by Cross, Amy
I slip around the corner, and then I stop to listen as the footsteps get closer and closer.
“Alright there!” a man's voice calls out suddenly. “Had a few too many to drink, have we?”
Daring to peer around the corner, I see to my horror that a common beat policeman has walked over to the dead woman and is gently kicking her arm. Evidently he believes her to be a common drunk, although after a moment he crouches down and takes a closer look. Even this idiot must soon realize that the woman is dead.
“What in the name of...”
His voice trails off for a moment.
And then, scrambling to his feet, he turns and runs.
I watch as the fool hurries across the square, and then finally he stops at the door to a warehouse on the far side. He starts banging on the door, as if he means to raise assistance, and it is quite clear to me now that the dead whore's body has been lost to these do-gooders. Soon enough, the square will be awash with those who believe the life of a whore is something to be protected. Even now, I can hear voices shouting from inside some of the nearby houses, and it is clear enough that I must be out of here before more do-gooders arrive.
With the organs clutched in my arms, wrapped in the whore's apron, I turn and hurry along the street. My escape comes not a moment too soon, as several doors nearby are already being unlocked. Fortunately, however, I am able to reach the next corner before anybody spots me.
Behind me, back in the square, voices are shouting now. It is as if the whole city is suddenly roused by the excitement of a murder, as if a woman might mean nothing when she is alive yet might come to mean a great deal once she is dead. These hypocrites never fail to sicken me, and I am quite sure that the people of this foul city – including my erstwhile former colleague Doctor Thomas Culpepper – will no doubt enjoy reading all the gory details in tomorrow's newspaper. This country has come to a rotten end when crime and murder are treated as a form of entertainment.
I stop again and look down at the bloodied apron, and now I am struck by the realization that perhaps this fabric is causing more harm than good. Unwrapping the apron, I see no obvious signs of damage to either the kidney or the uterus, yet my panic is such that I slide the bloodied masses into my hands and let the apron fall away, before turning and making my way along another street.
I must get home and begin the latest operation immediately. Catherine's life depends upon my haste.
Chapter Eleven
Maddie
Today
“Damn it!”
Slipping thanks to my wet shoes, I tumble through the window. There's a drop on the other side, and I slam hard against the wooden floor, falling partially on top of my backpack and letting out a gasp of pain. Rolling onto my side, I take a deep breath, only to inhale a load of dust from the air.
I sit up, spluttering and coughing, as I take the flashlight from my pocket and switch it on.
When I shine the beam forward, all I see is a bare, cracked wall with no paper and almost no plaster. I can hear the sound of my own breath in the cold air, and the sound of rain crashing down outside.
I sit in silence for a few minutes, getting my breath back and shining the flashlight around at the walls.
Finally, figuring that I can't stay here on the floor in soaking wet clothes, I start hauling myself up. The hallway floorboards creak as I step forward and grab my backpack. My clothes are drenched, with the fabric of my shirt feeling ice-cold as it clings to my skin. Reaching down, I carefully pull the fabric away from the cut on my waist. When I shine the flashlight down, I see that the material is stained dark red with blood. I'm going to have to find some way to clean that wound soon.
Looking up at the window, I watch the rain for a moment, almost hypnotized by the sight of so much water crashing down from the sky.
After a moment, however, I limp across the room until I reach an open doorway, and then I step out into the hall. Pulling the creaky door shut to quieten the sound of rain, I take a couple more steps forward before stopping in the middle of the hall and turning around, shining the flashlight around and quickly seeing several closed doors as well as a large staircase that rises up through the building and spirals out of view to the right. High above, there's an old chandelier that's hanging slightly askew, and that frankly looks like it might come crashing down at any moment.
From somewhere upstairs, there's the sound of trickling water, almost as if a leak in the roof is allowing some of the storm water to run inside. The air is so cold, I'm actually starting to shiver.
I wait for several minutes, listening for even the slightest hint that somebody else might be here. It's all well and good for me to assume that Alex was right about this place being abandoned, but maybe she was just letting her superstitions run amok. If I found that open window, and if I was willing to take a chance by coming through, then it's certainly possible that somebody else might be here as well. Still, as the minutes tick past and as I hear only the sound of rain and running water, I can't help but feel that the house certainly seems deserted. I guess maybe, for once, I've just been exceptionally lucky.
In fact, not only does there not seem to be anybody here now; I get the feeling this house has been abandoned for a long time.
Finally figuring that I can't just stand here dripping in the dark all night, I start making my way across the hallway. The floorboards creak and buckle slightly beneath my feet, and I feel as if even the slightest noise is somehow an intrusion, as if I'm disturbing the peace of a house that has been left alone for so very long. I almost want to mutter an apology, but I manage to keep my mouth shut as I reach out and fumble for the cold metal handle on the door next to the stairs.
My heart is pounding, but I force myself to turn the handle and push the door open. Sure enough, and as I expected, the hinges creak, and when I shine the flashlight through I see a fairly large, empty room with no furniture. There's a large, open fireplace on the far side, but when I look at the windows I see only some broken glass panes and – on the other side – the backs of the wooden boards. I think I'm at the front of the house, so this is one of the rooms overlooking the front garden and the street. It's not particularly welcoming in here, but I guess all the rooms are going to be more or less the same, so I step inside and drop my backpack onto the floor before crouching down and starting to sort through my few possessions.
It takes a moment before I find the blanket I brought from home. As I pull the blanket out and unfold it, I feel the fabric to check that it's dry. Fortunately the backpack is water-proof, and the lining has held up, so I get to my feet and start stripping out of my soaking wet clothes. In a place like this, they'll take a while to dry, but hopefully they'll at least be a little better by morning.
I certainly can't afford to get sick.
At that moment, as if to warn me, I sneeze.
Once I'm out of the clothes, I look around for somewhere to hang them. There aren't many options, so finally I arrange them over the backs of chairs that I set around the old fireplace. I wrap the blanket around my shivering shoulders, and almost immediately I feel a little better.
“Never go into that house, Maddie,” I hear Alex's voice whispering in my head.
What else was I supposed to do?
Even Alex can't be right every time.
It's dumb, but this blanket around my shoulders is the blanket from my bed. I've had this blanket since I was a kid, and somehow it always makes me feel safer. Not that I am safer, of course, but even the slightest sense of comfort is welcome right now as I stand in an abandoned house, with no dry clothes, shivering with a meager flashlight between my teeth. I remember my mother settling the blanket over my bed before kissing me goodnight when I was a little girl, and I remember my grandmother reminding me to pack it in my suitcase when I moved house. After living on the streets for almost a year now, I've pretty much hit rock-bottom, but this blanket somehow keeps me feeling as if I've still got hope.
As if I'm still me.
&nb
sp; I remember the night I ran away from home. I remember shoving stuff into my backpack, trying to make sure that I only took things I'd really need. The blanket seemed like too much at the time – too heavy and too bulky, and way too sentimental – and I almost left it out, but then I realized that maybe I'd need to keep warm. In the end I left several pairs of jeans behind, and some shirts too, solely because I thought the blanket might be useful. And sure enough, after a couple more minutes, I realize that I'm no longer shivering.
I won't be alone and homeless forever. One day I'll have my own place, and this blanket is the one thing I've kept from my old life. The one thing I plan to keep forever.
Taking the flashlight in my right hand, I look down at my waist. I can't see around to the back, so I can't see the wound from the knife, but I'm starting to think that I must have been extraordinarily lucky. I'm in pain, and there's definitely blood, but I actually feel reasonably alert now, as if the initial shock has subsided. I reach behind and touch the wound and I feel fresh blood, but somehow I'm still on my feet. I always figured a stab wound would pretty much knock me off my feet, but I guess the blade must have missed all my vital organs. If this had been a serious injury, there's no way I'd have been able to run, let alone still be standing right now.
Either that, or I actually died back there in the park and everything since has been a dying fever dream. Then again, I don't think I'd feel so cold in a dream.
I desperately want to sleep, and my eyes will definitely close if I sit down, but I know that'd be dangerous while I'm so cold. I have to keep my mind busy while I wait for morning. I shuffle back out into the hallway before stopping to lean against the wall. I'm shivering again, and I reach down to my waist yet again, hoping to find that at least the wound has finally stopped bleeding.
Instead, I feel fresh blood dribbling from the torn flesh.
Or is that just old blood, mixed with sweat or rain water?
It'll heal.
It has to heal.
Alex would know what to do right now, but I have to stop thinking like that. Alex is gone, she split and left me, and I probably won't even see her again. I have no right to be angry, but at the same time I can't carry her around in my head like some voice of wisdom. Alex was my best friend for a while, and she sure saved me on a few occasions, but she's gone now and I can manage without her.
I'm alone now.
I can handle being alone.
There's nothing wrong with being alone.
Suddenly I hear a clicking sound over my shoulder, followed by the start of a slow, groaning creak.
Spinning around and holding the flashlight up, I see that a door in the far corner is slowly swinging open. The creaking sound continues until finally the door bumps against the wall, revealing a pitch-black space.
I stay completely still, watching the open doorway. I know full well that the door must have opened because of a breeze, or that maybe by being here I accidentally disturbed the pressure or something, but it's still a little creepy. I'm worried that someone might suddenly come running through, but the house seems completely silent and after several minutes I feel brave enough to start shuffling over to the doorway.
Don't get jumpy.
I run those three words through my head over and over.
When I get to the far side of the hall, I take hold of the door and try swinging it shut. Sure enough, there's the same creaking sound, and I quickly see that there's a slightly loose latch that's supposed to keep the door closed. I shut the door and put the latch in place, and then I give the door a wiggle. Sure enough, the latch barely holds, and as I pull the door open again I realize that it probably wouldn't take much for the whole thing to come loose. Letting go of the door, I find that it seems to naturally open all the way, until once again it bumps against the wall.
And then, as if to add another point, there's a rumble of thunder in the distance and I hear the glass rattling in a nearby window.
If this storm was much louder and stronger, maybe the whole house would shake apart.
I turn to head back over to my sleeping bag, but then I stop and look down the wooden steps that lead into the basement. The last thing I want is to go and take a look right now, but I can't quite bring myself to step back and swing the door shut. The whole house seems so cold, but somehow the air here at the top of the steps seems warmer, and when I reach my hand out I find that I stop shivering almost immediately. Holding my flashlight up, I shine the beam down the steps, and a scene that should be cold and uninviting instead feels like the only logical place to go.
Besides, if I go to my sleeping bag, or even if I just sit down, I might fall asleep. And in my current state, falling asleep might just be lethal.
I have to stay awake, and on my feet, and focused on something.
So that's why, after checking that the wooden steps feel safe, I start cautiously making my way down into the basement.
Chapter Twelve
Doctor Charles Grazier
Saturday September 29th, 1888
Standing in the hallway, beneath the grand chandelier, I realize that I am delaying for no good reason. I look toward the stairs, and I know in my heart that the time has come for the next procedure. I can only hope that Catherine will understand, and that she will not resist.
***
“No!” she screams, delirious with rage and fear as I try to lift her from the bed. “Charles, stop! Charles, I can't bear this again!”
Ignoring her cries, I take hold of her frail wrists and twist her around. She kicks furiously, as if she means to force me away, but I am wise to her tactics. I shift around to the bottom of the bed and pull hard, dragging Catherine across the crumpled sheets until she lands in the wheelchair that I brought up, and then I quickly slip her right hand into one of the manacles that I hate so much.
She starts trying to pull the hand free, which gives me a chance to get around her and grab her other hand, forcing this too into a tight bind that will keep her from escaping.
Only in a godless world would a good man have to tie his wife down in such a way.
“Charles, I'm begging you!” she sobs, shaking with such force that the chair's metal frame almost topples over. “No more! Please, have mercy and just let me die!”
“Catherine -”
“No, listen to me!” she continues, her voice filled with panic. “Let me die, Charles, so that I shall no longer have to suffer in this manner. Let me die and slip the pain, else I think I shall be driven mad. I cannot face being cut open and re-stitched, not again. This is no way to live. I would rather die!”
And only in a godless world would a good man have to hear his darling wife say such things.
“You are sick, my dear,” I reply, grabbing the handles and pulling the chair back before starting to wheel Catherine toward the door. “Your blood is poisoned. You do not know what you're saying and this insensible -”
“Please, Charles!” she whimpers. “Don't make me do this! Don't do this to me! I can't take the pain a moment longer...”
Just as I am about to tell her again to calm down, she tries again to tear herself from the chair. She fails, of course, but in the process she bumps me and causes one of the chair's handles to smash my hand against the doorjamb. I let out a gasp of pain and pull away, and when I look down I see a bloodied graze at the base of my thumb. There is clearly no greater damage, but I am shocked by the violence of my wife's anger. It is as if she truly does not understand that I am only trying to help her.
If I were a lesser man, no doubt I would worry that she had been possessed by some demonic force.
“Catherine,” I say firmly, stepping around the constantly-shaking chair and seeing the abject fury in her face as she continues to struggle. “This is most unlike you. You must -”
“Kill me!” she screams, trying to lunge at me but succeeding only in tightening the manacles around her wrists. She is red-faced and frantic, however, and the vein on her forehead is more prominent than ever. “If y
ou ever loved me, Charles, you would kill me now! Do not force me to endure another of your monstrous experiments!”
“It is an operation,” I remind her, “a procedure designed to save your -”
“Kill me!”
“Catherine -”
“KILL ME!”
“I would sooner die myself than lose you!” I shout, momentarily losing my senses. Breathless now, I take a step toward her, and I can see the shock in her eyes. “I cannot live without you,” I stammer. “I can save you. I have made mistakes before, but this time I am certain of the procedure.”
“You said that before!” she sobs.
“But this time -”
“And before that,” she continues, as tears stream down her face, “and before that too. There is nothing you can do, Charles, but let me go in peace. Without pain.”
I shake my head.
“How many procedures is it now?” she asks.
“Catherine...”
“This will be the sixth, will it not?”
I pause, before nodding.
“Each one more painful than the last,” she continues. “Each one leaving me more wrecked than before. The cancer is part of me now, Charles. Whatever you do, whatever you take out of me and replace, the cancer will grow back. You're like Canute, fighting a losing battle. And each time you fight, the pain becomes so much worse.”
I open my mouth to tell her that this time will be different, but for a moment the words catch in my throat. I need her to simply believe me.
“Please,” she adds, and now she turns her right hand so that I might see the palm, as if she expects me to take her hand in mine. “You are a brilliant surgeon, Charles,” she whimpers, her voice trembling so much that I can barely make out any of the words, “almost certainly the greatest of your generation, but you cannot save me. Nobody can. You are only prolonging the agony for both of us.”
“I can save you,” I reply, although now my voice too is shaking. “I can, Catherine. I just need to complete this one final procedure and -”