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I can’t wait.
Heading for the lobby, I struggle to walk like a normal person. My stride lengthens as my pulse beats faster, adrenaline rising in a renewed flood as I reach the main door.
There’s a student hanging around by the cafeteria entrance, a few others lounging near the common room. None of them pay attention to me as I walk past, fighting my urge to run.
I’ve never been in this part of the school before. My heart pounds extra loud as I reach a corridor with double doors at the entrance. There’s a card reader at the side and I doubt mine will be authorised for entry.
With a deep breath, I push against the doors, nearly giving a shout of relief as they open; apparently controlled entry is only required after hours.
Paisley’s room number and position is already locked and loaded in my mind, memorised on the first day I got here. I follow the internal map, knocking softly on her door when I arrive. A couple of boys are farther along the corridor, chatting near the stairwell.
They’re not looking my way, but they will if I knock the door down. I test the handle and it’s locked.
I knock again, louder. “Paisley?” I call out, the voice sounding closer to a shout to my over-adrenalised ears.
There’s a click as the door releases and I swing it open with caution, not knowing what to expect.
All I see is blood. It takes two blinks before I notice the body lying in the worst of it.
My nervous system cranks into overdrive as I slip inside, shutting the door and locking it while my eyes struggle to take in everything.
Paisley stands, back flat to the wall, the whites of her eyes so large she could double as a horror movie poster.
“Sweetheart,” I say, stepping over the figure lying on the floor. I take her into a bear hug, squeezing her like I’m trying to make her part of me.
My senses feed back a constant stream of information, reassuring me she’s okay, she’s alive.
I rock her back and forth, shielding her eyes from the sight in front of her. Cradling her head against my chest, stroking the sweat dampened hair back from her brow. “Are you okay?”
When she doesn’t answer, I draw back, lifting her chin to stare into her wild eyes. I don’t even know if she sees me. Her expression is blank with shock.
There are red marks on her neck, already darkening into bruises. A lump swells by her right eye, the lids puffy. A sharp swathe of anger cuts through my concern. The urge to fight, to beat, to punish whoever did this to her rising at the same steep incline as my need to take her in my arms and soothe it better. To get her the fuck away from whatever happened in this room.
This isn’t the place for her, but I can’t take her out of here. Not until I understand.
“Come into the bathroom with me, okay?” I lead her there, sheltering her from whoever it is slumped near the door.
Once she’s inside the room, gleaming brightly with its white tiles, I run the cold tap, wetting a cloth to lay on the back of her neck. Paisley trembles so much I have to hold it there, otherwise she’d shake it onto the floor.
My eyes search out information, taking note of her expression, her posture, the marks on her wrists, the strain in her face.
Whatever happened to bruise her this way makes my body ache in tandem. I hold her as close as I dare, letting her bury her face in my chest, soothing her with mumbled words and the steady comfort of my hand on the back of her head.
A noise from the bedroom imparts a sense of urgency. Much as I want to stay here, holding Paisley until she’s coherent, until she can talk and explain, I need to examine the scene, see how to extricate her from this mess with clean hands.
“Stay here, okay? I’m just going to close the door for a second, then I’ll be right back.”
I slide the door closed, cutting off her view, then turn, my mind blanching at the scene.
Blood is on the floors, the walls. So much blood that the prone body lying in the middle barely raises an eyebrow. I remove my shoes and socks, putting them on the bed. The covers are tousled but the sheets are still tucked in. There’s a spot of blood on the edge of the pillow. After a second of hesitation, I strip back to my briefs, folding my clothing in a pile on top of my shoes.
The floors are dark tiles shaped to look like hardwood. Easy to clean but I bend to check the surface. Not plastic but it could still be something absorbent. The quicker we clean away the blood, the better.
I squat beside the body, choosing the side nearest the door. A knife protrudes from his back, just a few inches below his neck. There’s a soft noise, regular, and I’m not surprised to find a pulse when I press my fingers to the boy’s neck.
When I switch to the other side, I can see his face clearly.
James Malloch.
