Chapter 9
It’s late by the time Michael ends up rolling out of bed, his phone completely dead and the light far too bright for his liking. After stumbling around the basement floor for a few minutes while locating the bathroom, he trudges up the stairs to the main floor, where Berta Jeane seems to already have a guest. They’re sat in the living room, backs to Michael as he tries to slip out of the house unnoticed, maybe catch a cab home and spend his day off hiding in the Castle if Gerry hasn’t taken it over yet to continue painting. God, Michael hopes he hasn’t, hopes he’s just going to leave Michael alone to stew in his mortification for the next 2 weeks over the events from the night prior, might abandon Michael altogether if he’s lucky. Then again, when has Michael ever been lucky? He’s probably already there, taking up Michael’s space with his sunshine presence and clunky headphones, probably angry with Michael for the way he’d run out on their (maybe) date. Maybe Michael just won’t go home. Since when did he start thinking of the Castle as home? That isn’t his home, his home is a world away, full of dead book burners and Archivists born to die. His home was through a now gone door, inaccessible to Michael now as far as he can tell.
“Michael?”
Closing his eyes, he blows out a sigh before turning and smiling at Ms. Craye, the laces of his sneakers looped into his fingers as he stands by the back door. “Hey, Berta Jeane. I was just about to slip out, head home, y’know? I didn’t want to disturb you and your guest.”
She offers him a knowing smile. “You could have stayed for a bite, I’ve got eggs in the fridge and bread in the pantry, and you know the rest, you pick up my groceries, after all.”
“I shouldn’t, you have company,” Michael tries to dodge the offer, the memory of their phone call heavy in his mind, an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck even now.
“My guest won’t mind, I assure you,” she waves him off, gesturing for him to come closer. “We’re going to go out to lunch anyways, I don’t think she’d mind you tagging along, or if you’d like some space, you can just stay here and make yourself something before returning to that apartment of yours.”
Realizing she’s not going to back down until Michael does something, he finally relents, stepping back into the main area of the kitchen. “I’ll join you for lunch if you’ve got a pair of trousers for me to borrow.”
“I’m sure my nephew left something your size around here somewhere, you both have such long legs, I’m sure you can make it work,” Berta Jeane smiles, looking very self satisfied. “Now, come to the parlor with me, I’d like to introduce you to my guest. She’s on a trip here from Manchester.”
Manchester. The Magnus Institute. Ruins. A door, a Door, Gerry Keay, not his Gerry Keay. Too many goddamned connections.
“Alright, I just hope she doesn’t mind all this,” he gestures at his sweatpants and socked feet, his hair piled into a bun at the back of his head.
Ms. Craye laughs, amused by all his fuss. “Trust me, boy, she’s had her share of sleeping over at my home, she knows what these beds can do to you. Now come along, we haven’t got all day,” she huffs, leading him from the kitchen and back into the living room, where her guest waits.
They stand when they enter, turning to face them, a smile ready, and Michael’s stomach drops as he recognizes Berta Jeane’s mystery guest.
Berta Jeane beams back at the young woman, pride in her eyes. “Michael, I’d like you to meet my niece, Ms. Sasha James.”
-
“Hey Michael, this is Gerry, Gerry Keay. Well, you probably know that, you have my contact and all, and it’s not like I haven’t texted you three times already, but-just call me back, okay? I’m worried about you, and I want to make sure you’re okay after last night, you sorta left in a rush. Anyways, let me know when you get this, and call me back when you can. Stay safe.”
-
After barely recovering from his initial shock, Michael clears his throat, pasting on a smile and extending his hand. “It’s-it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. James. I’m Michael. Shelley, that is, Michael Shelley, I work for your aunt.” Flushing at the way he stumbled over his words, he relaxes slightly as Sasha takes his hand, a lovely smile on her full mouth.
“It’s nice to meet you as well, I’ve heard only good things about you, Mr. Shelley. And please, call me Sasha.”
“Call me Michael,” he says, a flash of déjà vu hitting him, so strong it makes his head spin as hr meets her warm amber eyes, glinting behind round, blue tinted glasses lenses as she pushes her bangs off her eyebrows.
“Stop talking in cheap riddles. I don’t have time for you antics, and if you don’t quit it, I’m going to leave.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you’re just quite a…delightful little specimen, too good for those ivory tower idiots, hm?”
“Do you have a name or not? Like I said, I don’t have time for this.”
“No, but you may call me Michael.”
Christ, even as the Spiral, he too had mostly forgotten what she’d looked like after that puppet had taken her place, had forgotten the sharp point of her chin and the warm caramel of her skin, the way her left ear seems to curve like a fairy in one of those magic tales, all human imperfection, unlike the thing that had stolen her name. She looks happier than his Sasha too, more refreshed, more alive. That seems to be a recurring theme with this world; everyone in the old one was fucking miserable.
“Michael, like the painter?”
“No, like the angel,” he gives her an awkward smile, releasing her hand.
“Are you a religious man, Michael?”
“Not in the slightest,” Michael huffs out a laugh, still reeling from everything that has happened in the last 30 seconds. “My mother was, though.”
“I see. Are you joining us for lunch?”
“If you don’t mind the intrusion, yes.”
“No intrusion, I’d love to know more about the man whom my aunt holds in such high regard.”
“Then yes, I’ll be joining you, thank you for letting me tag along.”
“Of course,” she says, smiling sunnily, and Michael can’t help but echo it back.
Berta Jeane pats his arm. “Just give me a moment to find you some better pants to wear and we’ll be on our way.”
Michael nods, letting her trot off down one of the halls to rummage up some trousers, feeling suddenly helpless as he’s left alone with Sasha, the woman who he had tormented and harassed in his time as the Spiral.
“What are you?”
“How would a melody describe itself when asked?”
Ever clever Sasha, ever witty and sharp, she’d been the first of the institute to challenge him, the first of them that refused to bend when pushed. He wonders if she has the same amount of spirit and grit in this universe as she did the last, or if this version of her would fall prey to the Spirals wiles, would let herself be tempted into his halls.
Sighing, he looks back to Sasha, trying to clear his head of that bonfire bright woman who was far too brave for her own good, looking to her mirror image and forcing himself to speak. “So, where are we going for lunch?”
-
“Hey Michael, it’s Gerry again, I don’t know if you’re listening to these, but I just want to make sure you’re okay. Call me back when you can.”
-
Lunch with the James-Craye women stretches into drinks with Sasha as the evening rolls around, Berta Jeane opting to head home while Sasha directs Michael to a classy wine bar, chic and expensive, and just looking at the menu makes his wallet ache.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with wines,” he admits as the man behind the bar begins to eye him in annoyance, five minutes spent with the embossed paper menu held carefully between his fingers. He feels ridiculously out of place in his slept-in jumper and borrowed jeans, the cuffs too short and the waistband too wide. “I’m more of a beer drinker myself, the only wine I’ve had of late is the boxed version on a friends couch.”
Sasha is kind enough to laugh at this, taking his menu and tucking it under his. “I see, in that case I’ll order for us both, if you don’t mind?”
Michael nods, relieved to let her take the reigns on this one. She flashes him a quick smile before turning to the bartender and smoothly rattling off some French beverage, accepting the two glasses a moment later when he returns with them, passing one to Michael.
“Cheers,” she nods, clinking her glass with his, and he chuckles.
“Cheers,” he repeats, raising the glass to his lips. The wine is surprisingly good, smooth and cool, a hint of something earthy to it that reminds Michael of the woods behind the orphanage he’d lived in as a child. It tastes like hours spent looking up at the branches, like pine needles scratching his cheek and leaves caught in his hair, dirt staining his too-pale skin. Nostalgia settles in his chest as he takes another sip, a faint smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
“How do you like it?” Sasha asks, fingers elegant and easy around the bell of her glass.
“It’s good, really good,” he says, setting his glass back onto the tabletop, fiddling with the stem, the yellowish liquid inside sparkling in the low light. “You made a good choice.”
“Thanks,” she smiles, fixing her glasses over her nose. “My…friend, Tim, he has a brother who knew a lot about this stuff. He’s smart kid, loads smarter than me.” Sasha looks fond saying this, but her eyes hold a hint of sadness in them, and he can’t help but notice the tan line around her left ring finger, the patch of paler skin a testament to an engagement ring, or perhaps even a wedding band. Curious, Michael thinks, but does not ask, not yet, at least. The name Tim rings a bell, and he searches his brain for any recollection of who she’s speaking of. Stoker, was that his name? Timothy Stoker, archival assistant.
Michael remembers vaguely a man with shaggy brown hair and blue dyed ends, scars pockmarking his face, running through his tunnels clinging to the sleeve of the assistant who reeked of loneliness and longing, a sentiment that Michael understood, and the Spiral despised for that connection. Tim was always such a bitter man, anger rotting in his thin, cracked bones, and he looks now at Sasha, tries to imagine the two of them together, loving one another in a way that does not involve institutes and monsters and doomed fates that will never truly honor them the way they should. He wonders what his worlds Tim is doing now, if perhaps he has found some semblance of peace in his solitude. Michael hopes so, but there’s no way to find out now.
“Really? That’s interesting, have you yourself taken up the hobby of wine tasting, or do you carry on the tradition in a more casual fashion?”
“Alas, I don’t have time to spend tasting wine every weekend, my work keeps me very busy.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m a journalist,” Sasha says, taking another sip. “I do research for a magazine called ‘The Watcher.’”
That sends a chill down Michael’s spine, the phantom sensation of eyes on him prickling the hair at the back of his neck even now. Clearing his throat, he leans forwards. “Really? That sounds incredibly interesting, what kinds of things do you research?”
“Well, I run a column on the paranormal, y’know, strange phenomena in Europe mainly, but I’m planning a trip to the states soon, so that should be fun.”
“Paranormal? As in…supernatural stuff?”
“Exactly,” she agrees, eyes lighting up. “It’s always been my passion. I mean, there’s no many interesting stories and folklore that nobody ever talks about, and I want to learn more.”
“Like what?” Michael asks, and Sasha flushes as she realizes she’s been rambling.
“I don’t want to bore you with the details.”
“I’m not bored, I’m incredibly interested, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I’ve seen my share of strange things, I understand the draw of it.”
“Well alright then,” Sasha says, tucking her hair behind her ears before tugging a small notebook from her purse. “Most recently, I’ve been doing interviews with locals near Manchester mostly, but I’ve got a friend in the government side of things, and she claims that the same kinds of stories I’ve been researching seem to be extending to London more and more often.”
“What?” A shock goes down Michael’s spine at the mention. Manchester again, connections to the supernatural in London, it’s all too much to truly be coincidence. “What kinds of stories?”
“Really weird ones, like humanoid animals, people with needles covering their skin, losing time and waking up in other cities or even countries, things like that, freaky happenings, and it’s all pointing towards London, or around this area. Isn’t that interesting?”
Incredibly so. Michael’s mind is racing, fingers tightening around his glass. “How do you know all this?”
“Like I said, word of mouth and friends in high places. You can find out a lot if you know where to look, and Alice doesn’t even take these things seriously, she just tells me stories to give me and my friends a bit of a spook.”
“Alice?”
“Yeah, Dyer. You know her? Her brother’s bandmate is dating Tim’s brother, it’s a whole thing. That’s actually how we met,” she says, offering him an easy smile.
“No, I-I don’t know her, but you said she works in government? What sort of stuff does she do?”
Sasha shrugs. “She calls it the OIAR, they look into this sort of stuff, process it through these creepy computers or something, and sometimes she lets a story or two slip. I’ve been trying to get an official interview with her boss for months, but no luck.”
“If you did happen to get an interview…would you potentially let someone tag along?”
Sasha gives him a curious look. “Why, you interested?”
“Yes, actually,” he laughs nervously. “I myself have had a few…supernatural experiences, as had a friend of mine and want to follow up on a theory.”
Sasha’s eyes light up, hand flying to her pocket to pull out a pen. “Really? Would either of you be interested in sharing?”
Michael feels his palms start to sweat, and he takes a quick drink. “Maybe, I’ll have to ask him, but-if I give you my story, will you let me in on your research?”
“Why do you want in so badly?”
“Like I said, I’m a curious soul. And maybe I’m just looking for a little closure or clarity for a friend.”
Sasha looks down at her notes, brow creased thoughtfully. “Okay, sure. You give me something truly solid to work with, and I’ll let you tag along on a few research trips, if my interviewee’s are alright with it. Do we have a deal, Mr. Shelley?”
Michael can’t help the smile of relief that breaks across his face, nodding and extending his hand. “We do, Ms. James. Thank you.”
She waves him off. “Don’t thank me yet, I can’t promise that it’ll go anywhere, at least not like you’re expecting.”
“It’s a start, at any rate, and I’ll have you to thank for it.”
Sasha nods, mouth twisting up as she returns to her drink, and Michael blows out a soft breath. At least this way he can keep an eye on the supernatural elements possibly emerging in this world, and hopefully keep Sasha from getting herself in too deep.
Too curious for her own good, even now, but maybe this time curiosity doesn’t have to kill the cat.
-
“Hey, Michael, I-I know it’s late, I don’t know if you have your phone turned off or what, but it’s been 24 hours and I’m just--call me back, Michael, please. I’ve sent you a few texts, I don’t know what I did wrong last night, but you’ve been radio silent all day, and I-I’m sorry for it, whatever it was, but I just want to make sure you’re alright. Text me, call me, whatever, but I don’t want to keep worrying if you made it home okay or if you even got back to the Castle. If I don’t get a reply, I’m coming by your place. You can kick me back out, whatever, I just want to make sure you’re okay. I hope to talk to you soon.”
-
Michael’ s phone turns on for the first time in 26 hours as he plugs it into the charger, flopping onto the cot and closing his eyes. Seconds later, the device begins to buzz repeatedly, his eyes flying open as the Siri begins to read out who they’re from.
‘Four missed calls from: Gerard Keay. Three voicemails from: Gerard Keay. Six texts from: Gerard Keay. Twelve texts from: Olivia Collard,’ reads the tinny, soulless voice, and he scrambles for his phone, swearing repeatedly under his breath.
“Hey Michael, this is Gerry, Gerry Keay. Well, you probably know that—”
“Shit. Shit,” he whispers, listening to the next three, guilt drilling a hole in his stomach as Gerry’s voice comes through the line, worry evident in his tone. The texts come next, simple lines reaching out to say hello on Gerry’s part, asking if he’s okay and if they can talk, and some obviously capslocked messages from Olivia asking to know how dinner went, and hey, she heard what happened last night, is he all good or does she need to chew out Gerry for somehow being a dick. God, as if any of that was Gerry’s fault, as if he hadn’t been the one to run out on him. Dialing his number, Michael sits up a bit more as it rings. Gerry picks up in two rings, voice relieved and more than a little worried.
“Michael? What the hell, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he replies, takes a deep breath to push back the slight shake in his tone, swallowing hard. “Yeah, I’m okay, sorry, my phone died, and stuff happened. I’m sorry for scaring you.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re-you’re okay. Good, I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“Yeah, yes, of course, are-are you okay?”
“I am now,” Gerry sighs, and there’s a rustling in the background, like he’s getting out of bed maybe, and Christ, is it really that late?
“Listen, Gerry, I’m-I’m really sorry for running out on you like that.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself, it’s fine—”
“No, it’s not,” Michael says, trying to force a firmness into hos voice, to make Gerry listen, to make sure he understands. “It’s not, and it wasn’t, and I-I’d really like a chance to explain myself. If-if that’s alright.”
Gerry is quiet a moment, before replying, voice softer, less sure. “Yeah, Michael, that’s alright. Do you…do you want to talk over the phone?”
“In person, if you don’t mind…?” Michael has always hated having important conversations over the phone, not being able to read facial or body language. There’s another pause before Gerry speaks again.
“Yeah, sure, are you busy tomorrow morning, or…?”
“Does tonight work?” Michael blurts out, biting his lip hard.
“Yeah, tonight works. I don’t have anything going on,” Gerry chuckles, devoid of humor. “I’ll be there in 20?”
“Yeah, that sounds good. I just-I want to—”
“I get it,” Gerry says quickly. “When I get there, we can talk.”
“Yeah, we can talk,” Michael agrees, before hanging up the phone.
He has no clue what he’s even going to say, but he promised Gerry they’d talk, so he just has to buckle up his big boy pants and figure his shit out.
With nothing better to do, he sits back on the bed and waits for Gerry to arrive.