Chapter 2

“The killing, well yeah, it feels good – damn good – but I gotta tell you, the human stain’s a hard thing to wash off.”

It was the first thing she said to me. The first thing she said to anyone, in fact. In some cases, it would be the only thing she said to them. But that was because she was discerning. She would speak to anyone and everyone, at first. But then, she would have sized you up in that heartbeat between the first and second syllables of the word ‘killing’. The rest of the sentence was given purely out of politeness and the chance to plan her escape from the other’s conversational constraints.

She called herself a Rider of the Night. As she chose to continue with her chats with me to the point we were almost friends, I felt at ease enough, after a perhaps probationary amount of time, to jokingly ask if she’d ever owned a car called Kitt. She didn’t laugh. I had, clearly mistakenly by the look on her face. My chuckle cut off as quickly as if her hands had taken hold of my throat and squeezed.

She didn’t do humour, it seemed. After a week of cold-shouldered detention, she deigned to come sit by me again.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I should… Wish I could stop reacting like that.”

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “In here, not liking one of my jokes is a daily occurrence. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t,” she said.

I wasn’t sure if she was being truthful. Her voice was soft enough to imply she was, but her eyes held on to the ice that frosted them.

“I’ll try to keep my jokes to myself.”

“You don’t need to. I just don’t do humour.”

“You don’t? Join the club. You’re in not so fine company.”

I realised that was another joke. I also realised I should have kept it to myself when she wordlessly stood and moved away.

I spoke to Jeremy.

“Rider” as the Rider of the Night had come to be known, “really doesn’t like my jokes, does she?”

“Don’t take it personally, Sin.” Jeremy smiled. It was a warm, genuine expression and one that you knew was without the malice that so often laces the smiles of his colleagues. “Nobody likes your jokes. We’ll, except you, I suppose.”

I made a faux gasp of shock before smiling myself.

“You think I’m hilarious, Jezzer.”

“Keep calling me that and we’ll see how funny it is.”

I nodded. We both knew the other wasn’t being serious, but we were digressing and I wanted to get back to Rider.

“What’s her story?”

“Christine. That’s her name. I don’t know much about her, to be honest. She’s one of Connors’ pets. She has zero sense of humour though.”

We all knew Connors, our illustrious leader and psychiatrist to the stars, had his favourites. His pets. It wasn’t an honour, we were sure.

“Zero?”

“Yup, zero. None at all.”

“Everyone finds something funny,” I said. “Even if it’s just the pain of others.”

“Maybe so, but not in her case. For some reason, she… Jokes are like a phobia. They make her feel physically sick. Being sick makes her feel sick too, unfortunately, so she removes herself from any situation where jokes might be made.”

I imagined her to have never laughed. Going through life barely smiling seemed to be a sad existence. Not even being able to laugh made it sadder yet.

“Is there anything we can do about it? Anything to help her?”

“Probably,” said Jeremy, but he was shaking his head. “But I doubt either of us will get the chance.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sorry, my friend. I’ve said more than I should. You always have that effect on me. Needle out the details. I need to watch out for that more.”

He wouldn’t though. I knew that, as did he. He was fully aware I wouldn’t utter a word about anything he told me. I never had yet and it wasn’t likely to change.

For the next few days, I kept my distance from Christine. I didn’t mention her name to anyone, though I berated myself for not asking Jeremy why the pseudonym. Unexpectedly, the Rider of the Night returned to my side one day. She held my hand, a little too desperately.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“What makes you say that?” she asked. “Why would you say that?”

“No reason. I just meant… I mean… Are you ok?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I think something is wrong.”

“Can I help?”

I was concerned. Her face, though she was trying to hide it, couldn’t disguise the fear she felt. My hand in hers was agreeing. I squeezed back, hoping it was offering solace. My sense of humour had, thankfully, left for the day. What remained was a void that would potentially be filled with her ire, perhaps relieving some of it in the process.

“Do you remember what I said when we first met?”

I nodded. It was too unusual an opener to forget easily.

“You said you’d enjoyed killing, but found it difficult to get the stains out.”

Christine stared at me for a moment, her lips tight. Her eyes lost their chill and became hot with anger. The flash of flush dissipated quickly, though, with the cold glint settling back in.

“No,” she said flatly.

“No?”

But she did say that, or words to that effect. I didn’t have the best memory, no doubt, but she had spoken about murder and stains! The fact she’d openly admitted to taking a life, or lives, hadn’t fazed me, which was why she was still talking to me. People who killed did so for a variety of reasons, as I knew all too well. It would be unfair, hypocritical, even, for me to pretend otherwise. In the asylum, we were all equals, except for the orderlies and Connors, who were obviously more equal. I took her as she was, not who she had been.

“I said killing feels good, and oh hell, it does. Don’t you feel that?”

“Me?”

“Sure. I know you’ve killed. Don’t you enjoy it?”

I shook my head emphatically. I certainly did not enjoy the deaths at my hand. I felt as if each one has seared part of my insides, and continued to do so each day.

“Oh, well, that surprises me,” she said, staring at the floor. “I thought, with your name and reputation, you were somehow born to it.”

Can someone really be a born killer? I’d heard a theory about there being specific chromosomes in our bodies that dictated how likely we were to become a criminal, but I had no idea if it had been proven. Perhaps, but I thought not. I was not responsible for the deaths I was responsible for. As contrary as that sounded, it was the truth.

Christine shrugged.

“Well, I did. I had to, or I’d not have continued, so I found ways to enjoy it. Once I’d changed my focus, it wasn’t only enjoyable, it was fulfilling.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t trust easily, Sin. In here, I guess we should all trust at least one person. I chose you.”

Gee, thanks.

“OK…”

“I’m worried,” she said and it was then I noticed the tremble in her hands.

“Why?”

“When I spoke about the human stain, I didn’t mean blood or internal organs or anything. I meant being human.”

“Like the race? All people?”

“Not all,” she laughed. “Not you, at least.”

“Thank you..?”

“Don’t mention it. I thought you’d be able to understand. Was I wrong?”

“Tell me what you want me to understand, and I’ll tell you if I get it.”

“I’m a killer,” she said in a low voice, moving closer. “We all know that. But I’m not crazy.”

I doubted all killers were.

“I know how it looks. I suppose anyone who takes a life is a killer of some sort. But I… I was doing good.”

“In what way?”

“The Human Stain. It’s a taint that so many people have, but so few realise.”

I wanted to go. I’d tired of our talk and didn’t like where it was going. I would normally help anyone, but nobody has used me for a confessional. I wasn’t qualified to dish out Hail Mary’s and repentance. All I had going for me were the drugs they gave me to help me forget (though their aid was decreasing) and the knowledge that damned coin couldn’t get back to me. I was safe, and so was everyone else.

“I’ve always been good at knowing people, Sin. I can see inside them, past the curtains they try to keep closed.”

I knew of secrets. Hidden cravings and appetites. I understood her point.

“If someone is… is….”

“Stained?”

She nodded.

“Do you feel guilt about what you’ve done?”

I was in a constant battle with myself to keep my senses tightly bound to me. If I didn’t, I believed I could hear the cries of all those I’d killed.

“Yes,” I said. “Every day.”

“I don’t.”

“O… OK…”

“I know. Does that make me a sociopath? Or heartless? Do I seem to be either of those things to you?”

“No.”

She didn’t appear to be sociopathic, and did have a warm side to her, albeit one tipped with those glacial eyes. Would I have been able to tell, though? Are such people extremely good at hiding their dark halves?

“That’s because I’m neither. I just have a gift – or curse – and I act upon it.”

“OK?”

What else could I say?

“Have you ever seen the movie Unbreakable? M. Night. Shamalan, or whatever his name is.”

I had.

“Yes, with Bruce Willis.”

“That’s right. You know how he could walk past someone and know if they were criminals Like flashes?”

A nodded agreement.

“I can sort of do that. It’s not a vision or even any feeling I can pinpoint. It’s just knowledge.”

“Knowledge of what?”

“Their heart. Their darkness. Or, of course, their light.”

“What about if they’re some shade of grey? Not everyone is specifically good or evil.”

“You’d think so,” she said. “You’d be wrong.”

“I don’t know where you’re going with this. I thought you said you were concerned. I got the feeling you wanted my help.”

“I need it, I think.”

“Go on.”Christine leaned in and I could smell a hint of Jasmine. I wondered how that might be, with the products they allowed us in the asylum being devoid of anything perfumed. I was reminded of Joy, my sister, and had an impulse to hug the woman. I resisted, and the smell passed.

“It’s Connors,” she whispered.

Of all the people with black hearts needing to free the world of their stain, Connors should be at the top of the list.

“What about him?”

“He has to die.”

My apologies for the time it has taken to bring another chapter to this book. I had to wait to see if something that might have been happening with it actually did. Anyway, I’m pleased to say, on a trip home from London over the weekend, I picked up the lovely Nyhterides starter to see where it might go. And this story is where it went!

I hope you enjoy it. Helps guide the story by offering your own start sentences or, if you’d like to, why not be interviewed by Sin as one of the characters within the asylum?

Oh, and HUGE congratulations to Nyhterides on the birth of your gorgeous new baby!