Walker by Sandra

The road this time is long, wet and so dark I can only make out the faintest glimmer of light reflecting on the wet tarmac ahead. The man walking beside me stares straight ahead fixing his eyes on some distant object. His mind is difficult to read, but we push on together. I am not sure what I expected but it wasn’t this. You can usually tell what you’re going to get, or as near as damn it, so this is a surprise. There is a deeper darkness than usual from the space either side of the road, a sense of something there, that doesn’t wish us well, and I shiver. This is not going well, why the hell did I take this job? Apart from paying the rent and buying food, and feeding George, I was fine. Really. And I’ve done plenty of jobs like this, so this is no different. Except I have the uneasy feeling this is very different. The road has never been this dark, for one thing and for another, Mr Fink is a closed book, like he is keeping a very tight rein on his thoughts. And he’s walking so fast I feel like I’m in some army march and an irate sergeant will bellow, Move yer arse, yer lazy worm. He’s walking like he is being chased by the hounds of hell. Why am I thinking of the word Hell over and over? I take a deep breath and refocus ahead, listening to the sounds of my breathing. Mr Fink’s chest is rising and falling in panicked breaths, and I hear a moan from him. I start to sweat, this is not good. The darkness on either side of the road has thickened into a wall of seemingly solid black and I sense dread from it. Mr Fink’s eyes are now darting left and right to the dark and ahead I see a small white flesh shape emerge from the gloom. As we come closer, I see what it is and my scalp crawls: it’s a child’s hand, bloodless white, and wrinkled, as if the owner had been in water too long. Mr Fink is eyeing the hand out of the corner of his eyes, as if to look directly at it would cause its owner to come out…

…but it does anyway. The small hand becomes a small arm, shoulder and then a child steps out (through?) of the dark to stand before us. Mr Fink’s fast walk stops, and he is staring at the girl, who stares back at him with white eyes. I stop breathing. The child has a pink dress on, and a tiara. She was obviously one of the Disney princesses, but I don’t know which one, and anyway, its not the bedraggled dress that catches my attention: it is the garotte around her neck, that digs into her flesh.

A thought wriggles into my mind, and I turn to look at Mr Fink. Mr Fink of 25 Bramble Avenue, my client. A chemist from some scientific company, professional, quiet and dying of cancer. What connection did he have – does he have -to this girl? Not a good one, judging by his expression and the way the girl stands, blocking his way.

Mr Fink is groaning by now and shifting from foot to foot in quick jerks. He can’t go forward, and we can’t go back. He is wringing his hands and moving on the spot like he’s been electrified. The girl moves a step closer, and I notice the mottles on her skin. Mr Fink looks like he is in agony. The girl steps closer again and it seems enough to galvanise Mr Fink and he launches his foot at her, which connects with a dull thud and the girl flies backward to land with a thud by the side of the road. She doesn’t make a sound through any of it, and Mr Fink is off past the girl and onward. The girl sits upright, her face following us as we walk on. I am trying to think clearly, but this is beyond my remit and Mr Fink is my client, so I catch up to him, just in time to see another girl step into his path. Then another and another.  They all wear princess dresses of different colours, and this time, I remember the headlines, and I look at Mr Fink in blank horror. It can’t be, this cannot be what my subconscious has already worked out. Mr Fink can’t be the Water Lily murderer?

The killer was never found, only the pathetic, drooping bodies of the murdered girls, found in waterlogged ditches, dressed in cheap synthetic princess dresses. All strangled. There were four of them, the whole town up in arms, suspicious and angry eyeing their neighbours with distrust. The police arrested people and released them. No culprit found. Then the murders stopped, and theories abounded: he’d died, he’d gone to prison; he’d found Christ. Or, as I now knew, he was undergoing gruelling cancer treatments that debilitated him so much, he didn’t have energy for…murder.

The girls walk towards us, and I feel the deep anger, roiling beneath their expressionless faces. Whatever fear they must have felt: that was rage now, and powerful. The girl he kicked, (a whisper: Samantha) is behind us. Three before us. Before, I was worried for us both, now I’m worried only for me. I would never desert a client, in normal circumstances, but I want no part of whatever this is. I step to the side, distancing myself from Mr Fink. I have no doubts:  here in this place, it is hard to hide the truth. I have come here with a killer. A killer of small, utterly defenceless girls and I feel sick. I step further, almost to the edge of the road and its pulsing darkness. Samantha grasps my hand in a cold, wet grip. I try to break free, but she is strong. She looks at me and shakes her head, pulling me forward, away from the dark. I had stepped too close to…whatever that is.  She pushes me away from her and Mr Fink and points my way, back up the road. I am happy to go, I don’t want to see what happens no matter that I know they deserve their revenge.

As I trudge back, my breathing heavy and laboured, I hear Mr Fink scream. I have read about hairs standing up on backs of necks and now mine do, along with a shiver of fear. I don’t want to look, but I do, turning around in time to see Mr Fink, only his upper half visible as he is dragged feet first into the dark, small white hands gripping his shirt, his arms flailing to grip something, anything, to stop him entering. At the last minute, what looks like a large hand, with long nails (claws?) lands on his head and rips him back into the dark. But I’m a long way away, so I’m probably mistaken.

I come to in the bedroom, in the chair where the journey began, beside Mr Fink’s deathbed. Our hands still clasped together for comfort as we began our journey. I snatch my hand away and Mrs Fink’s worried eyes meet mine, ‘Oh, is everything alright? Did he pass over well?’ my mind is skittering around my skull, but I reply automatically, ‘Yes, he was…good…he passed over.’ She gives a grateful sob and I manufacture a smile from somewhere. I cannot tell Mrs Fink, who is a mild, gentle soul, what just happened. She would have trouble believing it, but the implications are too much right now. I need to think. She needs to grieve. I grab my handbag and leave, driving with artificial care, not sure what I’m doing, but it seems my subconscious is once again ahead of me, because I draw up outside a block of flats. David’s flat.

He greets me with his usual enthusiasm, which is to say, a sag against the doorframe and a grunt of disappointment. ‘I thought you were the Chinese food,’ he says, turning back into his flat. I take this as an invitation and walk in, looking around for any changes since I lived here. We were an’ item‘ as they call it for a few years, before some unreconcilable differences got in the way. Nothing major, just our whole belief systems. He stands in the front room, hands on hips, ‘What do you want, Emily?’ Emily. When we were together, I was Em. I look at his posture, he’s still angry at me. This isn’t going to be easy and for a second, I think I’ll just go. After all, the man, Fink (somewhere on the drive, he lost his rights to a moniker) is dead and can’t hurt anyone else, but I think of the families. Nothing will ever heal them, but some comfort could be had from knowing who killed their babies. I have to let them know, I have to. Going to the police directly with a story of seeing a man like Fink – respectable, professional man– in a ‘dream’ which is what they will call my …skills…is impossible. But a friendly- well, almost friendly – policeman called David might just be a way to get the story out.

‘Can we talk?’ I ask tentatively, unsure where to start.

He sighs and sits down on the settee, gesturing at the armchair, and I sit, on the edge, hands clutching my knees with nerves. There is silence, until he opens his hands, ‘Well?’ I clear my throat,

‘There was this man…’ No, I need to start further back, ‘I had a client…a job… tonight.’ David’s face is one of scepticism. He knows what I’m talking about and it’s a sore point. But I push on, ‘I…we did the Walking…’ David sighs, but doesn’t say anything. He looks around at the walls of the flat. ‘We did the Walk and… it wasn’t right, I felt that soon after we started, there was a lot of darkness…’ another sigh, which makes me speak faster, ‘and then, then it was pressing in and then there were girls. Dead girls.’ His eyebrows go up, and he’s about as interested as if I’m recounting a dream. ‘And they were all wearing these princess dresses, and they were wet like they’d been in a bath fully dressed and then, then I realised where I’d seen them before.  They were strangled, all of them.’ Here goes, ‘They were the Waterlily girls.’ I stop with a gasp, and look at him, but he is just staring at me. I don’t think he’s got it. ‘They were angry, really angry and they were after Mr Fink – that was my client – and he was scared when he saw them. Really scared, like he knew them and knew they were after him. Don’t you get it? Mr Fink was the killer!’ I announce the last part as if I’m in some cheap thriller and wait, but David is shaking his head.

‘Wow,’ he says eventually. ‘Just wow.’ He keeps shaking his head, in disbelief.

‘What do you mean ‘Wow’? I’m telling you what happened and who the Water Lily killer was.’ Can’t he see what this means, for the families, for the girls, for everyone.

‘I can’t believe you. This is low, Emily, really low.’

I gape at him, ‘Do you think I’d make something like this up?’

‘I think you’re still mad that I don’t believe in your ‘Abilities’, he makes quotation marks in the air as he says it. He’s right. I am mad he doesn’t believe, but that just puts him in with all the other people I’ve ever met. It was just we were in love, and I thought I could trust him with the truth. I take a calming breath.

‘This is nothing to do with that. I came to you because you’re a policeman. I have new information about an old case; information that could solve it. Give closure to the families…’

‘Stop it! Jesus Christ Emily, what’s the matter with you?’ He seems unable to sit still and gets up and walks around the room. 

‘Whats the matter with me? I’m trying to help!’ my voice is getting higher, but I don’t care, he’s really pissing me off. He never listened.

‘No, you’re not. You’re just trying to inveigle your way back into my life. You can’t accept it’s over. You can’t accept anyone unless they buy into your weird little cult.’ My mouth is hanging open. The bloody nerve. Cult? Cult? And get back together? All these thoughts crash into the most scathing and childish thing I can think of ‘Inveigle? Inveigle?  Ooh, big words, from Mr Ward, there.’

David rolls his eyes, and the doorbell rings. ‘Well, that’ll be the Chinese. And a good point for you to leave, I think.’

Shitsocks. This has not gone well, I’ve blown it. What will get him to believe? To help? Its useless though and I know it, my shoulders sagging with defeat. Everything in that other world is nebulous, there is no proof of anything. I know from bitter experience that people don’t – can’t- believe in the world just the other side of this one. Only a few do, and mostly those that are near death and remember the old tales, and decide to hire a Walker. Its like Santa Claus to everyone else though.

At the door, David takes the bag of Chinese food with a waft of flavour that makes my stomach growl. I stand there watching the delivery man walk back down the stairs and David and I face each other in silence. I want to say something, anything that will make him believe what I know is the truth. But I can see his face is implacable. He can’t wait for me to leave, to eat his food in peace and forget I ever came here. The sorrow of our breakup wells up for a moment and I turn and go with a ‘Bye then,’ before my voice cracks, and I head downstairs. I hear the door shut.

That’s the end of that then.