“Maria, it’s okay.” Ripper starts walking over to her but Maria runs to the door and, after fumbling with the handle, speeds out of the room.
There’s an awkward silence.
“Did I mention that the visions can change? That they’re not actually set in stone.” I tell no one in particular. “And I mean, if this is how she reacts to something so changeable, is she really the right person to—” I trail off as I see the look the detective is throwing my way.
I’d probably be best just keeping my mouth shut.
“Instead of discussing my team — who you know nothing about — how about you keep those opinions inside that pretty little head of yours and tell us what you know.”
My mouth drops open. I stare at the detective in shock. I sit back on the sofa and tell him and Ripper the rest of the story as quickly as I can. Hoping that the quicker I tell them, the quicker I can leave.
“I’m going to find Maria. Stay with her,” Detective Mitchell says to Ripper when I finish my recounting.
“Will do, boss.”
Detective Mitchell nods to Ripper and then stares at me long enough that I begin to squirm under his gaze. He finally walks out of the room, closing the door with a firm click behind him. Walking over to the desk, Ripper pulls out a chair, throws himself down, puts his feet up, and closes his eyes — leaving me to my own devices.
I get up and have a wander round the room. Everything I try to open is locked, and the papers piled high on the desk aren’t anything interesting like I thought they would be. Going over to the door, I try the handle. To no avail. It’s locked. I try it again and rattle it harder but it doesn’t open.
Turning around, I look at Ripper but he’s got his eyes closed and looks as though he’s asleep. Probably because he knew the door would be locked and that he didn’t actually need to keep an on eye me.
“So why Ripper? I mean, surely that’s a bit of a harsh name just for being able to read someone’s memories?” I ask him as I continue walking around the room, looking for anything that may be of use. I sneak a glance at him: his eyes are open and he’s watching me intently as I walk around; so intently, in fact, that my face begins to flush. I quickly look away.
“Well, that’s not all I can do.” He pauses for dramatic effect and then lowers his voice as be beckons me closer. When I’m within touching distance he gestures for me to lean down.
Hesitating for only a second, I do and I shiver as I feel his mouth hovering so close to my skin.
“I can also rip away their memories.”
I jerk up, expecting to see laughter creasing his face. It’s the opposite though: his eyes are sombre and there’s a look of sadness on his face.
“Oh,” Is all I manage to say. I gulp and turn away, not knowing how to make it better, but for some reason wishing I could.
Sitting down on the sofa, I try to sift through my feelings. I should be elated. Finally, being believed and being able to talk openly should have lifted that veil of darkness that’s always around me. But it’s hard to feel happy. Have you ever had a secret, one that you’ve had to keep to yourself because you’re too scared of how people might react? Then when you finally talk to someone about the secret they just accept it and carry on as though nothing changed, but then you’re on edge waiting for something to happen? That’s exactly how I’m feeling right now.
And of course, in my case, something does happen.
Chapter Six
It starts with Detective Mitchell and Maria coming silently back into the room. I wait for them to lock the door, but they don’t. They just walk in and stand and stare at me. The air becomes charged, getting thick enough to walk on. Still, no one says a thing. I’ve never been patient, but can’t think of a way to break the silence. That ball is back in my stomach and I can just tell that I don’t want to know why they’re staring at me.
Standing up slowly and carefully as though I’m trying to pass a waiting tiger, I work my way towards to the door.
“I’m just going to the toilet,” I tell them.
Wrapping my fingers around the handle, I pull it down and stare in confused silence as the door doesn’t open. I rattle the handle a few more times before finally admitting to myself that the door isn’t going to open.
I look at them in horror and see that Maria’s face is screwed up in concentration as she mutters something and stares at the door.
“I can’t let you leave just yet.” Detective Mitchell says, gesturing to the seat I’d just vacated. “Sit down. We’ll discuss a few things first, and then you can go.”
“If it’s all the same to you, Detective, I actually need to get going now. I do really need the toilet.” I look up and see the time and realise it can’t hurt to mention the fact that people will miss me if I’m not where I’m supposed to be.
“It’s also quite early, or late depending on which way you look at it, and I need to get home and get a bit of sleep before I go to work in the morn…” I trail off as I realise that no one is actually listening to me.
Ripper looks as I imagine I do, wishing that the ground would open and swallow us both into it. The detective, however, has a false smile plastered on his face and is moving towards me. I start looking around for something I can use as a weapon but the room is nearly as sparse as the awful cell had been. I know I’m really not going to like this.
“What do you want?” I ask Detective Mitchell on a sigh of breath.
“If you just sit down and give me the chance to explain, I’m sure you won’t mind.”
“I’ll stay standing, thanks.”
He nods and carries on walking over to me. I back myself further into the door, trying to make myself as small as possible, but that doesn’t stop him. He carries on walking towards me. Thinking he’s going to grab me, I wait until the last second and dart out of the way so I don’t see another flash of his death.
That was a mistake.
A look of triumph crosses the detective’s face; he’s now leaning against the door. Maria stops muttering and Detective Mitchell opens the door and then closes it with a grin on his face. My escape is now blocked by a big bear of a man that I know I’m not going to be able to get past.
A touch on my shoulder makes me jump. I brace myself for what’s to come, but it’s not what I expect.
“Sorry,” whispers through my mind as I’m thrown back into my own memories.
“Try to relax. It won’t hurt as much if you just let it come.”
I’m startled to hear the voice of someone else inside my head and tense up even more, but the more I tense the more I hurt. And the more I hurt, the harder it is to relax and the more I tense. It’s a vicious, unending circle. Memories swirl around inside my mind and I can’t stop them or control the order in which they’re happening.
“Please relax.”
I finally recognise the voice in my mind: it’s Ripper. He’s found the memory of when I saw my first ghost, when I saw my first death vision, the reactions of my family when I told them what I could do.
“You’re just like your father,” my mum screams at me again. Sessions with therapists telling me that I was saying wasn’t real, leaving my family home. More memories speed on by.
My first kiss, crying over a broken heart, days at work — no part of my life seems safe.
The vision of the recent murder finally comes to the surface. The process slows down. The vision replays in full again and again and again as Ripper ekes out every minute detail.
I’ve never before felt sick when a vision was happening— only afterwards — but I feel sick now.
The words “I’m sorry” float through my mind again, followed by a sensation of my mind being pulled through broken glass.
Everything is hazy, it’s like trying to look through a kaleidoscope and it was making my brain hurt even more than it already is. As things finally start to clear up, I look next to me to see that Ripper is half collapsed against the sofa, face white as a ghost with circles under his eyes that
weren’t there before.
I want to make some witty remark, like, “Was it as good for you?” But I don’t even have the energy to speak. I close my eyes, hoping that will stop the nausea and dizziness. I feel a darkness swimming up inside of me. I try to fight it — something inside of me is screaming at me that I shouldn’t fall asleep — but it’s no use. The darkness wins and swallows me down.
Chapter Seven
I think I’m going to be sick from fatigue. I know I’ve technically been asleep but it wasn’t a restorative sleep. It was an ‘I passed out from exhaustion and pain’ kind of sleep.
I look up as someone walks through the door.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Breakfast,” The unnamed woman shoves a bag towards me and the smell of bacon and butter wafts up to me. My stomach sounds like there’s a storm brewing inside of it. Grabbing the bag, I take out a bacon bun and moan in ecstasy as the butter drips down my throat.
“Brekwastintetrfnkgme,” I mumble around my slice of heaven. She raises an eyebrow at me. Swallowing my mouthful, I try again.
“Breakfast is an interesting name,” I repeat, before taking another mouthful.
“Hurry up and eat, then I’ll show you to where you can get a shower.”
Seeing as she doesn’t ask me nicely, I decide to take tiny little bites of the food, savouring each mouthful as it slides down my throat. I try to make it last as long as possible but there’s only so long you can make a bacon bun last. Licking my fingers clean, I scrunch up the bag it came in and stand up, feeling a bit better for getting some food inside of me.
“Right then, Breakfast: where’re we off to?” Well, what else can I call her if she won’t tell me her name?
She rolls her eyes at me and walks out the room I don’t even cosnsider not following her. Getting out of this detective’s office is the top of my priority list. Happily following her down a corridor, I try a few times to get her to talk but she just ignores me. I take some time to study her instead as we walk down twisting corridor after twisting corridor. She’s quite nondescript: I don’t think I would recognise her if I saw her again. Everything about her was just average.
We finally get to a door with a sign that reads ‘Female Changing’ and walk through. Going over to a locker, the mystery woman pulls out a bag I recognise as my own.
“Hey, what’s that doing here?” I hate how high my voice goes when I get angry.
“Detective Mitchell sent someone to get some of your belongings.”
I can’t even form the words to express how angry I am. I stomp over and grab my bag. Opening it, it becomes apparent that it must have been a woman that packed it. The underwear matches and the clothes are an outfit. There is even my travel bag of essentials and a towel. My anger starts to melt, slightly; they’ve included everything I need but still, how dare they go into my home?
Considering kicking off a little bit, I take a deep breath to let loose, but realise it will delay the shower. So instead, I close my mouth and shut up. Grabbing my bag, I go into one of the cubicles and strip off, praying that the water will be warm. For once my prayers are answered and I stand underneath a blissful waterfall of warm water.
Just as I can feel myself drifting off, there’s a bang on the door that startles me.
“Hurry up, we don’t have all day.”
I have to bite my lip to stop from saying anything. Quickly washing my hair, I turn the shower off and get dressed as quickly as I can.
Tying my hair up so it’s out of the way, my mind flashes to Ripper. I have the sudden urge to see if there’s any makeup hiding in my bag but quickly change my mind.
Opening the door, I startle the woman as she’s about to knock on it again. I trail after her as she walks away.
“So, where’s Ripper?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. She might have no idea who Ripper is —it could just be a nickname. There was no need for me to worry though: without a break in her stride or even a glance back at me, she answers, “He got sent home this morning, I saw him on his way out, looked awful. Think he’d had a dodgy takeaway.”
I nod and accept this from her, but my gut tells me there is more to it. The officer takes me back to Detective Mitchell’s office where she hands me over to him and walks away as quickly as she can. It’s then just me and the detective in the room.
Throwing myself down on the sofa I’d been so happy to leave not long ago, I start to ask my questions.
“So, how’d you swing me getting a shower without that officer asking any questions?”
“Her name is PC Daniels, and I told her the truth.”
“The truth?” I raise an eyebrow. “That seems like a rare commodity around here.” And for some reason, I can’t see the truth going down very well.
“Yes, the truth. I told her you are helping us investigate the current murders and that due to being here all night helping us in that investigation, you needed a shower before we continued.”
I let out a snort of laughter at the fact that he’s saying I’m helping them: it’s not like I’d been given much choice. In fact, I distinctly remember trying to leave and them not letting me. And then feeling like someone was forcing their way through my head with a sledgehammer and dragging up my most painful memories.
Oh wait, that pretty much did happen.
“Where’s Ripper? PC…” I search for the name, but it’s already gone out of my head. “Anyway, she said he was sent home from a dodgy takeaway, but I don’t quite believe that.”
Mitchell just stares at me... and stares at me. It feels like he’s trying to burn away my eyes. I know he’s trying to make me break eye contact first but I refuse to look away. I already know there’s something going on, that much was evident last night, but now something else is happening and I don’t like not knowing. I carry on staring at him until he lets out a big sigh.
“Fine. Think about how you felt when you woke up and multiply it by ten: that’s how Ripper felt when he woke up.”
“So how did he wake up so much earlier than me then? I’d have expected him to still be asleep?” I make it a question at the end even though we both know it’s not.
“I woke up him. Dragged him out of the room to question him about what he’d seen. He didn’t particularly want to tell us so we did a truth spell and then I made someone on patrol drop him off at home. Are you happy now?”
Actually, I’m not, but I don’t feel the need to tell him that; it’s obviously a rhetorical question anyway. If anything, I’m actually a bit scared. If they could do something like that to a member of their own team, then what the hell does it mean for me?
Have you ever been in a situation that’s unbearably awkward but you can’t leave? One where you keep coming up with different scenarios in your head about what you could do to make it better or to actually be able to leave, or to think of something to say that will break the awful atmosphere? That’s what it’s like between me and the detective.
The silence in the room is getting thicker and thicker but I can’t think of anything to say to break it. I’ve got questions running through my mind, but I’m worried about what the answers will be.
Time slows to the point where I think even my heart has stopped beating. I wait and wait to hear it. Straining for something in the silence to make a noise, or to move, even the detective seems as though he is frozen.
Then one slow, thud, followed by another and the silence in the room is broken.
It’s around that time that the other thing the detective had said finally sunk into my mind.
I was helping them with the investigation.
Opening my mouth to protest, everything goes black.
Chapter Eight
“What the fuck do you mean you want me to walk around and touch random people?”
It takes a lot to make me angry enough to swear — I may say it in my head but I try to be respectful of other people and not say it out loud — but what h
ad just been said to me was more than enough to make me flip. I’ve spent the last ten years trying to avoid touching people, and now they want me to go around purposefully doing so? Making myself see horrific deaths of people?
I don’t think so.
That’s when I hear the safety catch of a gun. A barrel presses against my back. Things change quite quickly. We can have all the will in the world, but put a loaded gun against someone, well; you try to stick to doing the opposite. Did you even know English police carried guns? I didn’t. I suppose they’re not exactly normal police though, and we’re in a different room now from the detective’s office: this one is underground. I think. I woke up in here and Detective Mitchell hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with where ‘here’ is.
“We need to find out where this guy is operating from. Since you’re the only one who’s seen the building, you need to help us look for it. And whilst you’re looking for it, you can help us by trying to find the next victim.”
All the time the gun is kept pressed into my back. I don’t even know who by, I assumed it was Detective Mitchell but he’s just given the bullshit speech and is currently standing in front of my so it’s obviously not him. I try to protest, but it just falls on deaf ears. I’m prodded in the back until I start walking down an empty hallway that could do with brightening a bit. I try to turn around and see who it is that’s hustling me along, but the gun is pressed in harder and a gruff command for me to stay facing forward is issued.
I do as I’m told and the gun eases off slightly. I start focusing on my surroundings and trying to figure out where I am. The walls are bare of anything; they’ve not even been painted. It’s just stone, with damp patches every so often offering a different colour. There’re doors set into the wall at different intervals and windows in some offering a view into rooms that were strange, to say the least.
Stopping as I walk past one, I feel the gun prod into my back but they don’t force me to move on. The room I’m looking into is dark but something makes me want to go closer. I walk right up to the glass, feeling the barrel of the gun fall away until my nose os touching the glass. A mark appears on the glass straight away, my breath making it foggy. I go to move and then hear a rattling from behind the glass.
The Soul Catcher Page 3
