PROBLEM - Anthony Lockwood

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

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xxxvii

i am so happy (i am so sad)

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"YOU NEED SLEEP," Lockwood whispered, still holding her.

Alice had lost count of how long she stood there, in his arms. The tears had stopped a while ago. She no longer had it in her to cry.

She didn't have it in her to do anything, really.

She didn't want to face Lucy or George. She didn't want to go on another job. She didn't want to live.

Why couldn't it all just stop?

As she laid her head against Lockwood's chest, Alice listened to the beat of his heart. It was comforting. Steady. He smelled like musk and sandlewood. Whatever cologne he used, Alice hoped that he'd use it forever.

He pulled away from her, looking down at her and cupping her face in his hand.

Alice leaned into his touch, his skin warm against hers.

She met his eyes, and Lockwood felt his stomach twist as he looked into those vacant black eyes.

"You need to sleep," he repeated. Her face looked hollow. He tried not to stare at the circles under her eyes.

She looks like a corpse, the voice in his head said.

"I can't," she whispered, shaking her head slightly.

"Why not?"

Alice screwed her eyes shut, trying not to look at the morose look on his face and the purple bags under his eyes.

"I'm scared," she replied, voice barely a murmur.

What was the point of a mask now? He'd seen right through her. She might as well tell him everything.

He'll kill you. Chain you in iron and burn you.

At least she'd feel his warmth.

Lockwood surveyed her with wide eyes. The words jarred him slightly, reminding him of his childhood.

Death. Death. Death.

Every time, he'd close his eyes.

Dead mother. Dead father. Dead Jessica.

Lockwood studied her, trying to figure out what had happened. She'd clearly been through something in the past eight days. It was like a different person was standing in front of him. A shell of the girl Alice once was. A torn away version of the Alice who cheated in knots and crosses, who cooked too much biriyani, who talked to her cat about politics like she was human and could understand why the Tories were the worst party in the world.

He tucked her hair behind her ear, entangling his hand into her raven locks.

His eyes flickered to her hairline, where the scars were littered. Scars from her own fingertips.

There were new ones. Some were scabbing and healing, some were fresh and bloody, and some were inflamed and red.

You can't trust her, he warned himself, you can't trust her to be alone right now.

"Stay with me," Lockwood offered gently. "Just try to close your eyes for a bit. If you have a nightmare, I promise I'll wake you."

He had to be gentle. He knew that by the look in her eyes and the curl in her shoulders.

Even though all he wanted to do was find whoever did this to her and shove his rapier into their throat.

Alice nodded slightly, letting him pull her over to his bed. She noticed it then, too. The circles under his eyes, the hollow look in his face.

He's wasting away, she realised. He's depressed.

He was wearing grey joggers and a white t-shirt. Alice realised then that she hadn't seen a blazer on his chair, like he usually put while he was training.

He wasn't even wearing a suit anymore?

In the time she'd been part of the agency, Alice had hardly seen Lockwood not wearing a suit. She could probably count all the times she hadn't seen him wearing one on one hand.

It was strange, but it was one of those things she liked about him.

She barely felt human anymore, as he dragged her. She let him move her like she was a ragdoll, and Lockwood hated that. 

His bed was soft.

The covers were smooth.

They were dark grey.

The room was dark.

The window was shut now.

He had a bedside table on the left side of his bed.

Alice forced herself to concentrate on the little things. To shift her attention from one tiny aspect to another. If she wasn't paying attention to him, he'd eventually just fall asleep.

His breathing was low.

Lockwood surveyed her for a moment, curled up there, almost as far away as she could get without falling off. "What's happened, Ally?" he questioned, voice gentle but firm, "Don't lie to me."

Alice stayed silent for a few moments before turning to face him. She could tell he was looking at her, but she couldn't meet his eyes.

"I didn't lie to you that day, in the cafe," Alice revealed, her voice quiet. She paused for a moment, staring at his chest. There was a vacant, miserable look in her eyes. Like she had given up. "After my parents died, I was raised by my aunt Bonny Lizzy. And Tom, who came for me, he was her son. So he was always like a brother to me." Alice trailed off, screwing her eyes shut as Lockwood touched her on the arm. "They killed her. One day, they'll kill me, too."

And then she turned and her breathing evened.

Lockwood lay there, staring at her for a long while after that, turning the words over in his head. It chilled him to the core, terrified him even, that she was so resigned to it all. A few weeks ago, the Alice he knew would run to the ends of the earth, fight back, protect herself tooth and nail. This Alice was indifferent to it all. Like she knew they would come after her and was simply tired off running.

He had the horrible feeling that if they bound her in iron, she wouldn't fight back.

That playful fire was gone from Alice's eyes, and when he thought about them, all that came to mind were how dark and endless they were. Like an abyss or a cave with no light. Just blackness. Just terror.

The Alice lying beside him wasn't his friend. She was a shell of the girl from the training room, Sheen Road, or Tyburn Gallows.

When he concentrated, she seemed a bit like a shattered mirror, distorted and torn.

Shattered like her mother's mirror.