Page 65 of The Bargain

“There’s something we wanted to discuss with you, Elias.” She glances at her husband, who gives her an encouraging nod. Go ahead, darling. Pull the trigger. He’s made of straw, and the mess can always be cleaned up. Besides, we bought him. “As I’m sure you must know, it’s nearly that time of year again. Our charity gala.”

Ah. Fuck.

No—I forgot, actually. I was too busy getting my hands dirty and burning my fingertips trying to touch things that are too bright and celestial for me to hold.

I keep my face neutral, though my stomach gives a slow, familiar lurch. A sort of wringing, grinding nausea that’s a leftover symptom of having done too many of those things before: smiling for cameras with all my teeth and letting them roll out the tragic-boy-made-good narrative.

But this isn’t going to be the usual fare—and the usual fare is barely palatable as it is.

This year, with the election looming, it’s going to be a carnage; the great gods of British politics will need to be appeased. And there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it, because when you’re a scarecrow kindly stuffed with straw, you don’t get to refuse when someone points you at the crows.

Fuck.

Of course, my misfortunes never come unaccompanied.

Mr Pearson steeples his hands, leaning forward, a glimmer of eagerness in his eyes sending a flare of alarm through me.

“This year’s event is one we’re particularly proud to host,” he says. “The Future Fund Gala: Raising Hope for Britain’s Forgotten Children.” I have to clench my fists hard enough for my knuckles to crack just to stop myself from physically flinching at the title. “We’ve spared no expense, of course. The Savoy ballroom, coverage in all major publications. Donors flying in from New York, Singapore, Dubai. A record-breaking night, I should think.”

He nods at me encouragingly. I answer with a smile even he must think is soulless.

“It’s going to be extraordinary,” Mrs Pearson adds. “And of course, you’ll be our guest of honour. We’ve even had the press office collect some of your old school reports to put in the programme. We’re so very proud of you—how far you’ve come! We want to highlight your journey again this year, Elias, really show people what their generosity makes possible.”

What she’s really saying is that they’re going to plaster my face, skinny and bruised and hollow-eyed, all over twenty-foot screens again. Sell front-row tickets to my humiliation in the name of philanthropy while keeping their eyes on the polls and waiting for the arrow to go up.

I nod, and I do the same thing I always do when I have to bear things that feel unbearable. I fling myself out of my body and as far into the universe as I can, until my world is less than a tiny blue dot in the distance, and my own insignificance is so overwhelming it dwarves every other feeling.

I’m nothing, I remind myself. And if I’m nothing, then nothing can ever hurt me.

“Yes,” I say, nodding like a marionette. “Of course, Mrs Pearson.”

She glances at her husband, nods. Mr Pearson’s smile broadens.

“Excellent,” he says.

He pauses, glances at his wife. My heart sinks. What the fuck else could they possibly want from me?

“And this year,” Mr Pearson continues, “we thought it might be rather nice if you brought a guest.”

A guest? What fresh fucking hell is this?

“A date, perhaps?” Mrs Pearson adds.

And the greed gleaming out from both their eyes practically spells out the name neither of them are willing to spit out. My heart drops all the way to my feet.

Because when you make a plan, and you execute it so very perfectly that you begin to wonder what went wrong, that’s usually what went wrong: you aimed too accurately, shot too true, and the bullet went through the target and found a home in a whole other target altogether.

One you never wanted to hit in the first place.

25

Lucky Position

Elias

In his book Relativity: The Special and General Theory, Einstein wrote: “According to the theory of relativity there is no absolute time, but each individual has his own personal measure of time, which depends on where he is and how he is moving.”

By that logic, my time is measured in absolute shit.