by Will Carver
She is a blur but I know it is her.
As she nears, I start to lower, descending into a smell of damp pine. The boy’s flashing eyes stalking me as I drop in height.
The girl gets closer, extinguishing some of the candles as she passes with the breeze she is creating. Still, her identity is hidden behind a haze.
At the same time, I hit the ground again, the boy still looking directly at me. The girl halts abruptly, momentum having no place in this realm; her hands move swiftly around the boy’s chest so that both hands cover his heart.
They both fall back as blood starts to drench the front of the boy, some seeping from the corners of his mouth.
He becomes an outline.
Almost invisible.
They lie there, completely still, apart from the short intakes of breath from the boy.
She takes her right hand from his chest and waves a bloodied finger in front of her face. Wagging it from side to side. Her lips are puckered as if preparing for a kiss or starting to whistle.
The boy appears to be fighting sleep. The silhouette of his head drops as his eyes begin to close, then jerking back up and opening his eyes. The flashing has stopped. With each nod his weariness grows until he finally comes to rest.
And disappears completely.
The candles die out and the sunlight diminishes behind, plunging me into complete darkness once again.
It feels as though I have been holding my breath for a couple of minutes as I wait for a ball of fire or a bell ringing or a scream or the shuffle of tiny dancing feet in the dust.
But nothing comes.
Nothing startles me back to life.
I remain in the silent black for hours. This has never happened before.
*
I eventually wake up in the morning; the liquid spilled or cried or dribbled on my trousers has dried or evaporated, and stained.
I have been there all night.
It feels like I haven’t slept at all.
Even in my drowsy state, I realise that this second meeting with The Two is forming a pattern. The circle of candles appeared both times. In the first instance creating a triangle, this time a square. Both visions included a herbal scent and a pin-prick of light that grew in menace. The drop in temperature is leading me to think that this next murder is planned to happen outside, just as it was with Lily, the first murder.
Yet this time I felt secure; I was not at risk.
The profile is building.
But my experience of the last case, when these visions began, directs my thoughts towards the ritualist aspects of the case. They steer me in the direction of the spirituality that surrounds Lily Kane’s death.
I do not want Totty Fahey to die.
I don’t want to find an old man slumped on his knees, dead and unnoticed in the centre of London.
But it is the one thing that can snap me out of this.
And clear my mind.
By filling me with guilt.
Celeste
I SET UP in the wrong place to begin with.
Whatever is guiding me towards these people sent me to a different crossroads.
Initially I feel drawn to the Charles Statue that connects Whitehall, the Strand and Northumberland Avenue. I have my cloth, candles, a bell and four sun discs to welcome in the solar rebirth on this, the shortest day.
Totty’s shortest day.
I pace more frantically as time passes, and nobody shows. A sharp edge from the holly in my bag juts out and scratches my leg as I walk.
Where is he?
The commotion across the road becomes more palpable and I realise I have made a mistake. This is not where I am supposed to be. I hoist the bag containing my elements over my shoulder and make a dash across the road towards the square.
I can’t understand it. Why would it be here? Where is he?
I bound through Trafalgar Square. The artist on the podium is bleating about the excessive use of CCTV; a mass has congregated to humour him. I head straight to the steps that lead to the National Gallery and spring up to the top, two at a time.
I reach the top, out of breath, and spin around to take everything in. I can see the whole place from this point. The well-dressed man loitering behind me waves his hands, a newspaper tucked under his arms, and says something like ‘The Bible is always right.’
This sentence jars me. My father was a Christian for a while, and then a Buddhist. Mother was Catholic her entire life. Both allowed me to find my own faith but encouraged me to learn about as many others as I could. No holy book is always right. Sometimes, even nature fights back. What is natural for one may not be for another.
I try not to listen to him.
He is clearly convinced he is the new Martin Luther King.
He continues: ‘… this is a house built on sand. These are not my words, these are God’s words.’ People passing roll their eyes at his articulate insanity.
A community support officer is looking on and joking with a tourist. He then stops a girl on a bike, telling her that she is not allowed to cycle on this pavement, she needs to walk her bicycle through this area.
This is the least of his problems tonight.
He’s looking at all the wrong things.
I’m trying to find the right thing. The right person.
I scan the area below me, trying to block out the preacher.
‘We need to build our house on a rock,’ he shouts in staccato, to accentuate every word.
I breathe. Slow breaths.
One, two, three, breathe.
One, two, three, breathe.
And it becomes clear.
The four statues that pillar the square are almost aglow to me. General Napier, Major General Havelock, George IV and the ever-changing fourth plinth; they form four points that, when linked, make up a cross straight through the centre of Trafalgar Square. And standing on the point where all the lines meet is an old man.
There he is.
Totty
I FEEL MY age as everybody passes me on the stairs exiting Charing Cross tube. It’s not even that many steps but I have to rest halfway up.
Things will be much easier when I’m dead.
I lean against the plinth that holds a statue of King George IV above me and breathe the fresh wintry air into my lungs to re-energise myself for the journey ahead.
The buildings all around the square shield it from the wind. Next to me, two heritage wardens are nattering to one another about a soap opera storyline while I pant and cough only three or four feet away.
They continue to gossip as a young girl springs off a bench ahead of me and attempts to catch a pigeon inside her jumper. At the front of the square where Nelson’s Column stands, I see the bronze lions treated as an amusement park ride rather than anything artistic or iconic.
But the unofficial guardians of the square continue to gas about nothing important.
A young lad in a hooded top puts his head inside the lion’s mouth while his girlfriend takes a photograph; another little vagrant feigns bestiality while three of his gang look on, pointing and laughing while the statue is raped.
It seems you can get away with anything these days.
I opt to take the path to the Portrait Gallery rather than tackle the steps in front of the National. Most of the time I just feel like I am getting in the way of people.
I don’t even know what the feature is at the Portrait Gallery until I get there. Something about Pop Art, which I’ve never really got on with. I don’t have much of an appreciation for paintings that I feel I could have done myself. Some look like scribbles that my grandkids give me to pin on my fridge. Maybe I just don’t understand it. But it’s what Pats would have wanted so I go with it.
At the ticket desk an intelligent-looking lady gives me a small booklet that explains some of the paintings, and asks if I’d like to do the audio tour. I shake my head. She then asks whether I would like a ticket to the room hosting the Photographic Portrait Prize.
; ‘How much is that, then?’ I ask, expecting the worst.
‘Oh, it’s only a pound. It helps to showcase the work of talented young photographers.’
I can’t really say no to this. Not if it’s only a pound.
She prints off my ticket and I head to the first room, unfolding my booklet as I move.
There are seven differently themed rooms. The first explains the origins, the second goes into the aspects of style, but my booklet shows two rooms that might actually be of interest. One dedicated to Pop Art and Film, the other is simply entitled Marilyn. It’s not so much the art I’m interested in, I do that for Pats, but the film and Miss Monroe.
In the Marilyn room, I see a sculpture: three hangers hooked onto a pole, string tied to the hangers draping almost to the floor, and some twisted wire on the ground next to it.
I can’t understand what this is doing here. I look at the literature I was given when I entered. It says something about the tragedy of fame and how it consumes everything it touches. But I can’t understand why it’s a portrait.
I turn my head to the left to ask Pats what this is all about. I still do this from time to time. It makes me sadder on each occasion.
I miss her the most.
It seems like the best time to leave. I don’t bother with the photography display.
When I leave there’s a sign strategically placed to make you feel guilty that it’s a London attraction without a cost. It suggests a £3.50 donation.
And that angers me.
Surely it would be easier to charge that small amount to get in. If they had a blank donation box I would have put something in, but I won’t have someone telling how much I should give to be reminded that I am alone and don’t have my wife with me any more to explain the things I don’t understand.
It’s the same when I go over to St Martin-in-the-Fields. A lovely church, really, it is. Gorgeous. And I sit there for free watching a Korean lad play the piano beautifully. He looks so young I can’t understand how he’s learned to play so well. Some kind of prodigy.
But, as I leave, satisfied with my free afternoon of live classical music, a girl thrusts a red bucket into my face, shaking it so I can hear the change rattling around inside. A sticker on the front implies that £3.50 is the preferred amount.
I throw in a pound coin. That’s the same amount I gave the gallery for the exhibition I didn’t see.
I need a drink.
The walk to the whisky bar would take anyone else five minutes; for me it’s more like twenty after I’ve pushed my way through the crowds that can’t see an old man struggling. I treat myself to a Macallan Select Oak and a smoked salmon sandwich, which costs nearly the same amount as the steak that I really wanted but know I would never be able to finish.
This will be my last meal.
After a second, then a third drink, I notice how dark it is through the window. At first I think it might start to rain but it soon dawns that it’s night-time. The clock behind the bar says 17.26.
How long have I been here?
Where has the day gone?
I knock back the last centimetre of Scotch and pay the Italian man lurking next to my table, waiting for me to leave, with cash. There is no suggested tip of £3.50 so I leave him with the change; about twelve per cent of the entire bill. He fetches my coat and helps me thread my arms through the appropriate holes so that I may be on my way.
The city noise hits me as quickly as the drop in temperature. I adjust my scarf so that it covers more of my neck. People ahead of me cross over the road, even though the light is still red, but a double-decker bus has stopped the traffic and they think it’s safe. I wait until the light turns green again.
Trafalgar Square is more alive than earlier. I can sense the hubbub, it is packed with people trying to squeeze the most out of the last few hours of the weekend. Lit high above the crowded streets is a platform. A man in a bowler hat with a giant mirror stands on top, reading out the pages of a Sunday broadsheet. He then angrily tears it into pieces, throwing it out over his audience like confetti, and delivers a speech that is meant to inspire thought or spark questioning.
Another free exhibition.
I gravitate towards the gathering horde.
Snailing closer to my death.
I enter the square from the other side, passing the statue of General Charles James Napier, and continue towards one of the fountains. There is a bustle of different voices at ground level discussing the performer on the platform above them. In the distance, atop the steps, a middle-aged man in a suit is waving a rolled-up newspaper, preaching about the Bible, trying to drown out his oratory rival.
I stop in the middle of the square so that I can flit my attention between both of them and lose a little more time as darkness descends even further.
As I turn around to take a look at the Christmas tree, the blade rips through my heart. At first it feels cold, then excruciatingly hot. I can’t make a sound as my throat fills with blood. The hustle of the crowd transforms into a perpetual hum that seems to slow everything down and I swear that everybody turns away from the performances to watch me drop to my knees.
Then the hum dissipates and all is silent.
I see a light in front of me and a woman’s face.
I want it to be Pats, but it’s not.
The last thing I sense is somebody kneeling in front of me telling me to ‘Ssh’ as they light another candle.
And I know this is the end.
I say my final words and prepare myself.
We’ll be together soon, Pats.
And then, all is black.
V
I’VE EXTENDED MY morning run to six miles. I can also spring up five flights of stairs in my building at the end now. I hit the button on my stopwatch as I touch the last step, and take in several short breaths, slowing slightly with each one. Regaining my composure.
I keep moving, walking confidently down the corridor, preventing lactic-acid build-up in my leg muscles. My body feels flush with heat now that I am not jogging, and suddenly I notice my perspiration.
As always, the paper is rolled up on my doorstep, wrapped in plastic, fastened with an elastic band. Gail exits her flat at the end of the corridor, dropping her keys on the floor twice before double-locking her front door. She looks flustered this morning.
‘Everything all right, Gail?’ I ask.
‘Oh God, it’s just one of those Mondays already, I think,’ she responds, continuing her walk as she fishes around for something in her bag. ‘Bloody nightmare,’ she mutters, trotting off to the stairs.
I laugh knowingly as I reach down for the newspaper, keeping my legs straight in case they buckle beneath me, stretching my hamstrings.
I take the key out of the zipped pocket of my hooded training top. My hands are shaking, perhaps a result of the cold weather, more likely to be adrenalin or perhaps exhaustion. It takes some effort not to mirror my neighbour’s early-morning incompetence.
A wave of heat whacks me in the face as I enter the flat. I’ve overcompensated for the weather and left the radiators on far too high. It’s difficult to breathe in through my nose, and my mouth feels like I’ve been feasting on walnuts.
Deciding that air is more important than liquid at this stage, I pace over to the window and lift it open, poking my head outside to suck in the winter. Below, I see Gail spill out onto the street, her head down, not looking where she is going, still rummaging through her bag.
My fingers crack as I interlock them and stretch them high above my head. As my top rises with the reach towards the ceiling, the cold from outside hits my stomach, refreshing me further.
I strip.
Kicking off my trainers without untying the laces, pulling down my tracksuit bottoms and underwear in one swift move, wrenching up my hooded top and T-shirt with equal efficiency, I stand in front of the draught, my sweat drying almost instantly. I don’t think anyone can see me. I don’t care.
Leaving my clothes in a pile on
the living-room floor, I head naked into the kitchen with my paper. I roll off the elastic band, as I always do, take off the plastic, roll it out flat on the side, as I always do, and leave it while I turn to the fridge.
Today I take the grapefruit juice out and drink straight from the carton. Things like this don’t matter when you live on your own, when you are alone. Then, as I always do, I turn back to the work surface, plant my hands either side of the paper and extend my legs to warm down the muscles I have been using.
It’s happened again.
The front page tells the story of another murder. This time an old man, Totty Fahey, eighty-two years of age.
My skin goose-pimples and I close my eyes for a second so I don’t have to fully digest it.
The article continues, he was stabbed through the heart in the middle of Trafalgar Square, the police are finding it difficult to round up any witnesses. Apparently people walked right by the dead pensioner, initially believing it to be part of one of the performances; ignoring his life. The police are going to examine footage of the day.
I swap positions to stretch my left leg.
A candle and four sun talismans were found arranged in front of the body, hinting at the possibility of a connection to the Lily Kane murder almost two months ago.
My cold, naked body starts to rise in temperature as I become angrier.
I drop to my knees on the tiled floor and say a prayer.
A prayer for Totty.
A prayer for humanity.
And one for myself.
This has to stop. I ask the Lord for some answers. I ask him if there is anything I can do.
I kneel in silence, my hands still pressed together. Waiting.
And he answers.
I need to paint my spare room white.
January
I KNEW WHERE I would find the victim.
I knew it would be here.
Not at the time, but it makes sense now. Something clicks when I hear the words Trafalgar Square. I immediately think of the shape formed by the candles and kick myself for not imagining this place. It just seems too public. But maybe that is the killer’s hallmark, maybe it is a taunt aimed at the police or possibly just at me; they want to show how much smarter they are than us.