The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  I peel myself from the bed, unwrapping the blanket from around my feet. I wander into the loo, quietly clicking the door shut and turning on the light. I glance into the mirror, the bags under my eyes more pronounced than usual, my skin ghastly pale. I’m a walking corpse, unearthed from an untimely grave. I’m a bag of bones waiting to be returned to ash.

  Who have I become? The woman who came to Smith Creek Manor isn’t the same woman I am now. I am tired. I am worn. I am defeated. I pull on my hair, tears falling as I swallow hard. I want to go home. I want to escape. I want Charles to be here, to make it all better. Most of all, I want to know – why does the man in 300 want to kill me? I saunter to my chair, sitting up all night. I don’t sleep. I just rock, back and forth, thinking about everything as I stare at the man in 300, who stares back.

  Why does he look so familiar? Why does something in the recesses of my mind scream every time he comes near that I know him, that I’ve known him all along?

  But if Smith Creek Manor’s taught me anything, it’s that you can never know for sure what’s right around the corner.

  Chapter 39

  My eyes pop open at the sound of a crashing down the corridor. My heart races as I glance around the room. The Philip Lady’s already gone, presumably to breakfast. The sunlight streams in through the window, but the warming rays do nothing to jostle my soul.

  I look over to the noticeboard, weary and anxious. I prop myself up on my elbows, willing myself not to cry. In the middle of the noticeboard on an unassuming piece of white paper, a message is scrawled. The letters are so big and bold, I can read them from my position in bed.

  It’s time.

  Two words that incite so much terror. To an outsider, they wouldn’t seem like much. To me, they say everything. They’re the message I’ve been avoiding in my time here at Smith Creek. They’re the words I’ve been racing against. But now, they’re the words I just don’t know if I can fight anymore. For the first time, I’m certain of my mind’s analysis of the situation. I know I’m not crazy or imagining it. A calming yet petrifying sense of clarity settles over my typically foggy mind.

  This. Is. Real. It’s all real, and now it’s come to this.

  It’s all real.

  A lonely tear cascades down my rough, weathered cheek. I bat it away with my aching fingers, my eyes still studying the words scribbled in red. My head spins, and I feel woozy. I consider my options but know that it’s useless. I have no options. I am imprisoned, just like I’ve always been.

  I drag myself from bed, the whole exercise feeling pointless but also necessary. I force myself to go through the morning routine, to trudge to breakfast, to get out of the room and away from the reality slapping me in the face.

  I sit alone as I so often do these days, the empty table a reminder of all that’s changed. No one seems to notice. In a place surrounded by death and demise, empty chairs cause no stir. A few tables over, Father Patrick loudly proclaims Bible verses, but everyone ignores him. I turn away, not wanting to think about any of it. I chew on the toast in front of me without really tasting it and wash it back with the weak tea my taste buds have adapted to.

  The thought of the foreboding note tacked on the noticeboard doesn’t encourage me to return to my room quickly. Thus, after breakfast is cleared, I decide to rest in the community room for a bit. I sit alone there as well, always alone now. It feels like a lifetime ago when I first came up that rickety lift, sat with Dorothy. I’m just so tired now. Charles, I’m so tired now. And I’m afraid. I’m so afraid. Still, I know I must stay strong. I can’t go out without knowing what this whole mess is all about. I owe it to those women to figure it out. I owe it to myself. Strumming up the fortitude to chase after this nightmare is getting harder and harder, though. I’m not ready for the battle that is certainly coming soon.

  After a while, the frenzied game-show music pounds into my skull in a way that threatens to drive me bonkers. I’m not ready to go back to 316, to face the harrowing truth. I decide to wander into the community loo off the main room, to splash some water on my face. It seems like the only thing I can do.

  I’m standing at the basin washing my hands, leaning on the porcelain as I stare into the mirror. I’m stretching the skin on my face, feeling the paltry, sagging cheeks when the door to the loo opens.

  And then, before I can do a thing, I’m pinned against the tiled wall, my back aching at the angle. She is impressively strong when she wants to be, and I flail and fight to get away, my feet losing traction on the shiny tile as my heart pounds wildly.

  She comes at me, the three shiny prongs stabbing towards me with a ferocity that makes me cry out. My arms shake with tension as I try to shove her away, to escape the merciless chamber – but I can’t get past her. The fork darts at me, clinking against my cheek, poking into my sagging skin. I feel the sickly burn of blood oozing from my flesh, and I wonder if this is where I die – with no answers.

  Chapter 40

  ‘The red rain’s coming for you. He told me. You’re the reason he’s here. He told me,’ she screams and squeals, stabbing at my eye with the fork. I fight Babbling Barbara off for what seems like an eternity. I slap at her and shove at her, my arms trembling with the effort as I also try to shield my face.

  She claws at me ferociously like a dog in heat, the prongs of the fork piercing into me. It chases after my eye, darting towards it with every thrust of Barbara’s hand. Her eyes glossed over and crusty, she works purely out of passion. Her free hand feels my face as if she’s aiming for the target. I scream and shriek, praying for help to come. I huff in air, my lungs starving for it as I gasp in between sobs. My muscles ache, straining to keep her back, to protect myself from the bludgeoning, bloody battle of the fork that threatens to pierce through my eye.

  The door opens again, heavy footsteps pounding the floor. A yell ricochets off the tiled walls as Barbara is pulled back, snarling and shrieking repeatedly.

  ‘You’re the reason. You’re the reason,’ she wails. I clutch at my aching chest, cringing. The edges of my vision blur as an arm lifts me up, the fork clattering to the floor like an abandoned treasure.

  ‘You’re the reason,’ she screams as they drag her from the bathroom and a nurse helps lift me from the ground, asking if I’m all right.

  I’m not all right. How could I be? My head feels fuzzy as the nurse calls for more help, as my legs first tense up and then lose their strength. I slip down, down, the arms of the nurse trying desperately to hold me up but failing.

  And then all is dark, Barbara’s shrieks about the red rain and the man in 300 going silent as I think about Charles, his soft face blurring the frightening edges of reality in my mind.

  Chapter 41

  I sit on my bed, my feet planted on the ground as I stare out into the courtyard. Evening settles in, and the note from earlier settles in too.

  It’s time.

  I’m not ready to give in, to give up. However, I’ve learned in these past weeks that you can never truly know what terrors await you. It’s better, perhaps, to be prepared. With that thought, I reach for the phone, my shaking hands dialling the familiar digits. I listen to the ringing, turning around to glance at the doorway as I wait to hear the soft voice.

  She doesn’t answer. I get the voicemail and think about hanging up. Maybe I can ring her tomorrow. But I don’t want to risk that. I fiddle with my hands, unsure of how to proceed but knowing what needs to be said.

  ‘Claire, it’s me. Mum. I just … I’m all right. I don’t want you to worry. I was just sitting here thinking about some things, and I, well, I want you to know this. You were my miracle, Claire. You were the baby your father and I didn’t think we could have. You were the life I always wanted, and being your mother, watching you grow – it was the greatest gift of my life. So much happened, and there were so many mistakes I made. But raising you, watching you chase your own dreams, that was the greatest accomplishment of my life. I will always, always love you. I want you to go out ther
e and live life with no regrets, to chase whatever makes you happy. Live this life now, Claire, because it goes fast. Goodness, it goes so fast. I love you forever. I love you so much. Goodbye, Claire. I just wanted to say goodbye.’

  When I click the phone down, I choke back sobs that burn in my throat. Won’t do to wallow too much in the sadness now. It won’t do any good at all. I’ve said what I needed to say.

  I’ve told her what was most important – she was my miracle. I got a second chance with Claire. I got the opportunity to do one thing right. Not everyone gets that kind of opportunity.

  Saying goodbye to her is perhaps the hardest part of all this. I just hope that if there is any sense of mercy in this world, any sense of justice, she won’t know how I suffered. She will not contemplate the true terror of these final days. At this point, that’s the best I can hope for.

  I slide backwards in bed, sitting fully clothed on top of the quilt as I stare at the words on the noticeboard once more. It’s not fair. None of this is fair.

  But then again, nothing in life is. Not everything works out, and karma doesn’t even the score. Not every villain pays his dues, after all, and not every hero gets to save the day.

  Chapter 42

  It’s dark out when my eyes flutter open. I’m on my side, facing the window, and my head spins. What am I doing? I don’t remember crawling into bed. What time is it? And is he – an arm pulls me in, tighter and tighter, a strong body nestled against me. I lean into him, his warm breath tickling my neck. I close my eyes again. Charles. He’s here. It’s all going to be okay. I lean back into him, his lips kissing my neck, the blanket pulled around both of us. It’s been so long since he’s held me like this, and my heart swells with the feeling of his strong arms squeezing me tightly. I can’t move, but I don’t want to. I could stay like this forever, I realise, breathing a sigh of relief for the first time in months.

  ‘Move, and I’ll kill you,’ Charles’ voice whispers into my ear.

  Why would he say that? What’s happened to Charles? I’m scared. Charles, why are you doing this? It hurts.

  But it isn’t Charles’ voice, I realise with a shudder as awareness peaks. Terror grips my stomach, my heart, my mind. It isn’t Charles at all. Suddenly, I want to crawl out of my skin, to slither out of the grasp of the arms that suffocate me.

  I cringe, the sharp point of something scratching my neck. He moves the sharp object to the front of my throat. I feel it press against me, and I picture the delicate skin on my throat slicing open, my blood spilling out.

  The sharp object in place, he kisses my neck again. ‘Oh, how I’ve missed you,’ he murmurs, sniffing my hair, my neck. I stare out the window, tears slowly floating. And then a sharp pain on the back of my neck, teeth pressing against it. I whimper, but the sharp object digs into the front of my throat, reminding me to hold it all in.

  ‘It’s been so long. Too long. I’d given up, Adeline. I’d thought this would never happen. But here we are, and oh, is it delicious. It’s madly delicious. The wait has only made you better.’ His words echo in my head, bouncing around. I want to scream. I want to cry out for help.

  I want him to be finished with it all. But I also want so desperately to know why.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. All will be taken care of. You’ll get what you need. After all, I’ve got to finish my job right, you know? I’m not sloppy. No, not me. I’m careful. Cunning. Brilliant, actually. How do you think I got away with it all these years? You don’t get away with it all if you’re sloppy. That’s why I took my time. I had to make this just right. And now, here we are, darling. It’s finally your time.’

  I shake now, my body trembling, the jerking of my body causing the sharp object to dig in. I think about the searing pain it will cause biting into my flesh. I can almost imagine the burning sensation as my blood boils out, as life exits with a final exhale. Will Charles be waiting for me? Will I land in his arms? Or will this maniac cling to my body and soul, holding me back from whatever waits for me?

  ‘Why?’ I croak out, needing answers and willing to risk a sliced throat to get them.

  ‘You know why,’ he spews through clenched teeth. ‘You’re the one who got away. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I have something of yours. See it? Right there? It’s your final one. I’ve kept it all this time.’

  Confusion whirls, as my eyes land on the letter on the bedside table. I see the script, my name in bold letters on the front. Adeline Walker. In my right ear, then, he begins to whistle. The tune from long ago. The tune from decades ago, when life was so different.

  And suddenly, it all clicks, my mind wrapping around the right moments, the right images, the right sensations.

  ‘You,’ I murmur, tears flowing freely as I realise my imminent doom is here.

  10 years after West Green Killer, Still No answers

  18 August 1969

  West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

  Ten years after the West Green Killer went silent, investigators are no closer to answers than they were when the murders began.

  The ‘summer of slaughter’, as it is now dubbed, began on 12 June 1959 when Elizabeth McKinley’s body was discovered in the Crawley Community Hospital skip, dismembered and covered in bite marks. McKinley had been missing for several days.

  In the following summer months, five more female bodies would turn up, many of which were dismembered and showed signs of corpse abuse. These victims were: Helen Deeley, Doreen Thompson, Caroline Young, Gloria Carlton and Muriel Claubaugh. All women were residents of West Green and lived in close proximity to each other.

  After the brutal death of Muriel Claubaugh, however, the neighbourhood of West Green returned to seemingly normal. No more women turned up missing, and no more murders happened in the neighbourhood that appeared to be related to the work of the mass killer. Investigators continued to search for a suspect and a motive, but none were uncovered.

  ‘We haven’t abandoned the case. We won’t rest until we find justice for the six women,’ the chief constable told reporters last Friday. ‘Anyone with information is asked to come forward. It’s not too late to bring justice for these families.’

  ‘It’s despicable, if you ask me,’ a West Green resident who wished to remain anonymous, told reporters. ‘After all this time, the detectives can’t find anything? What have they been doing all these years? You’re telling me a killer can murder six women, and no one can find any clues? It really makes me lose faith in our system.’

  ‘Sometimes, bad people get away with horrible crimes. It’s not a fact we like to face,’ a constable said of the case. ‘It’s not something I’m happy about, and it doesn’t happen often. But occasionally, a criminal gets lucky or is very, very smart. The person we’re dealing with here knew how to cover his or her tracks and did it well. They had intimate knowledge of the families he or she preyed on and used it wisely to go undetected. Over the years of studying this case, I’ve come to believe the suspect was someone close to each family in some way – he or she would’ve known their schedules, known intimate details of their lives. Otherwise, how would he or she have pulled it off so perfectly?’

  Detectives have worked over the years to piece together a profile of the suspected criminal. Detectives believe the suspect is a male between the ages of 20 and 35 who perhaps hails from Crawley or a surrounding area. Police have also gathered that the suspect has some connection to the train station due to Muriel’s body. It is believed the suspect has a history of stalking or potentially abuse of women, due to the violent nature of the crimes. It is believed that the killer had preselected his victims, but no further connections between them have been drawn other than their locations.

  While the fear of the West Green Killer has faded in Crawley, detectives are still desperate to solve the case. Some residents still hold out hope that he or she will be caught, citing John Haigh as an example. After all, the similarities are haunting – both killers claimed six definite victims. Regardless, residen
ts are sure to remember the terror of the summer of 1959 for years if not decades to come – whether the killer is ever caught or not.

  The filthy, ignorant son-of-a-bitch. Comparing me to John Haigh? John bloody Haigh?

  That fool had been caught.

  I haven’t.

  There’s no comparison.

  But I also haven’t finished. I haven’t had Adeline Walker. She would’ve completed the collection. Instead, her unopened letter sits in the box, taunting me.

  This isn’t the newspaper article I wanted to stow away with it. It should have read completely different. I should’ve finished the job. I should’ve finished her.

  But she got away.

  When the fire happened weeks after her disappearance, I’d been so excited. A stroke of good luck! Karma at work! Or perhaps that other crazy bloke in town. It didn’t matter how it started, in truth. She would be back. She’d have to come back.

  And I’d get my chance.

  I waited. Day after day. Week after week. I waited and watched, my letter opener at the ready. I would have her. I’d have my chance to finish her.

  But she never came. She never bloody came. What sort of despicable daughter didn’t return after her parents’ death? What kind of person didn’t attend the funeral service for their own parents? What kind of person was she?

  A bloody reprehensible one. Sometimes, in those early months, I hated her. I was livid. I wanted nothing more than to make her pay. Mostly, though, I was livid that I’d been a fool. If only I’d have taken her when I had the chance.