“You can tell the others, but I don’t need to be left alone. I’ll go mad if I don’t stay busy.”
“Okay. Thank you for telling me, Cale.”
She gets up to go, but I hold fast to her hand, keeping her in place. “I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you properly since we left the farm. I’ve been thinking about something.”
“Did you come to any conclusion?”
My eyes caress her pretty face, the intelligence in her blue eyes. “Not yet. But I’m starting to wonder if I give myself too much credit, and not enough to another person.” She frowns, not understanding. “Thank you for talking to me today. I needed it.”
When we stand up, her arms wrap around me. I bury my face in her sweetly scented hair. I don’t know what I’d do without this girl. I try and put all the gratitude I feel for her into the hug, and hope that she understands.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ryah
Cale and I walk back to the circus, and Cale heads off to take Jareth for a ride so he can clear his head. I watch from the top step of my wagon as he saddles the black Friesian, mounts up and canters away down the road toward the woods.
I stand up, and head purposefully back into the village.
There’s a sandwich board outside the corner store. We passed it on the way back from the pub, but I didn’t want to look too closely at it when I was with Cale. The headline reads, WELSH RIPPER CONFESSES: “I KILLED MIRRIE.”
A picture of her dominates the page. She was a pretty girl with the same glossy black hair as Cale. She has Cale’s smile, too, and his warm brown eyes.
I buy the paper and stand outside the store reading it.
“Welsh Ripper” killer Bernard Sharrock was today charged with the murder of fourteen-year-old Mirrie Hearn in 2003. The teenager’s body was discovered naked in the woods just miles from her Yorkshire home two days after she disappeared.
The arrest comes after Sharrock was charged with the murders of Dafina Evans, 19, Yasmine Patel, 22, and Leri Hughes, between 2001 and 2009. Sharrock is alleged to have said to arresting officers when they arrived at his home with a warrant, “You took so long. I’m tired.”
Sharrock is being remanded in custody and held in HM Prison Cardiff. Sharrock hinted to an undercover police officer he was sharing a cell with that he’s responsible for other unsolved murders in England and Wales.
My throat burns with grief for Cale and his family. Mirrie was only fourteen. Three years younger than me, and I’ve barely managed to do anything with my life. She didn’t even have the chance to get started. There’s a mugshot of a dead-eyed man with wispy gray hair. He’s in his sixties and his nose is red with burst capillaries. I stare at him for a long time, trying to fathom why any of these girls and women were killed.
I fold the paper up angrily. He’s tired? Tired of what? All the blood on his hands? All the lives he ended? If he’s wracked with guilt every night and can’t sleep because of all the horrible things he’s done, then I’m glad. I’m more than glad.
I hea
d back into the camp and find Elke and Anouk and take them into the wagon. They seem concerned by my solemn, probably puffy face, but I wave away their concern. It’s not me they should be worried about.
“Cale’s had some news. It’s brought up some memories of a terrible thing that happened to his family.” I take a deep breath and decide to just come out with it. “His sister was murdered a long time ago, and the police only just caught the killer.”
In lieu of an explanation, I hand them the paper. They read the story together, their expressions growing more and more upset with each passing minute.
Elke shakes her head. “I knew she died, but murdered? Poor Cale.”
“He says he doesn’t want a break or anything, but I’m worried about him.”
Anouk grimaces. “That sounds like Cale. I don’t think there’s anything we can do to stop him working. Maybe it will be good for him to keep busy.”
“That’s what he said.” I can hear the doubt in my voice.
They each agree to keep an eye on Cale with me, from a discreet distance. He’s always been the one to look out for us, so I think he might tell us to leave him alone if he realizes we’re worried about him.
It’s a miracle, considering what I know now, that I managed to convince him to throw knives at me. He started throwing because of his grief, and the idea of being responsible for anyone’s pain must be terrifying for him.
In the days that follow, I half expect him to tell me that our act is off, but he seems twice as determined for us to practice. Maybe it’s to prove to everyone that he’s fine, or maybe it’s because he craves the peace and focus of our act. We perform every night as usual in the big top. Cale is precise and dramatic, and his showmanship brings the house down. Everything almost feels normal.
I just wish he’d smile at me the way he used to.