Cecelia Ahern - Perfect

“Are you going to make my grandson free again?” he asks.

“I’m trying my best.”

He nods again. Looks at Carrick. “Are you helping her?”

“She’s helping us all.”

“Where are you going?”

I hand him the address. He studies it. “I’m guessing this is important.”

I nod.

“Everyone else is getting off, and I’m taking these two wherever they need to go—does anybody have anything to say about it?”

The doubters don’t say a word.

“Any word to anyone about this and I’ll tell them you’re a bunch of liars, do you hear?” the driver threatens.

The women in front of me shake our hands and wish us luck.

“I want you to know I’m only getting off this bus for them,” says the man who started the protest in the first place. He looks at me. “Do it for us, Celestine. You can do it.” He points a finger in the driver’s face as he passes. “You better get them where they need to go.”

My eyes fill with tears, in gratitude for the gesture. I have to do this for them, for everyone.

The driver sits down behind the wheel and closes the door, stopping any of the others from boarding again. They all glare at the bus angrily. He starts the engine and drives off.

It was on a bus that I lost my faith in humanity. It was on a bus that it was restored.

FIFTY

THE DRIVER DROPS us as near to Mary May’s address as possible, but it’s difficult to get too close, as a Flawed curfew bus off the beaten track would attract too much attention.

Mary May’s cottage, with its thatched roof, sits alone by a fishing pier. There is a sharp turn right into her driveway before the end of the pier, and her garden juts out into the lake. Fishing paraphernalia bobs gently on the shore. The lights are off in her house. I hope that she’s not home, which would make this all the easier, but so far nothing has been easy.

We make our way down the pier and climb the wall attached to her garden, a long lawn of luscious exotic flowers, well tended, with a pretty bridge across a stream. Such a picturesque place for a monster to reside.

We keep low and I follow Carrick, hiding behind Mary May’s shrubbery to get in a good position to view the house. It’s the back of the house that faces out to the lake, the back of the house that does all the living. The plan had been so simple—go to Mary May’s house and grab the snow globe—but now that we’re here I see the gaping holes in my idea. How we are going to get in being the biggest problem.

“How are we going to do this?” I whisper.

“We ring the bell, tie her up, I punch her if I have to, punch her even if I don’t have to. You grab the snow globe.”

I look at him, certain that is the lamest idea I’ve ever heard.

“If we hurt her, it will get us into more trouble. The police will be after us, too. Mary May is the most prized Whistleblower.”

“So I won’t hurt her. I’ll just tie her up. Really tight.”

“Carrick,” I say, frustrated, “we need to think of something other than brute force.”

He looks at me blankly.

I curse, knowing I’m alone on the plan-making front. I can understand his nerves, just the very idea of what we’re risking by being here. I study the house, trying to figure out a way to break in. A figure appears at the door. The back door opens suddenly and we duck.

“Crap. It’s her.” I’m sure she’s seen us; who goes out to their garden for a leisurely stroll after 11:00 PM?

An old lady in a nightdress wanders outside barefoot onto the grass. She has long gray hair, plaited to one side, and appears like a kind of ghostly vision, in her floating white gown in the dark night.

She has left the back door open, I can see Carrick looking at it. I know what he’s thinking, but my gut instinct says he’s wrong to make a run for it.

The old woman looks like Mary May, and I know instantly that it’s her mother, the only member of her family other than Mary May not to be branded. Mary May must have had a soft spot for her mother. The old woman picks up a watering can by the back door and proceeds to water the hanging baskets. No water comes out.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” She sighs. She looks out to the lake and makes her way down the garden.

“Okay. I run into the house, you keep a lookout,” Carrick says, getting ready to run.

“Wait.” I grab him. It takes my two hands around his biceps to hold him back. “We can’t just leave her. She’s dangerously close to the water. She’ll fall in.”

“What is it with you helping old people?” he asks, but his voice is soft and his touch on my hand is warm.

She’s lying on the grass, leaning over the edge, trying to reach down to the lake with her watering can. I make my way over to her. I take the can from her, and without saying a word, I scoop it full with water and hand it back to her.

She eyes me warily, not coldly but curiously, as if trying to place me.

“Is he coming for me tonight?” she asks with a sweet voice, almost childlike.

I don’t say a word, unsure as to what she means.

“Our Lord. He’s sent you to take me. It’s all right.” She straightens up. “I’m ready. I’ll see my Andy again.” She looks back at the house. “I should make my peace with her. I hope the Lord will be kind to her.” She looks at me hopefully. “She has done things for reasons she thinks are right. I’m her mother, I’ll go before him and speak for her. But the others … they’ll never forgive her. I hope they forgive me. It’s because of her they’re Flawed.” She hardens again. “I know that I don’t remember much but I remember that. She’s looking for something. Do you know what it is she’s looking for?”

I nod.

“Every night, she goes to the garage. Does he know where it is? If he does, I think she’d find peace. It’s driving her…” A light goes on in the cottage and we both look up.

“She’s coming,” she whispers. “How much time do I have before he takes me?”

My heart is banging in my chest at the sight of Mary May stepping outside and breaking out into a run across the grass.

“Mother!” she screams angrily.

I hold my finger over my lips, hoping Carrick’s frantic waving won’t catch her eye. Mary May’s mother nods. “You’ll come for me?”

I nod.

At peace with that, she takes the watering can and I quickly duck out of view in the darkness, behind a bush. Carrick throws me a warning look, but we don’t move, there’s nowhere for us to move to now, except into the lake. If we have to, we will. He places a protective arm around my waist, he holds me tightly.

Mary May’s mother is looking out over the lake like it’s for the last time, drinking it in with an air of finality, not sadness. Contentment, satisfaction, acceptance. I feel guilty for this misunderstanding, but she does seem happy with it.

“Mother!” Mary May’s voice has an edge to it, a growl. She’s in her nightdress, too, and unhappily traipses across the grass to her mother.

“I was collecting water for the flowers,” her mother says distantly. “There has been no rain for days.”

“How many times have I told you not to lean over the edge? It’s dangerous! You could fall in. How did you … Mother, where did this water come from?”

“The angel, the kind angel. She’s here for me.”

“Angel?” Carrick whispers, covering his face with his hands.

I don’t want to explain myself out of fear Mary May will hear me speak. With her supersonic Whistleblower senses, I’m surprised she hasn’t sniffed us out already. She takes the watering can from her mother. “No more angel nonsense, Mother. It’s after eleven; you should be in bed. I’m going to have to get an alarm system if you keep this up.”