Comes the Dark

by David Stuart Davies

  It was good to get out of the surgery and breathe fresh air once again. I felt somewhat tainted after spending some time in Baker’s presence. He was an uncaring, unscrupulous bastard who lined his pocket through the misery of others. The sad fact was that he was but one of a growing army of greedy medics setting up shop to deal with abortions and other socially unacceptable complaints. The war was a boon to such people.

  The really disappointing aspect of my encounter with Dr Baker was that I had learned very little that would help me. It was clear that Lowe had not very long to live. Although this meant that he had less time to be active as a killer, it would increase his need to act more swiftly and more often. With his mind crumbling he was likely to take greater risks. Time was running out. Somewhere out there in the great city he was no doubt planning his next murder. The thought of it chilled me to the marrow.

  I assumed that he had found himself some other gaff, cheap lodgings somewhere where he could hide away in the daytime, well aware that the police were now on his tail. If he was to kill again he had to do it fast. It was a race against time. His mental deterioration would have increased his desire to wreak his revenge on women—those women who had given him his disease, his death-sentence, before either he was caught or he was too ill. He was out there now and I felt sure that, come the dark, he’d try to kill again.

  35

  I had a faint idea. I couldn’t grace it with the title of a ‘hunch’ I because it was too fragile, too insubstantial, but in my present situation I was prepared to grasp at any straw that presented itself to me. It was something that my friend Dr Baker had said to me about Lowe’s sexual appetite—and his visits to the Windmill Theatre to see the girlie shows. Wasn’t it possible, even likely, that he’d go there today? What better place to become anonymous and what better place to stimulate your sexual feelings before going out on to the darkened streets to kill again?

  What the hell, it was worth a try.

  At the corner of Harley Street I hopped on a bus and reached Piccadilly Circus some ten minutes later. The great hub of the city was a shadow of its former self with old Eros boarded up for the duration and all the neon signs switched off.

  The Windmill theatre was up a side street running off the Circus. It was the Mecca for all servicemen on leave in London eager to see some exposed female flesh. The shows ran from noon until midnight with barely a gap between performances. I had visited the place myself very early in the war, a mixture of curiosity and boredom leading me there one rainy afternoon. I found it a depressing and totally sexless experience. The show consisted of a number of second-rate musical acts and desperate comedians, interspersed with a series of tableaux of naked women in various naïve poses. The girls in question, holding their stances like goose-pimpled statues, were as erotic as an empty fag-packet. It was against the law for them to move at all and so the artificiality of their static appearance robbed the occasion of any sense of potent sexuality. And, without being unkind, many of the females on view had seen better, and in some cases, much slimmer days.

  Obviously I was in a minority in viewing this spectacle with sadness rather than excitement. The eager fellows in the audience seemed to lap it up. While the variety acts struggled for attention, the lads in the stalls would chat, read newspapers or have forty winks, simply passing the time until tableau girls were back on stage. Then it was eyes front and tongues lolling, perhaps hoping one of the nude lovelies would have a coughing fit. When someone got up to leave, vacating his seat towards the front of the stalls, there would be an unseemly rush to fill it, to get a better view of the blotchy flesh.

  As I approached the theatre there was a small queue by the box-office, mainly made up of lonesome soldiers and sailors, some giggling with their mates and others wearing expressions that seemed to be a mixture of embarrassment and boredom. I stood in line wondering what impression I made as I fumbled in my pocket for the admission fee.

  Once inside the tiny theatre, much to the usherette’s surprise I took a seat at the back. I wanted to survey the audience and keep an eye on all those who came and went.

  I settled myself in the empty back row within easy reach of the exit. There was an ancient fellow on the stage attempting to make various animal shapes out of balloons. He was dressed as a tramp and heavily made up to try and disguise his greatly advanced years. He probably was a wow at a toddlers’ tea-party, but in front of a girl-hungry male audience he was dying on his rather shaky feet, After each laboured operation he thrust his new creation towards the audience with a triumphant cry: ‘Ladies and gentlemen—a giraffe’, ‘Ladies and gentlemen—a horse.’ His efforts were received with a barrage of boos and catcalls. He seemed impervious to the jeers and carried on until he manufactured his piéce de rèsistance—‘Ladies and gentlemen, an elephant,’ then he shuffled off as the small group of musicians in the pit played his exit music. No one applauded.

  Awkwardly, the curtains swung to and the musicians, flipping over their sheet music, began playing some unidentifiable tune while there seemed to be a great deal of clumping activity hidden from view behind the drapes. Obviously, we were about to be treated to a tableau. Suddenly the audience became alert. Newspapers were discarded, conversation ceased and almost in unison the male patrons leaned forward in their seats. After a few moments the curtains jerked back to reveal a group of six girls sitting on a collection of various-sized cardboard rocks in a range of supposedly decorous and enticing postures in front of a seascape backdrop. Not counting the tiny panties and the odd transparent wisp of tulle draped across pallid breasts, the girls were naked. Apart from wavering smiles and the nervous flickering of heavily made-up eyelids, none of the beauties moved. It was as though they had been frozen in time. It was bizarre rather than erotic. I suppose they were meant to represent the sirens luring men on to the rocks. I have to say, they didn’t lure me, nothing stirred in my loins, but the same could not be said for the blokes in front of me. I’ve never seen as many craned necks in one room at the same time.

  I even saw one fellow in the second row produce a small pair of binoculars and clamp them to his eyes to obtain a better view. I was half-way to reaching for a smile when it faded away. Something suddenly struck me about him. It was now my turn to lean forward and crane my neck. I was right. I recognised that profile, the shape of the head, the set of the jaw. Or I thought I did. In the gloom at a distance I couldn’t be sure. If only he’d take those damned binoculars away from his face…

  The girls posed for what seemed ages, but what I suppose in real time was only about two minutes. Towards the end of the session some of them actually started shivering. I wondered what the Lord Chancellor would say about that. Eventually the musicians reached some kind of collective culmination and once more the curtains moved across in a jerky, arthritic fashion, drawing a veil over the scene. There were groans and boos from the audience. My man lowered his binoculars and slipped them away in his pocket. As he turned his head sideways I gained a better view of his features. My heart gave a leap. It was Lowe. Large as life, sitting there about thirty yards away from me.

  My God, I thought, with some short-lived elation, I’ve caught the bastard! Well, not quite, I told myself sensibly when my pulse rate steadied. He was in my sights, but that was all. That was a big difference. What was I to do now? If I went off to ring the police, he might well have disappeared by the time I got back. And certainly it would be foolish to try and apprehend him in the theatre. Think what chaos that would bring. These eager gawpers would make mincemeat of anyone interfering with their entertainment. I lit a cigarette to help me think. Didn’t need the whole fag, really. My options were limited. The only practical course of action was to just stay put for the moment and wait for Lowe to leave the theatre and then follow, hoping that a situation would arise where I could either call for help or I could tackle him myself. Not an ideal scenario but then they rarely presented themselves.

  There was a comedian on stage now—a cockney wide boy, loud pin-
striped suit, large fedora and vivid tie—spilling out a stream of near the knuckle gags. He was getting laughs from the audience but I paid little attention to him or his material; my beady eyes were fixed on my friend Lowe.

  Suddenly, I felt a movement at the side of me, then a voice whispered in my ear.

  ‘So this is where you spend your spare time, eh? Eyeing up the girlies.’

  I recognised the voice and the attendant sneer it carried. I turned my head to clock the speaker for confirmation. It was Ralph Chapman, my chum from the Britannia Club.

  ‘The same could be said for you,’ I said glibly. This was the last thing I wanted: this arrogant toad queering my pitch.

  ‘Oh, I’m a regular,’ he said smoothly, plopping down in the seat next to me. I turned my attention back to Lowe whose stern features were unmoved by the comedian’s patter. His eyes glinted in the darkness. All he wanted was the next tableau.

  Chapman leaned sideways towards me. ‘I suppose you heard about that little Jewish tart, your friend with the gun?’

  I didn’t react, partly because I didn’t know how to. I just let him carry on while I clenched my fists in an attempt to quell my feelings of anger and hate.

  ‘Got burnt to a cinder for her pains.’

  ‘Really,’ I said, keeping my eyes focused on Lowe.

  ‘Oh, yes. We always make sure that those who threaten us get their just desserts.’

  I gave a brief nod, hoping that that was sufficient to indicate that I agreed with him—when in reality I wanted to yank his heart out of his chest and stuff it down his throat.

  He chuckled obscenely. ‘Yes, we organised a little torch-party for her. Tinderboxes, those houses in the East End.’

  ‘You—’ I gasped, turning to face him.

  He shrugged. ‘Well, not me personally, but, let’s say I had a hand in it.’

  Suddenly there was a roar of laughter from the audience as the comedian delivered a particularly obscene punch line. It helped me ride my anger and disgust. I had to keep in character as a hardened anti-Semitic or I was in real trouble and I knew Chapman was simply testing me, still suspicious of me, seeing if I would snap and expose my real feelings.

  ‘Good for you.’ I grinned and then pretended to join in the laughter at the comedian’s next gag, something about a chicken and a gas-mask.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ said Chapman, settling back in his seat. I turned and looked at his cold, hard features. They were smug and self-satisfied even in repose. Oh boy, I couldn’t wait to rattle his cage but I would have to wait. For the moment there were more urgent things to attend to. I returned my gaze to Lowe.

  He wasn’t there. His seat was empty. He had evaporated into thin air just like Claude Rains in The Invisible Man. Already some young sailor was attempting to clamber over the seat and take his place. A cold panic gripped me. Where the hell...? How could I have been so stupid as to take my eyes off him for a moment? In desperation I glanced round the auditorium, my eyes darting in all directions. The stage lights created flickering shadows along the walls, misleadingly masquerading as figures. I gripped the edge of the seat in front of me, a sense of despair already invading my senses. Then I saw him. Like a dark ghost, he was moving up the far aisle towards the exit. He was about to escape into the big wide world outside, soon to be swallowed up by the great London crowds and out of my grasp.

  I rose from my seat.

  ‘Not going already? You’ve not seen all the show. I can recommend Dante’s Inferno. All the girlies wear horns.’ Chapman giggled obscenely.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got to go. Nature calls.’ I said, rather more breathlessly than I intended.

  ‘Oh, do stay,’ he said with a note of seriousness in his voice, an undertone of a threat. The smile had left his face. He showed no signs of moving to let me pass. The bastard was being deliberately obstructive. Why don’t you let him have it, my brain told me. A clenched fist between the eyes. How satisfying that would be. For a brief moment I imagined the crack of bone and the warm spurt of fresh blood.

  Not now, I told myself, but soon.

  I tried harder to press past him but he didn’t budge.

  ‘Just sit down, old boy, otherwise you’ll miss the titties.’

  ‘If you don’t move to let me pass,’ I said, ‘I shall be forced to urinate all over that nice jacket of yours.’

  He moved and I shot by him without another word. I glanced ahead and saw Lowe disappear through the curtains below the exit sign. I hurried after him.

  By the time I reached the foyer he had disappeared again. I glanced around but nowhere was he to be seen. I swore sharply under my breath. And then I noticed the door to the Gents. Maybe…I went inside. The place appeared empty but one of the cubicles was occupied. Pray God, its occupant was Lowe. The cistern flushed and I left quickly. I didn’t want him to see me just yet. I needed to tackle him in a much less public place.

  I returned to the foyer, stood in a dark corner and waited. Moments later Lowe emerged and without a glance in my direction made his way out on to the street.

  I followed.

  36

  The show at the Windmill had failed to distract or stimulate Lowe. It was not like the old days when a couple of hours in the warm dark ogling the naked female flesh on show and rubbing his penis would have got the hormones racing and put ‘lead in his pencil’ as his father used to say. But then again this wasn’t the old days, of course. Things had changed. The syphilis had seen to that. He knew that he was reaching the end. His body was crumbling, his mind was losing touch with reality and the police were on his tail. In his own stoical manner he accepted that he hadn’t much time left. That was why, in the end, he hadn’t killed the one-eyed private detective. It suddenly struck him that getting rid of him would not gain him anymore time, would not prolong his life. It wasn’t the authorities he was up against, it was the rot, the rampaging rot which was consuming the whole of his body.

  In fact he looked forward to the end—to death. It would be a relief. There was nothing he could do now to stop the pain, to stop that rot. Dr Baker had told him that at some time he would reach this stage and now he had. Even the laudanum had no effect anymore. But he just wanted to make one last gesture before he finally stepped into the dark. He just wanted to dispatch one more tart—to kill one more time. To experience the pleasure of some sleazy pro’s look of frozen horror as he clamped his hands around her neck and squeezed the life out of her. As they had squeezed the life out of him. He wanted to see those hands fluttering in desperation liked trapped butterflies and to hear that final squeaky, agonized croak as her body slumped to the floor. These were the fucking creatures who had given him his death sentence, so why should they escape his retribution?

  As these thoughts swirled around his diseased mind he gritted his teeth and grunted quietly to himself. He wasn’t aware that he was doing this; it was a recent unconscious habit that he had developed. However he did realise that he found walking at a steady pace more of an effort than it used to be. Each day, each hour, things got worse. His legs ached and his heart thudded within his aching chest.

  Dusk was falling and pedestrians were slowly turning into silhouettes, walking shadows that breezed by him only to melt into the gloom. He loved the night: it gave him confidence and comfort. He gazed at the sky. Already the stars were pinpricking their way through the darkening canvas. Somewhere a woman laughed, her high-pitched shriek momentarily catching his interest before he got lost in his own thoughts again.

  He glanced at his watch. It was time for a drink and to chat up his final victim. He decided that in honour of the occasion he would go to the Coach and Horses, the pub where he had met his first victim. There would be a satisfying unity in that. With some effort he increased his pace, completely unaware that some fifty yards behind him, he was being followed by a figure in a belted raincoat and fedora pulled well forward to mask part of his face.

  Fifteen minutes later and severely out of breath, Lowe approached
the Coach and Horses. On the corner he stopped suddenly and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, his vision blurred. He was surprised and alarmed at how much the brisk walk had taken out of him, sapping his energy. The thought struck him that he might not have enough strength to carry out his plans. If he got a lively one it was possible she could struggle free. He clenched his teeth with determination. That was not going to happen. He would rise to the challenge when it came. He had to. Pulling himself to his full height, he pushed his way through the swing-door into the pub.

  It wasn’t long before his eye landed on a likely candidate. As he leaned on the counter he had surveyed the customers in the saloon bar. Despite the earliness of the hour the place was fairly crowded: there were locals, a few servicemen, some office workers having a quick one before hurrying away to their suburban warrens and there was a sprinkling of prostitutes—or at least some over-made-up tarts whose eyes flickered expectantly as each new customer pushed his way through the doors.

  There was one of these women who particularly appealed to Lowe. She was older and stouter than the rest. She looked raddled and shagged-out. Lowe grinned to himself. She would be a push-over and that was what he needed tonight. Literally. He knew also that with such an experienced hag there was less pretence, less play-acting. One got down to business more quickly. He ordered himself another pint and bought a large gin, and took the drinks over to her table. He plonked the gin down beside her and pulled up a stool.

  ‘For me?’ she batted her sooty eyelashes and smiled an awful smile. The thick red lips parted to reveal a row of brown uneven teeth. ‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ she added, before taking a large drink of the gin, as though he might change his mind and ask for it back.