The Art of Dying

by Amy Cross

“Will you be requiring any additional services today?” she asks, slipping into a calm, authoritative tone that she's clearly hoping to use as a defense against my snark.

  “Sorry,” I tell her, “I'd love to stop and chat, but I'm very busy today. I have to be somewhere.”

  “You?” she replies. “Where does someone like you have to be? Sitting out on the street, begging for money from hard-working people such as myself?”

  “Actually,” I continue, “I have to go and perform some mind control, then I need to go to a hospital, then I need to measure a bridge... And then I have to give myself a head injury.”

  With that, I turn and walk out of the library. I don't look back, but I can't help smiling as I imagine the shocked look on Edith's face. I don't normally like drawing attention to myself, but sometimes it's fun to mess with people. Besides, given what I'm going to be doing for the rest of the week, I think I deserve a little fun today. People look at me and think they've got me all sussed out, and it's always fun to turn the tables on them.

  Still, it's a good job she didn't call my bluff and phone Laura in order to check the crap I told her about the address. That would've been awkward.

  Chapter Two

  Laura

  “I guess anything can be art these days,” Tim says as he leads me over to the ladder, “so why not murder?”

  “Damn it,” I mutter, looking up at the top of the plinth as it soars ten meters above me. It's the middle of the day and a crowd has already formed in Trafalgar Square, with people gawking and taking photos from behind a police cordon. There's an excited chatter in the air, and I can feel hundreds of pairs of eyes drilling into the back of my head, desperately wanting to know the latest news. Sometimes, I feel as if the general public would get bored if there weren't any crimes.

  “What's wrong?” Tim asks, giving the ladder a gentle shake. “Scared of heights?”

  “No,” I reply unconvincingly.

  “You know what they say about people with acrophobia,” he continues with a smile. “It's not actually the height that scares them. It's the thought that suddenly they might not be able to resist the urge to jump. It's the idea that their psyche is so disturbed, they might suddenly decide to leap off the edge.”

  “Thanks for that,” I reply, taking hold of the ladder and starting to climb. As if on cue, a gust of wind buffets me, and I pause for a moment before resuming the agonizing journey to the top. Forcing myself to keep from looking down, I try to stay calm, but by the time I reach the top and a uniformed officer helps me climb onto the main part of the plinth, I'm starting to feel distinctly fragile. The first thing I look at is Nelson's Column, rising even higher up into the sky, but for some reason the sight doesn't make me feel any better.

  “There's your chap,” Tim says brightly as he climbs up to join me. “What do you think?”

  Looking across the top of the plinth, I see two SOCO team members attending to a man's crumpled body. As I make my way over to them, I'm able to make out that the man is wearing a large black business suit, and he's arranged in an unnatural-looking position on his front, with his arms under his body and his legs spread apart. It looks for all the world as if he was dropped into position from a great height, but there's no blood splatter, so I'm guessing that he was deliberately arranged to look like this. It's almost theatrical.

  “No identification yet,” Tim explains as he steps past me. “No wallet, no phone, no nothing. If you look at his face, he almost seems peaceful.”

  “How long's he been dead?” I ask.

  He replies with a shrug. “We only got the call an hour ago. Someone in one of the office buildings nearby saw him. At first she thought he was some kind of art installation, but then she looked online and saw that the fourth plinth is supposed to be empty for a few more weeks. She called the council, they sent someone to check, and now here we are.” He turns to me. “Are you okay, Laura? You look kind of... pale.”

  “I'm fine,” I reply stiffly.

  “Jesus,” he continues, “you really are scared of heights, aren't you? I was only joking earlier. Maybe you should go back down.”

  “I'm fine,” I say again, realizing that the thought of climbing down the ladder is the only thing that's worse than the reality of being up here. “Tell me...” I pause, trying to get my thoughts clear. “Tell me about the cause of death.”

  “Still too soon to say,” he continues. “Given the large crowd that's gathered, I was thinking the best approach would be to let the stills guys do their work and then move the body. It's not as if we can exactly put a tent up on here, is it? It'd be better all round to get the body back to the lab as soon as possible, so I can put it through the wringer and hopefully get some useful numbers out.”

  “I don't understand,” I reply, turning and looking first at the National Portrait Gallery, then at the Church of St. Martin's. “This is one of the busiest parts of one of the most paranoid cities in the world. There are cameras on every street corner. How the hell does someone manage to get a corpse up here without being noticed? It's just not possible, is it?”

  “That's for you to work out,” he tells me. “I'm just the dogsbody who goes digging around inside the flesh and bone, remember?”

  “You're unusually chipper today,” I point out.

  “I think it's just a reaction to the look of fear in your eyes,” he continues, as the SOCO crew start packing up. “Look, we both know that we have to be missing something here. Like you said, Trafalgar Square is never empty. There are people in the area twenty-four-seven, there are hundreds of CCTV cameras... we shouldn't have any trouble at all pinpointing exactly when this body was put here, and then tracking the person responsible...” He pauses for a moment. “I mean, hell, it's almost as if someone went out of their way to perpetrate the most easily investigated crime in history.”

  “Great,” I reply, making my way over to take a closer look at the body, “so we're either dealing with the dumbest criminal in the world, or the luckiest... or the smartest. Maybe if we just -”

  Suddenly I spot the dead man's hand, and I immediately realize that what I'm looking at doesn't make sense. I stare for a moment, genuinely dumbfounded, before walking around the corpse and taking a look at the other hand. It takes a moment before I can really process what I'm seeing.

  “Tim,” I say after a moment, “take a look at this guy's face and tell me what you see.”

  “White male, late twenties or -”

  “Okay, now look at his right hand.”

  He comes closer to me and leans down to see.

  “What the hell?” he says, turning to me.

  “Describe the hand,” I continue.

  “Black male,” he replies, before looking down at the other hand. “And that's... a woman's hand.”

  “The suit doesn't fit either,” I point out. “Not all over, anyway. It fits the shoulders but not the arms or legs.”

  “No way,” he continues, clearly stunned. “No fucking way.”

  “Have we got all the photos we need?” I ask one of the SOCO team members. When she nods, I crouch next to the body and gently roll it over, and that's when it becomes apparent that there's a thick cut all the way around the corpse's neck, just below the shirt line, with large metal staples holding the two edges of flesh together. “Tim,” I continue, “I need you to get this body back to the lab immediately and start the post mortem. This isn't one victim. It's body parts from at least four, all sewn together and stuffed into a cheap suit.”

  Chapter Three

  Ophelia

  “You want me to... what?”

  “Just think of a number between one and a hundred,” I explain again, trying not to let my impatience show, “and hold it in your thoughts for a moment. Really focus on it, like it's the only thing that matters in the entire universe. Jesus, why do people find it so hard to follow a set of simple instructions?”

  Dave and I are sitting on the pavement outside one of the big department stores on Tottenham Court R
oad. Dave's trying to beg for money, but I have far more important things to be doing right now and I need his help. Unfortunately, so far he's not exactly being very cooperative.

  “Ophelia,” he replies in his thick Scottish accent, “I'm kinda busy here.”

  “So am I,” I tell him, “but my kind of busy is, no offense, more important than your kind of busy, 'cause basically mine's life and death. So please, just think of a number between one and a hundred. If I guess it right, you have to come with me and help with something. If I guess it wrong, I'll leave you alone. Deal?”

  “No.”

  “I'll pay you.”

  He stares at me.

  “I've been saving,” I continue. “I've spent the past six months saving all my begging money. I've done quite well, too. I squirrel away a fiver here and a fiver there. Just a small amount each week can add up to more than a hundred pounds in half a year.”

  “You live on the streets,” he points out. “How the fuck do you -”

  “I just do. I'm good at begging, and I'm good at getting by without needing to spend money, so I've been able to put a small amount aside. It's not enough to really achieve anything, but it means I can afford to finance certain plans that I've come up with. Just 'cause I'm homeless, I can still budget.”

  “Ophelia,” he replies with a sigh, “I need to -”

  “A number,” I say firmly, “between one and a hundred. I really don't have time to mess around, so let's get on with it. Go.”

  “Fine,” he mutters, fixing me with a determined stare.

  “Are you thinking of one?” I ask after a moment.

  He nods.

  “Are you really thinking of it?”

  “Yes!” he replies, clearly losing patience.

  “Hold it tight in your mind,” I continue. “Focus on that number, to the exclusion of anything else. Imagine it bursting with light, throbbing in your subconscious mind like a huge sun that's in the process of going supernova. Now I'm going to reach into your mind and tell you the number, okay?”

  “Whatever.”

  I take a deep breath, my eyes fixed on his as I wait for the right moment. There are people hurrying past, but I force myself to ignore everything in the world as I focus purely on Dave's eyes. It's almost as if the rest of the city of London has suddenly been muted.

  “Forty-two,” I say eventually.

  His eyes open a little wider.

  “Forty-two,” I say again. “That's the number in your mind.”

  “How the...” He pauses, clearly shocked. “You creepy little piece of shit, how the fuck did you do that?”

  “I'm special,” I tell him, relieved that my trick finally worked. “Anyway, we have an agreement, so pack up your begging paraphernalia and come with me. We don't have much time, so I'd appreciate it if you could hurry.”

  “First you have to tell me how you did that.”

  “I never promised to explain myself,” I tell him as I get to my feet. “Come on, Dave, a deal's a deal. It's not a big job. It'll take a week, max.”

  “A week?”

  “You'll be fairly recompensed. Also, I'll let you keep the clothes.”

  “What clothes?”

  “Come on!” I continue, clapping my hands together. “Chop chop!”

  As he starts gathering up his meager possessions and folding them into the tatty old bag he carries everywhere he goes, I allow myself to breathe a sigh of relief as I realize that I've finally managed to get someone to help me. I've spent the past couple of hours going to every homeless person I know and pulling that dumb mind-reading trick. It was pretty simple: I just guessed forty-two every single time, on the basis that statistically I'd eventually get it right. Dave was the twenty-second attempt, so I actually got the job done faster than I anticipated. It could have taken a hell of a lot longer.

  “So tell me how you read my mind,” he continues as we start walking along the street. “Come on, Ophelia, it's driving me crazy. Just tell me!”

  I can't help but smile.

  ***

  “You want me to... what?”

  A couple of hours later, we're standing outside a hospital in Central London, staring up at the grand stucco facade that was apparently a favorite of William IV when he used to come to visit friends. I read a book about his reign once, and it was a fascinating account of that period in the city's life. Sometimes I feel that I'd like to become a historian one day, although I doubt it'll ever happen. I have too many others things to do first, but the fact remains: I would have made a brilliant historian, if only things had turned out differently.

  “Ophelia,” Dave continues, “have you finally lost your mind?”

  “Absolutely not,” I reply, turning to him. “Then again, I suppose that's what I'd say if I had lost my mind too, but you're just going to have to trust me.”

  “You want me to hang around this place all day,” he continues, sounding shocked by the idea, “and take photos of everyone who comes to visit on your ward, like I'm part of the paparazzi or something?”

  I nod.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know who arrives.”

  “To see you?”

  I nod again.

  “Why would...” He pauses. “Are you sick or something?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But then...”

  “It's really not that difficult to understand,” I continue. “I'll give you the camera and all the equipment you need. We'll fix you up in some decent clothes from the money I've saved, and then you'll position yourself surreptitiously near the door to whatever ward I end up on. It'll be ward six on the third floor, I think, but I can't be certain until we see exactly what kind of head injury I sustain.”

  “What does surreptitiously mean?” he asks.

  “Subtly. Without drawing attention to yourself.”

  “Aye,” he replies. “And... Wait, what head injury?”

  “It's not important yet. It'll be very important later, though, and it'll mean I won't be able to give you instructions for a few days, so I need you to pay attention right now. You have to surreptitiously take a photo of every single visitor. You can't miss even one of them. Visitors are only allowed between nine in the morning and six in the evening, so those are the hours you have to keep. When I wake up and get out of here, I'll need the photos. If you mess this up, Dave, the whole thing will be wasted and I'll have risked my life for nothing. Do you understand how vitally important you are?”

  “Aye,” he says uncertainly, “but... How do you know you're going to get a head injury?”

  “You don't need to be let in on that part of the plan,” I tell him, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a digital camera, together with the charger. “The battery's full,” I explain as I pass it to him. “You'll need to recharge it, on average, once every 1.2 days, but you can still use it while it's plugged in. Whatever you do, don't let it go flat, or you might miss him.”

  “Miss who?”

  “The person who comes to visit me.”

  “And who's that going to be?”

  “I don't know, Dave, that's the whole point.” I pause for a moment, realizing that Dave might not be the best candidate for this job. Unfortunately he's the only candidate right now, so I've got to make do with what I've got. “Keep a particular eye out for anyone who brings a box of Smarties. Or don't. No, don't, forget I said that. Just make sure you get a good clean shot of everyone.” I pull some money out of my pocket and pass him some cash. “I managed to save quite a bit after buying the camera, so here's thirty. Go to a charity shop and get yourself kitted out so you at least don't draw attention to yourself.”

  “How long as I gonna have to do this?” he asks as he takes the money.

  “Until I wake up from my coma.”

  He stares at me.

  “Three, four days max.”

  “Ophelia -”

  “I've got everything under control,” I tell him. “Every possible variable has been mapped, every pot
ential problem has been mitigated against. I know exactly what I'm doing, and that includes trusting you with this vital mission. After all, Dave, I could have gone and recruited anyone today, but I chose you because you're the most reliable, most trustworthy person I've ever met in my life.” I pause. It's a lie, of course. He's actually the twenty-second most reliable, trustworthy person I could think of today, but that should still be good enough. “Please, Dave,” I continue. “Just do this for me.”

  “And after,” he replies, “will you tell me how you read my mind?”

  I nod, figuring that I can come up with some kind of fake explanation later.

  “And will you...” He pauses, as if he's nervous about the next part. “If I can get the money together, will you maybe... Come and get a cup of coffee with me some time?”

  “Why?”

  “Just... 'cause...”

  “I suppose,” I say, puzzled by the unusual request. “I prefer tea, though.”

  “Aye,” he replies, “tea's fine.” He smiles awkwardly, and for a moment it appears that for some reason he's nervous.

  “So you understand your role,” I say after a moment, as a nearby church bell rings out to mark four o'clock. “You don't need to start today, but make sure you're here at half-eight tomorrow morning. And Dave, I really appreciate this.”

  With that, I turn and start hurrying away.

  “Ophelia!” he calls out. “Where are you going?”

  “I've got things to do,” I shout back. “Just remember my instructions!”

  I keep walking, since I don't have time to stop and go over everything again. Dave's smart enough to get the job done, and I'm sure I can trust him. Besides, I have a few back-up options lined up. As soon as I get around the corner, however, I stop for a moment and lean back against the wall. Suddenly I feel a strange sensation running through my body, as if something is tugging at my chest. This whole plan has been spinning in my head for so long, I've become used to it existing solely as some kind of abstract idea. Now the wheels are starting to turn and I'm actually going to have to go through with it all. Theory is about to become practice. There's a kind of tense, knotty feeling rising from my belly to my chest.