Sixth Victim

by Kate Mitchell

  A bloodied gap made a mischief of Phoebe’s mouth. The multi-colored eccentric yet pretty face was now misshaped, she had lost one of her incisors.

  ‘Does it look bad?’ asked Phoebe watching Cecelia’s face intensely.

  Impractical to lie and yet seemingly unkind to tell the truth.

  ‘You should go and see a doctor. I’ll get us a cab and take you to the emergency room after that we go to the police.’

  ‘And what can they do for me? Tell me off for being foolish and making me worse than I already do. No, I’m going to have to write that money off. It’s painful, but that’s how life goes.’

  ‘We should report it to the police. It’s your duty.’

  Bemused, Phoebe looked at Cecelia, questioning. Cecelia smiled.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘What about your class?’

  ‘My class can wait. If I don’t come with you, I have this feeling you will just go home and go to bed. You don’t look right.’ Staring at Phoebe’s unfocused eyes, Phoebe was definitely dazed.

  ‘There’s nothing they can do for me. The thief took my money, and I won’t get it back. That’s life. You know, I had this feeling we were being watched this evening,’ she shrugged. ‘But I’m always prone to feel like that.’

  ‘I’m getting a cab.’ There wasn’t going to be any more arguments.

  After refusing to go to the hospital they went to the police station, Phoebe’s details were taken. But just like she predicted, there was nothing they could do for her. Irresponsible to be walking around with so much money, Phoebe agreed, she had been a fool.

  Details of the thief were provided in quick darts of information by Phoebe and then by Cecelia. He was about five feet ten, dark hair, slightly wavy, and dark eyes which were probably brown, but they were behind dark glasses, so this was a guess. A mask covered half of his face like a bandito had dismissed the true lines of his nose and mouth. White and strong. They judged that he was in his late twenties to early forties. Again, this was still guesswork. Smart for a thief, he didn’t wear jeans but the bottoms of a suit. A quick profile of a nondescriptive was added to the register.

  ‘I’ve reported the thief and now I’m going home,’ said Phoebe upon leaving the station.

  ‘It’s unwise for you to be on your own tonight, I’ll stay with you?’

  ‘Well, it would have been more of a shock if I had to spend a night in the hospital. I don’t have health insurance because I’m self-employed and besides I’m never ill, and if I’m ill, I just mix up a few herbs for myself.’

  ‘You can’t be on your own. I wish you would take up my offer.’

  The English are presumed to be reasonable, but Phoebe was far from that; she was stubborn. If it was money Phoebe was worried about, there was always the free hospital. No, absolutely not, but thank you. How could anyone be this difficult? Cecelia sighed, exasperated, and annoyed, but Phoebe wouldn’t be moved.

  ‘I will be okay, I can assure you,’ said Phoebe suddenly very brave or just independent.

  ‘Then, just humor me. I’m worried about you. I won’t sleep a bit this night worrying about you.’

  ‘Look, there’s no reason for you to be worried about me—you hardly know me. I’ve been stupid and foolish and for that, I’ve lost one of my teeth. I’ve got to get on with my life, as you have with yours.’

  ‘I’m staying with you whether you like it or not.’

  It was hard for Phoebe to admit that she was grateful for Cecelia’s company. Accepting the offer and acknowledging that yes, she did not feel too well; not exactly sick but nauseous, so food or drink was out of the question. Taking a couple of pain killers and putting on her nightclothes, Phoebe went to bed, her head raised by pillows.

  Sitting in a chair by the side of Phoebe’s bed, Cecelia kept an eye on her. It was not a comfortable night but worrying about a friend was even more uncomfortable. In a chair in the sitting position with a blanket was how Cecelia chose her night; it took some getting used to. First, though, she had tried out her first aid on Phoebe, pinching the gash together and holding it for five minutes to stop the bleeding. A couple of bandages across the wound had held the ruptured flesh together. The wound was clean, and only needed sterilizing, Phoebe was going to survive. It may be that there wasn’t any need for Cecelia to stay the night, but she would be happier if she did if only for her own peace of mind.

  In the morning and over the worst of the shock Phoebe had a headache. She had slept but it had been fitful. She was also anxious to get back to her flowers.

  Busy with a full-time patient, Cecelia had looked on the web on what to do for concussion, the main practical advice was that Phoebe should rest. Not an easy task for this independent English patient who thrived on doing her own thing and being her own person especially with her flower business. Unfortunately, there was no one else to take over the reins.

  This meant Cecelia would have to put her life on hold to help this eccentric woman out. Caring for Phoebe didn’t stop when it interfered with her life, besides there wasn’t much going on in her own for now. The Slasher had been caught, not that it was her problem. But whatever Cecelia felt towards the murders was overrun by her need to keep an eye on her new friend.

  ‘I will do the best I can for you,’ said Cecelia feeling the bravery of a martyr. ‘I will help you get through this by being your hands and strength until I feel that you can take care of yourself, but for now, you must rest.’

  ‘But why are you doing this for me?’ Phoebe frowned; her face was ghastly white. ‘We hardly know each other.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how little we know each other, I’ve made my decision,’ said Cecelia breathing in deeply suddenly aware that she was changing. Inside, she was beginning to feel different, as if walls of thoughts and opinions which had been vaunted and set in her mind forever was being pushed to the side. Growing and becoming different was good and something to embrace. She was moving towards a person she could admire and more importantly, to be able to live with. Like a person who had gone to war and found herself to be a warrior capable of sacrifice. ‘I am staying with you and looking after you. You don’t have anyone else who can do that for you.’

  ‘But how can I ever repay you?’

  ‘How can I ever repay you?’ smiled Cecelia to Phoebe’s puzzled face. ‘I must explain that by you being ill, it’s allowed me to find out about myself. Like an actor needs an audience, we are both the show. Now, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Phoebe returned Cecelia’s smile. ‘I’ve always found help very difficult to accept.’

  A week passed before Cecelia judged that Phoebe was well enough to work. Sitting on a comfortable chair; a deck chair taken from her small apartment above the shop, she looked tiny and yet spirited. Although it wasn’t cold, two blankets lay over her knees on Cecelia’s insistence. A strangely happy time for both that was made to happen through a mugger.

  Not used to having anything to do with flowers or any other growing plants, Cecelia found herself using her hands differently and thriving, wholeheartedly enjoying the multi-colors of flora. Its powers of healing were great. The slight depression which always overshadowed her eyes was almost forgotten. Looking after flowers, handling, and greeting the customers was so different from the other world she lived in. It brought with it a different kind and calmer temperament. Being around petals and greenery made people on meeting kinder and friendlier especially when they carried a bouquet away with them. Proving Nature’s healing power.

  While Cecelia took charge of the shop, carrying and selling, Phoebe arranged the flowers and the ordering. Some plants and flowers Phoebe ordered from Holland and Columbia the exotics while the bulk came from homegrown sellers. Every day at six in the morning the fresh deliveries arrived.

  New deliveries had to be seen to straight away. The bottoms snipped and then submerged straightaway into water to prevent air bubbles from forming. Phoebe crushed aspirins to extend the life of the flowers, aspi
rins helped to prevent bacteria from forming while sugar provided the food the plants needed.

  In the evening, they ate together and chatted about their lives and where they had been which was almost nowhere for Cecelia, but for Phoebe at eighteen and on her own she had already traveled much of the world before she married, and here, at last, was the country where she wanted to stay.

  ‘But what of your own country?’ asked Cecelia feeling she could never leave her home and move to an alien culture.

  ‘Yes, I will always love England, but to me, England is my childhood, the one which nurtured me. I felt as soon as I arrived here that this was home.’

  This was the first evening Cecelia permitted Phoebe to have a drink of wine. Relaxed now with her glass, Phoebe took stock of her life and how fortunate she had been. After being injured and ill, recovery was enjoyable, the afterglow from this made the world wonderful.

  ‘You must get on with your life,’ said Phoebe sipping her wine thoughtfully. ‘You’ve been too good and helpful; I’m almost inclined to offer you a partnership.’

  ‘To be honest, I thought about the flower business myself since helping out, I’ve really enjoyed it.’

  ‘So, why don’t you join me. You clearly enjoy working with flowers, I’ve seen it in you. You look relaxed and you get on well with people.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cecelia was dreaming. ‘This was a surprise to me; I’ve always thought myself to be anti-social,’ she shrugged. ‘Not fitting in, if you understand what I mean.’

  ‘Weren’t you the one who believed in going for happiness?’

  Cecelia grinned.

  ‘Well, come and join me and be my partner. As a team, we get on well.’

  It seemed like a good decision to make with a change of life. But in that instance doubt cautioned and Cecelia wavered. To be happy was too good to be true, and yet why not? But perhaps, not just yet? Changing her career when she had only just been accepted as a writer was enthusiastic if not practical. She would come with debts and not investments. That’s what she told herself, but it was also the commitment of coming with a new identity.

  ‘Let me write this story first and get it out of the way, and then, yes, I’ll be a florist with you.’

  ‘And I will tell you all about plants and flowers. It will be wonderful.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Cecelia; don’t give in to your doubts. I want to be happy. It took me a couple of years to learn not to fear the future, and you mustn’t either.’

  6

  That night returning home, Cecelia heard screaming from deep back in the darkness. Police sirens filled the night over towards the Alandra Police Department. A hungry feeling carried foreboding that all was not well in Alandra. A virus of fear spread rabidly through the pit of Cecelia’s stomach; poison eking through her blood and traveling to her heart. While jeering of angry voices was frightening, people were angry and refusing to be quietened.

  Yesterday, the bodies of two young girls had been found, children of twelve and thirteen from the same family. A murderer had taken the two sisters when they left school. How he managed to do it was a mystery. He took them in broad daylight with everyone looking. Grace and Ava were walking home together, people had noticed them but not suspecting these two would be the next victims. There were no signs of strangers, if there were, people would have been alerted. But it happened. He left them naked and horribly mutilated. They were found two days later. Was this the work of the Alandra Slasher?

  ‘God have mercy,’ Cecelia muttered to herself as she turned passing the station.

  Fear was boiling and now traveled in the air gathered from the sense of helplessness and drifting towards violence. Someone had to do something to stop this maniac from taking what he wanted. A growing crowd was coming towards her, a dark mass all lit up with torches. There’s power in large numbers; it was daunting. Cecelia was almost inclined to cross herself and pray to a silent God. The trudge of war armed with demands was coming closer.

  ‘We want John Wanton,’ shouted the advancing mob. Moving like a black wave of threats in the dark, arms shaking, burning torches, threatening violence and anger by the minute as more and more people joined them. A new danger was alight in Alandra. A wound had been lanced and the pus was weeping out while the wings of a just insect was trying to staunch it. These two extremes were coming quickly together.

  ‘We want John Wanton,’ again the call mulled with nerves and laughter.

  It had to be stopped. The beating arms of a helicopter throbbed through the sky overhead circling while a bullhorn found its voice to give strict orders.

  ‘Disband and return home, nothing will be done to you if you go home quietly.’

  A police car screamed around the corner panicking, filling the road with more trepidation. Terror was putting flesh on in the darkening skies. If these people didn’t break up and return to their homes, there would be consequences.

  The mob must have been several hundred strong; the police department wouldn’t stand a chance if this mass of people erupted on them. There would be bloodshed.

  Every sinew, every nerve was reacting. Cecelia’s flesh tingled hot with what to do and where to go. And yet this crowd did not look mad, they were not angry or out of their heads. They had decided to carry out justice their way. An inevitability of taking back control produced calmness between this united feeling. In a way, it was understandable. A man allowed himself to do anything he pleased with their young women. He had to be punished and now. An eye for an eye.

  ‘Bring John Wanton out,’ called out someone from the crowd. ‘We don’t want anyone else except him. Give him to us and we will let everyone else go.’

  ‘Return home,’ ordered the detective in charge. ‘If you attack the police, you will force us to take action.’

  Voices from the crowd shouted and booed, but they were not going to leave until they had their man.

  ‘You would protect a murderer? You leave us no choice,’ another voice from the wall of people cried out. ‘We are not going to leave without him. It’s justice we have come for and that’s what we want.’

  ‘He has not been tried yet.’ Detective Travis's voice came from the sky, the officer on board the helicopter. ‘We don’t know for certain he’s guilty.’

  ‘Then give him to us and we will make that decision ourselves.’ For the first time, nervous laughter quickened through the crowd.

  ‘Don’t you understand what you’re doing,’ it was Travis again. ‘We have to carry out justice. If we don’t have justice, no one will be safe.’ The helicopter was doing a circuit aware that they might also be a target for someone’s frustration.

  ‘I tell you what,’ cried out someone who also spoke through a bullhorn. ‘You leave the station unlocked and go home. Then you won’t have to do anything, and justice will be carried out by the will of the people.’

  ‘We can’t do that,’ said Detective Travis speaking from her bullhorn looking down at the crowd from her open door. ‘We need you to stop where you are. We understand your anger and pain, but we can’t allow you to kill a person who hasn’t been tried. Now go home and sleep it off.’

  Three cars dashed and swerved to a halt, their brakes screeched just in front of the progressing crowd. A barricade across the road feet away in front of the still moving crowd and waited, several officers rushed out from their vehicles, rifles cocked and held in aim. Was there going to be another death today? The grim reaper had not finished scything.

  A child understanding the tension began crying. Men with rifles and in protective vests, trigger with twitching fingers waiting for the order to shoot.

  At that moment, the world looked as if it was going mad. One side was the mass of humanity injured and angry feeling it was targeted with every fault of injustice while on the other side was ready to take aim and fire. This side which had sworn to protect those who could not protect themselves were about to attack. A deadly game was about to happen while the police protected a man who ne
eded hanging. A strange and frightening world to witness especially by the light of torches burning fiercely in the hands of the outraged.

  Such a strange body this mass of people joined together, a crowd of arms, heads, and legs, the dinosaur of life. And now it stood waiting.

  ‘Oh hell,’ said Detective Travis concern had dipped into her voice. ‘Get me down, for God’s sake. Put me down now.’

  Was it the electric fear being beaten up by the throbbing of the helicopter turning around like a coward running off? Did the crowd in their temper and outrage believe they had won the victory which was going to leave them empty? The dust of the day had been ripped up by the craft’s hovering now took empty drink cans noisily and rattling them along the sidewalk bumping, cracking, and snapping. Gunshots, it sounded like gunshots. Someone screamed. The crowd moved forward and the sky which once had been dark was now shot with bullets. Fireworks on Copacabana Beach.

  Then everything stopped. It happened so quickly. One man dead, two injured. The crowd cried to itself while the hitmen stood still to attention. Not one ounce of fear was showed.

  ‘You traitors,’ a voice cried out from the crowd. ‘How can you live with yourselves? You would prefer to protect a raping murderer instead of defending us. May God have mercy on your souls.’

  Someone had called the emergency services as two ambulances came screaming hysterically along the road. Such madness was going on that no one understood what was happening. Cecelia watched on, tightened with disbelief, standing to the side, flickered by the burning lights for this was a night to be remembered and an event to record. While the ambulance men ran to the injured, the crowds fell in different stages of shock, Cecelia took out her notebook and began recording the details. Life was going on about her while she listed the events for history.