Playing Dead: Book One of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 15

I had the vague sensation of being carried, but any hope I had of being carried on the back of angel wings to the illustrious heavenly gates was soon quashed when I felt the hard, unforgiving jolt of being transported up a number of steps. Everything was still dark which made me believe I was still dead, obviously in limbo and my soul being taken to whichever final destination I deserved. The fact that I could not feel the velvet touch of angel wings upon my skin nor could I hear the sweet soothing song of the Heavens, made me realise that I was probably not skywards-bound, yet why did I feel as if these steps were ascending, not descending? Maybe I had escaped the Underworld after all.

Finally, whoever or whatever was carrying me put me down and I could feel some kind of very cold, smooth hard surface under my skin. A squeaking noise, like metal grating on metal and a muffled clanking sound coming from somewhere above piqued my interest but not enough to force open my eyelids which felt fused together. I didn't even want to open them. It seemed easier this way.

Suddenly a strong gushing sound, quickly followed by a freezing cold blast that slammed into my skin sent my body into motion and my eyes flew open; the pain of a searing bright light ripping into my irises. Icy water gushing from a large limescale-covered shower-head beat down upon me and I tried to scramble away from lying directly under the spray, my knees and hands slipping out from under me, my body flailing against the chipped porcelain.

"No you don't," said a voice.

Harper.

I blinked through the water that poured down my face, droplets weighing down my eyelashes and blurring my vision. He advanced towards me, a black shape against a stark white background and, climbing into the bathtub, he grabbed hold of me and held me under the freezing spray. I struggled in his grasp, scratching at his arms and kicking out with my legs, trying to get some leverage on the edge of the tub so I could push myself backwards.

Unfortunately, the fact that I had 'died' recently hadn't done me any favours and my body just wasn't ready to fight him. No matter how hard I fought, the firmer he held me in place and I received the full force of the water and had to content myself with the fact that he was clearly getting a good soaking himself. He pressed his mouth to my ear.

"You might be happy to stink of your own filth, but I'm sick of having to smell you. If I give you the soap, will you clean yourself or am I going to have to do that as well?"

I shook my head, petrified at the thought of him touching me and I wasn't about to let him humiliate me even more by having him wash me as if I were nothing but a kid.

"Good," he hissed. "Now when I let go, you don't try to run. You stand here and you clean yourself, or I swear I'll fucking throw you back down in the basement where you can live in your own disgusting mess again."

Terror rippled through me. I didn't want to go back there. I couldn't go back into the dark.

He reached around me and placed a small bar of soap in my hand and then slowly, warily, stepped out of the tub. If I had any hope that he might leave, it was quickly destroyed when I saw that he intended to stand right next to the bath, his arms folded across his chest and watching me intently.

"Go on then," he demanded, his emerald eyes emanating something very close to disgust as he looked at me.

Swallowing, I turned slightly so that my back was to him and began to lather up the soap and tried to rid my body of all the dirt and filth encrusted on my skin; so very conscious that the whole time Harper was standing right behind me, his eyes never leaving me for a second. As I washed, I was surprised to see there was barely a mark upon me, despite the fact the water swirled red and brown around my feet, the residue of old blood and whatever muck I had lain in. Frowning, I surreptitiously examined my skin as I washed, not wanting Harper to see as I searched for cuts, bruises and grazes, yet all I found was mere traces of surface damage, a slight yellowing of the skin here or there, but nothing to prove the ordeal he had put me through. The only one that seemed to still exist was the one on my collarbone. Just how long had I been 'dead' for?