by Cross, Amy
Turning, I look back at the alley.
I have walked past this opening so many times, yet I never once thought to see what was down there. Evidently my refined senses were able to pick up on the stench of the passage.
“We should hurry,” Jack says, starting to make his way along the pavement, heading toward my house. “Once we're inside, you must tell me what else I can do to help you.”
“I shall need to work through to morning,” I explain, my mind already racing as I try to work out where to start. Setting off after Jack, I reach under the bag and feel that there is more and more water dribbling from the bottom. “The heart must be prepared in the solution I mixed earlier, and the brain stem must be examined. I laid everything out before we left, so the most important thing is that I am left alone. I shall send for you when you are needed.”
Reaching the gate, I follow Jack toward the steps that lead up to the front door.
“This brain stem is for tests only,” I continue. “It might be the case that I -”
“Out a little late aren't you, gentlemen?” a voice asks suddenly.
Turning, I'm startled to see two rough-looking men stepping through the gate. As they get closer, they tower over me, and I cannot miss the distinct odor of alcohol. I have heard stories of ruffians and thieves who haunted the streets late at night, but I never thought that they came to such good areas.
“This is my property,” I stammer, “and -”
“We'll be on our way soon enough,” the second man says, stepping toward me and reaching out to take the bag from my hands. “Never fear, we've got no interest in being asked inside. Wouldn't want to get dirty boot prints all over the floor of such a nice-looking home. We might want to have something with us, mind. A souvenir, perhaps, to remind us of this most fortuitous and pleasant encounter.”
“You won't be taking anything,” Jack says firmly, hurrying back down the steps and making his way past me, positioning himself in front of the two men so that they cannot get to me. “There are plenty of other people to rob tonight. Go and find them instead.”
“Who said anything about robbing?” the larger of the two men asks, stepping closer to Jack until their chests are almost touching. I had thought Jack to be a big man, but this fellow is even larger. “We were just hoping for a kind donation to our church.”
Behind him, the other man is chuckling.
I take a step back, still clutching the bag, calculating whether I could run up to the door, open the lock, and get inside before either of these scoundrels caught up to me. Perhaps they would be so busy beating Jack to a pulp, they would be delayed and I might reach safety.
“I won't warn you again,” Jack tells them. “Get out of here before I make you regret coming out tonight.”
“And what if we don't?” the taller man asks. It sounds as if he's enjoying this confrontation, and as if he's very confident of getting whatever he wants. “What are you going to do about it? As far as I can tell, there's two of us and only one of you.” He glances at me, and then he smiles. “Well, let's be charitable. One and a half of you. But still, I rather think that you fellows are at a marked disadvantage.”
Suddenly he shoves Jack's chest, pushing him back a little, and then he advances toward him while his companion slips around the back and comes over to me.
“This is private property,” I tell the hooligans as I start backing up the steps, “and if you don't leave at once, I shall call the police!”
“I wouldn't do that, if I were you,” the shorter man mutters, and I hear the sound of a blade striking brickwork. A moment later, he holds up an extremely large knife that glints in the moonlight. “Hasn't anyone ever told you that the streets are a little different at night? Why, I'm sure a fine gentleman such as yourself can go about unmolested during the day, but it must be almost three o'clock in the morning. What are you out for at such an hour, anyway? What proper business could a true gentleman possibly have? I'm sure you wouldn't want your affairs to come out in public.”
“That is none of your concern!” I bluster, shocked that this awful fellow thinks he even has the right to address a man such as myself. Still, I back away a little further, still clutching the dripping cloth bag. “Cease this nonsense at once and -”
Suddenly the shorter man lunges at me, quickly grabbing me by the collar and hauling me down the steps. I almost drop the bag, only just managing to keep hold of its ruffled top as the hooligan shoves me against the wall. I let out a shocked gasp, but – before I can react further – I feel the blade of a knife pressing against my throat.
“What's in the bag, mate?” the man asks.
“Take it off him,” the other man sneers. “We'll take a look ourselves and -”
Before he can finish, there's a loud crunching sound, and I see that Jack has accosted the fellow. In the matter of just a few seconds, Jack swings him around and thrashes his head against the side of the gate, and then I watch their silhouettes as Jack takes the man's arm and slams his foot against the elbow, bringing forth a sickening splitting sound that can only be caused by the shattering of bone. At the same time, the ruffian lets out a cry of agony, cut short only when Jack spins him around and then boots him out onto the pavement. A great deal of blood splatters against the ground.
Immediately, Jack turns and stomps toward the other, knife-wielding man.
“Hang about,” the man says, sounding rather startled now as his comrade whimpers in the street, “there's no need for -”
He gets no further with his plea. Instead, he lets out a strangled gurgle as Jack grabs him by the throat. In the flurry of action that follows, I see the knife clatter to the ground, and I kick it quickly away so that there is no chance of the ruffian grabbing it again. Jack, however, seems to have the entire situation in hand, and he drags the second man toward the gate before stopping and crunching him face-first against the brick wall. I hear a cry of agony, and I see blood spraying from the silhouette of his head as he is dispatched across the pavement and sent tumbling down to crash next to his friend. The impact of his body against the ground is so heavy, I believe I hear another cracking sound.
Jack steps toward them, but they both screech for mercy and get to their feet. Clutching their various injuries, they stumble off into the night, and Jack stands in the middle of the street for a moment and watches until they are gone. He waits a little longer than seems necessary, as if he is worried that they might yet return, and then finally he turns and comes back through the gate.
“Are you alright, Doctor Grazier?” he asks, sounding only very slightly breathless.
“I am quite unharmed,” I reply, although I can hear the shock in my own voice. “Merely startled.”
“That's not the first drunken little gang I've ever encountered,” he explains. “Nowhere in London is entirely safe from them, not after nightfall. It used to be that they stayed in their own boroughs, but lately they're becoming more confident. Either that, or they're a lot more desperate. Still, I doubt they'll be back here any time soon.”
Too startled to really know what to say, I watch the empty street for a moment, terrified in case the ruffians return.
“Doctor Grazier?”
I turn to Jack, and in the darkness I can just about make out his features.
“The heart, Doctor Grazier,” he continues, as the bag continues to drip against the stone steps. “Should we not get inside? Your work awaits.”
Chapter Four
Maddie
Today
Every few seconds, the train's rattling motion causes me to shift slightly in my seat, and this in turn sends a twist of juddering pain through my abdomen. Biting my bottom lip in an attempt to make sure that I don't wince, I keep my eyes focused on my feet. I know that people are probably watching me, and it's probably no coincidence that several people prefer to stand rather than sit in the seats on either side of mine. I just need to get to Stratford and find Alex, and then -
Suddenly there's a loud screeching
sound as the train's brakes are applied. The lights flicker and the train is already slowing, bumping the carriage more than ever. This time, I can't help but let out a faint murmur of pain as the stitches in my waist pull tighter against the inflamed skin. I wait for the pain to fade a little, but the carriage is still coming to a screeching, bumping stop, and it takes several more seconds before I feel the train stop moving. And then, just as I think I can relax, there's a heavy shudder that rattles the carriage one more time and brings a cry of pain from my lips.
At least now the train is motionless, and the absolute worst of the pain is starting to settle into a constant throb rather than the agony of a few seconds ago.
Briefly glancing around, I watch for any sign that any of the other passengers have noticed that I'm struggling. Fortunately they all seem way too busy with their phones and papers, so I look back down at my clammy and pale hands as I wait for the train to get going again. I swear, I feel as if I'm burning up, and I don't know whether that's due to the carriage being hot or the infection getting worse. A little of both, maybe. As I continue to look at my hands, a drop of sweat falls from my forehead and lands on my wrist.
Suddenly the lights flicker again, plunging the carriage into darkness for a couple of seconds before coming back to life.
“We're just waiting for the all-clear to continue,” the driver says, his voice sounding very tinny over the speakers. “Apologies for any intermittent loss of lighting in the rear three carriages, this is due to a faulty regulator.”
As if to underline his point, the lights go off again, and this time the carriage remains dark for maybe ten seconds before light returns.
“Great,” a man mutters nearby, sighing as he looks at his watch. “Just great.”
I look both ways along the carriage as the lights continue to flicker. I briefly make eye contact with a middle-aged woman in a seat at the far end, and she stares at me for a second before I look away. I wait, hoping that she's stopped looking at me now, and then I can't help glancing at her again. She's still watching me, and she seems not to be bothered by the fact that I've noticed, until finally she looks back down at her phone. I guess she's disgusted by me, or she feels sorry for me, or -
Suddenly the lights go again, and this time they stay off.
“Oh, come on,” the man nearby says, as several other people sigh. “Are you kidding me?”
It's getting really hot in here.
I wait for the lights to come back on, but as the seconds tick past I start to wonder whether there's been some other, more serious failure. The train is still completely stationary, and there are more and more tuts and muttered complaints coming from the people all around me. Looking along the carriage yet again, I can see nothing except the lights from several smartphones, which cast shadows against the walls and ceiling. There are several silhouetted figures standing near the doors, shifting slightly as the people nearby tilt and turn their phones.
And then I see him.
One silhouette in particular looks very familiar. I tell myself that I'm wrong, that I'm at risk of losing my mind, but I swear this silhouette looks exactly like the one I saw on the beach last night. I know that can't be true, but at the same time I can't help thinking back to the figure who was watching me in the rain, and who stood outside Matt Wallace's car while I was locked inside, and who -
Suddenly the lights briefly flicker back on.
The silhouetted figure seems not to be there now, but the lights go off again and he's immediately back.
I sit up straight, despite the pain in my gut.
“Are we ever going to get going?” the man opposite mutters. “This is doing my head in.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the silhouette, waiting in case he makes a move this way. Last night, with so much rain crashing down, I couldn't make him out very well, but now it looks as if he has very close-cropped hair, maybe even no hair at all. He's tall, too, and well-built.
The lights remain off, and I'm pretty sure my fever isn't the only reason I'm so hot right now. I can hear people muttering in the darkness, complaining about there being no air-conditioning, and in general the passengers in the train seem to be getting more and more agitated. I keep telling myself that the lights are going to come on at any moment, but a couple of minutes have passed now and as I continue to stare at the silhouetted figure, I feel more certain than ever that I can feel its gaze staring straight back at me.
I'm losing my mind.
That's the only possible explanation.
I'm not being stalked through the streets of London by some kind of shadowy guy who has a knack for not showing his face. That'd be absurd. I'm simply letting my fevered imagination run wild, and it's only going to get worse unless I find some way to nip it in the bud. I remember Alex telling me once that people on the streets can end up really losing their marbles because they have no real way to counter the little whispers of paranoia that start building up in their thoughts. Right now, that feels like exactly what's happening to me.
“You've got to face your fears,” Alex told me back then. “Seriously, Maddie, it's the only way.”
Her words echo in my thoughts, and deep down I know that she's right.
I hesitate for a moment, and then – despite the pain in my belly – I haul myself to my feet. Reaching out, I grab one of the supports to steady myself. A woman nearby is using a magazine to fan herself, and several people are muttering about being late for appointments, but I ignore all of them as I start shuffling along the carriage, heading straight toward the figure up ahead.
He's not real.
He's just an unfortunate combination of shadows, or he's some random guy.
I keep telling myself that there's no reason to be scared, but I also know that I have to see for myself. If I don't go and look, the idea of this guy is going to take root in my mind and then I'll probably get worse and worse. I've seen people on the streets who've lost their grip on reality, and I've always been so scared of ending up like them. As much as I keep telling myself that this homelessness is temporary, that I'll get help and end up back on my feet once I turn eighteen, I know that there's one thing that could stop than plan.
Madness.
If I let the hallucinations win, I might spend the rest of my life living rough. That's the one huge trap I've been trying to avoid ever since I came to London. I guess I just never knew how difficult it would be to keep my mind together.
I'm seventeen years, and three hundred and sixty days old.
I only have five more days to go before I hit eighteen, and then I can get help.
Five days is nothing, but at the same time I could still end up going crazy. I can't screw up, not now.
As I get closer and closer to the figure, I feel a tightening sense of fear in my chest, but I tell myself that I have to be strong, that I have to face this thing.
He'll just -
Suddenly the lights come back on, and I freeze as I see that there's nobody standing in the spot where I saw the silhouette. There's nobody even close, and I'm pretty sure he wasn't a shadow. I look around, but all I see are several other passengers, some of whom are looking at me as if I'm completely insane. Maybe all these fears and delusions are starting to show in my eyes, so I quickly turn back to look at the spot where I swear the silhouette was standing.
It must have been a trick of the light.
It can't have been anything else.
“Sorry for the extended delay, ladies and gentlemen,” the driver says over the speakers. “We've got a green light now, so we'll be on our way again in just a moment.”
“Hallelujah,” a man mutters testily nearby.
I continue to stare at the empty spot, until I hear a metallic squealing sound and the train starts inching forward again. The sudden movement rocks me, almost causing me to fall, and I feel a tugging pain in my belly as I hold on tight to the support pole. I watch the empty spot for a few more seconds, before turning and looking back along the carriage.
; As I do so, the lights briefly flicker off again, and to my horror I see that there's a face outside the train, staring straight at me through the window. I only see her for a fraction of a second, before the lights come back on, but it was definitely a woman, she was definitely standing down there in the dark tunnel, and she was staring at me with cold, dead eyes.
Chapter Five
Doctor Charles Grazier
Monday October 1st, 1888
The heart is heavy in my hands. Swollen, perhaps, and certainly large. Larger than Catherine's heart, anyway, which was perfectly-formed and in my opinion rather ladylike. Almost regal. Still, I believe the specimen in my hands now to be a healthy heart, so I carry it across to one of the metal bowls and set it down gently, submerging the organ into a clear solution that I prepared earlier.
A couple of small bubbles emerge from one side of the heart as it settles beneath the surface.
“What's that for?”
Turning, I see that Jack is watching me from the doorway. I had hoped that he would go back upstairs and attend to some other duties, but he seems keen to watch my work. Evidently he has little initiative of his own.
“It need not concern you,” I tell him.
“Are you washing the heart?”
“Washing it?” I ask incredulously. “Why would I wash it? Do you think it has somehow become dirty?”
“I thought I saw you putting it into a bowl of water.”
“It's a solution,” I tell him with a sigh. “Three parts water, two parts alcohol and -”
Stopping suddenly, I realize that there is absolutely not point explaining this to him. He would not understand, and – even if he did – it's not as if he could do anything with the knowledge.
“You wouldn't know what I meant,” I add finally. “I have far too much to do this morning. Time is of the essence when one is working with recently-removed body parts, and pioneers do not generally waste time pontificating. You might not be able to see it with the naked eye, but let me assure you that the organs we gathered during the night are already starting to break down internally. Every lost second allows this deterioration to continue and -”
