“It was all a lie!” he shouts.
“Let her go, Jeremy,” my mother repeats. She’s still struggling to sit up, her arms trembling with the effort. “I admit it. I’m a terrible person. I’ve spent years hating myself for what I did. But please leave Romy out of this. She was only a little girl. This isn’t her fault. She’s a good person – the best. If you’ve been talking to her, you must know that.”
“Of course I know that,” J yells. He’s breathing in short bursts, hot against my cheek. “But why should she get to live? Why should she get to be happy? If she didn’t exist, my parents would still be alive!”
J’s hands are still squeezing around my broken wrist, so tight the pain makes my vision go black.
My mother lets out a feeble, furious yowling sound, like a dying cat desperately trying to protect her kitten. She jerks out of the bed on wobbly legs, stumbling towards us with her arm raised.
Through the spots in my vision I can see something in her hand, something sharp and metallic.
It’s a hypodermic syringe, filled with some kind of liquid.
She dives for J, who pushes me away so that I stumble and nearly fall over. I catch myself on the end of the bed, my weight landing on my broken wrist and sending me dizzy.
By the time I steady myself enough to turn round, J has caught my mother’s arm. They wrestle, but my mother is still weak from the stasis. It’s only the threat of the syringe that keeps him from overpowering her immediately.
I tear my eyes away from them. This might be my only chance to find another weapon, something better than the scissors I dropped in the corridor. I need to look now, while J is distracted with my mother. Maybe I can save us both.
I run over to the surgical counter and start pulling open drawers, scattering bandages and pill packets across the floor as I search for something – anything – sharp enough to hurt. Sharp enough to kill.
A series of thuds sounds from behind me. I spin, just in time to watch J overpower my mother. He pushes her hand down and jabs the needle of the syringe into her thigh.
She lets out a horrified cry when he presses down on the plunger, but carries on fighting him. The syringe empties into her flesh, crimson blood filling up the chamber.
Heat flushes through me. It’s too late. He’ll come for me next, and I’ve found nothing I can use to defend myself.
Running across the room, I yank at the handle of a door, ignoring the sound of fighting behind me.
As soon as I slam shut the door, I press the keypad on the wall. The lock slides into place with a neat click.
Breath leaves me in a rush. I’ve bought myself a tiny bit of time. I’m in a supply cupboard – there must be something in here that I can use. Some kind of surgical equipment would work.
I start rifling through boxes on the shelves, but I keep thinking about my mother’s blood clouding the syringe. I wonder what was injected into her. It must be something dangerous, if she was planning to use it as a weapon.
I shake myself. I need to keep looking. The only way to help her now is to stop him.
I sift through more bandages, tweezers, towels. Nothing useful. Nothing dangerous.
There’s a rattling at the door handle. Spinning round, I watch it move up and down, then fall still. Lights flash on the keypad. He’s trying to get in.
Diving across the room, I press buttons, trying to counter his orders. The door unlocks, and then locks again.
This is the same system used for the doors on The Infinity. If I can take the front panel off the keypad, then I think I can cut the wires and break the lock so that J can’t open it at all. It happened once to the bathroom door on The Infinity. The wiring failed and it froze shut. We had to take the door off its hinges.
I grab a plastic bottle off the shelves and use it to smash the keypad, throwing all my weight into each swing until the plastic panel shatters into pieces. J’s beeping pauses, and then restarts faster.
I pull at the panel until there’s enough space to reach behind. I run my fingers over the wires, searching for the one I know will break the lock. I tear the wire free, pulling my hand away just as the circuit board sparks with electricity.
The screen goes dark. It worked.
The door shudders. He must be hitting it. He’s going to break it down.
The handle starts jerking, like he’s trying to work it free. A memory flashes across my mind: my mother, replacing a circuit board. Saying to me, “Don’t touch the wires, Romy. They’ll shock you.”
I pick up the loose wire, still sparking with electricity, and press it to the metal door handle. A white flash blinds me as power jumps between them.
There’s a hoarse, pained noise. The handle stops moving. I hear a muffled thud as J falls to the floor.
The fuse must have shorted, because the soft ceiling lighting fades into black. I press my ear to the door, but I can’t hear anything.
The electricity could have been enough to kill him. I hope.
My breathing sounds wet and loud in the silence. I still need a weapon, just in case he’s alive. I need to be prepared.
I start searching through boxes by touch, carefully turning over items until I know what they are, until I’m certain they aren’t useful.
The lights come back on while I’m looking through the final shelf, illuminating a box labelled “Scalpels”. I open it with stiff, numb fingers, pulling out a sharp knife. This time, I don’t even need to test the blade.
When the shining metal catches the light, I realize I’m trembling. I brace my muscles, trying to stop it. I need a strong, firm grip.
There’s still no noise from the next room. I can’t even hear my mother.
I want to stay in here, safe and alone, but if there’s a chance she’s still alive then I need to help her. I can’t hide again like last time.
I pull the emergency release lever at the top of the door. It slides open halfway, shudders, then stops in its tracks.
J is lying on the floor. He’s pale, and his left arm is covered in dark burns from where he must have been holding the door handle when he was electrocuted. His breathing is shallow but even.
He’s still alive.
I turn sideways and squeeze through the gap between the door and the doorjamb. The air smells of burnt meat, sharp and acrid.
J groans and rolls towards me.
“Romy.” His voice is hoarse.
I don’t hesitate. I bend down and thrust the scalpel up into the side of his stomach. It’s so tough that for a moment I think I’ve hit his belt, until I feel the tacky warmth of blood in between my fingers. His face, still slack from unconsciousness, twists in pain.
My eyes fill with tears, but I blink them away and twist the blade, driving the blade as far into his guts as I can reach. The impact vibrates down my arm as it hits something dense.