Playing Dead: Book One of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 35

Standing on the landing outside Brandon's office, I took deep gulps of air, breathing out pure rage and adrenalin-filled excitement, having found the one thing I never thought I would and much more that I had never expected nor wanted. The clock was ticking that much I knew but instead of walking towards the stairs, I found myself on automatic, almost sleep-walking towards our room. Their room.

Bracing my arms against the doorway, I closed my eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by their scent, so thick and suffocating as it laboured the air with a heavy sense of their presence. I could see them here, bodies entwined and panting like beasts, the headboard banging so hard into the wall that it had damaged the plaster. And underneath it all there was a smell that made the hair on my neck prickle with fear, the sweat of the Varúlfur, like damp dog but so much worse that I convulsed and had to clutch a hand over my mouth to stop myself from vomiting out my terror onto the cream carpet. I vaguely wondered if they had ever transformed into their true selves here, like wild, nightmarish hounds somehow misplaced against a perfectly-pristine cream suburban backdrop.

When I opened my eyes, I looked around my old room, staring at the crumpled bed linen that Brandon always insisted was immaculately pressed and yet now remained unmade with the sheets trailing onto the floor. I stepped into the fray, noting Clara's things on the dresser. All my things were gone but I noticed a huge bottle of perfume sitting centre place and I remembered having one just like it. Picking it up, I held it to my nose, breathing in the floral scent, before grimacing and with a howl of rage I threw it as hard as I could across the room, where it hit the wall and smashed, sending splatters of sickly fragrance onto the pillows.

Stalking over to my old wardrobe, I threw open the doors, almost pulling them off their hinges and saw her clothes where mine had once been. I snarled and began ripping them off hangers and throwing them around the room, not caring when I heard the tear of fabric and the odd button flying here or there. Underneath, squashed into the bottom of the wardrobe were two very full and overflowing black dustbin bags. I tugged them out, noting the familiar garments, all my things, my clothes, stuffed into rubbish bags. Discarded. Forgotten. Unwanted.

Quickly, I wrenched open the doors of Brandon's wardrobe, sweeping his expensive designer suits out of the way until I found the very thing I needed. His old set of golf clubs still sat in the corner of his closet and I grabbed one club, gripping it by the hilt and feeling the weight in my hand. In a frenzy, I began flying around the room, screaming in fury as I swept everything I could onto the floor. All her things. All his things. Nothing was left untouched. Like a hurricane, I destroyed everything in my path. I pulled out drawers and emptied the contents onto the floor, smashing the empty compartments against the walls and watching them splinter and disintegrate. I stamped cosmetics into the carpet, hearing the sound of bottles cracking under my feet. I pulled the television off the wall, launching it into the en-suite where it hit the shower screen and dissolved it into a thousand tiny razor sharp pieces. I screamed. I wailed. And when I was done, I stood in the middle of the devastated room and stared into the mirror, noting the banshee that glared back at me, her eyes wild and face contorted with pure darkness. With the damaged bedside lamp flickering and sparking through its torn shade, the flashes of light illuminated the shadows as they danced around the room, writhing and whirling, twisting and turning and I howled, before lifting the club high in the air behind me and sweeping it round in an arc. With a resounding crash it made contact slap bang in the centre of the glass and shattered it, sending cracks across its surface before the whole thing collapsed.

Now I really was done.

*******

I ran down the stairs, still dragging the club alongside me and reaching the front door, I opened it to find one of them walking up the steps, uttering something into his mobile phone. It was raining now, heavy pregnant drizzle so incessant that it could drench you in minutes so his head was down but I recognised him immediately as one of the trainee lawyers from Walter and Noble; a smarmy arrogant pup called Rick who hung on Brandon's every word and who would laugh too loudly at all his jokes in a way that used to make even Brandon cringe. We'd met at one Christmas function a couple of years back when he'd done his best to ingratiate himself with me, standing a little too close to my side all night, his fake smile almost as overpowering as his rank aftershave.