Page 2

***

When I came in this morning, up with the dawn to beat the protestors and the reporters, the front of the precinct resembled a festival ground the day after everyone leaves; rubbish scattered across the tarmac, strange splash patterns of something potent enough to stain the footpaths, and a general sense of emptiness.

As I leave now, it resembles something more akin to an active battlefield. There’s a line of police in riot gear, bracing those giant Perspex shields, and they’ve made a barrier along the sidewalk. From my vantage at the top of the wide steps leading into the station, I can see over the police to the small army of protestors. There’s a narrow line between them and the police, some invisible barrier as they hoist their homemade signs and placards.

The media is here too, of course. With Needler in chains somewhere behind these walls and the public that wants him to save them from the Cocooner out here, it’s irresistible to them. The people are chanting, but the calls are too disordered to morph into anything easily comprehensible. Video cameras roll and several reporters are among the crowd, taking sound bites from individuals.

Right now, I wonder if we're no better off telling them the truth, thus taking Needler down in their estimation. The truth is he betrayed them. After everything, he's not the hero they think he is. Not when it comes to Cocooner, anyway.

And he's right, we can't move him. We'll be swarmed the minute they realise who’s in the truck. And right now, we need him, whatever help he may be. One of the cameras flash in my direction, too far to be a good shot, but they’ve spotted me.

I’m not ready to face them and their questions. I wouldn’t know how to answer them, anyway. Behind me, the door back inside opens with a slight creak, and I turn to see Dean. He gives a wan smile, not holding eye contact for long before shifting his attention to the . “Shit,” he says.

A shout rises over the rest, with that tinny, static sound of a voice coming through a megaphone. The SUV parked in the middle of the street had been obscured by bodies, but I spot it now as a man climbs on top. He’s got the megaphone in his hand, and as he clambers onto the roof, something strikes me as familiar about him.

"Conrad,” Dean says. I look back at the man on the car. He's about my age, with dusky skin and short, dark brown hair tussled from the ordeal of reaching the car. Even now the people around him thump encouragingly on the car, some climbing onto the bonnet, others managing the cord coming from God knows where and going to his megaphone.

"Conrad Elis?" I ask with a frown, "The guy who was running for mayor before…" I pause, stomach sinking. "Before Cocooner murdered his boyfriend."

Dean nods. "Fiancé, actually,” he shouts, to be heard over the new roar of the crowd as they turn their backs to us and face Conrad instead. “He was the first of her victims last year, and Conrad fell out of the running. He probably would have won if he’d stayed in, what with the other contender getting Needled ." I remember. The other mayor-in-running had been an unexpected political target of Needler, and in death, he and his party had been exposed for his disgusting ‘pastime’, which he indulged in overseas basements.

Conrad’s voice rises, and the people raise their fists, shouting along. He appears to be listing everything we've fucked up on. "…Police violence! Hypocrisy! Bribes! Wrongful arrests!” At this last one, the roar rises, the riot police shift, and when everyone subsides again, Conrad continues, “They’ve locked away the only one who made any dent in the evil of this city!"

Unfortunately, it’s hard to say he's wrong on any of his points.

"Looks like he's still got a following," I mumble.

Dean sighs, reminding me abruptly of Howie. Tregam is ageing all of us faster of late. "That he does."

"We're not stopping until they stop!" The mob mentality shifts in waves. I feel the moment, like a frizzle in the air, that the protest isn't peaceful anymore. “Stop lying to us! Stop leaving us to the wolves while they hide behind police batons! We won’t be sheep to the slaughter!”

The riot line starts moving forward, the reporters with their sixth sense for when things are about to escalate, suddenly absent or at least out of throwing range.

"They don't scare us, they can’t! We live with monsters they won’t protect us from!"

Dean tugs on my arm as the first baton connects with a screaming protestor’s arm. "Come on, it’s not a good time to be out here."

A watermelon smashes across the step below my feet. More garbage, rotten food and debris lobs over the security line. I let Dean pull me back through the doors, but the sounds, the thump of strikes and chants all come through like a rumble.

"Have they been like that every day?" I ask, eyeing the gap between the doors.

Dean shakes his head. "That’s the worst I've seen them. Conrad reappeared about a week ago. He hadn’t been seen since his fiancé’s funeral, when he dropped out of the running to mourn. Now, he’s pushing the protests to, well… the next level." He nods back down the hall. "Best stay a bit longer until the riot squad clears them off."

***

I feel like a carcass, waiting to be picked.

The crowd of thirty press murmurs quietly down in the rows, glancing up towards the panel. I’ve been put on the edge of the stage, like the powers that be would rather I wasn’t present at all. I’m sure Tawill does wish that. But having me present for the press junket is a good chance to do some damage control. So long as I sit quietly and don’t answer questions with direct answers, as I’ve been instructed. And to not, under any circumstances , allude to the supposedly dead Cassandra, Tristan’s sister, being the Cocooner. Like I’m an idiot that will let any old thing slip.

Tawill is sitting at the midpoint of the table that faces out over the small auditorium. She hasn’t spoken a word in my direction. I know she’s disgusted after finding out what I did. She’d probably prefer not to set eyes on me.

Next to her is a hard-looking man in army khaki, with a general’s star on his chest. What’s the military got to do with this? The riots are bad, but surely not that bad? Like the rest of this event, he’s probably here for show, to demonstrate to the populace that we mean business and we’re not afraid to use force. But the people know that already. That’s part of the problem. Police violence is another justified gripe circulating the streets.

A handful of others I don’t care to recognise make up the panel of eight, and only one chair at the other end remains empty as the place settles. None of them speak to me, though I’m sure they recognise me from the news stories, from the rumours.

Tawill stands, and though she’s by no means a tall woman, her movement is noted, and the press quiets, waiting. She opens her mouth. And then attention redirects.

My breath halts in my throat when I turn and see him on the other side of the stage.

I’ve come to my feet, facing him over the tops of the others, and his eyes find me with the movement.

Dirk’s face stays blank, conveying nothing. I search for something, anything .

We’ve not spoken to each other since the paramedics led us off in different directions, a blanket over his bare shoulders. I need desperately to know that he’s okay, that the dark circles under his eyes, the pain in his gaze, can be mended. That he’s able to find any peace, after everything.

Time extends. I don’t get answers. With a jolt, Dirk snaps out of the inertia to realise the entire room, not only me, is staring at him. He is the man who survived the Cocooner. The only one.

Blinking, he takes the empty seat. “Detective Lancaster,” Tawill says, drawing attention off him. “Glad you could make it.”

Self-consciously, I sit down too. And then the questions start.

I try not to fidget through them, my shoulders tense, knowing that eventually the questions will be aimed at me. I’m not ready for that. I’m even less ready for them to be aimed at Dirk. I can only glimpse him if I lean forward and look down the row to spot the edge of his still, expressionless form. What’s he thinking? Feeling?

“…arresting the serial killer known as Cocooner is our main priority. We want to assure the public that we will not rest until she is off the streets,” Tawill is answering the latest question in much a similar vein as she answered the one before, just with the words rearranged. That’s the point of these panels; the press wanting answers they know they won’t get, and the panel giving as little as they can while making it sound like the whole story.

Another reporter stands, an older woman. “Did the precinct know or suspect Cocooner was a woman?”

“We did not.”

“Are the detectives on the Cocooner case on the panel today?”

“No.”

“But the Needler case detectives are.” She knows full well we are, just as she knows who Dean and Howie are—the ones who’ve been on the Cocooner case all along. But she’s not interested in them.

“That’s correct.”

I stiffen, waiting.

“Why? If this is a panel about the Cocooner?” I have to give it to this woman. She’s good. She’s going to make Tawill say it.

After a brief pause, staring back at the woman like she might invite her into the training ring, Tawill answers tightly, “Because of the separate connections Detective Lancaster and Ms Ginsburg have to the Cocooner.”

“Thank you,” the woman says, sitting only for the young woman right next to her to stand. She knew her questions were limited. They planned their timing.

“The Cocooner was Detective Ginsburg’s housemate, is that right?” the young, neat woman asks, looking at me. As though I should answer that question.

Tawill answers for me. “Obviously, that was unknown to us and to her at the time.”

“You never found her suspicious?” she asks me, as though in disbelief. “Never saw her with a victim? Never wondered where she was at odd times?”

And here is it again. I lived through the same questions around Caleb. How could you not have known? Did you really never suspect he was out there killing people, turning them into statues? As though I’d had a hunch the man I was sharing my life with was a psychopath, and had stuck around anyway.

Silence. I realise I’m supposed to answer this one. “No,” I say, then clear my throat. “I didn’t have much to do with her. She seemed to be a party girl, working nights, and staying out clubbing. There wasn’t much chance for me to get to know her. She’d often have men in her room…”

“And did you ever,” the woman asks, fast as a viper, “have men in your room?”

My chest tightens.

“Ginsburg’s personal life is not the business of this panel,” Tawill says curtly.

“Are you sure about that?”

“I believe you’ve used up your questions—next!”

But she’s gotten what she wanted… They all have. I watch them scribble in their notebooks. I’m watching from outside myself, or at least a separate self from the one they’re preparing stories about.

“We were told Detective Lancaster would answer some questions in the interest of public safety.” This time a man.

I frown at that. They can’t be making Dirk speak about all that here .

Tawill nods slowly. The man flips the page on his pad, turning to Dirk. My knees tremble. I brace my hands on them under the table, but they’re shaking too. “What can you tell us about how Cocooner approached you? So that the public may recognise her tactics and maybe survive, like you did.”

Dirk shifts, sitting up a bit straighter. He doesn’t like public speaking. I’ve always known that about him. I want to save him from it now. But I’ve not been able to save him from a single damned thing so far. “She, uh… the Cocconer, uses chloroform. It’s fast. She’ll reach for your face, maybe from behind. Surprise is her weapon.”

“She attacked you in your apartment?”

“Yes.”

“How did she get you to the scene from there? We understand she’s not a person of great stature.”

“There’s an elevator in my building. The detectives found tracks, a trolley she probably wheeled in after…” His voice trails off, then comes back almost too quiet for his microphone to pick up. “After I was unconscious.”

“And then when you woke up…”

“That’s all the questions for Lancaster today,” Tawill cuts the reporter off, and despite everything, I could kiss her. Louder now, she continues, “Let it be public knowledge that the Cocooner uses chloroform held over the face, and hides bodies inside service trolleys. Any suspicious activity is to be reported to the police. We must all stay vigilant, we must cooperate with the law, and we must, as citizens, look out for each other until the threat is nullified.”

They try to ask more questions as the panel breaks. I don’t care. I shove through, trying to reach Dirk before he disappears. But I’m too late. He’s already been swept away, down to the carpark with every official between us and the press crowding in.

And I know he could have stayed—he knew I’d try to reach him.

Dirk is out of my reach, right where he wants to be.