tapping on the cobbles as she ran, and the panting of her breath. That was something that she would need to try to hide. Perhaps, she hoped, if she kept going then she might find somewhere to keep out of the way until whoever it was that was chasing her passed by.
The footsteps grew loader as the man gained on her the rhythm telling her that he was gaining on her. She knew that her only real chance of getting away from him was to hide in the hope that she might be able to lose him until the rain eased, or perhaps morning came. Agatha looked up at the windows and doorways around her, but there were no signs of life and all was dark. By the time someone responded to her knocking, if indeed they did at all, the man would have her. No, she told herself, there was no help coming from those quarters.
Agatha ducked into one of the alleyways which honeycombed this part of the city and it was not long until she heard the man running along the street towards her hiding place. She held her breath, hoping beyond hope that she had chosen wisely, and she closed her eyes to pray silently.
To her relief, he continued on, past her alleyway, unaware that she had hidden only feet away from him. She sighed with relief as the footsteps faded into the distance.
Agatha waited for what seemed like an age. Minutes stretched to what felt like an hour or more, before she finally found the courage to leave her hiding place and look out of the alleyway. All was silent, except for the pattering of the rain on the cobbles, and the drips of the water that ran down the side of the buildings on either side of her. There was no sign of the man. She took a deep breath and stepped onto the street, walking as quickly as she could in the opposite direction, trying to keep to the darkness, instead of the middle of the street. Agatha looked around her again, but there was still no sign and she relaxed somewhat, her heart rate settling down as she...
A hand shot out from the shadows and grabbed her, pushing her against the wall and forcing the breath out of her. Another hand covered her mouth.
'Not trying to get away are you, my pretty?' The Young Man's tone was almost casual as he held her.
She tried to speak, but the man's hand was pressed too hard against her face to allow her lips to move. His hand smelled, damp and dirty, in the darkness.
'Now then,' he said, moving his face up close to hers, 'we have a little problem.'
Agatha could smell his foetid breath on her face as he breathed over her, pressing himself closer.
'Here's my dilemma.' he said. 'The nice half of me thinks that maybe you're a clever girl who knows what's good for her, and therefore, I should let you go. But, the nasty half of me wonders what are the chances that you will tell someone about that little conversation you snooped in on.'
The Young Man looked her up and down and drew his eyes all around her face. Finally, he settled back to staring into her eyes.
He smiled. 'On balance,' he said, 'I'm thinking that the nasty half is probably right.'
Agatha tried to shake her head, but the Young Man was holding her so tightly she was unable to move.
'What's that?' he asked. 'You're thinking that perhaps we need to talk about it? You might be right,' he said. 'Very well, I need you to promise me something, then.'
Agatha tried to communicate a nod, but his hand was stopping her from doing so effectively.
'If,' he said, 'I remove my hand from your mouth, I need you to promise me that you won't scream. If you do that for me then maybe Master Nasty-half might reconsider his assessment of the situation.' The Young Man still looked into her eyes. 'Do we have a deal?'
Agatha could feel the man relax his grip a little. 'Yes,' she said.
'Good girl,' the Young Man said. 'Now,' he continued, 'I need you to tell me what you heard, back there in the garden.'
'Nothing,' Agatha replied. 'I didn't hear nothing. Honest. Please let me go. I won't say nothing.' Agatha could feel the hysteria beginning to creep up on her, her heart raced and if she thought about it for too long she could be sick with fright.
'Shush!' the Young Man said, as he held his finger to her lips. 'If you keep your head, then there might be an acceptable way out for both of us. Do you understand?'
Agatha nodded.
'What's your name?' the Young Man asked. His voice was cold.
'Agatha.'
' ''Agatha'',' the Young Man repeated. 'What a pretty name,' he said. 'Right then, Agatha. You and me both know that it's not quite true that you heard nothing, is it?'
'I don't rightly know what I heard, Sir, honest. Please let me go.'
'Be quiet!' the Young Man said. 'I don't like lies. I need you to tell me the truth. Do you understand?'
'Yes.' Agatha was shaking.
'So, tell me, Agatha,' he said, 'what did you hear?'
Agatha could feel the panic rising in her again but this time she tried her best to control herself. The only chance she had of getting out of this, she thought, was to try to keep a cool head. 'It was something about troops,' she gushed, 'and the Commonwealth, but I didn't understand any of it, honest. Please let me go now. I won't say nothing, I promise. I just want to go home.'
'I'm sure you do, Agatha,' the Young Man replied, 'and I do believe you don't know what you heard. But, you see, my problem is that you've seen who I am, now. So, before I can think about letting you go, I need you to prove to me how much I can trust you.'
'How?'
'Well, for starters,' he said, 'I need you to show me where you live.' He pressed himself against her. 'Just so's I know where to come to find you if I ever discover you've lied to me.'
Thoughts of her mother flashed through Agatha's mind, back at home alone, waiting for her to arrive, ageing and vulnerable, and then she looked at the man in front of her. She couldn't let him know where they lived. 'I'll show you,' she said, as convincingly as she could.
'That's a good girl,' the Young Man replied. 'Show the way, and I'll follow.'
Agatha felt that the Young Man had loosened his grip on her a little and she wondered if it was possible that he was beginning to trust her, just a bit. She felt him move away. This might be her best, and only chance. Agatha pushed him away and ran.
A small gap opened between the two of them, but the Young Man darted out his hand and grabbed her by the hair, pulling hard and pushing her back against the wall. Agatha pulled him by the collar of his shirt, she could feel a cold metal chain around his neck. She grabbed it, tugging as hard as she could. It bit into his throat, and he moved away from her as it cut into the skin of his neck. She pulled again, but this time the chain broke.
Agatha saw a look of anger flare in his eyes and the Young Man lashed out, punching her in the stomach as she fought back. She tried to run, but she felt strange all of a sudden. Somehow, the strength was leaving her legs, and as she looked up she could see that the Young Man had stepped backwards, away from her. The sound of his breathing, as well as the sound of the rain falling onto the streets around her sounded too far away; as if the world was at the end of a tunnel, muffled. Her pulse raced, and her breaths were short and quick.
She looked down and reached for the place where the man had punched her, lifting her fingers up before her eyes.
Her hand was wet, but not from the rain, and a dark liquid ran down her fingers and across her palm, dripping down to her wrist.
Agatha looked up into the eyes of the Young Man. He looked back at her with shocked eyes, surprise on his face. In his hand he held a knife and the same dark liquid ran down its blade.
oOo
The Young Man stared over at Agatha as the dark patch of blood spread over her dress and down her legs onto the stones where it mixed in the cracks of the cobbles before running away.
It was her own fault. If only she had done as he had said. If only she hadn't tried to get away. This was not what was supposed to happen!
He watched Agatha place her hand on the area of her stomach where he had stabbed her. Perhaps, he thought, to try to stop the bleeding. But it was not going to work, the knife was long, brutal.
Her legs gave
way beneath her, and she fell backwards, against the wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor. He watched in silence as her mouth moved, trying to say something to him, but he could hear no sound, and all he could see was the light in her eyes fading away, fading until finally it was gone.
At the end, her hands fell beside her, one palm up on the cobblestones, and the other onto her lap. It was over.
The Young Man looked around him to see if anyone had seen what he had done. There was no one, nothing, except for the dripping of the rain, and the coldness that he now felt after the realisation dawned on him that he had killed the girl.
The streets were dark and empty, and the windows and doors in the dwellings along the street were shut tight, closing out the world, and all the bad things that happened in it. He pulled up the hood of his cloak, as much for the sense of security it offered him, as for the cover from the rain it would offer.
He ran. He ran back the way that he had come, back until he reached the intersection, turning left at the corner. He didn't see the man coming the other way and he ran into him.
Both grabbed each other.
'I'm so sorry,' the stranger said.
The Young Man paused. 'It's no trouble,' he said, looking at the stranger. The man had long dark hair, bunched in a tail, and he wore a beard and moustache. His brown waistcoat, white shirt and black trousers were sopping wet. 'It's my fault,' he said, 'I should have taken more care.' He stepped to one side to let the stranger pass.
'Are you feeling alright?' the stranger asked. 'Only, you look a little...upset.'
'I'm fine,' the Young Man replied and looked the stranger up and down one more time. Then, when he had the measure of him, he ran off down the street into the night.
oOo
Guy Appleby shook his head in disbelief as he turned to watch the young man run off without looking back.
Honestly, he thought, the young people of today have no concept of manners. He wrapped his arms around himself and continued on in the rain, trying to keep to the side of the street in the hope that the dwellings might offer just a little relief from the incessant down-pouring.
It had been a long shift at the toll booth, but at least it was now done and his warm bed waited for him.
It wasn't until he got home, and as he undressed for the night, that he discovered that his waistcoat, and his white shirt, despite the constant rain, was stained with fresh blood.
11
The Twenty-Second Day of New Year,
Imperial Year 2332
The high-backed chair had not provided the most comfortable of sleeping berths for Winterburne and he had passed a fitful night. In truth, he still felt as tired as he had done before he had closed his eyes the previous evening, and now he wished that he had made the effort to return home. It was true that he would have been drenched to the skin getting there, but at least he would not have felt as he did now.
He stretched out his shoulders trying to tease out the knots in his muscles, but it didn't seem to be working. He rose from the chair and wandered across the room, stooping to grab his waistcoat from the floor, pulling it on as he made his way over to the open door where Cromwell waited for him.
'Where did you say the body is?' he asked.
'In the North Quarter, Sir.' Cromwell pointing in the general direction of the discovery, 'Not far from the city wall.'
'How was she killed?' Winterburne closed the door to his office, and they set off down the corridor.
'Stabbed.' The lieutenant pointed to his abdomen to illustrate the approximate location of the wound. 'About here.'
Winterburne frowned as they stepped through the front door of the Watch Headquarters. He could count on one hand the number of murders in Highport in the last few years, but from what Cromwell had told him this one seemed particularly vicious. A young girl killed on the street