Rattling Chains Page 3

  He slid down the door, painfully bumping his kidney on the knob as he passed it, until he was sitting on the golden hardwood floor with his legs sprawled in front of him, his head down and bag clutched to his chest. He still felt vulnerable and exposed, so he drew his knees up until he was a complete, self-contained ball.

  The apartment smelled like artificial lemons and ammonia, the chemicals burning the back of his throat with each deep, heaving breath.

  Something crinkled behind him when he leaned forward. Reluctantly setting his bag aside, he reached back, lifting himself a little, until his questing fingers touched paper. It was an envelope, he saw as he brought it into view. Judging by the piece of tape trailing from it, it had been stuck to the inside of the door, and he’d knocked it loose during his slide. Trying to ignore the spike of dread radiating from the horrible little knot that had taken up residence in his gut since he’d found out he was being forced to leave the Centre and had only gotten worse since he’d crossed its threshold, Harlan opened the envelope. Inside was a typed sheet of plain printer paper, with Tomas Addison signed at the bottom. Huh. Harlan would have assumed Tom spelled his name with an H, if he’d ever thought about it.

  Too tired and jittery to focus, Harlan scanned the letter—his apartment had been ghost-proofed, the bed was freshly made, there was food in the fridge, here’s the number of a grocery store that delivers—but he should try to get out on his own—his rent would be automatically deducted from his earnings, blah blah blah. Nothing urgent. Nothing that couldn’t wait until the next day.

  Chapter Three

  There were sheets on the bed, nicer ones than he’d ever had at the Centre. They were decorated with paisleys and whorls rather than being one solid, institutional colour and they were soft, too. Harlan had hardly noticed the night before. He’d been so exhausted that he’d simply collapsed on the bed, fully dressed, and fallen asleep almost instantly. That was rare for him. Typically, it took hours for him to fall asleep naturally—or the help of a sleeping pill.

  Even safe within the ghost-warded confines of the Centre, his mind wouldn’t easily switch off at night.

  He hadn’t closed the curtains—soft blue, with a subtle design that matched the sheets without being identical, and much more decorative than the beige plastic blinds in his old room—and the sun was shining directly on his face. He groaned and rolled over, covering his head with a pillow, but he knew it was useless. Now that he was awake, he’d stay that way, no matter how much he wanted to block out the world and sleep and sleep and sleep.

  Rolling over again, he glanced at the alarm clock, which had glowing, red LED numbers, rather than the old-fashioned analog one he was used to. He’d have to find a way to cover the clock’s face or the light would bother him at night—when he didn’t simply collapse from exhaustion, which he hoped wouldn’t become routine. Blackout curtains, too—the blue ones were pretty but thin and wouldn’t block out much light. And a new keychain. Just like that, he had a shopping list.

  Harlan was shocked to see that it was after eleven a.m. He was used to his day beginning at eight-thirty, nine at the latest, and that cycle was so ingrained in him that he usually woke at that time on his own, even on ‘free’ days. That he’d slept more than two hours late, with an uncovered window no less, was a testament to how tired he’d been. He considered lying in bed, simply because he could. No one was going to come knocking on his door, telling him he had to be in class in half an hour, and he’d already missed breakfast. He wasn’t expected anywhere. No one would be looking for him. And wasn’t that a frightening thought, one that propelled him out of bed, stumbling into the bathroom. Also, he really had to pee.

  He’d packed his toiletries, but everything had been provided for him here, neatly laid out and still in its packaging.

  He cracked open the new tube of toothpaste—a different brand than the half-used tube he’d brought with him—and squeezed some onto his old toothbrush then glanced at the new, unopened one, dropped the used one in the wastebasket and instantly regretted it. He hadn’t had it that long. The lines on the bristles that indicated when it should be changed hadn’t faded yet. He’d also wasted toothpaste, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to fish the old one out of the trash, even though it had an empty bag and the plastic bin itself looked brand-new.

  Unwrapping the fresh toothbrush, he carefully dropped the package so it landed directly on top of the old toothbrush, deliberately hiding it.

  His teeth clean, bladder empty, face freshly shaved, hair brushed into some semblance of order, Harlan considered himself in the mirror—or rather, considered the shower behind him.

  Deciding he wasn’t up for the task of facing his new residence wet, he shuffled out of the bathroom, through the bedroom and into the main room he’d hardly glanced at the night before—hadn’t even seen with the lights on. A couch, two armchairs, a coffee table and two end tables—clearly, whoever had furnished the suite had expected him to be a regular, social human being, who enjoyed being around other humans and willingly brought them into his living space. He considered selling the furniture or giving it away, but that left the question of what to put in its place. And he’d have to deal with whomever came to pick it up.

  There were even paintings on the walls—generic, inoffensive abstract shapes and colours that Harlan took an immediate and irrational dislike to, much like the keychain.

  If he closed his eyes, Harlan could see the ghost-wards protecting the apartment. They were well done, carefully scripted in a tight, professional hand, without any added flourishes or personal flair. They’d hold just about anything out. He’d be safe here—from ghosts, anyway—not from helpful neighbours, who might not be so helpful now that he’d closed the door in their faces.

  Harlan wasn’t especially hungry, even though his internal schedule told him it was almost lunchtime, never mind breakfast. He needed to eat so he could have his pills without feeling sick. A generic brand, of course—they were paid for on the government’s dime, after all. Not that he cared, as long as the pills worked. Taking away the constant, uncontrolled ghostly invasions in Harlan’s young life had mostly preserved his sanity but hadn’t touched his depression. He vaguely remembered, from the note he’d barely scanned the night before, something about calling any time, day or night. Harlan could hear the emphasis in Tom’s voice, even in writing. Tom had also listed several mental health support groups he could join. Right. Listening to a bunch of people talk about their mental illnesses was definitely going to make him feel better.

  Finding the note discarded in the middle of the floor, where he’d dropped it the night before, Harlan crumpled it and threw it into yet another spotless wastebasket, satisfied by this small act of defiance and the way he’d successfully made the shot.

  That was the note taken care of, but where had he put the key? He was still wearing the same clothes, and it wasn’t in any of the pockets. Frantic, he raced back into the bedroom, the bathroom…nothing. He went back to the living room and impulsively opened the front door. There was the top of Taz’s head, Harlan’s key still firmly in the lock. At least the building seemed crime-free, if he could get away with leaving his key in the lock overnight like a fucking idiot.

  Setting it on one of the end tables and thoroughly disgusted with himself, Harlan stalked into the kitchen. The last few days had been hard enough on him without missing his medication. The fridge—besides being glistening white and clearly brand-new, like everything else—was full of staple foods—milk, eggs, cheese, apples. There was nothing he particularly liked or disliked. The cupboards were the same—cans of soup, boxes of cereal, flour and other baking necessities, nothing exciting. Whoever had bought it, like everything else in the apartment, hadn’t been shopping for him in particular, just for food in general.

  Harlan poured himself a bowl of cereal, added milk and sat on the couch to eat it. The apartment didn’t have a dining table. He kept getting distracted, thinking of things he wanted to buy with the
money in his envelope, and the cereal got mushy. Stubbornly—it was the first meal he’d prepared for himself, by himself, dammit—he forced himself to choke it down.

  He spent the weekend rereading books on his old e-reader and learning to live alone. His Life Skills classes had fallen somewhat short. He had to make food for himself, multiple times a day, every single day? The thought was strangely depressing, and he hadn’t even attempted anything more complicated than reheating soup. First, he’d tried it in the microwave, then, to mix things up a bit, on the stovetop. He’d had to rummage through every cupboard and drawer until he finally found a pot under the oven. At least he didn’t have to leave the apartment.

  On Sunday afternoon it hit him, abruptly, that this was his space, which meant he could masturbate where he wanted, whenever he wanted. The thought was oddly more horrifying than arousing—too much freedom. He’d had to be furtive and awkward at the Centre, where he’d constantly been surrounded by other people and had to snatch whatever moments alone he could. Looking back, he was a little amazed he’d never been caught masturbating, never mind the few times he’d managed to have full-blown sex.

  He tried the shower first, because that was familiar and he was naked anyway. Then a short nap. After dinner—more soup and some crackers he’d found hidden behind the canned goods—he cautiously entered the main room, holding some lotion and Kleenex. Being naked outside his bedroom was odd and terrifying, yet also exhilarating.

  He lay on the couch, the soft white leather clinging unpleasantly to his skin as he squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position. He almost gave up and retreated to the bedroom with his tail tucked between his legs, but he stubbornly pressed on. He thought about what he nearly always thought about when he jerked off—rough, masculine hands holding him down, spanking his upturned ass while another man fucked his mouth. His climax was satisfactory but not earthshattering, and he decided that—empty apartment or not—he’d stick with the bedroom from now on.

  Chapter Four

  Monday morning, Harlan was woken at nine-o-six by the phone ringing—a landline beside the bed that he’d seen but ignored, assuming it wasn’t connected but was simply set dressing like the rest of the furnishings. Harlan had a cell phone, a few years out of date but still perfectly functional.

  “’lo?” he mumbled, tentatively, after fumbling for the receiver long enough that he worried he’d accidentally hung up on whoever was calling him. It was probably someone checking in on him.

  “Where the fuck are you? You’re five minutes late!” a curt voice barked in his ear.

  “S-sorry. I think you have the wrong number…”

  “Harlan Brand?”

  “Yes.” No one used Harlan’s last name. He sometimes went years without hearing it.

  “Then I have the right fucking number! Get your ass down here in twenty minutes, or I’m coming up to get it!”

  Click.

  Shaking and wide awake now—it was amazing how, after only a few days out on his own, his internal schedule had shifted so he slept later—Harlan lay frozen in the still-unfamiliar bed, clutching the receiver. An aggressive stranger who knew a number he hadn’t given out—hadn’t even known existed—who also knew his full name. Reaching for his cell phone, he hovered his finger over the number Tom-without-an-H had programmed into it, then he moved it away again.

  He didn’t think the stranger was bluffing.

  Groaning, he rolled out of the bed he didn’t think of as his yet and pulled on one of the nearly identical outfits he’d been provided with. These, at least, were his size, and he wasn’t used to variation in his wardrobe, anyway. Jeans, T-shirt, underwear, socks… The shoes were his own, brought from the Centre. He didn’t have another pair but wasn’t sure why he’d need more than one, anyway.

  Glancing at the alarm clock that he still hadn’t gotten around to covering—though it hadn’t bothered him at night as much as he’d expected—he weighed his options. He could brush his teeth and shave, but he’d be cutting it close to the twenty-minute deadline. Fuck it. The man had woken him up, rudely. He’d just have to deal with Harlan’s morning breath and stubble.

  There were no people waiting outside the apartment building. No cars parked nearby, either, on either side of the street, except for a police car with its lights off.

  Maybe it was a joke. A prank. One of the newer kids at the Centre—who would probably never be allowed to leave its ability-dampening confines, and Harlan wasn’t at all jealous—could manipulate electronics. Someone must have put her up to calling him. The landline probably wasn’t even really hooked up.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Harlan looked around, hoping the unfortunately familiar voice was addressing someone else.

  The police car’s driver side door was open. A scowling, uniformed cop leaned on it, staring directly at…Harlan.

  Of course.

  “Get in here!” He jerked his finger at the car.

  The speaker was on the short side, at least a few inches shorter than Harlan’s own six feet, but lean and without an ounce of extra fat on him. His hair was dark blond and cropped almost to his scalp. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses.

  A small but vocal part of Harlan wasn’t surprised. There had been a mistake. He wasn’t supposed to have been let out of the Centre. His weekend out on his own was over. He hoped the food in the fridge wouldn’t go to waste, that whoever was assigned the apartment after him would use it.

  Personally, he thought sending a police car rather than the car he’d been dropped off in by an equally sunny individual was excessive, but the kids at the Centre had whispered stories after lights out, about psychics who went rogue when out on their own, who had to be taken down by the police, by SWAT teams, by helicopters. When powers were involved, the authorities couldn’t be too careful. Still, he found it strange that no one had tried to contact him, either on his cell or the landline, before bringing him in, but bureaucracy, he supposed.

  After crossing the street reluctantly, Harlan tried to open the rear passenger door, putting as much space between himself and the angry man as possible, but it didn’t open.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” the cop repeated, so eerily similar to the first time he’d said it that, for an instant, Harlan wondered if it was a recording.

  The cop reached out with the arm that wasn’t leaning on the car door, almost violently, slapping the roof of the car and startling Harlan. “Get in, now, before you make us any fucking later.”

  Later? Late for what? And it occurred to Harlan that, on the phone, the man had told him he was already five minutes late.

  Harlan stumbled the two steps to the front passenger door and opened it on the first try. He’d half expected it to be locked, too, or, if the man had been sitting in the driver’s seat, for him to pull the car ahead a few feet. Harlan hadn’t known the man for even two minutes, and he already suspected that was the sort of humour he appreciated.

  He slid into the passenger seat without incident, closed the door as softly as possible and carefully buckled his seatbelt. He stared at the policeman expectantly, warily. The car smelled like sweat, coffee and a gag-inducing artificial floral scent emanating from a blue, pine-tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror.

  Ignoring Harlan, the cop turned on the car engine. “Your door’s not shut.” Had the cop’s voice softened just a fraction?

  Face bright red and hot, Harlan opened his door again, then closed it more firmly.

  His companion grunted and put the car in gear. Twisting the wheel violently, he pulled away from the curb much more sharply than Harlan thought was strictly necessary. He gripped the door handle in his right hand and curled the left as far beneath his seat as it would go, as though that would do anything to keep him safe if they got into a collision. Police officers take special driving training, right?

  “The Centre is that way,” Harlan pointed out, softly, after a few silent minutes passing other cars at an a
larming speed. They were headed north, rather than southeast, where they ought to be going. Harlan didn’t know Toronto well, despite having lived there most of his life, but he knew that much.

  “Why the fuck would we be going there?”

  Harlan discreetly glanced over, but he couldn’t see the officer’s name embroidered on his uniform without leaning noticeably farther forward. He hadn’t thought to look at it before he’d gotten into the car, and he regretted that now. He might be able to get his cell phone out of his pocket without the man noticing, could maybe call someone for help, but having a name would probably help them track the car.

  “Where are we going?” Harlan asked quietly, sinking into his seat.

  The officer rattled off an address that meant nothing to Harlan. After seeing what the obviously blank expression on Harlan’s face, he glanced over at him, sighed, clenched and unclenched his hands on the steering wheel. “You seriously have no idea?”

  Harlan shook his head, nipping at a loose, dry bit of skin on his lip.

  “It was supposed to be in the letter they gave you.” The officer frowned.

  The blood rushed away from Harlan’s head so quickly that he felt faint, leaving him pale and trembling. Fuck. He was such an idiot. That stupid letter— He’d hardly glanced at it the night he’d been dropped off at the apartment, then he’d thrown it out without looking at it again.

  He felt sick. He was distantly aware that the officer was speaking, but it hardly registered as noise, never mind words.

  “You know about police mediums, right?”

  Harlan nodded. He was a medium. Of course, he knew some mediums worked with the police.

  “Well, congratulations. Now you are one.” The officer made a grand gesture, taking both hands off the steering wheel.

  Harlan clenched his teeth together so hard that he almost drove his lower molars into his sinuses. He’d always been a nervous passenger, and this man’s driving style certainly wasn’t putting him at ease.