by Amy Cross
"It's not -"
"Give it a rest," she says firmly. "I'm too tired and too old to listen to your shit, Ophelia. Go and bother someone else. You're running around like a blue-arsed fly, and here I am, just trying to put together the cost of a cup of coffee without being bothered too much."
"Here," I reply, grabbing fifty pence from my glove and holding it out to her.
"You can't spare that," she grunts.
"It's okay," I continue. "I'm seven pence down for today but overall I'm forty-five pence up on my target for the week, so I'm sure I can pull it back. Overall, since the start of the year, I'm 8% up on the amount I made in the previous twelve months, and that's not counting -"
"Jesus," she mutters.
"I'm serious!"
Sighing, she takes the money.
"You go around giving people all your cash," she says with a sigh, "and you're gonna end up worse than ever. You need to get a little common sense into that busy head of yours, girl."
"People might be dying," I tell her, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my notebook. "It's been going on for a few months, and I've been keeping track of things." With fumbling fingers, I start going through the pages, trying to find the section on the killings. "There's a pattern," I continue, "and no-one else is paying attention, but I can see it."
"And you're gonna save the day, are you?" She grins, and it's clear that she's yet another person who doesn't take me seriously. "Sometimes I'd love to have gotten a look at you when you were younger, and seen what you used to be like. Have you always been a bit weird, kid, or did you go a little crazy when you hit the streets? 'Cause I think you might be one of those types who's always been a bit on the wild side, if you catch my drift."
"I don't know," I reply, still trying to find the right place in my notebook, "but I've been working on this for a while and I'm sure I'm right. The patterns really stand out once you start to notice them. I really think there's someone out there, and he's killing people."
"Killing who?"
"Gary's gone missing."
"Good," she grunts. "That guy's a waste of space. Whatever happened to him, I hope it was painful."
"He's my friend," I point out.
"No," she continues, "he's a thieving, opportunist scumbag. Just because he's a little nicer than the average thieving opportunist scumbag doesn't mean he's a nice person or that anyone should give a damn where he's gone. You need to kick these little obsessions, girl, or you're gonna disappear down a rabbit hole." She pauses for a moment, and then finally she sighs. "It's too late, isn't it? Tell me something, have you ever had proper psychiatric help? I'm not joking. I want to know."
"I've heard stories," I continue, ignoring the question. "There's a man who comes out at night, and he drops cash on the ground, and anyone who follows him ends up disappearing. I know it sounds strange, but I've spoken to too many people for it to be a coincidence. All the details basically match up. It's really happening, and no-one's doing anything about it because no-one notices and no-one cares. He's only killing people like us!"
She laughs.
"I'm not making it up!" I tell her.
"How would you know?" she asks. "You're losing the plot, Ophelia. Don't think I haven't spotted you talking to yourself. Sometimes you get this wild look in your eyes, like there's this whole other person hiding in your head." Reaching out, she grabs my notebook and takes a look at it, as if she thinks it's the strangest thing she's ever seen. "Jesus Christ," she mutters as he turns the pages, "these are the ramblings of a mad woman, you know that?"
"I keep track of everything I see," I reply cautiously.
"Pigeons?" she says, frowning as she reads one of the pages. "What's this crap about pigeons?"
"I count the pigeons in Trafalgar Square every Sunday afternoon," I tell her.
"Why the hell do you do that?"
"Just something I'm working on," I mutter, figuring that this probably isn't the best time to tell her about one of my other theories. "Magnetic fields..."
She stares at me.
"We see things that other people ignore," I continue. "You know we do. We spend all day on the streets, and that gives us a unique perspective. We see a side of London that normal people ignore."
"So you go to Trafalgar Square and you count the pigeons?" she replies. "What the hell for? Do you think they're up to something? Dear God, girl, it's worse than I thought. I've always had you down as an amusing weirdo, but now I'm pretty sure there's more to you than that."
"In a good way?" I ask.
"In a bad way," she says, closing the notebook. "I should confiscate this, you know. I should cut you off cold turkey from your ramblings. It might actually help you. People like us oughta be forgetting stuff that happens to them, not making notes and diagrams and -" She turns to the next page and frowns for a moment. "Graphs, Ophelia? What the hell are you up to?"
"I need the information," I say, trying to grab the notebook from her hand.
"Are you sure about that?" she asks with a smile, before letting me take the book. "It's feeding your problems, girl. It's making you worse, not better."
"So you think I'm mad?"
"I think you're weird," she continues, "and I think you're getting worse, and you might even be dangerous. I've seen people with proper mental disorders, and you fit the bill. The talking to yourself, and the way you're always fidgeting... You might tell yourself that you're just finding a way to survive, but the blunt truth is you're losing your grip. Trust me, it's very obvious from the outside, but..."
I wait for her to finish.
"But what?" I ask, trying not to let her see that I'm close to tears. I've always valued Josephine's opinions, and I never thought she'd turn on me like this. I guess it's my fault, though, for allowing myself to think that she might be my friend. At the end of the day, she's just like everyone else.
"You're a special one for sure," she adds.
"What kind of special?" I ask.
"The worst part," she continues, "is that there's nothing anyone can do to help you, not a damn thing in the whole world. I've seen this so many times before, and it's far too late to fix your head. You're going to properly lose your mind, Ophelia, and it's going to be very painful to watch. There was a time when I thought you might be a little different, that maybe you'd be one of the few who manages to get their shit together and get off the streets, but now, looking at you..." She pauses, as if I'm the saddest thing she's ever seen. "I believe in being honest," she continues, "and that's what I'm doing here. I haven't got time for your shit any more, so I don't want you to come looking for me again. Leave me out of it."
I stare at her, and for a moment I have no idea what to say.
"Goodbye," she says, before turning and walking away.
"But -" I start to say, although I quickly realize that there's no point. She's not the first person who's started to back away from me over the past few weeks, and she's definitely not the first to say that there's something wrong with me. It's as if I'm finally starting to crack after all these years, and even though I can't see it myself, I can tell it's true. Still, I know I'm right about the fact that people are disappearing, and I'm not going to let people like Josephine get me down. If they can't see that something's happening, it's because they don't really see the world around them.
Opening my notebook, I flip through the pages until I reach the table I've been working on that lists every disappearance. I've been trying to catalog the way things have been happening, and I'm pretty sure I've started to notice a pattern. If I'm right, I know where and roughly when the killer's going to strike again. It's going to be tonight, and this time I'm going to see him for myself.
I need proof.
Chapter Seven
Laura
"Laura? Is that you?"
"Yep," I mutter as I push the front door shut and head through to the kitchen. "It's always me, Mum. Who else would it be?"
"I didn't make tea," she calls out, sounding a little worr
ied. "What should we do?"
"I'll make something," I reply. Unpacking the groceries, I glance over at the cooker, just to make sure none of the rings have been left on. Mum's getting a little 'forgetful' lately, and every night I have to do a safety check of the house, just in case she's done something silly. Things look okay so far, but as I switch the oven on ready to make dinner, I know I still have to look upstairs. One day last week I got home and found the ladder to the attic had been pulled down; Mum swears she didn't go up there, but her memory's so bad lately, I can't exactly trust her version of events.
"I saw you on the news!" she calls out.
"Great," I say with a sigh.
"I'm very proud of you," she continues. "Always winning your cases."
I pause for a moment. God knows how she managed to watch the news, witness my ritual humiliation, and then somehow decide that I 'won' today, but I really don't feel like going into the details and explaining what really happened. Besides, she'd probably forget everything I said after a few minutes. If she wants to float along in her own little world, one where her daughter is a crime-fighting superhero, that's fine by me. Sometimes I envy her complete failure to grasp reality.
"Your father would have been very proud too," she says. "He always wanted a lawyer in the family."
"A lawyer?" I reply, before reminding myself - yet again - that there's no point correcting her. It's not as if she ever really talks to anyone else, so these fantasies are going to remain mostly in her head. I could remind her that I'm with the police, but the information would most likely go in one ear and out the other. "Mum, was there any mail today?"
"Are you waiting for something, dear?"
"Just a few things," I say, glancing over at the table in the corner. "Life to begin, a promotion, a pay rise, better skin, a man..." I pause for a moment, before realizing that I'm in danger of feeling sorry for myself again. "There's been nothing for three days, has there?" I call out, "not even a leaflet. Doesn't that seem a bit weird?"
"I don't know, dear. Are you waiting for something?"
"Just a -" I pause as I realize that this conversation could go round and round. Seriously, sometimes I think I'm going to disappear down a rabbit hole one day while I'm trying to talk to my increasingly doddery mother. "Never mind."
"I haven't seen the postman," she continues. "Do you think something might have happened to him? Maybe someone should call the police."
"I am the police," I say with a sigh.
"What's that?"
"Never mind. Just keep watching whatever you're watching."
Sighing, I can't help but worry that she might have squirreled the mail away somewhere. It's getting harder and harder to leave her alone all day, but I sure as hell can't afford a carer and I hate the idea of her ending up in a home. She's going to get worse eventually, but at least for now we'll be able to manage. After taking a quick look in the hallway for the missing mail, I lean into the front room and see her sitting in her favorite chair, watching the soaps. I swear to God, she's spent the past thirty years doing mostly the same thing every night, and she's possibly the happiest, most content person I've ever met.
"I'm sorry I didn't make tea," she says, smiling at me. "I've just been so busy, what with one thing and another. You should come and watch, though. Ken Barlow's back."
"Are you sure there's been no mail?" I ask, figuring it's worth another try. Her lucid moments come and go with very little warning. "I'm waiting for something important."
"I haven't seen anything," she replies innocently. "Have you looked on the mat?"
"Yeah, I've looked on the mat," I say, trying not to sound impatient. "How are your hands today?"
"My hands?" She holds them up and tries to form a fist, but her arthritis is clearly getting worse and it's almost painful to look at her swollen knuckles. "They're a bit sore," she says, sounding almost surprised.
"Did you take your pills?" I ask.
She turns to me. "Pills?"
"For the arthritis?"
She stares blankly at me.
"It's lasagne for dinner," I tell her, realizing that she's forgotten again. "Is that okay?"
"Lasagne sounds lovely. I'll make tea tomorrow."
"Of course you will," I reply, heading back to the kitchen. In the highly unlikely event that my mother ever managed to gather her faculties and attempt to cook something, I'm sure the entire house will burn down. I'm seriously thinking about child-proofing the place, and I also need to find a way to make sure she takes her pills; she's so out of it these days, she doesn't even seem to remember that she's in pain.
Glancing over at the sideboard, I spot the block of cheese I took from the shop earlier. I feel a faint pang of relief as I realize just how stupid I was; if someone caught me, the media would have a field day and a shoplifting conviction could ruin my career. I tell myself the same thing every time, but this time I really have to stop. Is my life really so empty these days that nicking a block of cheese is the only thing that gives me a thrill?
After checking the front of the oven and seeing that it's not quite ready, I grab my bag and pull out the folder on the dead girl. Flicking through the pages for a moment, I stare at a series of images showing a muddy, bruised corpse in what looks like a flower bed. When I started this job, pictures of dead bodies used to horrify me, but somehow I've hardened over the years and now I barely even blink while I'm looking at the damn things. In fact, my main reaction right now is boredom; this isn't the kind of case that gets anyone's blood pumping, and it'll most likely turn out to be just an argument between two drug-addled assholes. I guess this is the type of case I'll be given for the next few months, after I made such a hash of the Natasha Simonsen investigation.
The worst thing is, a guilty man walked out of the court today. Daniel Gregory's a murderer, and he's going to get away with it because I fouled up the case against him. I was too confident, and I didn't count on the fact that his defense team would be able to make him out to be a victim.
Smelling a faint burning odor, I turn and look toward the front room. I don't see smoke, but my senses are tingling and I can tell that something's wrong. After a moment, I look over at the oven and realize that there are flames inside.
"Jesus!" I shout as I grab a can of flame retardant and open the oven door, before quickly spraying foam at whatever the hell has caught fire. I hadn't even put anything inside yet, so the oven should have been empty.
Once the flames are out, I grab some oven gloves and remove the tray, only to find the remains of half a dozen letters and a small parcel. By the time I've tipped them onto the draining board, it's painfully obvious what they are, and I can't help but feel annoyed that I didn't think to look for them in such an obvious place. With the way Mum's been lately, the whole house is rapidly becoming a death-trap.
"Did you burn something?" she asks, shuffling through from the front room with a vague, innocent look on her face. "That's not the lasagne, is it?"
"No, Mum," I reply, trying to separate the partially-melted parcel from the burned letters, "but I think I found the mail."
Chapter Eight
Ophelia
It's late and I should have settled into my spot by now, but I don't have a choice. I have to come and see if he's here.
Based on all the research I've gathered together in my notebook, I'm convinced that the guy is going to come down to this part of the city tonight. I'm a few hundred meters west of the art gallery, and I've managed to find a good ledge that gives me a view of the entire area. There are a few dark silhouettes a little further away, hunched around a bench, and I'm certain that they're going to be the guy's target tonight. It seems so crazy to think that I could predict where this killer is going to strike next, but at the same time, I've studied my notes over and over again and I truly believe I've worked out some kind of pattern. People always work according to patterns, even if they don't realize they're doing it. If I'm right, he'll be here tonight.
All I have to do is
wait.
Although I know I should focus on the men by the bench, I can't help looking across the river occasionally. The bright lights of London are fascinating, and I've got an annoying habit of always trying to count them. So far, I've finished the two largest buildings on the opposite bank and found that there are three-hundred-and-five lights, plus an estimated fifty-nine dark windows. It's hard to believe that people are working so late, although I'm starting to think that some of the buildings might contain apartments as well as offices. I know I shouldn't be so interested in things like this, but when you're living on the streets, you have to keep your mind busy.
Unless you want to go crazy.
I pull my two coats tight as a cold breeze blows past. In the distance, someone's shouting drunken insults at someone else, but I'm not too concerned. No-one can see me while I'm here on the ledge, and even if they could, I'm not very interesting. It's been almost six months since I saw my reflection, but I imagine I've become very gaunt, and my hair is probably a complete mess. There was a time, long ago, when I cared about such things, but those days now seem so strange and faraway. I don't have time for vanity.
I've got too many projects.
Like this investigation.
Or...
Maybe Josephine was right. Maybe I'm just crazy. I mean, it's bound to happen eventually. If I'd truly lost my mind, how would I know?
Spotting movement in the shadows, I squint as I see a dark figure moving slowly along the path that leads past the river. I can't make out any details, and the figure eventually walks past the group of men without anything seeming to happen. After a moment, I realize that the figure is female, which means it definitely can't be the person I'm waiting for. All my research indicates that it's a man who's responsible for the killings, which isn't exactly a shock. For reasons that I still haven't quite managed to pin down, men seem far more likely to be driven to this kind of act. It seems to be in their natures to cause pain and suffering, although women still have the capacity.
