by Andy Conway
“No killer is that clever. He will make a mistake.”
“He could be here right now,” said Tom. “Walking past us at this very moment. Just a face in the street, and then gone.”
“And on his heels, a detective.”
“We should go straight to the police and offer your services.”
“No. we should go straight to the pub.”
“I’ll see your wager,” said Tom. “And if you can catch the killer, I promise I’ll sing your praises in the ballad for his hanging.”
The two men shook on it and turned to walk down the slope of Lower Temple Street where the sun blinded them as it fell behind the grand façade of the Queen’s Hotel, the giant glass dome of New Street Station behind it.
Daniel followed behind, glancing at his reflection in the window of Wattis Watch Importers, and saw his own semi-transparent face superimposed onto the display of timepieces. A man lost in time, he thought. A man fading from view, on a station platform, pointing a gun at a clock.
He shuddered and rushed after them, desperately trying to shake off the ghost that was pursuing him and whispering in his ear.
He would be married soon and all would be well with the world. His two best friends would see him to his wife’s side.
8
THE SUN WAS SINKING over Moseley village as the three men walked into the Prince of Wales public house, through the right hand door into the small front bar, which was screened off from the working men who inhabited the other side.
A smattering of gentlemen were gathered, most of them quietly reading the Gazette, whereas a hum of chatter came from the other side where the working men made conversation.
One or two gentlemen nodded to Daniel. A couple even expressed mild surprise, with the raise of an eyebrow or their look of greeting lingering a second longer than normal, at his entering with company.
He was a man with few friends. The two best friends he’d made here had moved to the south long ago, both of them married. He supposed that he too would soon be married and it wouldn’t matter that he had no more male companions: he would be preoccupied for the rest of his life with a wife, a woman who would want to know every single detail of his past life.
That feeling of dread flared up inside him again and he was glad to douse it with ale, at Tom’s insistence. It was important to forget, he thought. He needed to be in this moment and forget about everything outside it. He was a man with no past, and he didn’t want his future to be full of doubt and fear.
They seated themselves around a table and he listened as Tom and Arthur talked of London and its problems.
“I doubt the Empire has in its vast reaches such a despicable and verminous cesspit of human depravity such as can be seen in Whitechapel at this very moment,” said Tom. “And not more than a stone’s throw from the Bank of England.”
“Have you seen Highgate of late?” Daniel quipped.
“Come now, Daniel,” Arthur chided. “Birmingham has its poverty. I saw enough of it while I was here. But surely nothing to equal the East End?”
“I was joking. Forgive me.”
“It’s an honour the capital should take no pride in. Tom is right. The scandalous inequality is unfathomable. Something ought to be done about it.”
Daniel’s heart froze over as he recognized one of the barmaids gliding across from the other side. Louisa Gill saw him and smiled hesitantly. He nodded and looked away and could not stop his finger touching his cheek.
Of course, this was the bar where she worked. How had he forgotten that? He had led his companions to the very place he’d most wanted to avoid.
She was back on the other side of the bar in an instant, and had only come to retrieve a bottle of gin. He hoped she would stay there so he might not have to engage her in any conversation.
It was foolish. He would have to face her in the morning, at class, and already he felt fear at the sight of her. And this was a woman who would always be near to him, unavoidable in a small place such as this.
He was gripped with a sudden fear that he was already lying to Arabella, his wife. That he was already being unfaithful to her.
“I think you would both be surprised at the state of poverty not a stone’s throw from here,” he said.
Tom and Arthur were surprised at the sudden vehemence in his voice.
“While I haven’t seen Whitechapel, and I imagine our precious capital can serve up the best, even in poverty, I think both of you would be shocked if you saw the slums not more than a mile from here. When I arrived in this place—”
At this point, Arthur and Tom looked away, acknowledging Daniel’s dark secret: the mysterious blank of his past.
“—I came to a sleepy rural village surrounded by green fields. But in little more than a decade, the morass of poverty has crept up to the very edge of Moseley and threatens to overrun it. There are sights you might see not more than a ten minute stroll from here that would make you pale, gentlemen. Unspeakable poverty and vice and degradation.”
“This is the price of progress,” said Arthur, sadly.
The pity in his friend’s voice soothed him. Harsh words had teemed in his brain, eager to spill from his lips — about the despicable slums teeming with disfigured bodies and their disfigured speech — but he held them back.
“You are right, Arthur,” he said. “Men like us should be charitable. Had I myself fallen into that pit of poverty — and it is quite conceivable given that I was a man with no past, no memory, no credentials or references; the exact things that ease one’s way up the social ladder — I don’t doubt that I too would have fallen prey to alcoholism, violence and vice.”
“You do not have the character for that,” said Tom. He looked sullen and spoke with an intensity that seemed all too personal. “There are some that are weak in mind and morals and they give in to alcoholism no matter how much aid they receive.”
“Come now,” said Arthur. “The fault is surely in society?”
“I’ve seen otherwise,” said Tom.
Arthur and Daniel exchanged a furtive glance. Daniel shook his head indicating his ignorance on whatever it was that was troubling their friend.
“What are you talking about?” Daniel asked, patting Tom on the shoulder.
“I hardly like to speak of it in such refined company,” said Tom. “But I have seen alcohol take someone close to me; someone who had every opportunity afforded her to elevate herself — at least the little elevation that I was able to offer.”
“Tom, you can’t surely mean—”
“Catherine, yes.” He glanced at Arthur and explained. “My wife.”
“Tom, I had no idea.”
“I have a good daughter who is married and making something of her life, and two good sons I raise myself. They are all the better for having no intercourse with their mother. Not that she seeks it in any way. In fact, the only thing she seeks is my army pension.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“We parted six years ago. I have been living under the name Quinn to avoid her. But she has a talent for tracking me down.”
“My dear friend,” said Daniel. “I feel I’ve let you down.”
“You weren’t to know. It was I who disappeared. But when people talk of the poor fallen women who were never given a chance in life and whom society persecutes, I see Catherine and I see the slow degrees by which she made that life for herself. It’s a house of destitution she built brick by brick, all with her own hand.”
“Still,” said Arthur, “we must take a charitable view.”
“Indeed,” said Tom. “I doubt the rest of Whitechapel has Catherine’s particular foibles. She is certainly unique.” He looked up at them and smiled suddenly. “Well, would you listen to us? Here we have a man about to be married and I’m spoiling the party with tales of mine having failed. This is hardly the convivial atmosphere our noble bachelor demands. Let us have another.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Daniel.
/> “Allow me,” said Arthur, rising and walking to the bar, where he grabbed the attention of a barmaid that, thankfully, wasn’t Louisa Gill.
Daniel patted Tom on the arm and said no more about it. He had always felt a vague sense of unease around Thomas Conway, even though he was one of his only friends in the world. He had never been able to shake off this feeling that Tom knew more about Daniel Pearce then he knew himself. He had always felt that Tom was a man who was keeping a secret from him. Even though there was nothing about Daniel’s past he could have known.
It was another of his fancies. An issue. He decided to shrug it off. Tom wasn’t so bad. He was a good man. He had made a bad decision in life and sired two good sons and a daughter with a bad woman, that was all. His marriage was a disaster, but anyone could see that his children filled him with pride. It was a good thing, to raise children. It could make a man account for something in the world.
Even a man with no past.
They drank the evening away till closing time, when they stumbled out, all discomfort between them dissolved. They walked to Daniel’s modest cottage, hidden down a leafy mews facing the fenced-off drop of a railway embankment.
Seeing his home through the eyes of his guests, Daniel was acutely aware that it lacked entirely any sort of feminine presence. Indeed, it was bereft of any hint of personality, like himself. He wondered how Arabella would transform it, and if she might also transform him.
He insisted Tom, as the eldest of the party, have his bed, while Arthur would take the sofa in the parlour. Daniel was happy to sleep out in the summer house. He did it often, sometimes working in the night, so it was no discomfort to him.
They said their goodnights and he walked down the garden, almost pitch black, the new moon a thin sliver in the coal black sky. He walked quickly, either with the confidence of drink, or the certainty of habit. He could find his way there with his eyes closed. He’d left it unlocked again. The comforting smell of linseed oil. He lit a paraffin lamp, its glow bathing the room in a moonlight glow.
He dragged the white sheet from the easel and beheld her. Pale limbs splayed across the bed. She might be asleep. Or dead. He didn’t even know himself. He reached for a brush, feeling a sudden intense desire to slash and daub at the surface. But he resisted. Putting the brush back in the pot where it soaked.
And the thought of Louisa Gill flooded back. Alcohol and the company of friends had kept it at bay all evening, even though she had been serving just beyond the partition. But now he felt the lurch of nausea in his stomach. He could see nothing but disaster. She lived and worked so close. She would always be there in Moseley, the rock on which his marriage might founder.
He staggered and reached out to steady himself, falling towards the sofa, which took him like a hungry, black mouth.
9
AFTER THE BAR WAS CLOSED, there was the cleaning to do. He knew that. She might not leave until after midnight, and a work colleague might accompany her home.
But he waited in the shadow of an elm and watched the pub, staying quite still. Occasionally, someone would walk by, a police constable at one point, whistling to himself, but seeing nothing.
Eyes staring vacant like doll’s eyes, seeing not him, seeing nothing.
Waiting and standing still and hardly breathing wasn’t so hard.
He had done it before.
It was a pleasant enough evening, warm, and Moseley village was largely silent.
The image of the murderer — the last thing to be seen — was imprinted on the retina, it was said.
He could see the battlements of St. Mary’s tower standing guard over the village further south.
She came, in time, emerging from the silent pub’s door, a few quiet words of farewell to someone inside, and she looked around, paused for a moment, stared right at him, saw nothing, and walked south towards the village.
Let her see me as I leave. Let her see what devastation I have wrought on her.
He watched and stayed silent as she walked swiftly. At the corner of Woodbridge Road she stopped and looked back and saw an empty street and then disappeared round the corner.
He stepped out and followed, swiftly, silently.
A jet of blood splashed across the drawing that was pinned to the wall above the bed.
He followed, keeping to the shadows, and she didn’t look back as she walked all the way, over the station’s wooden bridge and then turning down Church Road.
Christ Church, slashed with vermilion.
The sudden steep lurch of the hill, like a black abyss. He couldn’t see her and panicked for a moment, rushing headlong into the blackness. And then the sense of someone ahead, further down, and the sudden scrape of a heel on gravel.
“Who’s there?”
She had stopped and turned. He saw the outline of her now, not more than twenty yards ahead. He waited, not breathing, waited until she turned and continued walking, faster now.
His knife was like a painter’s brush, creating, rearranging, bringing form into being.
He followed more swiftly. He had the power to glide unnoticed. He was the black shadow of a hawk, skimming the street, unheard.
Through silent midnight hours that lasted all eternity, he dissembled and deconstructed.
She descended, like Dante into the Inferno, falling from the safety of the respectable town down into the morass, down to the edge of night town, down to Hell.
She was one of the damned.
Was this now? Was this not then? When was now?
Two drunkards staggered past her, stopped, called out. She said a few words to them. He heard her laugh.
She was a whore. Leading men on in the street. Kissing them, tempting them to their doom. A siren.
Of course, that was what a barmaid was: a mermaid. Because you never saw her lower half. They tempted men to their doom, every night, lured by their siren song, foundering on the rocks, drowning in alcohol.
He ducked into a garden as the two drunkards approached, ascending the hill, and as soon as they passed he scooted out and was after her again.
The dawn’s first ray of light crept under the blind and he beheld his work.
She quickened her step and he saw her head bend down. She was looking in her purse. It must mean her key. She was home.
Red-handed, he crept out before the birds could wake.
He sped along, skirting the shadows. He heard a key scrape into a lock.
She didn’t hear him coming behind her. He was so fast, so silent.
Then with that female intuition all whores have, she felt his presence, and turned, too late.
He was on her, hand clasped to her mouth before she could cry out, and bundling her through the door and into the black hallway, holding her tight as she kicked against him and tried to scream.
But no one heard her.
No one ever heard the damned scream in Hell.
10
HE SENSED SOMEONE WATCHING him sleep. Was aware of someone in the room before he opened his eyes. Jolting awake, he was surprised to find Arabella staring down at him.
He had no idea where he was for a moment and glanced around to get his bnearings. The summer house, asleep on the sofa. He was in his clothes. The night came back to him: Tom and Arthur and their drinking. They were in the house.
Why was Arabella here? Had she already come through the house? Had she been surprised to find these strangers sleeping there and her future husband in the summer house?
He sat up and said, “Arabella,” but it came out as a croak, his throat as dry as sand.
Something was wrong. Her face. She looked appalled.
He sat up, the blood rushing to his head, steadied himself, noticed that his hands were stained with red paint.
Arabella was staring at the canvas, his painting, naked on the easel. It was as he’d left it yesterday. A naked woman draped across a flat grey bed. The murky light of a dim bedroom, the walls almost black. A painting of a church above the bed. Her naked limbs lit
by a mean, yellow glow.
But he’d painted something new. The woman’s red dress was crumpled at her side and cascading down from the bed to the floor, like a river of blood.
He knew instantly that he must have painted it last night, while he was drunk.
Arabella’s fist went to her mouth and she gagged.
He stumbled up from the sofa and snatched the white sheet, throwing it over the easel.
“Arabella, you shouldn’t look at that.”
“Daniel,” she said. “Is this what you paint?”
His secret paintings. She had only seen his landscapes, in the Impressionist style. One or two discreet nudes, again quite respectable, after Degas. But this was something new — a more modern style he was experimenting with, inspired by the new artists he’d seen in Paris and at the Twenty exhibition in Brussels.
He now saw its ugliness and its violence and felt appalled that his sweetheart might see it. This was how critics could react to a painting and call it scandalous and obscene.
“It’s a new style I’m experimenting with,” he said. “A technique. Nothing more.”
“It’s... disgusting, Daniel.”
He wanted to protest, but he knew she was right. She strode over to the stacks of canvases leaning against the far wall and he saw too late that there was another of his nudes displayed openly. Before he could stop her, she had stooped down to examine it and was flicking through the canvases, seeing them all.
“Arabella! You shouldn’t look at them!”
He pulled her away and took her in his arms, but she recoiled.
“Then what is the point of them?” she wailed. “Are they paintings that no one should see?”
“They are not ready to be seen.”
“That... those... things, will never be ready to be seen! And who are they? Who poses for you like that?”
“No one,” he said.