Raven

I've already posted bits of this story, but I realised that I never actually posted the end. So, I decided to post the whole thing in four or three parts, and, well, here's the first one.

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 black 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 black 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, and 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.

***