by Will Carver
Once across the other side I can see the multi-coloured glass rectangles that hang from the side of the Park Plaza Hotel. I run my fingers along the curved stone wall of the building next to me. I wonder whether it is difficult to hang pictures.
My face turns ashen at the sight of the hospital sign.
It doesn’t look like a hospital. It looks like a tower block, or offices, or a car park. To the right, across Westminster Bridge, I see the Parliament buildings, I see St Stephen’s Tower, I see history. Ahead, I see grey, I see depression, I see death. I see my nephew in an undersized coffin on my shoulder with three unknown, hired, pallbearers, because his mother can’t be expected to carry his body and aside from her I am all he has.
I see everything but the one person who can see me.
I turn my head away, trying to look at anything but the towering, dull edifice I am here to occupy for an hour.
The number 148 bus to White City.
The pink sign suggesting a trip to the Florence Nightingale Museum.
The oriental girl in strange, revealing attire.
Inside, I tell myself I’m too old.
Outside, I give her another sly glance.
I take a look at the blue sign on the building in front which reads: ‘Westminster Bridge Consulting Rooms’. This is where I have to meet my sister to talk about her son, my nephew, and his illness. I bring my left wrist up towards my chin, look at my watch, back at the sign, back at the watch. I’m early. I missed a lot of the consultation last time because I took the bus and was held up. This time I have time to kill.
So I start to wander.
This is my mistake.
With each pace I get further from where I should be, with the last of my family, my responsibility; each step taking me closer to Celeste.
January
‘VERNAL MEANING YOUTHFUL,’ she says, with confidence.
We all, myself, Paulson and Murphy, nod as though we knew this.
‘Equinox obviously referring to a time of balance. This time between light and dark,’ she continues. ‘It is the point of the calendar before day is longer than night.’
I think back to my last recollection of The Two. This woman is making sense of my dreams; giving meaning to the thing which only I see.
Her name is Alison Aeslin. And she is not what I expected.
Her hair is not long, unwashed and straggly. Her skirt is not overly colourful and flowing down to sandal-clad, ringed-toed feet. Her skin does not appear weathered and dirtied from a lifestyle of outdoor cavorting. She doesn’t smell like she lives in a field. She is not a cliché.
Alison Aeslin is smart, wearing a grey fitted jacket and tight pencil-skirt, which draws attention to her legs while hugging her buttocks into a perfect heart shape. It’s the first thing I notice as I descend the stairs from the office and see her leaning slightly forward at the front desk.
‘Ms Aeslin?’ I ask, trying to disguise any shock in my voice at her appearance.
She turns her head towards me. Her face is beautiful. Symmetrical. Straight blond hair that is cut into a bob, not a dowdy, ageing-lady bob but a high-priced, younger style. She uses her right hand to brush some hair away from the smooth skin of her face, and I’m drawn in by turquoise eyes.
‘Detective Inspector David,’ she replies, stretching out a hand as though this were the start of a high-powered business meeting.
I reciprocate the gesture, gripping her delicate fingers, restraining myself from allowing her to call me January. The coldness of her palms knocks me out of awe.
‘Thanks for coming in. If you’d like to follow me upstairs to the office we can get started.’
We small-talk on the way up about the difficulty of her journey into the station, and I thank her for her help again, despite the fact that she has told me nothing as yet. I push the door open and usher her inside. Paulson and Murphy immediately snap to attention.
They introduce themselves as detectives.
Without further ado she launches into what sounds like an opening statement in a court of law. She explains that living life as a Pagan or Wiccan is often a search for balance within one’s self, that the beliefs and practices prohibit harm to others. She says we are all connected and that it would take longer than this morning to fully acquaint us with the philosophy behind her belief.
And that’s fine. I may need her more. I would like to get to know her.
‘From the things I have seen in the paper and on the news, whoever is doing this doesn’t really understand it either. They’re abusing the things we believe and celebrate. Giving us a reputation that does not fit.’ For a moment her passion looks as though it may boil over, as her eyes glaze with a thin film of liquid, but she steadies herself. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
Most of the things she tells us complement our own investigations into the subject. Sometimes she adds something that we would have had to dig deep for, and other snippets stand out only to me.
She starts, logically, at the beginning.
‘Samhain is a point in the year where we honour our ancestors; we acknowledge that death is part of life. We place a positivity on that journey into the dark. Life contains death but also the miracle of rebirth.’ She articulates her points with a certainty and clarity you would expect from a business executive. We are all drawn in by her words.
She explains about the significance of casting a circle during ritual, but that the salt circle implies some sort of protection, which does not fit with the act of killing the young Lily Kane. I start to wonder whether the killer could have known their victim was carrying a cancer in her stomach. Could they have seen Lily Kane as the walking dead? Perhaps a hospital worker, doctor, nurse?
She accounts for the presence of the paraphernalia needed in a ritual to celebrate the cycle of life and death.
Not just death.
‘But then that usually involves a red, a white and a black ribbon …’
She pauses, noticing the recognition on my face. The Two. The boy from The Two. In that first vision he held those ribbons and burned them.
She continues, ‘… but they were not mentioned in the press.’ Her eyes fix on my face. ‘There’s often a herb. Rosemary, usually.’
I remain stoic. Giving nothing away. My mind jumps back to the scent of the dust-filled room the night before Lily Kane was murdered.
In my first vision of The Two, they were telling me how this would start, they were illustrating the death and its ritualism. Not everything makes complete sense, but their message is clearer.
And so is the killer’s.
‘These missing details,’ she continues, ‘could show a lack of understanding of our rituals, they are not getting it quite right, but it may simply be a variation.’
When we discuss the death of the old man, Totty Fahey, she refers to Yule as the winter solstice, the shortest day, solar rebirth. She is unflinchingly upright when telling us that we must remind ourselves that the world will be green again.
We learn that sun talismans play a big part in the rituals of this festival, and explains their involvement in the crime scene, but we know these are Pagan or Wiccan. We don’t know that there was holly at the location at the time of death because it had blown away, but Alison tells us that this is symbolic as the sacred plant of protection. Perhaps the killer is trying to protect him- or herself. Perhaps they psychotically believe they are protecting their victim; somehow preserving them.
Saving them.
If this is the case we are certainly dealing with a degree of narcissism that could imply the killer is acting out scenes that have caused them discomfort in the past; this time, they are the one who finishes on top.
‘As above, so below,’ she adds, gesticulating the directions with her icy hands – slightly out of character for her, so far, demure and contained demeanour.
‘What did you just say?’ I ask curiously. Paulson and Murphy’s eyes switch to my face for the first time since Alice walked in.
‘A
s above, so below,’ she repeats. ‘This is a celebration of the sun but also our inner sun; our inner spark.’
I think about platforms in my vision of The Two.
Them below.
Me above.
Trying to tell me where the next victim would be slain.
I relive the moment I blew the candle out in front of Lily Kane and she flopped instantly, lifelessly, to the stone beneath. Did I blow out her spark? Am I somehow involved in these rituals? Are The Two making me think too esoterically? Warping the balance of the investigation?
Why has she not mentioned the flashing eyes?
Is she dismissing the salt circles as non-Pagan, non-Wiccan?
More answers breed more questions.
I want to talk to her more, not just about the case, but feel sudden guilt about Audrey. She is still my wife.
‘This person might not even be a Pagan?’ Murphy suggests, clearly hanging on to his Satanism theory.
‘The details are certainly there to suggest that they are, or have a genuine knowledge of the practices and the way we approach rituals. It’s just muddled,’ our expert offers.
‘Misused,’ I add.
All four of us discuss the significance of killing in such public places. Alison suggests that some rituals are made for use by an individual, others are to be partaken by a group, and perhaps this bears significance. Maybe the killer feels they are involving those around the immediate area. Paulson offers that it is merely an affront to the authorities. Murphy half jokes that it is a challenge aimed at me.
I move the conversation on.
‘We know that Imbolc is also known as the Feast of Bridget.’ I try to show her that we have been researching this ourselves.
‘Brighid,’ she corrects.
‘Sorry?’
‘Brighid. It is the Feast of Brighid. Bridget is the Christianised version of the Irish fire goddess.’ I can’t gauge whether she is insulted or merely reasserting her authority on the subject.
‘Yes. Brighid. I understand that they, you, Wiccan,’ I fumble, ‘burn an effigy of Brighid in much the same way that our perpetrator executed Talitha Palladino.’ I feel I’ve rescued the situation somewhat.
She nods.
‘It seems, from what you have told us today, that this was actually the first literal adaptation of a ritual.’ I leave the question open for her to add something. I can see she wants to.
‘Brighid is also the Goddess of Healing.’
I cut in on her, aiming my thoughts only at my team. I instruct them that this is the one constant in all the killings to date. That there is an element of protection and preservation with each of the scenes. It may be that the killer feels they are protecting him or herself, or that they actually believe that taking the lives of these people is somehow helping them, that they are being safeguarded.
They are improving the victims; purifying them.
Our Wiccan consultant for the day fidgets on her chair and we are all drawn back to the shape of her smooth, lean legs. She informs us that Imbolc is the women’s festival, but we already knew that. Paulson and Murphy both feel that the fact that lambs are being born and this Sabbat is often associated with milk is immaterial.
I, of course, am reminded of The Two, or lack thereof.
I want to ask her whether snakes are significant, but it will sound so left-field. I don’t want to draw any attention from Murphy. I need to see her alone.
Alison Aeslin drops back into her sexy, self-assured stride as she unravels the intricacies of Ostara to the team, a festival of fertility that she herself will be celebrating later in the evening. Immediately, I imagine another literally translated death. A sex-related death.
And the phone rings to notify me that this was in vain.
I am too late again.
A step behind.
I excuse the team from Miss Aeslin’s company; she will have to make her own way out. Murphy and Paulson speed out of the office, but I hang back for a second for one last question.
‘What is the significance of the cross?’ I ask, hunched over my desk, my head stooping low to the same level as her face.
She tells me that it may simply be the points on a compass. North, south, east and west. I had already thought of that. It is important within a ritual because you have to face the right direction. However, these bearings also have corresponding symbols of earth, fire, air and water, she informs me. It may indicate confusion. Mixing the Wicca way with Christianity.
She is correct, of course. She has been extremely helpful.
I wonder whether the earth, fire, air and water may link to the manner in which the victims died.
She has answered all of my questions.
I just haven’t asked the right one yet.
The cross holds more gravity.
‘Are you available should anything else come up?’ I ask her, trying to remain professional.
She nods.
‘There are a few other things I’d like to talk to you about, myself.’
She writes down her personal number and tells me to call at any time; she is here to help in whatever way she can.
I call in less than an hour.
Gray
THE FIRST THING I do wrong is to head towards the hospital reception.
One of the signs on the wall reads: ‘24 Hour Accident and Emergency’. The map to the right shows all the sections of the hospital. Evalina Children’s Hospital is highlighted with all the colours of the rainbow; this doesn’t make it any cuter, it doesn’t make it any better, it isn’t easier to look at. Below this there is a section labelled ‘Lupus Unit’. I walk around the corner to explore for myself, leaving the consulting room on the side of the road, keeping it behind me.
It’s another hour before someone recognises that I’m dead.
It’s another one hundred and twenty-three minutes until my sister finds out that I have a perfectly legitimate reason for not accompanying her again to the meeting.
The fountains and well-kept garden won’t make the news any easier to take. Looking out over the garden, I see Parliament more clearly. The Union flag flutters at full mast.
I continue to walk. The hospital reception is just ahead. I look left as a woman exits one of the doors. The letters above it state: ‘Pain Management Unit’. I try not to look, wincing at the possibilities that lie beyond that blacked-out glass door, and I pick up the pace.
The doors open automatically to the reception. I step inside and do a double-take.
To my left is NatWest Bank. To my right, a Marks & Spencer café. There are easily eighty people sitting at tables outside the café, inside the hospital, eating sandwiches, drinking tea, talking, laughing, like they have purposely ventured out for a fake al fresco dining experience. The doors swoosh behind me and I feel like each person stops what they are doing and looks up at me.
Like I don’t belong here.
The automatic doors judder open again and startle me into glancing in the other direction. Everyone looks down, only one fixes her stare on me. I do not notice.
The reception desk looks like something you’d see in a hotel. The structure inside would fit happily into the Canary Wharf tube station. It must be deliberate. Anything to make you forget you are actually inside a hospital for sick children.
Maybe this is what I need.
This is where I should wait.
I tell myself it’s not a hospital, that I am at a restaurant.
But my eyes catch a glimpse of another sign. It says ‘Haemophilic Thrombosis’. It says ‘Physiotherapy’, ‘Plastic Surgery’. It shouts ‘Chest Clinic’, ‘Children’s Eye Clinic’. It screams ‘Radiotherapy’. My eyes, my stupid fucking eyes, look through the entire list of diseases, the word ‘Children’s’ jumping out at me again and again, and I can’t take it.
As I stagger away, back through the automatic doors, a woman with a twin pram, two girls inside, and a boy of around nine trailing after her, comes in the opposite direction. I see her yawn, a
s if she is here for a lecture, as if she is running a routine. I wonder which of her children is sick. Which of them is blind or deaf or riddled with leukaemia.
And I think of my nephew.
Inside, I’m crying.
Outside, I’m crying.
In these buildings full of anguish, I look the most desperate. I am the weakest.
I have been seen.
I jog back to the main road, away from the discomfort of the main building, but it’s not far enough. I turn right, pacing parallel to the consultation room I’ll never get back to, until I hit the corner and stop for breath. Through the fence is a dilapidated children’s play area, still part of the hospital. Somebody jogs past me but I don’t see their face. I look up at the sky for a moment; when I bring my head back down it’s as if the world is distorted through heat haze, apart from the route I must now travel.
The path of desperation.
The trail of pious peril.
What I think is a sign is actually a trap.
What I think is fate is merely rotten luck.
I feel I am being enticed in a certain direction, like my limbs are independent from my brain, like I have no choice. I am being pulled by the cathedral and pushed by the silhouette that stalks. Somehow, I’m still aware of things around me.
I don’t recall crossing the road but the lights in the tunnel stand out. They increase the blur around the edges of my vision, making this seem more like a dream than it is. Making it seem less like a nightmare.
Looking back at the crossroads by the hospital, the shadow grows at the other end of the tunnel and my short-sightedness forces anything at that distance to a blur.
I look in all directions, trying to focus on what is real.
I remember a door with the sign ‘111 Westminster Bridge Road’ and three people emerging with trays of sandwiches. I remember the boy in the black T-shirt with a sticker on his chest that says ‘Pete’.
As I look back again it seems that everyone is walking in this direction. Ahead, nobody cuts against the grain.
I see a church in front of me on the opposite corner of the crossroads; the side of the building displays orange letters, each three feet high, in the windows, saying ‘Offices to let’.