You’re sat down. At least this ‘Knotts’ has afforded you that. You look at her, wearing the face of a girl that you still feel for, knowing deep down that Niamh is dead. The rest of it makes no sense whatsoever. Here, bound to a chair as you wait for whatever clean-up crew she’s ordered arrives, you try and unpick the chaos of the past few days in your mind.
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to monologue?” Knotts asks, sat on the bench, twisting the mask of Shelly Nolan, previously worn by the golem, in her hands. “I suppose I could do that, if it’ll get you to answer a few questions I have. Not that you’re going to be tough to break. Fuck, you practically told me everything over donuts. Magic. Books. Shelly here being a… whatever the fuck she is. Why don’t you start at the beginning? Remove yourself of your burdens?”
“What do you want to know?” You are flat out of options, so cooperation seems to be the only move that even slightly makes sense. It’s not likely that anyone else knows you’re here. “How about a question for a question?”
Knotts laughs. “Oh, that sounds like fun, Will! And you’re hardly going to tell anyone. So let’s get going. Question one. Where’s the book?”
“I don’t know,” you say. “When you said it was in St. Xavier’s I figured you meant the basement. It’s the only place it could have been.”
“Niamh didn’t strike me as a lying when she said it. So someone moved it. Any idea who?”
“I get a question first,” you spit. “What happened to Niamh?”
“Oh, dead,” the impostor says with almost casual indifference. “She came to Cambridge, like she, I, told you. Asked about a magic book with the ability to change faces. That aligned with our corporate interests. So we tried to get more from her – and when that didn’t succeed, we initiated our backup plan. Now, who took the book?”
It’s then that you have an epiphany. And, even bound and beaten, you can’t help but laugh. Knotts laughs too. “What’s the joke?” she says.
“That’s going to be your question two,” you say. “The joke is… I don’t think you killed Niamh at all.” You laugh at her, even harder than before. “Masks, right? I don’t know who you killed! Probably a golem! But the only person who could have taken that book, and would have taken Shelly too, is Niamh fucking Stirland.”
Knotts’ face falls, looking at the stone creature that had been masquerading as Shelly until it was impaled on one of the shop tools. Niamh, you’re certain, never went to the UK. She was working on the book, and that meant staying in Saratoga Falls. You’d bet your life that she sent a golem to ask about the book – it’s why she didn’t bring it with her. And, when the golem vanished, she realized something wicked was coming for her. She took the original Shelly, packed up and relocated. Fuck. Now you think about it, it was probably her – or someone on her side – as the businessman. Or as Cassie. And if that’s the case, then maybe… just maybe… she’s on her way to rescue you.
“You’re joking,” Knotts says. “How would that make any sense?”
“That’s another question,” you laugh, even as she walks over, steps behind, grabs a finger and bends it at an unnatural angle. Your scream of agony blots out any rational thought for a moment, before she lets go.
“I’m fucking done with you-ask, I-ask,” she says. Damn, shortest game in history. Obviously cooperation wasn’t the way to go. “Speak now, or I’ll break every bone in every finger, one at a time.”
You shrug. You might as well speak freely at this point. “Niamh cut me out. You must have worked that much out. That’s why you came back disguised as her, right? You only got so far in the UK, so – somehow – you managed to take on her appearance. Figured you’d use me to tell you what she knew, and then string me along like a guide?” You remember the object you thought you saw her hold in the church – was she going to kill you then, only to back down when she realized the book wasn’t there? “But while you’ve been playing me, so’s Niamh. She must have realized you’d target me, so she’s been waiting for you. Maybe she’s going to come for me, huh? Maybe she’s coming through that door any moment now?”
There’s silence for a moment. Then someone ruffles your hair from behind, and you feel a presence lean toward your ear. “Nobody’s coming for you, Will,” she whispers. “No one is…”
You smack your head into hers as hard as you can. It’s a ridiculous blow, a glancing strike that sends your skull ringing even as you collide with her ear, but if cooperation doesn’t work you might as well try something different. Knotts is only stunned for a moment, but it’s enough for you to haul yourself up and rush forward, toward the bench. Your vision swirls a little as you rush for the Shelly mask, hoping that you can plant your face into it, slip your bonds with your new, skinnier hands and scream as loud as possible for your ‘mom’ to hear...
Only you don’t make it halfway before Knotts grabs the chair and pulls you back, landing a fist straight into your jaw. “Wanker,” Niamh’s voice hisses. “What’d you think you were going to do? A headbutt to the ear? Yeah, that’s going to knock someone out. You’re such a loser, Will. You can’t even do defiance properly.” You let your chin fall to your breast, trying to bite out the pain of the blow. Then you look up at Knotts again, smirking with Niamh’s face. “Y’know, I’ve been playing nice up until now,” she says slowly. “I think we’re just going to wait for the cavalry to arrive. And… ah! That sounds like them.”
From outside, you can hear a noise, like an electric hum. It doesn’t sound much like a car. Quietly, it builds, rising from a background noise to a steady, slow rhythm. Then a beat. Then the workshop seems filled with… music? It sounds like some kind of opera.
Do you hear the people sing? Singing a song of angry men? It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again…
You twist your eyes at Knotts, confused. She looks at you, equally uncertain, the smug confidence she exuded about her backup evaporating all too quickly. Then she turns toward the door, and reaches inside her pocket…
She never makes it. In a whirlwind, the door flies open and a scruffy youth, dressed in army surplus smocks and a beret – face covered in a whispy, loose-haired beard that could best be described as ‘pathetic’ – rushes in. There’s a manic gleam in his eye and a cheeky grin as he spies the scene, and a joy as he throws a stone square at her head. Knotts twists effortlessly, watching as the projectile flies past and crashes against the far wall and its stacks of masks. Then continues her own draw as the newcomer careens to a halt, eyes drinking in the scene.
“Ten for effort, four for execution,” Knotts says as she raises her hand. From your position, you can’t see what she’s holding, but then you’re hardly looking at her, either. The rock the stranger threw has hit one of the silicone busts Shelly’s mom worked on, causing it to topple. Even as Knotts speaks, a domino effect is cascading along the shelf, before one of the head topples square onto a power socket, causing it to spark and whiz. The noise is enough to distract Knotts, and who turns just as the socket overloads and sends the buffer into overdrive, kicking up a cloud of dust that blows straight into her – and your – eyes.
There’s a crash. You have no idea what’s going on. A bang. A thud. A fight going on just beyond your eyeline, punctuated by sounds of scuffles and heavy blows, and the occasional cloud of dust from where a foot skids or slides. Then something – it feels like an entire body – hits you, causing you and the chair to topple to the ground. You blink furiously, scrambling to see what’s going on, or who’s winning, but all you can see is the fallen stone golem that had been Shelly Nolan, and the dark recesses of under the bench. Your head rings, jaw aches and left arm feels crushed against the floor. Then, without warning, another body lands hard on the ground in front of you, tossed like a ragdoll, its head slamming into the ground at an unnatural angle, unconscious.
You watch as blood drizzles through Niamh Stirland’s short blonde hair. Only it’s not Niamh. It can’t be. It has to be Knotts.
Then two hands pick up your chair, hauling you up. You focus on the face in front of you, grinning with burgeoning mischief, his whispy beard smeared red from a bust lip and what looks like a broken nose. Next to him, looking at you with palpable relief, is a second Niamh Stirland. You can see from her eyes it’s the genuine article, too.
“Will Prescott, I presume?” the stranger says with an English accent. “Let’s get you out of here, comrade.”
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