The One Who Got Away

‘You look like you didn’t sleep a wink. Rough night?’ Dorothy asks.

I shrug, biting my lip. I wonder if I should tell her. I don’t know her yet. I don’t want people to think I’m – what? What would they think? I did nothing wrong.

‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Some crazy things happened.’

‘Crazy in a good way?’ Dorothy asks.

‘Crazy in the way that someone was standing over my bed last night.’ I tuck a long, grey strand of my greasy hair behind my ear.

Dorothy shakes her head. ‘Babbling Barbara.’

‘What?’

‘Babbling Barbara,’ Dorothy repeats, slowly this time. ‘I could almost bet my life it was her. She’s the floor’s lunatic. She’s madder than mad. Been here since before me. I think she’s too bonkers to die, you know? She wanders this place like a vagabond. Not even sure the staff know where her room is anymore. She gets lost all the time, even at night. One time I caught her sleeping in my bed while I was in it. Frightening but harmless. Nothing to worry about, dear. Nothing at all. She’s truly not capable of hurting anyone, although her crazy babbling is enough to send even the sanest of us to the loony bin.’

‘She hurt me, and it was pretty frightening. Look what she did,’ I reply, rolling up my sleeve to show Dorothy my wounds.

‘Oh my goodness,’ Dorothy gasps as she shakes her head. She leans in to examine my arm more closely. ‘Barbara did this?’

I sigh. ‘I suppose, if it was truly her. Yes. It was awful. She mauled me and wouldn’t stop.’

Dorothy shakes her head. ‘She’s never done anything like this. It’s peculiar. She truly has been harmless. But goodness, that’s terrible.’

Dorothy’s gaze lifts from my arm, and as she stares into my eyes, I get the sense she’s telling the complete truth. She shakes her head again before sighing and moving on with the conversation. I want to shove the worrisome event aside, to pretend it didn’t happen. Still, as Dorothy blabs on about some of the soap operas she watches and her grandchildren, I stare into my tea, thinking about Barbara’s words.

You’ll die here. You will. Get out now. Get out while you can.

For a mad woman, they sure were coherent phrases. Why did she choose those words? Does she say them to everyone? And above all, if what Dorothy said is true, why am I the only one who has been attacked by her? It’s too frightening to think about. I try to forget the worries, but they sink their teeth into me, gnashing and grinding conspicuously in the recesses of my memory to be rustled out later.

‘It’s a shame you missed breakfast, you know? I would’ve introduced you to some of Floor Three’s finer residents. But don’t worry. There’s still time, of course. We’ve got plenty of time. Hopefully.’

The woman beside Dorothy chuckles at that, like it’s the funniest joke. I do not.

After a long while, I stand from the table. ‘I think I’ll go ring my daughter,’ I announce, suddenly feeling confined in this room. There’s too much furniture here. I don’t like how everyone is just sitting around. I need to be alone. I suddenly, mercilessly thirst for solitude.

‘Are you sure? I think the painting class starts in two hours. Be certain to come. It’s really fun. And the university boy they bring in is a real dream. If I were just a tad younger, I’d have a go at him. Give him something really special to paint.’ Dorothy winks before readjusting her glasses to underscore her point.

‘Okay,’ I reply, turning with my almost-empty Styrofoam cup, slightly surprised by Dorothy’s forward promiscuity. My fingers crunch the cup until a piece falls in on itself.

But before I even turn the whole way around and pointing in the correct direction, I startle, dropping the cup.

‘Get out while you can. Get out,’ she gurgles, her craggy face scrunched up as her finger wags in my line of sight. Her milky eyes are crusty today, the bright whiteness of them alarming in a foreign way in the light. The words strangle in my throat, and I’m suddenly sputtering and coughing, clasping my chest as I back up, almost upsetting the table.

‘Barbara, dear, you’re scaring Adeline. Stop it,’ Dorothy orders, standing from her chair.

Barbara clenches my arms, though, aggravating the fresh scratches she left last night. She leans in close, her musty breath careening into my face. Her milky eyes laser into mine, sending a shiver through me. It’s as if she can see straight through me, even though common sense tells me she can’t. Her fingers are sticky.

‘You’ll die here. You will,’ she whispers, and tears form in my eyes as a creeping, crawling feeling reverberates through me. Before I can respond, though, she hoots, smiling, and releases my arm. She clunks off down the corridor in the other direction, slightly leaning to the right and mumbling about daisies and the red rain.

I stand for a moment, staring down at the cup on the floor. It’s crunched up and broken, the few drops of tea that lurked in the bottom spattered about it.

‘There, there, dear. Here you go,’ a nurse says, stooping down to pick up the cup. ‘I’ve got it, Mrs Evans. It’s fine.’

I look into the brown eyes of the nurse. Tightening my face in confusion, I grab my head. ‘Who are you? I don’t know you,’ I say, needing this woman to back up, to give me space.

‘I’m Grace, dear. Remember, we met yesterday?’

I stare at the woman, so desperately needing to know her. I will myself to place her. But I just can’t. Fear bubbles inside, and I place a hand on my chest.

‘It’s okay. No problem. You had a hectic day yesterday. Come on, let me take you to your room. This way now,’ her voice reassures. I’m still stressed, but her voice is kind and her eyes reassure me. I follow her.

‘I’ll check in with you later, Adeline,’ a voice calls. I turn around to see the woman at the table, knitting. Dottie? Dorothy? I think it’s Dorothy. I’m pretty sure. But then again …

I hate it when this happens. I hate it when I can’t remember. I hate it when I forget simple things. I hate it when I feel out of control, like I’m not even in charge of my own self. The forgetfulness comes and goes, some days better than others. The doctors say it is to be expected with this disease, but they don’t understand how frustrating it is. From day to day, from moment to moment, my mind warps and twists so quickly. Some moments, everything is as clear as a crystal. And others, a murky fog settles in, threatening to obliterate every basic memory and thought and rendering me incapable of the smallest task. How helpless can one be? My hands ball into trembling fists, and every joint screams in pain.

The nurse leads me back to my room, and I unfurl my fists, giving my fingers a chance to relax. I reach up to the wall outside of my room and let my fingers trace the black numbers. 316. I live here in 316.

‘Need anything? More tea?’ the nurse asks.

I shake my head, staring at the tray of cold breakfast foods beside my chair. I inhale, but before the nurse can leave, I reach out and touch her arm.

‘Wait. My daughter. I want to talk to my daughter,’ I assert.

‘Certainly. Do you know the number?’

I look at the phone sitting on the nightstand as I cross the room slowly, my feet shuffling along. When I finally get to it, my hands reach for the phone. Do I remember? Can I do this? I’m so afraid I won’t remember. However, I know I need to get a hold of myself. I’m not a quitter. I don’t back down.

‘Yes,’ I say confidently, even though I don’t quite believe it. My fingers slowly reach towards the numbers, and I pause, wondering if they’ll be able to accomplish the feat. I sigh when they methodically dial the familiar numbers. They remember even when I don’t. All isn’t lost, I realise, assurance surging through me as I hear Claire’s voice on the line.

‘Mum, everything okay?’

‘Yes, Claire. Lovely. All is lovely. Just having some tea and thinking of you,’ I say, looking to the nurse to smile and thank her. But she is gone. Too much to do I suppose. Too much to do in a world where so many of us have nothing left at all. How cruel life can be.

‘Do you want me to come over?’ Claire asks.

I do. I so desperately do.

‘No, no. It’s all fine. I just wanted to talk to you,’ I lie.

We continue our conversation, Claire filling me in about the new client she’s working with at the advertising agency. She talks about things I don’t understand, but I don’t much care. It’s just nice to hear a warm, friendly voice I know. It’s so cold here.

While I’m chatting, there’s a knock on the threshold. I turn to see a man stooped at my door. His eyes are dark, his eyebrows unruly. He’s got a strong jawline, I notice, but it’s like his nose is too small for his face, like his head has swallowed it up.

And then there’s the scar, a bubbling, blatant scar along the top of his forehead, a line that’s parallel with the floor. I try not to startle. Wouldn’t do to be rude. All the patients around here tend to wear clothes that look like pyjamas, but not him. He’s wearing a button-up shirt and some brown trousers that seem like they’ve never been taken off. They’re ripped and worn, a stark contrast to the nice-looking shirt.

I leave the phone up at my ear. The man smirks, offering a little wave. The smile comes off as a crooked sneer, the few teeth peeking through tarnished brown.

‘Menu,’ he whispers, holding up a piece of paper. He limps into my room to the noticeboard on the wall closest to the door. His eyes flit about, as if he’s taking in the sight of my room but also terrified to encroach on my space. His movements are dramatic, as if he has to show me he’s only hanging something on the noticeboard and nothing else. I like that. I like that he’s respectful of my space. See, you can’t judge a book by its cover. I feel rude now, judging him for some ailments and disfigurements. As if to make up for it, I nod and smile overly wide, Claire still talking about some new initiative at work, as he tacks up a pink paper on my board.

I think about telling Claire to hold so I can thank him, but he’s too fast. He’s out of the room before I can blink, the limp no longer seeming to ail him. I wonder who he is. Is he one of the men that knitting woman was talking about, but which one? He looks somewhat familiar, but I’ve passed so many people, it’s hard to tell or to place him. I suppose I have time to figure it out. In some ways, I have nothing but time.

When Claire and I are finished talking, I hang up the phone. Standing from my bed, I decide to venture back out. No use being cooped up in here the whole time. I meander around, peering in rooms but trying not to get caught. I don’t want people thinking I’m snooping.

The day goes surprisingly fast. Later on, the nurses eventually find me to take me down to Floor One where the medical rooms are. I shudder as they lead me into the shaky lift. As the metal doors screech to a close and the metal box sputters, I want nothing more than to climb right back out. The ride is jumpy and creaky. It takes so long to get to the bottom floor that I convince myself it’s definitely broken, that we’ll be trapped in the box of death for hours. My heart races, and just as I’m ready to start clawing my way out, the doors mercifully creak halfway open, pause, and then open the whole way. It’s like the indecisive doors are thinking about staying shut. I scuttle out and pray I won’t have to use it too often in the coming months.

I have a few check-ups on the first floor with some doctors who seem to want to talk way too much about my heart, giving nosy nurses too much information about my medical history and telling them what to look out for like I’m not even in the room. When I return from their poking and prodding, I spend most of the afternoon sitting with the knitting woman, wandering about, and eventually taking a seat in the little lending library at the other end of Floor Three. I enjoy the peacefulness of the reading area so much, I return after dinner instead of joining in some activity downstairs later that night. I doze off, and when I startle awake, the nursing home is quiet except for a few characteristic moans from Floor Three. I rise from my seat, deciding it’s time to return to my room.

But when I get to the corridor, I’m disoriented. It’s been too long. Where am I? Where is my room? What room am I in? I look to the left. There are a few rooms that way. I look to the right. There’s a long corridor around the corner. Where do I go? I don’t know. I take a breath, going right. I walk looking in rooms, peering at numbers. What number do I need? How don’t I know? I don’t understand.

‘This way, Adeline,’ a voice barks. I look to see the harsh woman from this morning ushering me down the hallway. Is she still here? What a long day for her.

I nod, following her to my room, relieved she was there despite her glower and her angry mutterings about imbecilic residents. I ignore her icy, squeezing fingers on my arm that dig into my flesh as she yanks me forward. I was going the right way, I realise. This soothes me. Still, when I get to the room, my fingers trace the numbers again. I need to lock them into my mind. 316. I live in 316.

She doesn’t offer to help me change out of my clothes, instead shoving me into bed with a quick movement that jars me.

‘Don’t be wandering, you hear? We have enough to do without chasing down lost rubbish,’ she spits at me. I blink, staring up at the woman, feeling so powerless. Once she’s gone, I exhale out the day’s stresses, trying to think about all that’s happened. My eyes are heavy with exhaustion, and I know I’ll soon be asleep – even with Rose’s gurgling. Still, I know there’s something I must do.

My mind is wavering, whether I like it or not. But I must stay sharp. I need to stay with it. If the knitting lady is right and this place isn’t as safe as it seems, I need to be careful not to slip up. I lean over to the stand beside my bed and yank on the lamp cord. I slowly pull open the drawer and find a Bible and a notebook. I pluck a sheet of paper from the pad, locate the pen in the drawer, and lean onto the hard surface of the stand to jot down notes.

316: my room.

Knitting lady … Dorothy? Deborah?

Code to the stairwell?

I look at the list of reminders to myself. Not very impressive, but I haven’t been here long. At least this will help me keep track of information. Maybe it will nudge me tomorrow to remember what I need to find out. I need to keep my wits about me. That’s the one thing I’m certain of.

I tuck the paper in the back of the Bible, out of sight. I don’t need Claire or the home discounting me as mad. I don’t need them having more ammunition to write me off as nothing more than a disintegrating pile of flesh. I tug on the lamp cord, settle back into bed, and close my eyes. Rose’s gurgles continue to rattle in the background, but I’m so exhausted, it doesn’t matter. Drowsiness settles in, and I almost forget about everything that happened the night before.

But a while after I fall asleep, with the blackness of the night enveloping me, I hear something that sends pure terror through me. It’s a startling sound I just can’t ignore.

Second Body Discovered in West Green; Citizens on High Alert as Threat Spreads

West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

28 June 1959

Citizens of West Green are on high alert as a second body this month has been uncovered in Ifield Pond Saturday morning, 27 June 1959, after a thorough investigation.

The body of Mrs Helen Deeley was found in Ifield Pond after a shoe was discovered by a Crawley resident at the edge of the water. Questioning of Mr John Deeley led investigators to believe that the shoe belonged to the missing Helen Deeley, and a search ensued. The body of the deceased was removed from the pond, and detectives are still conducting a search for more evidence in this case.

Mrs Deeley was not at their residence when Mr John Deeley returned home from work on 22 June, which was unusual for the housewife. When Mrs Deeley failed to return by the next morning, an extensive search ensued in West Green, but there was no sign of the woman.

Mrs Helen Deeley’s death comes only a couple of weeks after the body of Elizabeth McKinley was discovered in a skip in West Green. With two murders in less than a month, residents of the typically peaceful neighbourhood are on high alert. The West Sussex Constabulary will not offer speculation as to whether the two murders are related despite the unarguable similarities regarding the bite marks on the bodies.

However, Mr Deeley was questioned in his wife’s disappearance after detectives exposed that he was involved in an extramarital affair. The West Sussex Constabulary notes that John Deeley is considered a prime suspect in his wife’s murder. Constables and detectives on the case offered no comment at this time, but sources have told reporters that dental records of Mr Deeley are being compared to the bite marks on both victims.

Despite the rise in violence in recent weeks, residents of the town are no stranger to horrific crimes. Many have expressed concern that this may be the work of a copycat of John Haigh, the Acid Bath Murderer. Haigh was executed on 10 August 1949 after being convicted of six terrifying murders. Haigh was notorious for his use of concentrated sulphuric acid to dispose of the bodies of his victims.

‘We are shocked and scared. Who would do something like this to a woman as sweet as Helen?’ Mrs Christopher Eades noted. ‘Helen was always such a giving woman. Always volunteering and active in the church. I just don’t understand.’

Detectives are still investigating the area at Ifield to search for any other clues. The person who discovered the shoe that led to the uncovering of Helen Deeley’s body remains anonymous but is being thoroughly questioned at this time.

Women are delicate and weak creatures who are delicious to prey upon. But they aren’t imbecilic, not by a longshot. And a woman always has a way of knowing when something is terribly wrong with the one she climbs into bed with. At least that is what I’ve come to believe.

Helen Deeley was no exception. Sweet and godly like the newspaper article says. She didn’t deserve to be cheated on by her scoundrel of a husband. And she knew it.

They always know it, subconsciously at least.

Mr Deeley deserves to die for his disgusting behaviour. But I won’t deviate from my plan. I won’t abandon the list. I will stay focused because I’m in the middle of it now. I’ve selected my chosen ones. Everyone else would just be a distraction. I can’t afford to be distracted.

Besides, I can’t be too livid with the bloke because his digressions left the perfect opening. When a woman is riddled with doubt, she’ll do anything to get to the bottom of it and set her perfect view of her life right again.

A letter strategically sent. A meeting place when John was going to be ‘late at work’. The perfect, secluded spot at Ifield – and an easy place to rid the world of the evidence. After I made my mark, of course. And after I’d planted the shoe. After all, it wouldn’t be any fun if she was never found, and those moronic bobbies are so incapable. The newspaper uses words like investigation and thorough, but I know the truth. They’ll never figure it out. They’re too easily distracted, so very easily thrown off the case. Bloody hell, I had to lead them to the body. Yet they think they’ll catch me? They have no idea. Wrapped up in dental records of the husband, the affair, of course, not painting him in a good light. They’ll be focused on him for so long that they’ll forget there is even another possibility.

I shake my head, smiling at their idiocy. It’s made the game easier, certainly. But sometimes I think it would all be so much more fun if they were actually smart – if it were actually challenging. What it must be like to kill in a place with real risk of being discovered …

But that’s not what this is about. This is so much, dare I say, more intricately beautiful? This dance between strong and weak.

Sickly boy. Frail boy. Weak boy.

Not anymore. I’m not that boy anymore. No, I’m not. I chuckle. No one has any idea, do they?

I tuck the piece of the newspaper between my front teeth, closing my eyes as I bite down. So thin, so delicate. My teeth click over it, creasing it. But I’m careful not to taint the actual words of the article. I need to preserve it, my trophy added to the collection.

Oh, Helen. Did you regret your mistakes? Did you think about everything that led you to me?

Helen hadn’t the slightest clue. The look of shock on her face when she saw me instead of the secret informant she was hoping for, the one to confirm her husband’s affair, to give her the proof that would shatter her world. But I shattered her first. Oh, did I shatter her.

It was laughable, really, the look on her face. They’re always so surprised. Someone they’ve seen countless times in town. Someone they’ve overlooked over and over. To them, I’m just the means to a necessary duty. I’m just a servant, in some ways. I’m just a nobody in West Green like I was all those years before.

But this nobody is certainly gaining infamy, even if it isn’t by name.

Helen was a little old for my taste, really. I usually like them younger, fresher. The skin is just better. Soft and supple between the teeth ­– it’s inviting. I savour the taste of vibrancy that seems to emanate from their skin. In truth, I’m not quite sure why Helen ended up on my list. I’d studied the women in West Green for weeks, thinking and pondering. Making the plan. Maybe it was the sadness in her eyes day in and day out. Maybe it was the fact she just seemed so lonely. Was she a pity kill? I don’t know. I’d like to think it was more than that. I’d like to think there was something more there, calling to me.

But she was the second. And not the last. There are many more steps on my path to the end. It’s a lot of work, really. Exhausting if it weren’t so energising. And, when I ask if it’s all worth it, despite the intoxicating warmth that pulses in my blood, I know she will make it worth it.

The finale. The last one. The beautiful, wily one who will be the denouement to this masterfully executed plan. I’ve already found myself lurking, watching, peering at her through the darkness. I know I should wait. I’ve got the next one to worry about. I’ve got the next one to carry out. But she’s just so beautiful. And her spark is something magnetising.

It’s okay, though. I’m not jealous. Because I know I’ll be the last one to appreciate her. And I’ll get to put that beauty on full display soon enough.

But not yet. It’s just not time yet.

I take the article reluctantly from between my teeth. I blow on the wetness, staring at the intricate pattern before I tuck away the mementos with the others and close the lid of the box.

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