as an offering, a sign. It’s so easy to see those when you’re looking for them.It’s been too long,the needle seems to say.Just this once, I vow back; an empty promise to myself. Because he’s disturbing my sleep, I reason.
I wait for a loud gust of wind that rattles the eaves, and I strike the icicle with a closed fist at the top, just so. My gloves have rubber finger pads and palms, so I won't leave any of my DNA on the clinging ice, and my grip won’t slide on it.
Down in the courtyard, I don’t feel dull. I feel as sharp as the tip of my weapon.
Johnhas no place here.
This is the moment. In the shadows cast by the east wall, out of the pool of light glowing from the single lamp. We’re a dozen metres from the entrance to the corridor ahead.
I’m out of practice, so I aim for the lungs, a big target. One hand driving the icepick up under his ribs, the other closing over his mouth. I muffle what noise he can make before the pick does its job. I drive it further up, finding something fatal. The gurgling sound, the bubbling that I feel through his back as my chest presses close, both tell me my aim was true.
He's still alive, just. His weight drops, and I guide him down onto his back. I let go of the pick. There’s no point taking it out. It’s already melting from his fast-fleeing body heat. Declan is gasping, looking up at me with wide, confused eyes. I crouch over him and lean in close. With my hand clamped over his mouth, preventing any noise he has left to make, I whisper in his ear the words he says to them. “You’re nothing, and nothing doesn’t speak.”
I stand over him. The light is leaving his eyes, along with any expression. Except terror. That stays.
A sharp gasp.
My head snaps up towards the gatehouse. One of the double doors is open, the lights from within are on and silhouetting a dark, slim figure there. But not for long. They turn and run back inside, towards the castle exit.
