Edge. Part 53

"By himself?" asked Adam. "That's disciplined."

"He is," said Suzanne.

From the micro-expressions on the three men's faces, they disagreed. Their reactions were out of kilter, unless... unless Josh had done something. Not selfharm. Something else. Something not disciplined at all.

Josh. Please.

Vast reservoirs of energy inside him made Josh an electrifying athlete and lover; but the same energy could detonate as violence. Her memories of him fighting would have been awful, had she not used therapeutic techniques on herself, so that the images were distant, flattened and blurred, losing their impact.

"Here you are, Dr d.u.c.h.esne." Inspector Calvin had brought two mugs. "Mr Witten."

"Cheers," said Adam.

Suzanne looked. There were no other coffee mugs.

"Aren't you and your colleague?"

"We'll leave you in peace, ma'am."

Inspector Calvin smiled at Adam, and said: "Steve."

"See you later, Ron."

The two men left. When they were gone, the flat's security system caused the electromag locks to snap home.

"Do police inspectors wear uniforms?" asked Suzanne. "I thought they were plainclothes."

"That's only the detectives," said Adam."Oh. But one of them called you Steve. Is that, what, a cover ident.i.ty?"

"It's my real name. It's 'Adam' that's my cover." Steve/Adam gave an asymmetric shrug. "Sorry."

"I thought Philip Broomhall was your friend."

"He is. He also knows me as Adam Priest, and I'd be grateful if you allow him to continue."

"But you're really... Steve Witten, is that it? And you don't work for the DTI."

"I think you knew that already." His face was lean, his grin cheeky, like a kid's. "You know, in China, it's no big deal. People change their names throughout their lives."

She realized there was no ring on his left hand.

Don't look at his finger.

Last year the wedding band had been white gold. Now there was only a depression in the skin.

"What's happened to Josh?" she said.

Adam no, Steve sipped from a retro mug labelled PSYCHOLOGISTS DO IT THOUGHTFULLY. When he put the mug down, he kept his face blank.

"As far as I know, he's alive, uninjured, and somewhere on the streets of London."

"And what else?"

"I have a lot more to say, Suzanne. The thing is, I came here to ask for help. My timing may be awful, but I have to show you this."

He raised his phone and angled it towards the wallscreen.

"If this is official," said Suzanne, "then shouldn't you be checking for eavesdroppers, or something?"

"We already did." Steve/Adam's mouth twitched. "You're clean."

Dead people showed on screen.

"Oh, no," said Suzanne.

"Right," said Steve.Sprawled, limbs angled and twisted, all of them teenagers, arranged in what might have been a circle before they slumped at random and died. Those with long-sleeved garments had the left sleeves pushed up, revealing inner forearms and the longitudinal gashes in soft flesh.

The pool of blood they lay in was almost black.

"Suicide pact." Suzanne felt phlegm in her throat. "Thirteen teenagers. With drugs or alcohol in their systems?"

"That's what the experts expected," said Steve.

"Oh. The post-mortem's been done?"

"A while back."

Suzanne could not look away. There was movement in the image, only because the camera's operator was alive and changing angles. The dead things on the floor would never move again, not of their own volition.

"Thirteen," she said. "Possibly a significant number."

"Besides being unlucky, are there any a.s.sociations or meanings you know of?"

"I don't think so." Her face felt strange, tightening as if to weep, while her eyes were dry but stinging. "Thirteen dead kids. Awful."

"No." Sad and soft, Steve's voice lowered. "Not thirteen."

"I make it"

"One hundred and sixty-two," he said. "We thought when it reached thirteen times thirteen, the deaths would stop. Today we found out we were wrong."

"Oh my G.o.d. Oh no."

So many teenagers, unaware that their isolation was shared by billions, including every adult in the past, for everyone lives through it. Or takes the despairing way out.

"We've done everything to keep this quiet," said Steve. "That's why, if you agree to help, you'll need to sign the Official"

"Keep it quiet quiet?"

"Yes. To stop it spreading."

Suzanne blinked at the awfulness on screen.

"That's impossible. Burying news like this."

"You'd be surprised, but it's not easy."

Awful, awful, awful.

"Thought contagion," she said. "Memetic cascade. A crazy idea that spreads like a fad."

"That's what we think."

"Spreading even though you've buried the news."

"Right." Steve's voice was like grating bones. "And when it gets out, what's going to happen then?"

That was the worst thought of all.

"An epidemic," said Suzanne.

Whenever a suicide is reported in the news, fatal traffic accidents increase, because they are not truly accidents. Even the death wish is contagious.

"Exactly."

"A suicide epidemic."

Steve said nothing.

I didn't even know your real name.

And now this, when Josh was gone, and surely needed her.

Yet you expect me to help.

Their flesh was white-grey in the image. Every eye was opaque, creamy with death as proteins decayed.

"I'll do what I can," she said.

Because she did not have a job she had a calling, and helping people was it.

I have to.

For the first time in years, the silver scars inside her arms began to burn.

Go deeper.

POINT.

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