The Half Killed Read online

  The Half Killed

  Quenby Olson

  World Tree Publishing

  The Half Killed is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Quenby Olson

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 0989446077

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9894460-7-5

  Published in the United States of America by World Tree Publishing.

  First Edition: August 2015

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 WTEP B1532

  To Tim, for believing I could do this.

  Prologue

  * * *

  * * *

  It wasn’t your fault. Mama forced you to do it, one hand on your sleeve, the other combing through your curls, and all while she whispered in your ear, saying it would be all right, that it would please her so much if you would just show yourself in front of the guests. And with such enticement, what choice did you have? So you said yes, and adjusted the bow in your hair, and waited for the uneven smile to tease the corners of her mouth.

  The planchette sat in the middle of the table, Mama's favourite one, carved to resemble an ivy leaf, the slender veins aligned to the placement of her fingers. She took such good care of her hands, always aware of how often they would be on display. Papa never complained about the amount of rings she wore, though he had to have known how much of his fortune decorated her pale skin. You remember he mentioned it to her, and she laughed in that way of hers, with her head thrown back and her eyes closed, and he was so charmed that he never introduced the subject again.

  There were several people around the table, their faces warmed by the light of the candles. And they were so large to you, then. You, The Little Darling, as Mama called you, her fingers still in your hair, then sliding down to your back, pushing you forward against your will. But you didn't stumble, and the shadowed faces around the table were not the least bit frightening. Even in the faint illumination, you recognised Father Crusoe, and Papa, the both of them lending a sombre contrast to the light Mama seemed to pull into the room.

  And Aunt Anne was there, too, still in black and crepe, as if her Roger had passed away only two months before, instead of a dozen years. It surprised you, after all her complaints about your demonstrations, that your gifts should have been put to better use. She smiled when she saw you, the familiar light gleaming in her hazel eyes, her eyelashes fluttering. But you failed to return the unspoken greeting. Mama had already warned you not to smile, or to laugh, or to appear too frivolous. There you were, barely nine years old, carrying the expression of one five times your age. And so Aunt Anne’s grin faded away, and you wished you would have committed that last smile to memory, the details of it: the deep dimple in her left cheek, the curve of her mouth. It would've pleased you to remember her that way.

  Mama begged you to sit, so benevolent in front of others, and she gave you a moment to smooth your skirt, the pale blue satin shining under the light of the candles. Her own dress was a deep red colour, maybe burgundy, but it has been years since you could remember the exact shade. Her hands glittered as she moved them over the table, and you wondered if she had done something to her skin, treated it in some way that made her very flesh pick the light out of the air.

  The prayer came first, six heads bowed at once, but you kept your eyes open, stealing glances at Mama to your right and Aunt Anne to your left. And then they placed their hands on the table, their fingers spread apart like a fan, Mama's rings glittering even while her hands stayed still. She said something, a few words, barely audible, and they crept across your skin, settling at the base of your throat, curling around it like the cold hand of some deceased thing.

  You had done this before. Sat still and calm in the circle, the voices ringing in your head, nearly drowning out your own voice as you asked questions to the darkness. But what was different this time? Why did the shadows twitch and writhe at the corners of your vision?

  Your hands slipped off the planchette. Mama kicked your leg with her foot, and you knew there would be a bruise, but you refused to obey. The little triangle of wood trembled without your pressure, agitated by your refusal to cooperate. And all while the cold tightened its grip around your throat, spreading across your shoulders, down your arms, prickling in the tips of your fingers.

  And when you looked up at Aunt Anne, you realised she sensed it, too. There was no smile on her face, only an increasing horror, and as she pushed her chair back and stood, you cried out to Mama that you wanted to stop, that you wanted to go back to your room and hide where the voices could not find you. But she wouldn't allow it, and the planchette continued to move beneath her touch, and her head tilted back, her eyes closed as she began to laugh.

  Except it wasn't her voice. And yet you had heard it before, though the memory of when and where would elude you. But the familiarity of it stole through you, though you could not give it a face, as if it had chattered to you in your sleep for some time, years perhaps, pressing at your consciousness, at your sanity. And now it came from your mother's mouth before she bit down on her bottom lip, and you saw the blood, black in the faltering candlelight, trickle down the side of her chin.

  Beside you, Aunt Anne cried out. Her fingers clawed at your shoulder, tearing at the sleeve of your little dress until you swatted her away. But the room became darker, and though the candles continued to burn, it was as if their light was smothered. And you looked at the walls and the ceiling, at the darkness spreading across them, down to the floor, flooding the carpet like water.

  In your head, the voices—your constant companions—laughed at you. And they grew louder until you couldn't see, and you couldn't think, and with your hands pressed to your ears, as if the vile sounds came from outside of your head instead of within, the first sobs broke free of your chest, and the hot tears spilled down your cheeks.

  Mama remained at your side, and her hand was on your head, toying with the ribbon in your hair, before it slid down to your throat, and her fingers wrapped around your slender neck, pressing down until you couldn't breathe. So you struck out at her—something you thought you'd never do—her flesh beneath your nails, and the warmth of her blood, but you told yourself not to fret, because it wasn't Mama anymore. The voices told you she was already dead, and it gave you some comfort to believe them.

  Chapter One

  * * *

  * * *

  The body doesn't move. I don’t expect it to, and yet I’m transfixed all the same. My eyes search the thick block of a neck for the slightest vibration that would indicate a flow of blood beneath the skin. The skin itself is enough to intrigue me, cast in a pallor no virulent illness could begin to imitate. It is this shade, this absence of colour that makes the deep bruises beneath the jaw stand out, curving in a mockery of the smile that still graces the frozen features of the dead man’s face.

  A push from behind forces me to take a step forward, my heel slipping on the greasy cobbles before I regain my balance. It is a small group of onlookers that has gathered around the scene since my arrival, but no one lingers for more than a passing glance. The poor man has nothing to recommend him. See there? The scuffs on his boots? And look at the patches on his coat, the fabric worn so thin it could lead a double life as a strip of cheesecloth. And what about his face? Oh, it’s not a handsome one. A face that could earn naught but a mother’s love, as is often said. And so the pedestrian moves on, his pace quickening until the shout of a seller or the rumble of a passing dray erases the memory of the dead man from his mind.

  I know I shouldn’t stay very long myself. Another glance from the constable, and I wonder if I’
ve already worn out my welcome. His uneasiness grows the longer I stand here, and when his partner joins him, there is a great deal of whispering, punctuated by more than a few looks in my direction.

  Not only because I’m a woman, surely. But because I'm a young woman, in modest dress, wandering the streets before the first rays of the sun have touched the dome of St. Paul’s. And most shocking of all, because the sight of a recently deceased man sprawled across the edge of the pavement does nothing to disturb my feminine sensibilities.

  And why should it? There’s nothing particularly gruesome about the scene. No blood, no other visible marks or wounds apart from the row of dark bruises beneath the unshaven jaw. If the eyes weren’t open, gazing up at the channel of brightening sky, I could almost fool myself with the belief he had simply passed out, and at any moment, he’ll groan and grumble back to life, waving his hand to clear away the inebriated haze that settled on his mind some hours before dawn.

  But he doesn’t move, and one of the constables takes the liberty of borrowing a tarpaulin from a local shopkeeper, the better to shield the inert form from view. Move along, my mind tells me. Nothing more to see. And though I’m tempted to argue, I put on my best show of slipping into the crowd and allowing their rapid pace to carry me back towards home.

  A simple left turn, the burgeoning river of pedestrians sweeping me along, and I couldn’t stop if my next breath depended on it. This early in the morning and already the streets are swollen with people. And again I think of a river, ready to overflow its banks and spill into every crevice.

  The coolness brings them out. This brief respite from the sun, before the light produces an unusual warmth that hovers over the city as thick as the brown fog that clings to the rooftops in winter. But it is summer now, and the stoves are cold, the hearths swept clean. Even the thought of a flame is enough to start a prickle of sweat behind the knees, and in the evening, after the lamp lighters have made their rounds, most people tend to skirt the dim circle of yellow light that illuminates the pavement. Light is heat, and heat is light, and both must be avoided at all costs.

  It is one of the great topics of London conversation, the heat. In large block letters on the front of every paper—the ink so fresh it stains the skin—the headlines shout and complain, syphoning the thoughts direct from the minds of the general populace and printing them out in black and white for everyone to read. For a pence, I have my own copy, and I tuck it under my arm until I can settle down with a cup of something and read through it without fear of being trodden underfoot by the passing crowd.

  But the papers are not the only messengers, come to remind us of our current troubles. There are the missionaries, wandering the streets in their dark woolens and caps, brandishing their Bibles as a killer would a sharpened knife. The heat is a punishment, they cry. A punishment for our wicked deeds. Because we turned from God’s path, and now He has sent hell onto the Earth, and we will burn in our beds, every one of us, until we bow down our heads and beg for forgiveness.

  And there are the bodies, more of them now that summer has set in. They drop where they stand, mouths parched, eyes rolling back into their heads until their hearts cease to beat. The old and the young are the most susceptible. The heat whittles away at them, preying on their weaknesses until it finds nothing left with which to work, and so moves on to the next life.

  It’s as if the season gains strength from every soul it takes, every day warmer than the last. The fog of winter has turned into a foetid steam, blurring the horizon and changing it to a silvery haze, until it seems that the Thames itself will evaporate to nothing more than a ribbon of cracked dirt and mud.

  And what of the bodies that do not perish? The figures that clog the streets and alleyways at all hours of the night? It is in them, in their surreptitious movements I find another popular topic of London conversation, though this one is spoken with many furtive glances thrown over shoulders, voices lowered to a pitch almost below breathing.

  But even though I’m unable to hear their conversations, I sense their restlessness, their eagerness to leave all and be done with it. For it is an exodus they speak of, nothing so epic as the biblical tales drummed into their heads when they were children, but a slow, subtle movement out of the city. And how can I blame them? With word coming back that the outer counties aren’t suffering under the same drought that punishes us, who wouldn’t be tempted to pack up their belongings and make a fresh start elsewhere? It is a question I’ve often taken to asking of myself. But I doubt my answer would find a match with many of those around me.

  The church bells call out the hour as I turn the knob on number 121, the door letting out a half-hearted squeal of protest as I press my shoulder against it, careful not to disturb the knocker that glares down at me with its grime-encrusted eyes. Indeed, the great slab of painted oak sticks inside the frame today, the wood so swollen and warped it no longer closes properly. Today, a jolt from my elbow isn’t enough to break it free. A kick from the heel of my boot does the trick, and I’m inside once more, the clamour of Chancery Lane blocked off as I make my best attempt at closing the door behind me.

  My paper still pinched beneath my arm, I pull off my gloves and tuck them into the waistband of my skirt. It is now that I feel the difference between the heat of outdoors and within, as I fill my lungs with a season’s worth of stale air trapped in a windowless room, the walls—what little can be seen of them—displaying tapered streaks of smoke from the candles and oil lamps tucked into every available space.

  And there they are now, the yellow-orange pinpoints of light flickering dully as I pass through the room, my shoes leaving faint tracks in the dust that coats the buckled floorboards. If there is a window here, it is well hidden. Enormous bookcases line every wall, flanked by sideboards and wardrobes more suited to a castle on the moors, their cobwebbed cornices decorated with the vulgar countenances of demonic gargoyles. They would be enough to still the heart in ordinary light, but here, with only the paltry glow of a few candles to illuminate them, their bulging eyes and forked tongues carry the power to steal the breath of a healthy man.

  The shadows fail to unnerve me, and after a few moments my eyes adjust to the dismal light. A longer look at the candles tells me they’ve been left to their own devices for some time. Great puddles of wax coat every available surface, trickling down the sides of crates and bureaus in greasy rivulets that dribble onto the floor, waiting to be hidden beneath another month’s dirt and grime, existing without fear of ever being prodded with a broom.

  My hand finds the rail, the wood worn smooth by the passage of a hundred hands before mine. And that is when, in the far corner of the room, a bundle of rags shifts to reveal the threadbare upholstery of an armchair, and beneath that, a dusky grey cat that licks at a claw with a feline fastidiousness.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Selwyn," I say, my voice cracking from disuse.

  The bundle rolls onto its side. A head appears above a flattened collar, lank grey curls peeking out from under a cap that defies the laws of physics in its perch on the side of the old woman’s head.

  "You’re up early." A sniff, and she glares at me, her wrinkled face sandwiched between layers of fabric, all of them so out of fashion her wardrobe has long passed into the realm of curiosities.

  "I was just going up to my room," I explain, while the fingernails of my right hand carve figures in the soft wood of the bannister.

  "No work for you today, Miss Hawes?" There is something in the way she draws out my name, adding syllables that spring into existence on the tip of her tongue. "Ah, to spend my days lolling about, all ease and comfort."

  I close my eyes, shift the newspaper beneath my arm and imagine half the front page smeared across my sleeve. A slow intake of breath, and there is nothing else to be done before her prepared speech breaks the silence.

  "D’ye know what work does for a person? Honest, steady em-ploy-ment? Keeps a head twisted on tight, is what. The order of the days, the weeks, years in and y
ears out…"

  Her voice falters. Blinking, she seems to have momentarily lost her thread. And then her eyes brighten as if lit by a spark, her tongue running over her ivory teeth as if to remind herself where she’d been keeping them. "You’ve lost track of the time," she says. And when I make no immediate response, she sniffs again. "You owe me."

  I lower my chin an inch. And there I stand, a study in penitence.

  "I am sorry, Mrs. Selwyn. I had meant to pay you, but—"

  "The first day of the week. Every week," she stresses, allowing her words to hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "I know you’ve not been here long, but I can’t be playing the Samaritan, filling up rooms with folks who won’t… who can’t…"

  "You’ll have it tomorrow."

  She sniffs a third time, and runs the side of her hand across her flaking nostrils. The grey cat slinks out from under her chair, rubs along the edge of my skirts, and stalks off.

  "You were up again last night. I heard you knocking about, letting out a wail like the devil hisself was after you." She eyes me carefully. "But you wouldn’t know anything about that, like."

  I fiddle with the corner of my paper, already soft and wilting in the room’s oppressive warmth.

  "I’ll go up to my room now. Good day."

  "You’ll be frightening off all my regulars."

  An outright lie, that is. As if a few cries in the middle of the night would be enough to scare away the sort of individual to find himself sheltering under Mrs. Selwyn’s roof.

  "Yes." I clear my throat. "It won’t happen again." And there it is. Another lie to match her own, only this one carries me up the stairs, my elbows bumping against the slanted walls as I lose and regain my balance. Onto the landing and I’m already warm from this slight exertion, my shoulders rising as a trickle of sweat runs down my spine. My room is at the top of a second flight of stairs, at the end of a narrow, unlit hall. Around me, I hear the rest of the household waking to life, and downstairs, Mrs. Selwyn is no doubt preparing another speech for the next unlucky soul to stumble across her doorstep.