by Cross, Amy
“What's wrong?” she asks. “Maddie, you're looking at me all strange.”
“You're not real,” I tell her.
“Huh?”
“I get it now. You're not really here.”
“Uh, I kinda am.” She gives me another fist-bump on the shoulder. “Feel that?”
“It doesn't prove anything,” I point out. “If I can imagine seeing you, I can imagine feeling you too.”
“Seriously?” Lowering her phone, she furrows her brow. “Maddie, you're actually giving me the creeps now. Like actually, properly creeping me out.”
“The real Natalie's off somewhere,” I reply, “living her life. Doing normal things. She's not standing in front of me right now.”
“Okay,” she continues, “that's a pretty odd thing to say. Why don't you come back to my place, and you can hallucinate Mum giving you a proper meal? Then you can hallucinate having a bath, and then you won't smell quite so fusty.”
“I can't go with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you're not real.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” she asks, and now she's starting to sound more than a little frustrated. “I'm right in front of you and I'm about as real as it gets. I mean, dude, I've been accused of being a lot of things over the years, but nobody has ever told me that I'm not real. I guess that's kind of a compliment, in a sick way.”
“I'm such an idiot,” I mutter, turning and starting to make my way along the street, heading toward the market. I stumble slightly and almost fall, but my legs just about manage to hold me up and I keep walking, even though I can hear Natalie hurrying along behind me.
“Maddie, what's wrong with you?” she asks.
She tries to grab my shoulder, but I slip away.
I can't look at her.
The more I look at her, the more I acknowledge her, the more real the hallucination will seem. I just have to ignore her until she goes away.
“Maddie, seriously!” she continues. “What gives? Are you, like, on drugs or something? It's okay if you are, I get it, that kind of thing happens when you're living on the street. We can get you some help.”
I can see the market up ahead. When I get there, the other people will prove to me that Natalie's a hallucination. I'll ask them if they can see her, and they'll tell me they can't, and then I'll know that I'm right. I'm going to get on top of this madness before it really takes root in my mind.
“Why are you being so rude to me?” Natalie asks suddenly, as her footsteps stop behind me.
I keep walking.
“I'm trying to help you!” she calls after me. “You look awful, you smell like garbage, and I'm trying to be your friend! Maddie, don't be like this! Come home with me! Mum just texted me back, she says you're totally welcome!”
Don't look back.
Don't look back.
Don't look back.
“This is how you thank me?” she asks, sounding so much further away now. “By walking off? Fine, be that way. I'm not gonna force you to come!”
It's working.
I just have to be a little stronger for a little longer.
Don't look back.
Don't look back.
Don't look back.
I hear her say something else, but now I'm almost at the street corner and I realize with relief that she doesn't seem to be following me anymore. I slow for a moment, and finally I weaken a little. Turning, I look back the way I just came, and I feel a rush of relief as I see that Natalie is gone. Sure, she could have just turned and left, but deep down I know that she was never really there at all.
If she'd really been there, I'd have gone with her in a heartbeat. After all, her mother was always really nice to me. In fact maybe some day – once I'm back on my feet – I should look Natalie up and see how she's really doing. I'll find her new address and show up, and I bet she'll laugh when I tell her how I hallucinated seeing her.
Reaching the ruined market, I take the bin bags to the jewellery lady. And then, just as I'm about to start helping her again, I glance toward the house on the corner and I see with a sudden sense of alarm that Simon is throwing a load of bags and other stuff out onto the street. Not just any stuff, either.
He's tossing Alex's things out of the house.
Chapter Seventeen
Doctor Charles Grazier
Monday October 1st, 1888
Reaching the top of the stairs, I emerge into the hallway and stop for a moment. Having finally secured Catherine's head by means of some more stitches and a set of rather clumsy clamps, and having accepted that her hip will have to ooze for a few more minutes, I now have old, foul-smelling blood on my hands. Of course, I should not have had to come up here at all, but evidently my so-called assistant has better things to do than actually assist me.
Sighing, I open my mouth to call for him again.
And then, at the last moment, I realize that I can hear voices coming from the study. Two voices, one male and one female, engaged in conversation. I hesitate for a moment, trying to work out who I could possibly be hearing, and then I make my way across the hallway until I reach the farthest door. Finally, looking through into the next room, I see something utterly astonishing.
Delilah Culpepper is sitting in a chair next to my desk, and Jack is on his knees before her. Her right leg is extended and her dress has been drawn up to an indecent point well above her knee, exposing a bloodied scrape. Jack, meanwhile, is in the process of attaching a bandage to the wound.
“And do you feel them?” Delilah is asking him, evidently unaware of my arrival. “The ravens, I mean. Do you feel them in your dream?”
“I do,” Jack replies, working carefully to arrange the bandage. As he does so, his coarse hands brush against the smooth skin of Delilah's leg, apparently without causing the lady herself any concern whatsoever. “I cannot describe the sensation, nor would I if I could, not to somebody such as yourself.”
“Such as myself?” She giggles. “Whatever do you mean by that?”
“You're a lady, Mrs. Culpepper. Indeed, you're quite the most ladylike lady I've ever encountered. I'm sorry if my hands are a little rough.”
“I'm sure I could stand to hear a little more about your dreams,” she tells him. “I have never before heard of somebody who has such a horrible recurring vision. Do you think it means anything?”
“I have often wondered.”
“Perhaps it does,” she continues. “If one continually dreams that one is being killed by a pack of ravens, and that one is being pecked clean even as one cries out, surely this is a sign that one has certain fears. After all, we don't know very much about how the human mind truly works, do we?”
“Sometimes,” he replies, “I wonder whether I am foretelling some future event. I know such things should not be possible, but I also know that you are right when you point out that we have only a meager understanding of the human mind. Perhaps the mode of our death is stored somewhere within us all, and we merely choose to overlook this fact.”
“Do you really think that's possible?” she asks, sounding utterly amazed by the idea.
“I honestly do not know. I think a lot of things from time to time, most of them contradictory, and I very rarely settle upon any one of them as being some sort of profound truth. Still, it exercises the mind to think of seeming impossibilities. If one does not try to imagine things beyond one's day-to-day life, and to seek answers for the little mysteries of one's existence, then one is no better than a tree or a hedge.”
At this, Delilah giggles. “You're very poetic,” she tells him. “In a roundabout sort of a way.”
“I am not trying to be poetic, M'am,” he replies, looking up at her and – at the same time – keeping his hands on the bandage even though he seems done with his work. Indeed, his thumb appears to be resting for no obvious reason on the bare skin of Delilah Culpepper's leg.
Feeling that I have seen and heard more than enough, I choose this moment to clear my throat
.
“Oh, Doctor Grazier,” Delilah says, clearly startled by my arrival. She lowers her skirt at once, covering her leg. “I'm so sorry that I disturbed your household today. It's just that I had a faint spell on the street and, well, your home was the closest place that I could think to come.” She begins to smile, but then her smile is curtailed as she looks at my blood-smeared hands.
“Are you hurt, my dear?” I ask, stepping over cautiously. “Tell me, what's the matter?”
“She grazed her knee,” Jack says, barely able to meet my gaze. Evidently he is very much aware that he is in the wrong. He gets to his feet, and a guiltier-looking man I never did see. “I determined that the damage is only superficial, although obviously it would be wise for her to be checked by a proper doctor. All I really did was clean the wound and dress it, but now I might -”
“Indeed,” I reply, interrupting him. “I don't quite know what came over you, Jack. Did you at least send for Mrs. Culpepper's husband?”
“I confess,” he continues, “that I have not yet had the time.”
“Well, then get to it,” I snap, faintly horrified that he has taken it upon himself to treat a lady in such a manner. Indeed, when he does not immediately turn to leave the room, I clap my hands together hard. “You heard me!” I bellow. “Send for this lady's husband at once! If you cannot find a boy to go, then make the journey yourself! Move!”
“Yes, Sir,” Jack replies, glancing briefly at Delilah before turning and heading out of the room.
“The man has lice,” I explain, turning to Delilah, “and he is at all times uncommonly dirty. You should never have allowed him to even touch your wound. He has no idea what he's doing. His limited intelligence makes him wholly unsuitable for such a task. Why, you'll be luck if he hasn't made the situation a great deal worse.”
“Oh,” she replies, before looking past me.
Turning, I see that Jack is loitering in the doorway, although he quickly hurries away. I suppose he must have overheard me just now, but it will do him good to listen to a dose of the truth. The man is a disgusting creature, fetid and diseased, and he has no place engaging ladies in conversation. Perhaps he has been gaining a heightened sense of his own importance, in which case I must knock him down a peg or two.
“Excuse me for one moment,” I say, heading over to a bowl in the corner and taking a moment to wash my hands. “Your husband will undoubtedly be along shortly, my dear. I saw him only a few hours ago, at the club. Why, I'm sure he would be beside himself if he knew that you had been left alone here with Jack.”
“I was quite alright,” she replies. “In fact, I was rather enjoying his company. He does have some very exciting and interesting stories to tell.”
I hesitate for a moment, before turning to her.
“Stories?” I ask cautiously.
Is the woman serious?
“About his life before he came to your service,” she continues, innocently enough. “I think it's so wonderful that you've taken him in and given him a chance, Doctor Grazier. So charitable and kind. Tell me, what made you first see his potential?”
“Potential?” The idea is so preposterous, I can barely get the word out. “What potential?”
“Was it that marvelous intelligence in his eyes, or was it -”
“Intelligence?” I reply, unable to hide my shock at such an absurd suggestion. “The man is a common beast, born and bred in the gutter!”
“He speaks with great clarity,” she avers.
“No, he does not.”
“I think so.”
“Then you are wrong,” I tell her, hoping that this will be the end of it. “You would be wise, my dear, to think a little longer before you speak, lest you say things that cause others to lower their opinion of you. It is better to remain silent and let others think that you are empty-headed, than to open your mouth and demonstrate that you are a fool.”
“He told me about his dreams,” she continues. “Has he told you about them? The ones where he's picked clean by ravens, I mean.”
“Tiresome nonsense.”
“But has he told you?”
“He mentioned something about it, but I paid little attention. Dreams are meaningless, only a fool would pay them any attention whatsoever.”
“It sounds horrific,” she adds, evidently believed that this is a suitable topic for conversation. “Why, I shuddered just to hear the details. He said he felt them pecking at his skin and tearing off great strips of flesh. He said he even felt their beaks reaching between his ribs and trying to get to his heart and lungs. I'm not explaining it very well, but the whole thing sounded very vivid when he put it in his own words. And to think, he has the same dream over and over again, night after night. He even told me that -”
“That is enough!” I snap, turning to her. “You are a lady of good standing, Delilah Culpepper, and it would do you a world of good to remember that you are supposed to be well-educated. If you speak of such awful things, you will surely attract the wrong type of attention. Why, do you realize that even now, you are lowering your husband's name into the mud?”
“How so?” she asks, clearly shocked.
“By polluting your tongue with such vile things. By polluting your mind!”
“But -”
“Stop it!” I say firmly.
“I merely -”
“Stop!”
“But -”
“STOP!” I roar. “THIS INSTANT!”
She pauses, as if – unfathomably – she is considering saying more on the matter, but then she seems to see reason. At the same time there are tears in her eyes, and I suppose that she is not used to being shouted at in such a manner. Still, I can see that she is troubled, and I fear that she is being quiet not because she knows it is the right thing to do, but because she wishes to avoid creating a scene.
“I am sorry,” she says finally. “I only spoke to him because you weren't here. When I showed him the blood on my knee, he offered to help until you came. I honestly didn't think that there could be any harm in accepting. I mean, if he's so brutal, I wonder why you have him here at all.”
“I brought Jack into my service because...”
My voice trails off as I realize that I am at a loss to explain this situation. Delilah seems to understand this, too, and I can see that she is waiting keenly for my explanation. I am sure that Jack did not tell her anything of our nocturnal adventures, or of Catherine's condition, but I know from personal experience that ladies often have a great degree of intuition. Even now, perhaps Delilah has her suspicions.
“Was it your wife's idea?” she asks suddenly. “I know she sometimes talks about the improving power of education. Did she tell you to hire Jack?”
“She did,” I lie, supposing this to be a sufficiently reasonable explanation. “Yes, of course. It was her suggestion.”
“And how is Catherine today?”
“She is... fine.”
“How is her head?”
I swallow hard. “Her head?”
“I remember the last time I spoke to her, several months ago. She complained of a headache that came and went several times a day. It sounded ghastly.”
“I rather think that a headache is no longer of any concern to her,” I reply. “Not at all.”
“Might I see her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It's out of the question,” I stammer. “She's not up to receiving visitors.”
“But I thought she was recovering?”
“Which is precisely why she cannot see anyone at this moment,” I explain, before looking back into the bowl and continuing to wash my hands. “Now tell me about this fainting fit. You seem like a rather healthy young lady, Mrs. Culpepper. Are you prone to fainting?”
“I am not,” she replies, although I sense a little hesitation in her voice.
Turning, I see that she does indeed seem rather uncertain.
“Well,” she adds, “that is to say... I was not unti
l recently. Indeed, Thomas says that's one of the things he first noticed about me. The fact that I don't faint often. But to be honest, over the past few weeks, I have been feeling rather dizzy on occasion. I have told Thomas about some of my symptoms, but not about others. For example, in the mornings I am often a little nauseous.”
“I see,” I reply, as I begin to understand what might be wrong with her. “And tell me, Mrs. Culpepper, has it occurred to you that you might be carrying your first child?”
Chapter Eighteen
Maddie
Today
“I'm not having people like that in my place,” Simon says as he carries the last bag of garbage from the house and tosses it out onto the pavement. “I always thought Alex was alright. A bit screwed up, but basically alright. Shows what I know, huh?”
“What happened?” I ask. “Did she come back?”
“Not yet, but when she does, she can gather all her junk up and take it with her. She'd better come soon, though, or the council'll take it away.”
He mutters a few choice obscenities under his breath, turns and heads back inside. I look down at the bags of trash for a moment and start gathering them up, figuring that I should save them for Alex. I move them out of the gutter and over toward the alley that runs down the side of the house. Once I've put all her stuff safely behind a wall, where it hopefully won't get stolen, I hesitate for a moment before making my way back into Simon's house.
“I don't get it,” I say cautiously as I find him in the kitchen. “If she's not here, then how -”
“A mate of mine saw her, didn't he?” he continues, angrily putting a teabag into a cracked cup while he waits for the kettle to boil. “She was down in the high street with all those other idiots in masks. She was one of the ones who came crashing through here and trashed the market.”