Scarlet Girl Fallen

A little girl dies suddenly in unusual circumstances. Then the police officer working on the case begins to see things...

THE call came through about 08.30. Dracon had been awake for a while anyway, there was no point in fighting it: the birds outside the window again. The natural call of time. He ought to move his bed. But he lay there as usual, listening, as the morning noises became gradually layered like a building symphony. Then the day began to take place. The telephone rang; the usual voice, the casual monotone. It was Preston, his sergeant.

 

“You’d better get down here, sir. Doesn’t look like anything special -little girl- natural causes probably. Got a real frenzied call from the mother, she’s in a hell of a state. Anyway, you can see for yourself. You’ll have to, you know the Chief.”

 

  So he got dressed. He didn’t hurry, although he had a feeling that he should. But it was just another tragedy. Grief-stricken loved-ones and tears. He felt sick at the thought of it. The same sickness he’d got from seeing a corpse for the first time. But it wasn’t that which made him feel this way. It was the prospect of walking in on someone else’s life again - and then walking back out. Seeing it all, piecing it together, going over old ground, and going back in time. He hated time. All time ever did was pass. And all the past ever did was question. Questioning, forever questioning. He was a walking question. Even though these days he mainly kept his thoughts to himself and seldom said very much, he somehow felt he always said more than was necessary.

 

  There had been a time when he always spoke, even his thoughts, but it slowly faded away - body after body; face after face; life after life; time after time. He could do things more justice in his head. In private. Empty talk seemed a blasphemy to life when you could look, and see, and feel. When he listened to his own words it made him cringe. They insulted the thoughts that had borne them. So they slowly faded away.

  As he checked himself in the mirror he wondered: How long could it go on? The more he thought he saw, the less he wanted to know, the less it meant anything. He felt the same way about his reflection in the mirror. There was still a glimpse of something, but it, too, was fading.

 

  There were police matters of which no outsider could possibly comprehend. The more things he saw and the more he felt, the more everything was becoming compounded. Just a glimpse of something remained. He couldn’t seem to do justice to them any more, even in his head. There were too many of them. A half-buried teenage girl in the woods; an asphyxiated middle-aged man in his car; a washed-up nobody on the shore… Too many, too much. He wanted to keep feeling, keep seeing, but the more he tried, the less he did. He hoped it wasn’t getting too much for him but surely it was. There was too much mortality. He needed to hang on to something - something to salvage from these sensibilities he somehow held precious. To save what was left of his soul after all that had been wasted… Get out before it’s too late. He’d have to find something else to do when the time came. And he ought to move his bed.

  9 o’clock. The birds had stopped singing and now there was the hiss of traffic, the usual inscrutable murmur of movement. Somewhere across the road he thought he could hear children playing - but no, there couldn’t be, not any more.

 

  Before he left he went to the window and looked out. Across the road people zigzagged in and out through the park. It wasn’t much to speak of: in the middle was a sculpture in steel. It shouldn’t really have been there. It was modern, characterless, and though it had only been there a few months it already looked better vandalised. There used to be a playground there, he thought idly. Quite a good little place. A long while back, probably decades, he couldn’t remember. It was in that very same place, though, yes. Once.

 

 

  Despite its being autumn in England, it wasn’t raining yet, so Dracon decided to walk. Unusually, his destination was quite close by. They’d be there a while yet in any case; picking, prying, going through the process, coming to no conclusion.

 

  He was in the neighbourhood quite soon after leaving his home but he’d never been there before. The family in question lived on a long, tree-lined avenue which would have seemed a mile wide in its Victorian days. It was un-encroached by ‘progress’ and the inevitable utilisation of space. A leaf-blown expanse of mid-19^th century terraces with porticoed porches not matching the scale. At the end, in a small square, stood what might have been a statue but he couldn’t quite make it out; probably Victoria herself. There seemed to be a quaint kind of modest grandeur about everything. It felt separate. Private. And up and down the street, here and there, moved the residents, as if no one else came here: someone walking a dog, someone jogging, someone brushing the leaves from their steps. A sense of early morning suburban energy and idyll. As he reached the address, Dracon saw a woman with a basket walking by and looking up at the house. It was noticeable. There were many cars parked outside, two of which had the tell-tale blue lights on the roof. Strangers would have been coming in and out all morning. People knew that something had happened. It was different.

 

  The house was unusual, in a group of three which for some reason had been designed contrary to the others. They were slightly smaller, more suburban, with no basements and no steps. But they had tiny gardens at the front, affording a small sense of individuality. And that somehow made this particular house seem alive.

 

  At the entrance, Dracon saw that the large green door was ajar. He had the usual foreboding of a crawling within. A premonition of meaningless movement and conflicting conversations in separate rooms, too many people. He felt that hollow sickness again. As though he were the first witness: finding the door open, sensing something was wrong, drawn inside by a strange curiosity - but knowing what he’d find. He felt as though he should knock, but then took a deep breath and slowly pushed back the door - tentatively, as though he were afraid of intruding.

 

  But once inside the sounds weren’t there. He was struck by a peculiar hush. There was no one in sight. He was first aware of the heaps of old coats on a stand near the door; a little telephone table with a seat, strewn with doodled-on paper. Then he became aware of faint, murmured discussion, and then, beneath it, a low sobbing. He looked up towards a noise from above and then, as he looked up the stairs, he suddenly felt perfectly still.

 

  He stared, transfixed, although somewhere inside him he sensed that he shouldn’t be. On the landing at the top of the stairs lay a little red shape, a flow of black locks draped across the top step. The little girl. The colours seemed to stand out against everything around. It felt odd. Dracon sensed a stillness which ought not to have been there. Above the child’s body stood the figure of a man. His head was obscured from this angle, but as Dracon took a few paces towards the stairs the face emerged and he saw someone he’d never seen before -not a regular- and he was staring straight at him like stone. Then he heard someone’s voice like a jolt and the face suddenly became familiar. It was the pathologist, Greer, who crouched down at the girl’s side and darted a look at him.

 

  Then Dracon was aware of the sounds again, and he thought that for a moment they must have stopped. Then he decided he must have shut them out. The young sergeant, Preston, then appeared from a nearby doorway, distracting his attention.

  “Sir?” he said, in a low, deferential tone. And he ushered Dracon into the room like a well-mannered conspirator. The two of them came just inside the doorway and -while Preston stood with his back to the corner of the wall- Dracon could still see flashes of red through the banisters. The room they were in was arranged rather like an old parlour: an upright piano; etchings and water-colours; photographs of supposed ancestors; daguerreotypes; and a large table in the window, on it a vase of flowers.

  “I don’t think there’s anything for us here,” began Preston quietly. “Seems the little girl must have fallen down the stairs on the upper landing. Dr Greer’s having another look at her now. Must have been the shock, too, I suppose. A real shame…” He stopped for a moment. The low, sobbing murmur came faintly through the wall. Dracon looked up and saw the black and white picture of a soldier standing in a garden. Then the sobbing ebbed away again and Preston looked at him. Lighting a cigarette, he continued.

  “Only child… There’s a WPC with the mother at the moment. Father’s in there too… Farrell.”

  “What?”

  “Lucy Farrell. 8 years old. Was. Father’s a teacher. Mrs Farrell, some sort of curator. Nice people. Bit grand for me, but sort of country people, you know? Nothing suspicious, really. Just a bit odd,” he exhaled.

  “Odd?”

  “Well, sort of freakish, really. There’s not a mark on her,” he explained, glancing up the stairs, as if to check she was still there.

  “All right,” said Dracon. He made a small gesture with his fingers and Preston gave him a cigarette. Then he was gone.

 

  Dracon stood there a few moments, looking around the room. There was a tiny pair of red Wellingtons tucked under the piano. 8 years old. Was… Always will be, he thought. Preston was right. There certainly was a rural feeling about the family. He had a feeling of brown leather, like Olde England. A permanent autumn sheen. He extinguished his cigarette and left the room.

 

  He ascended the staircase. Greer was still there. The dark creaking wood was softened underfoot by a trodden brown carpet, fenced-in by narrow brass clips. More pictures on the wall, parallel, ascended with each step. At the top of the stairs they stopped. And there was the child. The contrast of scarlet and black deepened now. He halted before he reached the top. He could hear the mother’s voice from below.

  “Little Lucy’s dead! That’s her up there, you can see her! What does it matter now? Our little Lucy’s dead!”

  Dracon moved on, to distance the cries. Greer was writing something down and putting something away. He leant against the wall as Dracon looked down on the fallen girl.

  “Little Lucy,” said Greer.

  Dracon did not touch her. “Yes,” he said, then looked up at him. Bookcases and ornaments lined the landing.

  “Freak accident, Richard. Nothing for you here. Died of shock, I should imagine. Quite plausible.”

  Dracon frowned at him.

  “That’s all I can see. She tripped and fell, you’d have to really look to find the bruises, but that didn’t kill her. Sudden shock. Caught the banister by the looks of the injuries. Running down the stairs in excitement, I expect. Mummy and Daddy always told us not to,” smiled Greer. “Poor little mite. Another little tragedy. So much energy, but they’re so fragile, you see, at that age. We’ll have to do a post-mortem, anyway. Orders. In these cases, as you know-” he said, then a pained expression came into his face. The faint sobbing lingered again. “And we have to listen to that…” he added, closing his eyes for a second. “They should get them out of here before we arrive. Let us get on with it.” He picked up his things.

  Dracon had his back to the wall, his hands pressed against it. A cold shiver went through him like exposed stone so he removed them. He seemed not to want to touch anything. “Yes,” he said, “they should.”

  “Well, you don’t need me for anything else…” said Greer, moving.

  “No,” replied Dracon, looking up again from the child. “Thank you.”

  Greer made his way back down the stairs. “They’ll be here in a minute to take her away.” And he was out through the front door, never wanting to linger unnecessarily.

　

  She’d been a pretty little thing. There was still a flush in her cheeks. The first-time schoolgirl with knee-length socks and sandal shoes. 8 years old. Now. For there was something of the outside about her, as if someone had just brought her in. And now they were coming to take her out. She was cold, but not with death - she smelt of fresh air. Autumn. She looked as if she were still in the act of doing something; an energy. Greer was right: Mummy and Daddy always told us not to run.

  Dracon looked around. To his right was a small cupboard room, the door ajar. In it were old Macs, hats, magazines, shoes, tennis balls, an old cricket bat and a skipping rope - the paraphernalia of an un-discarded past. He moved up the next short flight of stairs which turned the banister to the upper landing. There were more pictures all along on every section of wall; countryside, landscape, trees, people. Looking across the wide top landing there were more bookcases, old magazines, bric-a-brac, and seats in between with doodled-on paper. Crayon. Circumstances began to fall on him like leaves.

 

  He paused on the mezzanine stairs as he looked across the landing. The carpet was a little loose here. Not much, but a little. That must have been how she fell. A freak accident. In the curve of the banister there was a tiny graze. But it wasn’t new. It might have always been there. She might have seen it a hundred times as she skipped down the stairs. It had to be considered but there was no sign of foul play. It was a shoddy thought but why else was he here?

  Daddy must have called her. It was time to go. She dropped her toys and ran out. In high spirits she mistimed the first step and caught the slack edge. She must have fallen against the bookcases hard and then collapsed where they found her. At the top of the stairs. They hadn’t tried to move her. Maybe they'd held her but she was dead; they were too distraught. This is where she fell and yet nothing had been disturbed. It was possible that nothing would be. She was small, fragile. But it was unusual, freakish. Like her death.

 

  The sobbing had faded now, and the stillness had returned. There was no one else up here. Dracon felt it now. Just him. And the girl. He had his back to her body, he could sense her presence. But he did not turn. She was all around here, in everything. He did not want to look again.

 

  He could see her whole life in everything. The 8 little years, the short little lifetime. As she skipped through it to the top of the stairs. He saw it all through sensation, through feeling. A little girl of landscapes, of autumn. Behind him, on the floor. He looked up. Directly above him was another picture, another landscape. Much like all the others, he thought, as he gazed idly upon it, thinking of Lucy. Here were more trees, fields of green; a church spire, a gate; a blur of horizon in sky, a…

  Then something struck him. Something small, something odd. He glanced across at the other pictures, then back. For some reason a little detail caught his eye: every one of them contained people. In the parlour-room, all along the stairs, and here, on the top landing. While Preston was speaking to him he had become convinced that the entire house was covered with them. And now this picture - there were no people. Nothing. Just a landscape. Why? Then he began to doubt his own impressions. He had been staring at the picture for some time. Why was he staring? It was a small thing, just odd. Why should it matter? Little Lucy’s dead. That’s her behind you. But he didn’t want to look, he just stared at the picture. Then suddenly he became aware of that feeling again, as if it had always been there and only now could he sense it once more. Stone cold. And the stillness, absolute, and the blotted-out sound. A perfect stillness, right through his body. Yet he stared at the picture, no longer seeing.

  A sudden instinct suddenly hit him and he swung round in a flash of blurs. Then he saw it. The complete feeling came upon him like the stone wall he faced. On it hung a picture. But it shouldn’t have been there. The stillness was intense. At the top of the stairs, on the lower landing, a picture: he hadn’t seen it before. And its image struck him like an impaling icicle. Like someone had walked in on his past. He could not move. And it was complete, so clear, so utterly different. It almost ran with colour, a stinging brightness of everything, flowing with depth. It seemed he was seeing it all in less than a second, coming through him. But it was so simple.

 

  The he sensed something else. Lucy was gone. Somehow she wasn’t there any more… A sudden noise from below. He looked in its direction. Then a whole group of noises. Sound. They were coming to take her away. Then he looked back and Lucy was there. And the picture had gone.

　

_____________________________

　

　

  At 10am they had taken her out. Long-lost little Lucy. Snatched her up quickly like a red rag doll, a hazard at the top of the stairs. Put her in a bag and consigned her to darkness forever.

 

  Dracon lit another cigarette. It was now midnight. He was at home now, but Lucy was still with him. Looking from his window he could still see it in his mind. They carried her quietly outside and drove her away. Scarlet and black, hidden from view, but the sobs drifted faintly on. And the picture was gone.

 

  He’d been thinking about it all evening. It was his fifth consecutive cigarette, feeding his mind. And Lucy was everywhere, everything, in all of it - the pictures, the flowers, the garden, the cupboard, the books. He’d taken a look around her room but he couldn’t stay, she wasn’t there. Yet she was everywhere. Little Lucy’s dead! That’s her up there, you can see her! Paper mobiles; crayon trees; people. What does it matter now? Tiny dolls and soldiers; a music box and dresses. But the picture wasn’t there. Our little Lucy’s dead! He couldn’t have stayed any longer once they’d taken her away.

 

  But she hadn’t gone. She was everywhere.

 

  He took a drink and lit another cigarette. Sitting at his table, he fell upon the report which Preston made. He had passed it into him on his way home.

  “Nothing unusual, really,” he said, as Dracon leaned in the doorway. “Post-mortem was no more revealing. The Doc was right. Just a formality. Shock. Consistent with a fall, consistent with her injuries. A closed book. Anyway…”

  Dracon took the report in any case. He had to read it as a matter of course before it was submitted. Might as well get it out of the way tonight, then there’s nothing left over in the morning. Preston thought nothing of it and continued on his way, a tired young officer.

 

  He had left it all to Preston, he was more than capable. He had virtually finished by the time Dracon had arrived. And by the time they had come to take poor Lucy out, he saw no point in talking to the Farrells. Preston had already done it, so had a few too many others. And he’d seen and heard enough.

 

  But now something was plaguing him. Something between the lines; between the banisters; between the stairs. He read.

 

  …They had been getting ready to go out, according to the parents. Lucy liked kicking the leaves, trouncing through the park. She was already awake as they came down to make breakfast. Then she went back upstairs to her room. She’d put on her little red dress, her Mummy’s favourite. Her sheer excitement had made her father laugh. He warned her to slow down. She stayed in her room - playing, they imagined, as usual. Or drawing. She was always drawing. They had cleared away the breakfast things and got ready. She shouted up to Lucy. She yelled back impatiently. She didn’t want to hurry her but it was best to get out early while it was still quiet. They often took her out in the mornings when there was no school. She loved the outdoors. They all did. They had lived in the country at one time, until Lucy was born. But they had to move here: her father’s work, you see. Sooner or later they were going to move back. Now it seemed not to matter whether they did or not. Wherever they went. Lucy was dead…

  They had called to her several times after that but she still hadn’t come down. They hadn’t heard anything. And then finally they had come out to the hall and put on their coats, holding hers at the ready. They called out to her again but when they looked up the stairs they saw her lying there at the top… She wasn’t moving…

 

  Preston had gone through great pains to get all this. There was nothing left to be said. But the picture wasn’t there.

 

  Dracon lit another cigarette and stood up. For a moment he thought he saw a flash of red in the mirror but when he looked again it was gone. He began to doubt his thoughts once more. And when he thought on it and thought on it, walking across the room from window to mirror, he wasn’t sure any longer. Now it seemed to him that there hadn’t been anything there after all. There had been nothing there at all. There had never been anything there. No books, no pictures not anything. But it was odd. At the top of the stairs it all stopped, it was the only wall like it in the house. Blank. Nothing but cold stone and white paint. And that’s where Lucy had fallen. It didn’t make any sense but why should it? Pictures, pictures, everywhere. Landscapes, trees, people. And amongst it all, Lucy. Everywhere pictures and everywhere Lucy - but no pictures there on the landing, just Lucy… especially Lucy. Why did it all end there? Just a wall. And that’s where Lucy had fallen.

 

  Why was it nagging him? It would have been meaningless to have asked the Farrells. They weren’t that sort of people. There might have been a number of reasons, all of them plausible. But why should it need to be plausible? It was just a wall, a wall without a picture. Perhaps they hadn’t even considered it. They might have thought a picture didn’t look right there. Maybe they just hadn’t found the right picture for it yet, or hadn’t got as far as to hang that last landscape. It was all just a coincidence. But why did the picture opposite have no people when in it when all the others had? Then again, why shouldn’t it? No, it was meaningless.

 

  Dracon drew hard upon his cigarette and then put it out. Lucy was everywhere. For a moment he felt slightly mad. He was seeing things that weren’t there. The picture wasn’t there. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. All he knew was what he’d seen. Then a part of him said it was what he’d felt. He had to get some sleep. Too many cigarettes, too many thoughts. He turned out the light and got into bed. Lucy was everywhere. He ought to move his bed...

　

 

…There was a fading smell of bacon drifting up from below. Bacon and leaves. He slowly climbed the stairs, picture by picture. Then he began to hear the sound of chattering. A little girl, from above. When he reached the top he found himself in a kind of halfway shadow. A strange sense of something. But he carried on. The chattering grew louder, yet it was sporadic. She was talking to herself.

 

  He could see a picture facing him from above. A church spire, fields, and a blur of blue. One of the steps was loose here. He couldn’t hear what she was saying. Then Mummy shouted something to her from below. It was almost time to go. And suddenly the little girl’s voice was raised as if annoyed by the interruption. He stopped.

  “Yes, yes, Mummy! I’m coming! Stop shouting!”

 

  All the doors were closed along the top landing. Except this one next to the landscape bereft of people. The chattering began again. He stood outside the door for a moment, listening. Then, slowly, he pushed it open. He didn’t move. Her voice then became clearer but she was hidden.

 

  He moved quietly into the room. She didn’t see him, didn’t hear him. She was too busy. Talking. As he moved further into the room he could now see her. Bright red on the bedspread. Long black locks of hair. Crayons, doodles on paper. She was drawing, always drawing. And talking. Talking into the picture she was making. Outside her window it seemed to be raining with leaves.

 

  Moving to the bed, he stood above her. She neither saw him nor heard him. She just lay there in scarlet, talking and drawing, in crayon. A landscape, but not all green, nor autumn, just colour. Masses of colour. Full of everything. And it appeared in speeds of light. But then she stopped and was silent for a moment. With her chin on her hands, she sighed, pouting her lips. Oh, pretty little Lucy.

 

  “I want to go to the fair!” she said. “I want to go to the fair and I want to go today.”

 

  He was about to speak and his hand reached out to her hair. Then Mummy shouted again. Lucy slammed down her drawing and ran straight out of the room. Why hadn’t she seen him?

 

  He turned. He wanted to run after her but somehow for all his efforts he could not move fast enough, as though he were up to his knees in leaves. He felt a sudden sense of desperation, of futility. When he reached the landing he was halted. A stone-wall stillness held him. He looked and he could see Lucy. She had stopped in the halfway shadow. Scarlet and black. She didn’t speak and she didn’t move. He felt helpless. She was staring at the wall, perfectly still. He watched but he couldn’t move. On the wall opposite was a picture that shouldn’t have been there. Full of colour, full of light, full of everything, liquid with depth. He felt something would happen but he wouldn’t be able to stop it. Then he heard a noise and he looked up.

 

  It was night-time. 2am. Dracon could see his clock. Nothing stirred. He was awake. He felt a sense of a dream, of no beginning and no end. He was awake. He got up quickly and was dressed. He’d ran out of cigarettes. And then he ran out of the house. He ought to move his bed.

 

  Dracon ran very quickly. Preston had told him that the house would be empty, the Farrells were going to stay with friends. What does it matter now? Our little Lucy’s dead. He had to know.

 

  Kicking through leaves, he ran past the park, coming to the avenue and the little group of three. The square was in the distance, the statue a haze in the dim street lamps. Standing in the shadow of the doorway, he looked down at the little quaint garden. She loved the outdoors. We all did. He looked around, the road was empty. The houses enshrined in absolute quiet. With an age-old trick he forced the big green door and it slowly gave way. An intruder, he walked in on someone else’s life.

 

  Inside, all around was darkness. But he could sense the books, the pictures, the doodled-on paper. Autumn. Lucy was gone, yet she was everywhere. He looked up to the top of the stairs. Beyond was a tiny skylight, he hadn’t noticed it before. The twilight fell through it and onto the landing; threw the house into a halfway shadow. He climbed the stairs, picture by picture. And at the top there was nothing, just a wall. It was absolutely still. Dracon stepped into the halfway light. He turned and saw the church spire in the landscape, fields of green. No people. But Lucy was everywhere. Then he stepped forward and turned to face the empty wall. Why nothing? Why here? It all stopped here. And this is where she fell. Like a leaf in autumn. Lucy was everywhere. Suddenly an icy shaft shot through him and he had to catch his breath. A perfect stillness, his eyes transfixed by the wall. Cold as stone. He felt something happening. Scarlet and black. He watched the wall, unable to move.

 

  Then he heard a brief creak from below him. He turned quickly and then the house was suddenly bathed with light. There was a sharp sigh, then suddenly a scream. But it came from below. He looked down the stairs and saw the Farrells, Mummy and Daddy. They had been outside and the green door creaked slowly shut behind them. Dracon ran down the stairs towards them, holding up his hands.

  “No!!!” he screamed.

 

  But Mummy did not cry. And as he reached them he saw that they were staring straight past him to the top of the stairs. They did not move, they did not speak. Dracon swung round.

  On the landing stood Lucy. 8 years of scarlet. Like a porcelain doll. She was staring at the wall. But there was someone else: the figure of a man. Dracon had seen him the first time he saw her - he’d thought it was Greer. There was a picture on the wall and it shouldn’t have been there. The man stared like a cold stone wall, and then he turned to Lucy and smiled. She looked up into his face, a flush of red in her cheeks. He held out his hand. She took it and smiled. All around was light yet they stood in a halfway shadow. After a moment they looked down the stairs upon Mummy and Daddy. Dracon thought he saw them both smile. Then they turned slowly and walked towards the wall.

  The picture looked down upon the spot where she fell. It shouldn’t have been there… And pretty little Lucy was gone.

 

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Reviews

[TreeStar]

Creepy and intense, I liked this very much. I'm not very bright when it comes to symbolism and depth of meaning, which I'm sure this story is layered with. I do have to say the girl in red really reminded me of Schindler's List. Enyoyable read!