Chapter 7

Anne was only tempted back to the hideout after static was blazed through the tunnels. It was loud enough for her to be aware of it and it attracted her to return. But she didn't dare alert Tintin of her presence; she kept her distance far away in the doorway. She only listened and didn't let her stupid mouth open.

She watched as Tintin twisted a dial on the front of it, the screen with frequencies shown sparking into a yellowish colour. The scrambled words of a man speaking were unclear and drowned in static; he turned the dial more precisely until his words were clear. The monotone of the British radio station caused the familiar calm to surround Anne. In this voice there was the courage of war and panic and madness, the voice contained something that Anne couldn't seem to find the concept of. It was of trust and honesty; the likes of which she hadn't seen in some time.

The exception, of course, was Tintin, who had rejected her seductions in the cruellest way Anne could think of. She felt tears inside her open wider at this cold embarrassment.

"… The Commissioner David Lowen has entered the conference followed closely by his Deputy Commissioner. They are ascending the podium as the Commissioner prepares his speech concerning the current murders of twelve London patrons..."

Anne was interested in the words that the Commissioner had to say; she had been unaware of the current affairs for obvious reasons. Tintin was unsure about this but didn't turn off the set – he was also curious as to what his name had become, answering the questions concerning what he would have to do to clear his blackened name and where the authorities were in their inquiries.

"Good morning." The voice was rough and serious; it had a slight edge to it that suggested he was a regular smoker. "Over the past three weeks I can confirm that seven more have been murdered in similar circumstances, meaning that twelve London citizens have been killed brutally by an unknown killer who hasn't been identified. However there are leads that we are following and we have our best men on the case. Our prime suspect-"

"You mean the boy reporter Tintin?" The interruption was unorthodox, loud and rude. It came from a tinny woman's lips. There were signs of disapproval from the crowd that could be clearly heard through the transmitter.

"Yes. Tintin is currently our main and only suspect in this case. He was adept at the unusual technique in the murder that was carried out and was at the scene of the first death. The victim of which was the father of-"

Tintin switched off the radio fearfully – Anne was frustrated and made it clear as she stepped over the threshold.

She glowered at him with stingers in her eyes. "What did you do that for?"

"I've heard enough of their lies – why, do you want to hear them?"

"It might have been important! Something we could've used about the victim!" her voice was rising in volume and anger.

"No, you want to use lies against me to work out who I am. You want to listen to everybody else's opinion while I'm in the gutter with a gunshot in my head?" Tintin had flames erupting from him in such fury as Anne never saw in a human. It caused her to fear him – and back away a bit, but not back down. "Is that what you want? You want them to find us and for 'Britain's finest' to interrogate me until I'm forced to confess?"

"Don't change the subject!" Anne shouted firmly. "You know damn well that we needed that information! I haven't got any idea of what's happened since… since… I don't know when!"

"You've been away months, Anne, months! A lot's happened in that time."

"Like what exactly?" Anne demanded, her face now iron "That man was talking about twelve murders – I know that you might think that I'm sensitive in my current condition but I want to know, Tintin, you have to tell me!"

"What if it's too horrible for you to cope?" he said almost with desperation in his tone, but not enough for Anne to notice. "What if you get broken by what I say about what this world has become! You've no idea about what I know."

"Tell me then." Anne said quieter, but still with reasonable force. "Please, just tell me. H0w can you expect me to trust you if you lie to me?"

"Trust me? I saved your life! I stood by your bedside every day because I knew you just wouldn't die, isn't that trust enough? You are the only woman in the world I trust and the only person that's with me right here, right now! I gave you flowers because I let Him shoot you because I was weak. You aren't weak like me, Anne, you stopped at nothing to save me from myself and from disease and what did I do? I watched as he saw you to shreds." Tintin felt emotions run thick in his voice, it dared to break under the force that he put into his speech. He spilled everything to her – more than he intended but he was glad to say the things that ran through his mind like a deadly cancer.

Anne didn't know what to say or feel. She felt flattered, blind to what was obvious in plain sight. But she ignored this unnecessary feeling, because he had said very differently thirty minutes or so ago. "I'm the only woman that you trust? Why do you keep lying, Tintin? First you hate me now you love me-"

"I don't hate you and I'm not lying-"

"You are, I know you are! You've been avoiding subjects, looking at me weirdly to the things I say as if you know something I don't. Why do you keep thinking I'm bloody blind?"

Tintin diverted, lowering his voice in attempt to calm Anne and his own feelings down. "Anne you aren't blind and I'm sorry, okay? I don't know if I want to go out with anybody yet-"

"See?" Anne cried, "you're doing it again! You're avoiding everything that I'm saying! Just face me for once, just tell me the truth!"

"I am telling you everything-"

"Don't say that, I know you are! You turned off that thing just before - he was about to say the father of who? Of who, Tintin?"

He felt the anger boil uncontrollably, Tintin couldn't stand it any longer, the interruptions of this foolish girl, it was lost, his control and temper was lost.

"Of you! Your father is dead!"

He didn't mean to roar at her and regretted doing so immediately after, Anne staggered, Tintin stood his ground; he felt the anger seep everywhere, it would never be calmed. He spoke with much more force than he would've wanted in this situation but was too infuriated to calm himself. All around him was distress and annoyance at Anne and her pathetic words.

Anne didn't know what to say or think. She stood there – before Tintin's anger and guilt ridden gaze, barely able to feel his words. Gradually they did seep through her skin, into her bones until she felt hollow and wasted. She was empty and felt so stupid. Empty of life, empty of love and hope. Her father was always there, he just was, that was just who her father was.

The shock was like a continuous, lengthy, agonizingly painful lightning strike. It hurt her deeply and caused eruptions of shaking to occur. She didn't know what to say – she couldn't say anything or hardly think. Anne saw a younger self in her memories as she was told of her mother's death; how she cried on her father's lap as he soothed her tunelessly to sleep. How he was so happy for Anne and George when they announced their marriage. It was enough for her to cry. To sink in the depression of the truth; he wasn't there. When he should be - always.

Those words that Tintin had said about him yesterday; that he was lonely, dying and pitied. She felt bile gather in her throat as she considered the very idea. Her father was never pitied; he was strong and envied, he had everything he could ever wish for. He was happy – and so was she. They were together and that was all that mattered. Her father, her beloved father, he died a broken man. She woke up days too late! It was bitter feeling of guilt and anger combined that made her shatter completely in her grief. It was unreal. This all felt too surreal to be truth.

But it was then, as she began crying uncontrollably, that she thought of something that had made sense in the shock. That it might not have happened at all if Tintin hadn't got involved in all this. If he hadn't encouraged her to destroy the damned device and run away from her home, then maybe she would've been set free by Pincer like he always promised. She would've gone home to her father, her dear father, and they would've lived together for years in harmony. Maybe she would've found another lover – someone better than Tintin and his stupid stories and adventures. They were all fiction probably, most probably not even his own inventions, stolen and used like he had her trust. Tintin had done nothing but tell countless lies and helped her get ripped apart and killed piece by piece by George. She held nothing but contempt for the boy now.

"You lied to me…" Anne could scarcely believe what she had said was the truth. Anne's voice broke as she lost herself to the horrid grief that drowned her in merciless memories. Most of which she couldn't help but regret – her life was going away as if she was dying again, dying by the edge of that blade. A death so terrifyingly painful that she couldn't face it a second time – she wouldn't let herself succumb to that. "When were you planning on telling me?"

"Anne I-"

"No!" Anne nearly screamed the word as she waved her hand into Tintin's face. She wore the look of desperation and utter loathing. "You don't get to say anything to me anymore! My father is dead and you didn't tell me, did you think that I shouldn't know? You're like everyone else, everyone who kept telling me that I was weak and dumb and shouldn't know for my own fucking good? And don't even try to say it was because you pitied me too. Because we don't get pitied by people like you; people who don't care about anybody but themselves." She slid down the wall and landed on the dusty floor – feeling her strength fade completely as she let the guilt and regret consume her. Her voice became quiet suddenly, speaking only to herself. "How did I… How could I ever love you?"

Tintin looked into her beautiful emerald downturned eyes and saw how much pain they were in. He regretted not telling her. He regretted lying to her and would take it all back to reverse this moment in his life. When he had hit rock bottom and would prefer anything – anything, than to be standing before the only girl in the world that mattered. He always hurt the people he knew, Tintin didn't mean to, Tintin was only human. But being the human magnet for trouble was never quite enough for most – it was in this moment he could never speak to Anne again. He had forfeited the right to even look at her.

This regret was so powerful – he closed his eyes in the strength of it. Letting his remaining emotions succumb to the wave of sadness upon him. Tintin saw Anne lying on the floor of the boxed room, on the carpet with her arms wrapped around her skinny legs as she wept. The sounds of her sobbing caused the memories of her in the icy wind by the Golden River to be conjured in Tintin's mind.

He could not stay with her any longer. He took some food and the few possessions he had – saying nothing. What he had said to her was enough; for her lifetime at least. Anne did not look at him. She only stared into the space of her own anger and shame as Tintin stood and moved around. He turned to the doorway, knowing that leaving Anne's life forever would mean she would be safe from him and the constant trouble that he endangered himself into, but decided to turn back. Because he knew deep down that to not say this now would cause him to regret everything that he had done. "I'm sorry, Anne. I should've told you, but I didn't want you to get upset. You mean so much to me – almost like family."

Through a few weak sobs she spoke with surprising firmness. "You know nothing about family. You never will, bastard."

He felt that stick in him like a blackened dagger in his side. The very mention of the curse causing him to conjure anger that he had felt since that word was first spoken to him during those evil years at high school. His nostrils flared, his teeth grounded against each other and he felt his eyes dare to water as they had done far too often in her presence. His throat clenched and blood boiled, but he resisted the urge to attack her as he imagined in his mind. Because he knew that he could never hurt her even if he tried, even if she shred him to pieces he wouldn't lay a finger on her. It was a weakness that Tintin would protect now. No matter how much she hated him.

Anne realised that she had gone too far a few seconds too late; for Tintin was already out the door and tracing the tracks towards Whitechapel station. Snowy followed close behind him, oblivious as to the human behaviour.

Tintin didn't know what to do anymore. He was alone, yet again, with only a dog for company. He held his backpack on his shoulder while he followed the tracks away from the small boxed concrete room. Tintin was could feel the guilt that was almost familiar when he could hear her cries – but as they faded away that ghost still remained stalking his shadow. It took little time before he was talking to his constant companion again to allow his confession to begin.

"Well I guess it all comes around, doesn't it, Snowy?" Tintin sighed tiredly. "I did it again, I suppose. I thought that, for one time, for one moment, I didn't have to be the hero. I was talked to like a person and not a name on a headline.

"Why does this always happen to us? We make friends and they leave us – one way or another." The dog looked up at his master, his glistened eyes somehow knowing of what was happening. It would've been unusual for any other dog, but Snowy wasn't ordinary, just like Tintin wasn't. That's how they worked – as one force of indifference among the crowd. This thought made the human smile. "You think something could've happened between us, Snowy?"

Snowy looked away, he padded on contentedly while Tintin kept speaking.

"It's not like we would've got anywhere, would we? I mean, we might've become something, right? If I gave it a chance, if I hadn't listened to my bloody gut and done the right thing. But I don't know – relationships sometimes don't work out, do they? Not that I'm suggesting anything… just something, you know?" Another thought came to Tintin through the blush he inexplicably produced, one that shook him to his very core. Causing him to stop dead in his tracks and for his complexion to pale exponentially. "What if – what if I'm like my dad? What if I hurt her?"

Tintin wouldn't be able to. He would never be able to do anything like that to her. There was no doubt about it – he felt strongly for Anne. But he was unsure of what feelings he had for her; whether it was what he suspected or not.

He felt too confused of such feelings. He hadn't felt them in so long he was unsure of what to make of them. It was as if he were adrift upon these emotions on nothing but a rowboat, letting the tide crash against him, leading astray and adrift. He just kept walking until a station could be seen at the end of a tunnel, the lights bright and blinding. The cries of babies and groans of people could be heard through the darkness Tintin was emerging from.

This concerned him – the voices were scared and agonised.

So many voices came to him, disorientated and mixed together. They were female, male, old, young and of all accents that Tintin was aware of and more. "What do we do?"

"Where're the police?"

"I want my mummy!"

"We have to call someone!"

"My phone's dead-"

"So's mine!"

Tintin was greeted then by an apocalyptic image. Women and children were scattered up and down the platforms surrounding Whitechapel station. The faces of them were red from stress, exhaustion and suffocating heat of the stuffy underground. Children were crying and lost, mothers attempted to cradle them into security while fearing their own, some tears were ripped on their clothes and dirt stained their bodies. It was chaos – undying, fearsome chaos that Tintin had no idea of the cause. But it was enough for him to gape in shock of the impossibility of the scene.

As he stepped from the tracks to the platform he was met with distrust. Even when they were desperate – they wouldn't be helped by a cold blooded murderer.

"What happened here?" When nobody answered his question, Tintin walked past them, not even attempting a second time. He wasn't interested in making female acquaintances so they could break him down again.

He crossed corridors of people, a mass of them, sitting like lost refugees in the platforms. Some had horrifying injuries – blood was being patched up by novices and others were placed in the recovery position, eyes barely open, breath barely escaping their lungs. It was horrific, and the rugged boy stood above them. He saw the pained faces turn up at him in in distrust; others didn't look at him at all. Most were unsure of whether to cry, or to just die where they sat on the ground in this hellish place. Suited men holding beaten briefcases in their hand reacted to Tintin in the sense of disbelief, some standing and following him like a lost messiah. It obviously unnerved Tintin to see people like this, thinking that an apparent murderer was thought of as somebody who would know what to do – he was on the surface mere hours ago, what had happened that people would degenerate into this state of trust for a killer?

He eventually came to what was the exit of the station. But what he saw surprised him the most – a barricade on the only escape. It was makeshift, with benches and chairs and tables made of cheap wood covering the light of day, but it was surprisingly strong and stirdy. It moved little from the offense that could be heard on the other side. Tintin feared what was thudding on the other side; he couldn't understand it and it unnerved him.

Away from the mess were a conductor and a few others who were staff of the train station. Their eyes were unfocused and tired and they were petrified when the barricade shook even an inch. Tintin knew what it felt like, to be utterly afraid of what couldn't be seen or heard. With the crowd that had grown somewhat large, Tintin approached the man who appeared to be in charge. His face was haggard, slightly wrinkled and dark bags lay under his heavy eyes. He was red haired and had thinned lips from scowling at passengers.

"Who're you?" it was an old accent, one that originated from Lancaster.

"My name is-"

"Oh yeah, I remember who you are." The man leaned forward – imposing himself on Tintin, making him feel as childish as he appeared. "A murderer, a fool and someone we don't need right now. Unless you'd like to… volunteer to get out there?"

A few chuckles from the fearful men behind Tintin didn't make him stir, it made him more motivated to challenge the man before him. "Depends on what I'd be signing up for?"

The man's caterpillar eyebrow rose. "Where've you been, boy? Don't ye know what's out there?"

Tintin shook his head; eyes around him widened and whispers spread at this.

"Well it don't matter, if ye still willin' to go-"

"Hold on, mate," An Australian man came forward, he was dark of tan and his accent was thick and smooth. It was not imposed with fear, as Tintin almost expected in the circumstances. He was not of the staff and wore casual jeans and shirt – both of which were torn and dirtied. "I think the kid needs to know what he's up against, if he's goin' out there."

Heads nodded in agreement to this – as if it was a tenant from the brotherhood of men. The Australian continued: "See, kid, this afternoon the street out there was… attacked. An army of thugs, with guns – big machine guns that I haven't seen in a long time. It wasn't a battle, not anything that the police could even come up against. It was a massacre. It was horrible. We all ran into the station, a few hundred of us. But there are so many that are dead."

The other men bowed his head in memory to them. It lasted a long minute where Tintin caught himself with the situation. A killing of hundreds in the middle of London? How could this happen? Who could've organised such a despicable act of utter evil?

"Those arseholes are still out there." the conductor growled under his breath. "Stomping and robbing the dead. Because they're looking for someone."

"Yeah." The Australian said. "A girl – her name was Alice? Andy?"

Tintin looked up to the Australian man – white as a sheet. "Anne?"

"That's her, why, do'ye know her, boy? That's what the man wants –"

"What man?" Tintin demanded as he stepped to the conductor, dark fear and ice in his eyes. They darted uncontrollably while he simulated dozens of plans at once in his mind; it was a reflex he had come to be grateful for in the recent years of being chased. It was impossible. It couldn't happen. That man was dead.

But it was the Australian who answered. "He was leading them. He said that he had come here to get his wife but she was hiding. He kept sayin' that she had to come out so nobody else would die. He kept sayin' he was claiming his property – whatever that means..."

Tintin knew who it was. It was obvious that he would come back, eventually. How could he be so stupid to believe he was gone for good? It took a mere second of remembering Anne's torn body on the dusty ground before that guilt and shame became anger. A fury so foul and plain that some of the crowd fell back in the heat of Tintin's loathsome, terror inducing stare.

George was claiming his property – taking back the wife he had stolen and hurt. He had hurt Anne; and Tintin was not letting him get away a second time. He would not let him hurt Anne again, she had to be safe. She had to be safe.

He did not look up from the cold look, but his voice changed to an aged husky iron tone. He spoke through gritted teeth; this time he did not lie. He was through with lying with no just cause. "In platform three there's a path leading from the tracks to a small concrete radio station. You'll know the way – the path's clear enough and there are no trains down there. I haven't seen or heard any in hours so you should be fine. You have to get everyone out of here and if you all keep following that path to the radio station. Keep following that road and you'll find an exit."

"Aren't you coming with us, mate?"

Tintin kept staring. He didn't look up nor did his face change from the expression of utter disgust. "I'm going to be the distraction. They'll get in eventually and I'll be here guarding the barricade. It might not be enough, but maybe you'll all be able to get out in time."

He was met with a few mutters of resistance. Of telling him the impossibility that he would emerge alive, that he had too much to live for as the mere child he was. They all came at once, but stopped only after the excuses died in their throats. The Australian and the head conductor said nothing – they only stared until the quiet cries of resistance had ceased.

"It's suicide, boy." The conductor said. "Damn suicide. But if you're serious – and you will help us out, then I'll stay with ye."

A few brave nods came from the crowd, this impressed Tintin, but not enough so anything would change. He was doing this for the innocents below. "There are sick and dying down there - they need more help than me. I'm doing this alone. He will want to have me."

"You?" the Australian said, almost mockingly. "What's so special about you?"

It took a long time for Tintin to realise the answer to that. "Nothing. I'm just another guy trying to save your god-forsaken lives."