by Cross, Amy
Right now, I have my own legacy to consider.
Taking one of my notebooks, I sit at the desk and turn to the first clear page. I shall have to set down my thoughts, so that others can be directed to understand why I did what I did. I want future generations to know the name Charles Grazier, to recognize my brilliance. While I believed during the night that the world did not deserve to benefit from my work, now I feel that I should at least give them the chance. If they are too stupid to understand my breakthroughs, then at least they cannot say they were not afforded an opportunity.
“My name is Charles Grazier,” I whisper as I write the first words of this letter, “and over the past few weeks I have made several astounding medical breakthroughs.”
I pause for a moment and re-read the sentence, before tearing the page out and tossing it aside.
I am being too humble here.
I should be proud of my achievements.
“Do not worry, my dear,” I say finally, glancing over at Catherine as her body remains covered by the silk sheet. “One day, everyone will know the name Charles Grazier. Why, my accomplishments shall be taught in schools all over the world. I just have to take some time to set my legacy in place, that's all. I have to make sure that the fools understand.”
With that, I start writing again. As soon as this letter is complete, I shall go and kill the madman who is down in my basement. And then, finally, I shall be ready to go and join Catherine in the next life.
Chapter Ten
Maddie
Today
“And I told you,” Officer Wallace says with a sigh, “that I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to put my hand over your mouth like that. I thought I was grabbing your shoulder, but you turned out to be shorter than I realized. I guess I panicked and I thought you were going to run off and I missed. I'm really, really sorry. Now can you please just tell me your name?”
We're at the side of the road, sheltering in a bus stop near the spot where his patrol car is parked with its lights off. Wallace is holding a notebook, and he clearly isn't going to give up in his quest for my details. To be honest, I'd be out of here by now if I didn't need to use this blanket to dry my hair a little. Besides, although I hate being anywhere near the police, I figure it makes me a little safer for now.
Glancing over my shoulder, I look back toward the river, but there's no sign of the silhouetted man who was following me earlier. Either he's long gone, or he's keeping his distance while there's a police officer around. I'm not quite sure where I should go next, where I should spend the rest of this stormy night, but at least for now I've got time to think.
When I turn back to the officer, I can't help noticing that his uniform seems a little big, as if it doesn't quite fit.
“Aren't you a little short for a policeman?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Is that your actual uniform?”
“Of course. I just -” He furrows his brow a little. “Never mind. That's not important right now. I really need to know your name.”
“Your notebook's wet.”
“Huh?”
“Your notebook is wet.”
He looks down at his notebook, which has indeed caught some rainwater. Muttering something under his breath, he starts flipping through the pages, trying to find a section that's dry.
“Don't worry,” I continue. “As long as you didn't, like, kill a real policeman and steal his uniform, or anything like that.”
“What? Why would you think that?”
I shake my head. I know what I'm doing; I'm trying to make myself sound like Alex, because Alex is always tough in situations like this. I remember being in awe when I first saw her talking back to a police officer. I thought she was going to get herself into so much trouble, but somehow she slipped out of the situation. But I'm not Alex, and I'm pretty sure I'm just coming across as an annoying little smart-ass.
“I've seen you before, you know,” Wallace continues. “It was you down by the river earlier today, wasn't it?”
“Maybe,” I mutter, as I realize that this must be the same officer who got stuck in the mud. “I'm glad you found a clean pair of trousers.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You know,” he continues, still seeming flustered, “we've got orders to get all homeless people off the streets. It's a temporary thing, while there's a -”
“There's a killer out here,” I reply, interrupting him. “I know. I've heard.”
“So you understand why I have to take you to one of the shelters tonight. It's not like I have a choice. Now how about you start by telling me your name?”
I shake my head.
“And why's that?”
“I don't want to. It's not important.”
“What if I make a deal with you?” he continues, sounding a little exasperated. “Give me a name, any name, and I promise I won't run it through the system. I'm supposed to, but I'll forget.”
“I don't need you to do me any favors,” I reply, as I peer past him and watch the night for any hint of the silhouetted man.
“I'll just drop you off at a shelter,” Wallace explains, “and you can give them the same fake information. They're supposed to check all the names, to make sure they're genuine, but between you and me I can promise you that they're not bothering. The people who set the rules about this sort of thing are also the people who give them about one tenth of the necessary budget. It's chaos at the centers, you'll have no trouble slipping through, and at least you'll be safe and warm and dry for the night.” He pauses. “Are you wanted for something? Is that why you're reluctant?”
“No,” I reply, turning back to him. “It's not like that.”
“How old are you?”
I shake my head, determined not to answer.
“Okay,” he says finally, “I get it. You don't want to be found. Ordinarily I'd argue with you, but tonight's different. Tonight I just need to get you off the street, to somewhere safe.”
“They're going around to the shelters,” I tell him.
“I'm sorry?”
“Parents. Families. They're going around, looking in all the shelters.” I shudder at the thought. “It was on the news. Families are going to all the shelters, trying to find people. It doesn't matter what name you give the people on the desks. Families are turning up and they're being allowed to go in and search for people.”
“And would that be so bad?” He pauses. “You're, what, sixteen? Seventeen? Why are you so worried about your family finding you?”
“I don't want my father to find me,” I reply. “And no, it's not because of what you're thinking. It's nothing that obvious. I don't want to say why I ran away from home, I haven't told anyone. I just had to leave. And I'm staying away. As soon as I hit eighteen, I can start getting help and they won't have a duty to contact anyone on my behalf.”
“I'm not sure that's exactly how it works,” he says. “I could check the -”
“It's only a few more months!” I say firmly, raising my voice a little as rain continues to come crashing down. Realizing that I've allowed myself to become distracted, I look around again, still worried that I might see the silhouetted man. There's no sign of him, however, so I turn back to the officer and see that he's staring at me with an expression of concern. “I'll be fine,” I tell him, setting the towel down. “I've lasted this long. I can last a little longer. I just need to be careful for the next few nights.”
“And why would -”
“Why don't you go and do your job?” I ask. “Go and catch the person who killed those two girls.”
“Three girls.”
“What?”
“There was another one tonight.” He sighs. “Over in Hammersmith. At least, we think it was the same guy. We're waiting for forensics.”
“Another murder?”
He nods.
“And was it...”
My voice trails off for a moment as I remember what I heard about the first two girls.
/> “Was it the same thing?” I ask, reaching down and touching my belly. “Like, did he...”
“Yeah, he did. It was pretty nasty.”
“So instead of sitting here bugging me,” I continue, feeling a shudder pass through my chest, “you should be out there helping to catch him!”
“We have officers and -”
“I can take care of myself!”
Getting to my feet, I manage to avoid his hand as he tries to grab me, and I grab my backpack from the bench. As I step out into the rain, however, I slow for a moment as I realize that I'm not entirely sure where to go. Ahead, there's another dark London park, while the river is a little further off in the distance. Glancing around, I see gloomy office buildings and, above those, the faint outlines of cranes. Rain is crashing down all around me, and finally I turn and look back at the police officer.
“I can't let you run off into the night,” he tells me. “Listen, if you won't let me take you to one of the shelters, at least let me drop you off somewhere like a cafe, something like that. I can give you some money and -”
“I have money!” I snap, although I know I can't tell him about the couple of hundred pounds I got from selling the earrings.
“I want to help you!”
“I'll find somewhere to stay,” I reply, although I step back under the bus stop's cover so that I don't get soaked again. “I promise. I have enough for a room somewhere. I'll go and find some rundown hotel and I'll get a room. As soon as the rain calms down, I'll head off and find a place.”
I'm not even sure that I'm lying. On a night like this, it'd be good to get off the streets, and then tomorrow I can head off to find Alex. I've been putting that off, figuring that I should wait until the panic is over, but now I'm starting to think that I should just head over to Stratford and start tracking her down. She'll know what to do, even in a situation like this. Alex wouldn't let some lame serial killer get to her. Alex is too cool.
If anything, however, the rain is getting worse by the second.
“Every hotel in the city is rammed,” Wallace says finally as we stand side-by-side in the brightly-lit stop, surrounded by darkness on all sides. “They were worried people'd stay away once the murders began, but the opposite has happened. People are flying in from all over the world, just so they can experience what's happening. I don't get people like that, but I guess in some way it's a part of human nature. There are even groups who go out each night, hoping to find a body. They're not exactly helping our attempts to find the killer.”
“I have friends,” I tell him. “I'll be alright.”
He sighs, and I can tell that he's not convinced.
“I know these streets like the back of my hand,” I remember Alex saying once, back when we first met. She sounded so impressive. “There's nothing out here that can hurt me.”
“I know these streets like the back of my hand,” I say now, hoping to maybe sound a little tougher than I know I look. “There's nothing out here that can hurt me, so just stop worrying.”
“Seriously?” he replies. “Listen, whatever your name is, I get it. You're not going to let me take you to a shelter, and I don't want to let you go wandering off into the night. And I really, really don't want to stand here shivering in the night like this for much longer. In case you haven't noticed, it's starting to rain sideways. So the way I see it, there's only one compromise on the table for us.”
“Compromise?” I pause for a moment, trying to work out what he means. “What kind of compromise?”
Chapter Eleven
Doctor Charles Grazier
Sunday September 30th, 1888
“Are you okay up there, Doctor Grazier?” Jack calls out from downstairs. “I'm almost done clearing up the glass. Do you want me to come back up to help you?”
“Not quite yet!” I reply, wincing a little as I continue to fumble around the underside of the bed. I know there's a knife hidden here somewhere, a remnant of Catherine's fear of intruders, yet with these bandages on my hands I'm struggling to locate the handle. “I'm quite alright. Please, won't you see if you can find something you can use to cover the window?”
“You sound a little out of breath!”
“I'm fine!”
“Are you sure you don't want me to come up?”
“No!” I say firmly, still fumbling to try to find the knife. “Stay down there and find something to cover the window. That is what I need right now.”
There's a pause, and I hesitate for a moment, worried that I might hear feet on the stairs.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Anything you say, Doctor Grazier!”
I hear him heading back down to the basement, and it's clear that the fool is keen on his chores. Dangerous he might be, but I believe this Jack fellow has to be severely developmentally slow. In fact, despite the knife that he persists in wielding, I rather feel that he has the naivety of a child. Still, it would be useful if I could find Catherine's knife, so I lean down a little further, running my hands along the inside of the frame.
When that doesn't work, I get to my feet and look round the room, hoping to spot something else that I can use as a weapon. Heading to the desk, I look down at the letter I finished writing a short while ago. I believe I have explained my actions in a suitable manner, and the world should understand me once I am gone. Looking out the window, I see that the street is now rather busy. It must be at least nine o'clock in the morning, and London has woken from its slumber. I dare say the two dead whores from the night are a subject of great discussion.
Getting down onto my knees, I reach under the desk, still searching for the knife. Perhaps I misremembered, perhaps -
Suddenly I freeze as I hear the doorbell ringing.
Staying completely still for a moment, I try to imagine who could possibly be at my door so early in the morning. I had no appointments arranged for today, and no deliveries that are due. And then, as I remain on my knees in the bedroom, I hear Jack's footsteps bounding up the stairs from the basement, and my heart fills with horror.
“It's alright, Doctor Grazier!” he calls out. “I'll answer!”
“No!” I shout. “Don't be a -”
Before I can finish, I hear the front door swinging open.
“Oh,” a familiar voice says, sounding a little surprised, “I... I beg your pardon, but... I'm sorry, is Doctor Charles Grazier at home?”
Too shocked to quite know what I should do, I take a moment to realize where I have heard this voice before.
“Oh no,” I whisper, before stumbling to my feet with such haste that I bang my leg hard against the side of the desk. “Culpepper. Please, no...”
“Won't you come in?” I hear Jack saying, followed by the sound of the door swinging further open and then two sets of footsteps entering the hallway. “Doctor Grazier is upstairs at the moment, but I'm sure he'll be down in just a moment.”
Hurrying out of the room, filled with a sense of absolute panic, I reach the top of the stairs just in time to see Thomas Culpepper and his wife Delilah stopping in the middle of the hallway. They look rather shocked as the madman Jack shuts the door behind them, and when Culpepper looks up at me I can immediately see that he fails to understand what is happening.
Jack, meanwhile, steps past them and then – horror of all horrors – places a hand on Culpepper's shoulder.
Culpepper immediately pulls away.
“And there he is right now,” Jack says, turning to me and effecting a mock bow. “Doctor Grazier, I was about to come up and announce that you have visitors.”
For a moment, I can only stare at the terrible scene. Not only has Jack greeted my visitors, not only is he dressed like some kind of ruffian from the less reputable parts of London, but there is still some broken glass on the floor and he has left the basement door wide open.
“I wasn't aware that you employed a manservant,” Culpepper stammers, his voice filled with great uncertainty. “This is quite a surprise, Charles.”
I know I s
hould reply, but my mouth is so awfully dry and I cannot think of any words that might suffice.
“Oh, I usually keep round the back,” Jack continues, stepping past the visitors and then stopping to more closely admire Delilah. “I go in and out the trade entrance, if you know what I mean. I'm terribly sorry if my ramshackle appearance has caused either of you any distress. Particularly you, M'am. Please, I must apologize for the smell. Oh, and the glass too.”
Bending down, he starts gathering up a few more shards that he evidently missed earlier.
“Your window is broken,” Culpepper says, having noticed the broken half-circle window. “Charles, is everything quite alright? And what in the blazes happened to your wrists, man? Have you been injured?”
For a moment, it occurs to me that I could tell him the truth. I could beg him to run and fetch help, although I quickly realize that this would set off a chain of events that would quickly spiral out of control. For one thing, Catherine's body is still resting upstairs on the bed; for another, it is imperative that I shape the narrative of recent events, so that outsides do not misunderstand my actions and come to think of me as some kind of common murderer. My letter is nicely prepared, and all will be well if I can just persuade Culpepper and his wife to leave swiftly.
Then I can deal with Jack on my own.
And then I can go to join Catherine.
“Everything is absolutely wonderful,” I say, as I start making my way down the stairs. I run my hand along the banister for a moment as I walk, but then – realizing that I am trembling with shock – I put both my hands behind my back in a manner that probably seems rather unnatural. “I merely called this gentleman in to help clear up the mess from the window, and to install some new glass. He is working for me.”
“That's right,” Jack says with a grin as he gets to his feet, holding the pieces of broken glass in his filthy hands. “That's what I'm doing here.”
“My dear,” Delilah whispers to her husband, just loud enough for the rest of us to hear, “the smell in here is... I think it's coming from that awful man.”
