The Space Behind the Bin

There was a time, just once, when the detective returned to White Chapel Academy after the scandal and torn its reputation to shreds. He was sixteen, getting ready to leave for Japan to study abroad for a year or so, and made it a point to complete his patrol of the city one last time. Part of this included the Whitechapel District, which he usually avoided on principle, but that day, knowing that he might not ever come back, he forced himself to visit.

The roads were distantly familiar. He remembered running that night, barefoot and tired, through the woods and into the city, barely stopping for anything. He didn’t bother retracing his steps; he had no interest in entering the dark wood, or remembering the things that had happened there, and instead took the main road to the abbey-converted-school and entered through the front gate.

It was easy enough to gain access. The school was dependent on its beautiful building and polished appearance to stay in business. He nodded to the sisters who greeted him, and carried on his way, step after step over the stone floors. There were no children at this time of year, save for the few who were boarded over summer break. In any case, it was quiet, and the dorm rooms empty. Bunks stacked neatly in rows against the wall, each bed made with pressed sheets. 

He wondered if anyone would recognize him. The teachers would certainly know his name for how famous he was, then, but would they piece it together that he was that same frightened little boy from six years ago? That he was one of the old headmaster’s victims? He hoped not. 

What was he doing here? 

The detective worked his way up to the second level, careful as he took each step with relative ease. He was so much taller now. So much stronger. Everything looked so small compared to what he remembered. The classrooms, all open to air out with the summer breeze, looked beautiful in the natural, filtered light of the stained glass windows. It hardly seemed a place of horror and nightmare, and yet…

Up to the third level he went, the winding staircase twisting his stomach with anxiety like a corkscrew through an apple. Did he dare see the headmaster’s office? The new man in charge was reportedly very kind, very seasoned, and not at all what Father Ramson had been, but that office…

Closing his eyes, leaning against the railing, he could picture it so clearly. The large wooden desk, stained to look like wine; the high backed leather chair, dark cherry; the stone fireplace with the instruments of torture poised and waiting in an iron cage.

He shuddered, squeezing his arms with hands so much stronger than they’d been when he’d been a student there, and retreated back down the steps. Hakuba could not finish that journey. He could not bring himself to finish the last seven steps and into the shadows of that hallway. 

Instead, he found himself in the second floor bathroom, washing his hands, splashing cold water on his face. He looked pale in the mirror and vaguely ill. It didn’t surprise him, though. That’s how he’d always looked in that mirror, save that he was usually crying before. There were no tears as he dried his face, but his body ached all the same.

The area was exactly the way he’d remembered it, save for the installment of new soap dispensers and hand dryers. Modern convenience carved into the historic beauty of the ancient building. He pressed his back against the wall, then slid to the floor, leaned against the rubbish bin in the corner.

It was the safest place to hide in all of White Chapel, he knew, save only for the staff’s coat room. You couldn’t be seen from the door if you were small enough, though he was clearly too large for it now, and it was very seldom used at night as all of the students resided in the lower levels. How many nights had he curled up in this very spot, trying to concentrate on the scent of plastic and wet paper instead of the pain in his back or the blood seeping through his uniform?

Setting the pocket watch on his lap and looked at the time, his eyes could barely able to focus on the numbers that ticked in front of him. He knew he shouldn’t have come. Even after the years of change, just being there hollowed him with fresh pain. 

After a few more silent moments, he got to his feet and left, each step calm and deliberate. He offered no nods to the staff as he passed, ignored the children that ran by with their bibles, laughing, and barely made it to the steps outside before pulling out a cigarette. 

This he concentrated on as he walked over the front drive, out to the black iron gate. Drag after drag, it was only the smoke that he let himself think of as he simply walked away, turned from the school, the forest, and the fence, and he never looked back.