The One Who Got Away

That conversation haunted me for weeks. I was angry at Charles. I was terrified for Claire as old fears surfaced. But eventually, I’d talked myself down.

Decades and decades had passed. It wasn’t the same place anymore. Heck, most of the people I once knew were probably long since gone, moved on in one way or another.

Still, I didn’t understand why Charles would open such wounds. After trying to escape from Crawley’s clutches for all of those years, to have my daughter reconnect me with it – it was the thing of nightmares, enough to drive me truly bonkers if I’d let it.

Yet, even after insisting to Claire I’d never go back, no matter how much she begged – here I am. Back in Crawley’s hands, back in West Green more specifically.

It was all so long ago, I remind myself. It doesn’t matter anymore. But I know that in truth, it always matters. It will always matter. I shudder at the thought, tension rising as I try to shove it back down.

As I follow the woman and Claire down the corridor, peeking in at the faces I will be seeing too much of from now on, I sigh. Now that I’m here, facing the prospect of a life staring at these sterile walls, I’m having regrets. Maybe I should’ve fought a little harder. Maybe this was a bad choice. This place rattles me, strangling me like the vines creeping up the stone walls outside.

Or perhaps I’m just being paranoid. Of course Smith Creek Manor wouldn’t feel like home yet. How could it? I just need to give it a chance. I’m tired from mulling it all over incessantly, my brain throbbing already. In a few days, I’ll adjust to the atmosphere, and it won’t seem so terrible. I just need time.

I peek in at the rooms of my neighbours as we parade down the corridor to my own. A man sits on the single chair in his room, staring at the telly. In another room on the right, a woman rocks what appears to be a baby doll, singing a lullaby. I pause at the opening to another living space, perusing the scene with fascination and horror. A woman stands, lopsided in the centre of her space, half of her face distorted. She is completely naked, and she walks in tiny circles by her bed, singing the words to some unrecognisable song. She laughs in between choruses, over and over, her sagging skin marked with burns and scars. I want to peel my eyes away, but I can’t. The storm that is this woman is on full display. How long has she been stuck in this merry-go-round of terror? Why isn’t anyone stopping her? It’s unbelievable that a human being would behave this way – or be allowed to behave this way in such a place. What is this? What is this, indeed. I peel my eyes away, feeling embarrassed for witnessing her in this state.

I continue on down the corridor, room after room presenting new views. It’s like I’m wandering about a zoo, staring in at the exhibits of various species. Some mad, some sane, some essentially gone. All of the doors are open, wide open, except one. When we get to Room 312, I notice that the door is closed. For some reason, it’s like the door calls to me. I think about reaching out and touching that knob, curious what the door could be hiding. Inside, I hear a cough, weighty and raspy. It startles me. I don’t know what or who is behind the door to 312, but there’s something unnerving about the space. A chill rattles my body and I shiver, a darkness surrounding the room even from the corridor.

But it’s also unsettling to see so many doors wide open, patients in all state of dress and activity out in the open. Is there no privacy here? Has everyone truly lost their sense of dignity that they’ll let everyone peer into their lives in their tiny little rooms? Will I lose mine as well? Will I even be me here? I shudder involuntarily as I plod towards the new ‘home’ that awaits me.

The woman in heels leads us down the corridor on the third floor, down, down to the very end. She stops at the room on the left, which is next to a staircase. There is, of course, a locked door at the staircase, the tiny code box beside it reminding me that I’m not free anymore. I suppose escaping isn’t something they look favourably on around here.

‘Here we are, dear. Room 316. Your new home. Welcome. I do hope we’ve managed to arrange the things your daughter sent over correctly. If not, we’ll be happy to help you set things up just as you wish. Come on, let’s get settled in and meet your roommate.’

I stop at the threshold of 316, staring in at what has become my whole world. My home with Charles was never a castle. It was a modest house, tiny to most. But compared to this space, it was a palace.

I step inside, willing myself not to cry. Claire is here, after all. I can’t break down. She needs me to be strong. I can’t be more of a burden than I have been already. I peer about the room that is more hospital than home, and my stomach plummets. This is it. This is where I’ll reside for the rest of my days, the icy, bog-standard room surrounding me with its monotonous bleakness. I shake my head at the prospect, my hand reaching up to tug at my long, stringy hair.

‘Ms Evans, I’d like to introduce you to your roommate, Ms Rose Wright. All right, Rose?’ The woman prances over to the other side of the conjoined room, a curtain that presumably divides our halves pulled to one side so I have a full view of my new companion. I hate that I have a roommate here. Certainly, Claire told me I’d have my own room, didn’t she? Most facilities do, after all, offer individual rooms. Why is this place different? I shudder at the realisation that already, my new home isn’t meeting my expectations.

I glance over to the woman on the other side of the dividing curtain, trying to move beyond the fact that I won’t be alone. She is sitting up in bed, leant against a pillow, her mouth partially open. Drool drips visibly down her chin, and she’s wearing a transparent blue nightshirt. She stares, deadpan, straight ahead at what, I can’t determine. Her breathing is raspy, every single inhalation rattling something in her chest. On her bedside table, a statue of what seems to be a religious figure perches. I can’t tell exactly what it’s supposed to be. It’s chipped and warped. Its demeanour is more ghoulish than holy. Angled, it appears to watch her, its unseemly eyes bulging out. I don’t like it. I wonder if she hates it too.

Behind the statue is a noticeboard, just like I have on my side of the room. A child’s drawing of what appears to be a rose is pinned there, centred on the board. At least I will be able to recall her name, I realise. Rose, just like the picture. I lock it into my mind. Wouldn’t do to forget my roommate’s name, after all.

Our fearless tour guide and master of ceremonies plods forward, walking to Rose’s side to stroke her thin, dishevelled hair. The woman doesn’t move. I blink, turning to Claire. I don’t know why, but I recoil at the sight of this Rose woman, more dead than alive, who fights for every breath. Her delicateness irks me, stirring an uneasiness I can’t explain. It makes me feel guilty for thinking these things about a suffering woman. Nonetheless, the woman doesn’t offer any reaction to my presence. Our tour guide looks back to us, smiling gently.

‘Rose won’t be much of a bother to you, I suppose,’ she reassures, and although the words sound harsh, her eyes are kind. I nod slightly, offering a smile to the woman who isn’t even looking at me. I trudge over to the window, needing to get some air in this stifling room. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to counter the rising panic in my chest. I can sense the tour-guide woman and Claire exchanging some kind of look or communication behind me. The woman is probably trying to soothe the rising guilt in Claire for leaving me in a place that feels so suffocating. I look out into the morning, taking in the view of the courtyard, the U-shape of the building offering me a look at the inside-back wall of Smith Creek Manor. Another resident’s window sits across from me. I stare, the outline of a person – a man, perhaps? – standing in the window. Someone else is looking out into the courtyard as well. I should find it comforting, I suppose, that I’m not alone, that someone else is lost in thought at this place. My mind is numb, though. There are too many things to absorb, and I’m not ready to take it all in just yet.

‘Isn’t it a lovely view? I told you the view up here is just grand,’ the woman says. I hate that she’s trying to sell me on this place. I’m already here. Plus, there would be no selling me on this place. The view is claustrophobic, if you ask me. I can’t see the outside world, not really – just the grass, the air between the wings of Smith Creek Manor. It’s like I’m trapped by the stone building, the rooms of patients my only view.

I look out, training my eyes on the roof, on the sky, on the great beyond. I wonder if I’m staring in the direction of Quail Avenue. My mind conjures up an image of the tiny house squeezed between the neighbours. I can picture that alabaster colour, those tiny shutters Charles painted in a stunning yellow. I yearn to feel the front door, my hand shakily touching the cold, harsh glass of the window instead.

I peer down now, staring at the gazebo that rests in the courtyard way, way below. When my eyes catch sight of the ground, absolute terror seizes me, grappling with my heart like a clutching, clawing fist. What I see when I look out the window convinces me of one thing I’ve been fearing: I can’t do this. Not here. I’m not going to be safe here at all.

Missing West Green Girl Found; Corpse Shows Distressing Signs of Tampering

West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

13 June 1959

The West Sussex Constabulary has reported the discovery of the body of Miss Elizabeth McKinley of Greenville Avenue, West Green, around dawn yesterday, 12 June 1959. The body of Miss McKinley was uncovered in a skip at the current construction site for the new Crawley Hospital. A worker found what appeared to be a large trunk in the skip that seemed out of place. Upon opening the trunk and discovering what appeared to be limbs, the police were called to the scene to investigate. Detectives later arrived, and a chief detective is currently on the case.

Several other trunks included the remains of what was determined to be Elizabeth McKinley after further investigation. Investigators also revealed the presence of bite marks on various limbs and pieces of the dismembered corpse. It seems that the bite marks were made postmortem.

The deceased, Elizabeth McKinley, 19, daughter of Mr and Mrs Jonathan McKinley, disappeared from her home 26 May. Mr and Mrs McKinley had left to attend a dinner in Brighton. Miss McKinley had stayed behind due to illness. Upon returning home, Mr and Mrs McKinley found signs of a break-in, although no valuables were removed. Miss McKinley had not been heard from since 26 May by any family or friends.

Searches have turned up few clues, the constabulary notes. West Green has been on edge since the disappearance of the girl that neighbours called ‘godly, sweet, and kind.’ Elizabeth McKinley was engaged to be married to Paul Hazenstab, also of West Green. Their wedding was to be announced in the coming weeks.

Police are calling the death ‘a brutal homicide of the darkest kind’, in reference to the disturbing bite marks found on her thigh, chest, and left arm. The dismemberment of her body has also raised concerns that this was an act of revenge or hostility. Several West Green residents interviewed mentioned fears that a deranged killer is on the loose, but Chief Constable Warren of the West Sussex Constabulary wishes to reassure the residents of Crawley that there is not enough evidence at this time to establish a motive or to stir such fears.

‘We will be investigating,’ Chief Constable Warren noted, ‘and we will not stop until we find the savage murderer who took this sweet girl’s life in such a sinister way. We ask the people of Crawley to be vigilant and to report any strange occurrences.’

Arrangements for the funeral of the deceased have not yet been announced as the investigation is still underway.

The pencil between my teeth, I gnaw and gnash, closing my eyes and thinking about how it all transpired. A surge of warmth flashes through me as I recall the supple flesh between my teeth. I recall how my tongue danced at its surface. The gnashing of my teeth against her flesh quenched, if only for a quick moment, the primal urge within me. The suppleness of her arm, her chest, her inner thigh – all so satisfying yet also stirring of a deeper hunger.

I’d known that first kill would be delectable – but I hadn’t realised just how so.

I sit back in my chair, my fingers finding the tip of the pencil as my teeth incessantly chomp down, almost as if of their own volition.

I’ve done it.

I’ve accomplished the first.

I’d always imagined the first to be the hardest when I’d gone over my plans. The logistics of it, sure. But also the feel of the life exiting a body. It had excited me, the mere thought of it driving me to a place of utter joy rarely known in all of my years of living. I’d worried, though, if it would meet my expectations. What if the taste of death wasn’t enough?

It was a fear I’ve always battled with, a question that often held me back. But there was no more holding me down. I’d finally risen up. I’d finally done what I’d always needed to do, what I’d always been capable of doing.

I’d found myself, my strength. A grin paints itself on my face. Brilliant. There is no other word for it. I’m finally brilliant.

Bloody brilliant.

I’ve done it, after all. I’ve finally achieved it. I carried it out, succeeded in the first step of the master plan. I finally feel a surge of life pulsing in my blood. It’s as if her death has incited a new energy, a new sense of life within me. It’s a foreign feeling, yet it’s one that I feel like I’ve always been craving. All of those years of being lost, of searching. I found it. It’s paradoxical yet it completely makes sense. I finally feel excited about something. Dazzled by the feel of death, I now know I can be the one to wield so much power. I can choose when and how they leave this world. And I get to be there in the final moments, to see them beg, to hear their desperate pleas for another day. My lips curve into a crooked grin.

I’m the one in control. Who would’ve ever expected it?

They wouldn’t have. It’s always the quietest sheep, the ones on the outskirts, that surprise you the most. Aren’t you surprised now? I think, my mind flashing over her stoic face. She would be so surprised now. My hand rubs my forehead, leaving the pencil.

I had been patient, my plan reviewed over and over for months before claiming the first one on the list. I’m no fool. I’m not. I’m sensible and smart. I’m capable. I’d taken my time after picking the girls. I have my list of chosen ones. I know the order, the plan. I won’t ruin it or rush it. I’ll be successful. I’m no quitter. I’ll do it right.

I’d been observant for months. It isn’t hard to learn about others if you just pay attention. Few people pay attention, I’ve come to realise. But I do. I always do. I watch. I study. I learn routines and entrances. I examine the possible entry routes and the escapes. I peruse timetables and plans to find just the right time. It has to be exact.

I’d determined Elizabeth would be first because she was the least exciting. She was a quiet, submissive girl. I knew she wouldn’t resist much. Which I knew wouldn’t be as satisfying – but it would be less risky.

Still, she wasn’t as gratifying as the final one will be. I know this already. I’ve thought ahead, you see. I’m saving the exciting one, the wily one, for last. Oh, yes, that last one will be a masterpiece of a kill. I’ll work hard and perfect my craft. I’ll master the rules of the game before I tackle the final one.

Patience is a virtue. That’s what I always learned. Patience. Patience. Patience.

She’s special, that last one. Even before I allowed myself to recognise the thirst in me and welcomed it to the top of my consciousness, I’d perhaps known it would be her. She’s always drawn me in. Why? I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s her spirit, that zestful way she walks and talks. Maybe it’s the fire in her eyes that reminds me of her. I don’t know. It’s hard to pinpoint. But when you know, you know, whether it’s love, lust, or some other form of the two. For three years, she’s drawn me in, a moth circling the flickering light but never getting close enough to get zapped.

Soon enough, she’ll be the moth, entangled and entranced by me. I’ll be the one wielding the light and then snatching her wings before she can get away. It’ll be me. All me.

I shake my head, taking the pencil from between my teeth and tossing it across the room. Dammit. I’m getting ahead of myself now. Bloody hell, it doesn’t do to get ahead. The plan is carefully laid. It’s why I spent so much time plotting it out. It needs to be perfect. One misstep, and that glorious, final moment of power won’t come.

I must be patient, stay calm. The task has started. I can’t lose my mind now. I’ve got to keep with it, to be careful. It won’t do to get caught now. It’ll ruin everything.

I tap my fingers on the edge of the table, calming my mind, lasering it in on Elizabeth. Recall the details. Think about it all. You need to perfect this. You need to master your craft. Do a good job.

Elizabeth. My mind trains itself on her, and I think back to the tale I’ve written, the ending to her story that began with my meticulous, godlike planning.

Once I’d learned of the dinner invitation, I knew my opportunity would arise. I’d overheard Elizabeth talking about the evening with some friends in the town centre, complaining about all the fuss her parents would make her go through when she’d rather just stay home and spend time with her fiancé. She made a plan to feign illness, and I knew my time had come.

The night of the dinner would be the perfect time to strike, I’d decided quickly. I knew how girls like her worked. I just had to be calm and collected. I had to be sure. I’d do some watching and waiting, just to ensure I was correct and that she didn’t back out of her plan. And then, once all was set, I had to make it fast. No luxuriating in the actual kill this time. The first would have to be efficient. This would not be a pleasure kill, not completely. I told myself I would not afford myself that bonus. It would be all about the craft, the tactic, the mastering of the art.

There would be time enough to feed my fancies and to bask in the excitement of it all.

Taking her life had been the easy part, much simpler than I’d once imagined. I am strong, and she was so weak. Females are all so, so delicate. It makes them beautiful, but so easy to kill. Moving her to another location to handle her body, to leave my mark – that had been more challenging. But I know all the alleys in town. I know the most inconspicuous routes. I know a lot about West Green that so many overlook.

And I’m also always up for a challenge.

I fold the newspaper article and tuck it into the wooden box underneath the unopened post. I close the box shut with a grin, wiping my hands on my stiff trousers. I’ve done it. And they have no clue it was me. The fools have no clue.

‘Deranged killer’. They think it’s the work of a ‘deranged killer’!

I laugh at the thought. They think they know. They think they have it all figured out. But they have no idea. They don’t know my master plan.

And I can’t wait to show it to them, one by beautiful one.

Chapter 2

West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

13 June 1959

‘Adeline Walker, you aren’t going, so I don’t know why you bothered taking all that time to get ready,’ my mother spits. I gawk at her as she twirls the pearl earrings in her lobes. I think about how her red lips and eyeshadow are way too much, even for a woman like her. Hand on her hip, she stands at the other side of our dining room table, her eyes lasering into me as if she can cause me to spontaneously combust.

I stare vehemently back. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mum, I’m nineteen. You can’t keep me hostage forever, especially if you’re so damn worried about me being a spinster.’

‘Adeline Walker, you will not speak to me like that in my house.’

‘Then maybe I’ll scurry on out of Dad’s house,’ I spew back, putting the emphasis on Dad. She hates that I’m a daddy’s girl. I think it makes her jealous that he gives me more attention than her.

‘Enough. Now look. I know you have these lovely plans, but I’m sorry. With no updates from the police on Elizabeth’s killer, it’s not safe.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Weren’t you the one who swore up and down that moving to West Green would be just lovely when you pulled me out of school three years ago to come to this beastly town?’

‘That’s enough, Adeline. I hope someday you realise what you have here. Two parents who love you, a father with a good job. Honestly. What more could you want?’

‘To go on my date with Charles and have a little fun.’

‘Fun is what got you into trouble in the last town, if you recall. I won’t have you ruining your reputation again. It’s been three years, Adeline. Three years since we had to move away. You were lucky we could run away from it all last time. I won’t have you ruining yourself now.’

I roll my eyes, anger flaring at the mention of what happened. I was young. I was a little reckless, yes. But I was a girl who followed her heart.

‘You act like I murdered someone,’ I spew.

‘It could’ve been worse. If we’d stayed, you’d have actually ended up pregnant at sixteen. And then what?’

‘We’re not talking about this,’ I argue. I hate when she brings up the past. I shudder at her words, thinking about all that she doesn’t know. All that’s happened since we moved to West Green. All that’s happened in the past few months.

I return my focus to the conversation at hand. ‘Well, you should be chuffed then, Mother, that I’m getting serious. I’m nineteen, and I’m in a serious, steady relationship. After all, isn’t that what you want? You did mention that West Green could provide me with a “suitable man”, didn’t you?’

Mother rolls her eyes, sighing. ‘A factory worker isn’t exactly what I had in mind.’

I sneer at her blatant disdain towards Charles Evans, who hails from Langley Green and not money. This infuriates my mother to no end. When she meant we could find me a “suitable man” here in West Green, I believe she was hoping we’d find one from a wealthy family who was naive about my somewhat lacklustre background. A man like Oliver, whom mother still thinks I have a chance of reconciling with. If only she knew the truth.

Instead, to her dismay, I’d met Charles Evans at the train station in Northgate. I suppose at first she thought he was a phase, a rebound after Oliver. But three months later, I think she knows better. I think she sees what I’ve known since that first night – Charles is the one I love. And she couldn’t be more peeved at the thought of her daughter marrying a working-class man with no social standing. If I’m being honest, this only makes Charles even more appealing to me.

‘All the more reason for me to go out tonight. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?’ I ask, fiddling with my nails.

‘You could end up dead. Aren’t you a little bit afraid? Elizabeth lived a few streets over. I’m quite alarmed. The killer’s still out there. He’s probably just waiting for his next victim. I won’t have my only daughter be one of his tallies.’ She crosses her arms in a defiant, dramatic gesture. Of course, she would make Elizabeth’s murder about us. It always has to be about us.