~9~ EIDOLON ~9~
Mulder left Duthie Park, looked around the empty and dark street,
decided he was still too wired to sleep. He walked to the taxi rank,
took a mini cab back to the switchyard. The SOCOs were still at it,
barely giving him a glance as he walked around under the bright
lights. The bodies had yet to be removed and he chose not to disturb
the techs any further with questions about what they were doing and
why.
He asked for a torch - feeling like a fool for the umpteenth time, asking
for things using British colloquialisms in his flat American accent -
wandered around the switchyard. Finding disused train tracks
leading away from the crime scene, he walked along, playing the
flashlight on both sides of the track. Hanging precariously by one
screw on a breeze block wall in the middle of nowhere was an old
white sign with black lettering. It read "BRIDGE END".
Ah. Mulder glanced back, briefly wondered if he should tell someone
he was going to Bridge End via the old tracks, then dismissed it. With
Jonah in jail (for a moment the British spelling popped into his mind
and he considered whether or not he had read too much period
literature in college) he could see no real reason to worry. He
understood why Sheila called it creepy, though, the tracks were a long
ways from anything.
The stench of river mud and the nearby marshes was on the cool
breeze, interspersed with diesel fuel, bilge water and the oily odor of
heavy machinery. Every now and again he turned around, checking
the distance between the switchyard and himself.
Sheila had been right, it was very eerie in the dark. There were no
houses visible, the only lights were from the crime scene and the
docks. They were very bright, a little beacon of home, yet could not
make a dent in the night and the cold. He could see men the size of ants
creeping along the deck of one incandescently lit supercargo ship
painted red and black, saw another ship steadily moving to his left,
towards the English channel. High tide, then.
As he walked along the tracks, increasingly doubting what the hell he
was doing out in the damp and the dark, feeling ridiculously isolated
and stupid for being alone in a strange place with no one to know
where he was, or what he was doing, or what might happen to him,
he gradually became aware of footsteps behind him. Someone else's
feet crunched in the old cinder and coke lying along the tracks.
Although he kept walking, Mulder became hyper alert to the noise
behind him. He came to a sudden stop, held his breath and listened
hard. One last crunch. Silence. In the distance a ship's whistle blasted
a long, deeply mournful note.
If he turned around to see who was there, that person would then
know for sure he knew he was being followed. But if he continued on,
then maybe that person would be fooled into thinking he was just a
dope. On the third hand, forewarned was forearmed.
He spun around, swung his flashlight side to side. There was no one
there. Probably just an animal of some kind, a fox, maybe. A fish-
eating fox. Or an extremely large hedgehog.
Yeah, that was it.
Well, now that he'd telegraphed knowing he was being followed,
what to do. Retrace his steps or continue on? The tracks were
swinging away fro the comforting lights of the docks, and he knew
from the maps in the incident room that Bridge End paralleled the
docks rather than going directly towards them. Somewhere there was
a spur leading towards the docks, yet damned if he could remember
exactly where it was. He thought he was a little more than halfway to
Bridge End, so he decided to walk on.
Bridge End turned out to be an old station transitioning between
Victorian quaint and the modern '80s, all sharp angles and
disturbingly bright colors amidst classic, esthetically pleasing
ironwork painted cream and British racing green. Blinking florescent
lights shone down onto an empty waiting room.
Mulder hauled himself up onto the concrete platform, tried the door
leading into the station without success. "Shit," he muttered. Checking
the station clock, he saw that it was after two in the morning - the
next train would arrive around five am. Which meant he had another
walk to Queen Street and hopefully, a taxi rank or a bus station.
At least he now knew the route and could understand the logistics
better. Three women had been found here at Bridge End, all raped,
their bodies hideously abused before and after their deaths, unlike the
previous victims. They were not locals nor had anyone reported
women matching their descriptions in the whole of London. In that
case, they were probably from out of town, someplace quiet, maybe
from up North or the country, where people were more friendly or
perhaps just less wary.
Mulder approached the lone bench on the platform, peering closely at
the wooden seat to make sure the dark marks were just graffiti and
nothing else before sitting down. Leaning back, he folded his arms and
contemplated what he knew thus far.
So, it was entirely feasible for someone to bring a body - or a live
person - to the station via the closed track, without anyone noticing.
Given the lack of housing around Bridge End, indeed, the lack of
anything, even industrial buildings, he wondered if anyone even came
here during the day. Why was this station even open? Who came here,
and when? Were there trails to the docks? Why would anyone take
those instead of going to Cross Station South, which was much more
convenient and closer besides?
Then again, those were the wrong questions to ask. Or, actually, the
right questions, but the wrong time. And Jonah. Mulder just could not
believe he was capable of all of the murders. He might be a rapist and
a killer, however Mulder felt he lacked the hatred, the rage to do so
much post-death harm. Someone who returned to the scene of the
crime to cover the victim was not going to mutilate them as well. At
least he didn't think so.
Which led him back to Sheila St. Crow. If she could be convinced to
testify for the CPS - yet maybe Dennis would say enough in his
interview to hang himself. An unlikely prospect. And what did old,
blood-spattered clothing prove? Nothing. Especially as it was all her
own blood.
"Crap," he said aloud, shaking his head in disgust. It was all theory
without evidence to back it up. Nonetheless, Mulder felt he should get
back to Duthie Park and make sure Brooks knew that Sheila was a
viable witness to an attack on her person. Of course, she had not
reported her attack to anyone but himself and his lack of a warrant
card might be a sticking point. All he had to do was assure her Brooks
would take her statement, hopefully that would be enough.
With a heavy sigh and a dry throat Mulder stood and walked to the
other end of the platform. At least he had a Macadamed path to tread
upon. He switched his flashlight back on and headed back towards
civilization, or what passed for it in this London suburb.
Mulder turned up his collar against the cold, grateful for his leather
jacket and wishing he had worn warmer socks. The wind was picking
up, ruffling his hair and bringing the scent of the sea inland. He was
thinking about how to approach Brooks concerning Sheila St. Crow
when he found himself face down on the ground, tasting a few grains
of sand as he inhaled. All was confusion - had he tripped? No, because
one of his ears was ringing, and movement by his face - a heavy black
shoe with lug nut soles - made him roll away.
Somehow he managed to keep a hold of the flashlight and he flicked it
upwards. His attacker reeled back, throwing one forearm across his
face, blocking the bright light from his eyes. It gave Mulder time to
stagger dizzily to his feet, nearly falling when he stepped off the
crumbling edge of the macadam. Wet warmth cascaded down his
cheek and neck, making his skin itch.
Shaking with adrenalin, he stumbled away from the man and down
the path. He could feel himself careening to the left, barely able to keep
upright. Through his good ear he heard the scuff of his attacker's shoe
and twisted hard, striking out blindly with his arm.
Connection. Mulder clawed what was beneath his fingers and the
man shrieked in response, a shrill scream that pierced Mulder's ears
and went directly to his hind-brain. Grasping the man's collar,
Mulder used it to correct his balance, pulling his attacker towards
himself at the same time. He used this forward momentum to ram the
flashlight at the man's head, caught him somewhere on the side of his
head and neck.
The man grunted and tried to throw Mulder to the ground, but
Mulder hung on and they ended up sprawled amidst the weeds. He
kicked, kicked again while blocking the worst of the pummeling
raining upon his head with his arm. A vicious blow to his ribs had
him crying out and trying to roll away once more, in the process
losing the flashlight. Sharp, stinging pain along his hands, cheek and
nose and the single thought that abruptly bloomed in his mind: kill or
be killed.
Everything became clear. His panic abated, he was no longer in pain.
Through narrowed yet incredibly clear vision he saw the man - pale
skin, dark eyed, black hair, average build, long scratches on his face
and teeth gritted together in a hideous rictus of a grin - grab a handful
of glittering dirt. Smoothly Mulder shoved the man's hand aside (the
fist came at him in slow motion), let go of his collar and grabbed for
his throat instead. But instead of throwing the dirt at Mulder, his
expression changed to one of agony and then he rolled away in the
opposite direction, clutching his hand to his chest.
For a second Mulder simply sat there, unable to comprehend what
was happening. Again the calm voice spoke: run. He watched the man
start to get up, and before he realized what he was doing, he fell to one
side and with all his remaining strength kicked the man squarely in
the side of his knee. The leg went sideways at the joint and the man
buckled back to the ground, his screams strangled in his throat as if he
couldn't decide which was worse, the injured hand or the broken
knee.
The flashlight flickered and died. Darkness reigned and all was quiet.
Help...he needed to get help. But the startling clarity that had come to
him during the struggle for survival was failing him now. His head
was pounding, everything ached, his mouth was full of cotton, he
could feel cuts on his face and fingers, his chest itched like mad, and
when he looked down after scratching, he saw his fingers were coated
with fresh and dried blood. "Oh shit!" he gasped, shocked at the sight.
"Oh fuck!"
Ignoring the groaning man on the ground, Mulder gradually realized
he would have to get the help himself. It took getting on to all fours
before he could get back to his feet, and from there, the decision of
which direction to take to get back to Creekmouth. Between the blood
now slowly dripping into his eyes and his utter exhaustion, it took
another minute for him to move left down the path, where the greater
profusion of lights appeared to be. Unless that was just double vision.
Regardless, he was going to end up where someone would eventually
find him, and that was the important part.
He started walking. Must have been his Id, his hind-brain at work,
literally making him Homo Erectus. He was amazed by the movement
of his feet, how they simply picked themselves up off of the ground,
one after the other. Felt like they were walking him, rather than the
reverse.
He walked. The grasses on either side of the path were more visible
now, dusky silver green and burnished bronze, buff yellow seed heads
bobbing in the strong breeze. Dawn was coming on, even though the
day was only lightening to a shadowed pearl gray with storm clouds
scudding across the flat sky. There were bottles and cigarette butts
and needles littering either side of the path and he wondered if there
were any people out there, too.
Eventually he found himself on a paved road, and then in a
neighborhood with two rows of old stone cottages. A milk float drove
by, the driver intent on making his rounds, not even noticing Mulder's
desperate lurch for attention.
He walked until he could walk no more, stumbled against a post. God,
he was so tired. He would just close his eyes for a minute, then
continue on.
"Sir? Please step out of the kiosk."
Mulder winced and looked up, blinked stupidly at the two PCs staring
down at him with great suspicion. Glancing around, he realized he
was slumped on the dirty floor of a telephone kiosk, its dome light
shining down on him like a finger of god on a cloudy day.
"Sir?" The older one repeated, one leather-gloved hand on his baton,
the other held out to Mulder.
