Canterbury
Kent, Britain.
14 August 1948 10:15 GMT
While much of Canterbury lay devastated, its buildings reduced to jagged silhouettes against the sky, the Dane John Park remained miraculously intact—a peaceful sanctuary that had somehow escaped the Luftwaffe's fury.
Towering trees loomed like sentinels, their branches offering pools of cool shade on this sweltering August morning. The paths twisted and turned like unruly curls, blanketed by layers of crunching gravel, where a handful of locals sought refuge from the desolation surrounding them.
The symphony of nature enfolded them like a warm blanket on a frigid winter’s night. Water from the fountains hummed soothing harmonies as liquid crystal cascaded down their tiers—a gentle counterpoint to the buzzing of bees among vibrant flowerbeds.
There were benches—not merely iron and wood, but stories waiting to be written against the captivating backdrop of vibrant floral gardens bursting with colour.
Nestled within this oasis was a pond, harbouring an entire universe beneath its calm surface. The water didn’t merely glisten—it almost exploded with shimmers when touched by the light filtering through gaps in the leafy canopy overhead.
Complementing this peaceful scene was a row of green-painted swings, on one of which a little girl in a blue dress giggled as she watched her father sitting on one of the park’s many benches. His bowler hat and pinstriped suit were immaculate, despite the summer heat. He glanced at his watch as another man drew nearer.
Two shots rang out from the park’s edge in a heartbeat, shattering the tranquillity as the sounds reverberated, tearing through the air like vengeful spirits.
The noise echoed off the surrounding bomb sites and buildings, creating an eerie symphony and sending birds scattering in a frantic frenzy of wings and feathers.
Terrified squawks abruptly replaced their joyful warbling, casting a dark shadow of fear over the surroundings.
The once serene morning light dimmed, swallowed by a growing darkness that threatened to engulf the entire area as dark clouds blotted out the sun.
The few people walking dashed for cover, their footsteps pounding against the gravel path, while others huddled together, trembling with fear.
Silence fell as everyone held their breath, waiting for the ordeal to pass. The war had brought so much death, and people longed for it to end.
A solitary drop of crimson trickled down the man's forehead, merging with his sweat and ravaging his consciousness. Battling against oblivion, he struggled to maintain his grip on the wooden bench.
His fingers twitched involuntarily, coated with a slippery mixture of blood and perspiration. It took every ounce of strength for him to prevent himself from collapsing to the ground.
His head throbbed, each pulse rippling through his skull in sync with his racing heartbeat. A metallic tang permeated his mouth. The world around him spun and blurred into a chaotic whirlwind of park benches, trees, and panicked people.
A woman’s shriek shattered the eerie calm lingering after the gunshots, piercing through the air and echoing in the distance. However, her cries were abruptly silenced—cut short—as a third shot rang out, leaving only an unsettling stillness contrasting with the formerly vibrant ambience filled with birdsong.
The woman’s hands flew to her mouth, and a look of horror spread over her face as the man jerked. His bowler hat fell from his head as a scarlet patch grew, staining the immaculate white shirt and pinstriped suit. In a final convulsion, the man fell to the ground.
Across the path, another body collapsed. A man in a grey suit sprawled face-up on the gravel. His vacant eyes stared at the darkening sky, while his mouth froze mid-scream in eternal silence. A pool of crimson seeped beneath him, staining the pristine gravelled pathway.
The atmosphere grew heavier, suffocating those remaining in its grip. The echo of the last gunshot resonated off the surrounding bombed-out buildings, amplifying its oppressive presence as it faded into the distance, leaving behind an unsettling void.
Without warning, the child’s joyful laughter transformed into horrified screams. Blood pooled around the lifeless body, soiling the grass and imbuing it with a macabre beauty.
"Daddy!" The child's joyful voice transformed into a terrified wail as she caught sight of her motionless father. She leapt from the swing and ran toward the bench, her patent leather shoes slipping on the grass.
A woman nearby gasped and lunged forward, catching the child before she reached the spreading crimson pool. "No, sweetheart, no. Don't look."
But the girl had already seen. She escaped from the woman's arms, her tiny hands reaching for her father. "Daddy! Wake up!"
The ghastly tableau stunned everyone, and the woman rushed after her and pulled the kid away from the gruesome scene. But she couldn’t escape the gory mess now smeared on her hands and clothes. The stench of iron filled the air as she cradled the sobbing child in her arms, her little blue dress stained crimson with her father’s blood.
Amidst the chaos, a shrill whistle pierced the air, causing everyone to turn towards its source. A police constable, his face set in granite, strode through the crowd of onlookers. His crisp uniform and shiny badge stood out among the distraught faces.
As he reached the centre of the commotion, his features twisted in shock at the sight before him: two lifeless bodies surrounded by a circle of horrified witnesses. Blood already congealing stained the once-emerald green grass, creating a home for swarms of buzzing flies, a jarring contrast to the peaceful park’s backdrop.
The woman clutched the toddler, tears streaming down her face as she rocked the child back and forth. “Where’s your mommy?”
Wide-eyed and trembling, the little girl thrust a tiny finger towards the shops nearby. “Hair.”
The hairdresser's?" Another woman clarified. When the girl nodded, she dashed off towards the High Street, leaving the child in her friend’s arms.
As she turned the corner, fading sirens joined new ones. The noise grew louder in the distance. A reminder that tragedy had shattered what had been, for many years, a tranquil haven.
A second constable appeared as the first knelt beside the first victim, checking futilely for a pulse. The colleague circled the perimeter, eyes scanning rooftops and bushes for any sign of the assassin. Both men worked with the grim efficiency of those who had seen too much death in recent years.
Minutes later, a young woman appeared. Her raven hair, soaked and heavy, cascaded over her shoulders. Her lithe figure manoeuvred around the corner. She clasped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief as she took in the grisly sight before her. Her husband, who was once full of life, was now reduced to an empty shell.
As she snatched her child from the other woman, her instincts kicked in. The sight before her was a nightmare made real—her husband's lifeless body, the pool of blood, and her toddler covered in crimson.
A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her, but she fought it back, forcing her face into a mask of calm. Her heart raced, and her mind screamed in anguish, yet she knew she had to be strong for her daughter.
With hands trembling, she held her child close, whispering soothing words she didn't believe. She blinked back tears, determined not to let her little one see the terror and grief that threatened to consume her.
Her daughter’s weight offered a small comfort amidst the horror surrounding them.
The constable approached her, notebook in hand. "Ma'am, I'm terribly sorry, but—"
"You must be joking." Her words cut like ice. "I was in the bloody hairdresser's. My child needs me right now."
An older officer with silver-streaked temples joined them. "We understand you're grieving, ma'am, but could you at least provide your name and address for our records?"
Without speaking, she snatched the younger officer's notebook, scribbled something in it, and thrust it back at him. Then she turned and strode toward the park entrance, her daughter clutched tightly against her chest.
The senior officer called after her. "And why were you in Canterbury today?"
She paused without turning. "Had to get my hair done. Now, if it's all right with you, sir, I've got to clean up my little girl."
The officers exchanged glances as she disappeared around the corner. The constable looked down at the notebook. "Says her name is Lucy Carpenter. Address in Wickham."
"Forty-eight miles from here." The senior officer raised his eyebrows. "Long way to come to get her hair fixed."
The engine of her cream-coloured Rover P4 roared to life, sending a puff of exhaust fumes into the air as she disappeared around the corner.
It was a long forty-eight-mile drive to the village of Wickham, where they lived, and she raced home as fast as she could. Yards from her destination, she slammed on the brakes, the tyres screeching in protest as she veered off the road.
The blue strobes of fire engines ahead pulsed like a frantic heartbeat, casting an eerie, otherworldly glow over the chaotic scene unfolding before her.
The hope left inside her vanished as the cacophony of sirens drowned out any remaining glimmer of optimism.
Leaving the car behind, she trudged forward, her footsteps heavy and burdened. The shadows of the towering trees loomed over her, their gnarled branches reaching down like accusing fingers.
The harsh spotlight thrown upon the burning ruins by the firefighters, struggling against nature's fury, painted a harrowing picture of devastation. Thick black smoke billowed into the sky, obscuring the once-tranquil view and casting an ominous pall over the scene. The crackle of flames and the hiss of water joined the distant wail of sirens, creating a dissonance assailing her nerves.
Her fingers absentmindedly patted an errant blonde curl on her little one's head, as if seeking solace in the soft, familiar texture. She kissed her child's cheek, the gesture tender and desperate. “Don't worry, sweetie. We always have Plan B.”
The words sounded hollow, even to her own ears, as she gazed upon the smouldering ruin that had once been their sanctuary. The shadowy outline of the charred timbers and the eerie glow of the fire's embers painted a bleak picture of their future—uncertain, precarious, and forever changed.
The next day, police discovered the abandoned Rover tucked away in a forgotten back lane, its cream-coloured paintwork marred with traces of blood. Inside, the scattered belongings led them to the car's owner, Harold Carpenter. But the man himself remained an enigma, shrouded in impenetrable darkness.
Investigations into Carpenter's life revealed nothing.
His occupation? Vanished.
His past? A blank slate.
Someone had methodically erased every detail of his existence. It was as if a phantom surgeon had excised every trace of the man from reality. The fabric of the world now bore an eerie, person-shaped void where Carpenter should have been.
His wife was also a shadowy figure. Records showing she was born across the seas in Japan were no less elusive—a spectre with no discernible history and no point of origin.
It was as if this family had been meticulously and systematically expunged. Someone had scrubbed their identities clean off the face of the earth, leaving behind only the faintest whispers of their former selves. Tabloid headlines speculated wildly, but concrete facts remained frustratingly scarce.
The other man who had fallen victim in the park that day was no less of a mystery. Police found no identification on his person, and no one knew who he was or where he had come from. Even his clothing offered few clues, save for the suggestion he, too, had worked for the government in some capacity.
Investigators could not trace the .22 calibre bullets that killed both men to any known weapon. The deaths appeared to be the work of a ghost—an unseen, invisible assassin who had slipped seamlessly into the tranquil park and vanished without a trace.
Whether these were random, isolated acts or the beginning of a darker, more intricate narrative remained to be seen. But one thing was sure: the tranquil sanctuary of Dane John Park had been forever scarred, and the echoes of those fatal gunshots would linger, unanswered and unsettling, long after the last traces of the blood had washed away.
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