Chapter Thirty-four

A little less than two years earlier, Chris had been at his lowest point.

It had been a couple of weeks since he'd stolen from Katie, and that money had run out quickly. The days since had been a series of worn couches and damp front rooms that blurred into one. He slept fitfully at best, shivering in his thin sleeping bag, frequently unable to remember where he was. He was scared by every creak of the floorboards above, dreading who might be up there and what they might want from him when they came down. There was freezing cold water, assuming the taps ran at all. Chipped porcelain sinks. Broken mirrors in which he could barely see his lank hair as he stubbornly attempted to re-create the center part he'd had as a boy, the scar on his face standing out even among the cracks in the glass.

And the constant voice in his head.

This is all that you deserve.

You shouldn't exist.

Now he could only dimly recall the night before that life ended. There were impressions. He was running away from someone's house, an angry voice calling after him, bellowing ugly threats that echoed off the faces of the dark, boarded-up buildings. He was crying and hugging himself, although he remembered thinking he had no right to feel self-pity. Comfort and safety were not things he was entitled to. And he recalled the way the shouts had trailed away in the night air behind him. Because the owner of that angry voice had felt no need to chase him. They both knew he would be back the next morning. That the need he was going to feel by then would compel him.

He spent the rest of that night at the end of a pitch-black, broken-down railway arch, huddled on a bed of half bricks and litter, barely covered by hastily gathered sheets of cardboard and newspaper. To the extent he slept at all, he woke up shivering and feverish, and sat up carefully, easing out the cramp in his limbs. He hadn't moved much during the night, which was a habit he'd acquired over the years. Sleeping on rough, uncomfortable ground didn't allow you the luxury of tossing and turning. The left side of his body felt bruised. The right side of his face, which had been exposed to the air, was damp and numb.

But those sensations were nothing next to the need.

The cold, hard facts of his situation arrived quickly. He had to get back to wherever it was he had run away from. He had to make amends, however hard that would be. And he had to hope—the most terrifying thought of all right then—that he even could find his way back there, that the door wouldn't be closed to him if he did.

He had to do those things because that was all he was.

And he was about to get up when he became aware he wasn't alone.

There was movement at the entrance to the arch.

Which wasn't far away. It had been dark when he'd sought refuge here last night, and at the time the blackness of the arch had seemed endless and impenetrable. But the entrance was actually only a few feet from him. A man there was now making his way in toward Chris, his gaze focused on the uneven ground and the bricks shifting dangerously beneath his feet.

Chris was more startled than actually afraid. The light in here was dim, but the man was visibly old and frail, and while Chris had always been small, he was sure he could fight him off if he had to. Even so, that drumbeat of need was sounding through him. If nothing else this man was an unwelcome barrier between him and where he knew he had to get to.

Especially because there was a sense of purpose to the man's movements.

Despite himself, Chris drew his knees up as the man reached him.

"Who are you?" he said.

The man didn't answer. Up close, Chris could tell he was older than he'd thought. He was bald, and there was a thumbprint pattern of liver spots crowning his head, as though his skull had been handled and turned by dirty fingers. He was dressed in an expensive three-piece suit that looked like it had fit once but was a size too large for him now. A pair of ancient spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose.

"What do you want?" Chris said.

The man looked around, taking in the filthy surroundings. There were another few seconds of silence, and then he leaned down slowly on his knee and looked at Chris.

"Your name is Christopher."

The man's voice sounded as tired and weary as his body appeared, but the use of his name shocked Chris. He had never seen this man before—didn't know him at all.

And yet somehow the man knew him.

Give nothing away.

The man looked around again, and then let out a sigh. It was as though he'd been tasked with doing something he had known in advance would be difficult and unpleasant but still hadn't been quite prepared for how hard it would be. He leaned carefully off his knee and stood upright again, then looked down at Chris. The pity he could see on the old man's face now sent a wave of shame through him. There were no mirrors here, cracked or otherwise, but he could imagine how wretched he must look.

"You believe you're at rock bottom, Christopher." The man spoke quietly. "You think you're at your lowest ebb. And in a way, you're right. You're shivering, aren't you? I can see it."

Chris gritted his teeth and didn't reply.

"Right now," the man said, "you are planning on going somewhere you feel you have to. I'm here to tell you that you mustn't. You absolutely must not. A terrible thing will happen to you there if you do."

Chris shook his head in confusion.

The man seemed to take the gesture as a refusal.

"Do you want to die?"

Give nothing away.

"Believe me," the man said, "you really don't. It might seem that way right now. And you might not believe me when I tell you this, but there is a future for you. You just have a choice to make. You can go back to where you were planning to go, and if you do, you will die there. It will be an ugly and squalid death, and not one the newspapers will waste their time reporting."

There was no way the man could know that. Perhaps it was true, but the voice in Chris's head told him it would be worth it even if it was.

Because that is all you deserve.

Because you shouldn't exist.

Except… if that was the case, why had he run last night?

Chris stared at the man for a moment, his heart churning.

"What do you want?" he said finally.

The old man tilted his head and looked off to one side, as though there were a hundred possible answers to that question and he didn't know which one to choose.

"To help you," he settled on. "You are suffering right now. But I have access to the best medicines and doctors that money can provide. If you come with me, I will make sure you have everything you need. The life you think is beyond you will be within your grasp again. That is what I want. I want to give you the choice to have the future you always should have."

You don't deserve anything.

Chris stood up slowly. It felt like his body was aching everywhere, and he rubbed his bruised, emaciated arms. But as weak as he was, he knew he could easily push the old man aside if he wanted to. Step over him. Go back to the life he deserved.

But as he stared at the old man, he recognized the kindness in his face. There was no sense of threat to him. He seemed to be willing Chris to go with him but also resigned to the fact he might choose otherwise. And while none of what was happening here made any sense, Chris found himself believing the man—or at least wanting to.

After a moment, the man nodded in acknowledgment of the unspoken decision that had been made. Then he turned and began clambering awkwardly back the way he'd come, over the rubble toward the entrance. Chris followed him out into the cold, gray morning light. He looked to the right. An expensive car was waiting in the nearby alleyway, its windows tinted black and its engine idling.

Chris hugged himself against the cold. His teeth were chattering.

"Who are you?" he said.

The old man looked at him. Once again, he seemed to be considering the question carefully.

And then he smiled gently.

"Call me Alan," he said.