CHAPTER 11
Later that night I was rudely awoken as a pair of hands shook me. Naturally my assumption was for the worst and I lashed out blindly with a frantic fist. The blow made contact and I rolled from between the covers, desperate to get my bed between me and the unseen assailant.
“Jet!” The word was a strangled whisper.
I hesitated, fists clenched, aware that my Spirit was rising to the occasion of its own accord, materialising in a tingle across my chest and arms. I heard a crackle and the energy begged to be released, feeling more than the first time it had taken physical form. I was virtually glowing with potential destruction.
“Jet, its Clinton!”
I tried to calm my hammering heart and stared into the darkness, making out the silhouette of a human figure. I realised that the warning buzz was absent from my head and relaxed.
“Clinton? What the hell are you doing? I could’ve killed you!”
“Jet, listen to me.” The silhouette came stumbling forward and Clinton’s ghostly face loomed out of the darkness, blood running from both nostrils. “She doesn’t know I’m talking to you. Please, help me! Help me!”
The moment was surreal. Partly because half my brain was still dull from the painkillers, but mostly because the expression on Clinton’s face was the most tortured visage I had ever seen.
He reached out and grabbed the front of my shirt. “Please, Jet...”
“Okay easy Clinton. I’ll help you. I said I would.”
“It’s not that easy,” he croaked, eyes so wide I feared they might fall out of their sockets, “She’s in here…” He tapped a finger to his head.
“I know she is, Clinton. We spoke, don’t you remember?”
“I try so hard, but it’s a part of me now. I don’t know where I end and she begins. Do you understand, Jet?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes there’s a moment,” he looked around the room, eyes flicking from object to object, “and it’s like… surfacing after a deep sleep. I remember who I was… before.”
I watched him, both fascinated and sympathetic. “What do you want me to do, Clinton?”
“I need to get away,” he groaned, “Far away.”
“Then let’s go,” I declared, “Right now. I’ll take you.”
“No, no, no, I can’t just leave. You don’t understand, I’ll come back, I have nowhere else to go.”
I was sure these words were part of the domination, part of the domestication. What he was made to believe.
He paused, glistening face now focusing as my eyes adjusted to the dark. I continued to watch him as a veritable parade of expressions played across his face; anger, shame, self-pity, hope, desperation. The war in his head must have been chaos.
I did want to help him. No man deserved what he must have been experiencing. There appeared to be a marked difference between his mental state and Linda’s. The difference, I expected, being a sense of real purpose.
I made a decision, stepped forward and my mind slipped into calm. Acting on instinct, I began to gather up as much positive emotion as I could, storing it as a sort of physical presence around my body. I had never considered that positive emotion could be utilised in this way, but acted at that moment as if the logistics made perfect sense. The aura of energy grew and I felt its presence as faint pressure, prickling the hairs on my arms and tickling my skin.
Then all at once I reached for my Spirit and pushed it outwards, bombarding Clinton with the positive energy as if it were a vapour.
“Look at me, Clinton,” I said soothingly, “look at me...”
He did, gaze twitching between my left and right eye. Gradually the tension melted from his face.
This spell was what I guessed Benny had referred to as “Ambience Tweaking,” or something along the same lines. The process came naturally, though it was something I had not been aware I was capable.
“You are not a prisoner,” I continued, “You are not bound to this place. You can go wherever you want. Say the word and we’re out of here. You’re free, Clinton. Just remember it.”
A veil cleared from his face. Beneath there was a person, buried so deeply and for so long that seeing the light of day must have been a grand occasion. My mother’s domination spell was breaking. Clinton was returning. There was a glint in his eyes I recognised to be an epiphany, then he was calm.
“I’ll need some time,” he said, his voice level.
“As much as you require. Tell me when.”
“I’ll also need money.”
“Of course,” where that would come from was a mystery, but there was no point in bringing it up in the moment.
“Thank you, Jet. I really appreciate it. We’ll talk again. You’re a good friend.”
“Sure.”
He turned and exited.
I stared at the door, wondering if my fix had been permanent or temporary. Would he go to sleep and wake up a zombie? I had no idea.
You’re a good friend. Damn it. Why had he said that? If I had not been obliged to help before now I most certainly was. It had not occurred to me that Clinton had no friends. In fact when I thought about it I could not recall him having contact with a single person beyond the walls of the house.
Regardless there was a feeling of satisfaction, even triumph. If helping Clinton was successful, perhaps I could achieve the same with Linda. Maybe I could even hook them up and they could start a little family. (Joke, of course. I doubted he would be able to handle her voice of a thousand razors any more than I could.)
Why it should please me to be defying my mother was a mystery. After all, I had just recently agreed to talk to my grandmother about joining the family crime syndicate. What the hell was I doing…?
I crawled back into bed, doubting that there would be more sleep after the adrenalin generating disturbance, but one lived in hope.