Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (27 page)

Yet it was
small enough that I could appreciate how close she was.

She stopped
and she stared at me, though she did not face me in full. She
merely shifted her head over her shoulder to glance my way. What
she was thinking, I couldn't tell, though I desperately,
desperately wanted to.

‘
Tell me, tell me who you are,’ my throat was dry, and my words
came out as a croak, but I pushed them out nonetheless.

She merely
shook her head.

Though she did
not speak, and though her words did not ring out full of passion,
that simple shake of her head was possibly the most powerfully
poignant move she could have made in that moment.

It made me
feel sick. Sick to my stomach. And the reason it made me nauseous,
was not simple frustration. I was not irritated at having chased
her all the way here, only to find she was less than willing to
answer my questions.

It was the
sense I got of her as she shook her head. She was trapped. In more
ways than one. Not only did she have nowhere to run now, but as I
looked at her expression and I appreciated the raw emotion denting
her brow and clutching her eyes open wide, I realised she was a
woman with nowhere to go.

And then I
heard something.

Something
filtering up from the stairs far below. A slow and methodical
thump. But a particularly heavy one. I knew it was heavy, for I
could hear the stairs groaning, what was more, I was almost certain
I could feel the floor I was standing on shake.

‘
What on earth?’ I began

‘
I'm sorry,’ she suddenly said.

I snapped my
head back to her.

‘
Tell me,’ I tried.

She shook her
head, and took a step back. As she did, she stepped in line with a
section of the wall that was almost entirely open to the elements
outside. An enormous gust of wind raced in, and it took to her
skirts, blowing them up and around her knees and ankles.

She didn't
grab a hand at her dress, and neither did she clutch her fingers to
her bonnet to keep it secure. She simply rested her hands by her
sides.

She locked me
with a dead-eyed look, and took another step back.

‘
Wait, please, I can help you,’ I finally managed. The words
were out of my mouth before I realised what they honestly meant.
How could I, in good conscience, promise to help this woman? If
official sources were to be believed, she was responsible for the
crime I was tracking down. I should not promise to help her; I
should promise to clap her in irons, and deliver her to the gallows
myself. Yet I could not retract the statement. For I knew, deep
down, that so much more was going on here. Though it was all too
easy to blame Twincy, it did not feel right.

Of every
interaction I’d had with her so far, she did not fit well with the
image of the true criminal in my mind.

‘
Please,’ I began. Yet I stopped.

The reason I
stopped was that footfall rang out louder and louder.

Someone was
ascending the stairs.

Glancing back
at the stairway behind me, then turning sharply to Twincy, I caught
her expression. Fear washed over it, exquisite and easily
observable. In a moment of empathy, it reached into my own stomach,
and seemed to send nerves shooting down my back.

As a
detective, and as a soldier in the army, I had seen people express
fear: I had seen people preparing for death, I had seen people lose
loved ones, I had seen both women and men return home to find their
lives shattered. Sometimes it affected you, sometimes it didn't. If
you were effective, you grew a thick skin, and you allowed yourself
to detach from others' problems.

Well right now
my thick skin was not working. Because it was as if I felt her fear
like it were my own.

Thump, thump,
thump. That heavy footfall neared with every second, and its beat,
strong and drum-like, appeared to mirror my heart as it ricocheted
around my chest.

She took
another step back, her high heels clicking against those creaking
floorboards.

Again I
shifted my face towards her in a snap.

‘
There is no way you can help me, because you do not know what
you are up against,’ with that, she turned.

At first I
didn't understand what she was going to do.

Then reason
caught up with me.

She turned
towards one section of wall that was almost entirely open. It had
but a few sections of wooden planks nailed over it. Without
hesitating, she ducked under one.

There were
several long wooden planks nailed into the floor that ran out a
good feet or two from the side of the building. Clearly the workmen
used them to fix the outside of the walls, and perhaps access the
roof.

Well now
Twincy walked out on them, wearing the equivalent of feet and feet
of fabric, which, in this wind, was the equivalent of feet and feet
of parachute. The wind would rip it, and her, off the plank in the
blink of an eye.

‘
My God,’ I managed, forcing myself forward, clutching at the
wall, ‘get back in here.’

She walked out
on that wooden beam. Thankfully it was thick, and she could stand
on it without her feet protruding over the edge. Yet that did not
change how high up we were.

As I ducked my
head under one of the wooden beams that was meant to prevent people
from accidentally falling out of the hole in the wall, I saw London
stretch out below us.

The lights,
the flickering lamps, those new electrical devices of Doctor
Esquire’s.

In many ways
it was beautiful. To see it glimmering under that cheerful shine of
the moon and stars above, it literally cast the city into a
different light. Softer, less harsh. One could not see so clearly
the distinction between the finery and the muck. Everything was
simply so many shades of grey.

Well though
the view was beautiful, it could not distract me, and neither
should it.

Twincy, the
wind absolutely ripping into her, walked along the beam until she
stood on the edge, looking down.

She had
fantastic balance, of course she did. I had seen that before.

But this was
suicide, plain and simple.

My mouth drier
than it had ever been, I made my way under the wooden beam before
me, and took one step out onto the plank she stood upon.

Still
clutching onto the beam behind me for dear life, my eyes opened
wide of their own accord. ‘Please, come back,’ I reached out a hand
to her, ‘grab it, take it,’ I begged desperately.

She was still
standing on that plank, staring down, her head angled obviously
towards the street below.

As the wind
took to her skirts and blew and buffeted them around her legs and
arms, she appeared not to care.

‘
Please,’ I begged louder, reaching my hand out as far as I
could, ‘take my hand. You don't have to do this.’

She now turned
to me. At first she angled her head down and low over her shoulder,
then she turned her whole body until she faced me directly.

I looked up
into her eyes. Though it was dark, there was still enough light
filtering down from below and above that I could see her
expression.

Saddened.

That was the
only way to put it.

‘
Please,’ I tried one last time, finally letting go of the
wooden plank behind me, as I stretched out as far as I
could.

She looked at
my hand, she looked at my face, she shook her head, and she stepped
backwards. Right off the plank.

Into thin
air.

I
screamed.

Instantly I
jerked forward; I tried to catch her.

Of course I
couldn't.

I fell to my
knees, and barely managed to grab hold of the plank before I fell
myself.

I yelled.
Nonsensical, I simply shouted as a saw her fall down and out of
sight in a flash.

The wind took
to my jacket, it took to the loose sections of my pants, and it
worked and bit into my cheeks and exposed hands.

Yet no matter
how much it stung to keep my eyes open, I did not blink them
once.

I waited. To
hear something. A scream, or an impact.

I did not hear
anything, instead I heard a voice behind me.

‘
Detective, do you require assistance?’

Still
clutching onto the plank, my body parallel with it, my legs
wrapping around one side as my arms hugged it close, I turned to
stare into the clock tower. Squinting, I finally recognised a face,
or, more accurately, a nose.

Butler, the
butler from Lord Ridley's abode.

What the hell
was he doing here?

The butler got
down on his knees, shrugging under the plank of wood still nailed
over the wall, and he reached out a hand to me.

For a moment I
didn't want to take it, because I wanted to simply stay here,
locked onto that plank, staring down until I heard something, until
I saw something. It was nonsensical, it was irrational, and
eventually I forced myself up, I turned, I took Butler's hand, and
I gladly re-entered the clock tower.

I was a
mess.

I was more
than a mess; I was shocked beyond reason.

It was a deep,
aching shock, and it served to see me stare at the butler with open
eyes, and almost quivering lips.

‘
What just happened?’ I heard myself ask, my question painfully
naive.

‘
You met Twincy Quinn,’ the butler replied with a short nod. ‘I
advise you to come down from this clock tower now. You
appear . . . to require a drink,’ the butler
said diplomatically. Obviously he was used to making comfortable
lies for his employers, and in that moment he extended me the same
courtesy. While he could have pointed out I was shocked, I was
undone, and I was barely capable of standing, he had simply
suggested that I required a drink. In many ways he was
right.

So I let him
lead me down the stairs, and back onto the street.

Not once did I
wonder why he was here. I didn't question how he had shown up at
the right moment, and I didn't wonder whether it had anything to do
with his employer Lord Ridley, and Lord Ridley’s unending desire to
get his hands on Twincy Quinn.

I just
followed, for it was all I could do. Yet when we reached the
street, desperation flickered within me again.

Though it was
a horrible, truly frightful prospect, I needed to see her body. I
wanted to find out where she had landed.

‘
Follow me, sir,’ the butler began.

‘
No, we have to find out . . . ,’ I
couldn't begin to put that horrible image in my mind into
words.

‘
Her body? You will not. She will have lived,’ the butler said,
almost bored.

‘ 
. . . What?’

‘
Sir, there is much you must find out about Twincy Quinn, but
trust me on this, that fall was certainly not enough to kill her.
She only made her way up that clock tower so she could jump
off.’

I stared at
him. I had no idea what I looked like, and I didn't care. I simply
could not believe the lie he was trying to tell me. It was
preposterous, and more than that, it was downright
disrespectful.

The butler
paused, apparently realising how shocked I was, and gave a
withering sigh, ticking his eyes up to the side, and pressing his
lips thin as he drew a beleaguered breath through them. ‘Very well,
we can do the rounds of this clock tower to put your mind at ease,
sir, however I can already tell you, you will not find anything.
Twincy Quinn knows how to stay alive.’

I didn't know
what to say, so I said nothing. Instead I turned sharply on my
heel, and I jerked forward, my legs feeling like raw gelatine with
every step.

I walked
around and around that clock tower, and to the butler's credit, he
did not grow bored and leave me. He stayed precisely by my side.
When I could not find her body, I widened my search. I even gained
permission to climb a nearby building, so I could see onto the
rooftops around me, so I could conclude that she had not fallen on
one of those instead. Nothing. I couldn't find a thing. Of course
that did not allay my suspicions. It was night; I must have missed
something.

Nothing else
made sense. Yet when I stopped my search, the butler gave another
one of those beleaguered sighs, I started to wonder if perhaps I
was wrong, for he certainly assumed that I was.

‘
As I have already pointed out, numerous times,’ the butler
patted at his vest with his white gloves, ‘she is not dead. As she
is not dead, you will find nothing. It will be far harder to
dispatch Twincy Quinn.’

‘
What?’

‘
Detective Stanford, as I said before, there is much you must
be informed of. Lord Ridley has requested your
presence.’

I stared at
the butler, and again, I had no idea what my expression looked
like. My self-awareness was shot to pieces, as the only thing
taking up my attention was the prospect that woman, that young
woman with the startling eyes and the obviously haunting and
harrowing history, had just killed herself. Right in front of me,
and I had been unable to do a thing. As a policeman, I was meant to
protect, correct? And even though I was cynical, and realised that
many of the activities I did served the rich over the poor, in my
heart I still held those strong morals. I believed service lay in
protecting and ensuring the safety of humanity as a whole, not just
the people who were willing to give you money and riches for your
deeds.

I,’ I managed,
trying very hard to finally get a hold of myself, ‘I can't,’ I
suddenly realised, ‘I have an appointment, with a friend of
mine.’