Free The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) by Annelie Wendeberg Page B

did I never show you how to properly use a revolver?’
    I laughed. The one time he had seen me using a gun had resulted in me throwing it at him. ‘Cock, point, fire,’ I said. ‘You can introduce me to the fine art of shooting later.’
    Littlehampton’s church bell banged twice. The ferryman was pulling his vessel towards us. Moran’s and Parker’s backs disappeared towards the small town. Next to me, Sherlock was vibrating with impatience. Without a farewell, we parted as soon as the ferry docked.

— ten —

    From error to error, one discovers the entire truth.
    Dr S. Freud

    I woke up early the following morning, aching to leave. Two hours later, the train took me from Worthing towards London.
    Once at Victoria Station, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. With my bonnet pulled down low to conceal my face, I stepped out of the last wagon, left the luggage with a porter, and told him it would be picked up tomorrow. Then I pressed through the bustling crowd and out of the station.
    Trying to detect familiar faces among the masses of people, their refuse, luggage, chatter, and hotchpotch while adapting to London’s overwhelming variety of odours and noises, demanded all my attention. So much, I almost stepped into the first cab I hailed. I let the hansom drive away without me, walked around a corner, and took another one to Bow Street.  
    The hansom rattled over cobblestones while the wind slapped my face. I inspected my dress, my shoes, picked at a few threads on my sleeves, and decided I appeared worn enough to be safe in St Giles for a few hours. How many people would recognise me? Would Garret roll his eyes and close the door in my face? Barry was twelve years old now. Most likely, because he was only guessing his age. Children came in large numbers, most of them unwanted and unplanned. One had sexual intercourse, one got pregnant, one gave birth. Then the circle started anew. Two thirds of all the slum children died before reaching the age of three. There were no reasons to celebrate birthdays.  
    The cab came to a halt. I paid the driver and stepped onto the pavement. Everything looked just as it had when I’d left it. The streets were covered with the same amount of dirt. Mule droppings here and there, limp cabbage leaves with caterpillar holes, undefined mush, and rivulets of wastewater and chamberpot contents.  
    How long would it take to pull sewers through the slums, I wondered. Would the slums still be home to the poorest when the government decided to gift the people with a way to rid themselves of their own refuse? Probably not. Streets would be torn open, houses gutted, grime and beggars removed. London would look different.
    I found Garret’s house and was surprised that even the door looked as it had long ago. The brown paint was rubbed off in several places; naked wood peeked through. It had only been a bit more than year. Not enough time for a door, a house, or a district to change all that much. I wondered how much Garret had changed. He and Barry would probably hate me for having left them without even saying goodbye.
    I pushed at the door and, as expected, the nonfunctional lock clicked open. I walked up the stairs, the familiar creaking accompanied each step. When I knocked at Garret’s room, a child began to wail.  
    ‘What is it?’ a woman barked through the closed door.
    ‘Could I speak to Garret O’Hare, please?’
    ‘Don’t know that fella.’
    My heart sank. For a moment, I had believed he was a father. Now it seemed that he would be hard to find.  
    I went downstairs and knocked at the door to the landlady’s quarters. Or whatever she was. I doubted she owned this house. Only kept it in a somewhat orderly state of decomposition.  
    ‘What?’ she demanded, flinging the door wide open. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while.’ Her arms went akimbo, her eyebrows slid to a V-shape.
    ‘Hello, Mrs Cunningham. Have you seen Garret?’
    ‘Where have you