Diamonds on the Street

Death stalked the streets of London, and she was amazed by how fast he ran.

People like Lady Beaconsfield don’t expect to die. And if she ever contemplated death at all, she imagined hers to be a drawn-out one, lying in bed with a silk nightgown after dinner, surrounded by her distant nieces and nephews from her husband’s side and her lawyer. A few of them were nasty vultures, but the majority of the group was respectable.

Old age. If only that was possible now.

The assailant’s face was shadowed by a tall hat, but two eyes glowed bright in the darkness. Lady Beaconsfield looked up into those eyes, and saw the face of Death. There was an aura he seemed to radiate, and she found herself hating him at once. If they had met at an exquisite ball and he had been the politest of gentlemen, she would have hated him. But in all respects, it is difficult to like a man who is gripping the back of your necklace and wrenching wisps of hair from your scalp.

A stinging pain brought a fog to her mind. The flesh on her neck was burning, becoming raw. The diamonds on their worlds of silver rattled together.

“Who are you?” she managed to rasp angrily at her attacker.

He pulled on the necklace, the diamonds biting into her skin like pins. Thick, blunt, merciless pins. She grimaced, as if they were daggers being pushed further into her heart. The spectre -more animal than man- leaned down.

It was a dark, gravelly voice that hissed in her ear, “Know that you die by the hand of Edward Hyde!”

Oh God, save me.

The clawed fist was ever dragging the circle of jewels back. She was gasping, every breath whistling through her throat. Choking, Lady Beaconsfield brought up a hand to try –in the most tragic vain- to tug her precious necklace out of his grip.

The fingertips of her white silk glove were covered in blood when she brought her hand away. Hyde had her on her knees. The hem of her gown soaked up the dirt and water that covered the street. Finest satin and lace. Not her best gown; she had only worn it twice before.

Her hair was once soft and bright gold. That had been when she was a teenager: youthful, conceited and energetic. As the years passed and Lady Beaconsfield crept closer to a wizened maturity of sorts, the blonde locks became dry and eventually more and more rough, like a proper rope.

Edward Hyde gripped it with all his might.

“Pl- Please!”

The black figure only laughed, a hideous cackle filled with sadistic contempt. His breath was strangely cold, an icy whisper on her skin. She shuddered.

A slow death. Gasping and crying for the stinking air of the city. But the air never returns, only diminishes in quantity and fades away into the distance. Breathing comfortably is only a memory.

And she had once dreamed of old age.

God save me!

Well, she would see her late husband again.

One’s life is often tardy when it comes to the point that it must flash before one’s eyes.

Growing up, servants and governesses and visits to the park. Golden hair tied neatly with ribbons, a pink dress trimmed with lace that showed the chubby ankles of a toddler. The stockings she tolerated, but only because her governess was a very strict one.

Finding her place in the world, in that limbo between youth and adulthood. Her mother desperately trying to marry her off. The beginning of a social life, balls and Sunday outings and parties. Her fair hair done up in a simple but tight bun, bonnets and parasols and small boots. And at night, a dark green gown of silk her father had bought.

Married at long last, a gauzy white veil. Silk again, a diadem of pearls. A bouquet of roses, and a train of such length her father had threatened to cut it off if she put one toe out of line during the ceremony.

The time after Lord Beaconsfield died, black muslin and velvet for just a fortnight. Her hair was grey by then, just a bit.

Life was often tardy, like so many other people.

Death had caught up.

She can only close her eyes to the dark city. The building facades were all but invisible, the street lights distant and blurry in the mist. The stars remained hidden behind the clouds. Another vicious tug. Red spots dotted her vision. The pain was too much to bear.

The body fell onto its side as Edward Hyde released his grip, the head coming into contact with the stone path with a nauseating crunch. A boot kicked it once, twice, then strode off into the twilight. A quiet laugh echoed through the street, heard only by the staring moon. The dark figure walked for a time, then turned into a street, turned again. There was a house, a door with peeling paint. The door opened, closed soundlessly a second afterwards. And Edward Hyde disappeared, simply faded away. The shadow was gone.

Her golden hair became sordid with the dirt on the street. Blood trickled across the pale skin of her neck in thin streams. But they were small; no one would notice them at first glance. The necklace of precious diamonds twinkled in the darkness. Clear, silvery white jewels of unimaginable value cloaked in a thin film of red.

And the silk was forever ruined.