by Cross, Amy
It is my honest opinion that anybody who helps lower the numbers of this wretched population – howsoever they might go about this task – is doing the world a favor.
Glancing up at the house's top window, I think of my poor dear Catherine resting up there tonight, trying to get some sleep. I only hope the noise does not disturb her. In what just and fair world does such a saintly woman suffer such pain, while common idiots waste their health? Even now, Catherine tires of her struggle and slips in and out of an anguished sleep. She has so much to offer the world, yet her body keeps her trapped like an invalid. I cannot wait for the day when she finally emerges from her sickbed and resumes her role in society. Sometimes, I wonder whether her cancer is a reaction to the roughness of the modern world.
“Charles!” a voice calls out suddenly. “Good evening there! How are you doing, old man?”
Turning, I see that Doctor Thomas Culpepper has stopped at the garden gate with his wife just a few paces behind. He is grinning at me in that rather inane manner that I remember so vividly from our years together at the hospital on Slocombe Street. Truth be told, I had hoped that I would not see the man again after I retired, yet it seems I bump into him more and more. I do not wish the man ill, but I long for the day when he finally leaves me alone.
Still, one must be polite to one's peers.
“I haven't seen you in a while,” he continues as I make my way toward the gate. “It must be, what, three or four weeks?”
“Indeed.”
“We have been busy dealing with the aftermath of a break-in,” he explains. “We were the latest victims of this child thieves who are sent out from the slums to steal from the houses of good people.”
“I have heard of such things,” I reply. “There have been no cases in this area yet, but I am sure they are coming.”
“Disgusting little wretches,” Culpepper mutters. “If it were up to me, I would burn the slums down.”
“And what of the poor children?” his wife asks.
“Let them burn too,” he says proudly. “They have nothing to offer the world. They're just homeless, pointless little thugs who enjoy being part of these criminal gangs. Burn the slums, I say, and burn those who made them too.”
“Harsh words,” I point out, “for a man who has worked with sick children.”
“The children of my esteemed clients,” he replies, “are hardly to be compared to the wretched orphans that infest the slums.”
I glance at Culpepper's wife Delilah, and I fancy I see a little discomfort in her features, as if she does not agree with her husband. Still, as a good wife, she knows better than to contradict him.
“I always forget, Charles,” Culpepper continues, “that you live on Cathmore Road. Still, these little meetings are a pleasant surprise for both us, aren't they? It's always nice to see a friendly face. I was just telling Delilah that I hadn't seen you in a while, and she reminded me that just because you're retired now, that doesn't mean you have nothing with which to fill your days.”
“Indeed,” I say again, as I nod at Culpepper's wife.
She smiles demurely. It is good to see a woman who knows her place.
Stepping out to join the pair of them on the pavement, I take a moment to slip my hands into my gloves.
“And how are things going?” Culpepper asks, with a sudden note of caution in his voice. “How's Catherine?”
“Catherine is very well,” I reply carefully, hoping that this simple answer might be the end of the discussion. Then again, Culpepper has never recognized subtleties.
“But has her -”
“She is recuperating as we speak,” I add, keen to avoid a lengthy discussion on the matter. Evidently news of my wife's illness has reached the smoking clubs, at least. “Soon she will be up and about, and as healthy as ever.”
“Really?” He furrows his brow. “I was under the impression she was rather more gravely ill than that.”
“You can tell her that yourself,” I reply, “when next you see her out and about. Mark my words, she shall be fit and healthy in time for this year's ball at the Ambassador.”
“Is that so?” he replies, and I can hear the skepticism in his voice. Or is it pity? Does he believe me to be misguided and delusional? “Well, one must hope so, mustn't one? One must remain hopeful.”
“It is more than hope,” I say sternly. “It is knowledge, based on science. I did not think you to be a man who relies on such things as hope, Doctor Culpepper. Hope is for those who have no evidence. I have evidence, and that evidence shows that Catherine is recovering.”
“That's remarkable,” he replies, “quite remarkable. I should like to know more about her treatment some time. Perhaps, Charles, you have stumbled upon something that could be of benefit to the rest of us.”
“You'll have to excuse me,” I tell him. “I have somewhere to be, and I cannot stay out for too long. I'm sure you and your wife have somewhere to be.”
“Of course, old man.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Be careful where you walk at night, though. Perhaps this Jack the Ripper fellow has a thing for gentlemen as well as ladies. I was just telling Delilah that we must all be on our guard.”
Having already turned to walk away, I hesitate for a moment before turning back to him.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Jack the Ripper,” he continues. “You heard about the letter, did you not?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Have you not been paying attention to the newspapers?”
“I have had a lot on my mind,” I reply, feeling a flash of concern in my chest. “I can't be expected to keep up with the trivial concerns of the masses. They're always getting hot and bothered about one thing or another.” I hesitate, knowing full well that I should simply walk away, yet something about Culpepper's countenance makes me feel I should ask a little more. “But tell me,” I continue, “what exactly is this Jack the Ripper business?”
“It's the man who killed those women,” he explains. “You know the ladies of the night who were found butchered and mutilated? You won't believe this, but apparently the killer sent a letter to one of the news services and, well, he seems to have gained this rather ghastly nickname. Now, people are saying it might be a hoax, but you never know, do you? I mean, what kind of person would lie about such things?”
He steps closer, and it's clear from his expression that he finds this business rather exciting. He is precisely the type of gullible, sensation-loving cretin who would sit slathering and dribbling over the pages of the gutter press.
“The madman signed the letter himself with the name Jack the Ripper,” he continues, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. “Can you believe such a thing? I suppose he took the name because of the way he ripped those poor women apart, but it's still rather macabre. Of course, I wouldn't put it past the news agencies to make the whole thing up, just to sell some more papers. Then again, there are some nasty people in London of late, are there not? One doesn't really know what to think!”
“The city is certainly crowded,” I reply, although in truth my head is rushing. Why would anyone have written to the newspapers and attempted to take credit for the murders of those two whores? Is this some form of sick joke?
“There have been scores of letters,” Delilah adds, as if she believes it is somehow appropriate for a lady to speak of such things. “As many as three a day, is what I heard.”
“Most of those are written by lunatics,” Culpepper points out.
“But what if some of them aren't?” she asks. “What if even one of them is genuine?”
“Everyone's talking about what's going on,” Culpepper continues. “I was at the club earlier, and the place was abuzz. Everyone seems to have their own theory about who this madman might be. In fact, there are so many different ideas going around, one can hardly keep track. The one I've heard the most is that the killer might be Jewish.”
“Some of the ladies think he might
be Polish!” Delilah interjects. “Apparently they can be quite forceful!”
“Whoever he is,” Culpepper continues, “he's running rings around the police, and now perhaps he's even taken to taunting them. I mean, honestly, what sort of person adopts a moniker like Jack the Ripper? It's so obscene and disgusting, one can hardly even comprehend that it's true. I've barely stopped reading about it all day!”
“Nor have I!” Delilah adds, her eyes wide with wonder. “It's all I can think about!”
“Then perhaps you would do well to ponder other matters,” I reply. “It cannot do the mind of a gentleman any good, it might even cause harm, if he thinks too much of these awful crimes. And as for a lady, well, I cannot imagine how you are affected by such awful stories, Mrs. Culpepper!”
“I read Thomas's newspapers as soon as he sets them down!” she replies.
“It's true,” Culpepper says earnestly. “She damn near snatches them from my hands. The last victim had her uterus removed. They say her throat was cut wide open, with two large slashes that ran from ear to ear and -”
“I must go!” I announce firmly. “I do not wish to discuss such terrible things, and I would advise you to put them from your mind. We are gentlemen, Culpepper, and we do not indulge ourselves in the petty squabbles and miseries of this sordid world. We have a duty to remain above such madness. We also, I would remind you, have a duty to keep such tales from reaching the ears of ladies. And now, if you do not mind, I really must get to my club.”
“Of course ,” he replies, and now he sounds suitably chastened. “I don't know what I was thinking of, really. You're right, Charles. One mustn't allow oneself to become too engrossed in the details of these awful murders. Let us simply hope that the killer is caught soon and hung.”
“In public, I hope,” Delilah adds.
“I must go,” I say again, turning and walking away.
As I make my way to the street corner, I have a terrible fear that the Culpeppers will come running after me and attempt to continue the conversation. If they were to follow me all the way to Channing Street, I would have to actually go to the club, but fortunately I glance over my shoulder and see that they are walking in the other direction, and that they are already deep in conversation. Finally, the imbeciles have understood that I have no interest in their prattling nonsense, and I can only hope that I shall not bump into them again any time soon.
Stopping at the corner, I am about to cross when I spot a maid carrying a basket of sheets into an alley at the side of a house. For a moment, as she slips into the darkness, it occurs to me that she must be all alone in that alley, and that I could go after her easily enough and perhaps get tonight's business out of the way. Then again, I know I should not be too brazen, and that it would be madness to commit such an act within striking distance of my own home. When I began this nasty business, one of the first rules I set for myself was that I shall always journey a little way from the house.
It is further into Whitechapel that I must go, to Hell itself, and there I shall find another whose death will allow my dear Catherine to live.
Chapter Five
Maddie
Today
“Do you want some?” a guy asks, turning to me and holding something out in his hand. “It's not a trick. It's food.”
I watch him for a moment, as he sits silhouetted against the fire that's burning in the old oil drum, but then I shake my head. Ever since I came under the bridge a little while ago, I've been aware that people have noticed me, although I've kept myself to myself. The last thing I want is to talk to anyone, and I'm pretty sure I still have teary eyes. I want to be near people, but I want to be left alone.
“Too good for it, are you?” he continues.
“I'm not hungry.”
He laughs, before turning and dropping the scrap of food into his mouth. Whatever it was, I wish I'd been able to accept, but I don't quite trust these people. Down here, when someone gives you something, they always want something in return. I don't have much to give, but I'm sure they'd come up with a few ideas. Alex once told me that there are certain ways for girls to gain favor, and she made me promise I wouldn't ever go down that route. I might be hungry, but I'm not that hungry.
Not yet.
Anyway, I'm too busy coming up with a plan. Tomorrow I'm going to keep walking east, and I think I should eventually get to Charlton. I remember hearing about a few other people heading that way in the past, and there's supposed to be a decent number of squats in the area. If I can find somewhere a little more permanent to sleep, maybe I can start figuring out what to do next. There has to be some kind of shelter I can eventually get into, one where they'll guarantee to never, ever contact my parents. Unfortunately, Alex says there's no way I can be sure of that, not until I turn eighteen. I just have to wait until my next birthday before I try to get proper help.
As I pull my backpack a little closer, I hear footsteps coming this way, and I turn just in time to see that the guy from earlier is now coming over to me. I instantly flinch and start trying to work out which way I can run.
“I've got some good food here for you,” he says, stopping a few feet away and towering above me. “Why don't you want it?”
“I'm okay, thanks.”
“You're not hungry?”
I shake my head.
“That's a lie,” he continues. “Do you know how rude it is to turn down food?”
“I'm not being rude,” I tell him, “I just -”
“Are you worried I'll want something in return?”
I open my mouth to reply, before realizing that maybe this conversation would be best left abandoned. Clutching my backpack, I stumble to my feet. Alex always told me to leave any situation in which I feel uncomfortable.
“Sorry,” I mutter as I turn and start walking away.
“Stuck-up bitch!” the guy yells after me. “Get out of here! Who said you could sit near us, anyway? Go find some other people to bother! I wouldn't give you a scrap of anything, not even if you got down on your knees and begged!”
I don't look back. Instead, I keep walking until I reach the gate that leads into the park, and then I start making my way across the grass. I don't like this park, and Alex always warned me to avoid places where there's no lighting. She even warned me about this specific park, 'cause apparently some bad things have happened here in the past, but she also told me that sometimes you have to take a risk or two. Right now this is my best route, and I'm sure I'll be fine.
I set off around the park's perimeter, keeping close to the railings. After a moment, however, I spot something moving in the distance, over in the darkness near the farthest gate. I pause for a few seconds, worried that somebody might be watching me, and then I take a few steps over to the treeline. At least here I have some extra shadows for cover, and I wait for a few minutes, just in case there's any hint that I might not be alone.
Even though I'm making quite a bit of noise as I traipse between the trees, I'm pretty sure it'll only take me a few minutes to reach the other gate. Glancing around as I walk, I keep listening out for any sign that somebody might be coming closer, but with each step I start to relax a little more. This isn't the first time I've spooked myself and it won't be the last, and I'm just going to have to keep repeating the same two words that have become my mantra lately:
Toughen up.
Reaching a path that runs through the forest, I slow and look both ways before crossing. There's no sign of anyone, although the darkness is impenetrable. The only light is a faint orange glow behind some of the trees, caused by the city, and I can't even see any stars in the night sky.
Adjusting my backpack, I slip between the trees on the path's other side, determined to -
Suddenly something slams into me from behind, shoving me into a tree and then hauling me down by my shoulders. I land hard on my chest and cry out, but an arm quickly wraps around my throat and pulls tight, almost cutting off my airway.
“Where've you been, huh?
” a familiar voice hisses into my ear, as I feel a hand starting to pull my trousers down from behind. “Did you find your buddy?”
I try to cry out, but he quickly moves his right hand to cover my mouth, while his left hand forces my underwear down. As I struggle, I can hear the jangling of his belt as he gets himself into position, but he seems to be having trouble and after a fraction of a second I feel his grip loosening just slightly. He's muttering to himself and he sounds annoyed about something.
This might be my only chance.
Somehow managing to twist around, I swing my right fist toward his face. He cries out and falls back, and I try to pull away. He's already coming back at me, however, so I roll onto my back and pull my knees up to my chest before kicking as hard as I can. Even with my pants around my ankles, I manage to hit him square in the face, and he once again slumps down onto the dark grass.
I remember Alex telling me to run if I ever get attacked. Never try to fight back, always run, so I pull my trousers up and scramble to my feet, but the guy is already getting up too.
I turn away, but suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder and then I'm pulled back.
Just as I'm about to cry out for help, I feel the cold metal of a knife's blade slicing into my waist from behind. I fall against the tree, wincing with pain, and a moment later the blade slides out again. Already, warm blood is dribbling down to the top of my pants, and I'm starting to tremble with shock. I don't know how deep the knife went, but the pain is incredible and I instinctively grip the tree's damp bark, digging my fingernails deep in an attempt to keep from collapsing.
“Now why'd you make me go and do that?” the voice asks. “I wasn't gonna hurt you! I just wanted something!”
I try to turn to him, but my backpack slips partway off my shoulders and I'm already starting to feel weak. I open my mouth to cry out, but somehow no words come from my throat. It's almost as if the sheer shock of the knife wound has made me lose my mind. Even though I'm still digging my fingers into the tree, I can feel my knees weakening and I'm terrified I might be about to fall.
