Chapter 197
Chapter 197. The Mark (2)
“Why do you think so?”
When I asked, Liam answered:
“My home addresses are split into several locations, and I only actually live in a few of them. It’s for security. Cults always shy away from anonymous watchers who keep an eye on them.”
“Right. That’s how these cultists are.”
“There are separate people who manage those addresses… Anyway, the fact that they discovered this house where I live with you means information about my actual residence leaked. Only a few people in the company have that level of access. Probably executive level… or thereabouts.”
“We need to check the access records.”
Liam nodded.
Since our residence was already compromised, we couldn’t stay there any longer. We didn’t know when additional attacks might come, and there was no guarantee intruders hadn’t already broken in. Though I’d grown fond of the house that so resembled Bailonz Street, our lives were more important. We immediately turned around and moved to a hotel in central London.
Being well-versed in being pursued, Liam also knew exactly how to exhaust pursuers into giving up.
While we might have jumped over walls in the past, we decided to trust in 21st century London’s complex underground system. After three stops, we switched to a bus, got off in the Farringdon area, and changed to an SUV Plurititas had lent us. From there, we passed by the Central Criminal Court, crossed a bridge, then took another bus near the hotel. The rest was on foot.
“This area should be a bit safer though.”
Liam added that while he generally avoided areas below the Thames, the Waterloo area was alright.
Liam decided on our next destination. He wanted to visit the caretakers first, and if there were no issues with their identities, he planned to investigate the executives next. There were only a few places information could have leaked from.
Following Liam’s suggestion, we headed to a residential area in Whitechapel. We used public transport just to be safe.
Whitechapel. Once the East End’s notorious high-crime area and slum.
Though people still sometimes say the security isn’t good, maybe it was the unusually warm weather? The sunlight falling on the streets and the vibrant graffiti on the walls gave an impression of freedom rather than danger.
Where had Whitechapel’s 19th-century infamy gone? Now you could occasionally spot tourists seeking mystery novels or dark incident tours. No one alive probably remembers the horrible murders that once occurred here. In the distance, I could see a group of tourists emerging from the Jack the Ripper Museum.
Liam whispered to me.
“The guided tours are really popular.”
“What a thing.”
People’s fascination with death stories hasn’t changed from past to present. I shook my head in disbelief.
We walked slowly through the streets, each holding snacks bought from a nearby market to stave off hunger. Liam spoke:
“First, we’re going to meet Mr. Thomas. He’s been managing my safehouses for ten years, he’s now sixty, and his only joy in life is living with his old Siamese cat. When I visit, he often brews me a cup of tea. Mr. Thomas likes it very sweet, with plenty of sugar.”
“Mm.”
“He manages four of my safehouses, checking for intruders about two days a week. The other caretaker is Ian, a twenty-six-year-old from the company. He manages the remaining two places. The house we lived in near Hyde Park was one of Mr. Thomas’s. Let’s check here first, then go meet Ian.”
I nodded.
We soon climbed to one of Whitechapel’s many residential flats. A row of doors stretched before us. The carpeted old corridor smelled of mold. Seeing the light coating of cobwebs suggested the building’s caretaker wasn’t doing their job properly. A glance at the mailbox showed it clean with no accumulated mail. Had Mr. Thomas returned from being out?
We took the old elevator to room 307. A neat front door. Liam pressed the doorbell and waited.
“Thomas, it’s me.”
Is he not home? Silence. Even when I listened carefully, there was no sign of life.
Liam tilted his head once, then reached out to try the doorknob. The door opened easily without resistance. Liam’s face instantly went pale.
“Thomas!”
The inside of the apartment was a disaster, as if hit by a bomb. Plus, water covered the floor, as if a pipe had burst.
I hurriedly called the police, requesting they send someone to Whitechapel. They asked if we needed an ambulance. I replied that we probably did.
“It looks like a robbery! Please hurry!”
I saw Liam checking the pulse of the fallen elderly man. Water already surrounded him too.
The old man was pale but showed no visible external injuries. However, he was constantly convulsing with his limbs tensed. His face was turning almost purple, and he was choking as if unable to breathe properly.
Cyanosis, dropping body temperature. Classic symptoms of drowning. The problem was this was a home, and the only water source was the kitchen tap. Yet the old man seemed to be suffocating as if drowning in invisible water. Gurgling sounds came from his throat.
We had to make him expel the water somehow. Despite Liam’s continued chest compressions, the old man’s condition worsened by the moment.
“Damn it!”
Liam shouted loudly, striking the floor with his fist. As he forcefully performed artificial respiration and chest compressions again, the old man finally started coughing up lukewarm water.
What could I do? Given the empty mailbox and the old man’s condition, the attack must have happened recently. It seemed to have occurred just before we arrived. Then the attacker might not have left the building yet. Running out the door, I spotted a figure near the emergency exit at the far end of the corridor.
A stark white face, as if protruding from the wall. Black eyes and pale face, jutting out at an impossible angle like a mask! Definitely not the expression of a living person.
For some unknown reason, cold sweat dampened my neck. A sword had appeared in my hand. I have to kill it. Reason warned. If I don’t kill it now, it will cause harm.
It waved its hand.
Leaving Liam to perform first aid, I dashed to the end of the corridor.
But as if bewitched by a ghost, there was no one there. No white mask, nothing. Yellow lights flickered, and there was a fishy smell. Both corners were dead ends. I don’t understand why they built it this way. Frowning deeply, I opened the emergency exit door. And froze.
Blood everywhere. Flickering emergency stairwell lights, and the dead security guard. Footprints through the blood led several steps before vanishing up the wall as if into the sky.
My gaze followed all the traces. And finally… I saw the ‘mark’ carved into the wall. Like a flashback, scenes unfolded before my eyes.
Rotten apples, the face, tablecloth, cross…
…Church bells?
Thanks to sirens starting to wail in the distance, I snapped out of the hallucination. Police and paramedics were making their way here through Whitechapel’s winding streets.
My mind cleared sharply. I left the door open and returned to room 307. Focused on compressing the old man’s chest, Liam hadn’t seemed to notice I’d left. He looked up at me just then.
“Kek, kuhak…!”
The old man started vomiting an enormous amount of water. It must have been about a bucket’s worth. Only then did the convulsing old man start breathing steadily.
Finally relaxing, Liam collapsed backward, bracing himself against the floor. He didn’t seem to care that the water soaking the floor was ruining his pants. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. Liam’s eyes widened at seeing the transparent sword in my hand.
“…Jane. That sword-“
“It was here.”
I croaked out. Though it was my voice, it sounded surprisingly strange. Like someone else was speaking. I continued. For some reason, the sentences felt incomplete.
“…It was here. It attacked this person, and the security guard… In the emergency exit…”
Liam came over and embraced me as I rambled. His hot body temperature warmed my cooling body. In Liam’s arms, I took deep breaths and shivered, doing my best to shake off the physiological revulsion.
Until the scene before my eyes faded away.
Until present memories pushed out the past ones.
