—

“He was very charismatic. Still is, actually. But as kind and jovial as he seemed, he had a fiery temper. Explosive. Violent. Reckless. Your best friend one moment, the next… throwing things across the room. Yelling. Yard stick in hand, ready to… ready to…”

They’d moved to lounge on the leather couches near the wet bar to drink, much to Hakuba’s relief, as the line of questioning had, once again, tread upon personal ground. The young detective took a long sip from his glass, eyes closing to appreciate the burn of the alcohol on his tongue, the vapors on the roof of his mouth. 

“What else can you tell me about him? About your interactions with him?”

“I… I’m afraid to admit it, but I can’t recall much from that time.”

Jones lifted the glass of scotch to his lips and took a taste, frowning as he considered what his client had just told him. “It’s going to be difficult to make any sort of press statement with this information, you know.”

“Yes, I know… but that’s why I have a professional spin-doctor under my employ, isn’t it?”

The man smirked. “Yes, I guess that’s true enough. But, really, Hakuba… They’re not going to buy that you just ‘don’t remember’ all of what happened. It sounds like a lie. Especially when you’ve stated in interviews in the past that you have a photographic memory.”

“Eidetic, actually. And it’s not exactly what you think.”

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“I’m able to recall certain… events and things in incredible detail, yes. Sometimes long strings of numbers, sometimes specific scents, smells, sounds. Usually it’s images and scenes that I remember in… intense detail.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t trust it. Not enough to make a firm statement one way or the other.”

“I thought you were all about trusting instinct and your human nature or whatever all of that existential stuff was." 

Hakuba sighed. "As a student of humanism, yes. As a detective, no. I don’t choose which memories are captured, and there’s no way to verify what is actually legitimate or not. Memory changes every time it’s recalled, colored by different perspectives of intent… or at least it’s supposed to. There’s not enough… data present to really check. The results are skewed as there’s no control, no outside perspective.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Say, perhaps, that I’m on a case tracking a… a drug addict. I’m intending to give a standard investigatory survey, followed by specific questions regarding the case at hand.”

“All right… go on.”

“But as I’m conversing with him, I notice that he has a very particular tattoo- one that I’ve seen before.”

“Which helps you relate it to another case, right?”

“Precisely. While this is absolutely perfect for establishing relationships between cases, exercising pattern recognition of common threads, it also presents the problem of a potential trigger.”

“Are you talking PTSD or something?”

“Not exactly, but something along those lines in this instance. In my case.” Hakuba sighed again, turning the glass of scotch in his hand, watching the amber liquid wash over the ice. “With this tattoo, I would not only recognize the pattern and change my approach, but I might also be pulled from the situation, distracted, by reliving the instance where I’d seen it before. Excessively vivid. Every detail overwhelmingly bright and close. …Which may sound useful except that, if you recall, I’m currently attempting to grill a criminal.”

“What do you do to combat it?”

“Take excessive notes. I’m very meticulous about my records. Relevant time stamps, names, locations, and so on are written in my current blackbook, then transferred to my database. I’m not sure how the other detectives manage to trust themselves so thoroughly…”

“To be honest, it sounds a bit like you’ve got more than one disorder.”

The deadpan way in which Jones said it caught Hakuba off guard. He blinked, gently setting the scotch glass down on the table’s surface. “Ah. Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. Frankly, I feel almost certain that it’s all connected, somehow…”

Jones leaned forward again, looking Hakuba up and down, evaluating. “Are you taking any meds? Seeing a doctor at all?”

“No, no prescribed medications… and I do have a family doctor. He’s suggested that I take up hot yoga to manage the stress.”

“God, you in yoga pants.”

“I know. It’s humiliating.”

“So why aren’t you… seeing a therapist?”

“I might, once I’m eighteen.”

“Why wait?”

“Have you ever heard the saying that…  the less your parents know, the better you’ll get on?”

“No, but I can guess where you’re going with this.”

“Patient confidentiality. Independence. I’ll see about dealing with my alleged disorder then. For now, lists. Carefully constructed and maintained reports of cases, evidence, clues, situations, patterns, culprits, people-”

“Okay, yes, I get the hint. But you weren’t keeping those records at White Chapel, I’m guessing?”

“No… not until the end, I’m afraid.”

He couldn’t remember all of the dates and times of the attacks. So much of those months blurred together in an uncomfortable fog, grey and bleak as the London dawn. The concrete details he could recall were patchy at best. It was part of why he hadn’t included any of it in his report for the police. Too vague, too personal.

Too dangerous. 

Hakuba slid his hand into his pocket and ran his fingers over the Master Watch again, taking hold to fish it out. He checked the time- 17:32:27 -then compared it to that on his wrist watch- 17:31:54 -then snapped it closed. He did it without thinking. The numbers stayed in his mind; digital, analogue, written out in English, Japanese, French. He would have written it down if it had been important, but it wasn’t. Its only purpose was to distract. 

He was anchored. 

With wide, worried eyes, James nodded his head, watching Father Ramson’s every movement and flicker of expression. Internally, he felt the confusion of conflict. Something wasn’t right. But he pushed it away, swallowing back his fear. Father Ramson was a man of God. He was required to do all that he asked. Surely, he would see that James Hakuba was a loyal servant. Not perfect, no, but…

“Give me your hands.”

James attempted to pull his head away from the man’s hand, but the priest held his chin firmly. Inwardly, he chided himself for his foolish fear and forced himself to calm, lifting his hands obediently as an offering to the priest, who took them in his free hand by the wrist.

Expecting pain – something often used as punishment in honor of repentance – the James was surprised when it didn’t come. Instead, he felt fabric under his small hands. The soft cotton of the priest’s robes.  James startled, drawing his eyes away from the priest’s face to see what was happening, but the man tightened his grip.

“No, James. Keep your eyes on me. I will guide you. ‘Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? by taking heed thereto, according to thy word.’”

The courses that he’d been enrolled in at the time were a mystery to him, even now. He’d looked at the class schedule since, having kept the necessary documents for transcripts, but somehow, it never stuck. 

But he recalled the worn stone hallways, the drafty corridor, and the stained-glass windows that he’d stared through, memorizing each color and shape, the outline of the negative spaces. Hakuba could feel, so clearly, the rough cotton sheets of his bed, 200 thread count, off-white. The panic at realizing there were speckled blood stains. The scent of vinegar that lingered on his clothing and skin when he’d tried to hide it.

“Silence.” The priest’s kind voice was gone, replaced instead with anger of a tried patience. “Do you presume to know what is right and in accordance to God’s will more than I, Saguru James Hakuba?”

The boy pulled against the priest’s hands, throwing his weight into it. “No, but… Father, please! Lu-lust.. is… is one of the…”

The priest let go of James’s wrists the moment his other first connected with the side of the boy’s head. He hit the ground on his shoulder, uttering a cry of surprise and pain. Instinctively, he brought his hands up to cover his face, grimacing at the bruised skin at the site of impact.

“Are you really that arrogant, James? Your pride…”

James shook his head, curling onto his side in a fetal position. He had to make himself submissive before the priest. Had to show that he wasn’t arrogant or prideful. “No, Father… I’m sorry… ‘Teach me thy way, O Lord; I will…  I will walk in thy truth…“ He swallowed hard, forcing the words to come. "U-unite my hea-heart to fear thy name.’”

“Get up.”

The boy braced his hand against the carpeted floor and pushed himself into a sit, grimacing as the broken blood vessels under the skin made his muscles sore and tender. Shaking, he got to his feet again and stared at the floor, heart pounding in anxiety while he waited.

“Do not resist.”

James closed his eyes, then nodded.

It had taken approximately one minute and twenty-three seconds to undress him. He’d waited, naked and ashamed, for three minutes while the priest recited more scripture. Made more promises. Three minutes to stoke the fires of Hell. These details he thought he could recall with accuracy, though he couldn’t be sure. The Master Watch had been out of reach. 

Far easier to recall was the instructor’s coat closet. The scent of different fabrics- wool, cotton, polyester, fur -mixed with the fragrance of perfume, cologne, soap, oil, sweat. It was far enough away from the dormitories that the boy wouldn’t be heard as he crawled behind the heavy articles of clothing and sobbed against his knees. It was the safest place in all of White Chapel. Surrounded by the coats of authority, he allowed himself the muffled wails that were forbidden. It would have been impossible in those early days to be silent. 

The priest looked back at the fire and twisted the poker against the burning wood and coals, watching with calm interest as the tip began to change from the cold black to the glowing orange as the metal heated.  “You must understand, from an eternal perspective. You are destined for great things. The sooner we cull the weakness, the more sooner you will advance in your studies… the closer you will come to God. Come here, James.”

The boy tensed, hesitating before he came forward, stepping awkwardly over the piles of his clothes and his forgotten book bag. The priest pulled the poker from the fire and turned to face James again, gesturing to the floor.

“Kneel before God.”

James, eyes widening again at the sight of the weapon, stayed where he stood, shaking his head.

“KNEEL BEFORE GOD.”

Startled, the boy dropped to his knees, clenching his jaw hard, trembling. The priest circled him, carrying the poker as straight and still.

Saguru had been struck in the name of discipline before, but… never… never like… never with…

When the first blow came, it was hard and deep against his lower back. The scream that tore from him was one of shock first, and only after from the excruciating pain.

He’d never counted the scars. There was very little desire to. Most of the hits that he’d taken hadn’t left permanent marks, and of those that did, a great deal had faded over the past handful of years. The stench of burning flesh stayed with him, though, and it had taken four years for him to get close to the fireplace again.

The boy shuddered, huddled against the black, wrought iron bars of the fireplace. The soot and smoke soothed him only just so – he knew that he wasn’t dead, nor was he in Hell, for the devil wasn’t likely to have stained brick in his palace. Still, the pain was what it was. James gripped both of his arms with opposite hands, cheek pressed against the hot metal, waiting for the next strike. He knew that it would come – fast and hard, burning the naked flesh on his back. He knew that he would cry out, too. That the tears, welling in his eyes, would spill again if he wasn’t careful. He bit the inside of his cheek anxiously in a vain attempt to keep quiet.

“Fear,” Father Ramson said, “Is proof of guilt. Proof of sin. I’ve drawn it to the surface. And now… I will purge it from you.”

It lasted one hundred and twenty-three ragged, gasping breaths. Each one far to fresh on Hakuba’s mind at any given moment, no matter how many times he’d tried to replace them with something, anything else. 

It was tearing, aching pain. Deep and shattering. Mind-numbing, bright. The pain kept him conscious, his fear kept him aware. Capturing every minute detail of his descent into the beginnings of his own personal Hell.

Yet, for all of this, the only thing that Hakuba considered remotely useful data was the date of the first occurrence, which he was only able to surmise as that was day that his journal entries suddenly stopped.