The traffic begins to move again and we pick up speed. I stare at the sleet building up on my window. The cold radiates through the glass, through me.
“I’m sorry,” Miriam says, minutes later, her voice low. “About Jamie.”
The ache comes on me like cramp around my heart. I don’t look at her. I barely nod.
TREATMENT
The maximum-security psych ward has creepy down to a T, painted grey cinder blocks with a sweaty sheen, marbled grey linoleum peeling underfoot. Bare fluorescent lights hang dusty and flickering. The industrial air-conditioning units heave stale gusts from vents that yawn at ankle height. There are heavy double doors of reinforced glass dividing corridors in repetitive lengths. It all adds to the Stephen King quality of the prickling at the back of my neck.
Aiden wasn’t allowed visitors for the first few weeks after being shifted from the hospital to Roxborough. With no official charges laid by the Gallaghers, the case was brought by the police. Due to inconclusive evidence he’d only been found guilty of breaking and entering and assault. However, Aiden’s behaviour in hospital had been alarming enough to get him sectioned to Roxborough, sentence pending.
After handing over the court-certified letter allowing us visiting rights, we run the gauntlet of checks and metal detectors, surrender cell phones, wallets, watches and keys, anything remotely loose or mobile that could be used as a weapon. We make our way through the ward and I count the double doors, logging the turns, noting landmarks out windows to help orient myself in the ranging complex.
The guard who leads us through each checkpoint makes no offer of conversation. It’s hard not to look at the sweaty folds of his thick neck or the damp marks staining the underarms of his off-white shirt as we follow behind him. He wears a fistful of keys on a stretchy cord at his hip and when we finally stop at a door labelled “Meeting Room” he fishes the correct key from the ring by feel and unlocks the door. “Wait here, please.”
It’s a sterile space that smells of disinfectant, with a metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs on one side and one on the other, also bolted. That Aiden isn’t there yet makes me more nervous still. Time lapses and I find myself seated next to Miriam, the light of the room’s thin panel of windows glaring white in our eyes. The guard disappears, I guess, to fetch Aiden. Miriam sits like she’s snap-frozen.
Jittery, I rise to peer out the window, stretching up on my toes. It looks out on the long low roof of another block and I can see all the way back to the visitor parking lot and its wire fence. The ultra-modern minimum-security wing and administration block make up the pleasant facade, hiding the blatant institutional architecture of the facility proper.
The sound of footsteps makes me turn. Aiden appears through the door wearing grey marl sweatpants and a matching short-sleeved T-shirt. His dark hair is combed and I’m relieved to see there are no restraints on his wrists. I had almost expected to find him shuffling in steel cuffs, dressed in penitentiary orange. He has the disconcerting glow of good health, one of the features of our quick-recovery DNA, and some of the weight of my fear lifts just looking at him.
“Sit down,” the guard says.
I’m not sure if this is meant for Aiden or me, but I comply with the instructions. It’s a beat or two before Aiden follows suit. The guard says nothing more and stations himself by the door and stares blankly into space.
I find it surreal, sitting across from this person who has been a sort of friendly acquaintance by day, lunatic assassin by night. I can’t stop taking stock of his face, waiting to see myself reflected back. We share Miriam’s pallor and dark hair. Aiden’s eyes are more hazel than mine, though they have the same dark ring of charcoal around the irises. Like me he has a faint spray of freckles across his nose and high cheekbones but none of these details had meant anything to me when we first met. Now everything seems painfully significant. There’s an awkward pause.
Miriam breaks the silence. “How are you?”
He purses his lips as he regards her. “Okay, I guess.” He doesn’t expand, but sits there watching us; it’s our show and we’ll have to do the work.
Glancing at Miriam, I can tell she’s already run out of conversation and I realise it’s down to me. “Have you got a date for sentencing?”
His gaze drops to his hands, resting in his lap. “December fifth.”
I don’t know if that’s fast or slow as far as the justice system is concerned and give a noncommittal nod. “How is it? Here, I mean.”
There’s a delay to his response as he focuses on me, like he’s taking in my details, uncertain of what he sees. “Quiet, mostly. Food’s not bad. I’m moving to minimum security tomorrow.”
“Really? I mean, that’s great. They must – I mean, you must be pleased.” I’m sure I’ve broken out in a heat rash at my stupid reaction. Miriam doesn’t make it easier, still silent and frozen, and Aiden doesn’t say anything but looks warily back at me.
I shift in my seat, trying to think of something else. “Will they stick with the name suppression?”
He lifts his shoulders. “Chuck wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Profile-conscious Governor Charles Dean has been all over the investigation. The last thing he wants is word getting out that his scholarship-winning intern has turned out to be a violent criminal. Aiden’s sudden disappearance from school was explained away as family commitments, an odd alibi considering Aiden was raised in the foster system from the age of seven.
There’s another lapse and I can tell that Miriam has lost the ability to function, sitting there barely breathing, as if emotional jet lag has disabled her voice. Aiden just waits. I fight my instinct to flee. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you about some stuff. Clarify some things … if that’s cool with you?”
His expression becomes wary again. “Such as?”
“You remember … before the hospital …?” I hesitate, not wanting to raise suspicion with the guard and I’m sure everything is being recorded by the video surveillance set in the corner of the ceiling. When Aiden frowns at the tabletop, I know I won’t have to be explicit. I listen carefully, catching the upturn in his pulse. I’m pressing the right button.
“Some things,” he says, his voice soft and low. “Patches.”
“The conversation we had in the cellar?”
He looks up. “Vaguely.” He glances at Miriam and drops his gaze. I wonder if he remembers their confrontation in the grounds – dragging her into the house to gain access to the panic room, striking her, dislocating her shoulder.
“You remember who I am?” I watch his brow gather and I hurry on. “I mean, who we are to you – to each other … family wise?”
He gives a stiff nod, his eyelids snapping in quick succession. “Twins.”
A tingling surge rises through my chest and into my ears at his acknowledgement.
“And you’re …” he says to Miriam. “You’re our …”
She nods.
“How can you be sure?”
“We could show you the DNA test,” I say.
There’s another swollen pause as he looks at us back and forth. “I suppose we’re a bit alike.” He studies my face now, with the same careful intensity with which I had scrutinised his. “A family visit.” He chews his lip. “I guess there’s a dad?” No antagonism, just blunt curiosity.
“He’s not in the picture,” Miriam says. I’m surprised to hear her speak when I know she’s as uncomfortable with the dad issue as I am. He was her trainer during Orientation – back when they weren’t so strict about male and female operatives working together. She refused to tell me who he was on the basis that it was too dangerous for me to know. Dangerous for who? Him? Her? Me?
I sit up straight. “Getting to the point here, you know we share a sort of genetic condition? In as much as mine is the flipside, I guess, of yours … in the way we react … to … things.”