Kitabı oku: «The One Who Got Away»

‘I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity’

– Edgar Allan Poe

Prologue

West Green, Crawley, West Sussex, UK

Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home

2019

Clutching the chilled silver edges of the picture frame, my shaking hands rattle the loose glass shards that rest on the photograph. The peeling wallpaper of my room is marked with a mystic yet clear warning. I smooth my thumb over the ridges of the familiar texture on the frame, looking down at the unassuming, smiling faces in the photograph. They had no idea that years later, they’d be pawns in this sick and twisted game. How could they, after all?

Claire brought me the photograph only a couple of days ago to replace the last one. Has it really only been a couple of days? So much has changed. I can’t even keep track of the days, the hours, the minutes. Tears splash onto the glass shards, swirling in small, delicate puddles over our faces. I can feel my heart constricting, tightening, and I wonder if this is where it all ends.

‘Charles, what is this? What is this?’ I whisper into the room, my breathing laboured as the glow from my lamp dances over the message on the faded, sickly wallpaper. I shake my head, trying to work out what to do. I could push the call button over and over until one of them comes. I could wait for a nurse to get here. They would have to believe this, wouldn’t they? They would have to see that I’m not mad, that this is real. They wouldn’t be able to feed me lines about my warped perceptions of reality or this disease that is degrading my mind.

They’d have to see it.

Then again, who knows anymore. No one seems to believe me at all. Sometimes I don’t even know if I can believe myself. I stand from my bed, setting the crushed picture frame down and leaning heavily on the tiny wooden bedside table. I pull my hand back, looking down to see blood dripping from where a piece of glass has sliced into me. The burning sensation as the redness cascades down my flesh makes my stomach churn.

What’s happening to me?

I need to solve this, but I know I’m running out of precious time. He’s made it clear through the message on the wallpaper that this is all coming to a devastating conclusion – and soon. I don’t know when this story will end or exactly how. But this tower is ready to topple, crashing down and obliterating me in the process. I can’t let that happen without uncovering the truth. I can’t leave this place as the raving lunatic they all think I am. I have to stay strong and sort this out. Charles would want me to uncover this debauchery. They all need me to work this out, even if they don’t realise it.

And most of all, I need to die satisfied that all has been set right, that injustices have been paid for. I can’t leave this world with all the murky questions swirling in my mind, and with all the old guilts rattling about. Someone needs to pay for the sins of the past – and I don’t think it should just be me.

I take a step towards the wall, my bones aching with the effort. I am careful not to slip, a few loose shards and specks of blood dancing on the floor in intoxicating patterns. I focus my gaze back on the words that taunt me.

I lean my forehead against the wall, not caring that the oozing liquid will be in my hair, on my face. I inhale the rusty scent of the dripping note in the corner of the room.

You’re mine.

It trickles down, the blood an oddly blackish hue on the tired wallpaper of Room 316. I lift a trembling hand to the phrase, my finger hesitantly touching the ‘Y’. Its tackiness makes me shudder. It’s real. I’m not imagining it. I’m certain that it’s all real. Taking a step back again, I slink down onto my bed, my cut hand throbbing with pain as I apply pressure to it. My fingers automatically pick at the fluff balls on the scratchy blanket. I should probably push the call button. I should get help, get bandaged. I can’t force myself to move, though. I tremble and cry, leaning back against my bed.

I don’t understand. There’s so much I don’t understand.

I rock myself gently, my back quietly thudding against the headboard. I think about all the horrors I’ve endured here and about how no one believes me. Like so many others, I’m stuck in an unfamiliar place without an escape. Unlike Alice, my wonderland is a nightmarish hell, a swirling phantasm of both mysticism and reality – and there are no friendly faces left at all to help me find my way home.

The babbling resident down the hall warned me. She did. On my first night here, she told me I wouldn’t make it out alive. Now, her words are settling in with a certainty that chills my core. True, it wasn’t the most revolutionary prophecy. No one comes to a nursing home expecting to get out alive, not really. Most of us realise that this place is a one-way ticket, a final stop. It’s why they are so depressing, after all. It’s why our children, our grandchildren, our friends are all suddenly busy when the prospect of visiting comes up in conversation. No one wants to come to this death chamber. No one wants to look reality in the face; the harsh, sickening reality of ageing, of decaying, of fading away.

Still, staring at the warning scrawled in blood on my wall, I know that maybe the woman down the hall meant something very different with her words. I’m going to die here, but not in the peaceful way most people imagine. I’m going to pay first. I’m going to suffer.

But why me? And why now, after so many years have passed since those horrific incidents of my past?

I don’t know who to trust anymore. I don’t know if I can trust myself. My mind is troubled, and my bones are weary. Maybe the nurses are right. It’s all nothing more than this disease gnawing away at me.

But as I look one more time at the blood trickling on the wall, I shake my head. No. I’m not that far gone. I may be old, frail, and incapable of surviving on my own, but I haven’t gone mad yet. I know what’s real and what’s not. And I’m certain this is demonically, insidiously real. Someone here wants to make me pay. Someone here has made it their mission to torment me, to toy with me. Someone here at the Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home wants to kill me. In fact, someone here has killed already.

My hands still shaking, I appreciate the truth no one else can see – it’s just a matter of time until they do it again.

I lie back on the bed, the pieces of glass and the blood cradling me. Maybe, in truth, I resign myself to the fact that I’m helpless, that I’m at a mysterious Mad Hatter’s mercy in this ghoulish game of roulette. I stare at the ceiling, the hairline crack beckoning my eyes to follow it. I lie for a long time, wondering what will happen next, debating what new torture awaits, and trying to predict what the final checkmate will be in this sickly game.

After all, no one gets out of here alive. Even the walls know that.

Chapter 1

Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home

2019: One month earlier

The first thing I notice as I’m led into Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home is that the creeping ivy vines strangle the windows. Up, up, up, the vines twist and turn, suffocating the glass panes, choking out any hope of the sun shining into the unsettling, old building. They are a prominent scar on the stone front of the building, marking it as forgotten and dilapidated. It’s a violent disparity with the clean, modern look in the pamphlets they gave to us months ago.

‘Charming, isn’t it?’ Claire beams as she squeezes my arm too tightly, leading me through the creaking front door of the majestic yet decaying building. As I cross the threshold into the draughty building, reality settles in.

There’s no turning back. I live here now. People will walk by on their way to work or to restaurants or the shops, oblivious to me. They won’t think about me or the others here as they try to shield themselves from the stone presence that is a blatant reminder of their own fate. I’ll be the one no one’s thinking about, abandoned in a place called home but feeling like nothing of the sort. The familiar, terrifying twinge in my chest aches, and I clutch at my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut, pausing inside the building as I gasp for air. It hurts to breathe, and the panic doesn’t help. As my heart constricts, the familiar fear usurps me – this time, it will be too much to take. This time, the throbbing won’t stop, and it will all end here, right now.

‘Mum, are you all right?’ Claire asks, patting my shoulder with a concern a mother should express for her child, not the other way around. The order of things is so warped during the ageing process. It takes a moment for me to respond. I try to catch my breath, leaning on the wall, my fingers resting on the scratchy, chilled stone. It’s happening again. Why does this always happen?

After a long moment where I wonder if my lungs are going to keep working, the feeling passes. I open my eyes to look at my daughter, her face contorted with fear. This is why I’m here. This is what put me here, I know. I probably do need to be here, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

I take another deep breath, nodding at my daughter in assurance. She stares for a moment, probably deciding what to do. But I’m here now, and this is the best place for me – or so everyone says. Thus, she leads me forward, and we methodically trudge further and further into the cave that is Smith Creek Manor. Claire bubbles on about how lovely the statue is inside the door and how bright and airy the entrance is. I nod silently, knowing why she’s raving about architectural features. She wants this to work out. No – correction – she needs this to work out. As a fifty-two-year-old divorcee, she’s got more pressing matters to worry about than her daft old mother who is incapable of living on her own. She needs to get back to her job, the life she’s created for herself here in Crawley. She wants me to be happy here to quell her rising guilt. I understand. I don’t blame her. But it doesn’t mean I find Smith Creek Manor charming or likeable or anything of the sort. I don’t want to be here, even if my thudding chest and exhausted mind tell me I probably need to be.

It’s true, I’m being unfair. Any place but 14 Quail Avenue would be a disappointment to me right now. I miss my familiar house in Harlow. I miss Charles. I miss my marriage, my life and the place I called home for so long. This isn’t home. Crawley hasn’t been home for decades, not for me at least. I suppose in many ways, even all those years ago when I lived here during my teenage years, it never was home. In fact, for many years, it was a dark stain in my life, a reminder of all that can go wrong in the world. And for so many years, I’ve thought all of this was in my past – buried deep, deep in the past.

I know it’s pointless to get nostalgic or angry. It’s all done. It’s over now. The for sale sign in front of our house in Harlow was changed to sold. My few belongings were packed, the finances and paperwork were taken care of. I’m here. There’s no turning back.

It pains me to think about 14 Quail Avenue having new tenants. I hate the thought of some new couple dancing underneath the kitchen arch where Charles used to kiss me on the cheek before leaving for work. I loathe the thought of some frilly woman redoing the wallpaper that I loved so much in the sitting room or modernising the charming fireplace that Charles built by hand. Pain throbs in my chest at the thought of the new couple’s children or grandchildren playing with toy cars and dolls in the spot of the sitting room where my dear Charles fell over, dead, one year ago. I hate them. I hate this place. I hate it all.

‘Ms Evans, welcome. So lovely to see you. Welcome to Smith Creek Manor. What a lovely choice for your new home,’ a woman in shiny way-too-high heels offers. She shakes Claire’s hand before rubbing my shoulder. Thus, the patronising gestures begin. I shrug it off. I know I’m just sensitive today.

‘Now, let me show you to your residence. You’re so lucky, a third-floor room. You’ve got one of the best views here,’ the chipper woman announces as her bone-coloured shoes clack on the floor, her feet landing close together with each step as her hips sway with confidence. She acts as if she’s on a fashion runway instead of in a cold, damp corridor in a home for the dying that reeks of medicine and hospital. She leads us down the corridor and through a doorway that has a code on it. Above the code box is a bright coloured painting. It’s as if they’re trying to disguise the fact that this is only one step above incarceration.

Claire and the lady – has she told me her name? I’ve forgotten – chatter on about meal timetables and activities and all sorts of things, both trying to convince themselves that this is a perfectly acceptable arrangement and that I’m not coming here to die. Once inside the locked door, we wait for the lift to take me to my new view. I peruse the open area. The smell of this place matches the depressing sights. All around, people in various states of decay clutter the common room, some sitting stooped over in chairs, some sleeping. A few traipse about, dragging their feet on the carpet and muttering incoherently. Only a handful look conscious, reading a book or staring at a telly that looks like the first set Charles ever bought for our house.

The word death floats above these people, tainting the air with a musk of disintegration mixed with rubbing alcohol. That smell. How does one describe it? A sterile crispness infiltrated with what one would suppose melancholy smells like if it had a describable stench. It assaults my nose as the lift dings and the doors drag open, the fluorescent lights blinding me as I creep into the metal box. The doors screech closed, a grating noise that makes me anxious. I can’t help but feel like I’ve been enshrouded in my funeral clothes as the doors shut and we float up, up, up, the lift clunking and sputtering like a death trap. My heart pounds as I lean on the wall, my armpits getting profusely sweaty at the claustrophobic feeling. The lift grinds and creaks, and I may be imagining it, but it feels wobbly.

The ride seems to take forever, and, at a point, I wonder if it’s broken. When it slams to a stop, the doors take an interminable amount of time to creak open. Finally I see the bright lights of the corridor and I’m thankful, shoving my way out to escape the metal box of death. If I never have to get in the thing again, it would be too soon.

‘The lift’s just a bit slow. But I think it’s a good thing,’ the tour-guide woman announces as she and Claire follow me out.

I don’t understand how anything about the lift is a good thing. It’s just another reminder that this place isn’t anything like we thought it would be. My heart races as I consider the possibility of riding in that box again, the slowness of its heavenly ascent jarring.

My heartbeat steadies, and I take a few breaths. It wouldn’t do to let the lift ride get me worked up. After all, the doctor is always chattering incessantly about my heart troubles, palpitations, and stroke risks. He’s always trying to help us prepare for what to expect with the dementia as well. He reassures me with the promise of lucid days and moments amidst the days of confusion, as if that’s a true comfort to the soul to know that even though my mind is failing, there will be moments everything is clear.

Sometimes, I’m convinced he just likes to use medical jargon to sound important. Sometimes, though, I think maybe I’m actually falling apart, especially on days when the familiar pain resurfaces and I can’t catch my breath. Regardless, his warnings worked because eventually, it convinced Claire that living at home alone wasn’t suitable for me anymore. She’d ensured me that it would be safer for me to be in a residence like this, as she called it. My heart problems mixed with the early onset of dementia are a dangerous concoction, it would seem.

Claire’s busy, too. Her job in marketing keeps her floating around from place to place, which is perhaps how old what’s-his-name she was married to escaped with his flighty heart. With her travelling so often for work, it would be impossible for me to live with her – not that I’d want to impose on her life like that. Thus, she’d pleaded and begged for me to move somewhere more suitable and somewhere closer to her so she could spend time with me when she was home.

I hadn’t wanted to give up my home in Harlow, of course. True, most days the place felt like a mausoleum or a shrine dedicated to a life I could no longer live. There wasn’t much left for me on Quail Avenue except struggles and uncertainties. Getting around was exceedingly more difficult, and keeping up with the empty, chilled house was no longer easy. Then, of course, there were the incidents the neighbours were quick to report to Claire – like they’ve never forgotten anything before. Things were never the same on Quail Avenue since Charles passed, but at least there, I had memories and familiarity. I had some remnants of my dignity and privacy. I had a sense of home.

I’d fought Claire for months about moving out, insisting I could handle myself. In truth, I suppose I wasn’t afraid of going out in the same house Charles did. Perhaps a piece of me thought that if we were connected in our manner of death, it would be a good omen for the next life – something I try not to think too much about. However, months of Claire’s nagging coupled with a few scary moments on my own finally managed to free me of my devotion to living alone. Perhaps it was also the fact I was so tired. It had all become way too much.

Nonetheless, coming back to Crawley, well, that hadn’t been easy. The heart palpitations seemed to worsen at the idea, an old fear resurfacing at the thought of stepping onto this haunted ground. I found myself evaluating what I was doing. Why had I even considered coming?

Claire, of course. To be near my daughter. I was willing to risk anything, to face any fears, to make her happy – and maybe I felt the need to protect her.

I’d always hated that Claire had settled down here, an area where I had lived in my late teen years. It had been one of the darkest periods of my life, a time I would do well to forget. Sometimes life is full of surprises, and not always in a good way.

After Charles died and Claire, in the middle of starting her life over again after her marriage fell apart, announced her move to Crawley, I almost collapsed.

‘What do you mean, Crawley?’ I had asked, my heart fluttering.

‘I just need a change, Mum. I need somewhere peaceful that’s still easy to commute from. I’ve found a lovely little flat in Langley Green in Crawley.’

I felt as though my heart was lodged in my throat. I’d protected Claire from the past for so many years. Charles and I didn’t talk about it. We’d moved on from Crawley and never, ever looked back. But to hear my adult daughter talking about those places – it was too much.

‘I don’t understand,’ I murmured, trying to maintain my composure.

Claire sighed, turning the cup of tea in her hands across the table from me. ‘Mum, don’t get angry. I know you and Dad don’t like to talk about those years in Crawley. I know it was complicated. But a few weeks before Dad died, I don’t know, I just got curious. I’m in my fifties, and I don’t know that much about you two, in truth. I never knew my grandparents. I know you didn’t like to talk about them, but it’s like the both of you wiped away your past. It was a hidden secret hanging over us. I got curious. Dad told me about Langley Green and how much he loved it there. He told me about how you two met, about how he would travel to West Green to visit you. He told me how much he loved you from the beginning. I don’t know, I guess after he died, I just felt like it was a sign. Maybe that’s where I’m meant to be. It seems like a good place to start over.’

Vomit rose in my throat. I tried not to cry. How could you, Charles? After so many years, you planted this idea in her head? Searing anguish I thought had died decades ago had risen in my chest.

‘What else did he say?’ I asked tentatively. Fears rose. But there are things even Charles didn’t know. There were secrets even Charles couldn’t tell.

‘The same thing you two always said when I asked you. “It was complicated.” Mum, I know Crawley was a dark place in those years. But I don’t know, I think I could be happy there. I think it would be nice to be somewhere strange yet familiar in a weird way. You lived in West Green, close to where I’ll be. Dad lived there. My grandparents, whom I never got to meet, lived there.’

That conversation haunted me for weeks. I was angry at Charles. I was terrified for Claire as old fears surfaced. But eventually, I’d talked myself down.

Decades and decades had passed. It wasn’t the same place anymore. Heck, most of the people I once knew were probably long since gone, moved on in one way or another.

Still, I didn’t understand why Charles would open such wounds. After trying to escape from Crawley’s clutches for all of those years, to have my daughter reconnect me with it – it was the thing of nightmares, enough to drive me truly bonkers if I’d let it.

Yet, even after insisting to Claire I’d never go back, no matter how much she begged – here I am. Back in Crawley’s hands, back in West Green more specifically.

It was all so long ago, I remind myself. It doesn’t matter anymore. But I know that in truth, it always matters. It will always matter. I shudder at the thought, tension rising as I try to shove it back down.

As I follow the woman and Claire down the corridor, peeking in at the faces I will be seeing too much of from now on, I sigh. Now that I’m here, facing the prospect of a life staring at these sterile walls, I’m having regrets. Maybe I should’ve fought a little harder. Maybe this was a bad choice. This place rattles me, strangling me like the vines creeping up the stone walls outside.

Or perhaps I’m just being paranoid. Of course Smith Creek Manor wouldn’t feel like home yet. How could it? I just need to give it a chance. I’m tired from mulling it all over incessantly, my brain throbbing already. In a few days, I’ll adjust to the atmosphere, and it won’t seem so terrible. I just need time.

I peek in at the rooms of my neighbours as we parade down the corridor to my own. A man sits on the single chair in his room, staring at the telly. In another room on the right, a woman rocks what appears to be a baby doll, singing a lullaby. I pause at the opening to another living space, perusing the scene with fascination and horror. A woman stands, lopsided in the centre of her space, half of her face distorted. She is completely naked, and she walks in tiny circles by her bed, singing the words to some unrecognisable song. She laughs in between choruses, over and over, her sagging skin marked with burns and scars. I want to peel my eyes away, but I can’t. The storm that is this woman is on full display. How long has she been stuck in this merry-go-round of terror? Why isn’t anyone stopping her? It’s unbelievable that a human being would behave this way – or be allowed to behave this way in such a place. What is this? What is this, indeed. I peel my eyes away, feeling embarrassed for witnessing her in this state.

I continue on down the corridor, room after room presenting new views. It’s like I’m wandering about a zoo, staring in at the exhibits of various species. Some mad, some sane, some essentially gone. All of the doors are open, wide open, except one. When we get to Room 312, I notice that the door is closed. For some reason, it’s like the door calls to me. I think about reaching out and touching that knob, curious what the door could be hiding. Inside, I hear a cough, weighty and raspy. It startles me. I don’t know what or who is behind the door to 312, but there’s something unnerving about the space. A chill rattles my body and I shiver, a darkness surrounding the room even from the corridor.

But it’s also unsettling to see so many doors wide open, patients in all state of dress and activity out in the open. Is there no privacy here? Has everyone truly lost their sense of dignity that they’ll let everyone peer into their lives in their tiny little rooms? Will I lose mine as well? Will I even be me here? I shudder involuntarily as I plod towards the new ‘home’ that awaits me.

The woman in heels leads us down the corridor on the third floor, down, down to the very end. She stops at the room on the left, which is next to a staircase. There is, of course, a locked door at the staircase, the tiny code box beside it reminding me that I’m not free anymore. I suppose escaping isn’t something they look favourably on around here.

‘Here we are, dear. Room 316. Your new home. Welcome. I do hope we’ve managed to arrange the things your daughter sent over correctly. If not, we’ll be happy to help you set things up just as you wish. Come on, let’s get settled in and meet your roommate.’

I stop at the threshold of 316, staring in at what has become my whole world. My home with Charles was never a castle. It was a modest house, tiny to most. But compared to this space, it was a palace.

I step inside, willing myself not to cry. Claire is here, after all. I can’t break down. She needs me to be strong. I can’t be more of a burden than I have been already. I peer about the room that is more hospital than home, and my stomach plummets. This is it. This is where I’ll reside for the rest of my days, the icy, bog-standard room surrounding me with its monotonous bleakness. I shake my head at the prospect, my hand reaching up to tug at my long, stringy hair.

‘Ms Evans, I’d like to introduce you to your roommate, Ms Rose Wright. All right, Rose?’ The woman prances over to the other side of the conjoined room, a curtain that presumably divides our halves pulled to one side so I have a full view of my new companion. I hate that I have a roommate here. Certainly, Claire told me I’d have my own room, didn’t she? Most facilities do, after all, offer individual rooms. Why is this place different? I shudder at the realisation that already, my new home isn’t meeting my expectations.

I glance over to the woman on the other side of the dividing curtain, trying to move beyond the fact that I won’t be alone. She is sitting up in bed, leant against a pillow, her mouth partially open. Drool drips visibly down her chin, and she’s wearing a transparent blue nightshirt. She stares, deadpan, straight ahead at what, I can’t determine. Her breathing is raspy, every single inhalation rattling something in her chest. On her bedside table, a statue of what seems to be a religious figure perches. I can’t tell exactly what it’s supposed to be. It’s chipped and warped. Its demeanour is more ghoulish than holy. Angled, it appears to watch her, its unseemly eyes bulging out. I don’t like it. I wonder if she hates it too.

Behind the statue is a noticeboard, just like I have on my side of the room. A child’s drawing of what appears to be a rose is pinned there, centred on the board. At least I will be able to recall her name, I realise. Rose, just like the picture. I lock it into my mind. Wouldn’t do to forget my roommate’s name, after all.

Our fearless tour guide and master of ceremonies plods forward, walking to Rose’s side to stroke her thin, dishevelled hair. The woman doesn’t move. I blink, turning to Claire. I don’t know why, but I recoil at the sight of this Rose woman, more dead than alive, who fights for every breath. Her delicateness irks me, stirring an uneasiness I can’t explain. It makes me feel guilty for thinking these things about a suffering woman. Nonetheless, the woman doesn’t offer any reaction to my presence. Our tour guide looks back to us, smiling gently.

‘Rose won’t be much of a bother to you, I suppose,’ she reassures, and although the words sound harsh, her eyes are kind. I nod slightly, offering a smile to the woman who isn’t even looking at me. I trudge over to the window, needing to get some air in this stifling room. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to counter the rising panic in my chest. I can sense the tour-guide woman and Claire exchanging some kind of look or communication behind me. The woman is probably trying to soothe the rising guilt in Claire for leaving me in a place that feels so suffocating. I look out into the morning, taking in the view of the courtyard, the U-shape of the building offering me a look at the inside-back wall of Smith Creek Manor. Another resident’s window sits across from me. I stare, the outline of a person – a man, perhaps? – standing in the window. Someone else is looking out into the courtyard as well. I should find it comforting, I suppose, that I’m not alone, that someone else is lost in thought at this place. My mind is numb, though. There are too many things to absorb, and I’m not ready to take it all in just yet.

‘Isn’t it a lovely view? I told you the view up here is just grand,’ the woman says. I hate that she’s trying to sell me on this place. I’m already here. Plus, there would be no selling me on this place. The view is claustrophobic, if you ask me. I can’t see the outside world, not really – just the grass, the air between the wings of Smith Creek Manor. It’s like I’m trapped by the stone building, the rooms of patients my only view.

I look out, training my eyes on the roof, on the sky, on the great beyond. I wonder if I’m staring in the direction of Quail Avenue. My mind conjures up an image of the tiny house squeezed between the neighbours. I can picture that alabaster colour, those tiny shutters Charles painted in a stunning yellow. I yearn to feel the front door, my hand shakily touching the cold, harsh glass of the window instead.

I peer down now, staring at the gazebo that rests in the courtyard way, way below. When my eyes catch sight of the ground, absolute terror seizes me, grappling with my heart like a clutching, clawing fist. What I see when I look out the window convinces me of one thing I’ve been fearing: I can’t do this. Not here. I’m not going to be safe here at all.

Missing West Green Girl Found; Corpse Shows Distressing Signs of Tampering

West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

13 June 1959

The West Sussex Constabulary has reported the discovery of the body of Miss Elizabeth McKinley of Greenville Avenue, West Green, around dawn yesterday, 12 June 1959. The body of Miss McKinley was uncovered in a skip at the current construction site for the new Crawley Hospital. A worker found what appeared to be a large trunk in the skip that seemed out of place. Upon opening the trunk and discovering what appeared to be limbs, the police were called to the scene to investigate. Detectives later arrived, and a chief detective is currently on the case.

Several other trunks included the remains of what was determined to be Elizabeth McKinley after further investigation. Investigators also revealed the presence of bite marks on various limbs and pieces of the dismembered corpse. It seems that the bite marks were made postmortem.

The deceased, Elizabeth McKinley, 19, daughter of Mr and Mrs Jonathan McKinley, disappeared from her home 26 May. Mr and Mrs McKinley had left to attend a dinner in Brighton. Miss McKinley had stayed behind due to illness. Upon returning home, Mr and Mrs McKinley found signs of a break-in, although no valuables were removed. Miss McKinley had not been heard from since 26 May by any family or friends.

Searches have turned up few clues, the constabulary notes. West Green has been on edge since the disappearance of the girl that neighbours called ‘godly, sweet, and kind.’ Elizabeth McKinley was engaged to be married to Paul Hazenstab, also of West Green. Their wedding was to be announced in the coming weeks.

Police are calling the death ‘a brutal homicide of the darkest kind’, in reference to the disturbing bite marks found on her thigh, chest, and left arm. The dismemberment of her body has also raised concerns that this was an act of revenge or hostility. Several West Green residents interviewed mentioned fears that a deranged killer is on the loose, but Chief Constable Warren of the West Sussex Constabulary wishes to reassure the residents of Crawley that there is not enough evidence at this time to establish a motive or to stir such fears.

‘We will be investigating,’ Chief Constable Warren noted, ‘and we will not stop until we find the savage murderer who took this sweet girl’s life in such a sinister way. We ask the people of Crawley to be vigilant and to report any strange occurrences.’

Arrangements for the funeral of the deceased have not yet been announced as the investigation is still underway.

The pencil between my teeth, I gnaw and gnash, closing my eyes and thinking about how it all transpired. A surge of warmth flashes through me as I recall the supple flesh between my teeth. I recall how my tongue danced at its surface. The gnashing of my teeth against her flesh quenched, if only for a quick moment, the primal urge within me. The suppleness of her arm, her chest, her inner thigh – all so satisfying yet also stirring of a deeper hunger.

I’d known that first kill would be delectable – but I hadn’t realised just how so.

I sit back in my chair, my fingers finding the tip of the pencil as my teeth incessantly chomp down, almost as if of their own volition.

I’ve done it.

I’ve accomplished the first.

I’d always imagined the first to be the hardest when I’d gone over my plans. The logistics of it, sure. But also the feel of the life exiting a body. It had excited me, the mere thought of it driving me to a place of utter joy rarely known in all of my years of living. I’d worried, though, if it would meet my expectations. What if the taste of death wasn’t enough?

It was a fear I’ve always battled with, a question that often held me back. But there was no more holding me down. I’d finally risen up. I’d finally done what I’d always needed to do, what I’d always been capable of doing.

I’d found myself, my strength. A grin paints itself on my face. Brilliant. There is no other word for it. I’m finally brilliant.

Bloody brilliant.

I’ve done it, after all. I’ve finally achieved it. I carried it out, succeeded in the first step of the master plan. I finally feel a surge of life pulsing in my blood. It’s as if her death has incited a new energy, a new sense of life within me. It’s a foreign feeling, yet it’s one that I feel like I’ve always been craving. All of those years of being lost, of searching. I found it. It’s paradoxical yet it completely makes sense. I finally feel excited about something. Dazzled by the feel of death, I now know I can be the one to wield so much power. I can choose when and how they leave this world. And I get to be there in the final moments, to see them beg, to hear their desperate pleas for another day. My lips curve into a crooked grin.

I’m the one in control. Who would’ve ever expected it?

They wouldn’t have. It’s always the quietest sheep, the ones on the outskirts, that surprise you the most. Aren’t you surprised now? I think, my mind flashing over her stoic face. She would be so surprised now. My hand rubs my forehead, leaving the pencil.

I had been patient, my plan reviewed over and over for months before claiming the first one on the list. I’m no fool. I’m not. I’m sensible and smart. I’m capable. I’d taken my time after picking the girls. I have my list of chosen ones. I know the order, the plan. I won’t ruin it or rush it. I’ll be successful. I’m no quitter. I’ll do it right.

I’d been observant for months. It isn’t hard to learn about others if you just pay attention. Few people pay attention, I’ve come to realise. But I do. I always do. I watch. I study. I learn routines and entrances. I examine the possible entry routes and the escapes. I peruse timetables and plans to find just the right time. It has to be exact.

I’d determined Elizabeth would be first because she was the least exciting. She was a quiet, submissive girl. I knew she wouldn’t resist much. Which I knew wouldn’t be as satisfying – but it would be less risky.

Still, she wasn’t as gratifying as the final one will be. I know this already. I’ve thought ahead, you see. I’m saving the exciting one, the wily one, for last. Oh, yes, that last one will be a masterpiece of a kill. I’ll work hard and perfect my craft. I’ll master the rules of the game before I tackle the final one.

Patience is a virtue. That’s what I always learned. Patience. Patience. Patience.

She’s special, that last one. Even before I allowed myself to recognise the thirst in me and welcomed it to the top of my consciousness, I’d perhaps known it would be her. She’s always drawn me in. Why? I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s her spirit, that zestful way she walks and talks. Maybe it’s the fire in her eyes that reminds me of her. I don’t know. It’s hard to pinpoint. But when you know, you know, whether it’s love, lust, or some other form of the two. For three years, she’s drawn me in, a moth circling the flickering light but never getting close enough to get zapped.

Soon enough, she’ll be the moth, entangled and entranced by me. I’ll be the one wielding the light and then snatching her wings before she can get away. It’ll be me. All me.

I shake my head, taking the pencil from between my teeth and tossing it across the room. Dammit. I’m getting ahead of myself now. Bloody hell, it doesn’t do to get ahead. The plan is carefully laid. It’s why I spent so much time plotting it out. It needs to be perfect. One misstep, and that glorious, final moment of power won’t come.

I must be patient, stay calm. The task has started. I can’t lose my mind now. I’ve got to keep with it, to be careful. It won’t do to get caught now. It’ll ruin everything.

I tap my fingers on the edge of the table, calming my mind, lasering it in on Elizabeth. Recall the details. Think about it all. You need to perfect this. You need to master your craft. Do a good job.

Elizabeth. My mind trains itself on her, and I think back to the tale I’ve written, the ending to her story that began with my meticulous, godlike planning.

Once I’d learned of the dinner invitation, I knew my opportunity would arise. I’d overheard Elizabeth talking about the evening with some friends in the town centre, complaining about all the fuss her parents would make her go through when she’d rather just stay home and spend time with her fiancé. She made a plan to feign illness, and I knew my time had come.

The night of the dinner would be the perfect time to strike, I’d decided quickly. I knew how girls like her worked. I just had to be calm and collected. I had to be sure. I’d do some watching and waiting, just to ensure I was correct and that she didn’t back out of her plan. And then, once all was set, I had to make it fast. No luxuriating in the actual kill this time. The first would have to be efficient. This would not be a pleasure kill, not completely. I told myself I would not afford myself that bonus. It would be all about the craft, the tactic, the mastering of the art.

There would be time enough to feed my fancies and to bask in the excitement of it all.

Taking her life had been the easy part, much simpler than I’d once imagined. I am strong, and she was so weak. Females are all so, so delicate. It makes them beautiful, but so easy to kill. Moving her to another location to handle her body, to leave my mark – that had been more challenging. But I know all the alleys in town. I know the most inconspicuous routes. I know a lot about West Green that so many overlook.

And I’m also always up for a challenge.

I fold the newspaper article and tuck it into the wooden box underneath the unopened post. I close the box shut with a grin, wiping my hands on my stiff trousers. I’ve done it. And they have no clue it was me. The fools have no clue.

‘Deranged killer’. They think it’s the work of a ‘deranged killer’!

I laugh at the thought. They think they know. They think they have it all figured out. But they have no idea. They don’t know my master plan.

And I can’t wait to show it to them, one by beautiful one.

Chapter 2

West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

13 June 1959

‘Adeline Walker, you aren’t going, so I don’t know why you bothered taking all that time to get ready,’ my mother spits. I gawk at her as she twirls the pearl earrings in her lobes. I think about how her red lips and eyeshadow are way too much, even for a woman like her. Hand on her hip, she stands at the other side of our dining room table, her eyes lasering into me as if she can cause me to spontaneously combust.

I stare vehemently back. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mum, I’m nineteen. You can’t keep me hostage forever, especially if you’re so damn worried about me being a spinster.’

‘Adeline Walker, you will not speak to me like that in my house.’

‘Then maybe I’ll scurry on out of Dad’s house,’ I spew back, putting the emphasis on Dad. She hates that I’m a daddy’s girl. I think it makes her jealous that he gives me more attention than her.

‘Enough. Now look. I know you have these lovely plans, but I’m sorry. With no updates from the police on Elizabeth’s killer, it’s not safe.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Weren’t you the one who swore up and down that moving to West Green would be just lovely when you pulled me out of school three years ago to come to this beastly town?’

‘That’s enough, Adeline. I hope someday you realise what you have here. Two parents who love you, a father with a good job. Honestly. What more could you want?’

‘To go on my date with Charles and have a little fun.’

‘Fun is what got you into trouble in the last town, if you recall. I won’t have you ruining your reputation again. It’s been three years, Adeline. Three years since we had to move away. You were lucky we could run away from it all last time. I won’t have you ruining yourself now.’

I roll my eyes, anger flaring at the mention of what happened. I was young. I was a little reckless, yes. But I was a girl who followed her heart.

‘You act like I murdered someone,’ I spew.

‘It could’ve been worse. If we’d stayed, you’d have actually ended up pregnant at sixteen. And then what?’

‘We’re not talking about this,’ I argue. I hate when she brings up the past. I shudder at her words, thinking about all that she doesn’t know. All that’s happened since we moved to West Green. All that’s happened in the past few months.

I return my focus to the conversation at hand. ‘Well, you should be chuffed then, Mother, that I’m getting serious. I’m nineteen, and I’m in a serious, steady relationship. After all, isn’t that what you want? You did mention that West Green could provide me with a “suitable man”, didn’t you?’

Mother rolls her eyes, sighing. ‘A factory worker isn’t exactly what I had in mind.’

I sneer at her blatant disdain towards Charles Evans, who hails from Langley Green and not money. This infuriates my mother to no end. When she meant we could find me a “suitable man” here in West Green, I believe she was hoping we’d find one from a wealthy family who was naive about my somewhat lacklustre background. A man like Oliver, whom mother still thinks I have a chance of reconciling with. If only she knew the truth.

Instead, to her dismay, I’d met Charles Evans at the train station in Northgate. I suppose at first she thought he was a phase, a rebound after Oliver. But three months later, I think she knows better. I think she sees what I’ve known since that first night – Charles is the one I love. And she couldn’t be more peeved at the thought of her daughter marrying a working-class man with no social standing. If I’m being honest, this only makes Charles even more appealing to me.

‘All the more reason for me to go out tonight. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?’ I ask, fiddling with my nails.

‘You could end up dead. Aren’t you a little bit afraid? Elizabeth lived a few streets over. I’m quite alarmed. The killer’s still out there. He’s probably just waiting for his next victim. I won’t have my only daughter be one of his tallies.’ She crosses her arms in a defiant, dramatic gesture. Of course, she would make Elizabeth’s murder about us. It always has to be about us.

‘Better to be murdered than courting some factory boy, huh?’ I ask defiantly, awaiting the tumultuous explosion that is certain to come.

‘Don’t be dim. You barely even know this bloke. With a girl dead in town – murdered –you can’t be too careful.’

‘Mum, are you really suggesting that Charles had something to do with Elizabeth?’ I shake my head, incredulous. This is ridiculous, even by Nora Walker standards.

‘I’m just saying you barely know him.’ She tosses her hands up as if she’s truly innocent.

I roll my eyes. ‘So because you deem him too poor for our standards, you toss murder accusations around? You’re off your trolley.’

‘And you’re making some bloody awful choices,’ she stabs back, her words harsh and angry.

‘I don’t care what you say. I’m going. Charles will be with me. We’re just going for a quick stroll, after all. We won’t be gone long. Besides, with all the roaming patrols around, the killer would be a fool to strike again. And I’m no Elizabeth, anyway. The girl always was a bit of a muggins, if you ask me.’

‘Adeline, how dare you speak of the dead that way. Where are your manners?’ Mum uncrosses her arms, leaning on the chair nearby. I avert my eyes to the ground. I always go too far. I always take it way too far.

‘Sorry, Mum. You’re right,’ I admit, sighing, fiddling with my hands. ‘It’s awful what happened. She didn’t deserve that, no matter what.’ My words are sombre, my guilt real.

Not that I’d ever admit it to my mother, but I do feel a bit anxious about the whole thing. It’s not every day you hear about someone from your town being murdered and chopped up, her body dumped in some skip like a discarded sandwich. I shiver at the thought, imagining Elizabeth’s sweet face, her long brown hair, as she was hacked into pieces and shoved in a trunk. What did she feel in those last moments? When did she know it was all over? Did she suffer? I take a deep breath, disturbed by the thought of it all. In my opinion, she was too goody two-shoes for her own good. But she didn’t deserve to die. Not like that.

I think about what Mum said. She’s probably right. The psycho is probably still out there, lurking in a corner, waiting for someone else to add to his tally. Elizabeth had no enemies. None. Everyone thought of her as sweeter than sweet, and there was no one who would want revenge. Plus, only a true psychopath would do that to a body. Bite marks? That’s bloody terrifying.

For a moment, I think that maybe I should stay home. Maybe I should tell Charles I can’t make it out. Then again, I miss him. I want to spend time with him away from mother’s scowl and her scrutinising gaze. You can’t live your life in fear, I suppose. Besides, with Charles Evans, I know I’m safe. He’ll protect me.

‘Does this mean you’re staying home?’ Mother asks, the I-win look painting itself on her face. Her ruby red lips widen as she prepares for my confession of defeat.

I raise my gaze to meet hers. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I snap.

She groans. ‘Adeline Walker, honestly,’ she bellows, but I march to the front door to grab a light pullover from the hook.

‘Goodnight, Mum. Be sure to lock the door. Wouldn’t want you to go missing, would we?’ I tuck myself into the pullover, yank open the door, and offer her a little wave as she gapes at me.

And before Mum can chase after me, I dash out the door to wait for Charles. He is the escape from my house I desperately need.

***

‘Surprised your mother let you leave the house,’ Charles says a few minutes later when he finds me outside of a house just down the street, near the church. He slides to a stop on his bicycle, propping it against the wall after he dismounts.

I sit on the wall near the hedges, staring up at the sky, my feet kicking against the stones as I wait for him to come over to me. He helps me off the wall, wrapping his arms around me as he kisses me boldly on the lips. I giggle when he pulls away, happy to see him.

‘She’s probably got the whole town out looking for me by now,’ I say as I turn to look at him, his hand in mine as we walk on. His dark hair is slicked back and his steel-blue eyes shimmer in the sunlight.

‘Well, Addy, you can’t blame her, can you? It’s all the town’s been talking about since Elizabeth went missing. All the investigations, all the questions. Just has everyone on edge. And now with the body found and the bloody bastard on the loose, well, I understand why she’s worried, you know? You need to be careful.’

Charles wraps his arms around me, pulling me in for another kiss as we pause in the middle of the walkway. I like how his rough, manly hands wrap around my waist, how his lips feel on mine. I’m consumed by him, by us. He is nothing like Oliver Parsons, the mistake I dated before Charles. No, Charles is different, a working man, a strong man. A kind man. With him, I feel safe, even with a potential homicidal lunatic on the loose.

‘Usual route?’ he asks as we walk down the path, past the rows of houses and the few construction sites around. I shudder when we pass a skip, thinking about Elizabeth.

‘Absolutely,’ I reply, smiling as we walk under the blue sky towards our destination.

We stroll on, gallivanting towards the town centre, neighbours waving as they scatter about. Charles and I are a common sight these days, him calling on me whenever his relief from work at the factory allows it, to my mother’s true agitation.

Charles tells me about his workday as I listen, interested in the other side of his life I can’t begin to understand. Mum thinks it’s improper for a girl like me to work. After all, she reminds me, Dad’s job is good enough that neither of us need even dream of working. She thinks that’s fortunate. A part of me thinks that’s a shame. It would be interesting to get out of the house and to have somewhere to be.

When we reach the town centre, I glance around at the neighbours wandering around, caught up in their own activities. The shops are bustling with activity today. In our travels, though, we see several constables patrolling, reminding us that a lot has changed. I shove aside thoughts of Elizabeth once more as we take a seat on a bench outside of the post office, stopping to people watch and to catch up.

‘Addy, hello,’ a voice says, and I turn to see my best friend, Phyllis Barnes, skipping over. She waves, her mum by her side. Her mum offers a smile, but I notice she studies Charles with interest. Phyllis’ mother and mine are close friends, so I’m sure she’s heard quite a bit about how inappropriate of a match Charles is for me. I brush the thought aside.

‘What are you two doing?’ Phyllis asks, sliding over beside me as I budge up to make room. Charles nods at her politely.

‘Just escaping from the clutches of Mum,’ I reply honestly. Phyllis groans, knowing what my mum is really like. Phyllis knows a lot of things about me, things no one else does. I lean on her shoulder, happy to see her.

‘Lucky you. Wish I could find a bloke of my own. Charles, have any mates in the factory?’ she asks.

‘Got a few looking for someone to be sweet on. I’ll check with them. One commutes to work with me.’

‘You do know there are some jobs opening up in Manor Royal, don’t you?’ she asks. ‘Would be good if you’re thinking of settling down, you know?’ Phyllis winks at me, and I shake my head. She’s been obsessed with asking if Charles is going to propose. I assure her over and over we’re not at that stage yet, but secretly, I can’t help hoping, wondering where it will all go, if we’ll settle in Crawley. Although being close to my mother would be an annoyance at times, it would be enjoyable to perhaps see her discomfort at her precious daughter marrying a ‘commoner’ – although even with Dad’s advertising job, we’re far from the royalty she so believes. You’d think we’re descendants of the Queen herself.

‘So,’ I reply, trying to change the subject.

‘Terrible thing, that story about Elizabeth, huh? Such a sweet girl. Honestly. Who would do something so awful to her? I overheard my dad talking to Mum about it. Said the bite marks were deep and bloody and all over the girl. Even on her unmentionables. Disgraceful, isn’t it? Can you imagine? And to chop her up and put her in the skip like rubbish. I don’t even understand. It all just makes me ill,’ Phyllis says.

My stomach churns at the thought. Phyllis’ dad is one of the constables, so she gets all sorts of inside information. Today’s, though, sends a shiver through me. I find my eyes darting around, as if at any moment, the killer could jump out and strangle me. Suddenly, the town that once felt dull feels lethal.

‘They have any leads? Any motives?’ I prod, squeezing Charles’ hand for comfort. He squeezes it back, a gesture I’ve come to love in our few months together.

Phyllis shakes her head. ‘That’s the truly scary part. They’ve got nothing. Nothing at all. Whoever did it has covered his tracks well. I don’t know if anyone has any idea. But golly, isn’t it just terrifying? The killer out on the loose? Do you think he’ll strike again?’

I touch Phyllis’ hand, mostly to comfort myself. ‘I’m sure it will be okay. There’s no reason to believe it will happen again. Who knows, maybe Elizabeth was mixing in the wrong crowd, you know?’

Phyllis raises an eyebrow. ‘You know you don’t believe that.’

I sigh, admitting she’s right. There’s no one in the world let alone West Green who could believe that saintly girl – too saintly for my liking, sometimes – would have any enemies.

After some small talk about cheerier topics, Phyllis parts ways with us, heading off to catch up to her mother near the front of the market. Charles and I stay put, me leaning on his shoulder, taking in the sights of the town beside him. As always, I search for that disgusting face. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve encountered Oliver’s rage, mercifully, and he’s never been bold enough to harass me in public. For that, at least, I can be thankful. Still, it’s always in the back of my mind that someday, that all might change. It wouldn’t do at all to have him around Charles. It doesn’t do to have him lurking about me, either.

Eventually, we rise from the bench, and I stretch in the rays of the sun. Charles and I pass the hour hand in hand, walking and talking, kissing and revelling in each other. When he drops me off later, tipping his hat to Mum, she simply glares, not even extending a dinner invitation as would be proper. No matter. Charles kisses me on the cheek, promises to call on me again as soon as he can, and heads to the church to retrieve his bicycle and ride home.

Dad returns home well after dark, as usual, and Mum expresses her fears to him about my gallivanting about with a murderer on the loose. As always, Dad manages to calm Mum, winking at me over her head as he hugs her and soothes her. At least one of my parents is somewhat likeable.

Later, when I head to bed, sitting at my desk by the window to peer out onto our street, my mind wanders to what Phyllis told me about the murder. Bite marks in all sorts of places – disturbing. Haunting. Who would do such a thing? To think it happened here, in West Green, this laid-back, lacklustre town.

I lean against the window, staring out into the drizzly night when suddenly, I clutch my chest. Squinting, I lean closer to the murky glass, the hazy rain and darkness making it difficult to see, even with the streetlight. Still, as my heart beats wildly and I peer into the darkness, I’m certain that I’m not mistaken.

Across the street, a shadowy figure stands on the walkway, studying the McConnel house. It’s too dark to make out who it is or what the person is doing, but even from here I’m certain it’s a male figure due to the bulk of his stature. A lump forms in my throat as the figure turns, as if peering up at me. I shudder, trying to make out the face but unable to as suddenly, the person turns and walks casually away.