Cradle to Grave

by Cross, Amy

  “No,” I reply, “Alex would never -”

  “Save it, there's no point. I know it's true. My mate Ricky would never lie about something like that. He's a good guy and if he says he saw her down there, then that's all the proof I need. It's disgraceful what happened out there today. I'm not having people like that in my house. They're trouble, and they attract more trouble.” He sighs. “When we agreed to let her come and live here the other day, it was on the understanding that she wouldn't upset things. The way I see it, she's already caused enough bother to last a lifetime.”

  “But -”

  “So she's out.”

  “Maybe if you wait until she comes back, she can explain herself and -”

  “And you're gonna have to go too.”

  Even though I never planned to stick around too long, I suddenly feel a sense of shock as I realize that he's kicking me out right now. I have no reason to be upset, of course, but I guess I was hoping to wait here until Alex showed up. A roof over my head, even if it's just for one night, is all I want.

  “You need to get yourself admitted to hospital,” he says after a moment, “and have that infection looked at. If you ask me, it's a miracle you haven't keeled over already. Honestly, I'm doing a favor by making you go. I can't have you kipping here, not when there's a chance you'll die in the night.”

  “I'm not -”

  “That wound is infected!” he snaps, pointing at my waist. “I don't know what kind of fantasy world you're living in, but it's infected and it could kill you! Do I need to call an ambulance?”

  “No!” I stammer. “Please, don't.”

  “Huh.” He eyes me suspiciously for a moment, and then he turns away as the kettle finishes boiling. “Once you've had it looked at, and you've let them treat it, you need to find somewhere proper to stay. Somewhere far away from that Alex idiot. Maybe you can go with that girl you were talking to earlier.”

  “What girl?” I ask.

  “I saw you outside the shop, talking to some girl.”

  For a moment, I wonder whether he's referring to Natalie, but I know that's not possible. After all, she wasn't really there. There's probably some misunderstanding, but I guess I can figure that out later. Or not at all, seeing as it doesn't really matter either way. Natalie was a hallucination. There can't be any doubt about that.

  “I'll be fine,” I tell him. “Don't worry about me. I'll just go back to the bridge.”

  “You should go to one of the shelters they've set up.”

  “Aren't they closing those now?” I ask, hoping to sidestep the question. “I mean, they said the murderer's been caught, so there's no danger anymore.”

  “Didn't you hear the news?” He chuckles. “Turns out I was right earlier. Mr. Adam Michael Devenzies has admitted he didn't kill anyone. He just wrote a bunch of letters, that's all. Sad, pathetic letters from a wannabe psychopath who probably couldn't even touch a woman, let alone murder one. So now he's getting charged with wasting police time, and the hunt's back on. There's still a killer out there somewhere, and if you ask me the cops are under more pressure than ever. And I'd bet any money that after the fiasco of the past twenty-four hours, the killer's gonna be back tonight with a vengeance.”

  He pauses for a moment.

  “I can't let you stay here,” he adds finally. “Really, I can't. But promise me you'll stay off the streets. Promise me you'll go to a hospital.”

  ***

  I don't know what time it is, but I've been sitting here on the pavement outside Simon's house for hours now, and darkness has fallen with no sign of Alex coming home. The night is cold, and there's a hint of rain in the air, but I don't really know where else to go. I just have to hope that Alex shows up soon.

  Reaching down, I slip a hand under my t-shirt and immediately wince as I feel the swollen skin on either side of the stitches in my waist. I was hoping that the wound would have gone down by now, but if anything it feels worse than ever. My fingertips are brushing against more pus, and I guess I have to admit that I feel hotter and more exhausted than ever. Simon was right when he said that I need to get to a hospital, but there's no way I can do that.

  I'll be fine.

  I just need to rest.

  I'm seventeen years, and three hundred and sixty days old.

  Just five more days, and then I can get help. I can go to a hospital, and I can sign up at a shelter, and my parents will never be informed.

  I just have to last five more days.

  I close my eyes, and the next thing I feel is a sudden jerking sensation as I start to fall asleep and my head nods forward. I sit up with a start, only to bang the back of my head against the brick wall. I reach up to check for a bump, but then I realize I can hear footsteps in the distance. I turn and look along dark street, just in time to spot a silhouetted figure stepping into a patch of light at the far end.

  My heart skips a beat, but then a second figure comes into view and they start walking this way. It only takes a second longer before I realize that they have the bulky outlines of police officers, so I quickly turn and scramble on all fours back into Simon's garden, and then I duck down behind a row of dirty, stinking bins. After a moment, however, I realize that the foul smell isn't coming from the bins at all. Instead, it's coming from the bags of Alex's stuff, so I guess Simon bundled everything together, including all the dirty food that was on her floor.

  I wait, hoping and praying that the street was too dark for the police officers to have seen me.

  After a couple of minutes I hear a radio crackling, and then I peer out between two of the bins, just in time to see the two officers strolling past. They're chatting to one another, and I'm pretty sure that they have no idea about me hiding here. Still, I keep low as they wander past, and I know that if they spot me they'll haul me off to one of those centers.

  “He's just a loser who wanted some attention,” one of them says, probably referring to that Adam Michael Devenzies guy. “I hope they throw the book at him.”

  “They will, mate,” the other officer replies, sounding tired and a little bored. “Didn't you hear the boss earlier? He was furious. The media's ripping us a new one, they reckon that guy made us look like a bunch of idiots. That's why everyone's been called in tonight, even the ones who're supposed to be off sick. I reckon there are more cops than rats in London tonight.”

  “Whoever the real killer is,” the first officer says, “he probably sees that as a challenge.”

  “I hope you're right. I hope he has as go, 'cause there's no chance he'll succeed.”

  “Don't get too sure of that,” the first officer replies. “We've been thinking that for a few nights now. It's almost like this killer can slip away whenever he wants, like... Well, like a ghost. Hang on, what's that?”

  Suddenly I hear footsteps coming closer. I duck down as far as I can, and then I watch as one of the officers shines a flashlight down at the bags of Alex's belongings. The bags are just a couple of feet from me, and I hold my breath for a moment until the flashlight swings away.

  “Bloody fly-tippers,” one of the officers says with a sigh, as they start walking away again. “I'll call that in, get someone to come and take it all away in the morning. I can't stand people who leave their trash around on the street.”

  They continue to talk as they walk away, and finally their voices fade into the night. I stay hidden behind the bins for a while longer, before finally daring to sit up and look over the wall. Sure enough, the officers are gone now, but I know that there are going to be more patrols them ever tonight. They'll be looking everywhere for the killer, and there's no way I can just sit out here and hope I don't get seen. Sooner or later I'm going to pass out, or at least fall asleep, and then they'll be onto me.

  I have to get inside somewhere.

  I turn and look back up at Simon's house. For a moment, I imagine knocking on the door and begging him to let me back in, but he seemed truly furious earlier and I get the feeling that he's not the kind of guy who c
hanges his mind. Besides, he kept going on and on about the need for me to see a doctor, and I'm worried that he might call an ambulance without telling me. Then I might get cornered, and I'd end up at a hospital, and then my parents would get involved and everything would turn into a giant mess.

  I have nowhere to go.

  Unless...

  I hesitate for a moment, trying to work out whether I have a better option, before realizing that I really only have one choice.

  Hauling my backpack onto the ground, I open the top and take out the pen I've been carrying around. Then I rip the flap off a cardboard box, and I write a brief note in the clearest handwriting I can manage:

  Please tell Alex where to find me. Tell her I've taken her stuff to keep it safe.

  9 Cathmore Road.

  Thank you. I'm sorry. Maddie.

  I read the note over, to make sure that it's accurate, and then I fix my backpack up before getting to my feet. I feel a tight pain in my belly, and I have to lean against the wall for a moment until the pain has subsided a little, but then I start making my way unsteady toward the front door of Simon's house.

  I briefly consider knocking and speaking to him, but somehow I don't think he wants to speak to me. So instead I slip the note through his letter box, before turning and limping back along the garden path. Even if I risk using the tube, I've got a long and painful journey ahead, and I just have to hope that I can make it all the way without running into the police.

  It takes me a few minutes to haul all of Alex's bags onto my shoulders. I already feel as if I'm about to collapse, but fortunately her stuff isn't too heavy. Struggling a little under the weight, I start shuffling along the pavement, heading off into the dark night.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Monday October 1st, 1888

  “And is the lady in good health now?” Jack asks as he follows me down to the basement. “Before you came, Sir, she spoke of fainting fits and nausea.”

  “The lady is with child,” I reply, heading immediately to the counter and starting to find the appropriate equipment. “She had been hiding her symptoms from her husband, so he had been unable to offer the appropriate care. Now he has been advised of the situation, so I am sure things will be a little different. For one thing, I doubt she'll be running around unaccompanied again, so you needn't worry about her dropping by unannounced.”

  Turning to Jack, I see a hint of concern in his eyes.

  Or is it disappointment?

  The idea of a creature such as Jack coveting a fine lady such as Delilah Culpepper is... Well, it's one of the most ludicrous propositions I've ever heard in my life. Still, there is something rather amusing about the whole scenario.

  “She is of child-bearing age,” I point out, keen to stamp out any ideas he might be getting. “She is fit and healthy, and I see no cause for alarm. It is perfectly natural for her to bear a child for her husband. If anything, it is rather surprising that they have not started a family by now, but nobody should be concerned. I am quite certain that the child, when it comes, will be strong and vital.”

  “Of course,” he replies. “It will take after its parents, then.”

  He seems hesitant for a moment, but then finally he straightens his posture.

  “I am very pleased for the Culpeppers,” he announces, as if his feelings are of any importance whatsoever. “Now, if you would like to tell me how I can assist you, Doctor Grazier, I would be only too happy to do whatever is necessary.”

  “I need to make some adjustments to Catherine's head,” I tell him, preferring to avoid mentioning the details of the head's earlier fall. After all, Jack does not need to know these things. “You will hold it steady for me while I work.”

  “And is the new brain stem already in place?” he asks, heading around to the far end of the slab and looking down at her pale, delicate features.

  “It is,” I explain, “but I believe I shall need another. This first stem was an experimental implant, its main purpose was as a demonstration of what is possible. It's still in place, but I shall be removing it in the morning. The next stem is the one that I believe shall prove permanent. This is not a setback, however. Indeed, I was well aware that I would need to conduct some experimental work, and this has turned out to be the case. I shall also need some eyes.”

  “Eyes, Sir?”

  “That need not concern you for now,” I tell him as I take a set of needles over to the slab. “When you need to know, I shall tell you. Until then, you would do well to focus on the tasks that you are given, and ensure that your mind does not wander.”

  “And the heart?”

  I glance at the heart that sits soaking in a bowl of solution.

  “Another task for tomorrow,” I explain, before turning and seeing the empty space in Catherine's chest where I removed her own heart earlier today, and where the new heart will be installed in the morning. “There is no need to prompt me. I have matters under control.”

  “I have no doubt of that, Sir.”

  “Your opinion matters very little,” I mutter under my breath, keeping my voice low so that he does not hear me.

  “Part of her neck has been unpicked,” he says suddenly, reaching down and touching the small set of stitches that I noticed earlier. “Were these stitches not required after all?”

  “Required?” I hesitate for a moment. “Were you present when I put those in?”

  “Well, not exactly,” he replies. He seems reluctant to speak, and I can see something – guilt, perhaps – in his features.

  “Out with it, man,” I say firmly. “What do you know?”

  “It's just,” he continues, “that when I was down here earlier, while you were out, I saw that your wife's head was resting in an unnatural position. I reasoned that your work on her neck had caused some weakening of the surrounding structures, and after a visual examination I thought that maybe some stitches in one particular location would likely provide enough support. Obviously I am an amateur when it comes to these things but, well, it seemed that I should do something, in case more damage ensued. I meant to tell you as soon as you got back, but I'm afraid that events rather overtook me.”

  “You performed a procedure on my wife's body?” I ask, aghast at such presumption. “You?”

  “I've been watching you carefully, Sir. I thought that since the matter was urgent, I could not wait for you to return. In truth, I was worried that her body's condition might be permanently harmed” He looks down at the open stitches. “Was I wrong? Did I make matters worse?”

  For a moment, I am utterly shocked by the realization that this oaf might have blundered into a good idea. After all, the head came loose almost immediately after I unpicked those particular stitches. Still, it would be as well to keep this information from him, lest he should decide to take matters into his own hands again. Just because he has accidentally discovered something that I had temporarily overlooked, this does not mean that he has any great understanding of medical anatomy.

  “Do not touch her again,” I mutter, as I begin to thread some wire. “Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Sir. I am sorry, Sir.”

  “You overstepped your place.”

  “It won't happen again.”

  “You would be wise to remember that promise,” I reply. “Do not get too comfortable, man. You have a role to play here, but nothing more. Now hold her head firmly.”

  He does as he's told, and I immediately start threading black wire through the tattered skin around the stump of Catherine's neck, drawing the wire up and slipping it into the base of her head. As I do so, however, I find that the skin is starting to fray and tear. Indeed, every time I form a new loop, one of the old loops comes undone, and after a few minutes I realize that I have made no real progress. I try moving a little further from the join area on either side, but here too the skin and flesh are too fragile to hold the stitches. I keep trying for a while longer, convinced that soon I shall find a firmer sec
tion, but if anything the fragility only becomes more and more obvious until finally I set the needle back down and take a moment to consider my options.

  Catherine is falling apart before my eyes.

  I have tried to deny the truth until now, but I am a man of science and I cannot ignore what I am seeing.

  It is not just around her neck and head. It is everywhere.

  Her body has begun to fall apart. Partly this is due to the natural processes that occur following death, but I must accept that my own constant tinkering has made things far, far worse. The gradual but persistent discoloration of her skin and nails is only one part of a much darker story and, as I peer into her open belly and see once again the terrible mess of sewn-together body parts, I realize that there is no way they can ever be expected to function together.

  “What now, Sir?” Jack asks.

  I have no words.

  No ideas.

  Everything seems so frightfully hopeless.

  “Sir? What should we do now?”

  Ignoring him, I make my way around to the other side of the slab. From here, however, the view is just as bad. I fear that if I touch Catherine's body anywhere at all, I shall feel her skin and flesh and muscle and perhaps even bones crumble beneath my fingertips. Indeed, the deterioration of her body is so advanced, I do not even know where to begin.

  Yet begin I must, because to do otherwise is to accept failure, and failure is not an option.

  “I shall bring you back,” I whisper, with tears in my eyes.

  Tears that come from some place that I do not know. I wipe them away, but more quickly follow. This sense of hopelessness is overwhelming, yet I know that it shall soon pass.

  It has to pass.

  “I shall bring you back,” I say again, but whereas before those words gave me hope and strength, now they merely seem pathetic and rather pointless.

  Taking a deep breath, I resolve to keep working.

  “I shall bring you back,” I say for a third time, and now at least I think I have an idea about how to proceed. The veil of hopelessness is lifting, and my natural confidence is reasserting itself.