Downfall by S.D. Wasley

  ****

  Albion steered clear of me for the rest of the day. He went out for a long time, but even when he got home he didn’t speak to me. He tried once more on Monday after I got home from college, pleading with me to tell him what was wrong so he could help. I knew he couldn’t help so I shook my head and kept my lips closed. After that he left me alone. I became an avid watcher of the nightly news but the Mark Lyons story faded fast from the public’s interest. After three nights there was nothing at all about it on the radio newsbreaks or evening broadcast.

  I knew it might happen and, sure enough, the pursuit commenced. They granted me four nights’ distance before they started. First it was a phone call from Liz but I’d already decided I wouldn’t answer my mobile phone. When Liz finally called the home phone, I stood beside the handset and listened to her mild, nervous voice asking for Frankie to phone back. I looked up to find Albion nearby, watching me.

  “Hey, I kinda want to pretend I’m not around. Do you think you could tell people who phone for me that I’ve gone away?”

  He looked surprised, although I wasn’t sure if it was because of the request or because I was talking to him. “I’m always up for a bit of intrigue. But why are you doing it?” I hesitated. “Is it about your heart breaking?” he asked. I nodded, and Albion shrugged. “Okay, I’ll do it for you then.”

  He did. At my request he lied, telling callers over and over again, Frankie has gone away. We heard plenty of disappointed and angry silences. One night later in the week, a call woke us both at midnight. Albion answered it and I could see by his grumpy expression it was for me.

  “She’s not here,” he recited. “She’s gone away.” Pause. “I don’t know where.” Pause. “Listen,” he said at last, “I told you she’s not here. She’s buggered off. I don’t know where she is!” Pause. “Yeah, whatever.” Albion hung up.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Albion said. “Your frickin’ answering service.”

  The next morning the sound of a motorbike arriving in the front yard startled me. I hadn’t expected Cain to go this far. Okay, the phone calls ... he probably asked the others to call because he thought I wouldn’t talk to him, seeing as I’d blocked his number. But coming to see me? Now, even after what happened at the bar that night? I really thought he’d get it.

  I did not belong. He had to let me go.

  My not-so-rational response to his arrival was to run for the bathroom and lock the door behind me. An instant later there was a knock at the front door.

  Albion answered. “Yes?”

  “I want to see Francesca.”

  His voice. I went weak. Hearing him was almost a physical pain. I had to grip my own hands together to stop them from tearing open the bathroom door.

  “Yeah. You and everyone else in town.” Albion made his voice tough. “She’s cleared out. Took what she needed and left the rest of her stuff here. Last Sunday, it was. She owes me rent, too.” What a stroke of genius. I congratulated Albion in some tiny, clear-thinking part of my brain and waited through the long, long pause that followed.

  “When she gets back,” Cain said at last, “you tell her I came to see her.”

  “And you are?”

  “Cain.”

  “Right-oh.” Albion sounded slightly awed.

  I waited until the motorbike retreated down the street, and then padded barefoot down the hall to Albion. His worried blue eyes met mine.

  “Shit, Frankie, this is so weird. For real.”