A Symphony of Echoes (The Chronicles of St. Mary's #2)

by Jodi Taylor

Full of overwhelming confidence and conceit, and certain no 19th century monster could take on two modern historians armed with attitude, curiosity, and an overdeveloped sense of immortality – we’d gone looking for him.

The fog just swirled the light back at us. Thick and dirty-yellow, it tasted of cheap coal, stung my throat and made my eyes run.

‘When I’m coughing up half a ton of black sputum tomorrow …’ and there was that sound again. Closer this time.

‘Eat, then sleep, or terrible things will happen to you.’ She left.

It was that wonderful moment when you’ve been prepared for a prolonged and unpleasant session of projectile vomiting and then, without warning, it subsides and you suddenly fancy a bacon sandwich.

The toilets smelled the way men’s toilets always do. Like a hundred wet tomcats had died in there.

He sighed. I said nothing. There was no point in over-egging the pudding.

He backed out of the door, scraping the paint as he went. There was barely any left now and the whole jamb became even more gouged and gashed every time he passed through. It looked terrible. It still does. I’ve never let them paint over it. He disappeared and his coughing Dopplered down the corridor. There was a distant cry as he collided with someone.

kept whispering, ‘Don’t die. Don’t die. David, don’t die,’ as if I could talk him back to health. As if by sheer force of will, I could prevent him leaving us. Leaving me. ‘David. You’re my friend. Please don’t die.’ His lips moved and I leaned close to hear him. Faintly, oh so faintly, he said, ‘Knock … knock.’ I swallowed and said, ‘Who’s there?’ But he never spoke again.

Totally moving. Setup perfectly well.

There’s something about being adrift in time that rearranges some priorities and perceptions. Looking up at the stars while waiting to have your throat cut rearranges the rest.

I gazed into his eyes. Rainbows blossomed. Bluebirds sang. The music swelled to a crescendo. The bloody fire alarms went off.

And the whole black, ugly, gunky mess that had been inside me for so long just cracked apart and flowed away, like the tears on my cheeks.