Detective Story Start Thing by @Bluegerbil

I am writing a detective story in English, and thought I might put the start of it on Opuss, to see what you think.

I woke in a cold sweat, eyes darting frantically around the room. The sharp noise of a police siren cut through the dark, penetrating my very soul. Someone is knocking on the door impatiently. I jump out of bed, pulling on my cloak and old shoes. I grab my bag and walking over to the exit. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, my breath escaping to the beat of my heart. I open the door, and button up my cloak, running down the metal staircase, shoes clattering on the steps. Something is wrong. Night envelopes London, creating shadows that flit across the slum walls, dancing to their own eerie song. Sounds are muffled; light is overwhelmed by the dark, evil winning over good. The night is blessed by the devil, taking lives by the dozen as he begins his reign of terror, blotting out hope and happiness. I have never liked the night. Policemen and locals fill the courtyard, panicked and confused. It’s only a murder but it’s so much more. I push my way through the crowd, towards a dark and secluded alleyway, taped off to the public. A body lies cold, still and alone, eyes open, the imprint of fear firmly on her face.

*

She knows I’m here. I have to leave. Now. Heart in my mouth, I rush over to the door, satchel in my hand. Glancing behind me one last time, I leave everything I know behind and escape. The cold night air swirls around me, playing with my red curls, taunting me, tormenting me. London is not a good place at night. Criminals, thieves, murderers. The night is their domain, and I do not belong here. My palms are sweaty, my throat dry, and my shoes create imprints in the dust as I run. A shadow follows me, dancing on the walls. I am not alone. She has followed me, and soon I will have to face her. Soon, I will have to face my fate. Children point at me, and adults turn them away. Nobody welcomes me here; I am a pickpocket, notorious for thieving and destroying. Silent tears fall down my cheeks. Raven, proud and confident, reduced to a quivering heap by a fellow pickpocket. I curse at Badger under my breath. No one deserves this, a life of secrecy and solitude, just because you are ashamed of your heritage. But she exposed me. Told of my true family, humiliated me in front of everyone I ever loved. Now she has come to finish the job, kill the one that was different. Kill me. I stop to rest in an alley; I have outrun her, for now. The darkness overwhelms me; there are no lanterns in this part of town. I am disorientated, head fuzzy and mind elsewhere. Stuck in a hazy reality, imprisoned by the night. If I don’t leave soon, she will find me, make me pay. I flinch, someone is here. Eyes glint in the darkness, golden orbs filled with hatred. Badger. A scream and it is done, a sharp pain spreading throughout me from my stomach. I reach my hands over to my chest and they come away covered in a warm, sticky liquid. My blood. She cackles beside me, but it seems a million miles away, the dark closing in, creating a bubble around me. I fall to my knees, silent tears streaming, silent screams echoing. The dark sooths me and I lay in wait as it smothers all my thoughts, until none remain.

*

My tears dowse the ground in sorrow, she was so young. Only 15. Mud and dust is plastered over her midnight blue dress, leaves tangled in her red curls. No shoes. She was poor, the dress stolen. Her chest is red with blood, a deep gash scarring her slim body. This was murder. She was chased, disorientated, stabbed, left to die. The murderer was strong and silent, the wound is deep yet the victim didn’t know what was happening until it was too late. I stand up and let the detective within take over, filling out the report. Time of death; 12:32 pm. Weapon: dagger, the gash has clean edges, the work of an expensive knife. Victim: Pickpocket, female, 15. I look down; a satchel is wedged under the body, old and moth-eaten. It was loved, most probably used often, a daily essential. Inside, a pearl necklace, a tiny ceramic pot, muslin bag, empty picture frame, silver pen and padlock. I pick up the bag carefully and slip it under my cloak. This is my investigation. I don’t need to show anyone. Later, after the autopsy, I can look at the items. Charles, the doctor, stares at me. I shudder; he scares me, renowned for being unpredictable and impulsive. The chief inspector beckons me over and I hesitate, then leave the dead body to Charles’ expertise.

“We have a witness. Read the file and meet him at The Lion’s Head, noon.” The chief inspector hands me a file and whistle, then walks off, leaving me a bit dazed. Normally lectures are more than two sentences. Especially from the chief inspector. I hang the whistle round my neck, shivering as the cool metal contacts my skin. My own case. My own file. My own whistle. Finally, I have been accepted by my fellow detectives. Pride sweeps through me, an intense glow blossoming from my heart. I turn the words over in my mouth, sweet and golden. Elizabeth Johnson, detective.

***

I take a deep breath then enter the inn, immediately overwhelmed by the cloud of cheap perfumes, alcohol and cigarette smoke. Noon. Rush hour in all the London inns. The Lion’s Head is packed, barely room for a small child, let alone a grown woman. I squeeze through the crowd, thanking my parents for my small build and the years of malnutrition for my slim waist. Somewhere, Jimmy is waiting. A new lead for a new case. My case. I scan the crowd for a tall, blonde man with a scar on his forehead, holding my breath as I past a drunk teen. When I find him, I rush over, desperate to be rid of the crowd. He smiles a toothless smile, and then pats the seat to his left, gesturing for me to sit next to him. I take his invitation cautiously, carefully not to touch him. He reminds me of Charles, he eyes twinkle in the same way.
“You’re Jimmy, right?” I start, waiting for a response. He nods. “I heard you witnessed the murder yesterday night. Can you tell me anything about it?” He glances around, as if scared, then whispers, “Yes. She was running away, really scared I think. Then I heard a scream, she was dead. I walked over and the other girl was gone.”
“Did you see anything else?”
“No! It was dark okay?! The murderer was a girl, that’s all I know. Okay? Now, give me my reward. Two guineas. That’s what it said on the poster. Two guineas.”
Reluctantly, I hand over the money, then make a quick exit. Cold air fills my lungs, catching me off-guard and I cough, stumbling. The satchel falls out of my cloak. I pick it up quickly; glancing around, then hide it out of view once more. No one needs know that I have it, this is my case, and therefore this should be my satchel. In fact, now would be a great time to inspect the contents. I slink into an alleyway and spread the items on the cobbles, sliding down the wall onto the floor, exhaustion sinking in. I have not slept for hours. Days even. One by one, I lift up each item, taking care not to break anything, and let the detective find the important details.
Empty picture frame. Picture possibly stolen, in a jealous rage. A black hair, straight not curled, trapped within the frame. Smells of… perfume, this is from the murderer, not the victim.
Ceramic pot. Decorative. Stolen, from a rich woman, filled with medicinal herbs, mainly rosemary and sage.
Pearl necklace. Also stolen, from a rich woman. The victim was a pickpocket, in a gang. The midnight gang, famed for their habit of stealing jewellery, especially necklaces. I have seen many a pickpocket from this gang dancing around with a beautiful necklace adorning their neck.
Muslim bag. Again, filled with medicinal herbs and salts. The victim must have been sickly, struck down with a dangerous disease, on the run.
Silver pen. The victim was educated; rich in her early years then throw out onto the streets. She was writing to someone, possibly a relative or lover.
Padlock. She had something to hide, a dark secret or a precious item. Oil covers the majority of the lock; she lives near a factory, one that has the largest machines in London.
“Smiths and sons.” I look up to see Charles, “That’s the factory.” He glances down at me, and I blush violently, realising that I have been muttering to myself for the past hour. I stand up, brush myself off and stoop down to pick up the contents of the satchel. He chuckles, then speaks again.
“We have another witness.”

***

Phillip Sherratt sits at the bar, his dark hair ruffled; his chestnut eyes cast downwards in sorrow. I approach in caution, wary of him. I have not had the best experience with witnesses in the past. He looks up; he looks pained, his features contorted into the very image of fear. He was close to her, loved her, held her tight. Thought that she would never leave him. I feel a deep sympathy for him, I too have lost love. He beckons and I smile weakly, joining him at the bar. “ Are you Eliza?”