I am not happy. I am so very much not happy, and there seems to be little I can do about it. What I want to do is hit someone. Or something, but someone would be better. Someone who can say "Ouch" and look at me with wounded, puppy-dog eyes. Someone who's name begins with, oh I don't know, a J maybe. Someone who needs hitting, anyway.
Joel has gone, leaving me alone in my apartment. I don't know why he's not staying here while he's in the city, he told me that things were difficult, and that he doesn't want to lead anyone who's looking for Emma B right to her. That doesn't excuse him from not being here. I need someone here right now, someone who's there when I wake up at 1am (and 2am, 3am, 3:30am, 4am, 5am, 5:15am and 5:30am) sweating and biting my tongue so I don't scream. My dreams are all about the same thing, I'm back in the car at the bus station and I'm driving round in those crazy circles, and the bullets keep shattering the windscreen...
Of course, I sat myself down and thought about it, and I'm quite clear that my subconscious is just reliving the event, trying to sort it out, categorise it in my head, tidy it away into something that I've lived through. And that, according to the neat psychological theories of the therapist I hated when I was 17, should be that. Only it doesn't work. Someone should take her out and shoot at her a few times. Maybe she'd have something more intelligent to say then.
I'm shaking again, letting myself get angry. It doesn't help either, I just start breaking things. I'm down to four plates already, and I don't trust myself to go china shopping. It's hard to go shopping anyway, I'm stiff and I limp slightly because of the bullet wound in the top of my leg. Worse yet, I've been given a week off work when I least need it. If I could go to work I would have something to do, something other than sitting around at home, tired because I can't sleep without dreaming and irritable because my mind's not being sensible about this and dealing with it already.
I'm worried about other people too. I picked up the messages from the Rebel Voice on my phone, then destroyed it and the SIM and got a new one, new number. The messages were almost as disturbing as my life.
Q left me a message not to get in touch with him, but that was days ago, and there's been no further word. He's not like that. We might not have been able to talk on the phone for safety, but Q wouldn't just drop out of sight like that. He'd have left me something -- we have a dead-letter drop at a Chinese restaurant we both like. Q knows the owner, so it's easy enough to pass messages that way. But there's nothing there, and Q's way too geeky to have missed the opportunity to act like a spy. Q also likes his Chinese food too much to have not been there recently either. Something's wrong there.
I've seen the news about Red 5. Sweet blessed mother Mary, how could anyone think someone who protests about crime and corruption could kill someone? What possible statement could it make? That's ridiculous. And scary. Q said that the honeypot was gone, and now Red's being framed. Oh well, there's something else for my nightmares.
Someone sent a picture of the dead body covered in red paint to the Rebel Voice as a submission. I deleted it, blocked the IP address of the sender (so they won't even be able to see the Rebel Voice site), and then went and quietly threw up. The guy must have been dead when Red found him, that must be when he knew he needed a diversion. That could have been Red. What have I got him into? What have I got myself into?
And how do I get us all out of this? It's been well over ten years since I last wanted my mummy, but now I do. I just want someone big and important to say it'll all be alright, and make things better. But I think that someone is going to have to be me.