Last One To Die

by Cynthia Murphy

  The door handle rattles.

  My heart stops as I watch it turn, slowly, slowly. It stops for a few seconds and I wonder if I’ve imagined it, but then I hear a scraping, scratching sound, as though someone is sliding a key in from the other side.

  The handle starts to turn again and a loud click fills the room.

  The door begins to open.

  No, no, no, no, no. Dear God, please don’t let this be real, I’ll do anything, anything you want, anything if you just help me. . .

  The doorknob catches on the top rung of the chair and stops.

  Holy hell. It does work.

  I glance around wildly, looking for my key ring. It’s on top of my bag. My thoughts flash back to something Daddy always does at home; he leaves the key in the lock. He says no one can get in even if they have a copy.

  The chair begins to slide with a sickening scrape and I know I only have seconds, so I launch myself across the room, scoop it up, and throw my full weight at the door, slamming into the chair as I do so. Pain explodes in my hip, tiny fireworks erupting behind my eyes, but I grit my teeth and focus on the doorknob, jamming the key in and twisting it. There’s a faint, metallic noise of something falling to the floor and I back away, praying it stays in the lock.

  Silence on the other side, but the blood roaring in my ears is deafening. I’m frozen to the spot, scared to do so much as breathe.

  Is he still out there?

  I suck in a great gulp of air as blue and red lights wash over the walls. I peer out of my window, down to the car park below, where two patrol vehicles pull in crazily. Uniformed officers jump out, handcuffs at the ready, leaving the car doors wide open.

  Footsteps thump on the stairs.

  “Niamh.” Never before has the sound of my own name made me want to cry. The voice seeps in through the cracks in the wood and buries itself deep under my skin. “Niamh,” it breathes.

  “Leave me alone!” I scream at the door and release all the anger and fear I’ve been carrying around. “Just leave me alone, you – you cretin!” I run to the door and pound on it, battering it until my knuckles are bruised.

  “Niamh, Niamh!” Another voice breaks through my rage.

  “Who is it?” I stutter, stupidly.

  “Answer your phone!”

  I look over to my bed, where the screen is flashing in the darkness. Detective Moran.

  I pick up the phone with shaking hands. “Hello?”

  “We’ve got him, Niamh. We’ve got him. Stay put. . .”

  Too late. I twist the key and wrench the door open. Detective Moran is in the corridor, on his phone as two uniformed officers straddle a gaunt, lanky figure in grey behind him.

  “How you doin’?” Derek places a steaming cup of hot chocolate in front of me on the reception counter, where I’m perched on his stool. “Copper said you was making this when you saw that creep out the window. Thought you’d appreciate it now. Calm you down, like.”

  I glance up at him gratefully. “You know that it’s OK you didn’t see him outside, right? It’s not your fault.”

  “Yeah, but it is my job.” He pushes the cup closer and I take the hint.

  “Thanks,” I croak. “Making a habit out of this, aren’t we?”

  Derek smiles grimly. “I reckon that’s it done now, Irish.”

  I let the silver foil blanket around my shoulders fall as I clutch the mug with both hands, letting the heat seep into my bones. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yeah.” He sits down next to me and we both watch the sky growing lighter beyond the foyer’s glass doors. “They’ve got the scumbag. You can get on with your life.”

  “Not like Sara,” I whisper.

  “No.” Derek’s shoulders slump. “Not like Sara. I couldn’t save her.”

  “Niamh! Oh my God, are you OK?”

  Jess practically jumps me as I walk into the library, closely followed by Ruth who rubs my arm gently. Jess clings to me like a limpet.

  “I’m fine,” I pant. “Jess, you’re squashing me.”

  “Sorry!” She lets go, looking sheepish. “I’m just so glad you’re OK. Come on, tell me everything.”

  “Jess...” Ruth’s voice holds a warning note.

  “It’s fine, honestly.” I sigh. “We know what she’s like, right?”

  “Unfortunately,” Ruth replies dryly and I laugh as Jess rolls her eyes. “I’m glad you’re all right too, dear.” Ruth gives me a much gentler hug. “I’m sorry I exposed you to him.”

  “Don’t you dare, Mum.” Jess’s voice holds the warning now. “You couldn’t have known he was a total psycho. Besides, you didn’t employ him, the uni did.”

  “Yes, I know, I know.” Ruth sighs and it’s clear this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. “Go on, then, you two – go catch up. Are you at the museum later today, Niamh?” I nod. “And have you called your parents?”

  I nod again, but I feel uncomfortable. I did text Megs to say they’d arrested Will, but that was all. Mammy and Daddy have enough to worry about.

  Ruth smiles. “Good. Let’s all go somewhere nice for dinner, shall we? Jess, you pick, just not that Indian we went to last time, my taste buds have only just grown back.” She walks back to the counter and I notice she isn’t using her stick today. “See you both later.”

  “Bye.” We echo, walking out of the door. The university building is quiet this early, no lectures or anything on. I only came in to catch Jess up on last night.

  “Come on, then,” she says as we settle into the comfy chairs by the canteen window. “Tell me everything.”

  Jess refuses to let me go anywhere on my own after telling her about my dramatic night, so ends up walking across town to the museum with me. As much as I appreciate the company, I’m pretty sure she just wants to catch a glimpse of Tommy, so when we arrive and I manage to leave her at the door, relief floods over me along with the cool air of the basement building.

  “Ah, Niamh. How lovely to see you.” Geoffrey’s comforting baritone echoes across the foyer. He’s at the front desk in his normal street clothes – “civvies”, he calls them – and the effect is strangely unsettling. He just doesn’t look like himself without a freshly starched collar and top hat.

  “Hey, Geoffrey. You not performing today?”

  “Unfortunately not.” He leans back in his chair and narrows his eyes at me. “Is everything OK? You look tired. Not working too hard, I hope.”

  “Just burning the candle at both ends,” I fib. I’m glad he doesn’t seem to know what’s going on. At least here I can pretend to be normal.

  “You need to look after yourself, young lady. All that gallivanting won’t do you any good.” There is concern in his voice and I feel my cheeks warm. I feel bad for lying to him. “Oh, how could I forget!” He retrieves a thin volume from beneath the desk and slides it over to me. “I had this at home, a bit of theatrical history for your research. I once acted too, you know.”

  “You did? Thank you.” I lift the book gently, sensing it’s important to him. “I’ll look after it and bring it back as soon as I’ve finished with it.”

  “Of course you will, I don’t doubt that. Anyhow, you best run along. Sue rang in sick so I’m manning the front desk, you’ll need to go and help young Thomas today. I have a feeling it may be a busy shift.”

  I nod and push through the turnstile as he presses down the button to let me in. First Will is arrested and then I find out it’s just me and Tommy, again. Is that a good thing? I remember my conversation with Jess but once I think about the feeling of his lips on mine, excitement begins to mingle with the doubt.

  Maybe things are starting to look up after all.

  Or maybe not.

  As my luck has it, I’ve seen Tommy a grand total of three times today, each time no longer than a quick nod and a wave. I wonder whether he’s avoiding me, but I think that’s paranoia; I’ve been run off my feet and he has been too.

  Geoffrey was right; it was the busiest s
hift I’ve ever worked, but for the first time, I forgot about everything outside of these walls. I’d forgotten how much I love the rush of performing for a crowd and it almost felt like I could really be Jane Alsop. Eventually I finish up, curtsey to the final tour group and head to the staff room. As soon as I sit down, I realize my feet are killing me. I ease off my ballet flats, vowing to wear trainers from now on, no matter what it looks like, and start to rub the arch of my foot, letting out a low moan.

  “Hey.”

  Tommy’s low voice and silhouette fill the staffroom door. He joins me on the wooden bench and I quickly shove my feet back into my flats, hoping they don’t stink.

  “Hey, yourself,” I reply. I don’t know what else to say, so we sit in silence, our shoulders millimetres away from each other. I swear there are sparks crackling in the space between us. “Busy shift,” I try.

  “Yeah.” He gives me that grin, the one that pushes a dimple into his cheek. “So, this is kind of awkward, yeah?”

  I grin back, I can’t help it. “Just a bit.” He nudges me with his electric shoulder and the current zaps around my body, to places that just thinking about make me blush. He holds out his hand, palm up, and beckons to mine with curled fingers. I hold my breath and slide my hand into his, nervous because I know mine is clammy and hot. His fingers are cool and firm in contrast, like stones that have been washed smooth by an endless tide. There’s something soothing about them.

  “What are you doing now?” he murmurs. I look up at the clock and see it’s already ten past six. Damn it.

  “I’m meeting my friend and her parents for dinner, at eight,” I say, an apologetic note in my voice. “Some Greek place near the Tower of London.”

  “Nice.” He looks at me thoughtfully. “I would like to show you something first, though, if you have time?”

  “Really?” I look at the clock. “Yeah, I think I do. It’s not that far to Tower Bridge, is it?”

  “Not really.” He smiles. “And then I can walk you to meet them.”

  “That would be perfect.” I grin back. Will might be in custody, but the thought of walking alone still isn’t the most appealing. Plus, if he walks me to the restaurant, Jess might finally get her glimpse of him. “I’d like that, but only if it’s not out of your way?”

  He stops pacing and smiles down at me. “Not at all, I’m staying out that way. Near Potter’s Field.”

  He’s still vague about where he lives. I try not to think about what Jess said; that he might have a girlfriend somewhere.

  But I can’t think about that right now, not when he’s standing there, looking so, so hot.

  “OK then, great!” We grin at each other before I realize we’re still wearing our costumes. I stand up and start to twist the combination into my padlock. “We need to get changed, though. See you upstairs in five?”

  “Yeah, see you there.”

  I pull the dress over my head and throw on the strappy sundress I’d optimistically packed that morning, trying to push the creases out with my hands. Mammy would be furious if I left the house without my dress being freshly ironed but I don’t have time to worry about it.

  I grab my things and run to the mirror, quickly unwinding my hair from its braid and shaking out the waves with my fingers. I pull out my make-up bag and top up the concealer beneath my eyes, give myself a liberal dusting of bronzer to stop me looking like a total zombie and then finish off with a slick of mascara. A quick roll of deodorant and a blast of body spray gets me feeling as fresh as it’s possible after six hours in that costume and, fast as I can, I’m out the door.

  I emerge from the museum into the street and see that I’ve beaten Tommy there. Perfect. Now that I’m back above ground, I grab my phone and fire off a quick message to Jess. “On way to a mystery date location with Tommy! Then he’s walking me to dinner. Be outside for a peek at the hottie at eight xx”

  “Hey.” I press the lock button on my phone before Tommy can see the text and try to act casual.

  “Oh, hi, that was fast,” I babble. I throw my phone into my bag. We start to walk and I can smell something sweet. “What’s that smell?”

  “Caramelized nuts. To tide you over till dinner. Want one?” He offers me a little paper bag and I realize we’re walking past a street cart selling them.

  “Er, yeah, OK.” I take one gingerly. It’s warm and sticky between my fingers, but when it hits my tongue it melts in a little explosion of salty sweetness.

  “Good?”

  “Amazing!” I say, just as my stomach rumbles loud enough for the whole street to hear. Tommy looks shocked for a second and then roars laughing, pushing the bag into my hands.

  “Here, you must be starving.” I try to hand them back, mortified, but he pushes them away. “Please, I insist. London delicacy.”

  We continue in silence as I munch on the salty little treats while trying not to eat them all in one go. We walk along the riverbank and I point to a lone person walking on the foreshore, eyes focussed on the ground. He stops every few inches to crouch down and scan the sand, picking objects up and stowing them away carefully. “What’s that guy up to?”

  “He’s mudlarking,” Tommy replies, pausing to glance over the wall.

  “What now-ing?”

  He grins at me and my eyes skim across the curve of his jaw and travel down to his unbuttoned collar. He’s still wearing the white shirt from his costume. It is tight in all the right places and suddenly very distracting.

  “Mudlarking. People who go and look for bits of treasure along the Thames.”

  I eye the grey expanse of water sceptically. “Treasure?”

  “That’s what Geoff would call it. He’s got a licence for mudlarking, you know.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  I polish off the nuts, crumpling the bag in my hand as we set off walking again. I drop the rubbish in a nearby bin and glance at my phone. No response from Jess. It’s half six already.

  “Who’s that in the photo?” Tommy asks, nodding at my phone.

  “That’s my little sister. Meghan.” I hold it up for him to see. Her sweet, pretty, freckled face beams out of my phone, ringlets of dark brown hair tumbling about her shoulders.

  “She looks just like you. Is she in Ireland?”

  “Yeah, she’s only a year younger than me. We were going to try and persuade my parents to let her visit, but after everything. . .” I trail off, realizing that I haven’t told Tommy anything about Will, only the attacks over the last few weeks. I can’t face ruining our romantic walk with the story. “After everything with my granny,” I correct myself, “it doesn’t look like she’s going to come.”

  “You wanna talk about it?” Tommy asks gently.

  “No, it’s fine. I’m just not sure what to do. . .”

  He’s so easy to talk to and I feel so comfortable with him. Granny’s medical history and my doubts about staying in London pour out of me. I even start to tell him about the scholarship and how much I’d love to stay. Is it just me or did his face brighten a little when I mentioned that? At some point during my monologue, Tommy wraps his hand around mine and I finally stop.

  “Sorry. I’m babbling.”

  “Not at all. Listen. I think it would be great if you stayed.” We lock eyes for a few seconds and the strength of the tug in my chest starts to scare me.

  He points at a large, soaring sign that declares us to be at Borough Market. “We’re here.”

  We head into the market. There are no stalls yet, just pavement, but I can see visitors heading towards a covered area. I try my best not to glance up at Tommy too often, but I can’t help it; my eyes keep pinging back up to the gorgeous curve of his mouth. It’s twisted slightly, but in a nice way. Amused.

  Oh, God – it’s because I’m staring. I force myself to look ahead as he politely pretends not to notice that I’m acting like an absolute weirdo, when my body lurches forwards and the pavement rushes up to slap me in the face.

  “Woah, th
ere!”

  I thrust out my hands to break the fall, but Tommy’s there first, sweeping me up like I’m some nineteen fifties starlet. I should right myself, but instead I soak up the heat radiating from his body into mine.

  He smiles down at me and brushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers tracing a soft line down to my chin. He gently places me back on my feet and gestures to a loose paving slab.

  “Careful.” His mouth does that twisty thing again and my insides turn to mush. “You should really watch where you’re going.”

  “Thanks,” I manage. We turn a corner, and his eyes light up.

  “What do you think?”

  I’ve been to plenty of markets at home before, like the cattle mart granddaddy used to drag us to as kids, but they were full of old men and stank of cows. This is classy in comparison. Food stalls come into view, piled high with artfully arranged bread, cheese and cured meat. A trio of women totter past us, swinging designer bags in the crooks of their elbows, expensive sunglasses perched on immaculate blow-dries.

  “It’s pretty cool,” I say. “Do you come here a lot?”

  “I’ve been coming here since I was a boy. It’s changed a lot since then.” A jolt of electricity races up my fingers and I look down to see his hand brushing mine. “Is this OK?”

  I nod, not quite able to manage words. He slides his fingers through mine, lacing them together. They lock together as though they were made to do it.

  “Come on.” He pulls me along gently, pointing out the original features of the market as we weave through the crowds. I do try to listen to him but my inner self is too busy squealing with joy and mentally high-fiving strangers.

  “See this?” Tommy slows to a stop and points up at a small, blue plaque, so I give myself a little shake and refocus. “Geoffrey was part of the campaign to get it up there.”