Ch.152Act 2: Ch.10 – Long Live the King (4)

Scully leaned against the wall. She looked tired. Pale face with dark circles under her eyes, flushed cheeks. But my gaze lingered on her lips. Red lips that were hot, cracked, and chapped—lips that seemed like they would hiss and recoil if even a drop of water touched them.

She was pushing herself too hard. Her body could no longer contain the heat of her mind. I felt I knew why without having to ask.

I handed her a cold glass of water and made a tasteless joke: “Crayfield is quite late. Is he making a mop to bring along?” Embarrassingly, she just stared at me.

“That wasn’t very funny.”

“…No. That’s not it. I just didn’t think you were the type to make jokes like that.” Scully took a drink of water. She carefully fidgeted with the now-empty glass.

In the suddenly heavy atmosphere, I turned my gaze toward the window. The fog had cleared considerably. I could see federal agents positioned at the entrance to the alley. Among them was Henry Payne in his caramel-colored coat. The agents were openly watching the street, as if showing themselves off.

“So. What’s your mission? Surveillance on Giovanni?”

I asked in a deliberately bright tone.

“Various things. That’s what makes it complicated. I have to deal with seemingly unrelated, equally troublesome issues.” Scully frowned. It seemed that just thinking about it gave her a migraine.

“Investigating the relationship between mafia forces and the Pollard families is difficult enough, but now we also have to actively monitor new arrivals to the port. Both consume manpower. Performance troupe fan clubs, people trying to incite those fan clubs, other agitators opposing those agitators… and fog settling over all of it. Though it seems to have subsided quite a bit now.”

“Is monitoring agitators also Security Bureau work?”

“Well, yes. In fact, we’re the most extreme fan club of all. We follow them wherever they go, occasionally bring them in, lock them up, and feed them nothing but tasteless bread and plain water.”

I looked at Scully with surprised eyes. Catherine Scully had a full smile on her lips.

“What? Was that not funny either?”

“…No. I just didn’t think you were the type to say such things.”

The next moment, Scully and I burst into laughter. No, I was the only one really laughing. Scully grimaced. She looked like someone who didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Deep inside her, emotions that had been suppressed seemed to be leaking out bit by bit.

The twitch in her lips soon spread to her entire face, then to her shoulders and body. This agent, normally so composed and cold, was now trembling delicately like a small bird caught in the rain. Impulsively, I gently gripped her shoulders. Scully lowered her head.

“I can’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

“What my sister was like. I just can’t remember. What she said, how she acted… Instead, all I remember is how much I hated and resented her.”

Emma. The woman I couldn’t understand. The woman I couldn’t comprehend.

“She visited me when I was in the Arkham holding cell. You know? Actually, I had a hard time holding back my laughter then.”

“How did she seem to you?”

“She was a good imitator, but one thing was different.”

“What was it?”

“She smiled too well. Got angry too well. Her expressions and emotions seemed to change every twenty seconds.”

I couldn’t tell what expression Scully was making. She still had her head bowed. But I saw falling tears and heard muffled laughter. It was the expression of someone who had loved as much as they had hated, and who had been deeply wounded as much as they had loved.

Just thinking about someone could tear your heart to shreds, leaving you to desperately stitch it back together until even you don’t know what it is anymore.

But the reason for doing so anyway,

“I miss her.”

Absence.

Emptiness.

A void left behind.

I quietly embraced Scully. Scully embraced me back. I know that our embrace only highlights the empty space. She must think the same. But the chilling void was unbearable through reason alone. After all, wounds are healed through contact, not thought.

Two breaths. Three breaths. Scully pulled away from my embrace. I lowered my arms. Turning her back to me, Scully took out a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. With her back still turned, she murmured.

“I can’t look in the mirror.”

Scully tilted her head toward the ceiling. As if doing so could contain tears that had already fallen.

“Even though I changed my hairstyle and do my makeup differently, it’s still so painful and difficult to look in the mirror. What more should I do? How should I do it?”

“Let’s grow old.”

Scully turned her head. There were no visible tear stains. Only her reddened eyes seemed to express the fever settled in her heart. How nice it would be if there were words that could cool the heart at any time. I don’t have such words. I just blurted out what came to mind.

“Let’s just grow old. Even someone like you must get a wrinkle or two. Let’s add wrinkles for the people we carry with us. Even for twins, wrinkles can’t be identical. Let’s layer up the days we’ve lived, memories and traces of life. Then what remains will be our own faces, won’t it?”

A slight spasm crossed Scully’s cheek. Her eyes seemed to redden again, but two deep breaths calmed her down. It was the demeanor of someone accustomed to devouring and swallowing their own emotions.

Catherine stepped toward me. One step, two steps. She lightly tapped my chest with her loosely clenched hand. It was like a knock. An absurd smile greeted it.

“You really can’t talk. Mentioning wrinkles to a woman. Still…”

As if trying to shake off tangled emotions, Catherine shook her head. She readjusted her hair and clothes with her long, slender fingers. Exhaling with a “whew,” she looked like someone ready to embark on a long journey again.

“Thank you.”

Scully gently held my forearm. So lightly it would be better to say she pinched it. But she soon distanced herself again. Like the usual Scully. She adjusted her clothes once more and wiped her face with her handkerchief. Except for slightly reddened eyes, she looked no different than when she had entered.

A sound came from outside the window. I opened the window wide and looked out, but saw nothing unusual. The fog had now retreated to the edge of the street. Gunshots, screams, and wails could still be heard, but at least sunlight was visible.

Scully approached the window. Perhaps conscious of the agents on the street looking up, she didn’t come too close, but she too seemed to want to bask in the sunlight pouring through the window.

“When she was so young it would be awkward to call her a girl, Emma said something like that. That she would become a great violinist before turning twenty, make her name known to the world, and then die at twenty-one. When I asked why she would say such a frightening thing, she said, wouldn’t that allow her to end with a period while still beautiful forever?”

“That’s rather grim talk for a child.”

“I remembered it while sorting through Emma’s belongings. Well. It seems like something only a child could say. Children don’t know about the people who must go on living. They don’t know the extent of the void left by someone who’s gone. If she had known how sad others would be, Emma wouldn’t have said such things.”

The sunlight grew stronger. Warmth poured in, making every corner of the body bloom. Warm hands, comforting light.

“The Emma I knew was a good person. She always was. She always will be. Because that’s how I’ll remember her.”

* * * * *

A creaking sound was heard. Someone was coming up the stairs with hurried steps. A rookie agent entered the office. She was a woman with straight black hair and a tense face.

“The docking permit has been approved. The docking procedure will begin in an hour, so you need to go to the port now.”

“Already? That’s much earlier than expected. Who’s disembarking?”

“As confirmed, the KKK Eastern Branch Director, the Black Leopard Party Eastern Representative, the ‘Opposition to All Forms of Discrimination’ group… and a theater troupe. That’s according to the passenger list we were notified of in advance.”

I looked at the clock. The Doomsday Clock hadn’t moved yet. When Drugstore set foot on Pollard Island, the clock would point to 1 o’clock.

“Go down first. I’ll be right there.”

The agent nodded briefly and went down the stairs. Her pace was somewhere between walking and running.

“We need to identify persons of interest in advance and monitor them periodically. Things like who they have dinner with, where they’re staying. That way, we might catch one of the extremists contacting Councilwoman Annette Cole or someone from the Pollard families.”

“Do you think there will be a terrorist attack?”

“Well. There might be some small disturbances. Several journalists will be coming in too, and another commotion in the already noisy theater scene would make a good story.”

“Why do they seek out trouble?”

“Because people gather there. They don’t care why people gathered or for what reason. Somehow delivering their message, that’s what those people want. Who knows? They might gain another sponsor. Of course, they won’t do such things at the dock.”

“Then when?”

“According to schedule, the premiere is at 8 PM today. But events are scheduled from 3 PM. Press conference, mayor’s welcome speech, and so on… It’s a big event for Pollard Island. If something happens, it would probably be then.”

Scully walked down the stairs. I stared blankly at her back.

“Is she gone?”

And then Crayfield poked his head in.

“Good grief, were you making a mop? You’re so late!”

“I couldn’t interrupt when you were having such a serious conversation.”

Crayfield was nonchalant.

“Anyway… press conference at 3, then rehearsal, premiere at 8. Seems a bit tight. I wonder if it’s possible.”

“I don’t know much about theater.”

“Neither do I. I’m just talking about the procedure. To put on a play, you not only need to practice, but you also need to consider how it will look to the audience, right? So they actually perform the play before the main show.

How the sound is, if anything needs to be adjusted on stage, and so on. But these adjustments don’t finish quickly. Especially for a Broadway production that has performed in major cities like Paris, not just some small show.”

“So?”

“It means they’ve already made all the preparations in advance. At least it’s clear that Drugstore isn’t a stage director or art installation technician. So, let’s go too. I have something to show you.”