Chapter 16 #2
“You know, Ralph—A.D. Hemmings, the gent who writes those slash-’em-up murder mysteries. I love that Inspector Hall.” She pauses and giggles. “That inspector.
He can get into my knickers anytime.”
“Oh my god,” a young attractive woman wearing a lavender cardigan exclaims, staring at her phone and then at August. “Yes, he looks
just like him. Are you really him?” she asks, blue eyes sparkling.
“Guilty,” August admits, trying hard to look modest.
“Well, he’s doing a bloody good job, ’ere,” the woman says. “Can’t he just finish the tour? Ee’s got more flair than you.” She stares rudely at the student-guide.
The guide shrugs. “Sure. As long as I get the gratuity.”
“It’s a deal!” August says, leaping onto the stool.
Only I can tell in the courtyard shadows that he’s a touch high, blue eyes darkening and a blush spreading on his cheeks.
As for me, I’m feeling pleasantly stimulated, like I’ve had sufficient caffeine and vitamins and can tackle a new project.
The guide hangs back playing Pokémon GO on his phone while August takes over. The women in the group range from twenties to
about seventy, but they all push past each other to stand near August. As I walk along in the little crowd, I suspect August
must have taken these Jack the Ripper tours dozens of times, memorizing details and brainstorming his own next Inspector Hall
scenes.
We continue through Mitre Square as August describes with gusto the mad police rush on the night of the double murders. He
tells us the Ripper goaded the police by mailing in pieces of the victims’ organs and handwritten notes. Sparing no detail,
he paints a gruesome and chaotic series of events as skillfully as he writes an Inspector Hall scene.
My thoughts become a little more raw and uncensored.
I’m finding it harder than usual to take my eyes off August. I wonder what he looks like naked.
Will I ever see him naked? My mind slows and then races, “sticking” on random thoughts that grow as big as a universe in my
mind: Will I ever see August Dansworth naked? Will I forget what Philip looked like naked? Thinking of Philip naked segues
to Oedipal-like stream-of-consciousness thoughts about Mirabel. Weird. I see Mirabel’s lipsticked face as clear as a photograph
in my mind. I hear her threats as if she’s shouting them in my ear now. “Peculiar,” she called me.
I stare down at my dark clothes, the jet necklace. Philip’s urn weighs heavily in my bag.
I’m not peculiar.
Or maybe I am, and Mirabel will get my son.
What if I am mentally unfit?
I’m fucking high, walking about on a Jack the Ripper tour. Panic and paranoia flutter again as I start ruminating once more
about how long marijuana stays in the system.
We’re near the end of the tour at Fournier Street in Spitalfields, just in front of The Ten Bells pub. The women crowd about
August, who basks in the attention. They all vie to ask him questions while their husbands tip the student-guide and head
into the pub for a drink. One by one, the women take selfies with August and flirt, begging for tidbits from the next Chadwick
Hall book.
I lean against a lamppost and fumble in my purse for my phone.
“Henry?”
“Lizzie! Sorry I couldn’t call you back earlier.” Traffic sounds in the background. “I had the longest goddamn court . . .”
“Henry, I’m fucked.”
“Hey—what’s going on?”
“I’m in London.”
“Yeah? I know. You don’t sound right. Are you safe?”
“He just gave me a gummy.”
“Who gave you a gummy?”
“You know, A.D. Hemmings.”
“The author? Lizzie, you’re talking gibberish. Who gave you something? Where are you? Wait, don’t move. I’m going to call Ms. Fernsby. Don’t go off alone with anyone.”
“I’m fine! I really am hanging out with Hemmings. His real name is August. Look . . .” I text him our selfie.
“That sure does look like him.”
“It is him. We’re writer buddies now. But that’s not the point, Henry. I called you because Mirabel is threatening to fight for custody of Heathcliff. She told me so on the phone tonight.
I’m fucked if she does. She’ll dress him up in little bow ties like Ted. She’ll teach him how to shoot innocent garden groundhogs.
She’ll have him sipping mint juleps . . .”
Henry laughs loudly as he shuts his car door and turns on the ignition.
“This isn’t funny! Why are you laughing?”
“Because, Lizzie, trust me, with all the crap I’m finding, no judge is going to give Mirabel Wells custody of a hedgehog.
And I think that gummy’s playing with your head and you’re getting paranoid. Right now, I’m not worried about your piece-of-work
mother-in-law, but I am worried that you’re safe.”
“She couldn’t be bloody safer!” August says suddenly into the phone, from over my shoulder.
“That’s him.”
“Who? Lizzie, I don’t feel good about this.”
“God, stop being such a bossy big brother, Henry.”
“Alright. Alright. Just make sure to text me when you get back. Or I could stay on the phone until . . .”
“I’ll text you!” I snap, hanging up, weirdly annoyed and flattered he’s so concerned.
“Henry?” August asks, checking his Uber app.
I glance around. It looks like our tour group is gone.
“Just an old friend.”
“Hmmm . . .” He raises one eyebrow as he holds the car door open for me. I get in, noticing the paranoia easing away. Instead,
I start to feel more in my skin. Everything seems sharper, brighter.
Stringed lights drape from a nearby pub, glowing as warm as fairy orbs.
Our taxi passes the flower market, and I’m mesmerized by the wooden crates of pink and red roses, yellow rhododendrons, the hues resplendent even at night.
I still feel caffeinated and very alive.
Interesting.
“What’s in this gummy, August?”
“No idea,” he says, head leaning back in the seat beside me. “I bought it from one of my students this afternoon.”
“You what?”
But his phone rings with Madonna’s “Die Another Day.”
“Hullo, Gertie!” August exclaims.
I glance sideways, but the taxi’s maneuvering through loud Spitalfields Market traffic, and I can’t hear the voice on the
other end.
“Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh. Yep, sure. Be right there. In fact, I’m feeling good—kind of high, not quite ready for the night to
end, and truth be told I was kind of hoping you’d call. This time I’m bringing my friend Elizabeth. She’s a real gem.”
“Huh?”
As soon as the call ends, he glances over at me with that irresistible smirk. Maybe it’s the waning gummy, but his dimple
seems deeper and my stomach lurches.
“So, Elizabeth, are you up for a bit more fun?”
“What kind of fun?”
“The worst kind. Deliciously wicked.”
He leans forward, redirecting the driver to Soho.
“What kind of fun?”
“Burlesque.”