The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  She was ripped from this world, clawing to a life that was no longer hers but was life, nonetheless.

  I rush to the side of her bed, slamming my thumb into the call button over and over. After a long time, a nurse comes by, the brown-haired nurse. She gasps when she walks in, seeing me standing over the body.

  ‘Oh, dear. Come on, Adeline. Come on. It’s okay,’ she says, ushering me out as she reaches for the phone by Rose’s bed, calling for help. I cower in the corridor, fearful I’m going to go out too right now, my heart thrashing. I need to sit down. I need to get to the doctor. This is too much, but I can’t look away. I’m drawn to the body, mesmerised by the scene. I keep gawking in at the purple-skinned, white-haired woman I barely know yet can’t help but mourn for. She was here this morning. She was here. Who noticed her slip away? Who will notice her absence? Who will grieve for her silent descent into the great darkness? It pains me to think that maybe no one at all.

  I lean my head against the wall, tears falling, as I think about earlier. She was anxious to tell me something, fighting to make her lips form the words. And now she’s gone. I can’t help but wonder if it’s connected. If it is, I realise as a team of nurses and professionals storms into our room, Rose’s decaying body no longer alone, I’m in more trouble than I thought.

  It’s not safe here. The realisation slams into me like a train pummelling down the rails. None of us are safe – yet, somehow, I can’t help but think a darker version of danger lurks about my room specifically. The note this morning, and now Rose. It can’t be a coincidence, can it? But what does it mean? My mind wanders to frightening memories from long ago, a familiar sense of foreboding bubbling in my chest.

  No. It’s been so long. It can’t possibly have anything to do with any of that. It just doesn’t make sense. After all this time? That chapter has long since been closed and all but forgotten. Hasn’t it?

  Still, coming back to Crawley, all sorts of ominous visions blur my mind. Chaotic memories and anxiety spin together, confusing me. It’s not safe here – but why? Are we all in danger, or is something more specific, more planned, at work?

  My chest heaves as I think about the possibility. Staring into the room as the professionals race about and I hear questions exchanged about how they’ll possibly explain this one, my mind dances with questions of my own. Who will be the next one claimed by Smith Creek Manor? How long until I, too, am desperately clawing my way up for air while no one notices a thing? The nurses flitter about, shouting orders. No one spots the tiny, crouching old woman at the edge of the room who is on the brink of disaster herself. There is no one to save me. I need to calm myself.

  ‘You okay?’ a voice asks as a hand touches my shoulder, startling me.

  I turn to see the man from 313 standing behind me, his dressing gown open over his clothes as he readjusts the thick spectacles.

  ‘Heard a commotion and figured I’d see what was going on.’ His sinuous voice is deep and warm, despite the cracking of it from age. I hang onto his words, rubbing my clammy palms together. He is warm. He is inviting.

  I look up into his face, those steel eyes shining down on me. I study the wrinkles, the stubble growing on his chin. His hair is slicked to the side, grey and stiff. Still, those eyes … I’m certain now. I know that he’s familiar. I’d know those eyes anywhere. I don’t understand how I missed it. It all makes so much more sense. Yes, I realise as it dawns on me. Everything makes sense.

  At first, the understanding is a warm, smooth stone unearthed and treasured. My mind isn’t completely gone. It hasn’t failed entirely. I’ve sorted it through. I know him. I do. But, as he continues peering down at me, my mind dancing about through memories and past moments, a darker realisation takes hold.

  Instead of comforting me, the understanding that, yes, I do know him, only affirms my deepest, cagiest fears. This man, this memorable man, is here at a time when I don’t know who I can trust, at a time when my roommate has died and I don’t know why. He’s standing here, ready to catch me when I fall – or so it would seem to the unassuming.

  However, as I look into the eyes of the man from my past, I know one thing for sure: decades ago, he was not a man who would catch me and save me from slamming into the ground. In fact, at several points in my life, he was a man who would willingly trip me, let me crash into the cement and fracture into a thousand pieces. In many ways, he did shatter me over and over until I was one crack shy of oblivion. And in many ways, I’m certain that even this much time couldn’t heal the wounds and the desire for vengeance.

  I take a step back, wondering how and why, questions spinning round and round as I count to three.

  Third Missing Woman’s Body Discovered; Police Still Searching for Killer and Motive

  West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

  5 July 1959

  In a new development in the string of missing women from West Green, Crawley, a third body has been uncovered. Miss Doreen Thompson of 15 West Street, West Green, was reported missing 29 June, less than forty-eight hours after the body of Helen Deeley was uncovered in Ifield Pond. Doreen Thompson’s remains were uncovered in Langley Green, Crawley, around 6.00 p.m. on 4 July 1959.

  Miss Thompson was reported missing by her parents on the night of 29 June when she failed to return home from an outing to a friend’s house. The friend, Linda Jennings, reported later that Doreen, 17, never appeared at her home. Investigators are uncertain of where Thompson went instead or if she was potentially snatched by the killer on her walk down the street. No witnesses have reported seeing Thompson walking.

  Police were called on 4 July after a resident of Langley Green reported finding a dismembered body in several bags in a wooded area near the Langley Green pub. Detectives noted that the body of Thompson had bite marks that appeared to be created by a human, similar to Elizabeth McKinley’s body uncovered in a skip in June. Several stab wounds were also found. Detectives are currently considering the fact that the three women from West Green are the work of a mass killer due to the proximity of the sites of their discoveries and the rapid occurrences of their deaths. Investigators are not sharing any leads they have at this time, but Chief Constable Warren did reveal that investigators are currently widening their search for the suspect, considering the bodies are being found in various parts of Crawley.

  Citizens of West Green and Langley Green are on high alert. Police are asking residents to be on the lookout for odd behaviours and to be cautious when travelling alone, especially females. Anyone with information is asked to contact West Sussex Constabulary at this time.

  Funeral arrangements are being made for Doreen Thompson, who was an active member of the West Green Choir.

  Sweat pours from my head as the hot water laps over me. I haven’t got much time. I need to be ready, and it’s already been a busy day.

  The vigil is tonight, a town gathered for prayer in the midst of tragedy. I chuckle aloud, my laughter mixing with the water dripping. Am I the only one who knows how pointless prayer is? They’ll all be asking why and how, but only I know. Prayers are pointless, and hopes are drowned in a pool of blood. Doreen Thompson’s blood.

  Why do the people of this town make it so easy? Words like mass killer popping about, yet the youth of the town insisted on rebelling, even in the face of danger. It was so easy to snatch Doreen from the darkened street, the girl climbing out the window of her house. I’d almost considered waiting. Did it count if it was such an easy kill? Especially when the idiot girl had taken the back way to the Jennings’ home? It was like the heavens were aligning for me to carry out my plan. It was too easy.

  But I knew I had to keep the plan moving. It has to keep going, and although Doreen was one I was excited about, she isn’t the one. Her black hair cascading down her neck, her olive-coloured skin – these things thrilled me. But not as much as the finale will. Not as much as Adeline.

  I’ve still been keeping an eye on her, the final one on my list. There’s another example for you, that fin
al one – despite all the warnings, she’s sneaking about foolishly. I’ve thought about how easy it would be to snuff her out early, the itch in my veins almost prompting me to do something rash. But I don’t want to deal with that bloke. I don’t want the bastard to be any part of her end. I need to be with her, alone, for it to count. That’s when the satisfying thrill of it all sinks in. Watching in desperation as I alone observe their exit into the next world.

  When I was in school, I remember learning about Charon, the ferryman to Hades. Even as a boy, I thought about what that job must be like. To have such power. To be the one driving the souls to the underworld. A lonely job, but an exciting one, I thought. The other kids dreamt of being the gods, but I knew that real power came from the darker work.

  Now, I am my own form of Charon, and I take my payment from the women before they die. I ferry them off, out of this world, and help them crossover into the murky waters of the next. If only they could see me now, all those people who thought I’d never be someone.

  Weak boy. Troubled boy. Bad boy.

  Not anymore. No, not anymore.

  I lift a hand easily out of the water of my bath, slicking back my hair as I stare up at the ceiling. I close my eyes, sinking into the feeling of the water surrounding me and of the feelings of success that envelop me.

  I’m doing it. I’m really doing it. And no one suspects a thing.

  Sometimes it’s hard to accept that I’m invisible. Sometimes I just want to shout from the rooftops that it’s me, that I’m the brilliant one. I want to share this glory with someone, with everyone. But there is no one. It’s just me. It’s always just me.

  I want to talk about how easy it was to pull the letter opener from my pocket, to stab Doreen over and over in the alleyway, her screams silenced by my hand as I felt her body grow limp.

  I want to tell them how brilliantly I dragged her away, how perfectly I marked her as mine, that final touch on the masterpiece, the seal on the letter, the checkmark on the list. I’m getting better now. I’m learning. Even when I was in trouble, the headmaster always said I was a good learner. I was skilled at memorising details. I was. No matter how many times I was chided, they couldn’t deny I was good at learning.

  But now, I’m an even better learner. The town is my classroom, and the bodies are my practice sculptures for the epic finale. It will be grand, for sure, because I’m truly becoming a master I never even expected I could be.

  I was made for this. I was bloody made for this.

  It’s a shame, though, that I must keep calm. At least tonight will be a little different. I will be there amongst them, and they won’t have a clue. But I will. I will know that I’m winning at this game, the entire town oblivious in grief and naivety and in ignorance. No one suspects me. I’m so good at what I do.

  Most of all, the next one on the list doesn’t have any idea – and I’ve already started. I’ve already studied her, watched her, and prepared.

  The next strike will be soon. It must be.

  But that’s a concern for another night. I sit up, draining the tub and thinking about how tonight, I’ll simply bask in the glory of my sinister secrets, wearing two hats – the one I wear in public, and the one that I’ll keep hidden.

  Chapter 11

  West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

  7 July 1959

  ‘Surprised they’re still having this get together with Doreen’s death and all,’ Phyllis says, sitting next to me at the long table, plopping her tea and digestives down beside us.

  ‘Yeah, it feels – wrong,’ I reply before taking a sip of my tea.

  ‘Well, apparently Doreen’s family wanted the church to go on with the youth gathering tonight. Thought Doreen would want it that way. I think they’re still in shock,’ Anne says, a girl from a few streets over who has always been closer to Phyllis than to me. She sits across from me. Dozens of other teenagers stand in the queue at the table where some stony-faced adults serve tea and digestives in the church basement at Crawley Community Church.

  The youth gathering has been a regular occurrence for the past couple of years but still, we were all surprised when it was going ahead in spite of circumstances. With Doreen dead and the town in an uproar about the killer on the loose – everyone certain it’s a mass killer now – I thought for certain this whole evening would be cancelled. There are several constables placed at each door as a precaution. All our parents are upstairs in the church, holding a vigil for Doreen. Such an uncanny night in the community. Everyone is bewildered by the tragedy and unsure of how to act, to talk, to just be.

  ‘Crazy, isn’t it? To think Doreen is gone?’ Anne asks, playing with a digestive and dunking it into her tea. We all nod, lost for a moment in the thought. I knew Doreen. She’d been a nice enough girl, someone I talked to from time to time when I saw her around the neighbourhood.

  ‘Can’t imagine what Linda’s going through,’ Phyllis adds. ‘I wish they had found her alive.’

  We all warm our hands on our cups, a table of rowdy boys behind us laughing as they make crude jokes. We all avoid the reality we don’t want to admit aloud. Doreen’s probably not the last one. Anyone could be next.

  ‘Where’s your bloke tonight?’ Phyllis asks, seemingly eager to change the subject.

  ‘Charles is working,’ I offer.

  ‘Guess you’re left with just us then,’ she says, and I lean against her shoulder.

  ‘Could be worse,’ I reply, grinning.

  The night continues with games for the teenagers, letting us forget about the harsh realities of the town. At one point, Phyllis and I decide to wander upstairs, our awkward age of nineteen letting us hover between the youth and the adults, not quite fitting in either world. But, Phyllis wants to pay her respects, to say a few prayers for Doreen. Who am I to stop her?

  We stagger up and find a pew in the back of the church. As the pastor leads the congregation in prayer, I glance around. It seems like our whole town is here. I see the owners of the pub, the café, the florist shop, and the market stalls scattered about, all offering their prayers. The town barber is parked in the front row, tears falling shamelessly from his eyes. A few pews back, the postman bows his head, sitting alone on an end seat. He shakes his head as if in disbelief, as we all are. One of our school teachers sits in the second pew, tears falling as he clutches his hat to his chest as if it will give him comfort. Everyone is just seeking anything to bring them comfort. The butcher, our choir leader, businessmen and homemakers from West Green all gather – so many people here to pray for Doreen and grieve for another girl who died too young.

  A few other teens make their way upstairs, perhaps feeling guilty for having fun while Doreen is cold and decaying.

  Looking around, I’m unexpectedly soothed by the warm presence of the town gathered in solidarity. For a moment, I forget that West Green is on the verge of disaster, that someone is tearing this community apart. For a while, I think about the serene connectedness here, how everyone pulls together. I glance around the church, taking in the gathered, concerned community members.

  And then I see him. Oliver.

  He runs a hand through his hair as he catches my eye. I turn away, but not before I notice him glaring at me. Everyone else sits in a reverent way, painted with grief. But not Oliver. Instead, he is poised and calm, his jaw clenched. He taints this aura of beautiful connectedness in the midst of tragedy with a cockiness that verges on excitement. What’s wrong with him?

  The service wraps up and families cautiously prepare to make their very closely monitored walk home. Oliver approaches me as I’m getting ready to leave.

  ‘Adeline, lovely to see you,’ he murmurs through gritted teeth. I notice his fingers are tapping on the top of the pew nearby, a pattern that is hard and fast.

  ‘Oliver,’ I reply so as not to draw unwanted attention.

  ‘I see you aren’t being escorted tonight. Alone, are we?’ he asks, grinning.

  ‘I’m with my parents. I must be going,�
�� I answer, heading over to Mum who is talking to some of the other women in the church. As I’m passing by, all of the town enraptured by their individual conversations, I feel Oliver’s familiarly strong fingers wrap around my wrist. He pulls me back, and I involuntarily shudder.

  ‘Be careful, Adeline. Bad things happen when girls are out alone around here. Wouldn’t want you to ruin your reputation sneaking around. Or worse.’

  My chest rises as I suck in air, trying to stay calm. I can feel his eyes lasering into the back of my head, can picture the sickening way he’s looking at me.

  ‘Let me go,’ I demand. His fingers wrap around me tighter.

  I feel his breath against the back of my head. ‘I’ll never let you go, Adeline. Never. Remember that when you’re out galivanting around with that scum from Langley Green. You’re still mine. I haven’t let you go. Anytime I want, I can claim you as mine. Don’t forget it.’

  ‘Adeline?’ Mum says from a few pews away. She looks over just as Oliver is letting go of my wrist, raising his hand to wave and exchange pleasantries. I realise my hands are shaking as I shove them into my pockets.

  ‘Come on, Addy. Let’s get home,’ Mum says as she pushes past a few stragglers in the pew near me. I turn to see that Oliver has crossed the church, marching to the side exit. He turns around and catches my eye, grinning sadistically. I whirl back around, smiling at my mum, relieved she is here. I try to shove Oliver’s threats aside. They’re just empty threats. Aren’t they? He wouldn’t do anything …

  ‘Stay close,’ Mum demands as Dad finds his way over to us and we head out the door. I don’t argue for once. I’m glad to have Mum and Dad flanking me. What is this town coming to? Is anyone safe? The murders seem to be getting closer and closer to home, each kill seemingly a street nearer. Who is next? And when?