The Woman Who Died a Lot

Friday, Tuesday and I positioned ourselves at the door. I turned back to look at Landen, who had his head in his hands and was thinking hard, deep in his own thoughts. I listened at the door for a moment, and when I couldn’t hear anything, I signaled to Friday, who unscrewed the door. As soon as it was open, they both dashed out.

“Open the security gate no matter what,” said Friday, “and repeat this order.”

“Open the security gate no matter what,” repeated Tuesday, “and repeat this order.”

“Open the gate no matter what,” continued Friday as they ran down the corridor, “and repeat this order.”

I trod quietly into the hall, then into the living room. There was no sign of life—nothing. I could feel the memories of Jenny coming back, and already a sense of confusion was rising on the edge of my conscious mind, the sort of feeling you get when waking from a deep slumber and you’re not sure where you are—mixed with having a word on the tip of one’s tongue and that odd empty feeling when you walk into a room not knowing what you’re doing there.

I walked to the fireplace simply because I thought I should, and I touched the cold marble. I picked up a vase and turned it upside down. A note fluttered out. My fingers might have been trembling slightly as I unfolded it. I already knew who it was from.

“I’ve been in New Zealand for the past six months,” the note read, “so no, I’m not in the house. Everything that has just happened to you—the Cleaning Lady, the sealing of the kitchen—it’s all merely memories, a time-released gift from me to make you realize the futility of even considering you can rid your mind of me. I’ll let you savor this frustration for the next half minute, and then it will fade. The joy of all this is that I can screw with you and your family as many times as I want and you’ll just never get it.”

It was signed “Aornis.”

“Hello, Mum,” said Tuesday as she walked in. “What are you doing?”

“Did you open the security gates?”

“You told us never to do that unless for a good reason.”

“I don’t suppose it matters now.” I sighed, sitting on one of the arms of the sofa in a dejected mood. The whole thing had been staged. And I had only half a minute to ponder on my own hopelessness before losing it altogether. I stared at the note again and prodded absently at the handwriting. I stopped, for the ink had smudged. I hobbled to the writing desk. A blue ballpoint was lying there, the stack of notepaper still with the impression of Aornis’ note upon it.

“Shit,” I said, “she’s still in here.”

“Who?” asked Tuesday.

“Aornis. Open the security gates. now!”

She scurried off, and I looked around. Aornis couldn’t instantly delete herself from my memory, and I still had twenty seconds left. I could feel my concentration lapsing as I tried to focus on what I was meant to be doing, the same way as when battling fatigue and fighting off sleep. The house was too large to search in the time available, so I looked around in desperation. And then I saw it. The pull cord from the curtains across the large bay windows was rocking. It would be doing that only if someone had recently touched it, and the only way that might have happened was if someone was hiding behind the sofa.

I glanced around for a weapon, while outside I could see the security gates swing slowly open. I wondered why this was so and cursed myself for being distracted as my mind struggled to keep my concentration on the task at hand. There was someone behind the sofa, and it was someone dangerous, who they shouldn’t be there. I limped across as quietly as I could with my stick raised, but in my recently enfeebled state I knocked against the bureau and the figure behind the sofa jumped up like a jack-in-the-box. It was Aornis Hades.

“Aornis!” I exclaimed, for I hadn’t seen her since her trial and enloopment. “What in hell’s name are you doing in my front room?”

She was still under forty and was an attractive woman, well dressed and with a misleadingly affable demeanor. I knew vaguely of her powers of memory manipulation but had never considered for one moment that she might have tried any of it on me—or indeed was still doing it to anyone. Which made it even stranger that she was in my front room.

“I was looking for my contact lenses,” she said in a friendly tone. “Would you have a look? Your eyesight’s better than mine.”