by Alex Scarrow
She grinned. ‘Starbucks 1880s style.’ She sipped steaming hot coffee from the mug cupped in her hands and smacked her lips. ‘Actually, even better than Starbucks. I mean, this is what I call fresh coffee.’
‘Aye.’
The meagre light of the overcast afternoon was fading, the featureless December-grey sky becoming a deep ocean blue. Maddy watched as one by one glimmers of flame winked on like fireflies in the gathering twilight; oil lamps on the street, candles behind net-curtain windows. As evening began to settle on Farringdon Street, it became a Dickensian painting; splashes of midnight blue for the advancing evening shadows, and ambers and golds for the glowing pools of gas and candlelight. And, with the evening almost fully upon them, it seemed to be getting busier still.
‘They seem to like their nightlife,’ said Sal.
Liam and Rashim had already spent a week of nights here in London as they’d been setting up the new field office. Partly because some of their banging around had been noisy enough that it kept attracting their curious landlord. He’d turn up at their door like a bad penny with various excuses as to why he was knocking. They soon realized that Mr Hook enjoyed his ale and was in the habit of spending his evenings in one public house or another, so their lifting, bumping and banging, bringing in bits and pieces of furniture to make it more like home, was better done then rather than during the day.
Liam looked round the street. ‘It is actually busier than normally, so.’
As well as a number of well-dressed gentlemen in top hats with elegant ladies on their arms — presumably quite usual for a Friday evening — there were several loose clusters of working men blocking the pavements further along the street. Liam presumed they were the overflow from various overcrowded public houses: men enjoying their ale at the end of the working week.
Maddy’s mood had suddenly changed as her thoughts returned to matters at hand. ‘We have to figure out what happened to Becks,’ she said.
‘It must have been a translation error,’ said Liam.
Rashim fussed with his glasses. ‘No, I don’t think so. I checked and rechecked everyone’s mass index. Something must have happened back in that school.’
‘Like what?’
‘Maybe a rat ran into her square or something?’ said Sal.
Rashim jumped on that. ‘Yes, it could easily be something like that… a rat, or a stray cat, or something.’
‘So, does that mean she’s somewhere here? Somewhere else in London?’
‘I don’t know, Maddy. It’s possible.’
‘She could be wandering around looking for us,’ said Sal.
‘Then we should have Bob and SpongeBubba switch on their Wi-Fi signals. If she gets within — what is it, half a mile range? — it’ll give her something to home in on.’
Rashim sipped his coffee. ‘But, Maddy, it is also equally possible she experienced mass convergence somewhere. This London is a dense place.’
‘She’d be dead, then.’ Rashim nodded.
‘Maybe something happened to her back in the school?’ Liam looked at the others. ‘Maybe those meatbots finally caught up with us.’
‘No.’ Maddy shook her head. ‘I’d say we probably lost them.’
The conclusion, then, wasn’t so great. Her body was lost: a pulp of flesh somewhere in London perhaps fused into the foundations of some building.
‘If that did happen, I just hope it was quick for her,’ said Maddy. ‘That she didn’t suffer too much.’
Losing their half-grown Becks, though, was more than just losing a colleague. Friend even. Maddy felt that there might have been a chance to ‘reason’ with her AI to finally agree to open that locked portion of her mind. Somehow, having reinstalled her complete personality from the rigid binary confines of a hard drive — an object that was never going to be reasoned with — she’d begun to hope that enough things had happened recently for Becks to consider opening up to her, revealing whatever message had been waiting two thousand years to be heard. A message, by the way, specifically intended for her! She ground her teeth in frustration. A message, Becks had claimed, that had been sent by her.
I sent myself a message from the future. Maddy shook her head, very much annoyed with her stupid future self. Why did I freakin’ well decide I have to wait until ‘certain conditions are met’ before I can learn what it is?
‘Rashim, do you think there’s any way we’re going to be able to grow any new support units?’
Absently his fingers traced the felt brim of his top hat held reverently on his lap. Clearly he relished the whole dressing-up thing as much as she did. He’d even bought a fob watch on a chain to tuck into one of his waistcoat pockets.
What a poser.
‘I think we’ll struggle to find the components we need in this time. We could perhaps use a brewer’s cask for a growth tube, but filtration pumps? Protein solution? We would need to take a journey forward to obtain those things.’
‘And that’s a risk, isn’t it?’ said Sal.
Maddy nodded. ‘Yup, we run the risk of turning up on somebody’s radar if we do too much of that. We’ll have to think about this. Meanwhile, the foetuses will stay viable in the freezer unit?’
‘Provided the power supply does not fail us,’ he replied, nodding. ‘Yes.’
‘I wonder if there’s something special on tonight?’ said Liam. ‘A parade or something?’
They sat in silence for a while, all of them contemplating the busy street. The barista, seeing their hushed conversation had hit a pause for the moment, came round the side of his counter and over to their table.
‘Can I offer you ladies or gentlemen anything else? Only I’ll need to be closin’ up and movin’ on soon.’ He glanced at the gathering of men down the other end of Farringdon Street. ‘I’d rather be off before things get a bit frisky. I ’eard a whisper, see.’
Liam nodded at the gathering of men. ‘What is going on down there?’
‘That’ll be another of them gatherings,’ replied the barista. ‘Blasted anarchists and troublemakers. They’re all worked up and makin’ a nuisance of themselves. All because of that gentleman murderer.’
‘Murderer?’
He looked at them with momentary bemusement. ‘You know, the mad-in-the-’ead one? Been killin’ women? In the East End? You ladies an’ gents musta ’eard about that?’
Liam, Maddy and the others shook their heads in unison.
The barista took in the look of confusion on all their faces. ‘You… you do know about that, right? That gentleman… a knight or lord or something. Some say he might even be a friend of the queen!’
Liam shook his head. ‘Can’t say that we do, sir.’
The barista laughed incredulously. ‘Blimey! It’s in all the penny papers. It ’as been for the last fortnight! Been on them telegraph wires all round the world I wouldn’t be surprised. Everyone’s been talkin’ about it! You lot must be the last people in the country to have ’eard about it, then!’
‘We’ve sort of only just arrived in the country, you see,’ said Maddy.
The barista nodded. ‘Ahhh, foreigners! I thought I could ’ear somethin’ funny in the way you’s lot were talkin’. Where you ladies and gents come from?’
Maddy met Liam and Sal’s eyes. They all shared a conspiratorial smile and she shrugged at the barista as if to say, Where do I even begin? ‘Well now, that’s kind of difficult to — ’
‘Canada,’ said Bob. ‘We are from Canada.’
The barista looked suitably impressed. ‘Canadians, eh? I suppose you don’t get newspapers and telegraph wires over there, then. Well — ’ he shook his head — ‘to be honest, the whole thing’s a nasty carry-on. This won’t turn out well for none of us. Best advice I can tell you is — with all due respect — I’d suggest you might want to ’op on a boat ’eading back ’ome to Canada before it all kicks off over ’ere. It ain’t gonna be nice.’
‘Kicks off?’
‘Nasty business. Very nasty.’ His eyes narr
owed as he gazed down the street. ‘The way things are goin’… there’ll be soldiers on the streets soon. Maybe even blood on the streets before long.’ He looked back down at them. ‘Best ’ead back to your ’otel or guesthouse and stay indoors this evening, that’s for sure. I ’eard a whisper them riots what we’ve ’ad across Whitechapel and the rest of the East End of London will be spreading to the rest of the city.’ He nodded at the growing crowd of men far off down the street. ‘And them troublemakers down there look like they’re making ready to ’ave a scrap with the police.’
Chapter 60
14 December 1888, Holborn Viaduct, London
‘Jesus, Liam! How did you not notice all this… unrest… was going on?’ A copy of the London Packet rustled in Maddy’s hands. She’d picked up a discarded copy lying on the doorstep of a haberdasher’s on the way back to their cosy little subterranean dungeon.
She unlaced her bonnet and hung it carefully on the arm of a coat stand. ‘There’ve been riots and stuff going off all over the country!’
Liam unbuttoned his waistcoat. ‘I’ve been busy in here in case you hadn’t noticed.’ He slumped down on a creaking, spoon-backed armchair that was spilling stuffing from a popped seam on one arm. ‘Making this place a little more like a home, so I have.’
‘There’s more important things than — ’ she struggled not to curse — ‘making us comfy!’
He looked hurt. ‘I just wanted it to be nice for you two.’
Maddy’s stern gaze turned to Rashim.
‘And, uh… I’ve been making money, and of course wiring this place up.’
Maddy looked down at the paper and picked bits to read out loud. ‘… rioting in the East End: Whitechapel, Spitalfields. Riots also beginning to occur in Liverpool, Manchester.’ She skimmed the columns of small newsprint. ‘ Groups of anarchists, libertarians, troublemakers and ne’er-do-wells gathering in every city, every town, every village to protest about…’ She fell silent, skimming the words ahead, her lips moving.
‘What? Protesting about what?’
She raised a finger. ‘Just a sec… lemme finish.’
‘I have to say, I always thought Victorian Britain was supposed to be an ordered place,’ said Rashim. ‘ Disciplined, you know? The famous British stiff upper lip? That’s the right expression, isn’t it?’ He shook his head. ‘Those men outside? All that anger? That naked aggression? It reminded me very much of my time. Always the riots. Every day news-streams showing a war or a food riot somewhere. Militia with guns stripping possessions from refugees.’ He shook his head. ‘That is what the end days of a failing civilization look like. It’s an ugly, sad thing.’
‘It was beginning to go that way in my time too,’ added Sal. She snorted humourlessly at something that occurred to her. ‘I should say our time.’ She looked at Liam. ‘After all, the three of us come from the same time, right? Same time, same place, same test tube?’
Liam sighed. ‘Best forget about that, Sal.’
She ignored him. ‘When exactly is our time, huh? I mean… when exactly was our particular batch of meatbots cooked up? Hmm? 2030? 2040? 2050? 20-’
‘Just let it go, Sal!’ snapped Liam irritably. ‘Why don’t you just forget about — ’
‘Because I can’t! I’m a product. So’s Maddy. So are you! I can’t forget that!’
‘No!’ He shook his head. ‘Jayzus-n-Holy-Mary, no, I’m not acting the maggot! No! I’m still who I thought I was. I’m still Liam and I’m still from Cork, Sal! And I’ll tell you something else for nothing; I’m bleedin’ well remaining that same person! Do you understand? And so you should!’ He looked self-consciously back at the others. They were staring at him, taken aback by his angry outburst.
‘Well…’ he huffed dismissively. ‘That’s all I’ve got to say about this foolish nonsense!’ He slapped the arm of the chair. ‘There! Look, I’m all angry now!’
They sat in a long and awkward silence, an old clock ticking far too noisily in the corner of the dungeon; the deep rumble of Holborn Viaduct’s generator could be heard through several brick walls, doing its clanking, rumbling best to keep the immediate surrounding street lights glowing.
‘You think what you want, Liam,’ Sal sighed. ‘It’s all lies in the end. It’s all — ’
‘Will the pair of you knock it off?’ snapped Maddy. ‘This is far more important!’ She shook the paper in her hand for emphasis. ‘This is a contamination. Right here! In this paper — a contamination!’
Sal shrugged. ‘So? It’s not like we have to fix them any more.’
‘Don’t you see, Sal? It means we’re not alone!’
Liam suddenly looked up. ‘Ah Jay-zus! Becks?’
Maddy shrugged. ‘Or someone else.’ She carried on reading parts aloud. ‘… continuing riots in response to the recent shocking revelation of the Ripper’s true identity.’
‘Whitechapel! The Ripper. Jack the Ripper! You mentioned him earlier,’ said Rashim.
Liam nodded. ‘Aye, and the big mystery was they never found out who the fella was.’
‘But now it seems they have,’ replied Maddy.
‘Who is it?’ Sal said, suddenly a lot more interested in what was in the paper than she was brooding by herself.
‘A man called Lord Cathcart — Hyde. A knight of the realm,’ Maddy added, skim-reading the paper, ‘a Freemason, a member of the House of Lords, and until recently a senior member of the government.’
‘Jahulla!’ Sal sat up. ‘Seriously?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Maddy raised a finger to shush her and continued reading in silence for another couple of minutes as the others waited impatiently. Then finally she looked up at them.
‘This story’s been rumbling on for just over a month! This posh guy, Cathcart, was attempting to murder another woman.’ She consulted the article. ‘Mary Kelly.’
‘Aye! That’s it, she was the last woman to be killed by Jack the Ripper!’ said Liam.
‘In correct history, yes! But apparently she managed to fight back. Fought back and killed the man!’
‘Blimey,’ said Liam. ‘What a woman.’
‘Good for her,’ said Sal. ‘It’s not very often the good guy wins. Not in real life anyway.’
Maddy looked over the top of her glasses at them. ‘Point is, folks, she’s become a national hero over the last four weeks. That’s a big goddamn contamination! That shouldn’t have happened. And these riots that are springing up all over England are part of that contamination.’
‘Maddy is correct,’ said Bob. His deep voice rumbled with admonishment. ‘This is a major contamination and must be corrected.’
‘Thank you, Bob.’ She looked down at the paper: headlines screaming out anger and rage on behalf of the common man. Friend of Queen Hunted East End Women For Sport! Cathcart-Hyde — Evil Resides Among the Rich.
‘Those people out there are enraged. They’re out in the streets because this is, like, the final straw. One thing too many. I guess they’re seeing this as an example of the rich considering themselves above the law. That this lord guy was carving up common street women just for fun! Treating it like a… like some sort of a fox hunt!’
‘Yes.’ Rashim nodded. ‘It has escalated into a class issue.’
‘Exactly! And you heard that coffee-store guy — this is going to get worse.’ Maddy looked down at the paper. ‘It’s been a slowly escalating news story and — ’ she shook her head — ‘we’ve only just noticed it.’
Through the thick brick walls they could hear the faint roar of voices in the street outside. The barista was right, tonight trouble had spilled west towards central London. They heard a chorus of hooves on cobblestones passing by outside — mounted police called in to disperse the gathered protesters.
‘Liam? Rashim?’ Maddy sounded exasperated. ‘Jesus, didn’t either of you guys notice anything at all brewing up in the background while you were fixing things up in here? I mean, this story has been running in all the papers for the last month!’
Liam shook his head. ‘No… uh, not really, no. I didn’t read any of them papers.’
‘This last week we’ve been inside, in here,’ added Rashim, ‘mostly.’
She sighed. Faintly they heard the shrill tone of a police whistle, the neighing and stamping of uneasy horses, a chorus of male voices united in chanting some slogan. The first tinkle of breaking glass.
‘Bob, we need some more background data. Do a search on your on-board database. Use the search term “Whitechapel Murders”.’
‘Affirmative.’
Back in Harcourt Maddy had loaded him up with a dump of data pulled off the Internet about Victorian times, London in particular. It wasn’t targeted particularly cleverly: basically a ‘copy and paste’ of everything she could find online that she casually dumped into his head. Once they got round to networking the computers and had the system up and running again, she intended to have him Bluetooth the whole lot across. But right now his hard drive made him the historical expert.
‘Whitechapel,’ said Bob. His eyelids flickered as he consulted his database. ‘Information: 1888, Whitechapel murders. Also commonly referred to as the Jack the Ripper murders, and the Leather Apron murders.’
Liam nodded. ‘Aye, I remember Delbert said something about that. Said the killer’s other nickname was the Leather — ’
‘Shhhh!’ Maddy flapped a hand at Liam. She nodded at Bob to go on.
‘I will extrapolate and summarize facts from what I have.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Through the late summer and winter of 1888, a series of gruesome murders of women. Mostly prostitutes. In the terminology of this time — tarts, street ladies. There were five murders attributed to the same murderer because their methodology was strikingly similar.’
‘Methodology?’ asked Sal. ‘You mean how they were killed?’
‘Affirmative. The method of their murder. How they died,’ he replied. ‘In all five cases their throats were severed to the vertebrae; they were almost completely beheaded. Their abdomens were — ’
‘Save that for later, Bob,’ said Maddy. ‘We don’t need that detail right now.’
