The Half Killed

by Quenby Olson

  Down and down again, and now I'm fighting with her collar, twisted around her neck, the fabric stiff with dried mud and what I can only wish is blood. But there is the telltale bloodless wound, the wide slash that splits her throat in two. The skin is strangely puckered, and when I prod the loose flap of skin with my gloved finger, a gurgle rises from the dead woman's throat, as eerie as a strangled cry, before a surge of thick, dark sludge bubbles out of the wound.

  Young Tom is already running by the time I look up, one hand covering his mouth as he hurls himself towards the edge of the river.

  "Dammit," Chissick breathes behind me, almost beside me now as he drops down to his haunches, his shoulder pressed against my own.

  The other two men, sensing their sudden roles as outsiders to this scene, move themselves away. The old man follows young Tom towards the water, though in a healthier state than his companion, while Trevor busies himself with muttering over a cigarette and a handful of soggy matches from an inside pocket, matches that his own abundance of perspiration has rendered useless.

  I wait until I'm certain that Trevor has passed beyond the range of spying before I reach again towards Sissy's collar, this time pulling it open, tearing at the fabric until I've bared the top half of her bosom and the small canvas pouch wedged between the folds of her cleavage. Around the back of her neck, holding the pouch in place, is a thin bit of cord, and I make a failed attempt at pulling it apart before Chissick slips the handle of a small pocket knife between my fingers.

  As soon as the cord is severed, I weigh the bag of tiles in my hand. Should I wish it, I could summon an image of every person to have had their fortunes told by the grimy letters held inside. Even now, without any effort, I feel Sissy's fingers trailing over the rounded edges, the blankness of her thoughts as she allows the information she needs to flood her mind.

  A bit of curiosity is all it takes. I close my eyes, and there are the faces of her final customers, perhaps the last people to see her alive. But there is nothing from them, only the typical feelings of fear, of hope, too simple to be of any interest. So I push further, and there is my own face, seen through Sissy's eyes, and I suppress a shudder as my own sensations from that morning reach across the distance. And now more faces are passing by, everything a muddle as the control slips away from me, and the faces lose definition, the emotions that Sissy draws from the tiles become baser, more confused. It's a struggle to pull myself back, but before I can separate myself from her entirely, there is a glimpse of something, but hardly even that. A shadow, a feeling so faint, as of walking into a room only lately abandoned by another person.

  "Miss Hawes?"

  My hand tightens around the canvas bag. An odd feeling comes over me. I reach one hand to the ground beside me, almost cool in the shadow of my own body, and the other hovers, as Sissy's would have done at one time. Over her arm, her abdomen, her chest, up to the wound, always the wound, where the rivulets of water and sludge still trickle down from the open flesh, spilling onto the gravel, the same gravel that bites into my knees, creating bruises I'm sure will be with me for some time.

  "She knew," I say, not looking at Chissick, but at Sissy’s gaping throat. "She knew who did this. She saw her face." And as I gather my courage, enough to keep the grief at bay, I drop the bag of tiles into my lap and pull off my gloves. There is sweat on my palms, between my fingers, and I wipe my hands across my skirt before I touch her.

  And I do touch her. Skin to skin. But the coolness I expect from her flesh isn't there. The body is warm, warmer than my own, and as my fingers forge a trail across her collarbone, inches from the wound, the shadow of my hand merges with the darkness lingering beneath her damaged jaw. At this moment, the sun could burn bright enough to set the world on fire, and it would do nothing to banish the chill that takes hold of me.

  "What is it?" Chissick asks. Strange, that his voice should seem so far away.

  I pull my hand back, and there, hovering in the air, a smudge of shadow. But another look, and I see that it's nothing less than an absence of light trailing from my fingers, writhing for a moment, before it twines around my palm, running like ink along the seams of my hand.

  "Dear God," I whisper.

  It's a curious feeling that takes over me. Chissick is beside me, and yet I cannot trust myself to acknowledge him, afraid that by looking at him, by sending a few words in his direction, he'll shimmer and fade out, just as my hand does before me. Trembling, I tug at my skirts, struggle not to tread on my hem as I stand up.

  "Miss Hawes?"

  Before I can be sure of my own balance, Chissick is already on his feet, his hand on my arm, his fingers seeking out my wrist.

  "You're not well, Miss. I shouldn't have allowed you to come here. Let me take you home."

  But his words fail to penetrate the fog that descends on me, bringing with it a pain that had never truly departed, but was only lying dormant, waiting in the recesses of my mind for the next opportunity to strike. And it strikes with a fury, a constant pressure that doesn't relent but squeezes tighter and tighter, my head in something like a vice. Now Chissick's hand tightens, a grip strong enough to break my thin wrist into splinters. And I realise that he is holding me up, preventing my imminent fall towards the ground.

  And I do fall, despite Chissick's attempts to keep me upright. I hit the gravel with such force that the breath is pressed out of my lungs, and before I can draw in another to replace it, the shadow flows along my arm, rises up in front of my eyes, steals around my throat, and I'm gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  * * *

  * * *

  Light...

  It flickers behind my eyelids, in reds and yellows and putrid greens that bring a flood of bile to the back of my throat. There is a distinct memory of gagging, and of being rolled onto my side so the sick could dribble out of my mouth, instead of running back down my throat and causing me to choke. I cough once, and the pain that invades my head is enough to bring on a renewal of the flashing colours, the feeling that my skull will split into pieces before I'm lost to the darkness once more.

  ***

  The second time, there is little light. Neither are there any swirls of colours to send my stomach into rebellion. A muscle jerks in my arm, and following this, as if called to life by that small spasm, there is the sensation of someone pounding on the back of my head with a blunt instrument. An attempt at opening my eyes fails so miserably that I feel the burn of tears along the seams of my eyelids, but another try gifts me with a sliver of sight that reveals nothing more than shapes without definition, blurs and shadows that ignite a spark of frustration inside of me. Contrary to my will, my eyes close, the tears burning a path of warmth along my skin, the last thing I feel before the darkness envelops me.

  ***

  I stretch out my hand towards the light, my fingers flexing, nearly bending backwards before I curl them into a trembling fist and feel my nails press into the slick of sweat gathered in my palm. The movement becomes an exercise, stretch and curl, again and again, until I feel like someone deprived of the use of their muscles for a long period of time.

  The feeling does not dissipate, and as I lie there—for I'm aware enough to notice that I'm lying on a bed that is most certainly not my own—I become acquainted with other feelings, or more accurately, one feeling that seems determined to drown out every other sensation that vies for an audience. It's an odd thing, almost unsettling, to wake up wrapped in a cocoon of exhaustion. One would think that sleep would be enough to dispel such a malady, but here I am, listening to the irregular thrumming of my heart, holding my breath as I wait for the jarring beneath my ribcage to take on a more even rhythm.

  My hand finds its way to my throat, three fingers seeking that dip below my jaw where I can count out the rapid fluttering of my pulse. I turn my head to one side to allow my fingers better access, and that is when I see Chissick sprawled across an armchair, within arm's reach of the bed. Most of him is silhouetted against the window,
the lamp on the bedside table casting enough light to illuminate the side of his leg, the one draped over an arm of the chair. Behind him, daylight shines through the shutters, casting rows of distorted white lines across the rug.

  I watch him for a minute, my pulse still pounding away beneath my fingers, and wait until my sight clears enough to focus on the steady rise and fall of his chest. Sound asleep, I think. His head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, a shoulder raised to prevent his slide and tumble out of the chair. His coat, that black monstrosity of wool and perspiration, lies in a heap on the floor, leaving him in his shirt and braces, his collar unbuttoned and his sleeves hanging loose around his freckled forearms, the scrubbed fabric showing its wear in the bare threads that have worked their way out of the weave.

  I've no wish to disturb him. Slowly—because I doubt my body could function at a faster rate—I slip my arms to my sides, shift my weight onto my elbows and drag myself into something that almost resembles a sitting position. The mattress groans beneath me, a short burst of sound that ricochets through the room like a gunshot. I wince, and Chissick's eyelids rise up like curtains.

  He sees me, I think, before he's quite certain of the scene before him. And then he rubs his eyes and passes his bare forearm across the lower half of his face, the finale of a yawn still visible as his hand returns to his lap.

  "How do you feel?" he asks, and swings his leg off the arm of the chair, his booted foot landing heavily on the floor. My teeth clamp together at the sound, and with a tremble, my arms fail. The mattress lets out another protest, more of a whine this time around, and I shut my eyes as the room transforms into a blur.

  "You're not well."

  I hear him as if from far away, and I have to wait for his voice to reach my ears. When I open my eyes again, I'm staring at the ceiling, at a yellowed smudge of water damage that frames a crack in the plaster.

  "I know."

  It's barely a whisper, but he nods to show that I'm heard. The next words fight for dominance on the tip of my tongue. I could ask for a description of what transpired after I fainted beside Sissy's body, no detail abandoned, though I very much doubt the facts would vary from any picture I could form in my head. And yet the question slides out unhindered, and Chissick bows his head as he shapes a reply.

  I fell, he tells me. Crumpled to the ground as if my strings had been cut. He refused all help, left Trevor to deal with Sissy's remains and hired a cab that brought the two of us back to his home. Not much of a home, he apologises, and slides forward on the chair. Should he have called for a doctor? The doubt colours his voice even now. But he told himself, assured himself that I would not have wanted anyone else to be involved. And then there was nothing left but for him to stay by my side, waiting for two days.

  "Two days?" The words grate along the back of my throat.

  "Nearly that," he says, sparing a glance for the shuttered window behind him. "I tried to wake you, several times, but I thought it would be best if I were to let you sleep."

  "No," I say, my head rolling from side to side on the pillow. "Please, don't ever do that."

  Before he can apologise again, I try to move, my hands tangling with the edges of a blanket Chissick must have draped across me. I muster enough strength to push most of the fabric away, and I feel the blood drain from my head, my lips tingling before they go numb. Chissick takes on the role of caregiver, hovering at my side, and I wonder how ill I must look to elicit such a hasty reaction from him. But his movements are nothing but a practice in hesitation, and I sense he has no clear idea of what should be done.

  And so he relies on an old standby, laying his hand on my forehead, first the back of his hand upon my skin, and then the palm, his touch surprisingly cool.

  "You're still cold," he mutters, and there is a trace of astonishment there.

  I'm prepared to argue with him, for doesn't he see the sweat on my skin? Can he not feel how the heat seems to flow off of me in waves? And yet he reaches down for the blanket I threw off, tucking it around me before I can summon the energy necessary to stop him.

  At the sound of my opposition, he treats me with a look, and I almost think that like a mother hen, he'll cluck and fret and do whatever he likes. But the look doesn't last long enough to gain any strength, and his hands fall away from the blanket, flexing as if he still held the edge of the course fabric between them.

  "You should at least have something to eat, to drink," he says. And maybe because this lacks the tone of a request, I nod, feeling almost sheepish as he turns on his heel and walks out of the room.

  And with his departure, some of the light fades, the glow from the lamp pulling back, retreating behind the punched copper shade. Or maybe it is simply the lowering of my eyelids that hurries the darkness along, until it covers not my eyes, but floods my nose and mouth, pouring down my throat like water. It fills my lungs, rendering me incapable of screaming. But still I try to force the sound, only to pull more of the shadow inside. I feel it now, working its way under my skin, mingling with my blood. A scream does finally break free, but it's too late, because I'm being jostled from side to side, before something hot is pressed to the side of my face, searing my skin so terribly that when my eyes fly open...

  I blink.

  Chissick is above me, the tip of his nose not four inches from my own. There is a pressure on the left side of my face, and I feel his hand against my cheek, his fingertips tangling in my hair.

  But it's the sound, a soft whine, almost plaintive, that catches my attention. I think I will never forget that sound, and only when Chissick dares to take a breath do I notice I'm the one creating it.

  A sharp gasp before my lips seal together. I can feel the tears, the thickening behind my eyes before the first ones burn across the edge of my eyelids. Chissick sweeps them away before they run down and soak into the pillow.

  "You're all right," he says—no, breathes it across my forehead. His eyes dart from side to side, examining every inch of my face, now held between both of his hands. He leans over me with one knee on the mattress, and when he's sure that I'm not about to expire before him, he speaks a second time.

  "Was it a nightmare?"

  Such a simple question, and yet I cannot give him an answer. The stuff of nightmares, it surely was, but there will be no classing it as nothing more than a bad dream.

  "I heard you scream," he speaks quickly, perhaps seeking to fill the silence that fell to me. "I couldn't imagine... I'd been gone not even a minute, and I heard..." He glances towards the window, a snap of his eyes that I might've missed had I not been staring into his face. But the look is enough, and I turn my head until his hands fall away from me, until I see the shutters on the window, bulging outward as if some great mass had fallen against them.

  I stare at the cracks in the wood, at the one hinge dangling cockeyed, and finally at the new pattern of light cast on the opposite wall.

  "I can't stay here."

  It's not much above the level of a croak, what my throat produces in lieu of a voice. And before Chissick has time or opportunity to piece out what I've said, I make another attempt at throwing off the blanket, my legs making a few pitiful kicks, hindered by too many skirts and my own illness. I'm able to see that my shoes are still on, still carrying a faint crust of dried mud around the heels when Chissick steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder.

  There's little strength in it, not even enough to throw me off balance were I in better control of my faculties. But at this moment, I realise that he is holding me up rather than halting me, and another moment passes before I'm leaning into his hand, taking what energy I can from the light grip of his fingers. It's not enough, however, to keep me upright for long. The room spins, and my throat begins a frantic round of swallowing to push down the bile that threatens to flood the back of my mouth.

  I fall back onto the pillow, the mattress giving up the lightest of squeaks in protest. Above me, Chissick hovers, the natural fidgeting of his fingers seeming to sp
eak in a language his mouth has yet to master. It's not until he begins to pace, and I see the steps drawing him ever closer to the door that I make another attempt at finding my voice.

  "Wait."

  A single word, and it has its effect. Chissick stops moving, his fingers fluttering once before he turns around. Three strides return him to my side.

  "Don't leave me alone." It hurts to say it. Not because of any pain in my throat, but because of the confession of my own weakness. "And please don't let me sleep."

  So bidden, he searches the area around himself, wraps his hand around the back of the armchair and drags it several feet closer to the bed. When he sits, he's close enough to rest his elbows on the edge of the mattress. A shake of his head, and he runs his fingers across his bearded jaw. "What should I do?"

  I exhale and turn my gaze to the ceiling. Already, the shadows are creeping in, the streaks of daylight losing their hold on the far wall. "Keep me awake," I tell him, and I wonder whether he takes it as a request, or an order.

  "Well," he begins, hands curling about his knees, shoulders shrinking inside the wrinkled folds of his shirt. "I guess I could..." Another shake of the head, and his eyes begin a search, as if he hopes to find an answer stashed away in some darkened nook or corner.

  I begin to think he'll give up before he's even started, when he finally speaks. He stops and starts several times, and in fact, the hesitations and the stammers never truly depart, but he plunges onward in a quiet, clear tone I can't remember having heard from him before.

  And I listen to what he is saying, only to understand he is telling me about his sister.

  He describes her as I imagine he would describe a painting, commenting on her hair, the shape of her face, the colour of her eyes. There's no mention of anything about her, the sound of her laugh, or an amusing anecdote that would encapsulate their childhood together.