The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (17 page)

— twelve —

T
he following day at noon, I had an appointment with Professor Rowlands — superintendent of Guy’s, and a reporter from
The
Times
. I dreaded this moment of making a show of myself. And I dreaded the upcoming article, which surely would have little to do with what I would say during a predictably interminable interview. Unfortunately, the one reporter turned out to be three, who seemed to proliferate during the course of the day.

It was very late when I finally left the hospital grounds. Three months of hard work with close to no sleep were taking their toll — my head was aching badly and I felt sick to the bone.
 

My way home seemed endless today and several times I almost lost my orientation. Eventually, I made it into the small chamber at Bow Street. Lying flat on my stomach, I rested my head on the cold floor and fought the urge to puke. When I felt a little better, I got up to replace my trousers with a dress and headed home.

When I slowly walked down Bow Street, trying to avoid puddles of half-melted snow and mud, I spotted a group of young men. They were strangers to me and eyed me with curiosity. I searched the street for a familiar face, someone who could greet me, prove that I’m at home here and not worth mugging — or worse.

All I saw of my neighbours were a number of dark heaps on the pavement — so drunk from gin I didn’t even consider approaching them. I crossed the street to increase the distance between the men and me. Six, my mind registered. I stood no chance. The moment they set their legs in motion, my blood began to holler in my ears.

Upon reaching the corner of Endell and Wilson, I panicked. The streets were empty and the footfalls behind me quickened. Memories of the rape pushed themselves into my pelvis. I almost fainted, which annoyed and shocked me enough to wake me from the victim’s stupor. I dashed into Broker’s Alley and raced as fast as I could, trying to picture a forest around me to make me feel safer or more self-assured. The icy rain drove needles into my face and my feet slammed through ankle-deep puddles.

The clopping of their boots on cobblestones got louder, closer. Despair cut my breath short. A hand grabbed my coat and I was thrown onto the street. For a moment, I thought how ironic it would be to drown in a puddle somewhere in London after having crossed the vast Atlantic twice. Almost amused, I realised that they wanted to steal my shoes and coat, while ignoring the purse with my money in it.

Then, something hit me on the back of my head; the world began to squeal silently. The boys’ shouts were dull throbs and the night turned from a dark grey into screaming red and orange. I could see only flashes of the things happening around me. Someone punched my face and abdomen, but the pain came with delay and felt oddly harmless. The tugging on my clothes and shoes didn’t matter much to me.

The screeching of a tortured steam engine reached my ears and I saw a familiar face — a bear of a man with flaming orange hair sent the boys flying. Curiously, the street and I seemed to be melting into a glutinous and sore mass, with the cold pinching ground and flesh into one. Then I flew, too. It took me a while to realise that someone had picked me up and carried me away.

I saw his lips moving, his face glistening. Was there fear in his eyes? My vision was limited and I had the feeling of looking through a narrow tunnel. I meant to speak, but couldn’t hear myself making a sound.
 

Garret had brought me to a place that was unfamiliar to me. He laid me down and my ribcage hurt as he did so.
 

Gradually, my senses returned. I noticed the cold, wet cloth wiping my face. The back of my head was throbbing badly. I managed to get my right hand up there and pain shot through my chest. I touched the raw mess just above my neck. My fingers pushed and probed, but no bones seemed to shift; fracture of the skull wasn’t likely. The knowledge relieved me greatly until I noticed that my hand was covered in blood.

‘Garret?’ I mumbled. ‘My head? Look. No touching.’

He turned me gently onto my side. I heard him breathing and it took a long minute before he turned me back again. His face was a mask. ‘You need a surgeon.’

‘Don’t know one.’

‘Don’ ya act like a maggot, Anna, or I’ll eat yer head off!’ he barked at me. I flinched and dimly remembered that he always got angry when he felt helpless.

‘You’re a nurse, you have colleagues,’ he added apologetically.

I could not think, could not come up with an excuse.

‘Will fix it myself. Jus’ let me sleep.’

My bones and my head felt so heavy, I started wondering why the bed frame didn’t give in. Was there even a bed frame? Garret kept talking to me, but I did not hear much of it. But then an idea crept into my brain. ‘Watson! Dr John Watson, Garret, get John Watson.’

‘Is he at Guy’s?’

‘No! No, Baker Street. 221B.’

Garret pressed my hand and disappeared from view.

Deep sleep carried me away.

Someone touched the raw spot on the back of my head and I woke up to the pain that followed suit.

‘You have a serious concussion and at least two broken ribs. I’m not sure about further internal damage, but your head wound needs several stitches.’

That sounded like Watson. I forced my eyes open and saw three men peering down at me: Garret, Watson, and Holmes.

‘Go away,’ I mumbled. Great tiredness was tugging on my eyelids and all I wanted was peace.

Someone turned me onto my side and began fingering my head. I desperately hoped that Watson knew what he was doing. A hand holding a cup filled with a milky white liquid appeared in front of my face — opium.

‘No!’ I squeezed out of my dry mouth and pushed the cup away. Only few things could scare me as much as losing control over a chemical substance. I noticed the bristly hair on Watson’s hesitating hand, the two cracks at the corners of his thumbnail, the cup that looked familiar. Someone muttered words I didn’t understand, then the hand disappeared.

After a moment, I heard the
snip snip
of scissors – my hair was being cut off around the wound. Then the clucking sound of liquid pouring out of a small bottle, followed by a sharp pain, told me that Watson was disinfecting the back of my head.
 

Then it felt as though he had pulled my scalp off when he joined the loose flaps of skin and stitched me up again. Desperate not to cry out, I grabbed the hand that was the closest, squeezed it with as much force as I could muster, and pushed it hard against my forehead.

After an endless time of sewing, Watson wrapped my head in bandages. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow.’

‘Hmm…’ I answered, noticing a slender hand slipping out of mine.

Two days later, I stood in front of the small glass that hung on the wall of Garret’s room. It had taken me the best part of yesterday to remember that I had been here many times before. I was utterly shaken and worried about possible brain injuries and after-effects.

I held a glass shard in my hand to examine the back of my head. The bald patch there was as ugly as a scorched forest. The black thread Watson had sewn into my scalp stuck out of the bruised skin. It looked like a barbed wire fence in a battlefield.

I got a pair of scissors and started cutting the dishevelled fringes, but soon noticed that this alone wouldn’t do. So I snipped all my black curls off and was left with something that resembled more the haircut of a lice-infested street arab than that of a somewhat orderly adult. Feeling tired, extremely ugly, and unwomanly, I dropped my tools into the washbasin.

Heavy footsteps announced Garret’s return just before he knocked on the door.

‘For Christ’s sake, Garret, will you come in? This is
your
room.’

He rumbled through the door, slammed it shut, and slithered to a halt, his mouth hanging open.

‘I know,’ I said and turned away.
 

He stepped closer and wrapped his big arms around my chest.
 

‘Anna,’ he whispered with an intensity that made my skin go bumpy. I just stood there with my arms hanging limply down my sides, trying to swallow that dry clump of despair that wouldn’t go down.
 

Garret turned me around and pressed his face into the stubble on my head and told me that I was beautiful. Wrapped up in that bear of a man — who had always been honest with me, but whom I had never told who I really was — I began hating myself with all my might.
 

For a long moment, he held me tight, then pushed himself away a little to caress my face with his rough hands and fit his mouth on my beaten-up lips.

— thirteen —

I
went back to my own room only a few hours later. The moment I closed the door behind me, the realisation hit that I had jeopardised my own future.
 

For three days I had been sick in bed — Garret’s bed, to be precise. Colleagues may have wanted to contact me, perhaps to wish me a quick recovery, or to enquire about my return to Guy’s. To make matters worse, I was a celebrity now, or close to. I had made a grave mistake by giving 24 Bow Street as my official address. If anyone had tried to visit, they would have been puzzled to find my tiny dressing chamber above the cobbler’s.

I lay down on my bed to rest a few minutes and, after a moment’s consideration, priorities for today were set: finding an apartment and going to the barber. A new apartment for my life as Dr Anton Kronberg, criminal bacteriologist, might be necessary soon anyway.

I walked to Bow Street and rested for a while before changing into Anton. A barber wasn’t far from there and it felt odd watching him work. With my hair cropped so short, I looked like a man no matter how I dressed. In a way, it was advantageous. Yet it felt like giving up too much of my female identity, and that hurt.

After spending a good part of the day reading advertisements in papers and riding cabs through half of London, I finally found a small place in Tottenham Court Road. It was walking distance from my dressing chamber, which might be useful in case I hastily needed a hiding place.
 

In the evening, I sent a wire to Guy’s, announcing my return to work the following day. It was probably too early, if I asked my head, but it could also be rather urgent if I wanted to avoid exposure.