by Amy Cross
Ophelia
by Amy Cross
Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved
Published by ACBT Books
First published: June 2014
This edition first published: May 2016
http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com
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Ophelia
Table of Contents
Part One: The Mistake
Part Two: Hidden
Part Three: The Room
Part Four: Freedom
Part Five: The Eye
Part Six: Boats
Part Seven: Those We Trust
Part Eight: And Those We Leave Behind
Part One
The Mistake
Prologue
He moves slowly through the shadows, constantly clenching and then unclenching his swollen hands. It's a cold night, and cold nights always make the pain so much worse. All he can do is keep the joints moving and hope that he'll have time to finish the job; after all what kind of god would halt a man's progress when he's so close to the fulfillment of his life's purpose? Despite the agony, he reaches under his coat and, for the hundredth time tonight, he checks the hook.
It's still there.
The truth is, he didn't need to check at all. It's just part of the ritual, something he always does before a kill. A man should always check his tools before he gets to work. His father taught him that, and the lesson came down the family line from generation to generation.
"Come on," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder. "Take the bait."
Although he can't see them, he knows they're watching. Most of them have become so adept at hiding away, at being seen only when they want to be seen. Some of them are scared, some are angry, and some are too far gone to care. It's the curious ones he's after; the ones who know they should be careful but who inch forward anyway, telling themselves that nothing worse can happen to them. They think their lives have hit rock-bottom, but they're wrong. No matter how bad things seem, there's always the possibility of something even worse. More agony, more fear, more pain.
He knows all about pain.
"You're not trying to catch the whole shoal," his father used to say when they went fishing all those years ago. "Just one fish, that's all you need, so pick the one you're going for and make damn sure you get his attention. You might not be able to see him at first, but just trust that he's there. Whatever you do, don't force it. Let him come to you."
Those days are long gone and his father has been dead for years, but the old man's words still ring true, and they still provide solace. The family has lived by these rules for so long, maintaining a proud tradition. He knows that he doesn't have long left, but he's determined to pass the baton.
"As long as you can see the shoal,” his father told him once, “you can be sure that one of them will come for the bait. There's always one."
He keeps walking. In the distance, he can see dark figures lurking in the shadows. Pathetic excuses for human beings, they're nothing more than the detritus of society, washed up along the banks of the Thames. Homeless and hopeless, they're barely even alive. London has always provided plenty of disposable human beings, people who won't be missed.
Stopping for a moment, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled five pound note. He gives it an extra squeeze, grimacing as thin strands of pain shoot along his nerves. Finally he forces his hand open and drops the cash to the ground, before turning and continuing on his way. He keeps his eyes fixed firmly forward, but after just a few steps he hears a scrabbling sound over his shoulder, followed by the faintest noise of the money being picked up. Unable to hide a faint smile, he keeps walking, but now he's certain he's caught one.
The rest can scatter if they don't want to watch. If blood offends them.
"If only they could learn," his father used to say. "If only they could see the mistakes of their brothers and warn one another. They can't, though. They're too dumb and too desperate."
He makes his way to the far end of the underpass and then out into the evening air. This is always his favorite part of the hunt: the moment when he lures his prey into the open. Sometimes they don't take the bait; they realize the danger they're in, or they've heard enough of the rumors to stay well back. Most nights, though, they reluctantly follow him into the tall grass that fills the otherwise barren land between the exit of the underpass and the dark, looming facade of the power station. Above, a dark blue sky glows with a hint of orange from the over-lit city, hiding the stars. It's as if the whole world is buzzing and holding its breath.
Nearby, a late-night train rattles toward the river.
"Hey!" a female voice calls out from the darkness.
He stops. The girl's voice is unusually loud and forthcoming, as if its owner wants to project an image of strength. The weakest members of a herd are often the loudest, as if they think pure bluster can offset their crippling sense of inferiority. He can tell, though, that the deal is already sealed. Once again, he reaches under his coat and checks the hook.
"How much," the voice continues, "and for what?"
He waits.
"Well?" she asks again, a little more plaintively this time. “What do you want?”
Slowly, he turns and sees that a hunched figure has followed him out from the underpass. It's too dark to make out any of the girl's features, but her silhouette suggests a short, squat individual wrapped in multiple layers of clothing.
"You dropped something," she continues. "It wasn't an accident, was it? I saw you. You stopped and did it on purpose, and then you did it again a bit later."
He doesn't reply.
"So what do you want?" she asks. "Maybe I can make it happen for you, yeah? That's what I do. I make dreams come true."
Silence.
"What's your dream, then?" she adds, taking a step toward him. "You must want something."
Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a small bundle of cash and crumples it in his fist. He knows the noise will excite the girl and make her come closer; sure enough, she takes a couple more steps, but she still seems hesitant. Sometimes it's like this; the prey holds back, trying to be careful. It's a losing battle, of course, and he knows he's already got her hooked, but he finds it interesting to observe the different ways they try to save themselves. This one, for example, seems to suspect that she's being tricked, but she's either too desperate to resist or too arrogant to believe she could get caught.
"If in doubt," his father used to say to him, "just stay completely still. As long as the bait's in the water, the fish'll still come. Even if most of them are too wary, all you need is for one of them to take the risk. Just one."
"So what's wrong?" she asks, stepping closer. "I mean, if you've come all the way down here, you must want something. It's okay if you're shy, everyone's shy. You need to tell me what you're after, though. I can't guess. I'm not a fucking mind-reader."
He waits.
"Don't pull on the line too soon," his father always reminded him, "even if you're desperate. You'll scare it away."
"You nervous, mate?" the girl continues. "Is that what it is? I can help you relax. It's not a big deal, yeah? We'll just go somewhere kinda private. I suck cock like a queen, if you're interested."
He stares at her silhouette, trying to imagine the expression on her face. She's still trying very hard to sound tough, but he can detect the faintest tremor in her voice. The harder she tries, the more obvious it becomes that she's puffing herself up. He's quite sure that she's probably, at heart, a weak little thi
ng who has been forced to toughen her hide since she came to live on the streets. He meets many like this, and they always end up screaming the loudest. Well, screaming's not quite the right word. It's more of a sustained, breathless gurgle.
Nearby, another train passes.
"Mate, you're gonna have to say something," the girl continues, taking another step toward him. "I ain't doing nothing without a deal first, yeah? You say what you want, I name a price, and we get things sorted. Don't have to be more complicated than that. I like the silent types, but you've gotta say a few words."
She takes another half step toward him, and finally he can see her face. She looks to be no more than a teenager, but she has dark, ringed eyes that hint at past trauma, while her dark hair is thin and straggly. Her nose is crooked, as if it's been broken at some point in the past and not set properly, and her mouth is hanging slightly open, as if she's having trouble breathing. She's not as thin as most of them, though, which makes him think that she hasn't been on the streets for long. There'll be more fat to cut through, more gristle to discard, but these things hardly matter. All he really cares about is the very first cut.
"Alright," she says, taking another step closer. "Don't take this the wrong way, mate, but you're being weird. If you don't tell me what you want, I'm gonna fuck off. You can't just stand there and expect someone to, like, read your mind."
She's so close now, she's almost within touching distance.
"Fuck," the girl says after a moment. "What's wrong with your hands?"
Despite the pain, he tightens his grip on the hook. He likes the feel of the metal in the palm of his hand, and the comforting weight of a well-chosen tool. The hook is old, from a fishing boat, and it's attached to his wrist with a thick chain. It's heavy and strong enough to lift an entire crate of sprats; in fact, it's a little too heavy for his liking. Still, he's learned to love this hook, and to appreciate the way it cuts through flesh.
"What's that?" the girl asks, sounding a little more nervous than before. "Okay, fuck this shit, I'm -"
Before she can finish, he reaches out and grabs her neck; pulling her closer, he rams the tip of the hook under her chin, forcing the rusty metal up through the base of her neck before twisting it through the bottom of her jaw and up through her tongue; finally, the tip of the hook emerges from the front of her mouth, knocking out a few teeth in the process. She lets out a gargled scream as she tries to push him away, but he merely steps aside and lets her fall down onto the grass. As she moans and tries to get free, he starts dragging her away, letting her flailing body bump against the rough ground. She's still trying to get the hook out of her jaw, but she doesn't have a hope. He knows she'll be running out of breath soon, since the metal has pierced her esophagus and she can't get any air down to her lungs. She's gasping, but the air that rushes into her mouth is rushing straight back out through the hole in her neck.
Finally, getting to the broken concrete walkway that runs alongside the power station's rear wall, he stops and looks down at the girl as she struggles to breathe. For a moment, it occurs to him that maybe he could be merciful and end her life quickly. He could bash her head against a wall, or cut her heart out. Instead, he merely watches for a couple of minutes as she gasps and struggles, like a freshly-landed fish. Eventually, her frantic attempts to get free start to fade, and all that's left is for her body to twitch and splutter for a few more seconds before she falls still. He waits, and another thirty seconds pass before the girl jerks one final time.
And it's done.
Reaching under his coat, he pulls out the same set of knives he's been using for years. Once, they belonged to his father; now they belong to him, and one day they'll belong to his own son. They were designed to gut fish, but they work just as well on people.
Chapter One
Laura
"Ms. Foster, do you have any comment on the jury's decision today?"
Turning, I try to hurry the other way, but there are several more reporters already hurrying up the stairs toward me. I pause for a moment, desperately trying to work out if there's another way out of this damn place, before finally realizing that I'm going to have to face the music. They're never going to give up; they can smell blood, and they figure they can use me to fill some screen-time before the news cycle moves on. I should just give them what they want and hope they get bored. After all, I'm a pretty boring person.
"Relax," Tricia whispers in my ear, "and don't forget to breathe."
"Ms. Foster," a reporter says as he and a gaggle of others reach me, "do you think the judge's comments about your professional conduct in this case were fair?"
I pause for a moment and try to arrange a smile on my face. It's not easy, and right now I just want to pop out of existence. I've never been good when it comes to dealing with the media.
"Ms. Foster," another reporter calls out, "do you feel personally responsible for the mistakes that were made, or do you think your entire department failed?"
"Okay, one at a time," I say tentatively, as cameras flash all around me. "The judge..." I pause again, trying to get my thoughts in order. "The judge is entitled to his views," I continue, picking each word carefully, "and I fully support his decision to offer his thoughts on the way the police... on the way our department in particular... handled the situation. We're going to take some time to go over his comments and try to work out what we can do differently in future, and I'd like to thank the judge for -"
"Do you agree with his suggestion that your own competence has been called into question?"
"I appreciate his very candid remarks," I say carefully, "and obviously some of those remarks were very difficult for me. However, I fully support his right to outline his opinion, and I recognize that his years of experience give him a very powerful perspective. He made a very blunt assessment of some of the decisions I made -"
"He recommended disciplinary action against you," says a woman from the BBC, shoving a microphone toward me while her colleague aims a camera straight at my face. "Are you going to submit yourself to a review board, or are you going to wait and see if a review panel decides to investigate your handling of the case?"
"Are you going to resign?" calls out another voice.
I pause, and for a moment it's as if my mind has become completely blank.
"How are you feeling right now?" the same voice calls out again.
The gaggle of journalists seems to fall completely still, as if they're all waiting for my response.
"How are you feeling?" the voice asks. "On a personal level?"
"I'm going to talk to a lot of people," I reply after a moment, trying (and mostly failing) to keep from looking directly into any of the cameras. "I'm sure there'll be a lot of opinions, but I want to make one thing absolutely clear. From the outset, this case has been focused on one thing and one thing only: discovering the identity of the person who murdered Natasha Simonsen and left her body in that hotel room. Let's not forget that although Daniel Gregory has been cleared of involvement, there's still a dead young woman and there's still a grieving family. Natasha was a bright, popular student who had a great future ahead of her. The investigation into her murder has to remain our priority."
"Do you still have the confidence of your superior officers?"
"I certainly hope so," I reply, forcing a smile that I quickly realize is probably ill-advised. "Whatever their view, I'm sure they'll let me know in due course. We still need to think of Natasha Simonsen, though, and her untimely -"
"What about Daniel Gregory?" asks another reporter, interrupting me. "Are you going to apologize to him personally? Do you feel you owe him that much?"
"Would you consider a joint TV appearance?" another voice calls out.
"I would very much welcome the opportunity to speak to Mr. Gregory," I reply, trying to sound reasonable. "In private, of course. I appreciate that he's been through a significant ordeal, and I'm aware that he most likely has some very strong opinions regarding our handling of the case
. I think we should focus, though, on the fact that the British justice system has done its job and ensured that an innocent man walks free."
"And do you fully accept the jury's decision?" asks the woman from the BBC. "Is Daniel Gregory off your list of suspects now?"
"Absolutely," I reply, trying to ignore the wave of nausea in the pit of my stomach. "Mr. Gregory walks free from the court today without a mark against his name. I'm sure he's been through a great ordeal."
"And do you accept that he's innocent?" asks another reporter.
I pause.
"Do you?" the reporter adds.
"Absolutely," I say through gritted teeth. "The court has made its decision, and we must abide by the verdict they reached. That's the way the justice system works."
"He's coming out the side door!" shouts a voice.
As one, like a huge shoal of chattering fish, the journalists rush back down the steps and head over to a door at the far end of the main hall, where Daniel Gregory and his lawyers are waiting to deliver a statement. For a moment, Gregory and I make eye contact, and it occurs to me that maybe I should go over and try to make some kind of public apology. After all, twenty-four-hour rolling news channels are unforgiving, and it might be a good idea if -
"Don't even think about it," Tricia hisses, grabbing my arm and steering me back along the corridor.
"I should say something," I tell her, even though I'm glad she's giving me an excuse to get the hell out of here.
"Were you ever given media training?" she asks.
"I'm not sure, I -"
"Jesus Christ," she mutters, "sometimes you're so fucking green around the gills. You do not walk over to someone and apologize in front of the nation's media just a few minutes after you were accused of framing them for murder!"
