Cecelia Ahern - Perfect

“I don’t, I can’t…” I can barely formulate a thought as I stare at the gun pointed at me.

Art continues working his way through the key chain for the correct key. These doors are old and the keys are enormous. Art has only ever had to use the security system where he waves his card, and he’s clearly unfamiliar with the locks. I’m backed up against Art, but Mary May continues to advance toward me.

“She said she wanted to see the others. I told her no. Alice doesn’t deserve to see Mommy, not after what she did. None of them do. They all knew about him and her. Just before she went, Mommy said she forgave me. Forgave me for what? ” Mary May asks. “Everybody gets what they deserve. I don’t need her forgiveness. They all got what they deserved. Alice stole him from me and they all knew about it. All of them. I spared Mommy,” she says. “I did her a favor. You were in my house. What did you do to my mother?”

“I told you I didn’t do anything. I retrieved what was mine, the things you stole from my bedroom. I took them back. I found the footage you were searching for. We put it on TV. Everybody saw it. Everybody knows. It’s all over.” I try to bring her back to the here and now.

“She woke up this morning. Ten past eight. She wouldn’t eat her eggs. Two boiled eggs and two asparagus is what she eats every morning. She wouldn’t eat them. Odd.”

Despite the situation, I snigger, nervously I suppose.

“I didn’t do anything to stop her from eating eggs,” I reply.

Art swears behind me as he tries another key in the door.

“Yes, you did. Because she’s dead now.”

SEVENTY-FIVE

“WHAT?” I WHISPER.

Art stops at the door and looks up at me.

“I didn’t do anything,” I say. “I swear. Open the door,” I say desperately now, understanding her motivation. Her mother is dead; she blames me; she’s holding a gun: This cannot end well.

“She didn’t eat her eggs,” she continues. “She always eats her eggs, so I knew something was up. She said an angel had come to her during the night and it was time for her to go to the Lord. I told her not to be silly. Said she was having ridiculous notions again, because sometimes she did. Things would come and go for her. She asked for a bath at lunchtime and I bathed her.”

Art finally finds the correct key and pushes the door open. I smell the fresh air immediately, hear the sounds of shouting in the air. I breathe in the air and step outside, moving away from her as quickly as I can. However, it’s a courtyard, it’s wide, it’s vast, a perfect square of cobblestones: There’s nowhere to hide. I’m a sitting duck for Mary May.

It’s a private courtyard, for staff, not open to the public. Through a locked barred gate I see mayhem in the main square. One small group of staff sees Mary May with her gun and screams and runs in the opposite direction. This isn’t the help I need. Where are the authorities? I realize that no one will come to my aid. Despite the fact Mary May is holding a gun, which is not an authorized Whistleblower weapon, I am Flawed and she is a Whistleblower and nothing can be done to stop this. If anyone tried, they may be seen as aiding me. The only people who could come to my aid are the police, and my last run-in with one at the supermarket didn’t end well.

“After her bath, Mommy said she was tired,” Mary May continues as though we haven’t scared away a bunch of suits and are now surrounded by mayhem as the Flawed and the public protest in the public courtyard next to us. She’s in a world of her own. “She sometimes has a morning nap. So I put her to bed. That’s when she told me about you. She called you her angel, but I realized it was you. She said that you visited her last night, that you helped her get water from the lake. I thought she was making it up. Then she said she forgave me. That she will speak for me when her time comes…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but a single tear runs down her cheek and her hand starts to tremor. “You killed her,” she says.

“Hey, stop it,” Art says, stepping in front of me. “Put the gun down, Mary May, this is crazy!”

“You killed my mommy,” she says, ignoring Art.

The gate into the courtyard opens and I quickly glance in its direction to see people flooding in. Flawed and public, escaping the main courtyard. I think I see Carrick’s brother, Rogan, leading the pack, but I’m not sure, I’m afraid to take my eyes off Mary May and that gun.

“There she is!” someone yells, and I assume it’s Whistleblowers coming to get me, and for a moment I feel relief, I don’t care who the rescue comes from as long as I’m not shot, but it’s confusing as everyone is wearing red now, so it’s difficult to distinguish the difference. It’s as though we’re all the same.

“Don’t you tell me how to do my job,” Mary May finally addresses Art. “Your father instructed me to look after this girl and I will follow his instructions. My job is my life. I gave up everything for this, to answer to your father. I gave him everything. And I have never not finished the job I started,” she yells, clearly uncomfortable with the growing presence of others in the square. She’s attracting attention, too. People are moving close. Calling out to her to put the gun down.

“Here! I told you she’d be here.” I hear a familiar voice and I look to the left and see Rogan. It is him. He’s with a small group and he’s pointing at Mary May. “You should have taken me in when you had the chance,” Rogan shouts at her. “Look who I brought to see you.”

Mary May finally hears them and turns to her right. She looks at them and her face changes, mouth open, skin pale in utter shock and terror.

“You can’t ignore your family now,” a man yells.

“Remember us, sis?” the woman says, and I look at them in surprise. It’s her sister, Alice, and her three brothers.

“We want to see Mommy,” Alice says.

“What did you do to her?” a brother asks.

“Nothing. Nothing. It was her,” she says weakly, the power all gone from her as the family she was responsible for branding Flawed gangs up on her. Her father is dead, and now her mother is, too.

Her power has disappeared and it’s as though she suddenly realizes it. She glances at the madness around her. Flawed, Whistleblowers, and members of the public all running wild. The Whistleblowers are now the hunted; the Flawed and unflawed are together, the hunters.

She lowers her gun; I see the panic start to show in her eyes. She backs away and starts to run. But she doesn’t get far, because a hand appears from inside the door that we came through. A hand that pulled its body along the cold, hard floor of the holding cell floors, and up the winding staircase.

Carrick appears, sweating, panting, exhausted, just in time, to wrap his hand around her ankle, stopping her from getting away.

She starts to fall to the ground, and as she does her hands instinctively go out to break her fall. Forgetting the gun is still in her hand, she squeezes the trigger.

The gun fires. The sound echoes around the courtyard.

Everybody, everybody drops to the ground.

SEVENTY-SIX

WITH EVERYONE DOWN on the ground I don’t know if anyone has been shot. There’s a shocked silence, as everybody stays down.

But the screaming that begins is a hint. It’s high, hysterical, and out of control. It’s panicked. It tells me somebody has been hit.

And when I try to focus on where it’s coming from, I realize it’s coming from me.

SEVENTY-SEVEN

ART IS ON top of me, guarding me like a shield. He’s not moving.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

“ART!” I SCREECH.

“Celestine!” Carrick calls out.