The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  ‘Who are they believing?’ I question, invested in the outcome for so many reasons.

  ‘Who do you think?’ Dorothy asks, looking at me pointedly. I have my answer. ‘I’ve also heard that Jones is already furious, of course, for the woman trying to get him in trouble. All I have to say is that I’d hate to be that woman tonight when Jones is back on the floor.’

  I shudder at the thought, picturing his frothing, raging face in mine. His actions just solidify what we’ve thought all along – we can’t turn to Jones. We can’t find help here because it will just end in more harm than good.

  I also selfishly breathe a sigh of relief, however, knowing Jones will have a different target now. Someone else on the floor got him in trouble. Perhaps he’ll be over his gripe with me.

  But after I’ve said goodnight to Dorothy that evening and wander back to my room, I still don’t feel that my torturer is done with me yet. They’ll never let me rest. Never.

  Chapter 21

  I peel back the covers on the bed. How long has it been since they’ve washed the sheets? Do they ever? There’s something off-putting about how they smell. Then again, perhaps the smell is just me. I’m about due for a wash. I run a hand through my hair as if to prove my point, the greasy locks sticking to my fingernails. I’ll have to talk to the only kind, brown-eyed nurse, see if she could fit in some hair washing tomorrow. What’s her name? Did I write it down? I can’t remember. I tug on my hair, twisting it around my fingers as my mind winds tightly around the question. I yank on the strands, willing myself to remember.

  I kick off my slippers, my footwear of choice these days. I’m tired, so tired. Everything that’s happened has me racked with exhaustion. A part of me is terrified to go to bed because even though I’ve been feeling calmer, I know that I may just wake up to something dreadful. But I’m so tired, I’m not even certain if I care right now.

  I pluck back the sheet. Funny. I don’t remember it being tucked that way before. It doesn’t matter. I strip the thin fabric back a bit more and carefully climb in, sinking down into the too firm mattress as I fluff the pillow.

  But before I can get comfortable, my leg brushes against something in the sheets. It’s small and cold, a weird lump of an item. Bizarre. I don’t remember leaving anything in there. A chill sweeps through me. I yank my foot away from the unidentified object as my imagination runs wild. A bat. Maybe it’s a bat. I’ve read horrifying stories before of bats getting under mattresses. Oh dear. Did it scratch me? Will I have to get vaccines?

  I get back out of bed, my bones and joints protesting. I unravel the sheets the whole way back, ready for the worst. And when I see it, I gasp, backing up until I’m against the window sill, panic rendering me speechless. Inside I shriek, the dread floating through my body, as I realise without a doubt what I’ve been fearing all along. Things are much worse than I could imagine.

  I know what must be done. I lean in to study the two mice, bloody and lifeless in my bed. Their bodies are missing patches of fur, their skin sickly blue and unnatural. Is this happening? I clutch my head, shaking it. My mind must be making things up. Stop it, stop it, stop it, I scold myself as my fingers furl into fists.

  One, two, three. One, two, three. My fists constrict tighter and tighter until my bones ache. My heart races wildly, and I fear I will collapse onto the floor and be done with it all.

  But instead, I find the strength to open my eyes. I reach back and pull on the lamp cord so I can get a better look. I crumple against the bedside table once I do, certain now that I’m not crazy.

  The mice have bite marks chewed into their flesh; human bite marks.

  I’m not crazy. This is real. I remind myself over and over, an eerie chant in the lonely room.

  This is real.

  This is real.

  This. Is. Real.

  With shaking hands, I snatch the creatures from my bed, thinking about all they symbolise. I sink into the chair by the window, my legs too weary to hold me upright. I turn off the light, and stare into the blackness, stroking the poor, abused animals. My head aches under the pressure, as if it will pop. In some ways, I wish it would.

  However, as I caress the dead mice and their gnarled, clammy flesh, I know that I can’t escape this. I’m in too deep now, and there’s so much at risk. I stroke them over and over, squeezing my eyes shut as I ask the universe, Charles, and myself the hardest question of all: Why?

  But the only answer that reverberates through the room, through the sky, through me?

  It’s a dark world. A dark world, indeed.

  ***

  Someone’s sticky, cold fingers are touching my hand. I startle awake, and the crusty, milky eyes of Barbara are centimetres away from my face. I can taste her sour breath, she’s so close.

  ‘Soft,’ she whispers, stroking my hand. I look down, realising I’m holding a mouse’s dead body in each of my hands, my arms resting on the chair. I must’ve fallen asleep here.

  She cackles, and before I can pull back, she’s plucked one of the mice from my right hand, rubbing her palms on it like she’s going to start a fire.

  ‘Barbara,’ I whisper in a hushed voice. I shake my head, wondering why she’s here. Her hair is soaking wet, but her face is still crusty.

  I reach for the mouse’s body, but she cackles again, stepping backwards as she does the unthinkable.

  She puts the mouse’s floppy body in her mouth, her teeth sinking into the fur. I gasp, shocked and horrified.

  ‘Barbara, stop,’ I demand, but she laughs louder, her teeth gnawing on the mouse as they tear it apart, bit by bit, right in front of me. Her hands are ready to catch any morsels that fall.

  Terror seizes me, and I stay put, watching as Barbara gnaws on the corpse.

  ‘Red rain, red rain,’ she sings, her mouth full and muffling the words. She turns and leaves the room, her midnight snack still between her teeth.

  I sit, cradling the remaining body, wondering how everything could go so terribly, terribly wrong.

  Chapter 22

  I claim my usual seat at breakfast the next day, my nerves a wreck and my mind exhausted. I find it strange that Dorothy isn’t in her typical chair – she almost always beats me to meal times. A few moments later, though, I hear the familiar screeching of her walking frame. Pale-faced and out of breath, she plops herself into the chair beside me and leans in.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she whispers, her breath still coming out in huffs. ‘I have something important to tell you.’

  ‘Okay,’ I respond, staring at Dorothy. She doesn’t look at me, though, her eyes darting around as if she’s afraid of who might be here. Her hands tremble slightly as she reaches for her glass of water.

  ‘Dorothy, you’re scaring me,’ I whisper. She leans in close, staring at me and grabbing my hand.

  ‘It’s serious, Adeline. Really serious.’

  ‘So just tell me,’ I order.

  She shakes her head as she looks about again, her gaze dancing over the room. ‘There are too many prying ears. I can’t let him know what I know. It’s too dangerous for us all if he knows,’ she murmurs in a hushed voice.

  My heart leaps at her terror. I can’t imagine what she could possibly need to tell me.

  ‘Who? Who are you talking about?’ I ask, my voice shaky.

  Dorothy just shakes her head, her gaze darting about the room.

  ‘I’ve discovered some things that might just tell us what’s going on. I’ve uncovered some pieces that I think are vital to solving this whole situation.’

  ‘Please, just tell me,’ I say, my heart unable to take it any longer.

  She is adamant, though, her lips sealed and her head shaking. ‘As I said, it’s too dangerous. We’ll talk later. Meet me in the reading room around 7.00 p.m. tonight. It’s private there, and the night nurses will be on duty. There won’t be so many nosy ears listening in. Until then, we need to act normal. Act natural. It’s important that no one suspects a thing, Adeline.’

  �
��7.00. I’ll be there,’ I reply, repeating in my head. But how will I wait that long? How will I be able to just pass the time knowing that Dorothy has information that could change everything? I tap my fingers on the tablecloth. I need to write it down. 7.00 p.m. I chant it over and over.

  ‘So, dear, tell me, did you watch another episode of Cranford this afternoon?’ Dorothy asks loudly, her cheer clearly feigned. I paint on a crooked smile and play along, my eyes dancing around the room periodically, trying to figure out what she could possibly have to tell me – and what could be so dangerous that we must take part in this elaborate dance once more. When we say goodbye after eating, Dorothy leans in again. ‘Be careful, Adeline. Be very careful. I don’t think anyone here is what they seem.’

  Before I can question her, though, she is off, her screeching walking frame leading her away, and abandoning me with my own horrendous, whirling thoughts.

  I finish my breakfast, chanting 7.00 p.m. in my mind over and over and over again. I need to remember. Please remember. Mind, don’t fail me, please.

  A few minutes later, I slowly plod down the corridor, running my hands along the wall. I pass the rooms that are so familiar now, trudging forward until my fingers find the familiar numbers. 316. I live in 316.

  7.16. She said 7.16, didn’t she? Is that when we’re meeting? Yes. Yes, it’s 7.16. 7.16.

  I head to the noticeboard and jot down a note for myself so it’s prominently displayed. My head aches today. I need to remember. 7.16 p.m.. Reading room. Knitting lady. Dorothy. Big secret.

  My fingers massage my head. I hate it when my mind struggles. I hate it. Anger surges as I stab at the note, carving ‘X’s as I will myself to remember. Please, please, remember.

  ***

  7.27 p.m.

  I tap my foot, waiting for the lift desperately. I’ve never been so thankful to see the metal doors screech open or to climb inside the box of death.

  Dorothy didn’t come to lunch or dinner. It was alarming, my heart sputtering at her absence. A staff member assured me she was just feeling ill and insisted on having meals in her room. Was she ill this morning? Did she tell me she was ill? I think maybe she did say she was ill. I don’t know. Or maybe it was something we ate for breakfast that made her ill. What did we eat? I can’t remember that, either. It’s a bad memory day.

  I wring my fingers together, squeezing my hands. I’d thought about going to eat with Dorothy, to check up, but I was afraid to draw attention. I’d sat at the table in silence, a few of the other women Dorothy knows at our table mumbling about incomprehensible topics. I slurped down a few spoonfuls of soup, my eyes constantly darting about, watching for danger.

  After dinner, I’d planned on returning to my room and waiting, watching the minutes tick by until 7.16, until I could find out the harrowing truth Dorothy had to tell me. I studied the note over and over, making sure I didn’t miss the time. The secret. There was a secret. What was the secret?

  I was getting myself ready for the long trek down the corridor when the unthinkable had happened. A nurse came to claim me at 7.05.

  ‘Mrs Evans, we have an appointment for you downstairs. The doctor was supposed to see you earlier, but he got held up. Come on. He just needs to check a few things.’

  I looked up at her, unabashedly angry. ‘No, I can’t.’

  The nurse sighed, exhaustion painted on her face. ‘There’s no choice in the matter. The sooner you cooperate, the better.’

  I debated my options, ultimately deciding that heading downstairs willingly would be the fastest way to get finished and to get to Dorothy. I’d obliged, my palms sweating the entire time. I can’t be late. I need to know what Dorothy discovered. The how, the why, the when – it’s all driving me bonkers.

  When the doors open and the nurse ushers me into the lift after my appointment, I realise I’m twisting my fingers. No use drawing unwanted attention.

  We get to Floor Three after a long time, the lift’s shaking and rattling still unsettling, but I hardly notice thanks to my bigger concerns. The doors barely peel back when I’m rushing out of them.

  ‘Can you find your room?’ the nurse asks, rubbing her eyes. Her shift must be about finished.

  ‘No, I think I’ll go read for a bit,’ I murmur, heading towards the darkened reading room. The nurse glances at me and then shakes her head as if just remembering the reading room is even there. It’s so infrequently used that it’s essentially the forgotten locale of the floor.

  ‘Right. Have a good night then,’ she mumbles, heading in the opposite direction to check on patients on my side of the corridor. The nurse’s station sits empty as it so frequently does up here. A few televisions play in the background, but overall, the floor is eerily silent tonight.

  I shuffle towards the reading room, hoping Dorothy waited. Of course she would wait. She has to tell me. I need to know what she knows.

  When I get to the room, the light is out. I carefully creep forward, trying to peer into the blackness to see if Dorothy is in the room.

  ‘Dorothy?’ I whisper, wondering if she’s in the dark for a reason. What is she hiding from? What could be so terrible that she must lurk about? There is no answer. I repeat her name, but silence prevails. I feel my way over to the table with the lamp and fumble with the cord. When the room is illuminated, I turn towards the back area, looking about for Dorothy.

  And that’s when the floor is no longer silent, when a racking scream rattles through the room, echoing down the corridors. It’s a scream that seems to have no beginning or end, the wail a wavering siren that announces that all is not well.

  The scream comes from my lips, my heart racing as I take in the sight of Dorothy’s bluish body crumpled on the ground, her neck at an unsettling angle.

  I fall to the ground, clutching myself as a single nurse dashes into the doorway, her own yells drowning out mine. My scream fades to a whimper, then tears, and finally, a solemn silence for all that has truly been lost.

  When Will the Slaughtering End? West Green Residents Wonder and Wait as Another Woman’s Body Is Found

  West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

  20 July 1959

  Residents of West Green are again on high alert after a fourth woman’s body was discovered early Thursday morning behind a gardening shed at a residence on Meadlowlands Road, West Green. The body has been identified as that of Caroline Young, 20, who was reported missing 13 July 1959 after walking to the market for her family. She went missing in the early morning hours, but no eyewitnesses have come forward.

  The body, discovered by Patrick Moore of 52 Meadlowlands Road, was uncovered the morning of 19 July 1959. It was intact but showed signs of trauma to the head as well as numerous abrasive marks. Bite marks were also uncovered on various parts of the victim, consistent with the other bodies discovered in the past weeks.

  Caroline Young had recently called off a courtship with Paul Josephs of Northgate, who is currently being questioned as a suspect in the case. However, investigators are still warning the residents of West Green to remain on high alert, keep doors locked, and be wary of any suspicious persons.

  With what appears to be a mass killer on the loose, the neighbourhood of West Green is in a frenzy. Other suspects have been cleared thanks to dental records or alibis. According to inside sources, investigators are no closer to finding the killer than they were after the first death.

  ‘We need answers,’ Miss Mary Brown, a neighbour of the Youngs, told reporters. ‘It’s absurd that our neighbours, our friends, our daughters are being snatched and the police have no leads. We’re all terrified. Whoever is doing this needs to be caught.’

  ‘There’s a killer among us,’ Reverend Hugh Morris stated. ‘We must pray for swift justice for the killer, but we also know he will be at God’s mercy.’

  Caroline’s death follows that of three other West Green women: Elizabeth McKinley found in the Crawley Hospital skip; Helen Deeley discovered in Ifield Pond; and Doreen Thompson, found behind th
e pub in Langley Green. All four women were residents of West Green, leading detectives to question a motive.

  The West Sussex Constabulary wishes to remind anyone with information on any of the murders to come forward.

  ‘Fucking moron, get it in check,’ I murmur as I study myself in the mirror, eyeing the scratches on my cheek. I almost blew it this time. I’d been too impatient.

  I was so focused on getting to the last one that I almost fucked up. Big time.

  It had been early morning. I usually don’t do my watching, my heavy watching, until night. Sure, there are the daily encounters with them. The inconspicuous, routine encounters that are to be expected. I glean so much information from that. You can learn a lot if you just pay attention. I’d always paid attention, even when teacher was yelling.

  Pencil between my teeth, I’d bite down on the wood, quieting my chattering teeth as the kids around me laughed. I learned to bite harder, to silence them. Why did they chatter? Teacher called it nervous energy. I didn’t want to be nervous. So I bit harder and harder and harder.

  I liked the feel of it between my teeth.

  Later, when school got more challenging because they teased me, I bit other things to keep from exploding. Biting let me keep control. It helped. I bit lots of things.

  Angry boy. Weird boy. Laugh at the boy.

  But who is laughing now?

  They’ll be laughing again if I don’t get this fucking under control. Bloody hell, after everything, I’m going to blow the game.

  But I had been in a hurry. It’s all her fault. I’d gotten so excited that night at the church that I’d almost fucked up. That moment when she’d dropped the necklace – well, it had thrown it all off. I’d almost blown the whole thing because suddenly, standing there on her porch, I was starving for her. I need that zany, unruly Walker girl’s blood on my hands. I need to conquer her.