Killing Time - Chapter Three

KILLING TIME

A novel by

NICOLA BATTY

Chapter Three

1^st September 1991.

As Louise turned from Brick Lane onto Fashion Street, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Alright, you're nicked," said a low voice in her ear.

            "Hello, Gary," she replied, without looking round.

With a tut of annoyance, a short, slightly tubby figure appeared beside her. "My impression of a police officer obviously leaves something to be desired," he said looking offended. However, his round face was not made for such an expression and so it didn't really have much effect at all. Louise shrugged. 

"I recognised your voice, and you an actor as well. Doesn't say much for your skill, does it?"

"Only a part-time actor, it doesn't take much skill." Gary put up the hood of his green nylon anorak as it began to rain steadily. "Quick," he urged as the two of them stopped before number twelve and Louise fumbled in her pocket for her key. "I hate getting wet."

Opening the door, she allowed Gary to push past her as though he was escaping from boiling water and not rain. She hesitated before closing the door; her attention caught by the figure of a boy dressed all in white, standing on the pavement opposite. He was leaning against a lamppost, staring at the toes of his pointed white shoes as though trying to identify them through a haze of indistinct memory.  He had a mass of golden curls falling almost to his shoulders; he looked ethereal.  Everything about him looked odd and incongruous, from the way that the rain didn't seem to make any mark on the blank smoothness of his suit, to his straw boater hat which was tied round with a red and white striped ribbon. He looked like a character from Brideshead Revisited, a university student deliberately slipped out of time in order to confuse the established order, a ghost sent to sabotage the rigid structure.

"What are you doing, Louise? Shut the door, can't you?"

She did so quickly, feeling a little guilty, as though she had been caught spying.  As she moved past the window, she drew aside the net curtain and looked out; she wasn't surprised to find that the figure was no longer there.

"Andy's not going to be late, is he?" called Gary from the kitchen.

"Don't think so, he didn't say anything." Throwing down her copy of The Real Jack the Ripper on the table, Louise removed her jacket and flung it down on a chair. "Have you got the kettle on? Good."

She watched as he picked up the book from the table and studied the cover carefully, frowning as he did so.

"You're not reading this, are you?" He made a sound of impatience, rather like a horse, causing the ends of his sandy-coloured moustache to quiver as though alive. "No wonder you're so jumpy."

Louise smiled vaguely, saying nothing. She considered telling Gary about her meeting with Guy Saint, but somehow doubted that her choice of words would do justice to the significance that the occasion had assumed for her. It occurred to her that the incident had grown to grotesque proportions, filling out unseen dimensions to become symbolic of something even more abstract.

"That book reminds me actually, of the play I'm trying to adapt for the group at the moment. Are you at all interested in this Louise?"

"Of course I am." Pushing 'The Real Jack the Ripper' aside, Louise sat on the edge of the table, drawing up a chair on which to rest her feet. "Is it about 'Jack' then, this play?"

"Not 'Jack', though it's set in roughly the same time. Another murderer - a fictional one. I'm adapting it from 'Lord Arthur Saviles' Crime', one of Oscar Wilde's short stories. Ever read it?"

"It sounds vaguely familiar. That's his crime, is it - murder?"

"Well, yes but he's driven to it really, by Fate. Destiny foretells the terrible truth in his palm when he reads it at a party. Sugar?" Gary stirred both cups and handed one to Louise. As he did so, he bent close to her and whispered dramatically in her ear. "And guess who the victim of this appalling crime was?"

Louise bit her lip apologetically. "I think I have read it, actually. It was the fortune-teller, wasn't it?"

"None other. So Fate has her little joke, after all. Which just goes to show that you shouldn't take superstition too seriously."

"Mmm… well, I'm not so sure about that. I remember reading that Wilde, who was actually very superstitious, never forgot what a palmist said to him concerning his destiny."

"She foresaw his fall from glory, then?"

"I suppose she did, in a way." Louise kicked the cupboard door closed with her foot gently. "In his right palm, which shows what you'll do with your destiny, there was tragedy, sorrow… stuff like that, but the strange thing was that the markings on his left hand, which show your destiny, were completely different.  They showed success, fame, a brilliant career… so, you see he brought about his own downfall."

            "A sort of death-wish, you mean?" Gary frowned, stirring his tea. "I'm not really sure if I believe that. Why would he want to wreck everything?"

Louise shrugged.

"It's only something I read in a book. I think it's a bit of a dodgy theory myself."

"Well, anyway it's an interesting sideline." He paused, removing a huge white handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and blowing his nose loudly.  "But to return to the fortune-teller. Who, incidentally, I'll be playing."

Louise tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh before it properly surfaced. 

Gary looked away, offended. 

"Nothing against your acting ability, it just never ceases to amaze me how you manage to lead such a double life," she explained. "In the day, such a respectable bank clerk and at night…"

"At night, Padgers the fortune-teller," finished Gary triumphantly. "A double existence is entirely necessary to me, you see. And to most people I'm sure. Take your brother, for example. Do you know what he gets up to in that office of his all day?"

"Insurance, isn't it?"

"Ah, but how can you really be sure?" Gary paused for a moment as the front door clicked quietly open and shut again. "Beneath that innocent exterior may fester a hideous mangled texture of lies, deceit and trickery".

Louise shook her head, sliding off the table as her brother came in.

"I think it's highly unlikely Gary," she said putting on her jacket. "Andy's straight as a die, aren't you?"

Andy shrugged, looking completely disinterested. Removing his spotless grey jacket, he hangs it carefully over the back of a chair so that it wouldn't crease any further. He stood behind the chair, his hands in his pockets, looking all round the kitchen, whilst taking care to avoid catching anyone's eye.

"There's some tea in the pot," said Gary, moving aside to allow Louise to pass. "You off to work?"

Louise nodded, reaching for her book, which Andy had picked up and was leafing through a look of disgust on his face. He was a tall, thin man who gave the impression of being a policeman or some other figure of authority, due to his permanently grim expression and formal manner. He was always ruthlessly clean-shaven, leaving on a meticulous line of black on his upper lip. He and Gary together, appearing as joke opposites, two sides of a caricature.

"You shouldn't read stuff like this, you know," said Andy, frowning at Louise. "It gives you bad dreams, disturbs the balance of the mind."

"Just give it to me, will you?" Snatching the book from him, Louise turned to go, nodding to Gary as she did so. "See you again, Gary. Good luck with the script."

As she passed the front window, she couldn't resist peeking out once again just to ensure that the young man in white hadn't returned while she had been in the kitchen. He hadn't.

Now go to Chapter Four

Killing Time - Chapter Two

KILLING TIME

A novel by

NICOLA BATTY

Chapter Two

1^st September 1991

Louise shivered as she crossed the road again and wandered aimlessly into the next street; there was a sharp edge to the air and already autumn had begun. It was becoming more and more obvious to everyone that as each year passed, the ozone layer grew more threadbare and frayed around the edges. Ripping steadily apart, allowing through not only the ultra-violet rays, but the harmful edge of the cold air as well, so that soon nobody would be allowed to venture outside without protective clothing and a mask to shield them from the dangerous weather. Louise buried her hands quickly into the pockets of her donkey jacket, not wishing to expose them a minute longer. However, discovering that the book she was holding would not fit in her pocket, she decided to solve the problem by pausing at the end of the street, where there was a low wall running right the way across. It appeared to signify a dead-end, anyway.

Laying The Real Jack the Ripper on the wall beside her, Louise perched carefully on the edge of the wall, choosing the most solid-looking area she could find. The wall was in the process of crumbling away, like the boarded-up warehouse behind it. Louise turned to look at the empty building, wondering how old it was. Possibly it had been standing there, watching silently, the night Polly Nichols had been murdered. The name of the street had changed, that was all.

Turning back, Louise took out a cigarette and lit it. She cupped her hands around the glowing tip; the heat did not affect her, although the skin of her fingers almost touched it. This cold was uncanny, the way it had descended so suddenly; and the sun - where had that gone? A veil of straggling white cloud now covered the sky, grown stealthily over to conceal the eye, an opaque milky substance causing instant blindness. Louise closed her eyes.  The street was silent; she felt she could be anywhere, anytime. The years stretched out, long ribbons of celluloid, unmarked and unidentified… tangled and trespassing upon one another.  She thought of all the feet that would have trodden these same streets in Whitechapel so many times before… she would never know their lives, nor they hers. Strangers separated by a few flimsy threads of time.

"Excuse me."

Louise leapt to her feet, knocking her book onto the ground. She stared at the figure who seemed to appear from nowhere. Taking a step back, she tried to sort out her thoughts into some coherent order. The man, who was very tall and slim, was wearing a long, black coat that reached almost to his ankles. He stepped towards her, taking his hands out of his pockets. He held one of them outstretched towards her; she stared at it, it was very pale and smooth. Between his fingers he held a cigarette very lightly, as if he were afraid it would explode.

"I only want a light.  I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you."

Sinking back down onto the wall, Louise fished the lighter out of her pocket and gave it to the man. She noticed, as he took it, that he wore only one ring, an antique one with a red stone in a silver setting. For some reason she could not bear to look up and confront his intense stare, which she knew was fixed on her.

"Thanks," he said, lighting his cigarette. As he straightened up and turned away from her, Louise noticed that the glare of the flame below, accentuated the dark shadows crawling over his face; the sockets of his eyes seemed to tunnel right through to the back of his head. Black strands of hair straggled like lengths of shadow across his forehead. Every bone stood out, sharp and bleak, a blade to slice the darkened hollows. She shivered; glancing down at her book which was lying on the cobbles by his feet.

"There's the reason I'm so jumpy," she said, nodding at it.

He bent down to pick it up, glancing at the cover as he did so. He smiled slightly and nodded, as if this were what he had expected.

"And the way you crept up - I didn't hear you coming at all." Louise felt as though she was defending herself against potential accusations, which she knew, secretly, would never take shape. "You must be wearing rubber-soled shoes or something."

He laughed very softly; it was almost as if he were trying to stifle the sound.

"Not I, I'm afraid. I really don't have anything in common with the Ripper at all."

"I didn't know he wore rubber-soled shoes."

"Well, it's just a theory someone put forward, I can't remember who… perhaps it's in that book, later on."

Louise had to strain to catch what he was saying; his voice was very soft and he spoke quickly, as though in a hurry to expel the words from his mind, before it was too late.

"You must have started it though, if you're here looking for Bucks Row," he continued.

Louise studied him carefully.  She wasn't at all sure that she liked having her motives stripped instantly bare; it made her want to be as secretive as possible, to deliberately mislead the all-seeing stranger.  And yet, at the same time, she felt a strange intimacy with him, a trust that he did not deserve after such a short space of time.

"What makes you think I'm looking for Bucks Row?"

He didn't seem in the least concerned by her suspicion, but merely shrugged. 

"It seems obvious to me.  Why else would you be wandering around here reading a book about 'Jack'?"

"There could be other reasons, I could live here."

"Ah, but you don't, do you?"  He smiled slowly. "You live in Spitalfields, near Brick Lane market. Isn't that right?"

Louise stared; she looked around quickly, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "How… have you been following me?"

He laughed very softly, dropping his cigarette on the cobbles and grinding it beneath the heel of his black leather boot.

"Now, why would I want to follow you?"

"How do you know then?"

He shrugged again. "Lucky guess." He paused, looking around him carefully, as if he could see beyond the visible world. 

She felt infuriated by him and simultaneously fascinated. 

"You feel like that with some people, don't you think? On the same wavelength… there's some sort of connection there. You know what I mean, don't you?"

"I'm… not sure I do, really." She replied.

"Yes you do. You know exactly what I mean, I can see you do."

"You can see everything, can't you?" She said angrily.

He gazed at her, reaching inside his coat.  "Most things, it's my profession you see. I'm a Medium." He handed her a piece of black card with the words 'Guy Saint - Medium' written on it in elegant, flowing silver letters; underneath was an address on Shoreditch High Street. "It's nothing uncanny really. I just… certain people… I feel I know them already."

"I'm sure everyone feels that at one time or another," Louise put in, not wanting him to feel that he deserved special treatment.

"Oh, I'm sure they do." He paused, looking at her intently. "You yourself feel that now, don't you? With me?"

"Well…" She looked behind her briefly, at the boarded-up warehouse. "I suppose we have a mutual friend in common."

He smiled vaguely. "Do you mean 'Jack'? I wouldn't call him a friend… more a fascination."

"Well there's something we have in common."

He tutted impatiently, he seemed to be struggling to find the words to convey his meaning accurately. "No, it's something more than that. Some… I don't know some sort of capability you have, some link. Don't tell me you can't feel it. Though perhaps you don't realise it yet, you don't recognise what you can do. You'll remember this conversation one day and it'll all become clear to you, it'll all fit into place."

Louise looked down at her hands; they were clenched together so tightly in her lap that she could hear the bones creaking and complaining at the unfamiliar pressure. She felt exposed, a piece of paper turned inside out, folded along the dotted line. It was an unnerving experience, tinged with a fraying edge of danger, the distant click of a safety catch in a darkened room.

"There's much more to this than you - or I, for that matter - can understand yet.  But…" His voice trailed off as though he had lost the drift of what he was saying.

Louise waited for him to retrieve the thread, but he didn't. She cleared her throat carefully before speaking.

"I'm afraid I really don't know what you're on about at all," she said, shrugging. "It all sounds a bit mystical to me."

"Oh no, it's not mystical at all." Guy Saint almost spat out the words, curling the edges with the contempt it deserved. "Its a very real… change this, as real as you or I."

"Change? What do you mean?"

"I'm afraid that's all I know at the moment. This is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.  But look here…"

"Louise," she interrupted.

"Louise. Will you do something for me? Will you promise to come and see me… in future, if you ever need to speak to someone?" He looked at her directly, drawing a promise from her, she felt trapped, unable to look away.  "You've got my card. I just feel you may need someone to speak to soon…  someone who'll understand, or at least be sympathetic."

The lightless vacuum of his eyes drained her of power, sucking out her soul and absorbing the sense of her, draining her to the marrow so that she felt limp and weak. 

Guy Saint stepped towards her and took both the black card and her book from her hands.  She didn't resist. "Look, I'll put this here, I'm afraid you'll lose it," he said, placing the card between the pages of the book and giving it back to her.  "And I'd like to see you again, Louise, I feel very curious to find out… exactly what it is that we've been talking about." He laughed very quietly, "Perhaps then you'll be able to enlighten me."

She could only nod vaguely, then shrug, as if by the formation of the words she would commit herself to making an appointment she did not intend to keep.  Something would hold her to her promise; probably her own curiosity, for she was fascinated by Guy Saint.

"Well, it's been a most interesting conversation," he said taking another cigarette from his pocket.  He stood there, twirling it lightly between his fingers, as though he was wondering what to do with it. "I have to get back to work now.  I hope to see you again soon, I feel sure that I will. May I just…?"

Louise lit his cigarette for him. All her movements, she felt were slow and detached, as though she were existing underwater. She noticed as Guy Saint bent near to her that he had a neat scar running from just below his ear down beneath the collar of his coat. It was so carefully marked that it looked as though it had been painted on with make-up; the skin around it was as smooth as that of his hands, not puckered or blemished at all. Louise realised suddenly, that she was staring as she caught his eye, and looked at him quizzically. But he didn't answer the unspoken question, straightening up slowly and gazing around him as though trying to retrieve his baffled bearings.

"Anyway, keep in mind what I said." He began to hurry away towards the boarded-up building, which presumably would lead out onto Bakers' Row.

She watched him go feeling relieved and yet wishing he had been able to stay longer.  He walked fast, with his head down and his hands in his pockets, taking long-legged strides without effort so that he seemed to glide over the ground without actually touching the surface. She could feel his presence lingering next to her, long after he had gone. It was as if he had become separated from his shadow, by accident or by magic and had left it behind like an old raincoat, a slice of himself he had no further use for. She looked at the book in her hands, staring hard at the cover, trying to make it register in her mind as the same book she had picked up from her bedside table that morning. Everything felt strange and disjointed; something inside of her had slipped into a new gear, without her permission or even knowledge. She flicked through the pages of the book, pausing to re-examine the black card Guy Saint had left. She stared at the silver letters until she could see right through them, and distinguish faint outlines of what had gone just below the surface, peeling away secret layers to uncover clues, faint Hiroshima-like shadows, traces of the past. She closed the book slowly. Guy Saint - Medium would not disappear so easily, like the Ripper, he would leave traces in the atmosphere for years to come.

Now go to Chapter Three.

Killing Time - Chapter one

KILLING TIME

A novel by

NICOLA BATTY

Chapter One.

31st August, 1888 - Whitechapel, East London.

The whole of London is blanketed beneath a thick screen of fog. It’s not yellow, as it is in the paintings of Grimshaw, shrouding the filthy streets and the stinking Thames: but it’s transparent, darkened to the night and yet still there, a hazy aura to the senses. And through the senses he will work, he will feel. Smell the melting poppies as they hang suspended in the air, taste the sickly-sweet droplets as they permeate your skin and luxuriate there. The early hours are here and he stalks through the deserted streets of Whitechapel, his gleaming black hair plastered over his skull.

It’s just like the pictures you still see of him reproduced in crime or murder books - artists’ impressions, never photographs. He was always too quick, too stealthy, and too ephemeral to be captured by the lens of a camera. Between them he would have slid, leaving a red smear. It’s the legend he has created around himself that endures, and nothing more. He measures his footfalls with great care and deliberation, moving away from the Whitechapel Road and onto Bucks Row with a purpose hanging like a shredded cobweb before his eyes. So that the bloodhound’s vision is never clear, it’s always veiled by threads. He pauses at the corner, stroking his moustache with thin, nervous fingers. Through the fog and the darkness he can just see her. She stumbles against some iron railings further up the road as she walks away from him and she mutters something beneath her breath. The night and the fog together compress the sound so that it seems unreal – in this place, it does not belong.

She doesn’t hear his silent footsteps as he moves towards her, but leans against the only gas-lamp on the street, the light thrown over her like a robe. With her cheap straw-hat perched drunkenly on her head and her staggering gait, it’s easy for him to identify her as one of the thousands of East End prostitutes. The night is crowded with them, especially later, when they are being turned out of public houses and are searching for some doorway or lodging-house where they can spend the night, perhaps in exchange for sex. These women all look the same after so many years of degradation: their faces are always lined with hardship and gin, hardness and despair drawn deep into the wrinkles there, the toil, the continual struggle for survival. This woman is no different, no different at all. She clutches her shawl around her as though it were her last protection, leaning back against the lamppost. As he moves towards her, she raises her gaunt face up to the light, closing her eyes; he sees that her lips are moving silently and he wonders if she is praying or singing. The light accentuates the shadows of her face and he realises that she is old, perhaps past fifty. He knows that she cannot see him yet: he is still in the dark, she in the light. That straw bonnet she’s wearing looks new, it stands out against the other drab brown rags she’s got on. A gift from a soldier, perhaps? A payment for favours given?

Pausing in the shadows, he removes his heavy frock coat and drapes it over his arm. There are two reasons for his doing this; one becomes clear as he approaches Polly Nichols, moving suddenly into the light. He watches her blink her eyes and try to focus on him; he smiles at her as he approaches, making it obvious to her what his intentions are. She grins suddenly in return; here is the customer she has been waiting for! Her thoughts turn away from her broken marriage and lonely life with a jolt, she will not be sleeping on the streets tonight.

“Evenin’ Sir,” she says as he comes nearer and has already begun to hitch up her skirts as she walks towards him.

They are standing in a gateway leading into a yard now: this, he decides, is as good a place as any. He says nothing to Polly but touches her neck lightly, running his fingers over the scrawny surface, caressing her. She smiles and moves closer to him: she isn’t aware of anything in this long moment but the gentle sensation of skin on skin. He doesn’t smile back. The other hand still grips the knife hidden beneath his coat. His left hand transforms itself quite suddenly from a caress to a brutal pressure on her windpipe. Dropping the coat and knife onto the cobblestones, he frees his other hand to assist in the strangulation of Polly Nichols. Within two minutes she is dead. She puts up no struggle; indeed, she seems to surrender up her life to her attacker with complete indifference. He continues to force his fingers down on her throat, ensuring that the last breath is squeezed from her and she slumps against him. As he lays her body down on the cobblestones he throws down his coat and reveals the knife. Slashing her throat with the eight-inch long blade, not once but twice, he watches the blood spill from the wound and river along the gaps between the cobblestones. With half-closed eyes, he plunges the knife into Polly Nichols’ lower abdomen and brings it up over her hip, as though he were gutting a fish. Still not satisfied, he repeats the action, this time ripping his victim straight along the centre, splitting her into two halves. Then, kneeling beside the body, making sure that his own shadow doesn’t come between the gaslight and his work, he begins to disembowel her.

Afterwards, he stands up and looks at his bloodstained hands. He purses his lips slightly and clicks his tongue but makes no other sound to disturb the stillness of the night. His forearms right up to the elbows are smeared in blood and so is his shirt, although he had taken the precaution before he began his work, of rolling up his sleeves. However, it’s a dark night and there are so many slaughterhouses around Whitechapel anyway, that no one will remark on his appearance if they see him. He will simply be taken for one of the many night-workers from one of those abattoirs. He listens, listens for a sound, a stir, a movement in the darkness. There is only silence… a silence so complete that he wonders for a moment where he is, what brought him to this place? He holds the eight-inch blade in his hand and he stares at it without comprehension. It could be a toy and he a child wondering what to do with it.

Blood drips from the knife onto the upturned face of his victim: the unhurried motion of it brings him suddenly to his senses and he picks up his frock coat from the cobbles nearby and puts it on. He buttons it, concealing the crime within - now he can pretend he is a gentleman again. Crouching by the body of Polly Nichols, he plucks at the edge of her brown linen skirt, trying to find a comparatively clean area with which to wipe the blade. As he does this, he hears footsteps and voices. The silence gives them an uncanny quality, as though they were coming from inside his head. Straightening up quickly he can feel the sweat beginning to prickle on his upper lip. As he turns away, he notices his victims’ black straw hat has rolled a few feet away from her head and lies there in the gutter, upside down but undamaged, a finishing touch to this work of art. Thrusting both his hands and the knife into his pockets, the murderer hurries away in the opposite direction so that he will not have to pass whomever the footsteps and voices belonged to. He could not risk being remembered when the murder is discovered.

As he moves silently through the back streets of Whitechapel, he tries to keep his mind as blank as he can, an Augustan mask of innocence. Though it has been so hot all day, stiflingly hot, now the sky has been ripped open to allow through the cool air, the cold wind, the sharp edge of a knife-blade. The murderer glances around, disturbed by his metaphors, but he need not worry. He has the bland appearance of every middle-class male of this era. Added to this is the extraordinary passivity of his looks; this man appears not to have the feeling within him to drive him to any such livid action, but appearances can be deceptive. This man fears for his sanity. At times he is sure that he is mad.

He turns from the Whitechapel Road along Leman Street, heading towards the Victoria Embankment. He will be glad to leave both the stench and the oppressive poverty of the East End behind. Each breath is difficult to take without coughing, each lungful of air heavy and sick with factory fumes, industrial grime, human filth and waste. His own lodgings in the Temple area are a little further west, where the wealth is just beginning to show. He takes out his fob watch and looks at it. It’s past three in the morning and he longs for his bed. He should have time to snatch a few hours sleep before he gets up to go to Dorset to play in a cricket match tomorrow, then no one can possibly suspect him.

Turning his great, melancholy eyes to the sky, he gazes into the darkness above and around him. He tries to recall the events of the past hour to mind but it is impossible. It’s all a closed book to him now; he cannot even remember the face of the woman he has just killed. He thinks that these occurrences, these actions of his, that they have ushered in some massive, seasonal change… he thinks that they might signify the end of summer.

For the heat of August is wasting away and already autumn has begun.

Now go to Chapter two…

Killing Time - Introduction

KILLING TIME

A novel by

NICOLA BATTY

“… To kill time and pheasants and ‘ennui’ of not having quite set the world on fire as yet.” Oscar Wilde, from a letter to Reginald Harding, 28th November 1879.

This book is dedicated to my Dad, with love and thanks and to the South Manchester Writers’ Group. And of course, to the memories of Mr. Wilde and Mr. Ross.

Prologue.
If this is a garden, it's an enchanted one. I can't step into it. I teeter on the brink, scared to shatter the illusion. I crouch beneath an over-hanging leaf, a minute now, waiting for something to happen. I'm not the same person I used to be ten minutes ago. I feel weak before the intense light, the overpowering perfume of the flowers as they nod their heads at me and smile in unison. Lazy upon their beds they’re trying their best to stay awake, trying perhaps to live up to the unnatural brightness of their colours. There’s the sunflower, psychotic as its’ yellow petals will allow it to be; and there’s a green carnation, shot up suddenly from the earth, defying anyone to question its’ right to be there.

The air is thick and weighed down with scent. I blink my eyes sleepily. Still I dare not enter the garden, the enchanted garden. I’m like a voyeur crouching here, having left my real self at home in bed. I’m separate from myself, without intending to be, I’ve detached this piece from that and miraculously extended my personality, multiplying the layers one by one. I’m wrapped in tissue, not skin and you can peel away the surfaces but never reveal the inner core. Like a crystal, wearing a white pinafore, striped stockings and hair-band: strolling through the enchanted garden. I may meet with a large red chess-piece, and I will no doubt, be greatly intimidated by Her Majesty. But this after all, is just fancy. I prefer to crouch beneath the leaf and watch – or lie in my bed and dream. But if this is all a dream, it’s a very strange one. I don’t really think for a moment that I’m asleep. I feel like I’m an old photograph, faded brown background and frayed edges, a nameless individual, a housemaid perhaps, or a match-girl – or perhaps, something worse. An individual lost to memory but still alive - alive and still kicking.

But all this is separate from me, my head is on the pillow, and I seem to be sleeping. I blink, watching myself; a view from the top of the cupboard. How can these flowers smell so strongly and yet be somewhere else, not here at all? How can the exotic scent of them drug you like poppies and then wake you screaming? I would tell you to lie back, it’s only a dream, but somehow I doubt it. The poppies are melting and the blood drips onto my face as I wake. The old faded photograph is slashed to ribbons even as I watch: the knife leaping wildly, with a life of its own, through the paper, through the garden, through exposed flesh. The poppies are melting and I wake screaming.
Now go to Chapter One...