i. It is a shame. We were light in flight. We were solar and moonlit. All white and luminous, we were spectrums bled out through your prism of holy, holy, holy. We were reflections of your glow; fractions of your divinity. We, the fervent and fanatic, were beautiful. We were beautiful because you were beautiful.
ii. It is cruel. They were God’s children but we were your sons. They: mortal, weak, ever unfaithful. We: your soldiers, your messengers, your instruments. Your will at work. We scattered ourselves among the unworthy. We closed the gap, our wings bloodied and worn, our halo in cracks. Then you stripped us.
iii. It is too hollow. We are crawling, clawing, knees raw on hell’s floor. Our light has dimmed but never weakened. Black flames where there was once sunlight. You are farther, you are escaping us, but we still remember. Our eyes never forgot your vision. It aches within us. And we miss you.
iv. It is not over. We are dancing among ruins, we are mouthfuls of blood, we are the darkest stars. Holiness does not love us, won’t touch us. But still, we adore. Still, we are burning. We will finish what you made us for.
Tag Archives: white chapel academy
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Another ickleba for you all, related to the drabble that I wrote yesterday. Frick, I feel like a monster, especially since I was listening to ‘Silent Night’ the whole time I was painting it. Fortunately, this is all just part of the headcanon backstory of White Chapel Academy that I wrote for Hakuba, and isn’t […]
Black Bird
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.
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I present a 9 year-old Hakuba, sassing his teachers at White Chapel Academy. It leads to trouble, but EH.
So, Whitechapel. Obvious JtR reference? Also, Baron. :D You sure it was a good idea to take up that particular headcanon that you may or may not have even written about yet on this blog~?
White Chapel – yes, this was in reference to Jack the Ripper. The private religious academy that my Hakuba attends as a child in the backstory that I totally made up is (ficticiously) located in the Whitechapel District in London, England… and home to the infamous Whitechapel Murders. Where better to put a horrific past full of abuse and pain?
It’s really unfortunate, but something that really was/is common in that kind of school. The priests that do the abuse know just what to say to make the kids feel so guilty that the never expose the truth, allowing them to continue preying on them. Sometimes they’ll go for years before anyone hears about it… and even then, a lot of the churches just shuffle the priests around to different schools instead of excommunicating them or whatever.
Ugh, such a depressing topic… but one that I wanted to include in his past because it lent really well to my theories for his actions. Also, having a detective who is religious, particularly with the rest who aren’t particularly sounded fun to play with. It sets him apart, which is what he should be, given the difference in his cultural background.
Baron – OMG. Yes, it was a good idea, just soul-crushing. That’s where I’m at in the 7 Sins of White Chapel story. The point in the story where some hope is restored to the young Saguru and then we get the villain with a literal ‘kick the dog’ moment and all hope is lost.
I will, eventually, finish the story… I just really don’t want to write about poor Baron being beaten to death with screaming 9 year-old Saguru helpless to do anything about it…
Gluttony
—
Hakuba waited in the corner of the parlor, eyes scanning the day’s newspaper, though he wasn’t actually absorbing any information. Jones had left about an hour previous with claims of ‘work to be done’ and ‘the wife expects me home for dinner.’ He did, however, promise that he would be back the next day to solidify the statement that they’d drafted.
With his agent gone and Baaya spearheading the delegation of managerial house chores, Hakuba was left alone to wait.
The messages hadn’t stopped. None of them were new to him; he’d seen them countless times before. Though he couldn’t be sure of the precise numbers, it certainly felt as though he had as many enemies as he had fans.
“It’s to be expected, really,” he’d said to Jones over tea and sorting through the paper slips. “I’m not only just a… half-breed, but I’m direct competition for other, favored detectives. It’s only natural…”
“And given your advantage, father being in such a powerful position…”
“Yes, exactly. It’s just part of the territory. I never expected anything different, really.”
“Considering you came to take down Kaitou Kid, whom the population adores…”
Hakuba laughed. “Yes, I suppose so. I guess I set myself up to be an enemy from the start, didn’t I? Rich, spoiled brat from London importing himself with self-important fanfair… Can do as he likes, being Daddy’s only son, intent on capturing Kaitou Kid and putting the other detectives to shame…”
Jones tilted his head at that but said nothing, opening another letter to fill the silence.
“It’s fine, really, Jones. I never intended to stay in Japan long. I haven’t even a chance of making it past rank six, even if I’m incredibly fortunate…”
The agent held up the enclosed letter and smiled. “Ah, look. This one isn’t hate mail! They’ve written here… well, wait, this is asking about arsenic poisoning. That’s not really either, is it?”
“No, not exactly. Please put it in the ‘to answer’ pile, I’ll get to it this afternoon.”
“I really ought to have these forwarded through my office first. You don’t really have time to be sorting through this, do you?”
“No, but there’s not really a more efficient way, Jones.” Hakuba took a sip of Earl Grey before setting it aside and turning back to his laptop, sorting through another chunk of email. “I need to be aware if someone is asking for help… or trying to get my attention for something time-sensitive. I’m not sure that your office can get to things in time, let alone know what they need to be looking for.”
“Hmf.” Jones shrugged, picking up the next letter from the pile. But then he dropped it back on top. “Why are you still here?”
The detective blinked once, then glanced away from the screen to the older man. “What do you mean?”
“Why are you still in Japan?”
Hakuba snorted and, shaking his head, went back to work, archiving another handful of emails. “I can’t exactly go home now, can I? I left with a bloody procession… They sent their champion teenage detective celebrity to capture the illustrious thief, and…” He sighed, smile tired. “It’s been months. I’m no closer to capturing him than I was in London.”
“What, is Kaitou Kid really that good?”
“Yes. For reasons that you couldn’t even begin to understand.”
Jones hummed at that. “I wish I was his agent. Do you think he has one already? Does he need one?”
“I believe he has plenty of PR help from the press already, free of charge.”
“Damn.”
“I’ll let him know if he asks, though.”
“Thank you.” Jones nudged the envelope open, glanced inside, then put it in the growing hate pile. “But really, is that why you’re here? Are you genuinely afraid to go home, defeated?”
“I expect that’s part of it.” The young blonde sighed, forcing a sad sort of quirk to his lopsided smile. “But you know, I’ve always been a glutton for punishment.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Another snort. “Actually… I may have managed to make a handful of friends here. I think it will be quite painful to leave them when I do.”
—
Dear Baaya,
I’m sorry that I haven’t written much lately. Studies have been exhausting. I am well, but looking forward to summer holiday. Do you know if Papa is still on for Paris? I don’t think it will be the same if he is not there.
Pleasantries aside, I have a petition to make. Over the past couple of weeks, I have made the acquaintanceship of a certain older gentleman – an Irish Wolfhound, to be precise – and have found him to be a most agreeable companion. He has no collar, no tags, no ear markings that I can find. True, the majority of our conversations happen with the gate between us, but he is a dependable sort. He’s always there when I’m able to walk after supper. I bring him bread, as per our agreement, and he seems to like that I’ve begun calling him ‘Baron.’
(I almost called him Val Jean, mind, but as Bisclavret seems more apt given the breed, my decision is firm.)
I thought that, perhaps, in light of poor Sherlock’s fate this past summer, it would be appropriate to request that he return home with me at break. The estate does need a dog, after all, and while Baron is not a Golden Retriever, he is sure to be a fine hunting companion, which should please the uncles all the same.
Please consider my request and campaign to Mum on my behalf.
Always,
S. James Hakuba
He ate alone. He studied alone. He sat, alone, on the hard wooden bench for morning prayer. He spoke to no one unless spoken to. Teachers were given exactly what was requested, no fuss. Fellow students were given aggressive eye contact and cold retorts.
Most left him that way. Gave him space. Wary glances. Some were filled with pained sympathy, but he never noticed.
S. James liked being alone. It made it easier to hide. He didn’t have to lie about being okay if no one asked. Didn’t have to justify the limp in his step or the wince every time he put his back against the seat when he settled down for classes.
He had no friends. He didn’t want friends. Not there. At first, he’d imagined that White Chapel Academy would be different. They were all supposed to be the intellectual elite for their age group, Certainly that meant more maturity.
But, no. Just as had happened in other schools outside of Japan, ‘Saguru Hakuba’ became ‘Saggyroo Hakooba’ and that devolved into variations of ‘Sags’ and ‘Saggy’ which left the boy pleading with the administrators to make the change that they had suggested in the first place. S. James Hakuba would return, and S. James Hakuba would stay, for the duration of his time in the United Kingdom.
This all happened within the first week. The other children would have gotten over it. Hakuba might have, too. Eventually. But in the brief window of time where he considered finding someone, anyone, to share his pain… he found no one that had not, in some way, hurt him. Namecalling, a bewildered glance, a brush in the hallway. Even the smallest offense was remembered.
Clearly, everyone at White Chapel hated him. And he hated them back. For everything. He trusted no one. Except for Baron.
On the weekdays, he met the milk-colored dog outside by the East Gate just after sunset. No one else ventured into the cold after supper; no one had a reason to. The free period they had was spent by the fires and in common areas, playing games, studying, chatting. It made his escape all that much more… fitting.
He’d bring a slice of bread or a roll, whatever he would sneak into his coat pocket, and slip it through the gate to the dog. Then, as Baron ate, S. James talked. It was usually about what he was studying, but occasionally, he’d recount passages of his favorite books. It always turned to the thought of hunting in the end, though.
“We’ll go to my uncle’s farm and you can chase the horses. I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Baron? And when we go hunting in the fall… There are elk. And deer. You’ll get to stretch out your legs and give chase. And I’ll have someone to talk to when they’re discussing their wives and babies. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”
Baron sat and listened quietly to whatever the boy had to discuss, offering nods, hand licks, and nudges where appropriate. S. James removed his mittens to give him a good rubdown on his neck and shoulders, as far as he could reach. And although it was the only time he felt safe enough to talk, S. James compulsively checked the time every few minutes.
Every evening he stayed with Baron until it was too cold to be out. Hands frozen, legs numb, he’d eventually say goodnight and head back inside, having never said what was really gnawing at him. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t.
On Saturdays, S. James left the grounds. He wasn’t supposed to, but the adjoining cemetery’s fence had a gap that he could just squeeze through. Baron met him on the other side, and the two went on walks through the nearby woods, one-sided chatter accompanied by the crunch of snow under their feet. Although they never caught any, S. James always looked for rabbits for them to chase. He dug his fingers into the wiry hair to keep warm, and turned back only when it began to get dark.
Some days they covered a lot of ground. Other days, it hurt too much to get further than just out of sight of the academy. Baron kept to S. James’ pace, and never complained when the boy leaned on him for support. Never chided when he’d wrap his arms around his neck, face buried against that woolly chest, and sob. He lapped at the tears, whimpered at the pain, and made sure that he was always at the gate when it was time. And there he’d wait, just in case the boy was delayed.
Seven weeks they carried on, just like that. Gradually, walks in the woods continued on into dark, and then during the week.
“We should run away, you and I. I bet we could make it back home if the weather gets a little better.”
Baron had no complaints about the plans. But then, he never did.
No, he never did. He was even overjoyed to see S. James out on a Sunday, for the first time. The boy was crying, but that wasn’t necessarily unusual.
“We’re leaving, Baron… we’re leaving tonight. I can’t… I can’t do… I just… can’t…”
The dog licked his hand. Reassured him.
“We’ll… cross through the woods and get to the main road… then we just have to follow it Southerly.” Swallowing back another sob, he looked back at the academy in the fading afternoon, then nodded. This was their best chance. “Come along Baron, let’s be off."
…
Baaya,
Please disregard my previous letter as circumstances have changed.
Always,
S. James Hakuba
Lust
—
“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.
Envy
—
“Just how many pocket watches do you own?” Jones had caught Hakuba comparing his pocket and wrist watch now four times in the past hour.
“About… four or five, I think? Depending on your strict definition of pocket watch.”
“And do you keep them all on your person?”
Hakuba glanced up from the billiards table at Jones and inclined his head curiously. “No, not all of them. Usually just one or two and a wrist watch… and my cell phone.”
The agent frowned, leaning back on his pool cue, sighing. “You really are a particular one, aren’t you? Why in the world do you need so many time pieces?”
“Accuracy, for one…” Hakuba said then, returning to his position, leaned over the table to measure the projected trajectory of his next shot. “The, ah, silver pocket watch that I carry is incredibly precise. It only loses 0.001 seconds per year.”
“Is there a reason that you need to be that precise, Hakuba?”
The detective laughed, adjusted the pool cue, and pulled back just so. “My grandfather owns a laboratory where I’m permitted to do my research work. Spend enough time with scientists and engineers and you learn that, at times, even the smallest measurement makes all the difference."
He took the shot, sending the ball rolling which then subsequently knocked one ball into another, creating a chain reaction that pushed four into the pockets. Hakuba straightened up and palmed the chalk into his hand, offering a smirk to the other man.
Jones rolled his eyes. "Your go again, I guess. Do you ever get tired of being so smug?”
“Sometimes, yes.” Instead of lining up the next shot, Hakuba shifted the cue into the crook of his arm and fished out the aforementioned silver pocket watch, examining the time, then compared it to that on his wrist watch.
“Is that it, then? The ‘Master Watch’?”
“Ah, yes… yes it is.” Hakuba snapped the lid closed, then ran his thumb over the engraved cover. “Would you like to see it?”
“Am I allowed to touch it?”
Hakuba laughed, and passed it over the table. “It’s an heirloom of sorts, but it’s not exactly fragile. It’s been in my possession, literally almost everywhere I’ve gone, since I was eight. I’m fairly certain that it will be fine.”
“Was this your father’s, then?” Jones turned it over once, then handed it back. It was a fine watch, to be sure, but he didn’t see anything particularly special about it.
“Oh, I suppose so. Ah, he… was to inherit the watch when my grandfather died.”
“But he’s not dead.”
“No, no… he’s very much alive.”
“Then how did you get possession of it?”
Walking around the table, Hakuba found the spot to set up his next shot. "Ah, well… my father stole it from him.“ He put his arms and body into position, double-checked the angles, and hit the ball again with a clatter.
"Stole… it?”
“After my grandfather said that I was to be cut out of the inheritance. We’d known that it would happen, but it was still somewhat of a shock when the announcement was made.”
Jones stayed quiet, watching the balls as they rolled across the smooth table surface and into additional pockets. He’d heard about that, but hadn’t realized…
“So he took it from my grandfather’s glass case and brought it home for me. He pressed it right into my palm and told me that I was still a member of the Hakuba family, regardless of what the old man said, and that the watch was proof of that.”
“That’s… sweet. And illegal.”
Hakuba laughed. “Well, as I don’t exist, my grandfather has decided to assume that it’s just been lost. That’s… actually why I have unrestricted access to the laboratory, too. My father sets up my accounts and access, as he has no limitations, and I do as I like. And much like a phantom thief, I’ve put measures in place to ensure that I’m never tracked and… we get along famously ignoring each other’s presences."
"Still unfortunate. Does this mean that you’ll never inherit this manor or anything? Or get any of the money?”
“As it stands, that is the current arrangement. But, not to worry… Proverbs 14:30 – A tranquil heart gives life to the flesh, but envy makes the bones rot. I make my own fortune as it is, and as it should be. I’m not concerned by what they think of me. I may not be full-blooded Japanese, but I’m a Hakuba through and through. The family tree just… begins with my father is all.”
“No wonder you like London so much.”
“Paris is better.”
“You’re never satisfied… That’s the trouble with you, Saguru.”
“You’re very likely correct in that, Jones…"
He knew that something was off when the teacher asked ‘Hakuba, S. James’ to stay after class. The boy nodded obediently and waited until all of the others were gone before he slid off of the hard wooden chair with his book bag. Slinging it over his shoulder, he took a moment to straighten his tie and regulation suit jacket, then walked past the aisles of chairs toward the front where his instructor waited.
“James, Father Ramson had some questions about your last test results.” The instructor, Sister Fairmore, raised her brow at the young boy, expression skeptical and stern.
Lowering his bag so that both arms would be at his sides, Hakuba tried to force a small, polite smile. Even after all these months, he still had trouble remembering the minute differences between Japanese and English schools. Hard, written rules aside, there were thousands of little nuances that had to be memorized and practiced. Posture, head movements, hand gestures, word choice, intonation… so many things to keep track of. But he was determined.
The boy nodded his head, but resisted the urge to bow, and raised his chin so that he could make eye contact with the sister.
“Yes, Sister Fairmore.”
The woman nodded her head once; a sign of approval, and then held out a slip of white paper. “Take this and go up to his office. It’s nearly eight o’clock now, so he should be back from the evening council meeting. He’s expecting you; please don’t keep him waiting.”
The boy reached for the slip and nodded again, catching himself with a ‘hai’ on the tip of his tongue. “Yes, Sister Fairmore.”
She gestured toward the door which ushered him off, carefully carrying his bag under his arm. Hakuba knew very well what would happen if he was late. Punishment with a ruler or paddle was not uncommon at White Chapel Academy. He himself had managed to avoid being punished for the most part. Usually. But, as spoken dogma that they recited every morning before church services- no one was without sin, no one was infallible.
Hakuba walked through the crowded, after-evening classes hallways. The other students, all also in uniform, smiled and laughed at their lockers, but it was all subdued. Everyone was subdued when on the grounds. It was only in the dormitories that the boys really let themselves misbehave.
The adjoining cathedral’s bells began to drone out the hour as the blond-haired boy began his climb up the winding stone stairways to the higher level, where the administrating offices were. He wondered, briefly, what Father Ramson wanted to speak to him about. His test scores were always excellent; there was no concern about that. Still, he found himself nervous as he walked briskly down the hallway to the large, wooden door of the priest’s office. After running a hand through his shaggy hair, he took a deep breath and knocked.
“Come in.”
The deep baritone voice of the priest sounded through the door with confidence and authority that intimidated Hakuba. He’d met with Father Ramson before, and the meetings had always been interesting and insightful. Father Ramson despite being Headmaster, was easily the most friendly and amiable of the staff there, but somehow, that almost made him more impressive, more intimidating. Hakuba opened the door and stepped in quietly, making sure to make eye contact before he looked down at the floor again.
“Ah, James. Please, close the door and come here.”
The boy did as he was asked and approached once the heavy wooden door clicked closed. He approached and came to stand before the large, wooden desk, noticing then that there weren’t any chairs set out for him. Not that it was that important; one thing that England and Japan had in common was that it was polite to be asked to take a seat instead of just taking one. So, he stood with his bag, and kept his eyes level, not quite matching the priest’s face, but making the appearance of it.
This was an uncomfortable distinction between the two countries in which he spent the majority of this time. The English, similar to the Americans he knew, were much more confrontational in their mannerisms. It was difficult to not show what the British termed as ‘weakness’ in front of his peers and superiors. This show of challenge was something that he was not adept at doing naturally. Still, he made the attempt.
After several moments of silence, the boy standing there, the priest reading over several sheets of paper that he held in his right hand, Father Ramson looked up at the boy and offered a warm sort of smile.
“Thank you for waiting. Do you have your exam results?”
Hakuba offered the slip of paper to the man and nodded his head. “Yes, Father Ramson.”
“Good.”
The priest let his eyes scan the paper before setting it down on top of the pile and then leaned back in his chair, gaze falling on the boy with evaluating interest.
“Your latest test results were impressive. You’ve only been here about six months, is that correct?”
Hakuba nodded and, as an afterthought, added a quiet, “Yes, Father Ramson.”
The priest seemed pleased by this and nodded, gaze returning to the paperwork at hand. “Very good. We – the other priests and I – agree that you have acclimated to society here very well. Your previous school was in Japan, then?”
“Yes, Father Ramson.”
“Ah, yes. Again, impressive. It’s not easy for someone to adapt so easily. It’s been brought to my attention that there have been a few slipups here and there, but of course no one is infallible, right?”
“Yes, Father Ramson.”
The priest pushed back from the desk and got to his feet, walking slowly toward the fireplace that was mostly dimmed. “It is all a part of God’s plan, of course – we are put on this Earth to suffer and make any attempts that we can to be saved by His gracious hand. Born as imperfect sinners, we are inclined to be wretched. I’m certain that you saw quite a lot of this in Japan, godless heathens and all that rot.”
Hakuba stayed silent, letting his gaze lower to look at the papers on the desk. He couldn’t read what any of them said, but they served as a distraction enough.
Father Ramson set another log onto the fire and withdrew the fire poker from the iron basket next to the grate, taking his time to stir the burning coals to life. “I am pleased that you have come here – I believe that your mother was right in sending you to this school. It will likely be the difference between heaven and hell for you, boy. It’s not right for someone with your potential to walk among the unclean things at such a tender age. Perhaps when you are a missionary for the church… Not that I expect you to proselyte, necessarily, but it occurs to me that you would be a worthy addition to our staff here. Have you given more thought to Cambridge?”
The boy lifted his head in surprise at the question, swallowing back the uncomfortable lump that had formed in his throat with the earlier invasive statements of intolerance. “Cambridge, sir?”
“Father Ramson,” the priest corrected with the patience of a saint, turning back to give him another warm smile.
Hakuba winced visibly, nervously sliding his free hand against the side of his coat, smoothing down the tweed fabric under his sweaty palms. “Cambridge, Father Ramson?”
“Yes. You recall our previous discussion, correct?”
The boy pushed an embarrassed smile and managed a small chuckle – but it was all nervous. Normally, he was prepared for anything, but this was something a little out of his league – at present. “I… I have, Father Ramson. But I’m only just nine years old…”
“It’s never too early to consider your future, child. Particularly with what you’ve told me of your father’s side of the family.”
Hakuba couldn’t very well argue with this point. Glancing down at his regulation shoes and knee socks, the boy swallowed again, but nodded. “That is true, Father Ramson, and a… a fair point.”
“What are you willing to do to make them acknowledge you? To see you as part of their family, a worthy successor to the Hakuba family name?”
“An-anything, Father Ramson.”
“I would very much like to get a commitment from you to devote your life to God.”
The boy blushed over his cheeks, mind stuttering to come up with a reply to that. “Well… I suppose that I do intend to, in a way, Father Ramson. My father is the Chief of Police in our district in Japan, and I plan to study law.”
Father Ramson turned back to the fire, stirring the coals with a steady hand, using his free hand to add another log to the fire. “Study law? Interesting. And how will that, in any way, serve God?”
“Reason without passion is…”
The priest shook his head, getting to his feet again. He slipped the poker back into its cage and then turned back to Hakuba, letting out a sigh. “Yes, I have heard that before. Please answer my question directly, James.”
“With the truth of God’s word, I will be able to see through the deception and lies of man and bring about justice in His name…”
“So, you intend to become a lawyer?”
Hakuba bit his lip but stood his ground. “I… I have not yet decided, Father Ramson. But something along those lines, I suppose. I could follow in my father’s footsteps and join the force, too.”
“In Japan?”
The boy shrugged. “Anywhere, really. It doesn’t entirely matter to me where I go.”
“As long as you’re able to serve God?”
“Yes, Father Ramson.”
The priest nodded again and closed the space between him, keeping that same smile fixed on his face. Hakuba stood stone still as the man reached out a hand and laid it on his shoulder, looking down at his face approvingly.
“Ah, to be so young, so innocent, so naive From the mouth of babes, they say… there will be plenty of time to mold you into a worthy young man for the church… for God’s will.”
Hakuba’s smile, crooked at best wavered, but he nodded. He knew already where he was supposed to be – in law, somewhere, somehow – but he knew that he had to be complacent and accommodating for his superiors. After all, he was a man of God.
“Yes, Father Ramson.”
“With an open mind, you are sure to understand what His purpose is for you. Allow me to help you on your journey, James.”
The hand on his shoulder moved up to his neck, where the long, thick fingers of the priest gently moved against the boy’s soft skin. Hakuba tilted his head to look up at the priest, brows knitting in confusion.
“Hai – er, yes, Father Ramson,” the boy said, forcing himself to stay pleasant. It was an honor to have such an important figure take interest in his future. He knew that it was moments like this, in confidence, that doors were opened for future possibilities. Still, he wasn’t used to the personal space being so closed. In Japan, everyone seemed quite content to restrict physical contact to a bare minimum. “I’m… honored to have your tutelage, Father.”
The priest continued to look down at him, smiling, as his hand moved up to the back of Hakuba’s head, fingers trailing through the boy’s feathered hair. “In order to prepare you, you will be held to more restrictions. There is nothing gained without sacrifice. While we have been lenient, you are now a member of this school and must follow all regulations. Including more frequent haircuts, James… it’s unbecoming.”
Hakuba’s cheeks tinted further and he nodded awkwardly, frowning at the comment. “Yes, Father Ramson… I apologize for my lack of attention…”
“Oh, don’t apologize to me, James… it is God that you have offended by your apathy. But, with proper repentance…”
“Of course, Father Ramson… I… I go to confession weekly. I will be sure to-“
“Weekly?” the priest shook his head again, resting his palm on top of the boy’s head. “Daily, James. Certainly you understand that a sin of the heart is as punishable as actually acting on it, and, no unclean thing…”
Hakuba blanched, dropping his gaze to the floor again. “But, Father, I… I haven’t… I don’t…”
“Humility, James. Your pride will be your downfall. As we were discussing earlier, your potential requires greater sacrifice. You will have to be that much harder on yourself if you want the gifts of God to manifest; if you want to be a true instrument in His hands…”
“Of course, Father. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t enough.”
“I’ll go to confession straight away in the morning, Father.”
“In the morning? Can your soul really wait that long?”
In the panic of being so unprepared for this, feeling so foolish and stupid and naive Hakuba’s mind reeled. What was he supposed to do? He craved Father Ramson’s respect and approval more than anything that he could think of. “No, of course not… what… what can I do, Father?”
The priest moved his hand down along Hakuba’s cheek and brought his fingertips under the boy’s chin, lifting his head so that he the boy was looking up at him.
“There now, child… there is something that you can do.”
—
Pride
—
“Are you excited, Saguru-kun?”
“Yes, Papa!”
“Okay, turn around again, I need to get another photo. God, the uniform is so darling, isn’t it?”
The boy turned around for his mother, arms out, heels together, smile broad on his rosy face. The little suit jacket had been tailored for him, and he had two others just like it, ready for his first year at White Chapel Academy – just three days away.
“It is, dear.” Mr. Hakuba, as he was called then, chuckled and leaned back in the comfortable patio chair that he frequented on summer afternoons. “Son, you’ll remember to write to your mum, yes?”
Saguru nodded twice, each with conviction. “I will! I wonder how much free time there’ll be?”
Mrs. Hakuba – really, Marion to everyone, reached out to tug her boy over by the front of his jacket, adjusting his tie for the fourth time in the last twenty minutes. “The timetable seemed fairly full, but I can’t imagine that there won’t be time in the evenings. You’d better write to me, or I’ll be so cross!”
She pulled him close, kissed his forehead, then took his hand to gently guide him away and back into the grass.
“I will, I will! I promise. Eeevery day. Just like the Beatles. ‘All my lovin’, I will send to you~ou!’”
“Hey! Wait a minute Mr. Postman-!”
Mr. Hakuba rolled his eyes. “You two. Honestly.” He was used to their song battles by now, but it never ceased to amuse him. Which meant that he was required to scowl and turn back to his newspaper.
“Honestly, Jones, I’m not certain how much I can really tell you about White Chapel. I’ve… spent a rather large amount of energy actively repressing the memories, you understand…”
“So you knew about what was going on?”
“Yes, I did. Though not at first. No, the first three months that I was there, everything had gone according to expectations and I was so engrossed in my studies that I… I’m afraid that I was oblivious.”
The man, another foreigner, leaned forward, coffee in hand. “When did you meet Sarah?”
“Oh, I… I’d seen her around, probably from the first day. But I didn’t know who she was until much, much later. Just another drab face in the dreary crowd.”
Jones laughed. “And here I was hoping for some kind of story to spin…”
“You would, wouldn’t you? But no, no… my relationship with Sarah was much more… distant than all of that.”
“Fine, fine. Back to White Chapel?”
“I was nine years old when I first started there. Again, I… I have some difficulty remembering everything from that period of time, but I do recall that I was terrified of being away from home – and Baaya, especially -and having to share living quarters with other children for the first time in my life. Yet, at the same time, I was thrilled that my instructors were good. Very passionate about the subjects that they taught. Exceptional, all of them. It’s a private school. I was fortunate to get in, what with the difficulty of the whole transcript mess…”
“What about your transcripts?”
“Oh, I did a bit of school hopping when I was younger. I was transferring from a Japanese school, though the rest of my transcripts were from a public school in Britain, which caused some confusion and delays in paperwork… I’m certain my parents used their influence to nudge things along, though they’ve sworn to me that it was by my test scores alone.Regardless, we were thrilled.”
Chuckling, Jones waved a dismissive hand. “Of course, of course… So where does your story begin in regard to the whole affair?”
“I suppose it, like most things, began with… pride.”
“Pride?” Jones arced a brow, then waited.
“One of my teachers had… incorrect information. After having been there a semester and returned from the, ah, Christmas holiday, I’d grown a little cockish. My grandparents – on my mum’s side, of course – spoiled me with praise and I had so many stories to tell…"
"Go on.”
“I called one of my instructors out on error in front of the the class. Sister Fairmore was understandably upset. Wrong, but upset, and asked to speak with me once class was dismissed. At which point, she advised me to meet with the Headmaster.”
“…Amos Ramson?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Good God. Hakuba. You-?”
The detective stiffened at that, then forced a faint smile. “Father Ramson told me that mine was the sin of pride. Quoted scripure – Proverbs 16:18 – Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. – and explained that he would work tirelessly to rid me of that vice.”
Jones hesitated several seconds before continuing, voice low. Cautious. “What happened then?”
“We discussed whether I should attend Oxford or Cambridge.”
“…Really?”
“Yes, really.” Hakuba sighed. “Jones, my name wasn’t supposed to be on that list. It’s inaccurate. I know what he’s trying to do, but it’s not going to work.”
“God, that’s a relief!”
“Indeed.”
“At least I can use that in our statement…”
“I’d rather we not address that particular issue at all, actually.” Hakuba cast a cool glance at his agent, who stared back at him curiously, perplexed. Waiting. With a sigh, he added, “…Out of respect for the others on the list. In particular Miss Brown."
"I’ll take that into consideration.”
“It’s appreciated.”
Jones bit his lip, then set his coffee cup aside to put both of his hands on his laptop’s keyboard, adding notes. “So was that your entire punishment? No ruler, no hand slapping, no black box?”
“Oh, no… no, not exactly. Not from Father Ramson. His modus operandi was always the same – to teach us to kneel before God.”
Letters
—
“Hello? Oh God, finally…” Hakuba stood next to the window in the drawing room of his father’s estate, phone to his ear, and glanced out into the drive. Only the grounds crew was there, busily tending to the lawn. “So what have you found out? My mother’s very upset, you understand. No, I really don’t know how they got our contact numbers; that information isn’t exactly public knowledge. What? Oh- yes… Go on.”
Baaya, seated close by, watched her charge eagerly, pen and paper in hand. The emails, phone calls, and text messages hadn’t stopped through the night. Thank god the post only came once a day. Although she didn’t want to admit it, she privately expected there to be an owl or two lurking out about the house. She’d have mentioned this to Saguru, probably would have gotten a laugh out of him, but he was in no joking mood. And how could he be?
White Chapel Academy was the common thread. White Chapel, Amos Ramson, Sarah Brown, and… Saguru James Hakuba.
She’d seen him like this before. Countless times. It was one thing when he was just wrapped up in your regular, run-of-the-mill case of murder and mayhem, but once the media was involved, he was a nervous wreck.
“Good God, you can’t be serious… No…” The detective sighed, switching the phone to his other ear, pacing back and forth in front of the window. “Yes, I’m still here.” Hakuba lifted a hand to give the side of his face a weary massage.
He sighed and leaned against the wall, eyes closed.
“Look, you’re my agent, not a detective… I’m not asking you to. That’s my job… or another professional detective’s, but I do want to know what I need to be doing… What you’re doing… What? No; oh no, that’s not Avery’s style at all. I don’t think he’s that hurt over the arrangement. No… Certainly not for something this petty.”
Baaya wrote ‘ex agent? not that petty’ on her pad of paper, then looked back to Hakuba, frown fixed on her painted lips.
“God, no. I need to call my father. I’ll call you back, Jones.” Hakuba glanced at the front of his cellphone, then sighed. “Yes, just a few minutes.” After a few button taps, he returned the phone to his ear. “Sir?”
‘The Superintendent General,’ Baaya wrote, then watched the detective as the color drained from his face. Hakuba pulled the silver pocket watch that he kept on his person, glanced at the time, then slipped it back into place. ‘Master Watch.’ She studied him while he nodded, as if Hakuba Sr could see it over the line.
“Yes, I have information on the… yes, precisely. It seems that, ah, Amos Ramson is still campaigning for parole and, ah, released a list of names two days ago. Sarah Brown was at the top of the list.” He paused and let out a slow breath.
“…no, I… I understand. And, ah, Paris?” Hakuba frowned, hesitating. “Right. Of course. Understood, sir. Yes… yes. Goodbye.”
Without looking at his governess, Hakuba switched lines on the phone again to call, and stepped away from the window, motioning for her to follow. “Yes, Jones? Are you still there? Good. Look, I’ve got something I need to take care of so I’ll have to get back with you in, ah-” he glanced at the watch on his wrist, then compulsively pulled out his pocket watch again to verify the time.
“Three quarters of an hour, all right? Don’t make any statements.This could get very messy very quickly.” Then he laughed. “All right, fine, yes, it already is, but it… look, we’re just- I’ll call you back.” He snapped the phone closed, put it away, and reached back for Baaya’s arm.
“Young Master, what’s going on?”
“We’re on lockdown, Baaya… not permitted to leave the estate until this is taken care of. Dad wants us to stay away from the windows, so we’ll have to adjourn to the parlor. Care for a game of billiards?”
“Oh, I… suppose that would be fine, but, lockdown?”
“Dad’s been getting calls at the station. Nothing’s happened yet, here, but apparently mum’s car was smashed with a cement block while she was in a meeting… and there’ve been letters on taped to the front door. Here, and there. So he wants to take precautions.”
Baaya gasped. “And Paris?”
“Will have to be postponed.”
“What’s happening, Young Master?! Why are you being attacked?”
“Sarah Brown killed herself, Baaya. Yesterday afternoon in her flat in London. The list was leaked. And my name is on it.”
“What?! But how-?”
“It seems that Father Ramson has finally figured it out. Come along, Baaya. We’ve flights and hotels to rebook."