Now You See Me

Thirty-Two: Revelations

"They caused it."

I couldn't remember how many times I'd repeated it, but it still wasn't sinking in – not the fact itself, but how blind I'd been.

"They caused it."

Chris rolled his eyes and sighed, but when I looked at him he was suddenly sheepish about it.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, "You won't stop saying it."

"I just can't believe how long it took to make the connection," I said.

"Neither can I," he replied, shrugging, and wincing as a cut on his shoulder opened again and began to bleed. "But you know now."

"Marilyn was right. That's so ironic it's unfair," I murmured, and hugged myself against the taps. My back and head hurt from the blows I'd been dealt by the women over the last few hours. My brain hurt from the stress. My heart hurt from Chris's distance and what he'd suffered for something I hadn't even been able to work out on my own.

"Who's Marilyn?"

I glanced around, surprised. "You don't know her? She works for these three. She's been stalking me since I went to London."

Chris raised both eyebrows. "I've never seen her."

I frowned. She had said before that she hadn't left the city for months, but... "You haven't even heard her name dropped? Not once?"

"No."

I squeezed my eyes shut. It was tempting to knock my head against the tub out of frustration, but I didn't want to make my injury worse. I settled for crushing my hands around the chain until the links left imprints on my palms. After all the doubt, I didn't want more confusion in the equation – I had no clue where to start with what I had. Chris's expression was closed, so I knew I would get very little from him, and I doubted it would be considered fair to unload everything onto him as if I was the one with the most misfortune.

Every time I turned to talk, it was the bruises I saw first, and I didn't dare.

After several uncomfortable minutes in which we avoided looking at each other across the tub, Chris began to hum a quiet, off-tune rendition of 'Oranges and Lemons' under his breath. His eyes had drifted to the far corner of the room where a moth was mashing itself against a light bulb with a ferocity that would have been impressive if it wasn't so stupid at the same time.

"Do you remember," he said, when he noticed me looking at him, "when you had to sing that solo at your primary school play? And you got to the end with the chopper bit and started crying and your mum had to get on stage with you before you would do anything else?"

"No," I choked the word, but couldn't stop myself smiling. I knew my previous certainty about my inability to sing had come from somewhere. "What play was it?"

"Every class had a nursery tune or rhyme as a theme and yours was Oranges and Lemons." His eyes were sparkling with tears now. "Afterwards I told you that you cried like a girl and you pinched me." He chuckled. "And then I cried like a girl."

I chuckled. "I'm getting the impression I was a violent kid."

"Not really," Chris replied dreamily, seeming to be still half in the memory. "But then, I moved schools the next year and didn't see you again until year eight."

I frowned. "Why?"

"Mum moved in with Adam. We went to Barbican and you stayed in Bethnal Green." A haunted quality entered his voice. "You haven't happened to see Mum, have you?"