by Cross, Amy
I must wait.
***
The house is silent as I sit at my desk and look through the pages of an old textbook. There is a little sound coming from the street, but not so much, and I am relieved to have this moment of peace. So far, I have found nothing that suggests cutting out Catherine's brain stem would cause irreparable harm, but I am still not quite certain.
Besides, the stem from last night is quite possibly already wasted. I might not transplant it into Catherine's body, even if I had full confidence in the procedure. It will do for a placing exercise, to judge the practical limitations of the project, but I am undecided as to whether I shall actually attempt to link it to Catherine's brain. I imagine that Jack and I shall have to venture out again tonight and find another.
Jack.
Pausing, I look toward the empty doorway.
It must be two or three hours now since I sent Jack away from the basement. In truth, I have become rather accustomed to his presence, to the extent that I assumed he would continue to irritate me throughout the day. Instead, he seems to have entirely slipped away, although I know he must be around here somewhere. I have already been up to the bedrooms, and I know he is not there, and he is not in the basement. Which means...
I look back down at the textbook and try to concentrate, but then I realize that I must find the brute.
Getting to my feet, I venture out into the hallway and stop for a moment, listening to the overbearing silence. I check all the downstairs rooms and then I find myself in the hallway again. I head upstairs and double-check the bedrooms again, and then I go all the way down to the basement, but again I end up in the hallway and I realize that I seem to have checked everywhere without finding the fellow. There is simply nowhere else in the house for him to be, unless...
***
“What in the name of...”
As soon as I step outside into the back garden, I see the most remarkable sight.
Jack is resting on the ground, flat on his back on the grass, in the shade of the cherry tree that Catherine planted so many years ago. His eyes are closed and his hands are crossed over his chest, and he looks for all the world as if he is dead. Either that, or he is meditating, although it is difficult to believe that he possesses the intelligence for such a thing. He is, after all, a mere beast.
Stepping closer, I am struck by the calmness and serenity of the scene, although a moment later I find that something bright is catching my eye in the tree above. Looking up, I see to my horror that a large carving knife has been left up there, dangling from a rope with its blade aimed straight down toward Jack. Unable to stop staring at such a bizarre sight, I make my way closer, almost mesmerized by the way the knife catches the sunlight.
I do not think I have ever seen such a strange yet peaceful scene.
“Can I help you, Doctor Grazier?”
Startled, I look down just as Jack opens his eyes.
“I was taking a rest,” he explains, “as you suggested. Did you need me for something?”
“Taking a rest?” I stammer. “Out here? In the garden?”
“All the rooms of your house are so neat and tidy,” he continues, “and I worried that I might stain them in some way. Besides, I'm used to sleeping under the sky. Expensive beds hurt my back, but I am always able to sleep when I'm on the ground like this. I suppose this is what I am used to.”
“Like a common animal?”
“Some might say.”
I open my mouth to tell him that he's utterly out of his mind, but then I realize he might have a point. He probably would stain any bed-sheets upon which he rested, and I'm quite sure that after just a day or two he would thoroughly infest any room in the house. I'm sure he has lice, and probably other passengers as well. Still, after a moment I cannot help but look back up at the knife that continues to hang high above him.
“An offering,” he says.
I turn to him again.
“I am not a superstitious man,” he continues, “nor do I believe in any one religion. But I am not a good man, either, and if some god is displeased with me, I would sooner know as quickly as possible.”
“Who tied that blade up there?” I ask.
“I did.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“For peace of mind.”
He looks directly up. If the knife were to fall now, it would slice down against his chest.
“I once heard,” he continues, “a mad preacher say that the gods cut down any man who angers or who disappoints them. I suppose that might be true, so I decided there and then to give the gods an easy way to end my life. Wherever I sleep, I always hang that knife above my chest, high enough that it would cut into me if it fell.” He pauses, as light from the blade catches his face. “If any god wants me dead,” he adds finally, “even the laziest of gods, then he has an easy enough way to get the job done. He merely has to have the rope snap, and the knife will drop down and plunge into my heart. In fact, one might even say that mere chance dictates an accident some day, in which case perhaps a god is actively keeping me alive.”
“That's...”
My voice trails off for a moment, as the tree rustles and as the knife twists a little in the gentle morning breeze.
“That's ludicrous,” I say finally. “Utterly, utterly ludicrous.”
“Isn't it so?” he continues, with a faint smile. “Yet each time I wake up, and I see the knife still hanging there, I am comforted that either there are no gods above us, or that they do not wish me dead. I give the gods their chance, and then I go about my day. I know it is foolish, but I cannot deny that the ritual gives me a certain spring in my step. Perhaps even a feeling that I have been explicitly granted permission to live another day.”
He pauses for a moment, before suddenly sitting up.
“But enough about me, Doctor Grazier. I am not worthy of all this thought. Tell me, how is the procedure going down in the basement? Is your wife showing signs of revival yet?”
“What?”
I stare at the knife for a moment longer, before turning to him. Honestly, this bizarre scene has pushed all regular thoughts from my mind.
“It is a long process,” I explain as I try to regather my composure. “We shall have to go out again tonight.”
“As you wish.”
“I shall need, at the very least, a new brain stem.”
“Then we shall acquire one.”
“Indeed we shall,” I reply.
“Indeed we shall,” he says calmly.
“I think I shall spend the rest of the day researching some ideas,” I continue, trying not to let it seem too obvious that I am rather taken aback, “although I do not have all the books here that I would like. I shall perhaps go to the club, where there is a fine library.”
“Would you like me to accompany you?”
“That won't be necessary,” I tell him, fully aware that I can never be seen out in public with such a ruffian. “You will stay here and ensure that you are ready for this evening. I shall return around five o'clock. I shall have eaten, so there is no need to prepare anything for me. Not that I imagine that would be a possibility, anyway, but still...”
I pause, before realizing that this entire scenario makes me feel distinctly uncomfortable. The garden used to be Catherine's pride and joy, and spent so many happy hours out here making the place look beautiful. Now it has become, for want of a better word, an animal's hovel. The flowers remain in the borders, but I have little doubt that before long Jack will have trampled them in his ungainly ignorant manner.
“Never fear, Doctor Grazier,” Jack says, “I shall be right here and ready to assist you once again. It is an honor and a privilege.”
“And do not go into the basement,” I add, turning to him and seeing that he has already settled back down beneath the glinting knife. “You are not to go down there without me. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” he replies, but now his eyes are closed. “I intend to rest for a
while longer, if that is acceptable to you? You must call on me, though, if you require anything at all.”
“Quite,” I whisper, taking a step back. “I shall do so...”
I wait, but now he has fallen silent and I suppose he does indeed intend to rest. I turn and walk back into the house, but when I reach the doorway I cannot help but glance back at him. It is difficult to believe that such an untamed beast of a man could be so content, but I suppose perhaps he is mimicking me. Yes, that must be it. He is trying to fit in with his surroundings, and he believes that this cod philosophy is somehow appropriate. He is, underneath it all, still a simple brute.
It occurs to me that perhaps I should lock him out of the house, but finally I decide that I can perhaps trust him. He seems to be a very obedient fellow, and evidently he can follow instructions once they have been drilled into his head. Although as I return to the study and stop again at the window, I look out and see that he is still flat on his back, still resting beneath that knife.
When the time comes to kill him, perhaps the task will be rather easy after all.
Chapter Eight
Maddie
Today
“Have you seen Alex? Hey, have any of you seen a girl called Alex around here?”
Two guys glance at me for a moment, as they sit rolling cigarettes on a low wall, but they don't say anything. They simply stare at me with blank faces as I slow to wait for their answer, and then a faint smile curls on the lips of one of them. Realizing that they're not going to be able to help, I turn and move on, stumbling slightly as I make my way along the market street. They both yell at me, telling me to go back and speak to them some more, but I know better than to even look their way again.
Just as I'm about to turn the next corner, I trip slightly on one leg of a market stall. I almost fall, but I somehow manage to steady myself and keep going. Still, that was a sign of weakness, and I can't afford to look weak. As Alex told me so many times, people who look weak get taken advantage of real fast.
As I make my way through the market, I glance all around, desperately hoping that I'll spot Alex somewhere. She always wanted to set up her own stall. She always liked hanging around markets, too, because she said they were places where she could find an opportunity. I've lost count of the number of times we'd spend whole days wandering through different markets while she talked about her plans. She thought that a market stall would be the first step in her route out of poverty, so I figure that if she's still in Stratford, this is the best place to start looking.
“Are you alright there, love?” a man asks as I pass his stall.
I mumble something in return, but I don't quite meet his stare.
“Hey, are you alright?” he calls after me. “Kid, are you okay?”
I slip out of sight, and fortunately he doesn't come after me. I'm still really hot, but at the same time I can feel my body starting to shiver slightly. The pain in my waist has changed, too, becoming more of a pulsing, throbbing ache. Every time my shirt brushes against the swollen wound, I feel a burning soreness, but I think the fabric is starting to get caked into the pus. I should probably take a closer look at what's going on down there, maybe even try to clean it a little, but I figure I can do all of that and more once I've finished here at the market. Besides, it'll probably just get better by itself.
Right now, all that matters is finding Alex. Once I do that, she'll help me get fixed up.
“Hi,” I say, trying to force a smile as I stop next to a jewellery table, “I'm sorry to bother you, but do you know a girl called Alex?”
“I know a few girls called Alex,” the woman replies skeptically. “Which one are you after?”
“She's slightly taller than me,” I explain, feeling as if I'm swaying slightly, “and she's got dark hair, and she often wears band t-shirts, like the Ramones or Green Day.”
“I know three girls called Alex who look like that,” she says, leaning back in her deck-chair and folding her arms.
“She would have only shown up about three or four days ago,” I continue. “She came here in a van with some guys. I'm sure she must have come to this market. She's into jewellery, she even makes her own sometimes. She might have tried to sell you a few things.”
The woman stares at me, and I honestly think that she finds me disgusting. After a moment she looks down at my waist, as if she senses that something's wrong, and then she looks back at my face again.
“I didn't buy any of it,” she says finally. “It was just tat. I can't sell tat. I've got a reputation to keep.”
“Do you know where I can find her?”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
“Where is she?”
“I don't think she's much good,” the woman mutters. “Are you sure you want to associate with someone like her?”
“Please, if you know -”
“She's staying with that big Simon fella.”
“I don't know who that is.” For the first time in days, I feel a flash of hope. “Please, if -”
“House on the corner,” she says, nodding along the street. “Big house with trees in the garden. Cream door. Used to be nice before that lot moved in. Now get going and leave me alone if you're not buying anything. No offense, darling, but you're putting people off.”
“Thank you,” I stammer, turning and hurrying through the market. I know people are giving me weird looks, and I know I'm probably pushing and shoving a little, but I have to find that house. And just thirty seconds later, I reach the corner and see that there's an old, rundown house with several trees in the front garden, and with a cracked and battered cream door.
I push the creaking gate open and hurry along the path, and then I make my way up the steps and knock loudly on the front door. I can hear music blasting somewhere inside the house, and I have to knock several times before finally the door opens and I find a tall, wide, hairy guy towering over me.
“Hey,” I say, trying again to smile, “is Alex here?”
“Who?”
“Alex,” I continue, although suddenly I feel as if the world is swimming all around me, “she's my friend. Her name is Alex and...”
My voice trails off. I'm staring up at the guy's unimpressed-looking face, and for a moment I feel as if I might be about to throw up.
“Please,” I stammer, “I need... Alex...”
And then, with no real warning, my knees buckle and I collapse, banging my head hard on the way down and landing in a crumpled mess on the doorstep.
***
“This is gonna sting,” the man says as he tips some more of the solution onto a piece of toilet paper. “It's gonna sting a lot.”
I brace myself as he moves the sodden piece of paper toward my swollen wound, and then I gasp as I feel an extremely strong stinging sensation. I even start whimpering with pain, and finally I have to grit my teeth and look away as the guy wipes the solution all over the inflamed area.
“You need to get this checked out,” he continues after a moment. “It doesn't look very good.”
“It's fine.”
“It's not fine. It's infected, and it could end up in your blood.”
“It's not that bad.”
“And I'm telling you, it is. I'm not gonna drag you to a hospital, but I'm telling you, don't ignore this. It's only gonna get worse.”
“I'll get it looked at,” I tell him. “I promise.”
“You don't need to promise me anything,” he says with a sigh. “It's no skin off my nose.”
He tosses the toilet paper aside, and I see that there's a patch of blood smeared all over the surface.
“So are you gonna tell me how it happened?” he asks.
“I just got into some trouble.”
“Looks like a knife did this to you. I'd categorize a stab wound as more than just some trouble. Who sewed it shut for you?”
“It's complicated,” I reply, figuring that he wouldn't believe me if I told him about that weird night in the house on Cathmore Road. Fra
nkly, I'm not even sure that I believe what happened. Maybe I was already hallucinating, even back then.
“This stuff'll help,” he says, pouring some more of the solution directly onto the wound, causing me to wince again, “but it's not enough. You need -”
“I will!” I say firmly, trying not to sound ungrateful. “I really need to see Alex right now.”
“And I told you, she'll be along at some point. She's out right now.”
“Out where?”
“Just out.”
“But -”
“She's busy,” he mutters, and – if I didn't know better – I'd say that he seems like he doesn't approve of something. “It might be a few hours before she drops by. Or days, even. I dunno, I'm not her mother, am I? She might be gone for weeks.”
“Why?”
“How well do you know her?”
“Well enough. We're friends.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Maddie.”
“She never mentioned you.”
“Do you know where she is?” I ask, frustrated that he's not giving me any proper answers.
“Let's just say she had a heavy night,” he replies with a smirk.
“She was drunk?”
He chuckles. “If she was just drunk, she'd be sleeping it off by now.”
“Alex doesn't do drugs,” I tell him.
“She doesn't?” He shakes his head. “Well, someone should tell her that, 'cause she seems to have forgotten.” He pauses, before reaching out a big, callousy hand for me to shake. “Simon. You seem like a good kid, Maddie. Sick and in need of some serious help, but good. Are you sure you want to hang around with people like Alex?”