Maureen Johnson - The Madness Underneath

All of this has come as a shock to an area of East London still reeling from the Ripper murders. Only two days before the death of Charles Strong, a student at the Wexford School was attacked on school property, just one street away from the Royal Gunpowder. The Metropolitan Police have increased their presence in the area. A Met spokeswoman offered this comment: “While these two unfortunate events are unconnected…”

The BBC offered something a little less sensational in tone.

NO MOTIVE IN PUB SLAYING

Police are still searching for a motive in the murder of Charles Strong, 56, owner of the Royal Gunpowder public house. Strong was murdered on 11 November by one of his employees, bartender Samuel Worth, 32, of Bethnal Green. Worth had previously been convicted for GBH and possession of narcotics, but had been clean and sober for over a year. There was no known argument between the two men, and police have found no evidence of a criminal motive in the attack.

Worth is currently under observation at the Royal Bethlehem Hospital following a suicide attempt. Worth initially denied any role in the murder, but changed his plea in custody. He is now being evaluated to determine whether or not he is fit to stand trial…

When Jerome had explained it, it sounded much more straightforward: a man had killed his boss. These articles painted a slightly different story. A man killed his boss with a hammer for no apparent reason. Maybe I was a little paranoid, but I knew things now—I knew, for instance, that an entirely fake story had been built around the Ripper to explain the whole thing away. And sure, maybe this guy was just unstable. But… two days after the Ripper and just around the corner from Wexford? What were the chances? London was a big and bustling place, but people generally didn’t go around murdering each other at rates like this.

I took Artillery Lane on the way back, stopping in front of the pub. I walked around the two exposed edges of the building. The pub was closed for business and dark inside. I peered in the windows, but there was nothing other than tables and chairs and a bar all waiting in the dark. Such an ordinary place, too. Table tents advertising a drink special, a trivia machine in the corner, quietly waiting for a player.

As I made my way back around to look at the photograph in the window, something on the ground caught my eye. I knelt down and pushed some of the flowers and bottles away, revealing the edge of the building and the sidewalk.

A hairline crack ran across the sidewalk and butted into the side of the building. The crack was narrow near the street and widened as it hit the wall. I positioned myself against the wall and turned in the direction it pointed, just across the street, slightly to the right. There was another building in the way, but there was no mistaking it.

The crack pointed right toward Hawthorne.

A crack in the sidewalk is nothing to get excited about. London is full of cracks. It’s got a lot of sidewalk. It’s old. But that creepy old rhyme kept running through my head, “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back…” (Who even thought of that? Why would stepping on a crack break anyone’s back? Why specifically your mom’s? Was it an early, failed attempt at a “your mom” joke?)

But there was a crack in the sidewalk, and there was a crack in the bathroom floor.

I thought about it all night. I zoned throughout all of dinner, excusing myself early to walk back around the corner to the Royal Gunpowder afterward. It was too dark to see the crack now, but a sign had appeared in the window saying REOPENING TOMORROW LUNCHTIME.

I got my phone out of my pocket. My finger hovered over Stephen’s number, which was now safely back in my phone after he had texted me. I was just about to press the button to call, when my brain played out the conversation as it was likely to go. “I just want you to know? There’s a crack? In the sidewalk?” After the awkward silence, he would probably say something like, “I see. Well, thank you for informing me.”

Yes, the crack in the bathroom floor had appeared the night of the explosion, because there had been an explosion. Or a power surge. Whatever it was, it had broken glass. Sure, it takes a bit more force than that to crack a tile floor, but…in any case, the crack in the sidewalk had probably been there already. I was making connections where there were none, and to what end? So what if there was a crack?

If I called Stephen with this, I would look like an idiot. And that was unacceptable.

I put the phone away.

I may have mentioned that when I get an idea in my head, I sometimes can’t let it go.

I do try. If it really seems to be pointless or bad for me, I try to shake it loose—but these ideas, they cling. It’s like I’m shackled to them with an iron chain. They rattle along behind me, dragging against the ground, always reminding me of their presence. The crack, the crack, the crack. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.

It haunted me all through Wednesday, distracting me in class (not that difficult, to be fair). I considered going over to the library to talk to Alistair about it, but then I remembered how I’d almost killed him the last time I was there, purely by accident. Maybe it was best to avoid him until I got this new little trick of mine under some kind of control.

Why was I so hesitant to call Stephen? Who cared if he thought it was dumb?

I sat at my desk in my room that afternoon, puzzling this over until dinner, accomplishing nothing. It occurred to me only right before it was time to go to the refractory that I didn’t have to tell Stephen, but Callum and Boo had also put their numbers into my phone.

Callum would like to go out, do a little investigating. Callum would come out in a second. He wouldn’t even ask why. Why did I always think Stephen had to be called?

So I texted him.

Want to come out and play tonight?

I heard nothing back, even though I stared at my phone for fifteen minutes. I went back to my room and sat at my desk and tried to do some more problem sets for maths, but I kept checking and checking. Dinner came, and there was still no answer. I found it hard to engage in conversation. It didn’t help that much of the conversation around me was about exams, and I did not want to talk about exams. They started this time next week, and everyone was beginning to lose it a little. My normally cool and in-control friends were fraying around the edges. People were starting to look sleepless and get snappy. Doors slammed with regularity. And here, at dinner, people were talking, but there was a moodiness. Some people ate three helpings, while others could barely eat at all. Some people studied as they ate.

I just ate. And waited. My phone buzzed right as I was getting up for dessert.

Was underground, couldn’t reply. Does that mean what I think it means? I’m not too far from you. Liverpool Street? How about 7:15?

That was only twenty minutes from now. I typed a quick OKand put my phone away.

11

“I’M NOT GOING TO LIE,” CALLUM SAID. “I AM VERY, VERY HAPPY right now.”

I met Callum just inside the station. Making my escape from dinner and explaining where I was going—that had required a little bit of fast thinking. I’d said I needed to go to Boots, and Jazza said she would come with me, so then I had to say that I was going to call my parents on the way and have a long talk. And I did give my parents a very quick call as I ran over, just to make myself a little less of a liar.

“I have a whole list of you-know-whats that need dealing with,” Callum said. “Let’s go make boom booms.”

“Okay,” I said, holding up my hands. “But first there’s something I have to show you.”