The Ghosts of London

by Amy Cross

  They're blatantly talking about me.

  Reaching into the pockets of my wet coat, I pull out the knife I stole from the cafe. Up until this moment, I felt as if I at least had a kind of secret weapon, something to use for protection if things got bad; as I slip the knife into my trouser pocket, however, I'm starting to feel as if maybe I'm in over my head.

  Hoping to overhear them, I make my way across the room as quietly as possible, but Simeon immediately glances at me with a smile.

  "There she is," he says. "Not looking too bad there, doll. You're carrying those offcuts pretty well."

  Izzy stares at me with an expression that makes it look as if she wants me to drop dead.

  "I'm gonna have to shoot," Simeon continues, patting me on the shoulder before heading to the door, "but you two girls get to know each other, and then try to get some sleep." He turns to me. "I'll be around in the morning, so we can start working out how to find your sister. I know I was kinda downbeat earlier, but there's still a good chance that she'll show up, yeah?"

  I smile politely, even though I really don't like the idea of being left alone here with Izzy.

  "Izzy," he continues, turning to her, "I know I don't have to tell you this, but just in case... Be nice to Katie, okay? I'm gonna ask her in the morning if you were a bitch, and I don't wanna hear any bad stories. The philosophy around this place is -"

  "Live and let live," Izzy says darkly. "I know. You've told me before."

  "Yeah," he replies, with a slightly worried expression, "and look how that turned out, eh?"

  Once he's gone, I turn to Izzy and find that she's just staring at me. I want to say something to break the ice, but I'm starting to realize that she really seems to have taken an instant dislike to me, and I'm not convinced that there's anything I can do to change her mind. It might be the case that my best option is just to be polite, say as little as possible, and wait for morning.

  "Come on," she says after a moment. "I'll show you your bed."

  Forcing a smile, I follow her across the room, while reaching into my pocket just to triple-check that the knife is still there.

  Chapter Six

  Rachel

  I can hear him breathing in his bedroom. At first, I thought he was snoring, but now I realize that he's just breathing very heavily. The guy's basically a slob, and as I get closer to the door I pause for a moment to listen to the sound of him eating in there, accompanied by the stench of Chinese food.

  "Moorgrave," I whisper.

  The noise continues, so I guess he didn't hear me. Still, it's fun to be here, like a ghost choosing the perfect moment to reveal her presence to the man who killed her.

  "Moorgrave," I say again, just a fraction louder.

  Still no response. All I hear is the sound of him chowing down on whatever sloppy mess he's brought home for dinner. Leaning closer to the crack of the half-open door, I peer through and spot him sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear, ferociously shoveling food into his mouth from a carton. There's a part of me that feels like the guy is already in such a pathetic state that I should just leave him alone; the disaster of his life is enough of a punishment, and anyway, I don't really have the right to be mad at him for something that I did.

  Then I remember that he followed me into the forest, and that he left me to die, so I figure I owe him a scare.

  "Moorgrave," I say quietly.

  This time, he freezes, as if he finally heard my voice. He looks over at the door, but it's too dark for him to be able to see me in the crack. I watch the worried look in his eyes, and I can't help but smile. He probably thinks he's losing his mind; either that, or maybe he believes in ghosts and he thinks I've come back to haunt him. It's clear that I've got his attention, and I just have to pick my next move carefully.

  After a moment, he starts eating again, but he keeps glancing at the door as if he thinks that I might appear.

  "Moorgrave," I say again.

  This time, he stares at the door with a look of absolute terror in his eyes. The first time he might have been able to convince himself that it was a figment of his imagination, but now he seems to know that something's wrong. His eyes are wide open and his jaw is hanging down mid-chew, as if the fear has gripped him completely. Again, I feel a pang of sympathy for him, and again I tell myself that he deserves nothing better. I know I shouldn't enjoy his suffering so much, but there's a dark sliver in my heart and I'm determined to make this asshole suffer.

  Slowly, I reach out and start to push the door open. Finally, I step into the room and I see from the look of horror on his face that Moorgrave can definitely see me.

  "You left me to die," I say calmly, fully aware that there are still blood stains on my shirt. "What's wrong? Didn't you think I'd come back and return the favor?"

  Chapter Seven

  Katie

  "This is your bed," Izzy says, indicating a mattress on the floor with a few clean sheets neatly folded at one end. "In fact, this corner is kinda your space. You can do everything here except piss and shit." She points toward a bed in the other corner. "That's my space. If you enter my space without permission, I'll kill you. Understood?"

  I nod, hoping she'll leave me alone now.

  "Over there," she continues, pointing at the cracked sink by the door, "is a communal space. We can both use it, but if I'm already there, wait your turn. There's a toilet through the little brown door. If you use it, crack a window when you're done or the stink'll come in here. If I wake up and I can smell your shit, I'll kill you."

  "Okay," I reply.

  "The other thing you need to know is my attitude to noise," she says. "I don't like it. If you've got a phone, put it on silent. If you want to play music, don't. Not even on headphones, 'cause I can hear that too. If you snore, I'll wake you up and give you one chance to try sleeping again without being a pain, but two strikes and you're out. If you get up to piss in the night, try to keep quiet. The floorboards next to the toilet door are squeaky as hell, so be careful, because I don't like being woken." She pauses, as if she's waiting for her words to sink in. "Believe me," she adds, "you won't like what I do to you if you piss me off."

  "You'll kill me?" I ask.

  "If you're lucky." She pauses again. "The last girl who stayed here was okay. I got on with her. She understood my boundaries, and we respected each other, and I was almost sorry when she croaked. If you can do the same and be respectful, we'll get along just fine."

  "What do you mean, she -"

  "Don't ask stupid questions," she spits back at me. "I've been here a while, and I've seen more than my fair share of people come and go. Some of them leave 'cause they wanna go somewhere else, some of them leave 'cause Simeon gets tired of them, and some of them..." She smiles. "Well, some of them don't leave under their own steam, if you know what I mean, and they don't leave through the door."

  I stare at her.

  "Look out the window," she adds.

  Stepping over to the window, I peer out at the darkness below.

  "This used to be an old factory building," Izzy continues. "It overlooks one of the canals. From where you're standing, it's about a twenty-foot drop into the water. I'm just telling you, in case you ever want to find an alternative exit route. The rumor is that the old factory owner used to keep his workers chained up, and when one of 'em died, he'd just toss 'em out into the canal. They reckon hundreds of poor bastards copped it here, so I hope you're not easily spooked."

  I turn to her.

  "Fuck," she adds with a devious smile, "you look like you're easily spooked."

  "I just want to sleep," I reply, heading back over to my mattress, "and then tomorrow I'll probably be gone. That's the plan, anyway."

  "Let's hope so," she replies, sniffing as if something about me is offending her senses. "You don't look like Simeon's usual type."

  "What's his usual type?" I ask.

  "More..." She pauses yet again, as if she's trying to think of the right word. "You look like a fu
cking baby lamb," she continues. "Sweet and innocent. Naive. I'm sure you tell yourself that you're not, but you are. I mean, hell, look at you. Only an idiot would follow some random guy who offered to help her after she met him in the street. You're completely defenseless."

  "Not completely," I reply, taking the knife from my pocket and holding it up.

  She smiles, before reaching into her own pocket and pulling out an eight or nine inch knife with a serrated edge, a curved machete-like blade and a skull-patterned handle. "This is one of mine," she replies calmly. "One of mine. The only reason I'm even letting you see it is that it's the least impressive one in my collection, but let me be clear. I've got more, and I've got a gun under my pillow too, and while I'm not some kind of great martial artist, I'm damn certain I could take you down in about two seconds flat, so if you try anything, I'll fucking make you bleed." She holds the tip of her knife close to my neck. "Got it?"

  I nod.

  "Here's a tip," she adds with a sigh, as she puts her knife away. "When someone asks you a question and they've got a knife to your throat, don't fucking nod, okay? It's tempting fate to move closer to the blade. Just say yes or no."

  I nod again.

  With that, she turns and wanders over to her own bed, leaving me standing alone with my puny, blunt little knife in one hand. My heart's racing and I feel as if I won't be able to sleep at all tonight, but finally I tell myself that if Izzy really wanted to hurt me, she'd have done it already. She was just marking out her territory and puffing herself up in an attempt to intimidate me, and although she succeeded, I figure she'll leave me alone if I just stick to the rule and don't do anything to antagonize her.

  Turning to the bed, I start unfolding the sheets, although my hands are trembling and I can't help but fear that Izzy might come up behind me and attack. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that she's already in her own bed, which hopefully means that she's going to leave me alone. In the distance, more sirens can be heard, and it sounds almost as if London is under attack. Forcing myself to stop thinking of the worst possible scenarios, I start making my bed, determined to create at least a corner of normality in this otherwise insane situation.

  In the distance, I can hear the sound of women's voices coming from somewhere else in the building.

  Chapter Eight

  Rachel

  "You... you... I..."

  I smile as Moorgrave stares at me. It's as if the shock of my appearance has completely thrown him, reducing him to a gibbering wreck frozen in place on the end of his bed. In one hand, he's holding a fork, from which noodles and friend chicken are slowly slipping. Wearing nothing but a pair of stained white underpants and a pair of black socks, the guy looks like a complete wreck.

  "I know," I say calmly. "You left me to die. You let me bleed to death as if it didn't even matter. That's pretty callous, don't you think? It indicates a certain lack of empathy on your part, a lack of humanity."

  "I thought..."

  I wait for him to finish, but I don't think he's capable of constructing complete sentences right now.

  "You thought I was already dead?" I ask.

  He nods.

  "Well..." I pause. "You were right. I mean, look at all the blood on my shirt." Reaching down, I flatten out the fabric so he can see the huge red stain. Smiling, I wait again for him to say something, but I guess he's not going to be able to hold much of a conversation. "I bled to death out there," I continue. "My blood flowed out and into the ground, but at least it didn't take long. I could still hear you running away as my mind slipped into darkness, so if it's any consolation, you don't need to beat yourself up too much. Even if you'd tried to save my life, even if you'd done everything in your power, I'd still have died."

  He stares at me.

  "But you didn't do everything in your power, did you?" I continue. "You just left me there, as if you wanted me to go away entirely. Tell me, where did you go next? Did you go to the police and tell them everything? Or did you realize that there's no way they'd ever believe you? I mean, hell, your fingerprints were on the knife, and no-one would ever have accepted that you were an innocent party, especially once they'd checked the CCTV footage nearby and spotted you following me."

  He stares at me, as if he can't believe what he's hearing.

  "Was I the first woman you ever followed home?" I ask. "Don't take this the wrong way, Moorgrave, but there's something about you that makes me think you've always been a sweaty little pervert. I'm guessing you've got a long history of getting obsessed by women, but I also think you're probably too scared and nervous to do anything about it. Frankly, I'm surprised you had the nerve to come to the parlor."

  "I never hurt anyone!" he blurts out suddenly.

  "Of course you didn't," I reply. "You haven't got enough of an imagination."

  He stares at me, and all the color seems to have drained from his face.

  "You set yourself up nicely," I add. "The media would have a field day, wouldn't they? A short, podgy little man pays for a wank and then decides to stalk the woman who did it. Then, the next day, she's found dead in the park. There's not a jury in the land that wouldn't send you down. The papers'd dig through your life history and dredge up anything they could find, and all your murky little secrets would end up being splashed all over the place."

  "You're not here," he whispers, screwing his eyes tight shut. "You're not. You're just in my head."

  "Don't be a baby," I reply. "Of course I'm here." I take a step toward him. "I'm -"

  "Stop!" he shouts, getting to his feet and taking a step back before tripping on the edge of the bed and slamming down hard against the wall. "Leave me alone!" he shouts. "I didn't do anything to you! You've got no right to come here like this!" He gasps as he tries to get up, and as he clutches his chest, he turns to me with a look of horror. "You're dead..." he splutters.

  I nod.

  "Get out of here!" he shouts, starting to gasp for air.

  "Not yet," I reply, stepping closer. "You were stalking me, Albert. I gave you a massage this morning, and even a happy ending, and then you felt you had the right to follow me. What were you doing, anyway? Fantasizing about doing something else to me? I remember the first time you came to me. You asked if I could show you my tits, but I refused. I'm afraid that's something I only do for really special clients, and you were never a special client, were you? I bet you've never even been with a woman you didn't have to pay first."

  "I just wanted to..."

  I wait for him to finish.

  "You wanted to what?" I ask, amused by his fear.

  "I don't know," he whimpers, with tears flooding down his cheeks. "I just wanted to... watch you. I was thinking of... I thought that if I saved up enough money, I could maybe pay you to go further, but I wanted to be sure first. I wanted to watch you; I wanted to see how you walked." Clutching his chest again, he lets out a cry of pain.

  "I'm not a whore," I tell him.

  "I'm sorry," he blurts out, with tears pouring down his face. "I didn't mean it. Please, just leave me alone. I didn't kill you! Go away, and I swear, you'll never hear from me again. I promise, I didn't mean to hurt you!"

  "And yet I'm dead," I reply.

  "No," he whines, inching away from me while trying to get to his feet. "Please, just go away, I..." He steadies himself on the dresser, and for a moment he seems a little short of breath. "Please," he gasps, "I don't want to... I don't... I can't..."

  He drops to his knees.

  "You're a disgusting little man," I say after a moment. "I could see it the moment I first met you. All the girls at the parlor talk about you and your tiny little cock. Do you think any of us actually liked massaging your flabby body and then trying to find enough of a shaft to jerk you off? No wonder you have to pay for it." I pause as I realize that I'm being harsher than I'd intended. I don't really know why I came here, except that I felt I had to pay him back for what he did to me. Then again, I'm the one who pushed the knife into my body, so I guess Moorgrav
e's not really my murderer at all.

  "Please," he gasps, clearly struggling for breath. "Oh God, please, don't..." He takes a series of deep, hawking breaths, but something's wrong: he clasps his left arm, and after a moment he turns to me and I see that he's sweating profusely, even more than normal. "Help," he grunts, reaching out to me. "Please, help me -"

  I step closer and realize that he's having a heart attack, no doubt brought on by the stress of seeing me. I guess most people would have a pretty strong reaction to the sight of someone they saw die a few hours earlier. I hadn't intended for this to happen to him, but now that he's dying, I realize that there's something rather poetic about the situation.

  "You didn't help me when I was dying," I remind him, "so why should I help you?"

  "Please," he whispers, reaching out to me before tumbling down onto the floor. "Call an ambulance," he continues. "I'll tell them everything, but please, don't leave me like this, I don't..." He gasps again. "I don't want to die," he whimpers. "Please, I don't want to..."

  I take a step back, in order to get a better view as he starts trying to crawl toward the door. After a moment, his underpants catch on the side of the bed and slowly get pulled down, exposing his buttocks. It's a sad, pathetic sight, and no way for a man's life to end, but I figure there's nothing much I can do to help him.

  "Help," he gasps, before stopping with his hand still reaching out toward the door. "Please..."

  For a moment, it occurs to me that I actually could try to help him. After all, there's nothing stopping me picking up the phone and calling for an ambulance. Still, as he rolls onto his back and stares up at me, and as his breathing becomes slower and more shallow, I realize that he's past the point of help. Crouching next to him, I reach out and take hold of one of his flabby, clammy hands and try to think of something to say that might actually help him.

  "I've died several times," I say calmly, staring into his eyes. "It's really not so bad. If you're lucky, you might even end up somewhere nice, although I don't think there are guarantees. I've never seen the other side. For some reason, I keep getting bounced back as if -"