Mrs Midnight and Other Stories

by Oliver, Reggie

  Then he cut a slice of liver

  While she still did quake and quiver . . .

  I wanted to be sick, so I started to skip this stuff, but I know it finished:

  When he’d eaten all his sister,

  Do you think that Alfred missed her?

  No, for all her wit and vigour

  Had been used to make him bigger.

  All his wants she could provide him

  By being safely there inside him.

  I’d had enough, and I left the British Library in a hurry, nearly tripping over an old bag lady in the courtyard outside. Then my mobile started to ring. It was Bill Beaseley. He seemed far away and his voice kept breaking up.

  ‘Danny, I think I’ve found something which may . . . I’ll send you a . . .’ The phone went dead. I tried calling him but the line was engaged. On an impulse I rang Jill and asked if she would like to come to the recording of the final of I Can Make You a Star the following night.

  ‘Great!’ She said. ‘Can I bring Crispin too? I’m sure he’d be fascinated.’

  I bit my lip and told her I would have two tickets biked round to her that afternoon. I could have sold them on eBay for silly money.

  The following morning a rather grubby envelope arrived for me by first class post. It could only be from Bill Beaseley. Sure enough, inside was a photocopy. (Bill was one of those Luddites who refuse to use PCs and e-mails.) On the back of it he had scrawled:

  ‘Page from a book called The Complete Ripper Letters, containing all the letters that were sent to the Police about the Whitechapel murders in both facsimile and transcript. This just may be the clue that clinches it!!! But don’t forget, we go 50/50 on any book deal. All right, mate? Bill.’

  The facsimile showed a few lines written in a big scrawly handwriting on a scrap of paper. I got the feeling that the writer was trying to make his handwriting look rather more primitive and uneducated than it actually was. The legend above the facsimile read:

  ‘Note addressed to “Inspector Frederick Abberline at Scotland Yard”, which arrived 3rd October 1888, three days after the double murder of Stride and Eddowes. It was dismissed as a hoax at the time as, though the message had been written in blood, it was found to be the blood of a cat.’

  Here was the message:

  I have eaten some of the lights out of them girlies as you will see. I’d send you a morsel, Mr Abbaline [sic], only it’d be long dead and won’t be no use. Still we may meat, some time, but you won’t know me from midnight as I’m not wot I seam.

  That night was the Big One. Well, you all saw the final of I Can Make You a Star, this year, didn’t you? The tenor in the wheelchair won it because of the viewers’ phone-in votes, even though the judges and I thought it should have been the blind juggler. Anyway the audience ratings went through the roof. Jill and Crispin came round afterwards for the champagne do with all the celebs. Jill was excited by it all and just thought it was a hoot, but Crispin was being very snotty and stand-offish, I’m glad to say. I kept my eye on them and, when I noticed that they seemed to be having a little argument, I came over. He was bored and wanted to go home apparently, but she wanted to stay. So I touched her bare arm and took her to meet some of my famous friends, purely because they might help out on the Save the Old Essex campaign, you understand. She loved that.

  I was feeling pretty good the next morning, even when the doorbell rang shortly after seven thirty. Those bloody tabloids, I thought, they’ll be asking me to confirm some stupid rumour, or they want a picture of me looking rough in the altogether. I took care to dress carefully before I opened the door, but it wasn’t the press, it was the police.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Could we step inside for a moment . . . ? Do you know a Mr Bill Beasely of Flat C. 31 Congreve Street . . . ? Well, the thing is, sir, Mr Beaseley was found dead last night . . . murdered, sir. . . . There was a notebook on the desk and it was open at a page on which your name and address had been written. . . . I wonder if you could possibly account for your movements last night. . . .’

  They actually asked me where I had been that night! I told them that my alibi was pretty impeccable as I had about twenty million witnesses to my whereabouts. Oh, says, the Inspector, all sophisticated, we thought those programmes like I Can Make You a Star were pre-recorded. No, I said, you can check, it was all live, every fizzing second of it. I believe in live. If it isn’t live it hasn’t got that something.

  I asked for details about poor Bill and they seemed happy to oblige. His skull had been split open with something like a meat cleaver and it looked as if part of his brain had been removed. That scared me, I must say, but I said nothing. They asked me if Bill had had enemies. No, I could not think of any enemies, but Bill had been a crime reporter, you know.

  The next day I let the press have it, and by the time the late editions of the Evening Standard were on the streets, there was a nice little spread on the inside pages:

  I CAN MAKE YOU A STAR MAN CLAIMS:

  ‘I HAVE SOLVED RIPPER MYSTERY’

  Well, not exactly, but near enough by press standards. I had given them a pretty coherent run-down of the evidence, and they got most of it right. The one thing I’m afraid I hadn’t told them about was old Bill’s part in my discovery, but I thought what with his murder and everything, it would just make things too complicated. I did feel bad about that for a while.

  I had rung Jill naturally, and she seemed delighted by the news coverage.

  ‘I’m beginning to think you’re a bit of a star too,’ she said.

  ‘You are too kind, Miss Bennett.’

  ‘By no means, Mr Darcy.’ That was progress.

  I discussed with her the television feature on the Old Essex and the Ripper suspect that I was arranging for the Local London TV News and the possibility of a full-length documentary. Three days later Jill, Crispin and I were down at the Old Essex with a camera crew. I had specially asked Crispin to come along as our ‘architectural expert’, which pleased Jill.

  Once again it was raining, but not as heavily as the last time. We decided to film indoors first and wait for it to clear to do the establishing shots outside in the street. I did my stuff to camera about this wonderful old building and how it was steeped in the rich history of the East End, and then Crispin did his architecture bit. I wasn’t going to tell him that his material was bound to end up on the cutting room floor. He wasn’t bad, but he was too fond of his own voice.

  Then there was a lightening in the rain so Jill and the crew went out to do the establishing shots. Crispin and I voted to stay indoors and drink the skinny lattes the P.A. had got us from the nearest Starbucks.

  So there we were, the two of us, alone in the auditorium of that great dirty old Cathedral of Sin. It was so quiet; you could almost hear the dust falling through the shafts of grey light. Somewhere in the deep distance traffic rumbled in a twenty-first century street, but it was miles and ages away. Crispin started to look at me very intently, so I looked back at him. He was not bad looking, I suppose, in a rather girly way, with his shoulder length blonde hair and his pretty mouth. The looks won’t last, though, I thought. I’m dark with good cheekbones. I may be forty, but I’m built to last. I go to the gym.

  ‘You really are a little shit,’ he said. I was astonished, but I said nothing. Crispin went on. ‘You may as well know; you haven’t a chance with Jill. She is, as you would say, “out of your league.” You do realise that, don’t you?’

  He was expecting me to react, to say something, but I didn’t. I just went on staring at him. He reckoned without the fact that I didn’t get where I am today without being a bit of a psychologist. After a pause, he started up again, but not quite as confident as before.

  ‘I know all about your efforts to impress her. Visits to the British Library; dinners at gastro-pubs, tickets to that truly ghastly show of yours. It won’t do you any good, you know. She isn’t remotely interested in you, never will be, and shall I tell you why—? Good God, what’s that?’<
br />
  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t you see it? Some sort of flicker of light, there on stage, just behind the pros arch.’

  No. Nothing. Then, yes, there was something. By the proscenium arch, I saw a yellow light flicker, like a candle flame. Someone was holding a lighted candle on the stage. Then it began to move and we saw the outline of the thing that carried it. It was a big old woman with a long dress and a shawl over her head. Her back was to us. She looked like a huge huddled heap of old clothes. Slowly she began to shuffle away from us upstage.

  ‘Excuse me!’ said Crispin, in his best public school prefect voice. He was talking loud and slow as if to an idiot child. ‘Excuse me, I don’t know who you are, but I don’t think you’re supposed to be here. This is a listed building, you know! Excuse me!’

  Then he started to move towards the stage.

  ‘Christ, where are you going?’ I said.

  ‘I want to know what the hell’s going on,’ he said. ‘Come on!’ I couldn’t stop him, so I just followed.

  He climbed up onto the stage and I warned him about the floorboards. Dammit, there was a great hole in the middle of the stage; but he ignored me and I climbed up after him.

  It was a funny thing. That great shambling lump of an old woman kept ahead of us the whole time as we threaded our way over piles of junk and rubble. We weren’t able to catch up with her, but she was always in our sight. It was almost as if she were leading us somewhere. Crispin called out to her several times, but she simply did not react. She shambled on with her flickering candle.

  When she got to the back of the stage she turned right and went through a narrow brick archway. There was now no light apart from the candle and our torches. Once through the archway we were in a backstage corridor. It was all brick, black with age or fire. To our right was a stone staircase up which we could see a flicker of candle and hear the heavy footsteps of the old woman ascending, accompanied by long groaning breaths.

  Surely now we could catch up with her, so we plunged up the dirty, lightless stair, barely considering now what we were doing or why.

  At the top of the steps we found ourselves in another dim, black brick corridor. And we were amazed to see that the old woman, now practically bent double and so headless to us, was halfway along it, about twenty yards ahead, hobbling away. We shouted at her, but on she went regardless.

  The corridor smelt of something oily and old, and when I touched the wall by accident a black tarry substance stuck to my hand.

  At last we were beginning to catch up with the woman when she suddenly stopped in a viscous looking puddle, turned and then started to climb yet another staircase to her right. When we arrived at the bottom of this flight we heard her steps cease and saw that she had halted ten steps up, her back to us. The groaning breaths were beginning to sound like some dreadful kind of singing. I thought I could recognise some words of the old Music Hall song:

  Why am I always the bridesmaid,

  Never the blushing bride?

  Ding dong, wedding bells,

  Only ring for other gells . . .

  With little shuffles she was turning slowly round to face us, and I knew now that my worst fears would be confirmed. As she moved she let the plaid shawl slip from her head to reveal a greasy white cranium planted with wild tufts of white hair, sprouting like winter trees in frost on a barren landscape. Half of her face I had seen before. There was the heavy brow, the wild grey eye, the great blob nose, the thick mannish chin, but the other half was a mangled mess, an angry chaos of fiery scar tissue, utterly unrecognisable as a face at all. Mrs Midnight lifted the candle to his head so that we could see it all.

  Why am I always the bridesmaid,

  Never the blushing bride . . . ?

  Then he hurled the candle down the stairs towards us. I thought it would extinguish itself in the oily pool at the bottom of the steps. But it did not. It guttered for a moment, then a great tongue of flame leapt up from the pool and began to lick at Crispin’s jeans. There was a roar and the next minute he was engulfed in flame. I took off my jacket and tried to smother the fire, but he was screaming and fighting me off. The only thing to do was to hurry him back down the corridor which was now spitting little gobs of flame from every tarry crevice. Before we had reached the stairs leading down to the stage, Crispin collapsed. First I beat out the fire on his body with my jacket, then picking him up in a fireman’s lift I carried him downstairs. Behind me the flames were roaring like an angry ghost.

  I had got down onto the stage level with Crispin on my back. I thought we were home safe so I began to run across the stage, but I had forgotten how rotten the boards were. There was a crack and suddenly we were falling into a pit. Crispin broke my fall a little, but I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder and one leg appeared to be useless. We were in the dark. I could see nothing, but there was a reek of corpses all around us.

  I had a mobile in my pocket and was able to summon help. They told me later that Crispin and I had tumbled into a cellar where they had also found a large number of dead cats in various stages of decomposition. What was odd, they told me, was that so many of the cats had suffered injuries to the head. Some of them looked as if the tops of their skulls had been surgically removed. I did not want to know.

  I had broken several bones in my body and needed a couple of operations, so I wasn’t going to be pushed out of the hospital in a hurry as usually happens. I’m afraid Crispin was rather worse off. As well as other injuries, the fire had burned the beauty out of half his face. I genuinely feel bad about that.

  I have a private room at the hospital, of course. In the evenings Jill, my angel, comes to see me with grapes or something else I don’t really want, but I feel better for her coming. I want to say something to her so much, but I can’t because I’m frightened of being turned down, rejected.

  Get off! We want the bingo, not you, yer boring boogger!

  And then, just recently, I have woken up in the early hours of the morning to find the great bulk of Mrs Midnight crouched by my bed. From the folds of the plaid shawl Mrs Midnight will take a kitten, still alive and mewing, and out of its trepanned head Mrs Midnight will scoop a quiver of grey jelly with a teaspoon.

  ‘This is your brain food,’ says Mrs Midnight. ‘Eat up!’

  COUNTESS OTHO

  5th December 1987

  I loathe fans. I realise I shouldn’t be saying this. The correct thing for actors to say is that fans are the lifeblood of the theatre: we love and respect them. No, we don’t. I’m not talking about theatregoers; I’m talking about the people who hang around the stage door and ask for your autograph. These come in two categories. There are the ones who lie in wait for you as you come out after the show and demand that you sign their stupid programmes when all you want to do is go for a drink. These are bad enough, but at least they have been to see the show.

  No, the people I really despise are the ones I call the Book People. They are there as you arrive at the theatre before the show, and they will almost never actually buy a ticket for it. Unless you are famous they will ignore you, but if you are they will fawn. They are the ones who carry books. Sometimes these are simple autograph books, big oblong items bound in gaudy leatherette, but the really sad ones carry huge books of actor’s directories with photographs in them, and they want you to sign below the pictures. When they are not trying to extort autographs they are comparing notes and twittering with each other about whose signature they’ve got, and whom they haven’t managed to trap. They are the train-spotters and the twitchers of the show-business world.

  The Book People belong to a distinct physical type. They are men and women, nearly always undersized, with sticky, intense little faces, unwashed hair and hungry eyes. The greasy anorak or the worn brown duffel coat are their traditional modes of dress. They are vampires: they feed off the spilt blood of celebrity. They warm their stunted little bodies in the reflected sunlight of fame.

  I mention them because they have begun to put in
an appearance outside the stage door. This is situated in a little passage that runs between the Strand and Maiden Lane. It is a dingy and depressing alley. If you found it in Whitechapel or Soho you might expect to find a dead prostitute propped up against a wall, her eviscerated guts spilling onto the pavement, like rotten fruit bursting out of an old paper bag.

  Where was I? Yes, the Book People have arrived already in our preview week. If the show fails they will no doubt all disappear which will be some small consolation. I don’t know now whether it will be a hit or not. When I am rehearsing for a show I nearly always come to believe that it is the best thing ever: it is only when performances begin that a sense of detachment reappears. A musical called Rue Morgue, set in Paris, featuring a number of Poe’s stories and indeed Poe himself—though, as far as I know, he never visited Paris—may fall between two stools. It may be too highbrow for the general, and too populist for the critics. The music is good Lloyd Webberish stuff and the star rather improbably playing Poe is Ricky Dee, plucked from the celebrity of a Boy Band called, for no obvious reason, Stiletto. He’s not as bad as one might have feared, but I am understudying him, as well as playing the small part of the banker Mignaud. If he breaks a leg or loses his voice I will go on in his part and I will be much better than him.

  Meanwhile the Book People are all over Ricky Dee and I pass into the theatre unnoticed.

  8th December

  The first night went well and the critics liked it. Rue Morgue is a hit and the crowd of creeps around the stage door increases in number.

  A parcel arrived for me in the post from my older brother Vincent who is a solicitor. With it a letter from him:

  Dear Bro,

  As you know, when Great Aunt Cecily died in October, she did not leave much, as she was in a Home. All the same I had a hell of a job sorting out her affairs. There was no money to speak of, but she left me the few sticks of furniture she still had. Knowing your interest in things theatrical—hope your little play is going well, by the way—she left you all her papers and scrap books. I will send these on later. In the meanwhile I send you this. I found it in a secret compartment of the escritoire. It appears to be a parcel, addressed to her, but unopened. It might, I suppose, be of interest or even some value. Anyway, it’s your pigeon. You deal with it.