Crimson by Ben Wise

worried?”
    “Yeah,” I respond. The curt response is not the friendliest of answers. She’s not to blame.
    “What if they work out where we’re heading?” I ask.
    “We’ll just need to keep moving and avoid obvious landmarks so that they don’t. Hopefully, that will be enough to cover our tracks.”
    “And even if your sister can find my sister, how do we get her out?” I ask.
    She shakes her head at me, concerned. “I have no idea. We just have to work that out when the time comes.”
    “Do you really believe that?”
    She stares into the distance. “Yesterday I believed I was absolutely safe with the resistance. Not sure I can believe anything anymore.” She sighs. “I’m sorry I don’t have a better answer for you.” She takes my hand and softly squeezes. “I guess we will just have to work something out.”
    She doesn’t let go.

The rest of the city is passed in silence. The city itself is dull, more than expected; we’re in the inner circle of the city, but under the surface it is just as dirty and dreary as the outer suburbs I’m used to. On the surface everything appears better, the buildings, the people, the food. But underneath it’s no different. With so few people on the streets, it appears just as abandoned. What do these people do all day?
    We go out of our way to avoid passing too closely to the few people with whom we cross paths. Too far out of the way I think. I wonder if it makes us stand out more. Frankly though, no-one seems interested in us. Is it undue paranoia? Perhaps.
    “How do you know if this place will be open when we get there?” I ask, to break the silence.
    She laughs at that. “Of course it will be,” she says. “This is the kind of place that never closes.”
    We fall silent again. I’ve never been good at small talk, but as we walk through this dull place I struggle to start even the most basic of conversations with Cara. What is there to talk about? Hi, how are you? Sorry about your dead friends. Weather is pretty good isn’t it? How do you feel about holding hands with a violent psychic killer?
    Here I am, staring at the most beautiful woman I’ve met, somebody who instantly befriended me despite everything I am, somebody who’s been dragged through hell because of who I am, and I can’t manage a simple conversation with her. Why?
    She seems to pick up on me staring at her, though her choice of topic is perhaps the one thing I didn’t want to think about.
    “Tell me about your friend Aine. What was she like? Were you two…?” She leaves the question open.
    Were we what? Oh . She couldn’t have picked a worse way to break the tension.
    Panic spreads across Cara’s face. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
    I shake my head with a sympathetic smile. “No, it’s ok. And no, we weren’t. I’ve never really had anybody like that in my life. Where we’re from, there wasn’t exactly a plethora of people with which to develop relationships. Certainly nobody who seemed interested in sullen old me. No, she was… I don’t know.” Fifteen years and I struggle to think of a single word to describe her. “Strong willed.  She was a kine; you know what they’re like. But she was sweet in her own way, a good friend, my only one really. I mean, we didn’t have anybody else growing up; it was just the two of us against the world. We never really found any purpose. We didn’t have anybody else. She was younger than me, though I don’t remember us ever not being friends. We explored the outer limits; the derelict buildings and abandoned parks. Most of the time it was me listening, while she did all the talking. She wasn’t much of a philosopher, but she always had something to talk about.” I laugh at that thought. “She was a lot more focused on what was going on around her. I think now that I should have paid more attention to what she had to say. I certainly could have taken a leaf out of her book more often than I