Anger and Heat

By the time I reached the doors of the aged care home, hesitance and regret were winning over determination and I began seriously considering turning back. Stepping inside, I meet the receptionist, a podgy woman with a cloud of blonde curls atop her head.

"Can you please direct me to Waylen Chamberlain?" I ask.

"And who might you be to Mr.Chamberlain?" She inquires with a throaty voice.

Searching for a lie, I blurt, "I'm his niece."

"He's been here for a long time and now you visit him? Piss poor niece aren't ya?" She insults with pursed lips and judgemental eyes. "What's your name, darlin'?"

"Eleanor Burroughs." I say, praying this interaction hastens.

Clanking on the keyboard, she hands me a visitor label that reads 'Emily Bubbles'. I throw her an unamused look, "Really?" I say, flatly.

"Room 20, Miss Bubbles. Can I help with anything else?" She replies with a smirk.

I return the smirk before I move towards room 20. It was a large, luxurious building. Only those of wealth could afford it here. High ceilings and large windows that filter in warm sunlight, lavish furniture in all rooms including main lounges and bedrooms. Clusters of elders sat and played cards or bingo, some in pairs drinking tea or reading, spending their time together.

Until, I reached room 20. Lightly, I knock on the door. "I've been fed, Clarissa. Leave." A gruff voice orders.

"It's Eleanor, Mr.Chamberlain. Eleanor Burroughs." I reply.

Silence. One I take as a sign to enter. Hesitantly, I twist the handle to see a dark, dusty room. Only a bed in the middle, a door near it, no doubt a bathroom. In the corner, atop a vanity with a shattered mirror, is a tray of untouched food. "What do you want, girl?" A low voice grumbles, there in front of a large window sits Chamberlain in his wheelchair, staring outside through the little slit the heavy curtains offer.

"Dalal is dead." I tell him, expecting he knows.

"What do I care of that fool?" He says, monotone. Still staring ahead.

"You may not care about him but perhaps for yourself. Dalal's death means that the killer is still out there, roaming somewhere and you match his victim MO." I explain, trying to advance his stubbornness.

"Death would be a mercy." He divulges in a quiet voice.

"An enlightened man like yourself wouldn't be living like this, wouldn't let his life completely pass him by because of a tragedy." I respond, slowly walking up to him but keeping a respectable distance. His privacy and space are clearly very important to him.

"When the tragedy is attached to you, a constant reminder of everything you've lost. Even the most enlightened individual would fall." He proclaimed, his words laced with nothingness.

"Doing this to yourself must be the biggest tragedy of all and the biggest loss for those who can benefit from your knowledge, from the things you could do." I profess.

He doesn't say anything for a moment.

"I know your type, Miss.Burroughs. Overachiever, hates to lose, competitive, ambitious, but if I've learnt anything in my years of solitude and dismay is that as much as it is your asset, it will be your demise. You will search far and wide, high and low, go to such lengths but everywhere you look it will never be enough, you will never find your answer because life is cruel and barbaric and you'll endure it until death comes and takes you. Now, leave me be you incessant girl!" He bellows, the sound rumbling through the walls and the ground, immobilising me.

"Leave!" He yells again in reiteration, catapulting me out the door.

I rush down the halls, running away from the monster that now occupies it.

For there was nothing scarier than a man who had nothing to lose.

~~~

Noelle had alerted me to come to the station for what I assume is to explain the details of Dalal's autopsy and what our next step is. In truth, I want to leave the country and go to a little town in Italy where no one knows who I am and start a new life, away from here.

How human it is to desire running away from your problems rather than facing them.

Entering, I greet Sonders as we settle in our usual meeting room where Hart sits, organising papers. Silas stands in the corner, arms crossed, leaning against the wall, he stares at me. The thick atmosphere fills with the unsaid words from that night.

"The results from Karvish's autopsy report came back, we were hoping you two could discern if the murderer kept with his Shakespeare pattern." Hart rose, explaining.

"Karvish was stabbed with a poisoned knife." Sonders continued. "The knife was dripping in Batrachotoxin. One of the most lethal poisons known to man, if it enters your bloodstream, it'll take under 10 minutes for you to die."

"And to think, he was stabbed in the side of the torso, meaning he could have survived if not for the poison. That slash down the stomach was post mortem which means the killer is spiralling. Killing them no longer satisfying him." Hart finished.

"Hamlet. Hamlet was stabbed with a poisoned sword." I say, without missing a beat.

They both look at each other as though speaking with their minds. "If he's killed four times that means he still has six victims to go in order to reach ten tragedies." Hart vocalises.

"But our killer is spiralling. He's unexpected and intelligent. We would be stupid if we didn't tackle this from all angles and assumed he might deviate from his MO." I offer another perspective.

"She's right, when have we ever been right about where he's going or who he is. Twice now we've been wrong about the killer. We must tread carefully." Sonders reiterates, subtly winking at me and I smile back at her.

"How do you propose we do that?" Hart asks.

"Think how he thinks." Silas speaks, pulling all three of us to look at him. "Want to not only figure out who the murderer is but also destroy him? You get into his mind."

"A profile." I add.

"We know he wants revenge on the Oxford Three, Osbourne, Fraser, and Waylen. As well as anyone else who may have interefered with him back then. That means he's around 55 years old."

Hart watches us as we bounce ideas off each other, "I'll tell the team to pull names of 55 year olds who attended Oxford as well as fill me in on the interrogations they've been doing on the attendees from the ball."

With that both him and Sonders pack a heap of files and walk out the door, leaving me and Silas alone, it seemed that always happened. It was always us in the end.

I attempt to hide the events of the day that have, to my misfortune, etched themselves on my face. I don't know how to speak with him after the ball, whatever happened then.

So I didn't. After all, we were great at ignoring things.

"Trouble sleeping?" He asks, eyebrows raised, a delicate strand of hair falls atop his face.

"Would you believe me if I said no?" I reply, still sitting. He saw right through me, I tried so hard to never let anyone truly know me, preferring to say unknown but only he broke that exterior. I hated it, I hated feeling like someone had even an inkling about me. It made me feel sick.

How truly mortifying it was to be known.

"Would you believe yourself if you said no?" He reversed the question.

"What do you care, Golding?" Growing increasingly restless, perhaps the sleeplessness was making an appearance.

"You'd love that, wouldn't you Burroughs?" He grins, dismissing me. "Are you hungry?"

Confused, I stare at him for clarification.

"You're a child, Burroughs." He quips, walking out the door.

"Excuse me?" I say, his accusation pulling me along with him.

"You're not sleeping properly, you're grumpy- which isn't unusual and I've been to your dorm, all you eat is cup noodles and sugar. It's a miracle you're still alive." He elaborates, walking out the police station and onto the road.

"You know you, I don't think I've ever met anyone as pompous and self-absorbed as you. You think you're so perfect, elitist man child whose only source of entertainment is infuriating me." I shout, following him.

"Oh but Burroughs you cant blame me, you're so fun to piss off." He laughs, crossing the street before stopping in front of a terraced house. "Especially when you get so mad, you flush and there's this look in your eyes where I can't tell if you want to slap me or rip my clothes off... it's truly magnificent." He whispers the last part, looking at me intently with half-lidded eyes as he smirks.

My eyes widen at his crude remark. Shoving him, I yell "How dare you?!"

He starts chuckling, "That's the look."

I push him again but before I can do anything else he grabs my legs and throws me over his shoulder.

"Put me down!" I shout as he walks to the house and unlocks the door.

"As you wish, your highness." He taunts, releasing his grip and dropping me on the floor.

"I detest you." I retort, standing up.

"No, you don't. But you keep telling yourself that." He smiles, walking behind his marble counter and into the kitchen. Gritting my teeth, I stare daggers at him.

Looking around I finally take in my surroundings. I'm in his home. I'm in Golding's kitchen.

The house is swirled in greys, blacks, amd misty blues with splashes of colour in the form of furniture or paintings. I wander around the rooms, Victorian accents strong throughout the decor and architecture. One room, in particular, captures my attention. Small, misty blue pillars form an arched entry, a seating area faces an antique fireplace. Right next to it is a large bookcase with an array of titles and authors, little knick-knacks decorating it. A small ring sits on the second shelf, I pick up to see a symbol-like crest on it.

"It was my fathers ring."

Startled, I turn to see Golding leaning against the arched entry.

"Well, at least that's what my mother told me." He spoke softly, looking at the ring.

"Is this your family's crest?" I ask. It was silver in colour and thick with a small design on it.

"How come you don't wear it?"

"Because it doesn't feel like its mine. I never knew my father, barely knew my mother too. They feel like strangers to me." He replies, his tone earnest.

I place it back on the shelf. "I didn't know you were such an interior design enthusiast." I say, moving away from the topic.

His house was phenomenal, incredibly well put together. An artwork compared to my dorm. It boggled my mind, everything here must be worth thousands. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Burroughs." He says, walking back into the kitchen. Smells of spices and delicious aromas lured me in behind him.

"You cook?" I ask, shocked.

"Like I said, there's a lot you don't know about me." He reiterates, a towel on his shoulder, his t-shirt accentuating his biceps.

I nod in agreement. "Sit." He says, gesturing to the kitchen bench.

I had a feeling he wouldn't let me leave just yet so I accept my fate and take a seat on one of the stools.

"Can you handle spice?"

"No."

"Alright." He says, adding a whole chilli pepper in. Looking at me he smirks at my disapproval, "Relax, it's not that hot."

There were so many sides to him that I never thought of. That I ignored.

"I'll give it to you. It smells..." I say, closing my eyes as I smell the flavours brewing, a smile forming. As if in response, he scoops a spoonful of the sauce and brings it to me. I look up at him before opening my mouth and tasting it. It was delectable, a rich garlicky flavour sprinkled with hints of oregano and basil. He gazes at me intently as I lick my lips, his jaw locking slightly.

My stomach grumbled for more. Placing fancy dinnerware in front of me, he plates the pasta along with a succulent steak that smelled of butter and rosemary.

The warm, dimmed lighting softens his features, "Enjoy." He declares, sitting in front of me.

I don't wait for anything else, I dig in. The flavours melt in my mouth, every bite makes me want to close my eyes and relive the moment over and over again. "This is heavenly." I groan in delight.

"A compliment? Food really does bring people together." He smiles, taking a bite of his steak.

"Great chef. Still a prick though." I clarify, winking at him.

"Good company. Still a tight-ass." He remarks. I nod as if to say "fair-enough", locking eyes with him.

So many unsaid words, so much swirls in our eyes yet we ignore it.

He filled me with fire, but I was growing to love the heat.

For what was life without passion, without excitement. It was joyless and bleak.