The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  I squint at the cover, peering through the darkness. Crime and Punishment. Was that the book I was reading? Really? I never liked that book much. Too dark. And even though Raskolnikov is punished in the end, there’s still such hope for an evil man. There’s a sense of redemption. It never seemed fair.

  I shake my head to loosen the digressions, picking up the thick book to set it on the shelf. Something flutters to the ground, and I stir, glancing down to see a note cascade to the floor. I tremble, hand flying to my mouth. Part of me wants to ignore it, to walk by, to tell myself it’s nothing. But I am, at times, a glutton for punishment, so I stoop down, slowly, slowly. My bones crack, my back protesting the movement. I snatch the paper from the ground. It’s a page of Crime and Punishment, a line circled.

  ‘A hundred suspicions don't make a proof.’

  At the bottom, in red, there are scrawling letters.

  I’m waiting for the right moment, Addy.

  My hands tremble as a gasp escapes my lips. Oliver? Was this Oliver? When did he come in here, and what does he mean by it? I rush to the nurse’s desk, but there is no one there. I glance at the clock. It’s late, much later than I thought. The Jones man is on duty tonight – I saw him come in during dinner. How did he miss me for bed check? And how did he not see someone pop in here?

  Unless —

  No, it can’t be. There’s no way. Sure, Jones is a bit smarmy and edgy. But why would he have it in for me? What did I do to him? It makes no sense. It must be Oliver.

  I look around, a decision to be made. There’s no nurse here, no one to help. But I can handle this. I can’t keep doing this frenzied dance of questioning and fear. I fold the note and put it in my pocket, proof to keep safe. I don’t want someone thinking I’ve lost my mind. I don’t want him to explain it away.

  I press forward, unsure of what I’m about to do but also knowing I don’t have much choice. I need to settle this. I need to take care of it. Because it’s the agony, the waiting, that’s making it worse. And if I don’t solve this soon, I may just lose my mind for real.

  Investigators Question New Suspect in West Green Killer Case

  West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

  10 July 1959

  Crawley residents are hoping to be sleeping soundly soon as investigators narrow in on a new suspect in the West Green Killer case.

  On 9 July, sources revealed that a new prime suspect was brought in for questioning in the murders of the three West Green women: Elizabeth McKinley, Helen Deeley and Doreen Thompson.

  The latest suspect, Bruce Taylor, 24, is from London but has been known to frequent the Northgate station as he works in Manor Royal. Investigators revealed that Doreen Thompson and the suspect had met three nights before her disappearance in Langley Green. Witnesses spotted the two near Langley Green Pub.

  Bruce Taylor’s connection to the other two victims has yet to be established, but sources note that Mr Taylor has been described as ‘dodgy’ and ‘of an ill-manner’ by previous acquaintances and neighbours. Investigators are in the process of obtaining dental records to compare to the bite marks on the three women’s bodies.

  ‘I hope we nabbed the vile murderer,’ Mrs Ralph Williams, one of Doreen’s previous teachers, told reporters. ‘Let’s all pray they’ve finally got him.’

  Detectives are not commenting on the suspect’s interrogation or on the details of the investigation, but they have assured the public that they are getting closer to identifying the killer.

  ‘We’ll catch him, and soon. He can’t outsmart us for long,’ Chief Constable Warren commented in an interview.

  Still, sceptical residents in Crawley fear that the case will remain open for a while.

  Updates on the questioning and possible arrest of Mr Bruce Taylor will be divulged as soon as the information becomes available.

  They’re getting bloody desperate, if the pathetic reporters are to be believed.

  A man from London who met with Doreen once? That’s their best lead right now? The poor bastard was being dragged in for questioning because he met with her once? And they are wasting time on dental records?

  It’s outrageous, hysterical even – or it would be if the botch-job they’re doing wasn’t so blasted sad.

  My fingers lightly trace over the ink on the page. When I picked up a newspaper on my way home from work today, I had no idea that I would get lucky again. I haven’t been in the paper for a few days. I wasn’t expecting an article.

  It always brightens my spirits, keeps me motivated to keep the plan running smoothly.

  I passed her again today. Adeline. She barely noticed me, but oh, I saw her. I always see her. Even when she doesn’t know I’m seeing her. I should be focused on the next one. But I can’t help it. I can’t help putting in a bit extra time to observe her. She’s just so beautiful, so striking. The way she walks like she doesn’t belong here. I guess in many ways, she doesn’t.

  She came to West Green because of her reputation in another town, if rumours are to be believed. Of course, I’ve picked up enough bits and pieces from her conversations to know it’s true. She was a bad girl in some ways, a bit immoral.

  I’ve always been drawn to those kind. Beautiful is one thing, but beautiful and wild, that’s something attractive on a whole new level. It’s a challenge to tame those kind, to control them. Women are weak by nature, but at least the wild ones put up some kind of fight.

  I wonder what it will be like, to feel her flesh between my teeth. To sink my teeth into her skin, to feel them piercing as I tear into the cold flesh. To have my lips draped over her shoulder, her back, her supple breasts. To feel that rush rumble deep within and release as I put that final mark of approval on her.

  My teeth mark the paper, but I savour it for a bit this time. I let myself chew and chew on the article, the words running through my head.

  They think it was Bruce. Like some labourer from London could handle this kind of masterful work. Like he could think this up and execute the plans so perfectly.

  And the detective is just so bloody dim. He’ll never catch me. Never. I’m always two steps ahead. I’m so careful. I never leave behind anything they can use.

  I walk the fifteen steps to my bedroom and open the box on the table. I add the article to the stack. I think about pulling out the other letters, the other articles. I want to take a jog down memory lane. But not yet. I can’t celebrate until it’s all done. I need to stay focused. My eyes can’t leave the target. I shut the box delicately, carefully. Wouldn’t do for it to crack.

  I wander to the window and stare out into the rainy day. A magpie lands in the hedge out front. Poor thing. The rain is pelting onto its back. It looks so lonely. I should remember to get some food for it on the way home from work. Wouldn’t want the little thing to go hungry. My teeth chomp over and over and over, nothing between them as they sometimes do.

  I wonder what the bird would taste like between my teeth, what the feathers would feel like poking into my lips as its blood oozed down, down, down my chin. A chill causes my shoulders to shudder.

  I know what it would feel like.

  Creepy boy. Bad boy. Don’t chew on that, boy.

  Too late, Mama. Way too late.

  Chapter 17

  Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home

  2019

  I count to three, wringing my hands. The moisture on my palms annoys me as my mind races, thinking of the note from the book.

  I’m waiting for the right moment, Addy.

  The words frantically pound in my skull, assuring me that I know what I need to do – I need to confront him. This can’t go on. I need to get it under control if I’m to make any semblance of a normal life for myself here. But deep down, I’m terrified. Who knows what Oliver Parsons is capable of? It’s a silly question, though. I know. I know exactly what kind of man he is. Age and time can’t erase dreadful scars on the soul, not the kind Oliver once housed. They don’t just fade away.

  I carefully trudge down t
he corridor, passing a sleeping woman in a wheelchair who is parked in the middle of the floor. She snores, her tongue dangling from her mouth. No one notices her, forgotten in the midst of Floor Three like a stale sweet you find at the bottom of an unused bag. No one cares that she’s here, lost and alone. There is no one here to care. I push past her.

  As soon as I’m beyond her, however, someone emerges from Room 311. I startle as Babbling Barbara chuckles, her hands flailing wildly. She’s wearing a pale blue nightgown that is torn and wet. There are stains on her chest, a faded red splotch that catches the eye.

  ‘Red rain. Have you seen the red rain?’ Her voice is higher-pitched than normal, her smile wide. My heart beats wildly as she gets closer and closer. I back up until I’m against the wall, the wooden trim running down the wall carving into the skin on my back. Barbara’s face moves closer to mine, her eyes crusty and milky as always. But today, there’s one difference.

  Splatted on her left cheek, right in the centre, is a splash of red.

  ‘I’m going to market. Here I go. Off I go. Be careful. I need to get it.’ Her voice almost trills at the end, a screeching note that threatens to shatter my eardrums. Before I can reply, she’s parading down the corridor, her dripping wet nightgown clinging to her as she stumbles along. I rub the back of my neck, reminding myself that I need to stay focused. It wouldn’t do to lose track of what I’m doing now.

  I continue on, stopping at 313. I lean on the threshold to his room, steadying myself as I prepare to face the man who may or may not still harbour a long-simmering vendetta against me. I plod into the room, taking inventory. Oliver’s roommate is fast asleep. He snores loudly as he slaps his lips. Oliver, on the other hand, sits awake in the chair by his window and stares out into the street.

  ‘What is this?’ I ask, holding up the scrunched note, carefully plucking it from the pocket of my pullover. I keep my distance. I’m close enough to the doorway to yell for help if I need it. But even if I yell, will anyone come? Jones is clearly occupied, probably on Floor Two to visit the other night nurse. There have been quite a few rumours that they have been finding the supply wardrobe on the second floor extremely – engaging. I brush the distasteful thought aside.

  ‘Addy? What brings you here?’ Oliver asks, not moving, tapping his fingers on the chair. His stoicism frightens me. I stare, resolving not to break eye contact.

  ‘This must stop, Oliver. I know what you’re doing, and you need to stop. It’s all done now. It’s been so long. I’m sorry for how things turned out, but I’m also not. I made my choice, and I had my reasons. You need to let it go and move on. Please let it go,’ I rattle off, defiant but also imploring. I want nothing more than for this nightmare to cease. I don’t want to pay for the sins of my youth in my final days. I can’t.

  He rises from his chair, and my heart pounds. I take a step back, and he stops, hands out.

  ‘Really? I should just let it go? I should just let go what you did? How you ruined me? You didn’t deserve me. And now, I guess it might just finally be your time to pay.’ He bites into the last word, spitting it at me with a vehemence that causes my blood to run cold. He doesn’t deny the note, and he doesn’t hide his craving for retribution, either.

  I tremble. ‘It was so long ago, Oliver. I can’t deal with this. These notes, these threats, they’ve got to stop. Now.’ I wave the note in the air, my hand shaking.

  Oliver raises an eyebrow, seemingly confused. ‘Really, Addy? You can’t deal with this? Well, I guess you better get used to it. We all must pay our debts eventually.’

  I study him, trying to ascertain how dangerous he really is and how bad the situation is. Slumped over, the string of his joggers hanging undone, he studies me, his jaw slightly softening now. To look at him now, he seems nothing like the Oliver Parsons I kissed behind the church so many decades ago. Or maybe he’s not. Maybe, in truth, I was naive and foolish to ever believe that Oliver was anything but the manipulative, cunning monster standing right in front of me. As I stare at him, the image of the teenage boy fades – in its place falls a memory of him, in my room, my screaming pleas ringing in the air between us. The icy terror resurfaces in my veins as if we’re nineteen again, and I’m afraid he’s going to kill me.

  Looking at the glint in those steely grey eyes, I wonder for a long moment if perhaps he’s been waiting for his chance to get his revenge, to set things the way he always thought they should be. Time may have slowed him down, but it hasn’t settled the mad need for power or the overarching thirst for blood. I can see that now, can feel it surging in the foreboding note, in his stance, in everything he does.

  Oliver hasn’t let go of what he deems as a wrong. He hasn’t let go of the fact I stopped belonging to him. Perhaps he can’t let go of the fact that I made a choice all those years ago.

  He steps towards me now, and I hastily shove the note in my pocket and inch back as I return to the present moment. That nineteen-year-old girl is long gone, but the real threat has never died, I realise. It’s why I stayed away all those years. It’s why I should’ve never come back.

  ‘Not another step,’ I order, pointing a finger. His roommate stirs, groaning as he turns over.

  Oliver takes the step, and I shout louder. ‘Take another step, and I scream. I’ll shriek. I’ll call 999 if I have to. But you stay the hell away from me, you hear? You hear?’ I’m trembling visibly now despite my resolve to be strong. The fingers of my free hand grab onto my hair, clutching so tight I think my bones might break. I wobble my way back, back, Oliver still staring at me. I don’t turn around, walking backwards until I’m out of the room, my hands feeling behind me. They touch the wall at the end of the corridor.

  Oliver peers out, and I realise I’m cornered. The staircase is to my right, but I don’t have the code. I don’t have the code. I can’t make it out of here. I’m at Oliver’s mercy once more.

  Tears fall. ‘I want to know the code,’ I plead with no one in particular, my fingers still wound tightly in my stringy hair.

  Oliver looks at me, then turns and heads to the nurse’s station. No. I can’t have Jones come and find me like this. I can’t have them thinking I’m crazy. I don’t want more meds. I need to stay sharp. I need to be ready, to be aware for the next time Oliver strikes. It must be him. Mustn’t it? I shake, clutching my head. It just must be him.

  I take a breath and count the familiar numbers – one, two, three. I need to stay strong. I can hear Charles telling me to pull it together. I wipe at my tears, glance at the locked staircase once more, and then make for my room, ready to tuck myself into bed. If Oliver is going to play this game, I need to be smarter. Stronger. I can’t let him win. I won’t let him win.

  ***

  Sleep takes a while that night as I clutch the note in my hands. At one point, I startle at the sound of a banging noise in the stairwell again. I think about getting up to investigate, but there’s no use. Whoever is in there, well, I can’t help them. I can’t escape. I’m trapped here, Floor Three holding me hostage with villains from the past and present.

  ***

  I feel eyes watching me at breakfast the next day. So many sets of eyes, especially from the staff. Dorothy is at an appointment, so I sit silently, the Philip Lady chanting some prayer beside me as she shakily holds her orange juice. Oliver is nowhere to be found, thankfully. Still, eyes follow my every move, and one of the staff members checks on me to see if I’m okay twice during the morning meal. I tell myself it’s fine, nothing’s going on. I tell the staff I’m fine. But I know better. There’s something off.

  When I get back to my room to do some reading – Claire dropped off some magazines for me, or at least I assume it was her. I don’t remember her leaving them here. Who else would it be, though? I lean against the headboard, wondering why everyone seemed to be acting so different this morning. So jumpy. What’s happening? Has something happened? Did they pinpoint everything to Oliver? Do they know what he’s been doing? Perhaps it’s all settled. Per
haps I can breathe easier now.

  A few moments later, a nurse wanders in.

  ‘Mrs Evans? May I talk with you a minute?’ she asks, but her question is more of a warning than an actual opportunity for me to decline.

  I gesture towards the chair in the corner. It’s not like I can say no, after all, even though I’m not up for company.

  ‘Tea?’ she asks. I shake my head. What is it about these nurses? They think their weak tea with the murky Smith Creek water will soften any blow. I close the magazine I’ve been mindlessly flipping through, looking up at her.

  ‘We had some reports this morning that something troubling happened with you last night. Is there anything you want to tell us?’

  I blink, looking into the eyes of the woman who is pretending to be a friend. But, is she a foe? Is she to be trusted? I decide to stay quiet, staring at her and waiting for her to go on. Her blue eyes peruse me for a long moment, as if she’s about to draw a caricature of my sagging skin, my wispy hair. I watch her gaze travel over my expression, as if some mysterious answer to her question will be held there.

  ‘Look, Mrs Evans. We all know that adjusting to Smith Creek Manor can be difficult for some. Typically, it can present challenges, especially for those residents who have relatively severe health issues. If there’s anything that’s making things harder or if there’s anything you need, you know you can talk to us, right?’

  I keep blinking, looking beyond her now at the sky outside. How I’d love to be there, anywhere but here. I don’t respond, letting the silence permeate the room for a long moment. Finally, the nurse clears her throat and continues her monologue.

  ‘Mrs Evans, Oliver Parsons claims that last night you came into his room accusing him of some awful things. He also said you had a pretty severe breakdown at the end of the corridor. Is that true? Did something upset you?’

  I shake my head, disbelief rattling me. How manipulative. How cunning. How perfectly Oliver Parsons of him.

  I glare at the nurse now, my hands balled into loose fists in my lap. ‘Yes, something did upset me. That man has been harassing me for days. Leaving me threatening notes. All sorts of things.’ My words are sharp and biting, an assault to the accusations she’s sailed at me. I will not have her thinking I’m bonkers. I won’t let Oliver convince the staff that I’m mad. Still, the way she looks at me, I know it’s too late. Her appraisal of me is written on her face, highlighted by her dismissive look towards my words. She doesn’t take me seriously.