Disclaimer: I do not own, nor claim to own any characters pertaining to the 2007-2008 TV series 'Moonlight'. All recognisable characters and texts belong to Ron Koslow and Trevor Munson.
Author's Note: I actually really dislike writing in first-person, so goodness knows why I decided to! Special thanks go to Reinbeau, whose reviews really are why this chapter was uploaded now; I had started to lose a little umph with it. A character from the original story makes a reappearance in this one.
Reviews will be invited along to the pub to watch England play in their first World Cup semi-final match in 28 years.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I used my little finger to nudge the thick-rimmed glasses to the top, adjusting their precarious position with frighteningly debilitating enthusiasm. The essay before me – a three-thousand-word piece on the duality of human nature featured in Mary Shelly's Frankenstein and Robert Louis Stephenson's Jekyll and Hyde – bleated unforgivingly. The prominent ache in my ankle served as a stark reminder of my stupidity, but also prevented the inevitable onslaught of hysteria and exhaustion; ever since Mick left me on the outskirts of the complex, sleep felt like a heavy weight behind my eyelids that vehemently refused to shift. It had only been three days, yet the unhinged paranoia nestled in to the small cracks in my subconscious. I knew I was being watched, but I couldn't prove it, so the blinds were permanently drawn as I hunched precariously over my desk, chewing furiously on the pen lid as if it were a hefty chunk of beef jerky.
The hospital had called the following day – two days ago – after which a connected call reunited me with Chloe's voice; a hoarse, strained correlation of syllables, but a voice nonetheless, thanking me with far more warmth than I had imagined her capable. The college had wanted her to speak out, both against Daniel and Christian, of which she was dead-set on doing. Imagining it would be fairly terrible if she did not, I encouraged her to push forwards. The secret study group was disbanded, and his peculiar class cancelled permanently from the curriculum. She was safe. The call had definitely brought closure, but the niggling self-doubt persevered through the disquiet. Something still felt off. Mick.
Pausing at the end of a messy scrawl, I positioned the pen on the tip of my tongue. In some ways, my certainly flaky introduction was a positive; the closeness, if it could be called comfortable at this stage, allowed me an easier access to the storyline, and afforded me the ability to keep track of various characters and their relationships. Disregarding the suspicions he quite possibly had, Mick had been both friendly and supportive, and that did not only include the car rides to and from my flat and his own. It was foolish to assume he did not hear my heartbeat multiplying each time he smiled or asked me a peculiar question, but he never indicated that it was a problem, or indeed that he was considering it a personal challenge to uncover. The brief, horrendously awkward encounter with one Josef Kostan had been a harsh slap in the face from reality; if I had begrudgingly come to terms with Guillermo and Mick being real, physical beings, Josef was another altogether, and despite my assertion that he paid little attention to female humans beyond what liquid refreshment they could offer him, I knew that too much of a fuss would place me directly in his line of sight. He had openly made one joke in my presence regarding Mick's drinking habits; it pegged to reason that more would surface. In other respects, the closeness was also dangerous, both for myself and Mick respectively. If I were to divulge any untoward information, it could potentially jeopardise the necessary progression between both Mick and Beth and could also endanger myself. Mick would likely go to Josef for advice if I so much as hinted that I knew what they both were, Guillermo included – subsequently, the Cleaners would get involved, I would be pushed in to a proverbial corner, and there would be an incredibly slim chance of a positive outcome. All in all, it was an incredibly unsteady thin line, and I was no tight-rope walker.
Julia's overly generous tickets poked wistfully out the top of my planner. They served as yet another frank reminder of my complete lack of discretion, no matter how often I told myself that it had been an eerie coincidence that we had met. Gently massaging a spot just above my left eye, I thought back on the encounter – I hadn't even introduced myself. Julia had not asked, either, and it was simply assumed I had known who she was when I explained that I knew who he was. By extension, I would have to know her; I had, after all, been staring at the poster. Still, I pondered, hastily brushing the concern aside – I had a few more days before the event, thus providing hours of time before I had to make an educated decision.
(It didn't really matter what I chose in all honesty, because regardless of the dangers, I knew my inner-fangirl would win).
Scribbling an eighty-seven at the top of the page in red marker, I placed the clipped pages on the top of a steadily growing pile. Only two more to go. With every essay I marked, my eyes were instinctively drawn to the bottom drawer adjacent to the desk. Fingertips prickled; within moments the folder was splayed out before me. Though there was nothing new, skimming the pages, deliberately avoiding the polaroid fastened to the top of a single page, it tightened the knot in my stomach. As I read, the distinctive memories returned, hard and fast – the slimy plastic of the body bag, and the sheer darkness; the strained rise and fall of my chest, the air becoming stale, thick, stuck…
Hurriedly I replaced Guillermo's file and dropped my head into my hands. As I counted to regulate my breathing, I thought of my success – minor, perhaps irrelevant – but the living, breathing Chloe reunited by her worried family meant something in all this mess. No sooner had the news broken on mainstream media had my own rung me in a flurry of unintelligible words, and I had listened, on the floor, back pressed against the sofa, for almost ten minutes as she trailed off a list of demands I check myself over with before I was even allowed to say I'm okay. I was okay, I was going back to work; the culprit and Ellis were gone, though how much they would be able to pin on Ellis was fractured at this point. He could easily enough claim ignorance, given that there was no solid evidence he had anything to do with any of it other than being a perverted, slimy git whose birth certificate was undoubtedly an apology letter from the condom factory.
With a deep sigh, I reached for the second to last essay.
The media hype surrounding Lee Jay Spaulding had increased significantly; with only four days left until his release, almost every news station was covering the story – from his 'wrongful' imprisonment, to the memoir of his time, and the activities and workshops he had instigated and nurtured during his time inside. The latter was brought up considerably more so than the rest, pointedly laying on thick how he had been treated abysmally by the system and had come out of a flimsy, often accused fixed sentencing with his head held high. Grimacing, swallowing the last of my tea, I could understand Mick's frustration; they were marketing him as a martyr, and Julia, ever oblivious, was fooling no-one if she was trying to assert that it was purely a kind of hero complex and she was absolutely not in love with him.
I washed the mug and teaspoon in the sink, rotating my ankle as I balanced against the countertop. In a way, I was grateful for the consistent throbbing and the marginal spasms of pain. If anything, they reminded me regularly that I was not dreaming; the pain had been far too severe – the perfect, decisive moment to wake up. That had not happened, of course, and I was startlingly aware that I had an unprecedented amount of luck. Mick was clearly too involved in this newly resurfaced connection with Beth to give anything else much headspace, as much as he would be pained to admit it – if he ever did, come to think of it. I rubbed the offending ache above my eye once more before hobbling to collect my keys. Whilst it felt especially ridiculous to embark on any journey until fully recovered, the anxiety that forbade me from leaving my flat unless I was forced to owing to contractually binding obligations had abated. Besides, I told myself, collapsing in to the large red chair I kept by the front door, the worst had already happened; I had woken up in a body bag, in a morgue, to discover that a television show I had an endearing soft spot for was as real as my toenails.
I felt eyes on me the moment I stepped foot out of the block of flats, but rather than keep my head down I squared it level with my posture, shoulders set back and at least attempted to walk confidently without seeming obnoxious. It was all speculation; nobody would be watching me, and even if they had been, there had been every opportunity to murder me in my sleep over the past few nights. Out of the two possible culprits – Christian and Daniel – only the latter would really have any just cause, and he was safely and securely locked up. I told myself this as I walked to the car park, keys jingling in my hand. Relief surged through me as I noted the car stationed in its designated bay; an atrociously offensive canary yellow Volkswagen Beetle that had been my first-ever major purchase, and a moment of considerable pride alongside moving in to my own flat. I had not really thought of checking before, which was something that would undoubtedly have come in handy, both travelling to the diner and not relying on Mick the whole time. That being said, even back home I had not driven everywhere; the college here was within a half-hour walking distance, and more often than not the air was crisp and cool in the mornings; it made up for the lack of jogging I felt far too self-conscious to do in unknown territory, even though I really needed to make the effort to do.
All the way to the supermarket I gripped the wheel as if it would slip away or break off – indeed, I was so terrified of driving on the opposite side of the road it took all my concentration not to blanch and steer in the wrong direction. The only downside was the placement of the wheel; the car had been adequately modified to fit the US auto safety standards, but it was peculiarly strange to not be leaning the customary way. Swallowing, I gingerly guided the car in to a free space and rested my head against the wheel for a few brief moments to regain my composure.
Definitely needed more practice.
It occurred to me suddenly as I pushed the trolley through the doors that I had absolutely no idea how American supermarkets worked. In that, I simply do not remember, I corrected myself, swallowing nervously. Deciding that they really could not be that different than the ones in the UK, I began my rounds of the aisles, pretending to be overly curious and decisive when examining the fruit and vegetables I needed – when in reality, the hairs on the back of my neck had prickled and I could not shake the feeling, no matter how busy it was, that someone was watching me. The paranoia had only just come from the incident with Daniel; before that, I had been convinced that I was blending in to their society as much as I had back home. Now, however, I felt as if there were a giant neon sign raised above my head like a flagpole wherever I walked. Was there also a brilliantly obtuse sign plastered on my back, too?
As I rounded a corner, twenty minutes later and still fully convinced someone, or something had their eyes on me, I noticed a girl struggling to reach the top shelf of the pharmaceutical aisle. She was balancing on one foot, but only reaching with a single hand; the other was held fast to her chest, not gripping the shelving underneath to give herself a little leverage or indeed to hold herself steady. She had to have been my height, if not a little taller, but the way her shoulders hunched, and her face screwed up as if something twinged painfully every time she moved suggested that her struggles came from something else entirely.
"Excuse me, sorry – would you like some help?" Several people had passed her by without so much as a helpful glance. It had nothing to do with being a teacher and helping people by proxy; I had always felt it incredibly rude. Still, my voice trailed off, and I straightened myself, smiling.
The girl stopped reaching and turned to face me; her eyes were an astounding baby blue, eclipsed by chestnut hair bundled furiously in to a bun with tendrils clinging to her face, damp with tears – but tears of pain, or something else? Her free hand clutched the other at the wrist and she nodded, licking parched lips. "I ran out of vitamins."
"These?" I asked, pressing one foot down on the bottom shelf and lifting myself with the one level with my head – in seconds, I had the plastic container and dropped back down, handing them out with another gentle smile. The girl nodded, grimacing again as she reached out to take them.
"Thank you – I should have just asked someone… but I hurt my wrist – usually I can get them." It seemed neither of us really knew what to say in the silence that followed. She continued to rub her wrist through the fabric on her sleeve, whether she knew she was doing so or not.
"I'm Robin." Taking a lesson learned from my earlier encounter with Julia, and deciding it was time for some old-fashioned courage (wherever that had gone in the first place), I continued. "Are you alright? Do you need a lift anywhere?" I would have offered anyway, back home, even though I had been told I was far too trustworthy and as a result horrendously naïve, but I also felt unwaveringly unsafe, and I knew that if I had company the unease would lessen. Or so I hoped. There was also something strange about the girl; I had thought at first her height mirrored my own, and that we were similar ages; although it seemed as if we were perfectly level, which was a comforting surprise in itself as I was not particularly known for my height unless aided by heels, her face lacked the tell-tale definition that reflected age. To me, admittedly experienced with teenagers in classes, she looked to be around eighteen or nineteen; a good seven years younger than myself.
Despite this, she nodded, and there was a smile on her lips that although felt forced, I appreciated nonetheless. "Lilia. Well… Lillian, but that was my grandmother's name." She sniffed uncertainly. I had been named so stereotypically it was almost comical; born near Christmas, where robin birds were typically resident. "Please. I came with some others, but I think they got bored and left. The house isn't far."
The way she said house made me think she was part of some sorority. I did not really know what they were; my only information came from countless nights of young adult teen romance films based in the country I was now in. "That's okay. I've only got a couple more bits to grab before I'm done and then I can take you."
"Are you sure you don't mind?" She followed closely to the trolley, still clutching her wrist. I tried not to look, instead switching my gaze between the space around us and her as we traded conversation back and forth. "I should really have asked for help and they wouldn't have left so quickly."
"I don't mind at all. So long as you're happy to guide me." Pausing to retrieve the last item – a loaf of bread – I followed up, "is your wrist okay?"
Lilia nodded. She looked away as she spoke. "I caught it on some fencing a few days ago. Nothing bad – I've been to the hospital, but it is still a little bruised." Something niggled at the back of my mind. The paranoia of someone watching had shifted, not entirely but ever so slightly towards something to do with her. I could not go around suspecting everyone of being a prominent character in the Moonlight universe, but given how many vampires lived in Los Angeles alone, was it not particularly feasible that there would be twice as many freshies, perhaps arguably more, wandering around the streets carrying on their lives away from the creatures they fed? It wouldn't do me any good to ask, so I accepted her reasoning and offered a comforting smile as we went through the checkout, Lilia paying for her single tube of vitamins before I went through with my own. Any prior concerns I had had regarding American supermarkets were washed away; I had, and not for the first time, overthought everything and panicked in accordance to that worry.
Once back in the car – and I had not missed the way her eyes shone slightly at the colour – the conversation continued. "Take a couple of lefts and then carry on following the road until you reach a hill," she said, securing her seatbelt. Then, as I turned out of the carpark: "I don't see many yellow cars."
I grinned – possibly the very first real burst of amusement at the sheer normality of the question. I had defended my choice of car back home with equal hilarity, and it made me incredibly happy to see the looks on people's faces as I described my childish reasons why. "There's a game I used to play when I was younger; every time you see a yellow car, you poke or prod the nearest person to you and say 'yellow car!' The one with the most points at the end of the journey wins. Yellow minis were worth five points, I think – although this isn't a mini, but I like to think it is worth an equal amount. I chose the colour to annoy other parents as I have no doubt their children would be playing this, too." Unless it had died out, of course; I had not heard anybody talk about it in years.
Neither, apparently, had she; Lilia laughed. It was hoarse, and a little scratchy, but it was there, the damp tears on her face almost forgotten. Whatever she had been worried about was apparently forgotten, or simply not deemed important enough to dwell on any longer.
The amusement for me decreased significantly as I followed her instructions and drove up the winding hill towards a lone – well, not quite a mansion, but not a singular house, either. Villa was the word that came to mind, but that did not seem to fit the description perfectly. And I knew precisely who the owner was. With my heart in my throat, I drove up to the gate; Lilia was in the perfect position given the space of the driving wheel to lean out and speak in to the intercom; seconds later, the gate slowly peeled backwards. I parked the car near the entrance, alongside a couple of other rather expensive looking ones. Lilia smiled sheepishly, all nervousness forgotten.
"Could you wait here a second?" She was gone before I really had the chance to answer. The thumping in my chest was so loud I just knew he would be able to hear. Stupid, stupid girl. The inner monologue of degradation would not help; he could not read minds, no matter how much I believed he was capable of with just a single look. The only giveaway would be my heart – and how he was incredibly likely to recognise the face that had been in Mick's office not a week before today. I did not like the idea of being on his radar of peculiar coincidences.
True to her word, however, she was back within moments; the front door was left wide open, but she leaned in my window brandishing a post-it note with a small scribble on it. "Thank you, Robin. Here's my number; I left my phone inside, but I would love to buy you a coffee to make it up."
I shook my head, suddenly aware of a presence lingering by the door. "It's really fine, honestly."
Lilia, however, was apparently rather persuasive and stubborn. "No, really – you have no idea how grateful I am. Please, send me a text and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." For a freshie she was rather outgoing – then I recalled Simone and realised that not all of them were vain and incredibly irritating.
"Okay – but really, it's not a problem I promise. Anytime." I took the post-it note and pushed it in to the pocket of my light cardigan. Lilia smiled, waving with her good hand as she stepped back towards the entrance. True to form, there he stood – and even as I reversed, hyper-aware of the other cars in the vicinity, Josef Kostan watched as I waited for the gate to open once more.
I could not relax until I was so far down the road the house was no longer visible in my rear-view mirror, but that did not stop the gasp that escaped as a choked cry.