The Half Killed

by Olson, Quenby

  It’s a severe drain on what reserves of strength I possess, not only to fight the affliction that claws its way into my skull, but also to keep Chissick from bearing witness to its effect on me. With lips pressed together, nearly disappearing between my teeth, my hands curl into fists at my sides, the presence of my gloves enough to prevent my fingernails from gouging the flesh off my palms. But soon enough, the throbbing subsides and the voices inside my head quiet to a low hum. A lull before the next wave strikes. What better time to make my excuses to our Mister Chissick and decamp for Mrs. Selwyn’s before I’m overtaken?

  A few words of apology from me, and he takes the liberty of escorting me from the lodging house, of bundling me into the first respectable-looking cab to pass our way. A hand on my waist, helping me inside, and then we’re jostling through the poorly lit streets. The lamplighters—those young boys, always appearing when day and night give way to the other—have become more lax in their duties as the houses slowly empty, more and more Londoners escaping to the rumored safety of the less populated counties.

  I’m deposited outside Mrs. Selwyn’s front door, an awkward farewell tossed over my shoulder in my haste to get inside. For a moment, I fear Chissick might try to follow me, but something in my voice must prevent him. A minute passes before I hear the muffled tramp of horse hooves from the other side of the door, the rumble of wheels over the uneven pavement. Another minute, and I let out a long-held breath through gritted teeth. He is gone.

  But it doesn’t follow that I should now find myself to be alone. I allow my eyes to adapt to the change in light, the dim yellow glow of a few candles tucked into various crannies around the low-ceilinged room, and I can make out Mrs. Selwyn’s lumpy form, poured into the threadbare armchair by the dying fire. A soft snore emanates from her throat, her head thrown back in a position that will no doubt cause her neck and shoulders some pain in the morning. Her grey lips twitch in the thick shadow that falls across them, and from underneath an eyelid, a sliver of white, shining like silver in the candlelight that bathes her forehead.

  One of the candles flickers in protest as I move towards it. I wrap my fingers around the base of it and slowly pry it loose from the ring of spilled wax securing it to the tabletop. I’ve no doubt she’ll miss it in the morning, that it will be my door she’ll approach first. I can imagine, even now, the suspicions that will run through her head, how I must have used the candle for some nefarious purpose, perhaps to call up one of Satan’s minions to do my bidding. I want to smile at the thought, but a fresh wave of pain invades my sinuses and travels down, finally settling at the base of my skull.

  One hand holds onto the wall for support as I make my way up the stairs. I take care to keep my feet close to the wall, away from the boards most likely to announce my presence with an ill-timed creak. From somewhere above me, I hear the familiar thump of Mrs. Selwyn’s cat leaping down from whichever corner he had secreted himself for the evening. The animal makes his appearance less than a minute later, slinking around the corner to take up a position on the landing, one ear twitching before he licks his paw and swipes the dampened fur across the top of his head.

  I’m outside my own door now, the cat circling around my feet, never near enough to brush against my skirts, but always moving closer, finally pressing his ears back as he sniffs at a clump of refuse that clings to my hem. I push him away as I step inside, shutting the door with a snap before he can slip in between my ankles.

  "Oh, God."

  Strange how it’s always His name I utter in my darkest moments, the same moments He chooses to remain so stubbornly silent. I set the candle on the seat of the chair, the flame illuminating the fine, gold lettering on the cover of the Bible that still sits there.

  But the circle of light doesn’t extend far from the chair. It touches the side of the bed, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. It’s within the candle’s feeble glow I take up residence, my gaze fixed on the flame. I stare at it until I see it when I blink. In this way, I tell myself, I’m able to push away the darkness. The voices relent. The pain in my head recedes to a dull throbbing. I lower myself to my knees, my forehead pressed against the rough edge of the chair, grinding upon the wood until I feel nothing but its unfinished surface scraping at the topmost layer of my skin.

  I slumber for an hour, maybe two. A gasp from my lips, and I’m rushed into wakefulness, my lungs drawing in tremendous draughts of air while I fight to separate myself from the last vestiges of sleep. The candle is out, knocked over, I presume, judging by the drops of hardened wax spilled across the seat of the chair. I stare at it for some minutes, somehow willing the wick to flame back to life without any intervention from my hands. But nothing changes, no disturbance in the dim light of the room.

  It’s no easy chore to return myself to an upright position, my lithesome days being long behind me. A hand on my knee, the other on the chair, and—oh!—how I wish for a third to knead the kinks from the small of my back. A few steps, and I’ve arrived at the window, my face only an inch from one of the grimy panes. The street below glows with a tenebrous illumination, but I wonder how much the filthy glass is to blame for the ominous look of the neighbourhood before me.

  I scrabble through my pockets for a handkerchief—I’ve so few left of them now—and latch upon one wadded into a stiff ball I have to shake out several times before it resembles a slip of fabric once more. A single corner is enough, and soon I’ve cleared a small circle in the glass, enough to peer through, though it takes another moment or two until my eyes become accustomed to this sudden clarity of sight.

  I see the details now. I see the soft rise of the curb, hidden beneath the refuse that hasn’t been swept away for over a week. A few feet on, and there’s the pothole that catches nearly every wheel on its path towards the river. One short skip over the marred cobblestones and there are the buildings across the way, shoddier than the one in which I currently reside, one sagging wall supported by a few well-placed boards propped against the crumbling façade.

  The shadows are thin tonight, as if they’re busy seeking their own dark recesses for shelter. It’s in the midst of one of these shades I notice a lone figure lurking, so still that his edges lose definition to the murk that surrounds him.

  And am I correct in assuming that the man trespassing through the shadows is, indeed, a man? Perhaps not. There are no clues to give him away. All I sense is his presence, and—further down, if I dare to prod the consciousness hovering on the other side of the street—a newly-found purpose, something of a goal, and a bit of impatience to set himself to the task now laid out before him.

  I turn away from the window, feeling strong in the conviction that my own presence there has gone unnoticed. The candle is still on the floor, so I return it to the chair, to the already hardened circle of wax on the wooden seat. My movements are careful, and especially quiet, considering the lateness of the hour. By the time I leave my room, all of my weight is shifted onto the balls of my feet, the better to move down the stairs without alerting Mrs. Selwyn to my departure. It’s only a moment of pause I allow myself when I arrive in the stifling atmosphere of the sitting room. A single glance towards the front entrance is enough before I change my mind, and retreat in the direction of the kitchen and the rear entrance that resides there.

  ***

  I walk for hours. I’ve taken to following the same route nearly every night, always culminating in a brief pause near the river, my eyes lighting on Southwark Bridge but my feet never crossing it. I turn, keeping near to the factories, so many more of them now with each passing season. Most of them congregate near the water, and all of them puffing great columns of steam and soot and foul-smelling filth into the air. Boats trawl the river as well, putting loudly, their engines hiccoughing into silence before slope-shouldered sailors curse and spit and bring them back to sputtering life. Even last week, I saw a cab trundling through Drury Lane, and I imagined the clop-clop of horse's hooves replaced by the rhythmic chug of an engine,
loud enough to send a clanging vibration through the carriage. And all around me the buildings rise, steadily concentrating the sounds, shutting them in so I stumble upon little pockets of noise that echo off the newly erected walls of wood and brick and stone.

  It's across one of these walls that my gloved fingers brush, running through a sheen of moistened grime. The morning fog still clings to the tallest rooftops, but the silver haze of the humid sky shines above it, promising another searing day without relief. It used to be that I could take a stroll in the early morning hours and feel the chill of the previous night soaking into my bones. But last night, as so many that preceded it, there was no chill. Only the cloying heat that has lingered over the city since early spring. And all of those little pockets that hold onto the noise also hold onto the warmth, so that each night proves hotter than the last, the sweat that clings to the skin never given a chance to evaporate.

  Remarkable that I'm not witness to more people disregarding the proprieties of our day. Here they all are, decked out in hats and gloves, their collars fastened like steel bands around their boiling necks. Their blotchy faces and stained underarms do little towards selling this particular brand of stubbornness, and so it is that every day finds a few more daring to abandon yet another rule of etiquette, sleeves rolled several inches higher, waistlines slack without the support of a corset to cinch them in.

  And here's another reason to come out in the morning, when the day is at its coolest, for all of London seems intent on taking advantage of this slight reprieve: only an hour past dawn, and the streets are swollen with traffic, everyone rushing to conclude business before the worst of the heat sets in. Surrounded by such crowds, I weave my way here and there, using my elbows when necessary, apologies tumbling out of my mouth with all the timing of a reflex. I move without direction, making turns on instinct, and yet each switch eventually returns me to more familiar terrain. Not as clogged with bodies as the paths behind me, but still boasting its share of morning dawdlers, most of them keeping to the shade where it's still plentiful.

  Loiterers, they are. Taking advantage of the residual coolness the sun's rays have yet to banish from the pavement. Not quite a chill, as I'm certain we've not had one of those for quite some time. Unfortunately, the lack of pedestrians lends no additional freshness to the atmosphere here. The effect is enhanced by the lopsided buildings that cling to each other for support, every crumbling brick and half-rotted slat of wood carrying a muted shade of grey—not quite black—as if everything is in need of a good wash.

  It’s beside one of these ramshackle buildings—my own building, I must add, complete with its faded placard done in green and white, boasting fine rooms for rent—that a familiar figure has taken up residence. Judging by the scattering of cigarettes at his feet, he’s been there for some time, one shoulder braced against the corner of Mrs. Selwyn’s front doorway before a kind of fidgeting takes hold of him and he falls into a round of pacing. A few rapid steps away from me, and this could be my only chance to escape unseen. Behind me, and only a few steps to the right is another alley into which I could easily slip. A shortcut across an abandoned courtyard and I could walk into Mrs. Selwyn's through the same rear entrance I used only a few hours before. But the cowardly route is not as appealing as it was before the appearance of the sun, and by the time he turns round again, I'm thrown off balance by a quiet thrill that ripples through me at the sight of his face.

  He takes another two steps before he notices me, and then one hand makes an instinctive grab for his hat, the other hand flinging away a half-finished cigarette, the sparks bouncing and flaring out as it rolls into the clogged gutter.

  "Miss Hawes." Barely twelve hours since I last saw him, and yet Chissick appears to have aged years. Dark shadows underline his eyes, and his suit hangs loosely from shoulders that seem to have cast off every overabundance of flesh in order to combat the heat.

  I glance at the ground, at the streaks his footsteps have left in the dry grime that dusts the curb. "Have you been waiting long?"

  A peculiar kind of cruelty, I think, starting off with a question such as this. And not even "such” as this. This exact question. Because I feel safe in assuming it was Chissick I saw hovering in the shadows of the pre-dawn hours.

  "Not long," he says—he lies—the quick dart of his eyes giving him away. He sniffs and his fingers twitch. No doubt he regrets having tossed away that last cigarette with such haste. "I’ve spent the last few minutes trying to knock up the courage to call on you, to ask…" His grip tightens around his hat. "But I don't think your Mrs. Selwyn likes having me on the premises. I keep seeing her cat skulking around, and…" Another twitch, almost a shudder, and I realise that on this certain feline, our feelings have reached something of an accord.

  "I wouldn't take it personally," I say. My fingers flutter for a moment, scissoring the air before tugging at the absurdly long sleeves of my dress. "I am sure that if Mrs. Selwyn could manage a way of living without having to cross paths with another soul... That is, unless she derives too much pleasure from inflicting herself on others."

  A look of surprise on his face, that I could make a joke after all we've seen together. He clears his throat and runs the back of his hand across his jaw, currently sporting a full day's growth of reddish stubble. "Um, are you well, Miss Hawes?"

  Such a simple question, and yet it renders me unable to string more than a handful of words together. "Hmm, no. I mean, yes. Sorry, I am well. Reasonably."

  Another nod, and his jaw moves, his teeth seeking out the soft flesh on the inside of his bottom lip. "I've come to apologise," he says, and hesitates there.

  I say nothing to help him along.

  "Last night, taking you to see... It was wrong of me, you know. Never should've presumed that it was any sort of place... Terribly sorry."

  For a moment, I'm adrift in the broken cadence of his apology. And then I remember the young woman on the table. As naked as the day she was born, and bearing a wound that has haunted me with the same insistence as my own shadow.

  "There's no need. I am fine." And to prove it, a small smile. "It certainly wasn’t the most horrid thing I’ve ever come across."

  I say it as an assurance that nothing he's done was capable of scaring me, but an odd look crosses his face, and I wonder if I've offended him. His eyes dart this way and that, his gaze seeking but never finding. When he looks at me again, a flicker, and it wouldn't take more than the gentlest prodding to let myself into his thoughts, his fears so near to the surface I can feel them pushing outward.

  I take a breath and step back from him. The distance does little to help.

  "Mister Chissick," I say, clinging to the formality his surname affords. The tightening of his fingers around the brim of his hat attracts my eye, and I notice the brushed black of his suit, a poor choice of colour in this weather, the cut of it alone advertising its design for a cooler season. But he wears it with the air of one resigned to doing his duty. Let the temperature climb to unbearable heights; he will not change into a less sombre shade of clothing.

  And now I'm remembering him as he looked in the cellar of the lodging house, the odour of death in the air: an earthy smell, but imbued with a sharpness that would have soon coated the walls themselves. And there he stood at the head of the table, his gaze rarely leaving the young woman's pale face, while his own expression was well hidden behind a mask I assumed he'd cultivated over too many years of preaching the Word of the Lord and the never-ending battle for the souls of his prospective congregation. But I'd been too distracted to notice what is now so glaringly obvious.

  "You knew her."

  His Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. "I beg your pardon?"

  I shut my eyes, my breath held until I feel an ache in my chest. "The woman, on the table." My gaze flicks towards his, before I'm back to scanning the discarded cigarettes on the pavement. "I am sorry. It's none of my concern."

  He steps forward, still several paces away, but
this simple movement acts as a confirmation, even before he opens his mouth to speak.

  "She was..."

  But whatever she was is lost as his mouth quivers into silence. It must be too soon, the memories too fresh to be brought up in conversation with a person he hardly knows. And perhaps he wonders if I already have access to these memories, and that the act of speaking them out loud would simply transfer them into a state of redundancy.

  "I am sorry," I repeat the apology, this time for his loss, more than for any breach in conduct on my part.

  An awkwardness springs up between us, neither one of us chancing a look at the other, the pavement, the pedestrians, the burnished sky itself all striving to hold onto our attention, until Chissick breaks the silence, his voice low at first, but gaining strength and resonance by the final word.

  "Miss Hawes, I take it you’ve not eaten yet this morning?"

  He must see the dumbfounded expression on my face, but he presses on, his obvious embarrassment cloaked by a torrent of words that will not cease, no matter how much his various shufflings and twitchings beg for silence. "I've not had anything since before we… and if you're not you're not otherwise engaged..." He looks up quickly, already wincing in anticipation of the rejection he knows must be on its way.

  "Thank you," I say, and resist the mild temptation to refuse. "I'd be honoured."

  Again, his fingers worry the worn edge of his hat, before he sighs and claps it on his head. When he holds out his arm for me, I falter.

  "It's just a bit of a walk," he says. "I hope you don't mind."

  Chapter Six

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