by C. R. Berry
The rush made her hand shake so hard she thought she might drop the phone. She gripped it with both hands and tried to blink back the tears that were filling her eyes.
Keep it together, Jen. Don’t waste this.
“Hello?” said Mum. “Is anyone there?”
Jennifer had to take a deep breath to form the words but still they came out small and shaky, “Happy birthday, Mum.”
Her voice cracked. “Jennifer?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God. Jen? Is it… is that really you?”
“It’s really me.”
Mum’s quick breaths turned to sobs. It made Jennifer crumble too. “Mum, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Mum was able to push some words through her sobs. “Jen… where are you?” Then, with more urgency, “Where the hell are you?”
“Safe, Mum. I’m safe, I promise. Did you… did you get my flowers?”
“Yes. I got them. But I don’t want flowers. I want my daughter.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been worried sick, Jen. I got your letter. You said there are people trying to kill you. Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Her voice sharpened with anger, “Are you joking? It matters to me! You’re my daughter.” Her voice cracking again, “Why won’t you just tell me where you are?”
“Mum, I… I can’t. I don’t want to put you in danger.”
She took a breath and hardened, instantly, with motherly conviction, “Jen, listen to me. Whoever’s after you, we’ll face them together. We’ll go to the police – together.”
“No, Mum. These people have operatives everywhere, including inside the police, which means I can’t trust anyone right now. I need to find another way.”
“But Jen – !”
“Mum, please! Let’s just talk. Please, I just wanna talk to you. I’ve missed you… so much.” She rubbed away fresh tears.
Her mum started crying again too. “Oh, sweetheart…”
“Are you okay? You know, generally?”
“You mean apart from my eldest daughter abandoning me?”
Jennifer clutched her forehead. “I’m sorry, Mum. I just… I just want to know how you are.”
Mum sniffed and took a breath, “I’m alive, Jen. That’s as good as it gets.”
Jennifer’s hands were shaking. She didn’t know what to say or do to put this right. Was there anything?
“Is Jamie okay? Does she hate me?”
“She’s your sister, Jen. She loves you. We both love you.”
It wasn’t something Jennifer and her mum said to each other often. They didn’t need to. But this was different. This couldn’t be more different. Million Eyes had ripped them from each other without so much as a goodbye. They both needed to hear it.
“I love you too.” Jennifer felt her heart throb as she said it.
“We tried to find you, you know.”
“You did?”
“Yes. Me, Jamie and Adam got together, messaged as many of your friends as we could think of.”
Two thoughts hit her at once. It was a good thing she went to Becks – a part of her life she pretended never happened. And… Adam. Relief pinched her gut. “Adam? You’ve spoken to him? Is he okay?”
“I’ve not seen him in a while. I told him to move –”
“Wait.” The air vanished from Jennifer’s lungs. She heard something. Clicking.
“Jen, what is – ?”
“Ssshh.”
She listened. Tker-tker. Tker-tker. It was quiet, metallic, in the background. Two second intervals, or about that. Just like when Katie was after her and she was on the phone to Adam.
Then it stopped, and all she could hear was her mother’s ragged breathing. She didn’t remember it stopping before.
“Jennifer, what’s going on?”
Maybe it was nothing.
Tker-tker. Tker-tker.
Shit, it was back. Jennifer’s stomach rolled with dread.
They’re listening. They’ve tapped Mum’s phone.
“Shit! Mum, I’ve gotta go.”
“What? No. You can’t. Please, sweetheart.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t.” Quiet sobbing overtook her again. “You’re breaking my heart.”
Jennifer shook. Those words had just broken hers.
“I love you, Mum.”
She hung up and got to her feet, drawing in a long, steadying breath and swallowing a wave of emotions. She’d deal with them later. She glanced around and hurried to the gardens’ exit, dropping the phone into one of the many sculpted stone fountains along the way.
This was her intention from the get-go. It was why she’d come all the way to Eastbourne. If Million Eyes really were listening in on that call and were able to trace it, they’d trace it here, and Jennifer would be long gone. Yes, it was a risk. But it was worth it to hear Mum’s voice, to know she was… well, okay was generous, given that Jennifer’s disappearance had utterly broken her. Alive.
Jennifer hastened to the station and caught the first train back to Brighton. She stared mindlessly out of the window at a blur of greenery, Mum’s broken voice in her ear – “You’re breaking my heart” – over and over again like a succession of cuts. By the time she was back in Brighton she felt nothing. Just numb. Numb and cold, despite it being thirty degrees outside.
She walked languidly to the Grindstone and ordered a double rum and coke, followed by another a few minutes later, and another after that. It worked. Her mother’s voice started to fade away.
She was staring at the bottom of an empty glass, no concept of what the time was, when a bunch of girls barrelled into the pub, laughing loudly. Jennifer glanced over. There were four of them, all attractive twenty-somethings, not the sort you’d expect in the Grindstone. But then, their volume and posture suggested they probably weren’t all that aware of where they were. It was a pub, it sold booze. Hell, that was enough for Jennifer – why not them?
She ordered another rum, hoping they wouldn’t stay long and she could go back to drinking in silence. By the time she’d paid, the prettiest and soberest-looking of the four friends was at the bar next to her, about to order.
“Could I get a porn star martini, gin and tonic, Jack Daniels and diet coke, and, erm…” Fish, the barman, frowned as she scanned the beer taps. “A pint of Stowford Press for me, please.”
Hmm, a fellow cider drinker. Stowford Press was Jennifer’s drink of choice when she wasn’t trying to get shit-faced as quickly as possible. She found rum much better for that.
“Anything else?” said Fish in that annoyed-sounding growl of his.
The girl looked over at her mates at the round table in the corner. “Fuck it. Four Jägerbombs as well, please.”
Jennifer feared a further increase in these girls’ volume. Perhaps if she drank more as well, she’d be able to drown them out.
As Fish fetched their drinks, Jennifer could sense the girl looking at her. Please don’t talk to me.
But she was ‘one of those’ – confident and quite happy to start chatting to a random. “You alright over here on your own?”
Without looking up, “Fine, thanks.” Biggest lie of the day thus far.
“You don’t look it.”
Jennifer looked up, cocked an irritated eyebrow at the girl. Wow. She really was pretty. Stunning, even. Silky brown hair with blonde highlights, thin lips, arresting blue eyes. Jennifer pretended not to notice. “And how do I look, stranger?”
“Like shit.”
Jennifer mustered a half-hearted bitchy look and resumed staring at her drink. She couldn’t be too offended. It was the kind of directness she dished out herself. Well, back when she had people to dish it out to.
“Hey, I’m just saying what I see,” the girl persisted. “You look like you could use some company.”
Jennifer faced her again. “When are you gonna finish telling me what I look like?”
“About – now?”<
br />
“Good answer.”
She held out her hand, but quickly lowered it again when Jennifer didn’t reciprocate. “I’m Toasty.”
“Come again?”
“Toasty.”
“So you’re warm. Or a sandwich.”
She laughed. “Yeah, I get that a lot. My parents were drunk when they named me.”
“Your parents were mean.”
“You got a name?”
She almost said ‘Jennifer’. The alcohol was to blame for that. “Vicky.”
“Nice to meet you, Vicky. Do you wanna come join us?” She gestured to her friends. “You might not get much out of Trish and Nina – they’re steaming. But me and Sarah are pretty coherent.” A girl with bright red hair, probably Sarah, saw Toasty and Jennifer looking over and waved.
Jennifer thought about it. ‘Toasty’ – what a name – was right. She could use a bit of company right now.
“One drink,” she said.
Toasty smiled. “Sure.”
Fish finished preparing the Jägerbombs and placed them on a tray with Toasty’s other drinks. “Actually, make that five Jägerbombs,” she said, winking at Jennifer.
Jennifer’s stomach fluttered. She felt a smile coming on for the first time in ages.
Fish prepared the last drink – huffing with apparent irritation as though he’d rather not have the extra business – and Toasty paid. Then she picked up her packed tray of tipples and did a slow, careful walk to the table. Rum and coke in hand, wondering if this shitty day might end a bit better than it started, Jennifer followed.
20
November 9th 1888
Unfortunately eleven-year-old crossing-sweeper Harriet Turner and her mother, Emma, were going to have to huddle together beneath a blanket on Whitechapel Road for the second night in a row. The last few days had been less than lucrative, so after buying a small pie from Mr Bradshaw’s bakery for their supper, Harriet had nothing left for a bed in the doss-houses.
It was Miss Mayhew’s fault. Lovely Miss Mayhew had not come by for several days now. She was a regular customer of Harriet’s, always needing to cross Whitechapel Road for this, that or the other. After Harriet cleared the mud and horse dung from her path so she could cross without dirtying those magnificent dresses of hers, she was not only more generous with her coins than other folk, she’d often compliment Harriet on how thorough she’d been.
Harriet hoped to God that Miss Mayhew was all right. Whitechapel was a dangerous place right now. There was no telling what Jack the Ripper would do next.
Talking of whom – “Can I read it yet?” Harriet tugged on her mother’s arm.
Her mother lowered the newspaper, a copy of The Whitechapel Evening News that a passing gentleman had dropped. It had an article about Jack the Ripper’s latest victim, Mary Jane Kelly, murdered last night in her doss-house room on Dorset Street. Word on the street was that hers was the most horrific yet.
“You certainly cannot,” Mother replied.
“What, not at all?” said Harriet.
“Not at all.”
Sometimes Harriet wondered why her mother had taught her to read in the first place. She sulked for a bit, but it was always futile. Once Mother’s mind was made up, no amount of pouting was able to change it.
“Are you going to eat your pie?” said Harriet. She’d only broken off a third of it for her, as asked for, but that third was still in Mother’s lap, untouched.
“You have it, love,” said Mother. Harriet was afraid she’d say that. “You need it more than I.”
“Are you not hungry?”
“Not particularly. Not this evening.”
Or yesterday evening. Or the day before. Or the day before that, come to think of it.
Her mother’s appetite had been dwindling for weeks. All right, so Emma Turner – everybody knew – was not a well woman. Hadn’t been for some years now. She used to be a costermonger, selling fruits and vegetables on the streets, earning a reasonable living. People liked her. She was known for having the shiniest, reddest apples and for being well-spoken, confident, smart and possibly the only literate coster around. But that’s because she had a whole other life before the streets. She didn’t like to talk about her family, so all Harriet knew was that her grandparents were well-to-do folk who’d banished her from the family home for getting pregnant with Harriet outside the bonds of marriage. A great sin, certainly. Harriet knew that. But it saddened and infuriated her that they could so readily disavow their daughter without giving her the chance to repent, and forsake their granddaughter in the process.
When she was five, Harriet started school. It was compulsory now – had been since 1880, her mother said. Children aged five to ten, rich and poor alike, had to go. Not that all of them did. Many went to work instead. Harriet herself was only in school a year – less than that, in fact. She left when her mother got ill. Suddenly her mother was tired and in pain all the time. It got so bad she couldn’t make it to the wholesale markets anymore and her street-selling business crumbled. She and Harriet ended up, for a time, at the South Grove Workhouse, a ghastly place where they were separated in different wards and forbidden from talking to each other. They only went there for the free medical care and even that turned out to be useless. The doctors didn’t know what was wrong, so they accused her mother of being lazy and feigning the pain.
And that was that. For the last year Mother had only been able to walk a few yards – with Harriet’s help – and was always exhausted afterwards. Their home now was Whitechapel Road and occasionally its many crowded doss-houses, when allowed by the meagre living Harriet earned from keeping people’s clothes clean.
Her mother’s diminishing appetite was a new development, a worrying one. Harriet had tried to convince her to return to the workhouse – she refused. Harriet wondered if something had happened to her there, but of course Mother never said. She wouldn’t, always trying to protect Harriet from the horrors of the world.
Alas, with Jack the Ripper stalking the streets since the summer, there was no hiding from them anymore – for anyone.
“May I go to the church, Mother?” said Harriet after finishing both shares of the pie.
“The hour is late, Harriet. This is when he prowls. Pray here tonight.”
“Mother, please.” Harriet felt much closer to God at St Mary’s than on these mucky streets. She felt like her prayers had more chance of being heard.
“No, Harriet.”
Harriet waited till her mother was asleep and decided to go anyway. As foul as they were, the streets were her home. Jack the Ripper wasn’t going to scare her away from them. And anyway, St Mary’s was only up the road. She had her knife, the one she took everywhere, if she ran into trouble. She’d be fine. Harriet needed God to hear her prayers tonight – she was concerned about Mother.
She plucked The Whitechapel Evening News from beside her sleeping mother and read the article about Mary Jane Kelly, entitled Latest Ripper murder is the worst one yet, on her way to the church.
Another ferocious murder has shaken Whitechapel, this one more sickening than all those that came before. Earlier this morning, Mary Jane Kelly was found torn to pieces in her room at Miller’s Court, on Dorset Street, her death presenting the hallmarks of the previous murders committed by the maniac known as Jack the Ripper. It is understood that Inspector Frederick Abberline of Scotland Yard is on the case.
The following details have not yet been confirmed, but it is said that the mutilation of Miss Kelly’s body was more wild, wanton and ghastly than in all previous Ripper cases, perhaps because it took place indoors instead of on the street. We understand that her throat was cut from ear to ear, right down to her spine. Her face and breasts were cut off and her chest and abdomen torn open. Most of her internal organs were removed and spread around the room. We’re also told that her heart was taken, which is similar to previous Ripper victims Annie Chapman and Catherine Eddowes. Chapman’s body was missing her uterus, Eddowes was missing
both her uterus and left kidney. It is possible the Ripper takes them as trophies…
Harriet dropped the newspaper and gagged. A bead of vomit scuttled up her throat. She forced it back down and took some deep breaths.
What a way to die. How could a human being do something so horrendous?
Mother was right. She shouldn’t have read it. Now she wouldn’t sleep for days.
She tried to shake it away, think about something else.
Her mood changed as soon as she entered the church of St Mary Matfelon, standing on the site of a long-gone 13th-century church that was known to locals as the ‘white chapel’ for its bright, whitewashed finish. It was the root of the district’s name. Harriet always liked telling people that. Surprisingly few people knew.
She took in her surroundings and felt instantly at ease, as if what happened to Miss Kelly was only a dream. Grand pointed arches, columns crowned with sculpted stone flowers, and an abundance of statues of cherubs and saints watched over her. Beautiful stencilled patterns dressed the walls and richly coloured stained glass windows twinkled in the candlelight. It never failed to fill her with awe, even though she’d seen it a thousand times. There was no question that she was nearer to God here, cut off from the physical and moral filth of the outside world, its dangers and degradations seeming so far away.
St Mary Matfelon was her sanctuary.
This evening Harriet noticed she wasn’t alone in her desire for comfort at such a late hour. Halfway down the left side of the long nave, a man in dark clothes sat in one of the pews, looking like he was deep in prayer.
Not wanting to disturb him, Harriet tiptoed into a pew near the back and lowered herself onto the kneeler. Elbows on the pew in front, she clasped her hands together, closed her eyes and began addressing God.
Lord, my mother continues to suffer, yet has repented many times over for her wicked fornication. Can she not now be forgiven? Please Lord, make my mother well again…
A sound intruded on her prayer and the quiet of the church. She opened her eyes.
