‘What is it, dear?’ Mum asks as I stop rolling out the pastry, my head groggy from getting so little sleep last night. Every sound startled me, every broken dream a flash of Oliver Parsons.
‘I was talking to Joseph,’ he says. Joseph is Dad’s closest thing to a friend in town. He is a constable, albeit it not a very good one, if rumours are to be believed.
‘What did he say?’ Mum prods.
‘Well, although they aren’t releasing this publicly, apparently the body was found thanks to that bloke you courted, Addy. Oliver.’
My stomach drops. Did he just say Oliver? Certainly, I heard wrong.
‘Oliver Parsons? Now that was a mighty fine bloke, wouldn’t you say?’ Mum asks, making even the discovery of a dead body about my love life. I mentally bat her comment away.
‘O-O-Oliver found the body?’ I ask, needing confirmation that I haven’t misheard.
Dad shrugs. ‘He found a shoe by the pond and thought it was peculiar. That’s what I’ve heard. Odd for him to be wandering out by the pond, but apparently, he was. I guess he was out for a stroll, said he was blowing off steam about something, when he came across a woman’s shoe. He thought it suspicious and notified the police. One thing led to another, and they found poor Helen. Looks like your old chap’s a hero.’
I steady myself on the table, squeezing my eyes shut. Oliver Parsons. He found Helen’s shoe, which led police to the body? Bizarre. Strange. Peculiar. Horrifying.
My mind whirls with possibilities. Could he—? I don’t even dare finish the thought. This is madness. Sure, Oliver turned out to be nothing like I thought he was. He showed his true side as our relationship continued. He proved to me that being a good husband wasn’t in the realm of possibility. He scared me, especially after what I did all those months ago. But just how deep do those angry tendencies go? How far will he go to execute his temper, his strength? I sink into the kitchen chair, fears spinning about in my mind. It can’t be. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t …
Perhaps I’m not the only one with a secret to harbour.
Chapter 7
Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home
2019
‘What are you doing out here?’ a male voice shouts behind me.
I turn from the door to the staircase to see a man I haven’t seen before walking down the corridor, rushing towards me. He’s wearing night clothes and his face is worn and tired. He wears thick spectacles with dark frames that make his eyes look tiny. Still, he seems to move about confidently, unlike most of us in this place. I shake my head, realising my hands are touching a cold, metal door. I turn back to see it’s the door that shields the stairwell. What am I doing here? How did I get here? My bare feet are cold on the linoleum of the corridor.
The man roughly grabs my arm, pulling me towards my room, the door wide open as always.
‘Come on, now. You’re in here.’ His words are gruff and unapologetic. The icy tone coincides with the chill of the floor.
I look up at him, his steely eyes serene and beautiful but mysterious, too, behind the thick spectacles he wears. There’s a strangeness to them, an unfamiliar familiarity that bleeds into me. It’s too much to take in. My head hurts.
He walks with me inside the threshold of 316. My room, I remind myself. Yes, 316 is my room.
‘You okay?’ His voice is a hushed whisper, barely audible but also defining in the stark silence of the night-time hours.
‘I – I don’t know,’ I admit, holding my aching forehead as I walk to my bed. The familiar gurgles of Rose echo in the room.
‘Why were you over there?’ he interrogates as he stands beside my bed, arms crossed. Rose emits a soft moan, but I don’t glance over.
‘I-I-I don’t know,’ I repeat. And it’s true. I’m just as confused as he. Why was I at the stairs? Why was I touching the door? Did I have a dream?
Think, Adeline. Think. Like a sputtering car, my mind churns out possibilities, touches upon shifted memories from yesterday, from the night, from a few moments ago. What’s real and what’s fiction? What happened today and what is a snippet of a memory from long ago? My head pounds as I will it to sort through things, to put everything in order. I count to three in my head, thinking about it all. Processing. I wring the fingers on my left hand, squeezing and focusing and thinking.
And finally, as I feel the fog lift and the dust settle, my mind does its job. It wasn’t a dream, I realise after a few moments of silence. And I wasn’t sleepwalking. I remember now, bits and pieces. Banging. I heard banging.
‘I think I heard banging in the stairwell,’ I announce as if to solidify my own memory.
‘Impossible. The stairs are blocked off except to staff. Maybe one of them was on the stairs, but I doubt you heard it. Why would they be banging?’ Rose’s gurgles intensify, becoming moans of an eerie variety.
‘Check the stairwell. I’m sure someone was in there.’ My resolve strengthens. The banging in the stairwell happened, and it was strong and steady like a beating drum. I know what I heard. I know what I was desperate to investigate. I know.
He sighs gently as he takes the spectacles from his head, wiping the lenses on the fabric of his sleeve. ‘I’m sure you just imagined it. Maybe you were just dreaming.’ His words burn, and I exhale as I sink onto the bed. There is no banging now. Whatever I heard is gone, long gone. The only sound is Rose, snorting and sputtering. She’s louder than I’ve ever heard her.
‘How did you find me? Did I wake you?’ I ask, my thoughts travelling to new territory now.
He stands over me, readjusting his dressing gown. ‘Sometimes I wander at night. Easy up here to get away with it, after all. I like to check up on everyone up here, keep an eye on them. I was making my rounds when I saw you standing there,’ he replies. He looks at me stoically, his face grim. Maybe it’s the time of night, or maybe it’s the thought of him wandering about aimlessly night after night. Regardless, he looks – frustrated. The way his forehead crinkles, the way his eyes watch me, I can tell he’s not thrilled at finding me during his watch.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, smiling weakly, practically shouting to be heard over Rose. Why is she so agitated?
He stares at me for a moment too long before he nods and trudges out of the room. Despite the frustration in his eyes, there’s a somewhat detectable kindness in his face, in his voice. It reminds me of how Charles used to look out for me. I like that familiarity. I like the incongruency between his eyes and who he seems to be.
When he’s gone, Rose mercifully quiets down. I only hear the characteristic gurgles now and again that I’m used to already. I lie down, tucking myself in underneath the scratchy blanket. I drift off to sleep peacefully as I try to remember if the man told me his name. I can’t remember. I just can’t remember. Nonetheless, I don’t wake up until morning, and for that, I’m glad.
Chapter 8
‘Talk-like-a-what day?’ I ask as Dorothy, the knitting woman, smirks at me. I’ve confirmed she’s Dorothy, the other residents calling out to her as we came in. I must write it down in my notes when I get back to my room so I don’t forget. I hate when I forget.
A strange hat, flimsy and black, perches on Dorothy’s head. It looks like the kind a child would make in primary school. Dorothy readjusts it, as if my thoughts are discernible. I follow her into a corner room, off the common room, where several of Floor Three’s residents are gathered.
‘Talk-like-a-pirate day. It’s quite fun. The staff all dress up, we get all types of savoury foods they disguise as pirate foods, and we play games,’ Dorothy announces as I glance around the room. It’s decorated with sea creatures, fake gold coins, and what appears to be a foam sword in the middle of the table.
I shake my head, not sure what to think about this super ‘fun’ day the staff has on the activity timetable. But Dorothy insisted I come with her to the first activity, which is some kind of ridiculous charades game. How we’re going to play charades when half the residents here can’t even stand up or speak
is beyond me. What’s the alternative, though? Claire is out of town on a marketing trip. She’ll be gone for a few days, and phone calls will be few and far between. There’s nothing else here to keep my attention. So talk like a pirate or a buffoon or whatever else they have planned it is.
I spend the morning with Dorothy as we get to know the residents of Floor Three. I see the man who brought the paper for my noticeboard yesterday. He grins at me from the corner of the room, the scar on his forehead gleaming in the sunlight that cascades in. The man with the thick spectacles who helped me last night is also here, sitting with a woman who Dorothy says lives beside her. The woman is wearing a bright red dress that looks a bit too fancy for the occasion. She stares at me, and I think at one point she mocks me. I turn away, trying not to worry myself too much with it. There’s enough to worry about as it is.
I’m starting to feel better, despite last night. I manage to laugh a few times. We finish the charades game, and our team wins. I take it as a good sign. I decide that maybe I can make the best out of being stuck here.
After lunch, I decide to take a nap while Dorothy goes to therapy on the first floor. I’m taking off my pullover, hot from all the activities, when my eyes land on something on my noticeboard. After I look at it once, twice, three times, I blink. It’s still there. It’s real, posted to the right of the pink menu that’s tacked up.
Shaking my head, I back up and plant myself on my bed, wondering how I could’ve been so wrong. This place is nothing like it seemed.
Nothing.
Investigation Underway With West Green Killer On the Loose
West Green, Crawley, West Sussex
1 July 1959
Citizens of West Green and surrounding areas remain on high alert as investigators continue to search for confirmation of the killer responsible for two slain women in recent weeks.
Bite marks on the bodies of the two women, Elizabeth McKinley and Helen Deeley, seem to suggest a connection between their murders as well as the brutal disposal of their bodies. The proximity of their residences and the discovery of their bodies has also led to many questions for detectives.
Mr John Deeley, husband of the second victim, was initially a prime suspect in the case. However, several people have come forward to clear his name, providing an alibi. Detectives have not released results of a comparison of the dental records of the suspect and the bite marks on the victims. However, investigators are currently questioning those in surrounding areas and seem to be expanding their search to areas outside of West Green.
The only evidence garnished from either scene was a shoe at Ifield Pond. No signs of struggle were apparent at either the McKinley or Deeley residences. Sources have told reporters that the constabulary in West Green has brought in special investigators to continue to search for clues and conduct interrogations of suspects. However, the constabulary is not revealing the names of any other suspects at this time, leading many to believe they are stumped on the trail of this maniacal killer.
Additionally, fears are running rampant as a third woman has been reported missing. Doreen Thompson was reported missing on 29 June, just 48 hours after Helen Deeley’s body was retrieved from Ifield Pond. Although constables are not verifying a connection between her disappearance and the other murders, residents of West Green are quickly connecting the dots.
‘We don’t feel safe, and we don’t feel like investigators are getting anywhere. They don’t seem to be close to finding the killer, which is terrifying,’ a resident who wishes to remain anonymous has stated.
‘We have no proof at this time that the killer is a West Green resident. We could be dealing with an outsider coming into town for a few quick kills. Heck, the train station is so close. It could be anyone,’ Paul Browning, a local florist shop owner, told reporters. Many residents concur with Browning, making this case truly terrifying.
With a skilled killer clearly at work and few pieces of evidence left behind at the scenes, investigators will certainly have their hands full. Currently, the strongest leads have led to dead ends, according to an anonymous source close the case. The constabulary continues to plead with anyone who may have information to come forward and continues to seek out suspects in the case.
‘Perhaps the bite marks will be his undoing,’ Joseph Greyson, head schoolmaster in Horsham, noted. Greyson, a former resident of West Green, has been writing a book on the John Haigh murders and is no stranger to the works of homicidal killers – his own mother was murdered fifteen years ago in the same town.
Certainly, word is spreading quickly about the mass murderer on the loose in Crawley, and residents in neighbouring areas are growing concerned that this may be just the beginning.
I’ve thought about slowing down a bit. Perhaps I’m gathering too much attention too quickly. It doesn’t do to rush.
Gnawing on the edge of the fork, my teeth clinking the metal, my nerves are grated. Maybe I did it too fast. Dammit. I’m patient. I shouldn’t be doing this so quickly. I need to be patient.
But I saw her again this weekend. That hair flowing down her back, those slender legs practically inviting me to take a taste. My insides churn with longing when I see her, wanting so badly to taste her flesh, to feel that cold skin between my teeth as I bite down, as I mark her. I long to feel the power of usurping the life from her body, of adding her lifeforce to my own.
Weak boy. Sickly boy.
Not me. Not anymore.
Does she even know me? Does she see me? Sure, she’s passed me enough times in the past few weeks. She’s even brushed against me now and again in the past few days. She’s looked into my eyes as I stare back at her, trying to supress the smirk.
But does she really see me? Or am I just the bloke she thinks she knows? She’s got me all wrong. All wrong indeed. But that’s okay. Her day will come, and so will mine.
I look at the article again. I need to be careful. I need to stay collected. It will get harder and harder with each one. But I’m patient, and I’m no fool. I’ve prepared for this. I can win this game. They can’t. They’ll never win, not this time.
I used to be upset about being invisible, about fading into the background. But now, it’s an advantage, you see. The one they always overlooked is rising up right underneath them – and they have no idea.
Oh, how glorious it would feel for them to know. I smile at the thought, at the look on their faces. They don’t know what I’m capable of. They never did.
I’m doing it now, though. I’m really doing it. Would it have made a difference? I think about all those times I stared in the mirror, wondering what it would take. Now I know – and it’s electrifying. Power is addictive, especially when it comes from the ultimate price.
Stay calm. Stay smart, I remind myself. They’re searching harder now. But search away. Because they have no idea. No idea at all. And the next one is going to be even better, even more beautiful. I’m getting better. I’m getting stronger. And they’ll never guess what happens next.
I fold the paper carefully. I need to keep the souvenirs from the masterpiece I’m creating. I need to keep the proof for myself, always just for me. Because that’s what this is for, no matter what I thought in the beginning.
It started for her, but it’s for me now. It’s all for me. Every glorious one of them.
I carefully place it on top of the letter from Doreen. A simple letter, one that comes every month from her cousin up in Yorkshire. Nothing exciting. Just babbling about the weather and shopping and the new market down the street. A mundane letter. Those are always my favourite. They remind me that even on the simplest of days, everything can be snatched.
Even her. Even she could be plucked away in the simplest of moments. That’s where the rush comes from. I crave that feeling, that control. Does God feel like this, sitting up high, waiting to twist and turn the paths of life? I grin, shaking my head.
Silly boy. Weak boy. All mighty and powerful man.
I like that no one is ever expecting i
t – the letter, the moment, the blood leaking from their bodies as they stare into my eyes and wordlessly ask, why?
Chapter 9
Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home
2019
I’ll be watching you.
After finding the strength to stand from my bed, I pull the note down from the noticeboard for a closer look. I hold the crumpled piece of lined paper in my hands, shaking. The scrawled letters taunt me as I trace them with my gaze, analysing every loop, every curve, the dot in the ‘I’. What does this mean? Who did this? And when? The questions swirl in my blood like a plague I can’t get rid of. I squeeze my hand into a fist, a frigidness throbbing in my veins. My mind races, trying to place the note, the meaning, the person who did it. Why? Across the room, a gurgling sound reminds me that I’m not alone, not ever. Rose is more vocal than usual.
The curtain to her side of the room is open, and I look over. Rose sits, wide-eyed, her chest heaving as she gasps for breath. Her eyes fall on the note in my hand, and her lips begin to move, bloody mucus dribbling from her mouth.
‘Rose? What is it?’ I ask, certain now that the woman wants, no needs, to tell me something. She stares, babbling incoherently, as her hand shakes violently. It seems to take every effort for her to lift her arm, the stilted movement taking so long that my heart has time to race again.
‘Rose? Talk to me. Tell me,’ I coax, my fingers squeezing the paper between my fingers tightly, as if I’m afraid it will disappear if I loosen my grip.
Her hand whips wildly as she balls all her fingers on her left hand into a fist – all but her pointer finger, which is crooked but still somewhat outstretched. I think for a moment she is pointing at me, but instead, her finger carefully lines up with the note at my side.
Her lips move, her eyes frantic. I wish I could read her mind. She knows something. She does.
‘Rose, what is it?’ I ask, desperate for the answer I know I won’t get. Think, Addy. Think. She knows something. You need to figure it out. Maybe if I could get her paper … could she write? If I helped? If I could only …
The One Who Got Away Page 8