Last One To Die

by Cynthia Murphy

  “Of course!” She walks around the desk and I see she’s leaning on a walking stick and breathing heavily. “We don’t get many people in here in the summer months. I can give you a temporary library card, if you’d like?”

  “That would be great.” I agree, and she shuffles back to her computer, fingers flying deftly over the keys.

  “Which course are you doing?”

  “Drama.”

  “How wonderful. And have you come all the way from Ireland?”

  “Yes, Kilkenny.” I rattle off my information and she fills it all in, chattering constantly.

  “Brave girl.” She smiles. “Now, look at the camera annnnnd say cheese!”

  I force a semblance of a smile and the little webcam clicks.

  “Lovely.” She hums a little tune while the computer prints my ID card and then hands it over. It’s still warm. “Now you can borrow anything you’d like. Apart from the Special Collections, that is.”

  “Special Collections?”

  “Yes, the really rare stuff.” Her eyes twinkle behind silver-rimmed glasses. “We have some pages from an original Shakespeare folio and other bits and pieces you might be interested in, especially if you’re thinking of applying for the scholarship.”

  My ears prick up.

  “Scholarship? Oh, I’m only on the summer programme, I don’t think I could. . .”

  “Oh, you certainly could. The librarian riffles through a pile of leaflets and extracts one before handing it over to me. “There are a few, but there is a specific one for the affiliated sixth form programme. You can win a place to study drama here for your final year. It should all be in your enrolment pack, there. I think the closing date is fairly soon, though.”

  “Wow, thank you.” I feel a flutter of excitement despite the horrific start to my day. “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet, but I’ll definitely take a look.”

  She winks at me. “Make sure you do. Now, make yourself at home. We don’t shut until eight, so you have plenty of time.”

  “Thank you, er. . .”

  “Ruth.”

  “OK, thanks, Ruth.”

  I settle at the large table and spread the course material in front of me, realize I still have two of everything and push it to one side. Instead I pick up the scholarship brochure and try my best to focus, to concentrate on what I’m reading. The full-time course looks wonderful, nothing like the workshops this morning. Real acting, time in the theatre, learning about its history. I glance at the requirements and see that part of it is an essay, some kind of research into London’s theatrical history. It sounds pretty cool. I try to carry on but I’m exhausted, last night’s lack of sleep finally catching up with me. The words start to blur, my eyelids heavy, and when I feel someone gently shaking my shoulder, I realize I must have dozed off.

  “Sorry to wake you, lovey, but we’re closing soon.” My brain takes a second to catch up and I look at my watch. Ten to eight. I sit up in panic.

  “My phone!” I blurt, jumping out of my chair. “Thanks a million, Ruth. Sorry for nodding off.”

  She waves the comment away.

  “Just don’t broadcast how cosy we are for a nap; we’ll be overrun. See you soon, I hope.”

  “For sure.” I run to the door and belt down to the phone shop, where the owner is just about to pull the shutters. I manage to convince him to let me in, and in minutes my new, crack-free screen is in my hands.

  I call home as I walk back to the new halls. I did promise, after all.

  I get to class early the next morning, hoping to catch Tasha before workshops start. I spot a gaggle of people I vaguely recognize from yesterday gathered by one of the lecture halls and wander over. They are crowded around a list pinned on the wall.

  Of course – our work placements. Each of us has to go out and use our acting skills in the community. We heard about some rubbish-sounding ones yesterday, but there were also some pretty cool ones, like working with vulnerable inner-city kids at council-funded drama camps. I was hoping for something like that, though knowing my luck I’d be spending two days a week at the zoo, peeling bananas with my feet.

  Keeping my eye out for Tasha, I wander over and wait my turn as the crowd thins a little. I finally get to the front and squint down the list, picking my name out. I’m going to be at somewhere called the Victorian Street Museum. Hmmm. Not quite what I was hoping for, but it doesn’t sound as bad as the zoo. I look for Jasmine’s name and pray that one is all hers but no such luck – she, of course, got the one I was hankering after. Typical. I scan the list for Tasha too, hoping we might be placed together, but I don’t see her anywhere on the list. There are two long, black marker lines scored across the pages. One must be Sara’s name. She’d never get to do her placement now.

  “Look who it is.” A familiar smell invades my nostrils, lemons and soap. I turn around to see Jasmine’s small frame pushing through the crowd. “The gypsy.”

  “What are you on about now?” The cheek of this girl. I’ve had enough of her already, she’s clearly toxic.

  “You put a curse on anyone who tries to be your friend. Isn’t that right, gypsy?”

  I push away from her and head towards the library. I’m not getting caught up in her racist little attack.

  “Yeah, you should leave. Where are you going? Off to play with your voodoo dolls? You’re not welcome here, Niamh. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

  That’s enough. She doesn’t even have her insults right. I whirl on her, anger bubbling under my skin. “What exactly are you talking about, Jasmine?”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widen with smug glee. “You really haven’t heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “About Tasha.” My blood rapidly cools, forming ice in my veins.

  “What about her?”

  “She was attacked.” She spits the words out almost joyfully, her eyes sparkling with vindictive pleasure.

  Nonononono. She’s lying, she has to be.

  “Last night on her way home. She’s in a coma, the doctors don’t know if she’ll survive another night.” Jasmine steps close and I wince as she pushes sharp fingers into my shoulder. “That’s two girls who’ve been nice to you ending up hurt or dead,” she hisses, spit flecking in my face. “I won’t be making the same mistake.”

  I stand there, numb, as she turns on her heel and walks away.

  I spend lunch in the toilets. Despite my prime eavesdropping position, the end cubicle, I don’t get any actual details on how Tasha is doing. I’m too nervous to ask anyone, and people avoided me all morning. Jasmine has done a good job of spreading her poison.

  Poor Tasha, I wish I could visit her or something. I wonder if I can find out which hospital she’s at. Maybe Derek could help.

  I finally emerge from the cubicle when it falls quiet outside and I creak the door open, praying everyone will already be in the afternoon class. I debate signing myself out sick but decide to just skip it and visit my museum placement a little earlier instead. I’m not really meant to be there until tomorrow, but I need a change of scenery and hopefully no one will even notice I’m gone. On my way out, I double-check the list. I’m the only student going to the museum, which is good. Two days a week away from the accusatory glances and Jasmine’s nasty comments will be a welcome relief.

  I map the route on my phone and see that the museum is a good few stops away on the Tube – either that or a forty-minute walk. I hesitate. I haven’t tackled the Underground yet and if I’m honest, its mess of swirling coloured lines terrifies me. The walk seems decent though and, grateful I donned my Nikes this morning, I plug my earphones in and walk.

  I let myself be distracted by the sights so I’m in my own little world when the riverbank sneaks up on me. The Millennium Bridge rises out of the Thames, its narrow expanse rammed with tourists.

  I wander to the middle, wondering if I’m imagining the bounce of the bridge, and angle my phone so I can snap Tower Bridge. I send the picture to my sister.


  It’s a warm, balmy day and I turn my face up to the sun, letting the horror of the last couple of days drift away. I pause, trying to get my bearings, and spot the Shard glittering in the distance, a tall, fierce building that punctures the skyline. The museum is somewhere off in that direction, tucked down a side street from what I could gather on its website. I peel myself away, my eyes lingering on Shakespeare’s Globe as I pass it by. Wow. A sign shows there are groundling tickets on sale for a fiver, and I decide to make sure I come back this way later.

  I’m really here. This is the city I always imagined visiting one day, the place I saved all that money for. And now I’m here. I can hardly believe it.

  The area hums with energy. I pass bars and restaurants, crowds of people spilling out on to the pavements and perching on the riverbank walls.

  I stop to check the route and see that Meghan has replied to the Tower Bridge snap.

  When can I come?! Miss you xo

  I tap one back, telling her to work on Mammy and Daddy to let her come over for a week at the end of my course. Wishful thinking on my part, I know, but she was gutted when I left.

  The crowds disappear swiftly once I venture into the streets behind Southbank. It’s a bit more industrial here and I can see the history etched into the walls. I walk past old red-brick buildings that once housed mills and factories. I follow the map beneath an old railway arch and down a cobbled street, before the robotic voice abruptly announces my arrival. Sure enough, two frosted glass doors, emblazoned with the museum logo, slide open and a cool, welcome blast of air-conditioning greets me. I descend the stairs beyond them.

  “Welcome to the Victorian Street Museum,” a middle-aged man in a topcoat and tails booms from behind the counter in front of me. “How may I assist in your visit today?”

  “Oh, hi. I’m here for my drama school placement.”

  He hikes up a pair of bushy salt and pepper brows and consults the wrought iron clock on the brick wall.

  “Ah, yes, you’re early my dear! By a whole day, in fact. You must be keen! It’s young Natasha, isn’t it?”

  My heart sinks. So we should have been placed together, after all.

  “No, sorry.” I stumble over the words, tongue thick in my throat. “I’m Niamh.”

  He consults something on the computer and his mouth gives an almost imperceptible twitch. “My mistake. I was told not to expect you.”

  “Oh. No, it’s Tasha who won’t be here.”

  “Of course, my apologies.” He tips his head, so the brim of his hat casts hollow shadows over his eyes, and I shiver. I tell myself it’s just the air-conditioning. He leans closer and flashes a toothy smile. “A terrible state of affairs, isn’t it? You know...” He looks around and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I heard it’s not the first attack this week either. Did you know a young woman died?”

  My face must clearly say that, yes, I do know. I blink back tears as he looks at me blankly.

  “Well.” He claps his hands together with forced cheeriness. “Let me call someone to man the desk and I’ll take you on the grand tour. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  I wander to the brochure rack by the entrance and half-heartedly study the glossy leaflets, more to distract myself than anything. I pick up one for the museum itself. It’s featured on a local ghost tour, which Meghan would love, but the idea turns my stomach a little now.

  The last thing I need to see is a ghost.

  “Ready, Miss?” The man reappears, followed by a small, curly haired woman in a bonnet who replaces him behind the desk. “Sue, this is young Niamh, our new Jane!” She greets me curtly. Friendly soul.

  “Ready?” the man says with a smile. “Let’s go.”

  I follow my tour guide through the turnstile and into the museum. “I’m Geoffrey.” He smiles beneath his heavy white beard, extending a large, warm hand which swallows my hesitant one. “I’m the Performance Coordinator here at the museum. Any problems, please come to me. I’ll show you around and give you a bit of history before outlining your duties. How does that sound?”

  “Great, thank you,” I reply. His demeanour has totally changed and I wonder if I imagined the sinister edge to him. I mean, he’s more Santa than Satan now. I follow him through a small gift shop (“The tours begin and end here, clever marketing, don’t you think?”) and down a short, dark corridor.

  The scene at the other end of it takes my breath away.

  Victorian shopfronts line a rocky, cobbled street and for a second, I think we’ve gone back outside. Bright sunlight streams in from behind old, lead-lined windows and I have to remind myself we are definitely below street level. A mixture of odours fill the air: hot cocoa, tobacco smoke and something farmyard-familiar and slightly unpleasant. It’s like stepping on to the set of a period drama.

  “It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Geoffrey’s voice still manages to boom even though he’s barely speaking above a whisper. I nod, speechless. “This building was once a cotton mill. The upstairs section was converted into overpriced apartments long ago but when the contractors who bought it looked at the deeds, they realized this was all down here. That’s when it was decided to preserve it as a museum.”

  “How did it all get here?”

  “The great-grandson of the original mill owner was quite the wealthy eccentric. He was a doctor who enjoyed collecting bits and pieces of local history. He purchased shops and businesses that were about to be torn down back at the turn of the century. Then, he had them all reassembled here, beneath the old mill. A kind of large-scale cabinet of curiosities, I suppose.” I gaze around in awe, imagining all the work that must have gone into this place. “Of course,” Geoffrey lowers his rumbling voice, “there are accounts of the place being terribly haunted, but that’s a story for another time. Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything myself, mind. Ah.” He straightens up suddenly, making me jump as he taps his silver-tipped cane and points it towards a figure emerging from the gloom. “Tommy! Come over here and meet our latest victim – I mean recruit.” He laughs heartily, and I try to join in, but my mouth is full of sawdust. “Niamh, Tommy, Tommy, Niamh.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Miss.” He says jokingly and sweeps his flat cap off to doff it in my direction before I can get a good look at his face. Like Geoffrey, he’s dressed in period costume, but while my guide is obviously a higher-class sort, Tommy has something of the street urchin about him. I try to squint a good look at him as he replaces the hat and realize that the entire room has gone dark, bar the glow from a tall black streetlamp.

  “You too,” I say, distracted. “Is there something wrong with the lights, Geoffrey?”

  “Oh, no.” Tommy smiles. His teeth flash white in the dark and I spy the shadow of a dimple in his left cheek. I’m a sucker for dimples. “They’re on a timer. It’s rigged so it goes from sunrise to sunset every fifteen minutes. Listen.” Sure enough, I hear the faint hoot of an owl where I’m fairly certain there was birdsong not long ago. “It’s all to add to the atmosphere.” It gradually becomes a little lighter. The dark blonde strands of hair that peek from his cap gleam in the gathering light. He is gorgeous.

  “Tommy here is a volunteer, too.” Geoffrey’s voice breaks the spell – I almost forgot he was here. “Feel free to ask him anything.”

  Tommy beams at me and hooks his thumbs behind the braces holding up his loose cotton trousers. “Absolutely anything.” He grins. I’m grateful it’s not fully light. Oh, my.

  “Come on, let me show you the staff area and find your costume, Niamh.” Tommy gives me a cheeky wave as I follow Geoffrey once more, desperately trying not to trip up over my own feet. My knees have turned to jelly, and my cheeks are flaming. I chance one more look behind me, but he’s already gone. My heart drops somewhere around my knees.

  Oh, girl. You’re in trouble.

  I twirl around in the small staff dressing room, admiring myself in the mirror. I thought I’d end up with some kind of tacky
, Victorian maid’s outfit but instead I’m wearing one of the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen.

  It turns out I’ll be playing the part of the wealthy mill owner’s daughter, loosely based on the family who once lived here. It’ll be my job to wander around the street with my little wicker basket, approaching groups who visit to tell them stories, all the while taking on the persona of an early nineteenth century lady. I have a bit of recommended reading to do from Geoffrey, to get myself caught up with the history of the area. I remember Ruth at the library and I’m pretty sure she’ll be able to help me out.

  I dig my phone out of my newly allocated locker. Meghan definitely needs to see this dress; she’ll lose her mind over it. Luckily, as it’s only a costume, it doesn’t have the layers of corsetry and petticoats that Geoffrey assured me were the order of the day, but some clever dress making has created the illusion of both.

  I snap a mirror selfie, poking my tongue out for my sister’s benefit, and study the picture before I send it. The fabric of the dress is a shiny, satiny silk, embroidered all over with tiny sprigs of pink blossom and delicate green leaves. It has a high, square neckline, overlaid with the most delicate lace. Wide sleeves puff out from my shoulders before tightly gathering back in at the elbow, where they enclose my arms all the way down to the wrist. Tiny buttons march down the front of the bodice to my waist, which is wrapped in a thick, black velvet ribbon. The skirt billows out in an explosion of fabric, skimming the floor and sweeping a large circle around my feet.

  I feel like a princess.

  I loosen my hair from its messy French braid and smile as the dark waves cascade down my back. Perfect. I send the first snap and take another, of the back this time. The ribbon around my waist is thicker at the rear and a large bow sits atop the small bustle, which I adore. I pout and add a little crown emoji to the photo and send that one too, before I realize there’s no signal on my phone, nothing at all. Great. Must be because we’re in the basement – I bet the walls are two feet thick in an old building like this.