IF WENDY HAD come back to him as one of those things, Jonah would have understood. It would hardly have been a surprise – he’d seen them kill, he had shot some himself, and the images of their grinding teeth and rupturing skulls were imprinted for ever on his mind. His waking nightmares made him terrified to sleep. And if she had returned as the Inquisitor, he would have understood that as well. The Inquisitor was in his mind now, and sometimes Jonah believed that thing was steering his every action, subconsciously or not.
But Wendy came back as herself.
I’d never let you put that gun to your head, she said, sitting at the foot of his bed. Jonah knew that she was not real, yet he welcomed her here with him, reaching out and not quite touching. She seemed unaware of his distress, or his need for contact. She looked vaguely disapproving, as she had on those few occasions when he’d returned home after having drunk too much.
‘But I don’t know what else to do,’ he said.
There is always another way. You told me that when I was so ill, and I wanted to talk about—
‘No!’ Jonah said. He had never entertained the thought of helping her on her way, had never permitted her to talk about it. Many times since then he had felt the guilt of that, and had dreamed about the agony he might have saved her from.
You’re not in that much pain, Wendy said, scolding. So don’t you dare let yourself consider that now, Jonah Jones. There is always another way.
Jonah blinked and Wendy disappeared.
Got to get away, he thought. The gun sat on his bedside table, solid evidence of his despair. But he would not betray Wendy with such thoughts again, and even now they felt distant and alien to him, the remnants of a dream rather than of any real desire to end his own life.
How could he? After all this, after what they had done, how could he ever consider taking the easy way out?
Jonah stood and slipped the gun into his belt. He felt watched at every moment – turned quickly, saw shadows at the periphery of his vision, heard breathing identical to his own – but there was no reason to believe that the Inquisitor was always there. Jonah had to believe that he was not.
What the Inquisitor was, why he was here, what he wanted of him . . . these were questions whose importance were secondary to Jonah’s survival. He could remain here and accept what this thing was doing to him, or he could leave. The choice was stark – and simple.
Jonah left his small room, carrying the heavy flashlight that illuminated the whole corridor ahead of him. He headed away from Control to begin with, slipping into the canteen area where the smell of food starting to rot was already evident. He could hear movement – scratching, shuffling, the gentle caress of material against metal – and he wondered how those creatures he’d locked in the walk-in refrigerator could know that he was here. Entering the huge pantry, he selected some dried food. Tins would be too heavy, and he’d be able to add water to the sachets.
Where am I going? he wondered, but though the voice was his own he tried to ignore it for now. One thing at a time. ‘Jesus, I could do with a shower before I go,’ he said aloud, and he actually giggled. It felt good – but it sounded desperate.