‘Here, love. Anything else you need?’ she asks. I shake my head, my jittery hand grasping the cards.
She leaves after a moment, reminding me to call for help if I need anything. The Philip Woman must be out because the room is silent, no noise except my own breathing and a television game show blaring down the hallway. When I’m alone, I painstakingly take on the task of propping myself up in bed. I sweat and grunt, struggling to wiggle up as my head protests. I persevere through the agony, though. I need to sit up. I feel so vulnerable lying flat. Once I’ve caught my breath from the exercise, I glance to the left. I can see out the window, even from here. And even from here, I am aware of the shattering truth.
He’s watching me. Even now, he’s observing my every move. I squeeze my eyes shut as if by succumbing to the blackness behind my eyes, I can make this nightmare go away. What am I going to do? What does it all mean? So many confusing, whirling connections. So many possibilities. And so many threats. I will my eyes back open and look down at the cards, opening the first that was clearly made by hand.
Be careful of the red rain.
There are black scribbles all over the front of the card, whirling in an ominous display. The handwriting is clearly someone else’s handiwork. I shake my head. Whoever gave Barbara crayons and thought it a good idea was clearly madder than her. I tuck it underneath, looking at the next card. This one is also handmade. There’s a crooked cross on the front. I flip open the card.
Worship the LORD your God, and his blessing will be on your food and water. I will take away sickness from among you … Exodus 23:25
I take a deep breath. See? All is fine. All is okay now.
My finger traces the outline of the daisy on the last card. I’ve saved it for last, the white petals taking me back to a different time. I open the card. My heart jolts as I expect something horrific, something downright shocking. Inside, though, there’s just a simple message:
– I’ve missed you. P
I let my fingers dance over the ink of the words, squinting. P? Who is P? Patrick? Father Patrick? Oliver, the P for Parsons? No, that seems odd for both of them to write. Who would sign their card with just a letter, though? And why does that single letter send a shiver through me, like I’ve seen it before? I flap the card open and shut, open and shut, as I stare out the window.
The man in 300 stands for a long while before turning his back to me. But I keep watch. I keep staring, keep willing myself to remember. If only I could remember. The mind, nonetheless, is a funny thing. I turn to shove the cards into the top drawer of my bedside table.
Once I’ve pulled open the tiny wooden drawer, my fingers clutching the brass knob tightly, I gasp.
Chapter 30
Psalm 127:3-5
It loops up and down the paper, up and down, up and down. Every crevice, every space, is filled with the scrawling verse. Dozens and dozens of times, it’s written in an angry script. I flip the paper over, my hand shaking. In bright red ink, a line of words that command my attention, scribed with a detectible force.
Tears fall. I don’t know what the Bible verse is. I don’t think I can bear to look. I shake my head, staring at the paper. He was here while I was gone, hiding this for me. Does that mean he’s seen all of my notes? What notes did I write for him to find? Does he know too much now? What else is he hiding for me? What does he have in mind? And why?
It’s all too much. I begin to shred the paper. The pieces mix with my salty tears, my nose dripping as I rip, shred, tear. When the paper is in strips, the Bible verse numbers still recognisable, I shred each strip some more, tossing them about.
‘Stop it,’ I say aloud. ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it,’ I screech as I shred, shred, shred. My hands grow weary, and my head aches, but I keep tearing, keep shredding, keep crying, and keep repeating the words.
‘Mum?’ a voice says after some amount of time has gone by. I look up through watery eyes, the melancholic confetti all about me.
Claire. She’s here.
‘I got here as soon as I could.’ She rushes across the room to my side.
The familiar scent of her perfume envelops me, but I don’t move. I stare straight ahead, tears falling, the paper strewn about me. Is it night already? I thought Claire wouldn’t be here until tonight. I think about that as I play with the paper around me, picking at the pieces, tossing them to and fro. I stare straight ahead. Over and over, I toss the paper, Claire rustling my shoulders and asking questions. I don’t comprehend her words, though. I’m lost in a world of Bible verses and threats, of the men of Floor Three.
‘It’s not safe here. It’s not safe here. He’s going to get me. He’s going to get me,’ I say forlornly, still staring ahead. A moment of silence passes, Claire putting down her handbag on the chair by the window and refraining from her questions.
‘Mum? What’s going on?’ Her voice is calm and soft, like a spoken lullaby during a storm. Such a strange feeling to be switching roles, mother becoming child and child becoming the nurturer. I don’t move, don’t turn my head. My eyes fixate on the Philip Woman’s empty bed. The sheets look so crisp, so fresh. Were they washed yesterday?
‘He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die here.’ It is a statement of fact, apathetically articulated as if I’m reading the lunch menu. Roast beef with a side of murder. Potatoes and a dash of blood. It’s going to happen, I’m sure of it, but that doesn’t mean I accept it. The thought of dying here, slaughtered in this miserable place, shreds me like the piece of paper I’ve gone to work on. I’m shaken by it. I don’t want to die, not like this. I don’t want him to win – but it all feels so hopeless.
‘Mum, please calm down. It’s going to be okay now.’
Slowly, I turn my head to look into the familiar eyes. Claire’s bright blue eyes look back into mine. I see my own reflection in her pupils. I barely recognise myself, my haggard face and white hair relics of another life than the one I associate with myself. Who have I become?
I look at my daughter and say the words I don’t want to but must. It’s gone too far now. I should’ve never let it get this far. ‘I can’t stay here anymore, Claire. Take me home.’
Claire winces as if I’ve stabbed her. She cradles my hand to her cheek, kissing it again. Her lip quivers, and I instantly feel guilty for what I’ve asked. But I also feel something else – frustration, anger and helplessness. I’m so vulnerable here. I can’t protect myself.
‘Please,’ I beg, hating the word that exits my lips.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry. I can’t take you out of here. I just can’t. Do you understand? I’m sorry.’ Tears fall from her eyes freely, cascading down. I can see the agony she’s in. I hate myself for what I’ve done to her. But more than that, I hate him. I hate what he’s done to me, to my life, to this place.
‘Please. I can’t stay here. I can’t. I can’t do it. He’s going to get me. He’s done it before,’ I say, my words slow and methodical at first. As I continue, they crescendo until they become violent screams, my words blending together into a cacophony of rantings. My torrential sobs mix with ragged coughs, and my free hand yanks on my hair. I tug on it, my scalp burning. I can’t stop. I rip on my hair, the tears flying, and the words spewing from my mouth. Round and round in the cycle I swirl, and I can feel the unravelling happening. Like the killer, like ageing, like Crawley’s hellish grasp on me – I can’t stop any of it. I’m at the mercy of it all.
‘Mum, please, please,’ Claire sobs. ‘Please.’
‘I killed my baby, and now he’s going to kill me. I killed the baby. He wants revenge. He does, you have to believe me,’ I shout, banging my skull against the headboard. ‘I don’t know how they’re connected, but it must be because of the baby. He didn’t want me to kill the baby, but I did anyway. I did. And because of him, I never saw them again. They burned, and it’s all my fault. I should’ve been there.’
The guilt spews from my mouth, words flying uncontrollably. It’s true. It’s my fault. I made the
decision. All of the steps in this cobblestoned path to hell began because of that decision. Mum and Dad would have never forgiven me. What if I had chosen differently? Would things have turned out better? I don’t know. It was so long ago.
But I killed the baby. I killed it. And then Oliver wanted to kill me.
Here I am, decades later, still dealing with the fallout. Why am I still paying? Can’t some sins, some choices, just stay in the past?
Tears fall and fall. I can’t even speak, can’t explain. Who can understand? Decades of guilt I’ve carried around, hidden and tucked away, float to the surface, but it’s too late. It’s too late to make anyone understand. And soon, it’ll be too late for me.
‘What’s going on?’ a voice shouts.
‘Please help, I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry,’ Claire says, backing away from me. I see her huddled in the corner, hugging herself. I see the agony on her face.
As the nurse shouts for backup, my head still banging off the headboard, I feel the needle slide into my arm, stabbing in over and over as the nurses try to hold me down. After several botched attempts, the sharp end finds its target, violently stabbing into my vein. A crisp pinch bites into my flesh, and I wince, my stomach flopping. I feel everything start to slip away, and for once, I think that maybe the woman who died before I got here didn’t have it so terrible. Maybe drifting away into the darkness isn’t such a dreadful thing sometimes. But, as I’m fading away, my eyelids painfully heavy, I manage to spot him across the way.
I love it when they stick ’em. His words echo in my brain, as the odd sensation spreads.
‘No,’ I murmur before I can’t move anymore. The man in 300. I can’t let this happen. I can’t. It’s not safe. He could …
West Green Serial Killer Strikes Again!
West Green, Crawley, West Sussex
30 July 1959
The West Sussex Constabulary has reported the discovery of the body of Miss Gloria Carlton of Canterbury Avenue late last night. Miss Carlton’s body was uncovered at 7.01 p.m., Saturday night at the edge of the property belonging to the Crawley Community Church. Police are currently investigating her death, which is presumed to be homicide.
Miss Gloria Carlton, 21, has been missing from her family’s residence since 28 July 1959. She was last seen by her father and mother, Richard and June Carlton, at approximately 6.00 p.m. The couple left for a dinner in Brighton, leaving Miss Carlton behind due to an illness. Upon returning, Miss Carlton had disappeared. Detectives have been searching for clues to her disappearance. No valuables were removed from the property, but there were signs of a struggle.
Detectives believe the murder is related to the four previous murders in West Green due to the nature of the death and the characteristics of the victim.
The discovery of Miss Gloria Carlton’s body by a West Green resident who was walking his dog came as a startling find Saturday night. Police were immediately called in. Reports indicate that her body was stripped of all clothing and tossed underneath a hedgerow at the edge of the church property. Several lacerations on her chest and abdomen were discovered. Bite marks were also discovered on her left arm and the back of her neck, connecting her murder to those previous murders in West Green this summer, all of whom also had bite marks on their corpses. Flesh was found underneath Gloria’s fingernails, just as it was under Caroline’s, indicating a potential struggle with the killer. No other clues were detected, but investigators are still combing the scene, looking for potential leads.
‘It’s just terrible. Gloria was a lovely person. Her fiancé is destroyed by this,’ a close friend of the victim stated about the jolly blonde who was noted as being godly, kind and beautiful by those who knew the deceased. No known enemies or motives have been uncovered at this time.
West Green residents are questioning the family’s choice to leave Gloria alone with a killer on the loose.
‘I don’t understand why they would leave her alone. I won’t let my grown daughter in a room alone at this point, not with everything going on. I guess some people just assume bad things won’t happen to them,’ a source who wished to remain anonymous stated.
The residents of West Green continue to grow increasingly anxious and frustrated that there continue to be no new leads in the case. Several suspects questioned and investigated in the last few weeks have been released after evidence cleared them. Gloria’s fiancé has been brought in for questioning, and detectives continue to gather dental records from persons of interest. However, residents are beginning to grow restless as it seems the killer remains on the loose.
Additionally, as word of the murders spreads, false leads are becoming a major hindrance to the case. The West Green Constabulary has reported that 548 letters have poured in, all signed by persons claiming to be the killer. Several were purportedly signed by Jack the Ripper. Numerous persons have also come forward to turn in neighbours and persons of interest, but these leads have led to multiple dead ends.
As detectives investigate false leads, it is becoming more difficult to sift through evidence that could lead to an actual arrest.
Residents of Crawley are asked to stay alert for any suspicious occurrences and to be cautious.
The feel of her sweet, soft skin ripping open as the blade slashed into her. Her screams that turned to whimpers and then faded to nothing. The terror, the recognition, the confusion in her eyes. I relish in the thoughts of what I’ve accomplished yet again.
She never expected it. A night out, away from her parents’ watchful eyes, was all she was after. She knew the dangers, sure. But it wouldn’t happen to her. Why did they always naively think they couldn’t be next? When she left her house and wandered into the darkness, did she get a chill? Did she sense me lurking nearby, as I have been for days? Did she feel the life slipping away before I’d even grabbed her?
People convince themselves of anything they want. Gloria was no exception. Just like the others, she’d assured herself that the prickly feeling on her skin, that sensing of a presence – it was all nothing but a breeze or the sway of a tree. It was nothing.
But it was, in fact, something.
Somewhere, deep down, she knew. They always knew, even if they didn’t want to. And once they admitted to themselves that danger had been creeping too close, it was too late. I’d struck by then, made my mark. I’d won at exactly the right moment. I had my fun, enjoyed the pursuit. I lingered in the knowledge of what would be mine, like a lover seducing my sweetheart.
Lost boy. Stupid boy. I’d-never-love-you boy.
The crinkled note thrown back in my face, the one I’d painstakingly written for her. The smashed daisy, missing three petals, that she stomped into the dirt under her shiny, red shoe.
I’d tried to love her. I could’ve loved her. I wanted nothing more than to taste her sweet-smelling flesh, to kiss her neck, her cheek. I wanted her to love me back.
But they never loved me back.
It’s okay. They don’t have to love me now. I love them enough for the both of us. I was a naive teenage boy when that girl stomped my heart into the ground, when I swore I’d never be nice to a girl again. But I’m grown up now. I’m wiser. I know that you can’t ask for love from a female.
You have to just take it.
You have to claim it.
Women like to be claimed. And I like the thrill of the chase. I like the struggle for power. I like to leave my mark. There’s no returning it once I’ve sunken my teeth in. There’s no denying the truth that I was there.
I was there for all of them. All five of them.
I run my teeth over the envelope one last time, the feel of the paper thin. Usually, I snatch the letter two or three weeks before I make my move. I peruse them, waiting for just the right letter. One that is personal, that captures who they are. But one that won’t be missed. I don’t know how I know when the letter is right. There’s nothing special I’m looking for.
Just a letter that speaks to me, that captures a piece of the essence
of who she is. A memento of her life, of the plans she thought she’d make. A reminder of what she was going to do – what I stopped her from doing.
The letter I took from Gloria? It came only two days before I made my move. I was getting worried there wouldn’t be one that spoke to me, and I didn’t want to rush things – but I was getting antsy. What did I take? A notice of her acceptance into a nursing school. Did her fiancé approve? A beautiful woman like that shouldn’t be working. I’m glad I picked her. Foolish woman.
I can almost taste the words in the letter I’ve now memorised. A congratulations Gloria would never get. I let my teeth run over it once more before I pull it back down and glance at her name, her address.
Letter five is now to be tucked away with the others. Before putting it with my collection, I stare once more at the script on the front of the undelivered post. I trace the loops of Gloria’s name and address. Did I pick the right letter? It doesn’t matter. It’s too late. Besides, it’s never really about what the letter says. It’s just the fact that I could take a piece of her with me. It’s all I need, the only proof I require of what I’ve done. For memory’s sake.
Five letters now.
Five articles reporting their bodies had been found.
Five victories in this intoxicating game.
Five, soon to be six.
And then, only then, can the final one be claimed. The one I’m anticipating, the one that most excites me.
Adeline Walker. It’s almost your time, I think as I click shut the door of my flat, whistling on my way to work.
Chapter 31
West Green, Crawley, West Sussex
1 August 1959
‘Andrew, don’t be ridiculous. Of course I love this town. But are you telling me you’re not the slightest bit worried about what’s been occurring?’
The One Who Got Away Page 21
