Mayhem

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘I can try,’ I said, ‘but I must be honest with you. I am not sure I can believe in your story. However much I might see truth in it here, in the middle of the night, by morning I know my reason will be restored.’ I hoped it would, at any rate, though I could not help but remember how Kosminski had led me here. There was nothing natural about that.

  The priest smiled at me. ‘You search for the man, in that case, Dr Bond. You do not have to believe in the Upir. As long as we find the killer, that is surely all that matters?’

  I had no argument to that.

  26

  London. November, 1888

  Elizabeth Jackson

  ‘It’s none of your business, Annie!’ she shouted at her sister before turning and half-walking, half-running down Turks Row. Her golden-red hair hung tangled down her back where it had come free from her bonnet.

  ‘You’re a disgrace!’ Annie fired at her back. ‘A shameful disgrace.’

  Annie always did have to have the last word, and if it could be a hurtful one, then all the better. Elizabeth’s cheeks burned, and she swallowed angry tears. At least having to run after the unexpected argument had chased away the freezing cold, for a few minutes at least. She rounded the corner and leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumping slightly. Why did she have to go and bump into Annie, of all people? She let the tears flow, rubbing her cheeks with a grubby hand.

  Her family did not understand – of course not; who would? Why would she leave a perfectly good job to work the streets, give up a nice warm attic room to doss down in a flea-filled lodging-house? What could she tell them? Certainly not the truth: he came back.

  She couldn’t tell them James had come back, that he was getting married and moving back into the house where his parents had died, because they wouldn’t understand why that would matter. And she certainly couldn’t tell them what he had done to her in the streets between her house and his. She rubbed her belly and the ruination growing inside and as she remembered the terror of that moment when he had changed from one person to another, the tears fell heavier and she started sobbing. He would come for her again if he could find her; she knew that – but this time it would not be her body he would want – it would be her blood.

  Promise me you’ll run.

  She needed to leave Chelsea; the ease with which Annie had found her proved that.

  She wondered if she would ever be able to run far enough.

  27

  London. February, 1889

  Dr Bond

  If 1888 had been a lion of a year for crime, then 1889 was starting as a lamb, and I was not the only one relieved at that. The search for Jack had thus far been fruitless, but at least he had not killed again, and slowly, life in Whitechapel and across London was returning to normal. Jack was silent, and there had been no more dismembered bodies pulled from the river either. We were in a hushed lull of hopefulness.

  Inspector Moore, who, along with the rest of the Force, was finally being able to return to his normal duties, called it right when he said that they were all praying that both killers – if they were indeed separate – had either died or moved on. If they could not be caught, then they could at least go and plague someone else’s city.

  I hoped he was right; I hoped we could finally put all this madness behind us, but my continued sleeplessness and bouts of anxiety made it hard for me to relax or let go. I almost regretted my alliance with the priest and the strange little hairdresser – for one, should Moore ever find out that I was meeting secretly with a man once considered a murder suspect, this would not bode well for my career, and possibly even my liberty. And as long as there were no fresh murders around, it was easy to start considering their ideas madness once again.

  All the same, every fortnight or so I would find one or the other waiting for me outside my home or at the hospital, or there would be a letter through my door, arranging a time, and we would go to the dens, take the strange opium and walk the streets of London together until dawn broke. Then the priest would share his elixir and we would return to our homes. I knew they were frustrated at my relative inaction, but first we had had Christmas, and then, in late January, Juliana and James had wed, and there had been a fine celebration. I had been distracted – I had wanted to be distracted.

  Yet here I was, finally sending letters to colleagues asking of any travellers who might be presenting strange symptoms after visiting Poland. I had already checked the records in my own hospital and found nothing. I told myself I was carrying out the searches simply because I had promised the two madmen I would, but that was not entirely true; my own behaviour told me otherwise, and I was something of an expert in analysing human action. I could hardly ignore my own.

  I no longer walked by the river if I could avoid it.

  Even with only laudanum to bolster me, I would look first around the heads of those I met before I looked into their eyes. I avoided shadows, and never walked in those left by others.

  *

  When night came, I could still feel that awful disquiet. I remembered how Kosminski had reached into my mind and led us to the priest. I felt the dead women gathering around me in a throng, demanding I comply.

  Inspector Moore was wrong: the killers had not moved on, nor had they died. There was still something not quite right in the air of London. Perhaps they were sleeping or resting, replete after such a bountiful previous year.

  In the dark, I believed in the Upir, and my sleepless hours were so much longer and lonelier than those of the day. During the days, when the night’s thoughts would linger, I wondered if madness were infectious. I decided that, if anything, I was doing the research because I wanted to disprove the story the priest had told me, however convincingly he had relayed those awful facts. This would make me sit taller at my desk. But still I wrote the letters, and still I found my heart beating excitedly when I received replies, only to feel bitter disappointment when there were no names to further the chase.

  As the weather turned from miserable to crisp and frozen, I returned to the hunt. It had always been my passion, but now I found it vital to my well-being, regardless of the exhaustion that had become my constant companion. The freedom of riding out relieved both my anxiety and my frustration, and for a few hours at least I could become lost in the thrill of the chase, a hunt that had far more chance of success than those with which I was professionally engaged.

  *

  I gathered up the next batch of completed letters and smiled as I pulled on my coat to go and post them. I would hunt again tomorrow, and the very thought lifted my spirits. I smiled. I couldn’t help myself.

  Juliana joined me occasionally, and she had agreed to come along the next day. Her new husband encouraged her in it; he was not a huntsman himself, and there was obviously nothing improper in our friendship, so he declared himself glad that she had found something she enjoyed so thoroughly, that was good for both her spirits and her constitution. He was busy with both work and the renovations to the house in Chelsea, and Juliana was not a woman to occupy herself with visiting ladies and sewing alone. Although he had promised she could do some bookkeeping for him, this had not as yet happened, and I often sensed that I was not alone in taking out my frustrations with the world around me through the ride.

  Still, if I could provide that for her, then I was happy. There was very little in my life of thrills or excitement; both the hunt and Juliana’s company offered me those.

  *

  She was always flushed and smiling on the way home: truly radiant. I was not the only one to notice; I had seen several of the gentlemen of the hunt looking her way approvingly, and not only for her skill on a horse. She was a beauty, even if she failed to realise it herself. I wondered if young Harrington knew how lucky he was to have her. I hoped he would not let his affections slide now that they were married. Her loneliness still worried me, and that was how our conversation started that afternoon.

  ‘And how are you finding married life?’ I leaned back on the seat. It w
as a personal question, but our friendship had settled into something beyond the bounds of polite formalities and we were relaxed in each other’s company.

  ‘Very good,’ she said, then added, ‘Well, James is very busy and he has made so many plans for changes to the house that I think we shall be living at my father’s for the best part of a year, but I am glad he decided that we should move there. I’m sure his parents would have wanted it.’

  ‘How did you and he meet? I can’t recall you ever told me.’

  ‘I’m not sure I did tell you,’ she said, smiling at the memory. ‘We met in the park – I was out walking, and there was a sudden downpour.’ She smiled. ‘We stood under the same tree together for a while until the rain passed, and then he walked me home. As it happened, the rooms he had rented were only a few doors down from our house.’

  ‘It sounds very romantic.’ It was so easy for the young – chance meetings, with all the possibilities of the future wrapped up in a shy smile and a first hello. I wondered why that changed as we got older – perhaps we no longer saw the potential for good experience in others, only the possibilities for complications and trouble. The idea of upsetting the routine balance of our lives no longer feels appealing. The young, of course, know no different.

  ‘I cannot remember the last time I took a walk in the park simply for its own sake,’ I said, a little wistfully, ‘and I can safely say I have never sheltered under a tree with a stranger and have it lead to love at first sight.’

  She laughed aloud at that. ‘I never took you for a romantic, Thomas – but I must correct you, for it wasn’t love at first sight. We were simply friends at first. I don’t think he felt any immediate attraction to me, not in that way.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ I said. ‘I imagine he was just shy. He seems a reserved kind of chap.’

  ‘That might be true,’ she said, ‘but it was only after meeting my father that he began to court me properly. I noticed a distinct change in his behaviour.’ She smiled at me, her eyes all warmth and intelligence, and once again I was struck by this young woman’s depths. In many ways she was far older than her years. ‘I think after the loss of his own parents he wanted to find a new family of his own – parents he could love as well as a wife.’

  ‘He has certainly done that.’

  ‘Yes, he has – although both he and my father work too hard.’ She looked at me more closely. ‘As, I think, do you.’

  I shrugged in acknowledgement. ‘It is the nature of the beast,’ I said, meaning that medicine in itself did not allow for much relaxation, but as the words came out I found myself thinking of the priest and Kosminski and the Upir they hunted. What would Juliana think of me if she knew of my involvement with such men – if she knew that I was hunting something not quite man and not quite devil, and telling neither her father nor the police what I was doing?

  We turned into Juliana’s Chelsea street and I rapped my stick on the roof of the hansom to get the driver to stop.

  ‘Thank you, Thomas,’ she said, and kissed me on the cheek before climbing down. ‘We must arrange a dinner at my father’s. We’ll be back there again soon, once the wallpaper arrives.’

  ‘That would be lovely.’ I could still feel the softness of her lips on my skin and I did my best to ignore the effect that had on me.

  I watched her walk away towards the house. Her shadow was stretched out against the pale steps as she reached the front door. It was just a shadow, an empty space denied light – how could anything exist between her and it?

  The Upir. My rational brain was taking charge after the ride in the brisk fresh air and once again the whole thing seemed ridiculous. I sat back against the seat as the cab moved on.

  I knew exactly what Juliana would think if she knew of my secret activities.

  She would think I was mad.

  28

  Paris. November, 1886

  James Harrington’s Diary

  I am not myself. The illness that plagued me in Poland lingers, and I am exhausted from lack of sleep. I have barely rested since the morning I awoke, two days after our flight from the village, and found Josep dead. Since then my journey has been swift and constant, as if I could somehow run from the memory. And maybe I have managed it, in part at least, for the immediate horror I felt on seeing him like that beside me in the cart – with no mark of malice on his body but his eyes wide and mouth stretched open in a silent scream of terror – has faded. I still think of the dream I had that night, however, and I cannot help but shiver, especially now.

  I dreamed I was leaning over him while he slept – it was so vivid; even now I can see the images as clearly as ever. His mouth was hanging slack and he was snoring, lost in a deep sleep. I could hear animals rustling through the leaves as they hunted in the dark. There was a slight prickle on my skin from the cool air. I noticed that the strange little talisman he carried with him – the same symbol that had been painted on the village doors – had rolled to the floor from his pocket. I felt a weight on my back and something caught my eye, just beyond my left shoulder. In my dream I twisted round this way and that, but whatever it was remained constantly just out of sight, though I could feel its weight, a heaviness from the base of my neck to the bottom of my spine. I reached behind, but there was nothing to touch. I shook myself, but still the sensation remained. The weight pushed me forward, until I was once again leaning over my travelling companion. I could feel his breath on my face. And then his eyes suddenly opened.

  After that, the dream must have ended, for I have no recollection of anything but slumber. I did not report my companion’s death – who would I tell, out there in the wilderness? – but instead dragged his body deeper into the woods and left him there. In truth, I feared that if I found someone to tell, I might never get home.

  By the time I had reached France, although I was sickening again, I had begun to convince myself that Josep’s death and my dream were linked: we had both been through the ordeal in the village, and their superstitions had taken their toll on us. Perhaps Josep’s heart gave out with his own fear in the night – that would be understandable. Even younger men than he died when their hearts failed suddenly. And my dream was most likely my own subconscious working through the past few days’ events; that Josep’s death and my dream occurred on the same night was not that much of a coincidence; it had been only two days since we’d left the village, after all.

  I arrived in Paris in quite good spirits, glad to be nearly home. Since my chest was weakening again and the strange blotches were appearing upon my skin once again, I decided to check into a hotel for three or four days to get some proper rest before heading home. I sent a telegram to my father, to let him know my plans, and to request that he wire enough money to cover my stay, my last few pounds having been spent on some respectable clothing on my arrival in the city, then I settled into comparative luxury and tried to put my ordeal behind me.

  At first it was easy. Sleeping in a comfortable bed and eating fine food made the village in Poland feel like a bad dream itself.

  But I cannot shake this dreadful hunger that plagues me, and I awoke this morning with the weight on my back returned, and something dark and awful filling a spot at the edge of my left eye, as if there were something creeping over my shoulder. I spent a long hour in front of the hotel mirror, but no matter which way I twisted, I could see nothing there. I wondered if there might be something wrong with my spine, and that was making me feel this way, or perhaps it might be a symptom of this strange illness that I was suffering? Despite the knocking of my heart, I convinced myself both of these things were causing my discomfort, and promised myself that I would go to the finest doctors in London when I got home. There would be a cure for this, I had no doubt, and within weeks I would be laughing at the dark fears that were starting to creep in on me.

  *

  But there was no explanation for where I found myself this afternoon. I was in a workshop in a place called Montrouge, far from my hotel and hi
therto unknown to me. I was also wearing my travelling clothes, not one of the new suits I had bought so I would not embarrass myself among my fellow guests at the hotel. There were instruments laid out on a table on one side, butchers’ and doctors’ tools, all designed for cutting or hacking. As I looked at them, my mouth watered and I tasted river water. Red flooded the shadows behind my eyes and I felt an eagerness that I was sure did not belong to me. My neck felt wet, as if a long tongue were somehow wrapping itself around my throat. I was sure there was something staring out from behind my head.

  I left the place and returned to the hotel. I was shaking – I am still shaking. The hunger is worse than before, and the blotches on my skin are now so purple that one of the hotel staff asked if I wished to see a physician.

  I will cut my rest here short and return to England. First thing in the morning I shall set off for Calais. Perhaps this is just madness – perhaps the ridiculous superstitions of the villagers have combined with Josep’s death to somehow infect my consciousness: perhaps my mind is playing games with me.

  I had planned to stay in my room tonight, to lock the doors and try to sleep, but my mind will not rest. Rereading my words, I no longer know what to make of all this. I think I shall go out, find some wine and people and life and laughter, and distract myself from my own dark thoughts.

  My horror at Josep’s death has been replaced by a more sinister thought: What if he and the villagers were right? What if something terrible did come out of the river and attach itself to me?

  What if I am now the Upir?

  29

  London. April, 1889

  Elizabeth Jackson

  ‘I’ll get you the money,’ she said, ‘honestly. He’ll come back. He’s working away – he’s coming back with the rent, I promise.’

  ‘He’s not coming back and you know it.’ Mrs Paine’s arms were folded firmly across her chest. ‘And in your condition you’re better off without him. If you’re going to take up with a man, don’t pick one who beats you when he’s drunk – you’ll be beaten all your life.’