The Half Killed

by Quenby Olson

  * * *

  He holds his knife and fork at odd angles, as if he's afraid to smudge the cutlery with his fingerprints. The first bite disappears between his lips, barely given the softest of chews before it passes to the back of his mouth and down his throat. The second bite follows with almost the same swiftness of the first, but by the time the third forkful of sausage is raised to his lips, he pauses, suddenly conscious of my gaze upon him.

  His shoulders are the first to react, shifting beneath the stiff lines of his coat. The movement continues down the length of his spine, until he has nothing left but to slide forward to the edge of his seat. One elbow leaves the tabletop, the other one suspended in the air beside him, retreating to his rib cage before he becomes aware of this new discomfort and it pushes out once more. Finally, the third bite is done away with, his jaw working slowly at first, his body settling into the awkward pose of one not accustomed to dining across from another person.

  The dining house is small and sweltering, and the waitress weaves leisurely from box to box, carrying a meagre stack of plates, their steaming contents hidden beneath metal covers. I pick up my fork and chase a handful of peas along the rim of my plate, finally stabbing one of them before it rolls off the edge and leaves a greasy stain on the tablecloth. The custom is sparse at this time of day, but I would've expected more people to use the house as an escape from the heat. As if guessing my thoughts, Chissick sweeps his fork from side to side, a new potato glistening on the tines.

  "It's a bit empty in here today." He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and washes it down with a swallow of ale and porter. When he speaks again, his voice is considerably lower. "You’d think it would light a fire under their bottoms…"Another sweep of the fork—now empty—takes in the whole of the dining house’s employ, most of them chatting quietly among themselves now that our meal has been delivered. "…not having as much custom to keep them occupied, but…" He stabs another potato, waits for the grease to drip from the crisp skin. "I’m not a man of business. Never had a head for it. Fortunately or unfortunately."

  It’s so quiet in the dining house, aside from the muttered conversation some tables away, that I almost feel as if we’ve trespassed in a private home.

  "I wonder how long until there’s no one left from here to Blackfriars," I say, and tease a parsnip with my knife.

  So engrossed is he in slicing a large cut of lamb into pieces, it takes him a minute or two to acknowledge me.

  "I’m sorry? What are you talking about?" He raises his arm to his mouth, ready to wipe a trail of gravy from his chin to his sleeve, but he sees me and so discreetly snags a corner of the tablecloth and uses that instead.

  "Hmm, no matter."

  And now I see my mistake, that I’ve succeeded in nothing more than garnering his interest. His eyes wide, he studies me with renewed curiosity.

  "What is it, Miss Hawes?"

  I blink and swallow a chunk of ham that had formerly lodged itself between my molars. "It’s not so much of a secret, really. I suspect the papers are trying to keep it quiet, wise on their part as it would avoid stirring up any kind of panic. But it's not as if one can hide dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands of people packing up and…" I stammer beneath his gaze as I search for the most fitting phrase. "High-tailing it out of London."

  "How bad is it?"

  Not a smidgen of doubt from him as to the veracity of my statement, only the slightest hesitation, and even that might have been missed if I hadn’t taken to watching for his reaction.

  "It must be the heat," I say, and I'm fully aware of how well I’ve deflected his query with only the first words to come from my mouth. "It started soon after, I suppose. I noticed a few people here and there, the poorer classes mostly, packing up and simply walking away. But I see more of them, still not many, but they remind me of..." I draw in a breath, whether for fortification or to allow myself some time to think, I'm not precisely sure. I wrap my fingers around my fork and drag it through a mangled pile of summer cabbage. "They want to escape. As if London is a sinking barge and they want to be gone before the rest of us are submerged."

  He leans forward, his elbows finding purchase on the tabletop. And if it weren't for the great slab of wood between us, I wonder how close he would be at this moment.

  "And why are you still in London, Miss Hawes?"

  The expression he presents is one that is all awkwardness with a touch of innocent curiosity. I've come to regard the directness of his gaze with some level of composure, though my preference is still to keep my audience at a distance.

  "Because I am not the sort to run away. I fear I’ve become more of a harbinger, of sorts."

  "A harbinger?" His mouth works around the word, tasting it, before a swallow sends it down for further digestion. "So you’re not afraid?"

  "Are you?"

  "The people I see every day, I see fear in their eyes. And I think they may know something the rest of us do not." He lowers his chin first, and his eyes release mine, his lashes fluttering as he gnaws at the inside of his cheek. "I don't mean to imply that you don't know. I beg your pardon, Miss Hawes."

  "Please, don't."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Apologise, Mister Chissick." I rub the narrow ridge between my eyes with the side of my thumb. "You don't need to apologise. I appreciate your concern, but I am sure it would take a great deal for anything you say to cause me the slightest bit of offence."

  His mouth moves, another apology already forming at the back of his throat, but he bites down on it, sends his eyes back to his own plate. And there sit the two of us, gazing into our platters as if we were both divining the future from an amalgam of gravy and lamb fricassee.

  "Miss Hawes," he begins, so softly that I fleetingly wish he would begin every speech with the pronouncement of my name. "What did you mean last night? When you said that this entity of yours…" He shakes his head, as if attempting to knock loose the desired words from inside it. "Who else has died because of it?"

  I set down my fork, clasp my hands in my lap. "If you’ve perused enough of the newspaper columns associated with myself, then I am sure you’ve seen mention of a certain tragedy in my past."

  "A tragedy?" He shakes his head, but only a few seconds pass before I see his brow clear, his eyes widen slightly as they fix on my face. "Your family?" And before I can respond, he ploughs forward, leaving his previous question behind. "But the reports of what happened were so wildly varied, yet most of them agreed that there must have been an intruder—"

  "There was no intruder. At least, none of the sort your imaginings can concoct."

  "And you’re sure it’s the same?"

  "Yes." And I pronounce the word just so, cutting down all further inquiries.

  We both attend to our meals, eating with greater haste now that the food has cooled, taking what flavour we can before we're both scraping our forks across empty plates.

  He remains seated at the table once his plate is removed, the set of his shoulders revealing no immediate intention to depart. Before him, his hands clasp and unclasp, and I wait for the words I can already sense a mere moment before they emerge from his mouth.

  "That night," he begins, his chin lowering an inch as he speaks. "How did you…?" His eyes close for a moment, longer than a mere blink. "How is it you were unharmed?"

  My own hands disappear beneath the edge of the tablecloth, my thumb sliding over the scars on my wrist until the movement takes on something of a ritual. A memory then, of a woman who briefly shared a room with me during my stay at the hospital in Chelsea. She was a Catholic, and even now, I can still hear the soft click of the beads they allowed her to keep, every attempt to remove them from her person only culminating in a violent outburst towards the nurses or her fellow patients. But the moment the beads returned to her grasp, the passion subsided, and she sank once more into a state of docility, her fingers working over the small wooden spheres while a subtle whisper from her lips accompanied the soft strike of the b
eads against one another.

  Once more, my fingers sweep across the damaged skin of my arm, before I force myself to place my hands on the tabletop, my fingers splayed, my short, bitten nails visible.

  "I don’t know." It is a disappointment, I’m sure, to hear such a reply. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve lied to him without entirely realising it. And so I take a moment to remind myself, to assure myself that even a decade later, there is still a frightening void in my knowledge of what occurred after my mother guided me into the parlour that evening.

  "Did you swoon, at the time? Perhaps you were rendered unconscious, perhaps you didn’t see—"

  "No," I say, my head shaking from side to side. I keep my gaze fixed on the backs of my hands, on the dry, damaged skin stretched taut between each tendon. "No, my senses were all in fine working order that night. I saw everything." I hear the faint murmur of voices around us, in the dining room, from the street on the other side of the wall, from the entire city, a great hum that threatens to rise to an unbearable pitch until I dampen it down.

  "I'll take you home," Chissick says after another minute has passed. He wipes his mouth once more, his hat firmly settled on his head.

  Together we leave the dining house, pausing for a moment on the edge of the pavement, both pairs of eyes watching the display of life that parades before us. Tattered and sagging, drooping beneath the humidity that swoops through the alleys, long lines of men, women, and children shamble. Women clutching parcels and children, men ducking their heads as they walk, hands raised to their hats, as if the subtle hunching of their neck and shoulders will be enough to combat the heat that pours down from above. And as if the city itself is in league with the abominable weather, the streets absorb the warmth, changing it into something of its own creation before returning it to the air, so that there's no escape from the heat, neither from above nor below.

  He touches my elbow as we round the corner, a brief show of familiarity on this crowded street. Around us, everyone's eyes are already diverted, focused on the uneven pavement, on the perspiring backs that trudge along ahead of them. In front of Mrs. Selwyn's, we pause a second time, and I look down and notice the absence of used cigarettes littering the pavement, already swept away and replaced by a scattered mess of horse droppings.

  I hesitate at the door, aware of what awaits me on the other side: Mrs. Selwyn, falling victim to the soporific effects of her darkened parlour, while a grey feline stalks from one corner to another, fixing its gleaming eyes on each new trespasser with a look that must make them aware of every misdeed committed since the last time they crossed the threshold.

  No wonder I turn around, reluctant to reach this moment of farewell. Chissick hovers behind me, his weight resting on the balls of his feet, ready to move as soon as someone gives him the word. But it's something behind him that draws my eye, across the street, a man prostrate in the doorway of a public house.

  I assure myself that he is not dead, but I cannot stop my gaze from leaping to the poor man's exposed throat, to the papery skin marked with grime, but still intact.

  "Miss Hawes," he says, and at that precise moment, the sound of my name on his lips sparks to life a frisson of discomfort. But, no. It’s something else, if I would only take the trouble to probe a bit deeper into the mire of my own querulous thoughts. "I’ve no doubt I’ve stepped into something beyond my level of expertise. But any assistance you might find yourself in need of, I offer it. As humble as it may be."

  I feel the discomfort pass, and I raise my chin to meet his gaze. "Thank you."

  His mouth quirks at this unanticipated response, and he runs a finger around the edge of his collar, separating the damp fabric from his skin. "Well, I’ll leave you. But know that if you need to contact me, you can leave a note with—"

  I place a hand on his arm, my fingers nearly hovering over the brushed wool of his jacket. My touch is so light, but it is enough to halt his words, his gaze seeking mine expectantly. "You wish to help me?"

  "Of course," he says. "With anything, everything you may need."

  I could almost smile, I think, at his eagerness. "I cannot ensure your safety. In fact, the more time you spend with me, I fear the greater risk you bring down upon yourself."

  He shakes his head, his mouth already working, no doubt with assurances he has no fear for himself, only for my well-being. And so I tighten my grip on his sleeve, my fingers pressing into his coat, into the flesh of his arm, all of my strength going into that one movement until I see his jaw tighten and flinch at the pain of it.

  "This is not human," I tell him, my fingers unrelenting. "All of the tales in your Bible, of monsters and demons, flames and hellfire raining down from above..." I remove my hand, my fingers flexing as the flow of blood returns to them with an unpleasant prickling sensation. "Do you understand?"

  It is the faintest of tremors that passes through his arm, the same arm I returned to his keeping.

  "There will be more deaths," I say, careful not to look away from him.

  A sharp exhale escapes from his mouth, a breath I had not realised he had been holding. He nods, only once, but it is enough.

  "If you’re sure," I begin, and feel my spine stiffen inside my sweltering dress. "Would it trouble you to postpone our parting for a short while longer? If we’re to do this properly, there’s someone I need to see."

  Another breath slides out of him, his gaze dropping to the pavement for the briefest of moments before his eyes return to meet mine from beneath the brim of his hat. "Anything you may need," he says, repeating his promise as he gestures with his elbow so I might simply reach out and slip my arm through his own.

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  * * *

  Sissy sits on a wooden stool, the small seat rendered nearly invisible by her girth. One swollen hand reaches forward, floats over the tray of wooden tiles laid out across her lap, her fingers tapping out a melody I don’t recognise. Her head bows down, the limp edge of her bonnet obscuring her face, before she raises her eyes again and fixes me with a pitiless stare.

  "Still not sleeping well, hmm? Have you given laudanum a try?" A small smile, the pockets of fat in her cheeks folding upward.

  "I am no stranger to the effects of laudanum," I tell her. "And, no, it doesn’t help. In fact, it only makes matters worse."

  Beside me, Chissick shifts from one foot to the other, his limbs taking on a restless quality now that the full heat of the day is upon us. "Miss Hawes," he begins, and is forced into repetition by my lack of attentiveness. "Miss Hawes, I don’t mean to doubt you, but who is this?"

  I turn my full gaze upon him, and he founders into silence. "Sissy is an old friend of mine, since before I ever set foot on the stage."

  Sissy herself says nothing to this, only a muffled laugh seeping out between tightly sealed lips. The tiles slide and clatter about the edges of her tray as she leans to one side, her jaw working around a great wad of fluid she ejects from her mouth in a thick stream. I could be disgusted by such a performance, but the backdrop in which we find my old friend is no less unsavoury. The back of her head rests on a brick wall, stained with rivulets of a substance many times more putrid than the liquid that shoots from her mouth. As she rolls her head from side to side, I wonder if the transference of grime from the wall to her bonnet is equal to the amount of filth she gives in return.

  And now that her mouth is empty, her tongue sweeps across her upper lip, clearing away the film of perspiration settled there.

  "I'd invite you in, some place out of the way of the sun and all, but it's as hot under doors as without, so we'll stay round here, if you don't mind."

  I nod in agreement with this garbled suggestion, though the sweat clings to my own back, and my head pounds beneath the sunlight. Seeking some portion of shade, Chissick moves closer to the wall, but not so near that any part of his suit brushes against it.

  "You look less a lady than the last I saw of you," she remarks, her gaze travelling the len
gth of me once more. Her right eye is cloudier than I remember, covered with a thin, milky substance that seems to swirl and settle as she tilts her head this way and that. And beneath the milkiness, small veins of blue, so I'm left with the disturbing sensation of being surveyed by a marble. "Smart, that is. Lesser attention drawn to yerself, the better. And with your history, I can’t say that you’d be wantin’ any uniforms drawn to the sight of someone like you wandering down here."

  "I wasn't aware the police still bothered to come down this way," I say, with a glance that takes in the narrow alley behind me. Under the light of day, the rough men who lounge in doorways, the battered children screeching around corners exact no fear from me. Though there are shadows enough to make me pause, and I wonder how those shadows, those dark forms would react should I place my fingers upon them. Would they writhe and pull away from me? Would the smell of sulphur cling to my gloves for several hours afterward? Or would they remain fixed to the crumbling brick walls, only growing longer and spreading out, coating everything when the sun finally sinks behind the rooftops?

  "Oh, we seen them from time to time. They don't like to make too great a show of it, but I know when they've taken to skulking round. Picked up Sally Bett's girl last week. You remember her, I'll wager?"

  "Can't say that I do."

  "Well, there never was much to recommend that one," she says with obvious distaste. "But here it's gotten to the point some of us can't make an honest living giving people what they been asking for."

  I could venture to inquire as to her precise definition of the word "honest", but we've already trundled too far from the main point, and my mind aches with the realisation that as Chissick busies himself with an encore performance as my bodyguard, it will be my task to drive it back on course.

  "Sissy, I’ve brought my friend here—"

  "Oh, deigning to associate with the common folk, are we? But you’re looking poorly of late, so perhaps I should say that this latest taste in company is something of an improvement, eh?" A wretched smile pushes up the corners of her mouth, and a leer—or something possibly interpreted as such—crinkles the corner of her working eye. "Just a friend, now? Not a husband or family or not?"