Three Hours Ago

It had been a struggle to get to sleep, that much is certain. My girlfriend, a nurse, had been called out on an emergency just as we were going to sleep. Her sudden exit had naturally disturbed the bastard cat; his playful antics keeping up for several hours.

My sleep had been restless; I kept hearing screams of terror and of pain. This was not unusual as I did, and still do, suffer from horrendous nightmares. It was a night of constant tossing and turning followed by the usual clock watching; 3am, 4am, 4.10am and long into the morning.

As usual I was eventually rewarded with oblivion at around 6am. I believe my mobile woke me up ten minutes later.

It was Deacon and he sounded winded, as if someone had crushed him against a wall and forced all of the air out of his lungs. His voice, usually strong and clear, was reduced to that of an elderly whisper. Getting on in years he may have been, but elderly? Certainly not.
He tried to explain to me over the phone but we both agreed that it would be better if we spoke face to face.

I am not a morning person.

Pulling myself out of bed, getting dressed and out of the flat was almost impossible for me before midday. However, for Deacon I would do almost anything and ignoring the need for coffee, a shave and breakfast I forced myself up and out and was walking down the central stairwell when I bumped into a copper who had been sent to fetch me.

Of course, it was Christmas Day, wasn’t it? No buses or trains.

I sat in the back of the police car, at the insistance of the miserable driver, and rolled a cigarette whilst pondering what could have possibly knocked the usually steady Deacon off course like that…

Many theories went through my mind, along with several irritating Christmas songs, that would all prove to be incorrect.

I asked the officer driving if he minded that I smoke in the back seat and I met his eyes in the rearview mirror and he simply shook his head. My thoughts returned to Deacon.

The car travelled through the empty streets of London; through Kensington and passing by the deserted Earl’s Court tube station until we sailed over the Thames on Chelsea bridge and slowed outside Battersea Park where a large collection of police stood in their uniforms.

At first I was not terribly alarmed until I saw the van in which the men in white sat, carefully pulling on their gloves and masks. As the car stopped I forced myself out of the car and began to desperately search for Deacon, my eyes darting from face to face until I saw a dark figure standing on his own wearing a long black coat and a trilby, his hands digging deep into his pockets.

As I approached he looked up and smiled weakly. I wished him Merry Christmas, but quickly realised that this was the last thing on a mind that had already been exhausted by the morning’s events. His eyes spoke of sadness, horror and disappointment and I followed him as he entered the park through the police tape and began walking toward the tennis courts. I finally had my cigarette.

Keeping up with Deacon when he walked was always difficult for me, but on that morning he was really pushing it. In the end I gave up and started to jog embarassingly beside him. I asked him what I was being taken to see but he simply mumbled
” I don’t really know what to say right now; it is best you see it for yourself”

He led me to a small police tent in the park just off from the tennis courts in the middle of a foot path. A modest collection of police guarded it and stood like sentinals, nodding in silent greeting to us as we arrived. I regarded the surroundings and noted that this was the spot where the Battersea fireworks were held each year. I also noticed a smell in the air, but was pulled off the scent when Deacon gripped my arm.

” In here. You need to see this.” And with that he removed his trilby revealing his white cropped hair and went inside with myself closely behind.

There she was.
A young girl, who couldn’t possibly have been older than sixteen, naked and sprawled in an un-natural position with frost clinging to her hair and eye brows.

I stared at her frozen corpse and took it all in. All the details. The way the colour had been drained from her skin as though the artist had run out of paint as they reached the end. The way that her eyes were still searching for that last image of hope to take in, and the way that her mouth still hung open, her empty scream riding on her final breath stuck in her throat.

This scene reminded me of something that I had seen before that I had forgotten about until this moment. A man lying on his side, foetus-like, one arm reaching out for something in the same desperate way that this girl was. A giant pool of blood surrounded them both; flooding from the stab wounds in the girl and from the nasal passageways in the man’s head.

The feeling I had upon seeing these images was the same in both cases. I felt unbelievable horror, the like of which can never be expressed. There was so much blood and oh, how it stretched and grew in its relentless journey across the tarmac.

Now I knew why Deacon had not wanted to talk about it. How could he? How could anyone? Not then, not at that moment.

“How long?” I asked the man in white going solo crouched down beside on the opposing side of the tent.

” Three hours tops.” He replied without looking up.

Only three hours ago this beautiful young girl had had her entire life ahead of her. Her body worked, functioned, loved. Her brain contained memories, complex memories, feelings, desires. She housed secrets that no one will ever know.

” Do you see this?” Deacon pointed. The girl’s stomach had been sliced open and to even my untrained eye it appeared that organs were missing. It turned out that I was correct and that several vital organs had been removed; which organs in particular no one could be certain until an autopsy.

” Do we know who she is?” I remember saying this in particular as everyone corrected me bluntly by saying ‘Don’t you mean; who she was?’

Deeply shocked I took one last look at her tortured face and left the tent to get some air. I felt sick, but as Deacon told me later; in today’s world should we expect anything less?

I stood in the fresh Christmas morning air and imagined all of the little children opening their stockings and how happy they would be. I also knew that out there, somewhere was a family about to wake up and not know where their daughter was.

I dispaired. I could only imagine the horror she must have gone through in those final moments.

I heard her voice on the wind and although her voice was silenced, I could hear her.
She did not speak in words, only in feelings. She told me that she knew something that no one else did – she knew who had done this.

I am afraid that this is all I have the stomach for this evening. I will write more when the inspiration takes me.

RDK