part 23, The wolf witch
They go under that very evening.
*
Eames openes his eyes and looks around the slaughterhouse. He is alone. He shifts.
It doesn't hurt, but the feeling of his bones changing under his skin is disturbingly similar to when he lets the wolf out. Eames has wondered if this is the reason he is so much better than all the rest of the so-called forgers in the business. Generally it comes in the category of 'things I try not to think too much about.'
He doesn't need the mirrors, not really. They are a helpful trick, if he doesn't know the new body very well.
He knows Mal very, very well, mind, movement, moods and mannerism, from years of working with her, from Dom's crazy dreams, from Miles' stories, from the way the dreaming has her absence as a black hole in the middle of a galaxy.
Miles words echoed in his mind. Mallorie always had a habit about rescuing strays. She used to come home with baby birds, kittens, frogs. One day she brought home Susan.
He chooses a young Mal, the elegant teenager Miles had shown him a picture of, in a white sun-dress and a large, elegant straw-hat, at the top of her Audrey Hepburn phase (because Mal was Mal and there had never been anything awkward about her teenage years).
The slaughter-hall matches Mal's outfit now. There's nothing grim about it; it's a ruin reclaimed by nature, hazy morning light streaming through the broken skylight, grass and small trees growing between the broken tiles, swallows nesting in the roof's rusty structure. Eames looks down and there's a picnicblanket and a basket, straight out of another of Miles's photos.
He looks up. Arthur is standing on the balcony, in front of the door to the office, watching him.
“How do I look?” Eames asks. His voice is young, the trace of French stronger than when Mal had been an adult.
“Perfect,” Arthur says. “I'm going now, she should be here shortly.”
“Good luck, Arthur,” Eames says, “go find us that safe.” He blows Arthur a kiss and twirls in his dress, just because he can.
When he stops and opens his eyes again, Susan Allister is standing a few meters away, looking at him. She's still the stern businesswoman Eames has met topside, but this is his dream now and he wants her to dream with him. He laughs, one of Mal's pearly laughs that had been like water in the desert and runs to her, smiles to her, engulfs her. In his arms Susan Allisterbecomes a child again, a bit younger than Mal, every inch the Susan Miles had shown him and Ariadne.
...and after that, my parents-in-law welcomed her as one of their own. Susan had that effect on you. She never asked for anything outright, but you found yourself wanting to give it to her anyway, be it a new pair of shoes or love. She was this delicate, quiet child, and when she finally spoke, you felt like an honour had been bestowed on you.
They have a picnic in the middle of the old slaughter-hall, two young girls, the birds singing above their heads, the sun shining on them, warming them. Eames keeps them in that undefinable dream-time, where you know time as passed and you have talked about important things, but you're not quite sure how long you have talked and what about exactly. It's a neat trick. Not surprisingly and very fittingly, one of Mal's.
When their cake is eaten and their drinks are gone, Eames slowly lifts the hazy from Susan Allister's mind, let her realize that something here is very, very wrong. It doesn't take long before she starts frowning and her body returns to it's adult state.
“Mallorie,” she says, “you shouldn't be here.”
“You are not happy to see me?” Eames says, taking Susan Allister's hands.
“Yes, but...” She looks around, taking in their surroundings for the first time. “This place isn't real. It's not like this.”
“Then what's it like?” Eames asks, brazing for the impact he knows his words will have.
Susan pales and sits there, frozen. Then a small whimper escapes her, and suddenly the whole place is engulfed in flames. The sudden wave of heat makes his dress flare and his hair stand up. His straw-hat takes flight and disappears in the flames.
“Like this.” Susan says, a whisper Eames barely hears over the roar of the flames. Their picnic-blanket is untouched by the fire, but all around them the hall is burning and collapsing with unnatural speed. This is not just dream-logic; Eames can smell the gasoline in the hot air.
“It wasn't your fault.” Eames says, still holding Susan's hands, touching her cheek, making sure he has her attention. “The fire was to give your and your mother the insurance money. But he wanted to die, his business was failing, he couldn't faze the bankruptcy.”
“No, it... It was my fault. I started the fire too early, he didn't get out...”
“Susan, listen to me. Your father was already dead when the fire reached him. The coroner knew this, but Dr. St. Pierre was your father's friend, remember? He covered it up to protect your mother from the truth: your father was suicidal and forced you to help him.”
Susan Allister is crying now. “No, he... He told me how we where going to spend the money from the insurance company! We were going to visit you! We were going on a holiday, like a real family! He was going to be there!”
“Sweetheart, he wanted to. He wanted it so much.” Eames tells her, stroking her hair. “But he couldn't. He was sick. He had no right to ask you to help him in the first place; you were only twelve, you were just a girl. It wasn't you fault. Please believe me, it was not your fault. Your father wanted to die.”
Eames repeats this over again and again while Susan Allister's violent sobs turns into silent crying which turns into him just holding her, rocking her gently. Around them, the fire slowly diminish, leaving behind embers and smoke. Eames looks up and Arthur is standing there, half hidden behind a column, covered in sooth and looking slightly singed. He hold out a manilla folder and gives Eames a thumbs-up: he's gotten it. Then he holds out three fingers to signal how long time left in the dream. Then he shoots himself in the head. The 'clack' of the silencer and the sound of his body hitting the ground is hidden by the collapse of half the hall. Eames still can't help but wince.
“Susan,” Eames says, getting up and pulling Susan Allister up with him, “We need to get out of here. It's not safe.” Susan has stopped crying and is just looking shell-shocked. She lets him guide her out of the remains of the slaughter-hall without protest.
Outside it's a clear, starry night, courtesy of dream-handwaving. Eames freezes for a moment, before he realizes that's it's a new moon he can see and that there isn't any danger.
He turns to Susan Allister, he's going to make sure she's gotten the message, that she's going to wake up knowing what he told her is true, not because of the job; the job is over, he has successfully distracted her enough for Arthur to get to her secrets. Not because he pities her, not after what she did to Ariadne. But because he needs to take her teeth. He needs to remove her anger, her hurt. Only that way will she stop inflicting herself on the world in the way she has done so far, getting innocents caught in the crossfire. And because she was Mal's friend, once upon a time, because Miles still cares about her. If she continues this way, one day her children is going to hurt, maybe not as drastically as her own father hurt her, but getting jailed for fraud and stealing company funds are still hurting your children. They don't deserve that.
But Eames never gets the chance. The dream is shifting again, it's not him doing it, it's not Susan Allister, because she's suddenly gone. Eames is alone, himself again, standing in the middle of a clearing in a thick forest.
He knows this place. The ground is still torn up and covered in splinters from when the wolf went berserk. The fallen tree he had tied himself to is behind. In front of him stands the witch.