The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  Claire’s busy, too. Her job in marketing keeps her floating around from place to place, which is perhaps how old what’s-his-name she was married to escaped with his flighty heart. With her travelling so often for work, it would be impossible for me to live with her – not that I’d want to impose on her life like that. Thus, she’d pleaded and begged for me to move somewhere more suitable and somewhere closer to her so she could spend time with me when she was home.

  I hadn’t wanted to give up my home in Harlow, of course. True, most days the place felt like a mausoleum or a shrine dedicated to a life I could no longer live. There wasn’t much left for me on Quail Avenue except struggles and uncertainties. Getting around was exceedingly more difficult, and keeping up with the empty, chilled house was no longer easy. Then, of course, there were the incidents the neighbours were quick to report to Claire – like they’ve never forgotten anything before. Things were never the same on Quail Avenue since Charles passed, but at least there, I had memories and familiarity. I had some remnants of my dignity and privacy. I had a sense of home.

  I’d fought Claire for months about moving out, insisting I could handle myself. In truth, I suppose I wasn’t afraid of going out in the same house Charles did. Perhaps a piece of me thought that if we were connected in our manner of death, it would be a good omen for the next life – something I try not to think too much about. However, months of Claire’s nagging coupled with a few scary moments on my own finally managed to free me of my devotion to living alone. Perhaps it was also the fact I was so tired. It had all become way too much.

  Nonetheless, coming back to Crawley, well, that hadn’t been easy. The heart palpitations seemed to worsen at the idea, an old fear resurfacing at the thought of stepping onto this haunted ground. I found myself evaluating what I was doing. Why had I even considered coming?

  Claire, of course. To be near my daughter. I was willing to risk anything, to face any fears, to make her happy – and maybe I felt the need to protect her.

  I’d always hated that Claire had settled down here, an area where I had lived in my late teen years. It had been one of the darkest periods of my life, a time I would do well to forget. Sometimes life is full of surprises, and not always in a good way.

  After Charles died and Claire, in the middle of starting her life over again after her marriage fell apart, announced her move to Crawley, I almost collapsed.

  ‘What do you mean, Crawley?’ I had asked, my heart fluttering.

  ‘I just need a change, Mum. I need somewhere peaceful that’s still easy to commute from. I’ve found a lovely little flat in Langley Green in Crawley.’

  I felt as though my heart was lodged in my throat. I’d protected Claire from the past for so many years. Charles and I didn’t talk about it. We’d moved on from Crawley and never, ever looked back. But to hear my adult daughter talking about those places – it was too much.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I murmured, trying to maintain my composure.

  Claire sighed, turning the cup of tea in her hands across the table from me. ‘Mum, don’t get angry. I know you and Dad don’t like to talk about those years in Crawley. I know it was complicated. But a few weeks before Dad died, I don’t know, I just got curious. I’m in my fifties, and I don’t know that much about you two, in truth. I never knew my grandparents. I know you didn’t like to talk about them, but it’s like the both of you wiped away your past. It was a hidden secret hanging over us. I got curious. Dad told me about Langley Green and how much he loved it there. He told me about how you two met, about how he would travel to West Green to visit you. He told me how much he loved you from the beginning. I don’t know, I guess after he died, I just felt like it was a sign. Maybe that’s where I’m meant to be. It seems like a good place to start over.’

  Vomit rose in my throat. I tried not to cry. How could you, Charles? After so many years, you planted this idea in her head? Searing anguish I thought had died decades ago had risen in my chest.

  ‘What else did he say?’ I asked tentatively. Fears rose. But there are things even Charles didn’t know. There were secrets even Charles couldn’t tell.

  ‘The same thing you two always said when I asked you. “It was complicated.” Mum, I know Crawley was a dark place in those years. But I don’t know, I think I could be happy there. I think it would be nice to be somewhere strange yet familiar in a weird way. You lived in West Green, close to where I’ll be. Dad lived there. My grandparents, whom I never got to meet, lived there.’

  That conversation haunted me for weeks. I was angry at Charles. I was terrified for Claire as old fears surfaced. But eventually, I’d talked myself down.

  Decades and decades had passed. It wasn’t the same place anymore. Heck, most of the people I once knew were probably long since gone, moved on in one way or another.

  Still, I didn’t understand why Charles would open such wounds. After trying to escape from Crawley’s clutches for all of those years, to have my daughter reconnect me with it – it was the thing of nightmares, enough to drive me truly bonkers if I’d let it.

  Yet, even after insisting to Claire I’d never go back, no matter how much she begged – here I am. Back in Crawley’s hands, back in West Green more specifically.

  It was all so long ago, I remind myself. It doesn’t matter anymore. But I know that in truth, it always matters. It will always matter. I shudder at the thought, tension rising as I try to shove it back down.

  As I follow the woman and Claire down the corridor, peeking in at the faces I will be seeing too much of from now on, I sigh. Now that I’m here, facing the prospect of a life staring at these sterile walls, I’m having regrets. Maybe I should’ve fought a little harder. Maybe this was a bad choice. This place rattles me, strangling me like the vines creeping up the stone walls outside.

  Or perhaps I’m just being paranoid. Of course Smith Creek Manor wouldn’t feel like home yet. How could it? I just need to give it a chance. I’m tired from mulling it all over incessantly, my brain throbbing already. In a few days, I’ll adjust to the atmosphere, and it won’t seem so terrible. I just need time.

  I peek in at the rooms of my neighbours as we parade down the corridor to my own. A man sits on the single chair in his room, staring at the telly. In another room on the right, a woman rocks what appears to be a baby doll, singing a lullaby. I pause at the opening to another living space, perusing the scene with fascination and horror. A woman stands, lopsided in the centre of her space, half of her face distorted. She is completely naked, and she walks in tiny circles by her bed, singing the words to some unrecognisable song. She laughs in between choruses, over and over, her sagging skin marked with burns and scars. I want to peel my eyes away, but I can’t. The storm that is this woman is on full display. How long has she been stuck in this merry-go-round of terror? Why isn’t anyone stopping her? It’s unbelievable that a human being would behave this way – or be allowed to behave this way in such a place. What is this? What is this, indeed. I peel my eyes away, feeling embarrassed for witnessing her in this state.

  I continue on down the corridor, room after room presenting new views. It’s like I’m wandering about a zoo, staring in at the exhibits of various species. Some mad, some sane, some essentially gone. All of the doors are open, wide open, except one. When we get to Room 312, I notice that the door is closed. For some reason, it’s like the door calls to me. I think about reaching out and touching that knob, curious what the door could be hiding. Inside, I hear a cough, weighty and raspy. It startles me. I don’t know what or who is behind the door to 312, but there’s something unnerving about the space. A chill rattles my body and I shiver, a darkness surrounding the room even from the corridor.

  But it’s also unsettling to see so many doors wide open, patients in all state of dress and activity out in the open. Is there no privacy here? Has everyone truly lost their sense of dignity that they’ll let everyone peer into their lives in their tiny little rooms? Will I lose mine as well? Will I even be
me here? I shudder involuntarily as I plod towards the new ‘home’ that awaits me.

  The woman in heels leads us down the corridor on the third floor, down, down to the very end. She stops at the room on the left, which is next to a staircase. There is, of course, a locked door at the staircase, the tiny code box beside it reminding me that I’m not free anymore. I suppose escaping isn’t something they look favourably on around here.

  ‘Here we are, dear. Room 316. Your new home. Welcome. I do hope we’ve managed to arrange the things your daughter sent over correctly. If not, we’ll be happy to help you set things up just as you wish. Come on, let’s get settled in and meet your roommate.’

  I stop at the threshold of 316, staring in at what has become my whole world. My home with Charles was never a castle. It was a modest house, tiny to most. But compared to this space, it was a palace.

  I step inside, willing myself not to cry. Claire is here, after all. I can’t break down. She needs me to be strong. I can’t be more of a burden than I have been already. I peer about the room that is more hospital than home, and my stomach plummets. This is it. This is where I’ll reside for the rest of my days, the icy, bog-standard room surrounding me with its monotonous bleakness. I shake my head at the prospect, my hand reaching up to tug at my long, stringy hair.

  ‘Ms Evans, I’d like to introduce you to your roommate, Ms Rose Wright. All right, Rose?’ The woman prances over to the other side of the conjoined room, a curtain that presumably divides our halves pulled to one side so I have a full view of my new companion. I hate that I have a roommate here. Certainly, Claire told me I’d have my own room, didn’t she? Most facilities do, after all, offer individual rooms. Why is this place different? I shudder at the realisation that already, my new home isn’t meeting my expectations.

  I glance over to the woman on the other side of the dividing curtain, trying to move beyond the fact that I won’t be alone. She is sitting up in bed, leant against a pillow, her mouth partially open. Drool drips visibly down her chin, and she’s wearing a transparent blue nightshirt. She stares, deadpan, straight ahead at what, I can’t determine. Her breathing is raspy, every single inhalation rattling something in her chest. On her bedside table, a statue of what seems to be a religious figure perches. I can’t tell exactly what it’s supposed to be. It’s chipped and warped. Its demeanour is more ghoulish than holy. Angled, it appears to watch her, its unseemly eyes bulging out. I don’t like it. I wonder if she hates it too.

  Behind the statue is a noticeboard, just like I have on my side of the room. A child’s drawing of what appears to be a rose is pinned there, centred on the board. At least I will be able to recall her name, I realise. Rose, just like the picture. I lock it into my mind. Wouldn’t do to forget my roommate’s name, after all.

  Our fearless tour guide and master of ceremonies plods forward, walking to Rose’s side to stroke her thin, dishevelled hair. The woman doesn’t move. I blink, turning to Claire. I don’t know why, but I recoil at the sight of this Rose woman, more dead than alive, who fights for every breath. Her delicateness irks me, stirring an uneasiness I can’t explain. It makes me feel guilty for thinking these things about a suffering woman. Nonetheless, the woman doesn’t offer any reaction to my presence. Our tour guide looks back to us, smiling gently.

  ‘Rose won’t be much of a bother to you, I suppose,’ she reassures, and although the words sound harsh, her eyes are kind. I nod slightly, offering a smile to the woman who isn’t even looking at me. I trudge over to the window, needing to get some air in this stifling room. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to counter the rising panic in my chest. I can sense the tour-guide woman and Claire exchanging some kind of look or communication behind me. The woman is probably trying to soothe the rising guilt in Claire for leaving me in a place that feels so suffocating. I look out into the morning, taking in the view of the courtyard, the U-shape of the building offering me a look at the inside-back wall of Smith Creek Manor. Another resident’s window sits across from me. I stare, the outline of a person – a man, perhaps? – standing in the window. Someone else is looking out into the courtyard as well. I should find it comforting, I suppose, that I’m not alone, that someone else is lost in thought at this place. My mind is numb, though. There are too many things to absorb, and I’m not ready to take it all in just yet.

  ‘Isn’t it a lovely view? I told you the view up here is just grand,’ the woman says. I hate that she’s trying to sell me on this place. I’m already here. Plus, there would be no selling me on this place. The view is claustrophobic, if you ask me. I can’t see the outside world, not really – just the grass, the air between the wings of Smith Creek Manor. It’s like I’m trapped by the stone building, the rooms of patients my only view.

  I look out, training my eyes on the roof, on the sky, on the great beyond. I wonder if I’m staring in the direction of Quail Avenue. My mind conjures up an image of the tiny house squeezed between the neighbours. I can picture that alabaster colour, those tiny shutters Charles painted in a stunning yellow. I yearn to feel the front door, my hand shakily touching the cold, harsh glass of the window instead.

  I peer down now, staring at the gazebo that rests in the courtyard way, way below. When my eyes catch sight of the ground, absolute terror seizes me, grappling with my heart like a clutching, clawing fist. What I see when I look out the window convinces me of one thing I’ve been fearing: I can’t do this. Not here. I’m not going to be safe here at all.

  Missing West Green Girl Found; Corpse Shows Distressing Signs of Tampering

  West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

  13 June 1959

  The West Sussex Constabulary has reported the discovery of the body of Miss Elizabeth McKinley of Greenville Avenue, West Green, around dawn yesterday, 12 June 1959. The body of Miss McKinley was uncovered in a skip at the current construction site for the new Crawley Hospital. A worker found what appeared to be a large trunk in the skip that seemed out of place. Upon opening the trunk and discovering what appeared to be limbs, the police were called to the scene to investigate. Detectives later arrived, and a chief detective is currently on the case.

  Several other trunks included the remains of what was determined to be Elizabeth McKinley after further investigation. Investigators also revealed the presence of bite marks on various limbs and pieces of the dismembered corpse. It seems that the bite marks were made postmortem.

  The deceased, Elizabeth McKinley, 19, daughter of Mr and Mrs Jonathan McKinley, disappeared from her home 26 May. Mr and Mrs McKinley had left to attend a dinner in Brighton. Miss McKinley had stayed behind due to illness. Upon returning home, Mr and Mrs McKinley found signs of a break-in, although no valuables were removed. Miss McKinley had not been heard from since 26 May by any family or friends.

  Searches have turned up few clues, the constabulary notes. West Green has been on edge since the disappearance of the girl that neighbours called ‘godly, sweet, and kind.’ Elizabeth McKinley was engaged to be married to Paul Hazenstab, also of West Green. Their wedding was to be announced in the coming weeks.

  Police are calling the death ‘a brutal homicide of the darkest kind’, in reference to the disturbing bite marks found on her thigh, chest, and left arm. The dismemberment of her body has also raised concerns that this was an act of revenge or hostility. Several West Green residents interviewed mentioned fears that a deranged killer is on the loose, but Chief Constable Warren of the West Sussex Constabulary wishes to reassure the residents of Crawley that there is not enough evidence at this time to establish a motive or to stir such fears.

  ‘We will be investigating,’ Chief Constable Warren noted, ‘and we will not stop until we find the savage murderer who took this sweet girl’s life in such a sinister way. We ask the people of Crawley to be vigilant and to report any strange occurrences.’

  Arrangements for the funeral of the deceased have not yet been announced as the investigation is still underway.

  The pencil between my
teeth, I gnaw and gnash, closing my eyes and thinking about how it all transpired. A surge of warmth flashes through me as I recall the supple flesh between my teeth. I recall how my tongue danced at its surface. The gnashing of my teeth against her flesh quenched, if only for a quick moment, the primal urge within me. The suppleness of her arm, her chest, her inner thigh – all so satisfying yet also stirring of a deeper hunger.

  I’d known that first kill would be delectable – but I hadn’t realised just how so.

  I sit back in my chair, my fingers finding the tip of the pencil as my teeth incessantly chomp down, almost as if of their own volition.

  I’ve done it.

  I’ve accomplished the first.

  I’d always imagined the first to be the hardest when I’d gone over my plans. The logistics of it, sure. But also the feel of the life exiting a body. It had excited me, the mere thought of it driving me to a place of utter joy rarely known in all of my years of living. I’d worried, though, if it would meet my expectations. What if the taste of death wasn’t enough?

  It was a fear I’ve always battled with, a question that often held me back. But there was no more holding me down. I’d finally risen up. I’d finally done what I’d always needed to do, what I’d always been capable of doing.

  I’d found myself, my strength. A grin paints itself on my face. Brilliant. There is no other word for it. I’m finally brilliant.

  Bloody brilliant.

  I’ve done it, after all. I’ve finally achieved it. I carried it out, succeeded in the first step of the master plan. I finally feel a surge of life pulsing in my blood. It’s as if her death has incited a new energy, a new sense of life within me. It’s a foreign feeling, yet it’s one that I feel like I’ve always been craving. All of those years of being lost, of searching. I found it. It’s paradoxical yet it completely makes sense. I finally feel excited about something. Dazzled by the feel of death, I now know I can be the one to wield so much power. I can choose when and how they leave this world. And I get to be there in the final moments, to see them beg, to hear their desperate pleas for another day. My lips curve into a crooked grin.