Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (13 page)

Still
distracted, it was all too easy to clamber and jump and run over
the rooftops until I stopped on exactly the same roof I had that
morning. I peered down, angling my head to the side as I stared at
the house across the street. The child's name was Jennifer
Fairmont, or so Vanessa had told me.

It didn't
matter. Regardless of her name, regardless of her status,
regardless of who her father was, she had been a target of Doctor
Elliot Esquire. She was suitable, though she did not know it, and
doubtless could not comprehend what that horrendous word meant.

Realising I
was overthinking things, I brought my hands up, locking them over
the fringe of my shawl, and securing my fingers tight against my
chest.

I knew I
should turn around, head back home, and do as Vanessa suggested,
and take the night off. Yet I could not turn from that spot.

Or at least I
did not turn until I heard something.

Thoughts ran
through my mind, clogging my awareness like fog, thick and heavy
and impenetrable. From Lord Ridley to the child Elizabeth to Doctor
Esquire’s new plans, I had no clarity.

But that noise
managed to get my attention.

I snapped my
head around.

Breathing? A
heartbeat? The sense of somebody close?

I shifted
forward slightly, the move careful and prowling, like a lioness. I
could even hear my own muscles and bones creaking under the
effort.

I heard it
again. A muffled breath, the sound of movement, however slight.

I paled, in a
snap. Taking another step, I angled my head to the side. I saw
it.

The shadow,
and more to the point, the man that cast it. He was crouched low on
a rooftop three buildings away, and he had his head directed at
me.

I froze.

A part of me
did not know want to do.

I had been
sprung.

As I paused,
he pushed himself up. Clearly he realised that he had been sprung
also.

As my eyes
narrowed in, adjusting to the night and its darkness with ease, I
suddenly recognised who he was. The very same man from last night.
The one with the handsome face and the trim moustache, the one who
had chased me through the alleyways.

That moment of
recognition was all it took; I managed a solid step backwards,
preparing to turn.

‘
Wait,’ he said, a deep Scottish brogue touched with the veneer
of an English accent rang out sharp and clear.

I waited.

I did not know
why. There was no reason to. I had no idea how long he had been
hiding there, and I had no idea how much he had seen. Had he
watched as I had confidently and calmly walked and run and jumped
my way across the roofs? Had he sat there the entire time that I
had stood and stared across the street at Jennifer Fairmont's
house?

‘
I need to speak to you,’ he tried.

Speak?

I doubted
that.

Though his
voice wavered with a note of nerves, he quickly repeated his
statement, taking a gruff cough as he did. ‘I must speak with
you.’

No.

I had already
waited long enough. I had already risked too much.

I turned on my
heel and I headed to the gutter before me.

I did not
pause.

I jumped
off.

We were three
stories up, but that did not bother me. A short jump compared to
what I was accustomed to.

I heard him
make a noise, and I knew it was a gasp, deep and rattling.

I quickly
landed.

Then I
ran.

As fast as I
could. I hit the street, and navigated my way back to the alleyways
I knew best.

I would keep
to the ground for now, but when I was confident that I had put
enough distance between us, I would go back to the rooftops. And
once on the roofs, I would head back home.

This had been
a mistake. I should never have left home. Now I had possibly given
a London's citizen reason to believe in the Twincy Quinn legend.
What was more, whoever the man was behind me, I was now confident
he was following me. He had been lying in wait, after all.

. . . .

How? And why?
Had he seen me before? Had he taken Lord Ridley's tale literally,
and concluded from it that if a woman who ran across rooftops had
kidnapped Elizabeth Fairmont, then it would be a fair bet that if
he staked out the roof from across her house, he would be able to
glimpse Twincy Quinn?

It didn't
matter.

I had to get
away.

So I did.
Quick and staying low to the ground, my back hunched over, but my
body controlled, and hopefully looking nothing like the sick walk
of a suitable, I made my way toward the alleyways I knew best.

As I did, my
heart beat faster, my breath unusually sharp and short.

Because
somebody was after me.

. . . .

It would take
a long time for that simple fact to settle in. The somebody behind
me, the man with the moustache, was not Doctor Elliot Esquire,
neither was he Ridley, and neither was he a suitable. He was
somebody else. Somebody to add to the growing list of men and
creatures that chased me.

All I could do
for now was run.

So that is
what I did.

Michael F.
Stanford

I couldn't
believe it.

I jerked up,
taking a powerful step forward, my feet practically slipping on the
slate. I couldn't help myself. I had called out to her, she had
paused, turned, and just jumped off the roof.

Right off the
roof.

I hadn't seen
a rope, I hadn't seen a ladder. All I had seen was that woman in
that light coloured dress with the dark shawl tucked tightly over
her head. And I had seen her throw herself off the roof of the
three-storey building.

I'd shouted
out, but I hadn't heard anything. No response.

No scream.

Desperate, I
ran forward.

The roof I was
on was separated from her roof by a four feet.

Once upon a
time I hadn't been such a bad long jumper. I had been a rather
unruly teenager, after all.

But this was
madness.

Yet my heart
racing and my mind whirling, I jumped it.

It wasn't a
perfect jump.

I hit the
guttering, my hands scrabbling, my legs kicking over the edge.

I heard
something rip out from the wall. That something was the very thing
I was holding onto.

There was a
moment. A moment where my eyes pressed open as wide as they could,
the skin at the corners so tight and taught it could have
ripped.

Then the
guttering gave way. It pulled from the roof and sent me down with
it.

It was all too
quick to let out a scream, plus the sound of the metal being jerked
from the wall was loud and ringing.

I plunged
towards the ground.

Though not
that quickly. I still held onto the gutter with two desperate,
white-knuckled hands, and thankfully the section I was gripping
onto for dear life didn't peel away completely. Instead the whole
guttering ripped off in a great big line.

It sent me
down to the ground.

Fast, but not
fast enough to kill me.

When I hit the
cobbled alleyway below, I rolled, just as I had been trained to do.
Hardly letting myself land on my feet, I quickly pitched to the
side and absorbed the force of the fall.

Chunks of the
gutter fell around me, and while some slammed into my back, they
were not big enough to do any lasting damage.

Instinctively
I jumped up to my feet.

I was a mess
of adrenaline. My heart beat too fast to count, my breath came in
one long pant, and sweat now caked my brow and hands.

I took a
shuddering step backwards, looking at the gutter, then tipping my
head back to look at the roof three stories above.

I was buzzing.
My whole body, from my hands to my arms to my legs to my cheeks,
felt trapped by constant tingles.

Then I quickly
pushed a hand over my face, forcing my fingers through my very
short hair.

And then I
also forced myself to turn.

Because a
flash of that woman's face, her form, and the sight of her jumping
off the roof came to mind.

Though it was
hard, I pushed into a jog. My legs felt stiff, and there was a
great shiver escaping across my back, accompanied by a nervous,
fast, cold sweat.

I ignored
it.

I now pushed
myself into a full run. As fast as I could. And as I used my legs
and arms some of that horrible tingling left me. In its place
determination poured in.

I knew these
streets well; I had always made a point of going through every
single alleyway, lane way, side-street, and main road. I wouldn't
say I knew them like the back of my hand, but close enough.

So I quickly
made my way in front of the building.

I didn't know
what I expected to see.

Would she be
there on the pavement? A mess of a shawl and a lacy dress?

Blood
splattered over the walls and the fabric of her clothes?

Or would she
be broken, crawling along?

Or perhaps she
would simply not be there at all.

As those
thoughts chased their way into my mind, playing havoc with my
imagination, I finally reached it.

The street in
front of the three-storey building she had been atop.

I couldn't
breathe as I ran around in front of it.

I could barely
think.

But at least I
could see.

But I couldn't
see her.

Still
desperate, I checked around the other side of the building.

Nothing.

Then I turned
sharply on my foot, searching out across the road, for any sign of
blood, for any sign of a crippled human being.

Nothing.

There was
nothing.

I took a
breath finally, and it was a shuddering, choking one. It seemed to
rip its way through my already tightened and closed off throat.
Planting a hand to the top of my chest, I coughed sharply. But not
once did I blink. I straightened, forcing myself to take several
steps forward, as I scanned and surveyed the street again.

This . . . this was impossible. Where was
she?

Turning over
my shoulder and tipping my head back up slowly, I stared at the
rooftop above.

I had to
confirm to myself how high it was.

Far too high
for somebody to jump off and survive.

So where was
that woman?

There was no
sign of her. No scrap of fabric, no single drop of blood.

Nothing.

Taking a jerky
step backwards, I brought my hands up, and pushed them over my
face, my fingers stiffening as I let them track over my head and
down my neck. Hooking them onto my shoulders, I shook my head. It
was a desperate, almost pathetic move. Yet I couldn't help it.

This didn't
make sense.

Where was
she?

Where was
she?

Realising I
couldn't stay there staring at the building forever, I took another
step back, and soon found myself almost falling into the
gutter.

That would be
when I heard something.

The creak of
wood and metal.

A window
opening.

I turned.

Instinctively
my head rose to the Fairmont building across the street, and more
importantly, up to the third-floor bedroom window of Jennifer.

There was a
figure. A small one. And unless my eyes deceived me, which was
entirely possible in this poor light, they were wearing a pink,
frilly nightgown.

Jennifer.

I fancied she
made eye contact with me. I couldn't tell. But that did not stop
her from bringing an arm out and pointing down the street.

Then she
leaned forward, and I could see her twist her head behind her for a
single moment. ‘Don't hurt her, don't hurt her.’

Her little
voice rang out across the street.

It was a
relatively silent night, or at least it had been before I had taken
to a spot of guttering—if that were a descriptive enough
term—earlier. Nonetheless, I could hear her easily. In fact, the
sound of her little voice echoing out was enough to send tight
shivers escaping across my already cold and sweaty back.

Before I could
say anything in reply, I saw Jennifer turn sharply, and fancied I
could hear someone speaking to her. Most likely her father.

It was time to
leave.

And as I did I
deliberately walked in the direction away from which Jennifer had
pointed.

It was clear
the child had seen Twincy, and quite obviously the child did not
want me to track her down. When she had made a sweep of her hand,
pointing across the street, she had intended it as subterfuge.

It took me a
while, but again I forced myself into a jog, and then a run. Part
of me knew how stupid and useless this was. If that woman, Twincy
Quinn, if Lord Ridley was to be believed, had honestly survived,
she had already achieved a good start.

Yet,
bizarrely, that didn't stop me, and it could not still my feet as
they ran frantically over the cobbled street.

It took me
several hours to give up. Several rather frantic, desperate hours,
that saw me survey all of London, searching for that elusive twirl
of fabric in the night.

I did not see
her.

Yet tomorrow
would be a new day.

Making it home
in the middle of the night, dejected and still thoroughly confused,
I finally forced myself to go to bed.

Though one
image and one image alone commanded my mind as I closed my
eyes.

The picture of
her jumping off the roof. Angling her head toward me for those few
precious seconds, then turning and leaping forward into nothing but
thin air.

Several times
during the night I woke up in a cold sweat, head jerking to the
side as my eyes blinked open and I stared at the ceiling.