4. Sound and Vision

Anne. If you've ever been in one of those awful situations where you know you're just going to have to focus on the fact that this particular ordeal will be over in however long because there is absolutely no way you're going to enjoy it, you'll know how I feel most of the time.
This night isn't much different, in that sense, but in every other sense, I suppose I'd have to concede that it is.
I am running already and I'm not sure I like it. I pull my jacket across my chest because I swear to god this outfit was not made to be ran in.
-Christie, wait...
I'm already out of breath.
-What?
He turns around to me as if he'd forgotten I was there.
-Why are we running?
-To get somewhere faster. Stop!
We stop, and climb into a taxi. Christie leans over the guy's shoulder uncomfortably close, hissing something inaudible in his ear. I catch the word 'fast'.
When we finally stop, it's totally dark. We're outside somewhere I do not at all want to be- a municipal park, trees foreboding and grassy area totally empty-or not. I don't want to know what could be in there.
I reluctantly exit and even more reluctantly find myself having to stick very close to this psychotic companion I appear to have acquired. To my horror, he heads towards the trees.
-Can you at least tell me where you're going?
-Why did you follow me? Why did you come with me? Are you just going to ask pointless questions all evening?
-I don't remember being given much of a choice- and all I'm asking is why you're taking me into a forest in the middle of the night. In the conclusions I'm coming to I'm finding little more than the idea that you're going to murder me, and just didn't want to do it in the safety of my flat. Answers?
-There is always a choice, Anne, that's your problem. You think that other people have much more control over your life than they do. And honestly, I thought you were at least a little faster on the uptake than this- we're here because it's a shortcut. If I was going to murder you, for god's sake, do you not think I'd have more taste than to commit to that awful cliche of stabbing you in a forest? If you're starting to regret this, just take some time to get a little perspective, my darling.
He throws me a look of contempt and flounces into the darkness. I have no comeback, so I follow as quickly as possible. Just because he's not going to kill me right now doesn't mean that there aren't a thousand eyes in the middle of these trees, waiting for a victim...
We get to the other side of the copse mercifully fast, and it's quite an unexpected sight that greets me- merely more blocks of flats. I'm slightly taken aback that I didn't already assume that what lies behind small moments of hinted natural beauty are just more concrete towers. Evidently my greatest gift; my innate pessimism, is midly disabled in states of shock of any kind.
We head towards the block of flats, and, my guard fully returned, I do not make any inclination towards questioning when I realise that we are approaching our destination via the fire exit staircase, hidden at the back of the building. We're at the sixth or seventh floor when Christie pulls out something that jangles like metal on a chain around his neck, and I wait patiently for not very long at all while he fiddles with the lock.
-What, not the front door this time?
-Back doors are easier. People care about their front doors more.
-You managed mine alright.
He looks annoyed at this.
-...I had time. You were unconscious. Your lock is now broken, actually. It wasn't my best work.
-You lied.
-You would have attacked me if I hadn't. Oh wait, no, you wouldn't have. I like lying. Whatever.
The conversation is closed as he opens the door, which makes no sound.
-So, you do this a lot?
I venture, in a whisper that I hope conveys my apathy towards the notion of danger here. That's probably what he's getting off on.
-Obviously.
His white trousers glow in the natural darkness of here, and once we're past the tiny but reasonably tidy kitchen, so do some other things.
In what I presume is the living room, a pale blue feather boa lies across a very old, tattered-looking sofa. This and a pale coloured jacket are the only things I can see out, and seem out of place in such a clean flat.
-Sit down, don't say anything, stay here, and I'll be back in a bit.
He motions towards the sofa, I sit. As I do, something squeaky rustles beneath me and I pick up what I'm sitting on- a leather jacket.
Christie snatches it from me, holds it out at arms length and gives it a disgusted scowl.
-Looks like I'll be having to work twice as hard today, then...
He turns it over in his hand to inspect something on the back of it, and stalks away into the blackness without another word.
The nest thing I hear goes something like this:
Surprised female voice:
-Christie! What are you-
Christie:
-Hello, Cassandra. Where's...Anton?
-How did you...oh Christie I won't even ask. What are you doing here?
I know it's Christie that speaks next because of the way he totally ignores what's obviously a relevant question.
-His jacket was in the other room. He needs to shut up. You need to help me. I have a friend. Is Hanne asleep? Keep your voice down.
Is he talking about me? He had better not be talking about me. I suppose, though, it could have gone worse. We could have been in the house of someone who hadn't been prewarned to Christie's psychotic tendencies.
-Hanne's out. If she was here, Anton wouldn't be, and there would definitely not be any jackets in the other room. I don't think she actually sleeps.
-Right. Anne! Anne?
He's calling me now. What do I do? I don't know this person he's addressing, I'm pretty sure this is all totally illegal...Predictably, I feel my legs forcing me up anyway. I try and follow where I thought his voice was coming from, in the total darkness of the hallway it's all I have to get me anywhere. Suddenly, a scream, impact, and a sort-of scream from me.
A light goes on as Christie comes charging out of wherever he was, and the weird truth of the situation becomes clear. A man wearing only boxer shorts is standing as flattened as he can make himself, against the wall. Christie is in the doorway with a face like thunder and behind him, the person he must have been talking to; a tiny brunette with her duvet around her and eyes impossibly wide with alarm.
Christie lets out an overly dramatic sigh of exasperation.
-Hello, Anton. Cassandra, Anton, meet Anne. And please, please, stop shouting. We don't have time.
-Christie, this really isn't a good time...
The girl behind him says, her voice a little more measured and patient, especially when compared to the way Anton growls,
-This had better be very fucking good, Christie.
-Yes, Christie, very fucking good.
I muse sarcastically. He looks at us all like we're the most awful things he's ever seen, while at the same time being unendurably bored by our pure existence. It's probably quite a feat to give a look like that. I almost fear for our lives, again. Instead of drawing one of the many weapons I saw him store in his coat, he simply turns around back into the room he was in.
-Sit.
We duly go in to the bedroom and sit down on the bed. I get up and stand outside as I realise Cassandra and Anton are trying to find clothes. Christie simply sits passively on the centre of the mattress, looking dulled to death and impatient.
After around twenty seconds he clearly can't keep his annoyance silent.
-We really don't have time.
-Oh I'm sorry Christie, was it inconvenient of me to be having a night off for once?
Cassandra does a poisonous voice well, I think I like her.
You'd expect a remark delivered with such hatred would mute the guy for a second, but no such luck.
-I wouldn't call a night with Anton a night off. More like hard work...Please remember, Cass, darling, I speak from experience.
-Oh for god's sake, Christie- you're talkative tonight!
-Yes, Anton, I really do feel in the mood for it. Where are your clones, anyway? I always suspected you took them to bed with you after that night...
His voice goes quiet and seductive, clearly his weapon of choice- and he unfolds one crossed leg to touch what he can of the half-dressed Anton who looks like he'd love to chop the leg off.
If I were Cassandra I'd be at least a tiny bit insulted. She doesn't vocalise anything though, and as I look at her she gives Anton's back a look of unmistakeable accusation, but to me it just conveys confirmed expectation and disappointment. Evidently, this kind of thing happens all the time.
After a few seconds of stony silence, we all sit down on the bed.
-So Christie. What's so life-threateningly important that you had to break into Cassie's flat tonight, then? We're all simply dying to know.
Anton, I consider, does not share Cassandra's mild affection towards Christie. I get the impression he perceieves him as slightly more of an equal than most people do, however, the speed at which he bent to Christie's outrageous will demonstrates an awareness of the otherness of this freak who seems to hold the upper hand with everyone. From what I can understand of the relationships here, Christie has the clear advantage of sexual history. That's probably a good advantage.
I have just realised he claimed this advantage with me already. I hope he never realises how redundant this advantage is, as there is no one in the world who would care. I think I may have escaped ownership by Christie. I think I am lucky-yet here I am, having aided a break-in and disrupting some perfect strangers' night in. I feel slightly guilty, slightly trapped, but at the same time, I really didn't have anything better on this evening. Or this week. Or month, year, or lifetime.
Maybe I didn't escape at all.
Back to now:
-I need more fake sculptures, and I need people who are willing to travel, and I need people who understand that time is money. It's not the first time this evening that I think I've come to the wrong place.
-You need people who are willing to travel?
-Now Anton, I know these things take you a while to get to grips with so I'll go over it slowly. When I listed those things I'm looking for I did in fact mean that I need people who can fit into all of those categories. By evidently considering it absolutely imperative to repeat simple, basic sentences, you're displaying an obvious deficiency. Think back, Anton- time. Is. Money.
I've never wanted to slap a guy more, I really haven't. Anton is practically steaming at this, but does the intelligent thing, and remains quiet.
I'd quite like to know what exactly Christie needs these things for, but at the same time I fear it's one of those things that people can get in trouble for knowing about.
What I'm figured out is that he took all of the potentially dangerous items that he could fit in his pockets from my flat, and now he's broken into another person's house and is asking about sculptures. I've watched enough action movies to understand that when these things happen in any sort of consequence, all signs tend to be pointing to a criminal, trying to involve you in what appears to be a particularly elaborate scam.
All of a sudden, I feel something new: I'm intrigued. I can't keep hold of these questions any longer, and Christie's beat of silence to get his breath back after that particularly cutting tirade towards Anton gives me a chance, so I risk it.

-Why did we not just ring the doorbell?