13.6

 

Roisin considered the odd thoughts she’d been having; the man stabbed to death, the strangled child, the woman in the bath. Was it possible those were real deaths and the gallery assistant had performed them? The woman hit by a car, too? The lady who fell down the art gallery steps? She looked at the other woman. Was she bluffing? Or double bluffing? She was never good at card games. Someone had tried to teach her Bridge, once, but she got carried away with the bidding and invariably lost.

The gallery assistant laughed. “You should see your face! I promise I haven’t killed anyone. Now come on. I need to get you away from here before you go loopy.”

They walked in the opposite direction to the casino, staying silent for several minutes, the assistant’s hand still wrapped around Roisin’s arm as though afraid she might collapse or bolt or drift away like smoke. The street was empty, the lamps casting long, trembling halos on the wet pavement. The night felt heavier now — not darker, but denser, as though the air itself had thickened.

Roisin pressed a hand to her chest again.

The humming was stronger.

Not painful. Not frightening. But insistent. A low vibration beneath her ribs, like a second heartbeat trying to sync with her own.

The assistant noticed. “Is it worse?”

Roisin nodded. “It feels like… like something is moving inside me.”

The assistant swallowed. “That’s how it starts.”

Roisin stopped walking. “How what starts?”

The assistant hesitated, glancing around as though afraid the night might overhear. “The connection.” She pointed ahead. “Come on. We can talk there.” She led them onto the cobbles of Bond Street and thence to St John’s Square, where the floodlit church of St Johns (Roisin had never ascertained how it was pronounced verbally; whether it was  ‘Saint-Johns’ or ‘Singeon’s,’ since she had heard both variations during her time as a student here.

They walked widdershins as far as the gate, which opened easily under the assistant’s push, and in the light from the spots dotted among the few, aesthetically aligned Victorian headstones, commandeered a wooden bench half way between the gate and the nave.

“You’re connected to him,” the assistant whispered.

Roisin felt her breath catch. “The artist?”

The assistant shook her head. “No. Not him, exactly. The thing he’s painting.”

Roisin felt the world tilt slightly. “What thing?”

The assistant didn’t answer immediately. She looked down the square toward the gallery they’d left behind. The building was invisible now, its presence muted. But Roisin felt it — a faint pull, like a thread tied around her sternum.

The assistant exhaled shakily. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t think he does either. But it’s not just art. It’s not just paint. It’s… something trying to take shape.”

Roisin’s pulse quickened. “Take shape how?”

The assistant shook her head. “I’ve never seen the same thing twice. Every night it’s different. Every night it’s closer to being something.”

Roisin felt a chill crawl up her spine. “And he’s helping it.”

“Yes,” the assistant whispered. “Or it’s helping him. I can’t tell which.”

They resumed walking, slower now, as though the night were thickening around their ankles. Roisin felt the humming intensify, spreading from her chest to her shoulders, her throat, the base of her skull. It wasn’t painful. It was… familiar.

As though she’d felt it before.

As though she’d been waiting for it.

She shook her head, trying to clear the sensation. “Why me?”

The assistant didn’t answer.

Roisin stopped again. “Why did he speak to me?”

The assistant turned to her, eyes wide, face pale in the church penumbra “Because you looked at the paintings the way he does.”

Roisin felt her stomach tighten. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” the assistant said softly, “that you didn’t just see them. You recognised them.”

Roisin shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

The assistant stepped closer. “Recognition doesn’t always come from memory. Sometimes it comes from resonance.”

Roisin stared at her. “Resonance?”

The assistant nodded. “Like a tuning fork. Two things vibrating at the same frequency.”

Roisin pressed a hand to her chest again. The humming was stronger now, almost rhythmic. “You think I’m… resonating with the paintings?”

The assistant hesitated. “I think the paintings are resonating with you.”

Roisin felt the cold deepen. “Why?”

The assistant looked away. “Because something in you is changing.”

Roisin’s breath trembled. “Changing how?”

The assistant didn’t answer.

Instead, she pointed across the low wall toward Bond Street. “Look.”

Roisin turned.

The pavement shimmered faintly, as though heat were rising from it — impossible in the cold night air. The streetlights flickered, their halos stretching and contracting like lungs. The shadows along the buildings seemed to shift, not with movement, but with intention.

Roisin felt the humming in her chest sync with the flickering lights.

The assistant grabbed her arm. “We need to get you home.”

Roisin didn’t move. “What’s happening?”

The assistant’s voice was tight. “The echo is bleeding into the space around you.”

Roisin stared at her. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” the assistant whispered, “that the gallery isn’t the only thing that’s awake.”

Roisin felt her pulse hammer. “Is this dangerous?”

The assistant hesitated. “Not yet.”

Roisin swallowed. “And later?”

The assistant didn’t answer.

They walked faster now, the night warping subtly around them. The streetlights flickered in time with Roisin’s heartbeat. The shadows seemed to lean toward her as she passed. The air felt charged, like the moment before lightning.

Roisin’s breath quickened. “I feel like something is following us.”

The assistant didn’t look back. “Don’t turn around.”

Roisin’s skin prickled. “Why?”

“Because it’s not following us,” the assistant whispered. “It’s following you.”

Roisin felt the humming intensify, spreading through her limbs, her fingertips, the back of her neck. The air behind her felt heavy, thick, expectant.

She whispered, “What is it?”

The assistant shook her head. “I don’t know. But it’s the same thing that followed her.”

Roisin’s voice trembled. “The woman who died?”

“Yes.”

Roisin felt her breath catch. “Did she see it?”

The assistant hesitated. “I think she saw something. Something she wasn’t meant to.”

Roisin swallowed hard. “And I’m seeing it now?”

The assistant’s voice was barely audible. “Not yet. But you will.”

Roisin felt the cold deepen, settling into her bones.

The assistant squeezed her arm. “We’re almost there.”

Roisin looked up.

Her house was just ahead — dark, quiet, still.

But the night behind her felt alive.