‘Kitty, you know your Black Hole?’ he says, ‘That cold… emptiness…?’
‘Don’t talk,’ says Kirsten.
‘You have always been the opposite of that, to me.’
‘Sssshhh.’
‘Whatever the opposite of a black hole is. A white hole?’
‘Yes, a white hole,’ whispers Kirsten past the stone in her throat.
A white hole: the opposite of a vacuum. The opposite of nothing.
The ability to escape.
Kirsten realises they’re sitting in a pool of red. Sees he’s fading. James puts one hand on her arm, the other on the baby.
‘You were always that. You were everything,’ he says, and the light goes out of his eyes. She shakes him, tries to wake him, but she knows he is gone. She doesn’t say that white holes don’t exist.
‘I love you too,’ she says to his still body, ‘I love you too,’ and for the first time in her life that she can remember, huge sobs crash out of her mouth and she is wailing, tears mixing with blood.
A shrill siren stings their ears.
‘We need to go,’ Seth says to Kirsten, grabbing her arm, lifting her off the floor, away from James’s still body.
‘We can’t leave him here!’
‘This building is going to blow up,’ says Seth. ‘We won’t get out in time if we take him.’ Kirsten looks at Keke, sees how grey she still is, feels her own strength leaking out of her body. Despite losing so much, she finds that she still wants to live. They leave the office, but stop almost immediately when faced with the colourless maze of passages and rooms.
‘I don’t know where to go,’ whispers Keke. ‘I was carried in. I was barely conscious.’
Kirsten looks at the photos she took with her locket. The pictures get them halfway but then they are lost. The siren blares. She looks around, tries to think, but all she can see are the bombs in the walls. She looks down at the ground.
‘Can you see that?’ she asks Keke, pointing at the floor tiles (Toaster Waffles).
‘What?’
‘Scuffmarks.’
‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ says Seth.
‘Breadcrumbs.’
‘What?’
‘Hansel & Gretel. It’s a trail of breadcrumbs. There weren’t any marks coming in,’ says Kirsten. ‘Marmalade… was walking behind us. He marked it for us.’
They follow the grey marks on the floor, turn a few corners, and find the exit: the huge vault-like door. It’s locked. Keke, panting, sinks to the floor. She is perspiring heavily again.
Shirt, couch, couch, jacket, hair, thinks Kirsten, and punches 49981 into the number pad. One of the two red lights turns green, and the door remains locked. They both see the small biometric scanpad at the same time, know that it’s for a thumbprint.
Inky dread, mixed with neon nerves: Kirsten hands the baby to Seth, tells him to wait with Keke. She follows the scuffmarks back to the den. She doesn’t look around at the devastation, the bodies, tries to remain clear and focussed. She leans over Mouton’s vast torso, finds her pocketknife in his jeans.
As she pulls the knife free his bear claw grabs her wrist. She screams white bolts and knees him as hard as she can, landing a good one in his stomach, but he hardly flinches. He grunts and starts pulling her body towards him. A meaty tug-of-war. She screams, kicks. The siren screeches zigzags.
She uses her fractured arm to elbow him in the face, breaking his nose so that he can’t see. They cry out at the same time and he loosens his grip. Kirsten launches forward, scooping Mouton’s gun off the floor and turning on her back, taking aim from between her knees. He roars and lunges at her, but she is quicker than him and gets two shots in and rolls out of the way before he crashes down next to her. She shoots him again, and again, until she has emptied the magazine; until she has no doubt that he is dead.
How much time does she have left? She has no idea. She is hyperventilating, trying not to shake. Picks up the pocketknife again and springs the blade.
Kirsten starts to cut off James’s thumb. She can’t saw through the long bone, she doesn’t have the strength or the time, so instead she cuts deep around the bigger knuckle until the joint is exposed, then digs the knife into the joint and pops the thumb out. The horror of what she is doing does not escape her, but she can’t afford to think about it now. She files it away somewhere close and dark. She grabs the digit and runs. She doesn’t think of the mutilated hand left behind, the body, the face, the lips. She thinks about getting to Keke, to Seth and her baby, and getting out in time. Staying alive.
The alarm is increasing in intensity: she is sure there are only seconds left. She flies out of the room, intent on the exit, but halfway down the first corridor she hears something that stops her. Barking. Then beneath the siren: a snuffle, a whine, a whimper. She takes a few more steps. She doesn’t have time to save a dog. If she went back for the beagle they would probably all burn. She begins to scratch and whine. All the swearwords Kirsten knows explode in her head, splattering the inside of her skull. She turns around, runs back to Mouton’s memento room, and gathers up the dog who is sitting waiting for her as if she knew she would come.
With the dog in her arms she hurtles back down the corridor, reaches the security door where Keke is lying on the floor. She holds the thumb to the scanner while she punches in James’s code again. Both lights turn green and the door jolts open.
She puts the dog down and levers Keke up, supports some of her weight with her good shoulder and gets her through the door. Seth carries the baby, and a gun. The elevator is disabled, so they jog up the stairs, losing count of the flights – flights and flights of stairs – going as fast as they can, the dog at their heels.
They all lose the rhythm at different times, causing them to stumble, waste split seconds. Keke stops with only a few more steps to go, sways and falls down, causing her and Kirsten to tumble down half a flight, sending the dog into a flurry of barking. Keke doesn’t get up. Seth passes Kirsten the baby and picks Keke up, throws her limp body over his shoulder for the last few stairs.
They trip out of the front door. Kirsten glances down at the baby to see if he is okay. He frowns back. She tucks him further into her body to protect him. The blue gleam from her broken arm is gone. They get to barely a hundred meters away from the building before there is an ear-splitting roar behind them which hurls them up into the air and crashes them down again onto hard concrete with such force that they are knocked out. The baby wails.
Journal entry
12 May 1989
Westville
In the news: I am happy. Truly, wonderfully happy.
What I’m listening to: Madonna’s ‘Like A Prayer’
What I’m reading: ‘The Alchemist’ by Coelho. Don’t really get it. Sure I’m missing something.
What I’m watching: Rain Man
Today P and the kids ‘surprised’ me with breakfast in bed for Mothers Day. At ‘terrible two’ they are a handful – I call them my adorable monsters – but on days like this I could just eat them up, they are so cute and charming, on their best behaviour. Sam had made me a ‘card’ – a fingerpainting of our family standing outside our house – and Kate gave me a necklace she had made by stringing dried pasta shapes together. I stuck the painting up on the fridge and wore the necklace the whole day.