A Good Man Now

By Rhiannon Stevens

Heat pressed against Jane’s grey sedan, overwhelming its faulty air-conditioning and the hackberry’s meagre shade. Liberty Park was leafy and neighbourly: an old man tended his roses, women talked on the pavement, and children wandered home from school. No one noticed Jane watching Linus Maslin’s house. 

Jane had driven past the house many times over the past few days and had been studying the occupant for much longer than that. She’d followed him to and from the little agency that supplied him with a steady stream of contract work. She’d watched him pick out his groceries at the shop around the corner. She’d sifted through his garbage, deriving meaning from detritus.

Jane sometimes felt that she knew him better than she knew herself, better than he knew himself. She knew he was considering switching to a vegetarian diet, that he was saving for a trip to Singapore, and that he washed his hair every second day. She knew he favoured frothy romantic comedies and that on Saturdays he always treated himself to a cheeseburger and milkshake at the mall.

Jane knew everything there was to know about Linus Maslin. He’d dominated her thoughts for seven years. She always knew where he was, what he was doing, and sometimes she imagined she knew what he was thinking, too. She also knew that there was no way Linus was thinking about her.

That wasn’t the way it worked. 

The courts called it Civic Restoration. Everyone else called it Revision. Either way, it altered the neural structures behind antisocial behaviour. Memory had to be rewritten alongside them; otherwise, the scientists claimed, the old pathology would simply rebuild itself. 

The result was a clean slate, or so they said. You went into the chair a monster and came out a man. Practically no chance of recidivism, and the prisons could be demolished and turned into golf courses.

At four o’clock, Jane’s watch beeped. Three minutes later, Linus emerged for the mail. Jane sank down further in the driver’s seat so she wouldn’t be spotted. She watched him step out of his front door and stroll casually to the mailbox. Legally, the man who had killed her brother no longer existed, and yet, here he was.

Linus had spun-gold hair, a camera-ready smile and the infuriating beauty of a man the world had decided to forgive. The scar across his scalp was the only visible trace of his Revision. Revised offenders knew what the scar meant, but their old records were sealed. Linus knew there had been a man before him. He simply didn’t know what that man had done. 

Now he leaned against his mailbox, chatting amicably with two joggers. He said something, smiling wider, and the women laughed.

Jane scowled. A bead of sweat slipped from her hairline and down her cheek. Her back ached from sitting still so long, but she’d left her meds at home. She enjoyed feeling the pain of her injuries when she watched Linus. It kept her focused.

Seven years ago, Jane couldn’t have imagined that she would spend her life shadowing the steps of a man who had never spoken to her. Then again, she hadn’t imagined his car ploughing into her at more than a hundred kilometres an hour.

Linus had been fleeing an armed robbery when his car mounted the pavement. A utility pole had absorbed part of the impact and saved Jane’s life. She had still been thrown, but she had fared better than her brother, who had been walking beside her. 

Some nights she still heard tyres scream and felt her spine crack against the road.

Doctors could treat spinal injuries (see Jane walk! See Jane run!), but they couldn’t stop the pain or fix a permanent limp. There was no bringing her brother back, either.

The sound of Linus’s distant laughter brought Jane back to the present. He ran a self-conscious hand through his hair. One of the women touched his arm.

What did it matter if he didn’t remember what he had done? What did it matter if he didn’t remember who he had been? 

Intellectually, Jane knew this wasn’t fair. She was punishing one man for the actions of another. Perhaps the courts were right. Jane did not care. 

A handgun rested on her lap, its metal warm from hours in the sun. Outside, Linus waved goodbye to the joggers as they set off again. Then his gaze found Jane in the driver’s seat.

There was no spark of recognition in his eyes. He regarded her curiously, perhaps puzzled by the woman staring at him from the parked car. Jane held his gaze. All she had to do was swing open the door, aim, and fire. She hesitated, then slid the gun beneath the seat and lowered the window.

“Linus Maslin?”

He approached with a cautious smile. “Yes?”

“Seven years ago, you killed my brother and broke my spine.”

His smile disappeared. One hand rose unconsciously towards the scar beneath his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t remember.”

“I know.”

Jane started the engine and pulled away. In the mirror, Linus remained beside the mailbox, watching her go.

At last, he was thinking about her.

About the Author

R.H. Stevens is an author, illustrator, and designer based in Australia.

She is the author and illustrator of four science-fantasy novels and the creator of the upcoming narrative game A Binding Unmade.

Her work often explores strange worlds and alien perspectives. Across fiction, illustration, and games, she is especially interested in building vivid, immersive speculative settings and the lives of those who inhabit them.

Her work can be found at zirconaworks.com, ZirconaWorks on Steam, or by searching @zirconaworks on social media.