A Buried Past

by Alexandria Clarke

  A second later, I was staring at a closed door, holding Evelyn’s coat. Bryony had gone, and I could ask no one else what to do now.

  “Miss?” The nurse at the front desk gestured to an empty chair in the waiting room. “You might as well have a seat. It might be a while.”

  I sat. My heart felt empty. I wondered if the shock had not yet worn off. Something hard dug into my leg, and I reached into the pocket of Evelyn’s coat and found her phone. I clicked on her favorites list. My name was at the bottom of the list, after Mom, Dad, her sister Elizabeth, and her brother Max. I pressed the Mom entry and put the phone to my ear.

  It rang a few times, and I was sure it would go to voicemail, but Evelyn’s mother answered at last. In a muddled, tired voice, she said, “Evelyn, dear? It’s late. Is everything all right?”

  “Actually, this is Jacqueline Frye,” I said, trembling. “I’m not sure if you remember me, Mrs. Gray. Evelyn and I went to secondary school together.”

  “Yes, I remember you,” she replied, nice but tense. “Is there a reason you’re calling? Has something happened?”

  My lip wobbled, but I did my best to control my tone. “I wanted to let you know that Evelyn is in the hospital. She’s sick. I’m not sure—”

  “What’s the matter with her?” Mrs. Gray asked. “Is she going to be all right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, why was she admitted?”

  “She passed out,” I answered. “She was pale and sweating before. The paramedic guessed that it might be an infection, something to do with her surgery site, but they won’t tell me anything else because I’m not family.”

  “Her surgery site? What surgery site?”

  Confused, I checked the screen to make sure I had the right woman on the phone. “From her shoulder repair. Surely, she must have told you?”

  “A shoulder repair? What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “Mrs. Gray, do you know what Evelyn does for work?”

  “Of course I do,” she said, somewhat indignantly. “She’s a freelance writer for a political journal. She sends me her pieces every once in a while.”

  Not a single part of me believed Evelyn set time aside to write political pieces. Obviously, her mother had no idea what her real job was.

  “Hello? Jackie, did I lose you?”

  “I’m here,” I said. “You should call the hospital. They’ll be able to give you more information.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  She hung up before I could say goodbye, but I didn’t take offense. A moment later, the phone at the front desk rang, and the nurse answered.

  “One second, Miss Gray,” said the nurse. She checked her papers. “She was admitted roughly ten minutes ago. The doctors are with her now. I can call you with an update as soon as I know something.”

  I fell asleep in the waiting room. Hours later, the nurse gently shook me awake. The emergency room had emptied out, and the morning sun trickled in. My neck ached from sitting at the wrong angle all night, and my cheek bore button imprints since I had used Evelyn’s coat as a pillow.

  I straightened up and muttered, “Is she okay? Is she alive?”

  The nurse smiled. “Yes, she’s okay. You can go in and see her. Visiting hours aren’t supposed to start until nine, but since you’ve been here all night—”

  I staggered to my feet and stumbled. The nurse caught me and set me upright. “Take it easy. She’s in room 209. Do you need me to take you there?”

  “No, I’ll manage. Thanks.”

  As the nurse returned to the desk, I made my way up to the second floor to Evelyn’s room. She lay asleep in bed, her matted hair clumped around her neck. She still looked pale, except for the dark circles beneath her eyes. An IV needle was taped to the inside of her good elbow, delivering medication. Her injured shoulder had been placed in a non-invasive sling but remained uncovered. Her new scars were bright red and covered in greasy ointment.

  I rinsed a clean washcloth under warm water and used it to wipe the sweat and grime from her face and neck. Afterward, I rinsed the cloth again and did her arms, legs, and feet. Then I fetched a hairbrush from the nurse’s station and combed through Evelyn’s hair. It was the best I could do while she was asleep. At the very least, she would be slightly more comfortable when she woke up.

  I pulled the spare chair close to Evelyn’s bedside, held her hand in mine, and rested my chin on top of her good arm. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “This is my fault.”

  The doctor from the emergency room breezed in, startling me. “Hello there. We haven’t formally met. I’m Doctor Eaton. You’re Jacqueline, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Yes.”

  “So sorry to have dismissed you last night. I noticed too late that Miss Gray has you listed as her emergency contact.” He turned his clipboard around to show me Evelyn’s paperwork. “She’s given us permission to release her personal information to you. As soon as my perpetually late students shuffle in, we’ll give you an update. Ah, here they are!”

  A team of three medical students, including James, hustled into the room, stepping on one another’s toes to reach Doctor Eaton first. James smiled politely at me and waved.

  “Are you two acquainted?” Doctor Eaton asked.

  “We’ve met before,” I said.

  “Then James can present.”

  The other students hid their eye rolling as James stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Evelyn Gray, twenty-nine, was admitted early this morning because of complications from an infection at the surgery site on her shoulder. We drained the incision site and administered intravenous antibiotics to help with the bacterial infection.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, James.” Doctor Evans checked Evelyn’s pulse and breath sounds. “She’s responding well to the antibiotics. She should be back on her feet in no time.”

  “How did she get an infection in the first place?” I asked.

  Evans slung his stethoscope around his shoulders. “It’s not unusual after surgery. We strive to keep the incision site as clean as possible, but sometimes it’s not enough. If a patient goes home and doesn’t follow protocol, a situation like this can arise. The shoulder brace she was wearing when you came in—when was the last time it was washed?”

  “I don’t think we’ve ever washed it, now that I think about it.”

  “There you go,” he said, nodding. “Sweat probably built up in the fibers and attracted bacteria that transferred to Evelyn’s skin.”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. It hadn’t occurred to me to wash the bulky brace. She always wore a T-shirt beneath it. “Why hasn’t she woken up yet?”

  “She’s exhausted,” the doctor answered simply. “She should wake in the next couple of hours. In the meantime, you both should get some rest.”

  As Evans and his students continued their rounds, I propped my feet on Evelyn’s bed and tried to go back to sleep. Despite my heavy eyelids, slumber wouldn’t come. Too many thoughts toiled in my head. Evelyn had been admitted to the hospital twice because of me. Perhaps I was doing her more harm than good.

  Hoping for a distraction, I switched on the TV. After a few telenovelas and soap operas, I landed on the news.

  “The Ripper struck again early this morning,” the reporter was saying. “After a scare on Henriques Street that ended up being a diversion, the Ripper attacked a woman in Mitre Passage, meters away from the police who were stationed there. The woman, forty-year-old Eira Kent from Wales, survived a cut to the throat, thanks to the intervention of an unknown bystander who chased the Ripper off and attempted to stop the bleeding until the paramedics arrived. Police pursued the attacker but were not able to track him down.” A live shot of Mitre Passage showed up on the screen. The area was swarming with police officers and investigators. “The witness described a tall man with fair hair wearing a long, hooded cloak. Be on the lookout for any persons who match this description. We’ll bring you updates as we receive
them.”

  The screen switched again, this time to show the street outside the police headquarters near Big Ben. The streets were filled with protestors, holding handmade signs that had messages like “Find the Ripper!” and “Do your job!” painted for all to see.

  “In relation, riots have broken out in the streets of London,” the reporter went on. “After three attacks, two of which resulted in deaths, the police have not made any progress in identifying the new Ripper. The public is in an outrage, with belief rising that Scotland Yard is not working hard enough to apprehend the Ripper. Crowds have gathered at the crime scenes, police stations, and outside the Royal London Hospital, where survivor Eira Kent is currently being treated for her wounds.”

  I went to the window and pulled the slatted shades apart to peer into the street. Down below, at least a hundred people had gathered. Most of them carried similar signs to those outside the new Scotland Yard, wishing Eira Kent well whilst condemning her attacker and the police officers who allowed it to happen.

  I wobbled on my feet. Hours had passed since I’d had something to eat other than crisps. I checked on Evelyn once more then left the room to locate the cafeteria. Ten minutes later, with a muffin and a fresh cup of coffee in hand, I was heading back to Evelyn when a clipboard hanging on the wall caught my eye.

  Eira Kent’s name was printed at the top. This was her room, right down the hall from Evelyn’s. I glanced both ways, saw no one, and tiptoed inside.

  She was asleep. A massive bandage covered her neck. Like Evelyn, she was attached to a bag of IV medications. As I approached her bedside, her eyes fluttered open. When she saw me, she reached out. I quickly set down my breakfast and went to her.

  “It’s you,” she said. Tears sprung to her eyes as she clung to my hand. When she spoke, her voice was rough with stress and exhaustion. “The staff told me I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.”

  “Don’t move too much.” I positioned myself so that she wouldn’t have to turn her head to see me. “How are you feeling?”

  “As well as possible,” she answered. “The doctor said the knife didn’t cut deep enough to sever my artery. That’s why I’m still here.” She winced and put a hand to the bandages around her neck. “Thank you for chasing the Ripper away. What’s your name?”

  “Jacqueline.”

  “You’re a saint,” she said.

  I thought of Evelyn, who I’d put in danger to rescue Eira. “I’m not really. Why were you in Mitre Square so late at night anyway?”

  Her chin trembled. “It’s embarrassing. I’ve already had to say it once.”

  “To the cops?”

  “Yes, they’ve been in and out all morning.”

  “What did you tell them?” I asked.

  Eira reached for a cup of water on her bedside table. I got the cup for her and helped her drink. She cleared her throat. “My husband and I have been on the rocks for a while. Months ago, I discovered he’d been cheating on me with his assistant, but he won’t divorce me, and I can’t afford to force him to. I can’t look at him anymore. I can’t be in the same room with him.” Her tears welled up again. “I’ve been spending as much time at the office as possible, working overtime to avoid going home. I don’t watch the news, and I forgot that last night was supposed to be the Double Event. All I was thinking about was having to face my husband when I got home. I never imagined this would be the reason I didn’t have to see him. He’s probably gutted I didn’t actually die.”

  She worked herself into a tizzy. The monitor that kept track of her heart rate beeped faster. I took her hand and squeezed it.

  “Try to relax,” I said quietly. “The important thing is that you are alive. That’s what matters.”

  The monitor quieted as she took a deep breath and relaxed against the pillows. “What were you doing in Mitre Square so late?”

  “Looking for the Ripper,” I answered. “Since the police aren’t doing their job, I thought I’d handle it for them.”

  “Alone?”

  Once more, I thought of Evelyn and wondered if she was awake yet. “No, my best friend was with me. Speaking of, do you remember anything about your attacker? Did you see his face?”

  Eira tried to shake her head then apparently remembered the bandages holding her skin together. “No, he was behind me the whole time. I never saw him.”

  “What about his voice? Did he say anything to you?”

  “Not a word.”

  I sighed. “If you remember anything, can you ask someone to come find me? I’ll be in my friend’s room. 209. She’s here too.”

  Fear filled Eira’s eyes. “Because of the Ripper?”

  “No,” I said. “Because of me. I hope you have a quick recovery, Eira.”

  Outside Eira’s room, I ran right into Officer Stowick.

  “Sorry. Excuse me.”

  Stowick grasped my arm. “Hold on a minute, miss. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?”

  “If you don’t mind, I need to get back to my friend.”

  Stowick’s grip tightened. “What were you doing in Ms. Kent’s room?”

  “Making sure she was okay,” I replied acidly. “I was the one who saved her, remember?”

  “You were also the only other person in that alleyway at the time of the attack,” he said. “My officers swept all of Whitechapel for the lad you described. No sign of him. I’m starting to think you made him up.”

  I twisted my arm out of his hand. “I’m starting to think you’ll do anything to find a suspect. Have you seen the riots in the streets, Officer Stowick? The public are doubting your abilities to track the killer. Is it making you nervous?”

  “Don’t go too far,” Stowick called after me as I stalked off. “We’re not done with our conversation.”

  Fuming, I returned to Evelyn’s room. She still lay sleeping, and I couldn’t keep my anger contained within the white hospital walls. I needed fresh air, and Evelyn would likely want clean clothes to wear and decent food—not the junk they served at the hospital—when she woke up.

  Avoiding the officers outside Eira’s room, I dashed out of the corridor, down the steps, and out of the hospital. I’d intended to catch a cab back to Evelyn’s flat, but with the riotous crowds in the streets, hailing one was impossible. I squinted across the shouting congregation, but there were no pathways to get through those who had gathered. More police officers were stationed in front of the hospital, trying to keep the riot from getting out of hand.

  “Justice for William!” the protestors chanted. “Justice for Rosie! Catch the killer!”

  An officer with a megaphone called over the crowd. “You are blocking the path of emergency vehicles! Please disperse and be on your way.”

  One of the protestors seized the megaphone from the officer and threw it over his shoulder. A woman behind him caught it and shouted through it: “The people of London demand action!” The crowd roared its approval. “We will not stand for inept or corrupted police! We want our friends and family safe!” Another thunderous yell erupted from the speaker’s supporters. “Find the Ripper before he kills again or the people of Whitechapel will be on your doorstep, Officers!”

  Another policeman ripped the megaphone away from the woman who shouted through it. When she fought against him, she accidentally whacked the officer in the face with the back of her hand. Anyone close enough to see it knew it wasn’t intentional, but the officer brought out his handcuffs anyway.

  “You’re under arrest,” he said. “For assaulting a member of the London police.”

  The mob didn’t like that. As they descended on the arresting officer, a space cleared on the outer edges of the horde. I made a break for it, darting toward the opposite side of the street, but another group of locals pushed me back toward the center of the throng.

  The yelling increased. People pushed and shoved. As short as I was, I could barely see, let alone breathe. I elbowed someone in the ribs and thrust a larger woman away from me with both hands, fight
ing for room. The woman shoved me back and forced me into the person behind me. That person, a scrawny man about my height, raised his fist before looking at who he was about to hit. I dodged the blow, and out of pure self-defense, punched the small man right in the nose, using my first two knuckles as Evelyn had taught me.

  A whistle blew shrilly in my ear, and the cluster sprang apart. Fingers pointed in my direction as two police officers stepped forward. The small man’s nose bled freely.

  “She assaulted me!” he shouted, clutching his face.

  Officer Stowick reached me first and clasped my hands behind my back. Cold handcuffs encircled my wrists. “Right this way, miss. You’re under arrest too.”

  15

  The police let me stew for three hours. They left me in a holding unit at the closest station with a few other protestors, two men recovering from a drunken night out, and a woman who carried on a full conversation with herself. As everyone commiserated about their situation, I sat alone, arms crossed, in the farthest corner, my mind on Evelyn. Surely, she had woken up by now and most likely wondered where I had gone.

  Officer Stowick arrived, but I didn’t jump to my feet this time. Every half hour, he strolled through to tease us about who might get released first. He got everyone’s hopes up, grinned nastily, and left without letting anyone out. We’d all stopped expecting anything from him. This time, however, he jabbed his index finger at me.

  “You, Frye,” he barked. “Come with me.”

  I lunged to my feet as Stowick unlocked the door. “About damn time. How’s my friend Evelyn? Did you check on her like I asked?”

  Stowick chuckled under his breath. “Did you think you were getting out of here? You got another thing coming, miss. Follow me.”

  Bewildered, I followed Stowick out of the holding cell and into another room, one with a single desk, a lamp, and a two-way mirror. A laptop rested on the desk.

  “Is this for investigations?” I asked. “What are we doing in here?”