by Alex Grecian
Hammersmith saw something move at the far corner of the high stone wall. It appeared at the periphery of his vision and moved fast toward the little cluster of policemen with Hoffmann.
“Move,” Hammersmith said. “Get him through the gates.”
Blacker didn’t even look up. He pushed Hoffmann forward and immediately closed the gap behind him. Tiffany moved into the lane, his Webley revolver already up and aimed. Then he lowered his weapon, just as the figure resolved itself in Hammersmith’s vision as a young boy on a bicycle. The two policemen looked at each other and then looked over at Blacker, who had managed to get Hoffmann through the gate and was only now turning to see if he could help the others.
“Well,” Blacker said, “we know how to move fast when we have to, don’t we?”
“And when we don’t have to,” Tiffany said. He scowled at the boy, who skidded to a halt in front of him. “Move along, son. Police business here.”
“Was lookin’ for police, sir.” The boy gulped and took several deep breaths. He was sweating and his hair was tangled from the wind.
“Someone sent you?”
“Yes, sir. A second, please. Catchin’ me breath.”
“Is it the Yard?”
“No, sir. The prisoners, sir. The ones who escaped? Mrs Pye’s seen two of ’em, and on my very street, sir, where I live.”
“Two of the prisoners? Who’s Mrs Pye?”
“Lady lives on my street, sir. Gave me a penny to ride up here and tell you.”
“How did she know we were here?”
“Anybody, sir. Said to tell anybody I saw.”
“Where are they?”
“Phoenix Street, sir. Not far. I’ll show you. They’re livin’ in a house over there. They hurt Mr Michael and took his house, but Mrs Pye, she went right in like it wasn’t nothin’ and she untied Mr Michael and saved him, sir, but he don’t got a tongue no more. They cut it out of him, if you can believe it.”
Tiffany turned to Blacker. “Leave him.” Then to the gatekeeper. “Can you take him from here?”
The warder nodded. “I got him, all right.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Blacker squeezed out through the gap in the gate and the warder swung it shut behind him with a mighty clang. Hoffmann twisted away and threw himself against the bars of the gate on the other side.
“No,” he said. “I can tell you where he is. The strange one. The Harvest Man. I can tell you. I only want toast in return. That’s not so much to ask! Tea and toast!”
“The hell with you and your toast,” Tiffany said. “We know where the other fugitives are now. We don’t need your information.”
“Toast!”
Tiffany ignored him. He and Blacker hopped up into the back of the waiting wagon. The boy on the bicycle circled around so he was facing back the way he had come. He jumped on a pedal and rolled away from them down the lane.
“Follow him,” Tiffany said.
The boy up top sighed. He picked up the reins and gave a haw and the old horse out front took a tentative step and then another and the wagon began to move.
“You coming, Sergeant?”
Hammersmith nodded and allowed himself to be pulled up into the back of the wagon with the two inspectors as the horse gained momentum and chuffed along after the waiting bicyclist. Hammersmith stared out at the weeping prisoner clinging to Bridewell’s gates and wondered how Inspector Day was faring.
At least, he thought, the remaining prisoners were hiding in a house on Phoenix Street while Day was safe and sound, far away from it all.
46
Is he gone?”
Day shouted at the rocks around him, not daring to hope for an answer. He knew that there were two men with him, one on either side, both shackled there by Jack. He did not know the man to his right, the one who might be dead, but Adrian March was only a few feet away, to his left. And if March was still alive . . . How long had it been since he had last heard him? An hour? Two?
“He’s gone.” March’s voice came wavering through the rock. He sounded drugged or addled.
“Adrian?”
“I’ve dropped it, Walter. I dropped the lockpick.”
“Were you able to—”
“No. I couldn’t get the proper angle on the thing. I’m older, I suppose. I used to be able to hold those tiny things, but my fingers . . .”
“Adrian, you sound . . . Has he hurt you?”
“Of course. But he won’t kill me for some time, I think. He’ll keep me alive as long as he can. It’s a shame I don’t have my little jailer’s gun with me today.”
“Jailer’s gun?”
“Cunning thing. I sent you one, but you don’t have it here either, do you? Shaped like a key, it is. Holds a single bullet. A single bullet’s all it would take, one way or another, Jack or me.”
“What’s he done to you?”
“He has started with the wounds he gave Annie Chapman. One of his victims. They were the last wounds we inflicted on him before he escaped.”
“What kind of wounds?” He didn’t know what had been done to Annie Chapman. The photographs and drawings of Jack’s victims were horrible things to look at, but he had never read the autopsy reports. When Saucy Jack had committed his gruesome deeds, Day had been a country constable, riding his bicycle down winding lanes, giving warnings to children who stole apples from the market.
“He has cut my cheeks and my stomach,” March said.
“Oh, God!”
“Not as bad as all that, actually. Of course, he’s gone further than we ever did with him. I believe he’s cut something vital in my cheek. I don’t seem to be able to speak properly.”
Which explained the sound of March’s voice, slurred and heavy.
“Will you live?” Day said.
“For a while yet. Until he tires of me and kills me.”
“Adrian, I think I may have lost my leg.”
“You will lose more than that. And I will, too.”
“No. Nevil will come for us. He’s relentless. He’s probably already looking. He’ll find us, I know it.”
“There are miles and miles of tunnels down here. No one will ever find us.”
Day stared at the black inside of the hood and swallowed hard. He could feel icy panic in his chest. But panic didn’t help. He and March needed to stay alive long enough to find some means of escape. Otherwise, Claire would be left to raise their baby with no income, no prospects. He supposed she would go back to her family. They’d take her in. They’d be delighted to. And she was lovely. She would remarry, and some other man, somebody who wasn’t so afraid to be a father, would raise Walter Day’s child as his own. Day could see the future without him and he saw that he would be forgotten.
Unless he could escape.
He began again to grasp at his palm with his fingertips, twisting his elbow around, trying desperately to inch the cuff of his right sleeve up his arm. If he could just reach the cufflink, he might have a chance. All he had to do was find one tiny sliver of metal and slip it into a hole somewhere above him in the dark.
47
She was tall and lanky, with big hands and blunt fingernails. Her hair was stringy and pulled back from her wide forehead, emphasizing her eyes, which were set too far apart. She stood at the corner outside the Whistle and Flute, waiting for a man to come along and give her a coin she could spend on a bed for the night. Or on a pint of gin.
Jack watched her from across the street until he began to feel the old familiar call, that special burning sensation in his fingertips and across his shoulders. He waited for a cab to pass by, then made his unhurried way across the street. She watched him coming, and her face rearranged itself from a sullen scowl to something she apparently thought was sexy, lowering her eyelids and pouting her lips, a half smile fighting with her arched eyebrows. Jack thought she looked more like a jester than a seductress, but he appreciated the effort. He stepped over a mound of steaming horseshit and hopped up onto the curb next t
o her.
“Good evening,” he said.
She affected a disinterested attitude, looking away in the other direction as if she had no idea who he might be talking to. He was amused by her attempt at subtlety. She played the game as if there were no transaction in their future, as if she were simply a woman and he a man.
He tried again. “I have sixpence here for you if you wish it.”
“I don’t go nowhere for less than half a crown.”
He laughed out loud and was startled to hear that there was no anger in the sound of it. His laugh was genuine and robust and free of malice. He looked at the girl, this weathered, big-boned woman, and he smiled at her. And there was nothing in his smile to frighten her, nothing that gave her any indication that she was looking at a god or a monster. He was simply a man, like so many other men she had known in her unfortunate life.
“Shouldn’t you be worried?”
“Worried about what, love?”
“They never caught Saucy Jack.”
“You don’t scare me. I know a good man when I see one, and you ain’t no Saucy Jack. And you ain’t gonna bargain me down.”
“I thank you,” he said.
“For what?” she said. “I ain’t done nothin’. Not yet, at least.”
“For the marvelous birthday gift you’ve bestowed. You have shown me something I did not know until this very moment. I suspected it, but I didn’t realize it for a certainty. And I am a changed man.”
“Your birthday? Well, bless you, but the price ain’t changed none, birthday or no birthday. I got my standards.”
“And I’m sure they’re very high indeed, but I regret to inform you that I cannot afford the pleasure of your company this fine evening. Still, I believe you have earned this.”
He pressed the sixpence coin into her eager hand and walked away from her. He heard her calling to him, anxious to get more money from him, but he didn’t turn around. The thrill had left his bones. He had no business to conduct upon her well-worn body. No business of the kind she expected and no business of the kind he preferred.
Jack really was a changed man. A year or more of torture had given him new ideas about the world.
He was keen to begin testing those ideas.
The Devil marched off with a spring in his step, and the woman, her sixpence coin clutched tight in her fist, hurried into the Whistle and Flute. She remained blissfully ignorant about the thing she had met in the street that evening and never knew how lucky she was to be alive.
48
Can I push? I want to push.”
“Please wait a moment, Claire. Control your breathing and be calm.”
Kingsley had set out his instruments on the wash table next to the door, blocking them from Claire’s view with his body. He thought it probable that she had never seen a pair of forceps and he didn’t want to frighten her. He took a small stack of flannels from his bag and set them beside the forceps. He picked up a small glass vial, uncorked it, and sprinkled a few drops of clear liquid onto the cloth. He turned and held the cloth up in front of Claire.
“I’m going to place this near your nose and mouth for a moment. It’s ether. We talked about this before, remember?”
“Yes. Please do.”
He held it up to her face and she breathed in slowly. When he removed it, she appeared to be more relaxed.
“Good,” he said. “That will help with the pain.”
He set the rapidly drying flannel back on the table, separate from the clean cloths. He didn’t want to get them mixed up. He went back around the end of the bed and helped Claire position herself more comfortably.
“Is that better?”
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. Will there be a lot more pain?”
“Every woman is different, my dear. You’ll be fine.”
“Then I can push?”
“It’s time.”
He averted his eyes as she bore down. A moment later, she relaxed again, gasped, and began to pant quietly.
“Good,” Kingsley said. “You’re doing very well, Claire.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to stop.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t an option. But the baby’s going to be here soon enough. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t want the baby.”
“Of course you do. You may push again when you’re ready.”
“I’m going to stop.”
“Do you require more ether?”
“No.”
“Then let’s get ready to push.”
“Walter doesn’t want a baby.”
“Nonsense.”
“He doesn’t. I can see it in him. He disappears at night.”
“He loves you. And he loves your baby. Now I want you to stop talking about Walter and concentrate on this task right now. You’re in the middle of a very difficult job and you needn’t distract yourself with worry.”
“I think it’s his own father. Arthur Day wasn’t good at being a father, and Walter thinks—”
“Few of us are good at being fathers. But we try. And eventually our children grow into men and women who make their own mistakes and blame us for them. It’s the way of the world.”
“He’s so unhappy.”
“He’s nervous. I’ve seen this many times. He’ll be fine. And you’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. Now I want you to push again.”
“What if—”
“Claire. Push now.”
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and pushed.
49
I can’t feel my leg anymore. It’s gone numb.”
“That might be for the best, Walter Day.”
“Am I bleeding to death?”
“Yes,” Jack said. “But very slowly.”
“Can you stop the bleeding?”
“Now why would I do that?”
“If I die, you won’t be able to talk to me anymore.”
“But of course I will. You just won’t be able to talk back.”
“Will you take the hood off again? It’s hot and it’s hard to breathe.”
The hood was lifted off and Day felt cool air against his face.
“It really is beastly, this hood,” Jack said. “One forgets one is a man under there.”
“I thought you said you were a god, not a man.”
“I was speaking of you.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d come back. Where do you go?”
“I’ve had several interesting experiences today. Any experience is interesting after a year or so under that hood, and I suppose I’m only doing my best to make the most out of life.”
“Did you kill someone?”
The shape in the dark was quiet for a long moment.
“You know, I don’t think I have. Aside from that fellow in the cell next to yours, of course, but that was an accident. I got overexcited. Yes, aside from him, I’ve killed no one. That might be the most interesting thing about today. After all, it’s what I’m known for. Killing. That’s not what I call it. It’s a different thing for me. But your senses are not so refined as mine. Killing is the only reason you’ve ever heard of me and the only thing you’re aware that I’ve ever done. And yet, here I am, a free man after all this time, and I’ve been . . . well, I’ve practically been an upstanding citizen, haven’t I?”
“Did you hurt anyone else?”
“Oh, well, of course. Quite a lot of hurting. But it’s not the same thing as killing, is it? Not at all.”
“Maybe you’re done killing. Maybe you won’t kill anyone again. Maybe the Karstphanomen were correct and what they did has changed you.”
Jack laughed, a deep rich baritone.
“They changed me, all right. But I don’t think they’ll appreciate their work when I’m done. And please, Walter Day, rest assured, I will most certainly kill someone. More than one. The day is not yet over.”
There was another pause in the conversation and Day could hear Jack
breathing heavily, as if he had run through the tunnels and had not yet caught his breath. Day could feel the sharp end of the cufflink pressed against his palm. He hoped Jack had not noticed that Walter’s cuff was loose. The tiny pick was difficult to hold on to, and Day was having trouble maneuvering. He wished he’d been quicker and wondered if it was too late. And he was tired of wishing and wondering and he was tired of being frightened.
“Then do it,” Day said. “Get it over with. I’ve no interest in being your plaything.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I wasn’t talking about you. You’re terribly self-absorbed, Walter Day.”
“We both know you’re not going to let me go.”
“Do you actually want me to transform you? To kill you? You seem to be goading me.”
“Of course not.”
“Good. You said you have a baby on the way, didn’t you? When we last spoke.”
“Never mind that.”
“But if I kill you now, you’ll never see your baby. I wonder, would you prefer that? A baby is a terrible responsibility.”
“What do you know about responsibility?”
“You know nothing about me, Walter Day. I assure you I’m quite familiar with the concept of responsibility. I take it very seriously indeed. But we were talking about your family. Your little family. Just you and your pregnant wife, who is transforming herself, who is creating life. She’s marginalizing you, isn’t she? And controlling you? You’re not at all ready to be a parent and you hate her for forcing you into the situation. Am I right?”
“No.”
“Yes, I am. I can see it in your black beady eyes, Walter Day.”
“Stop it.”
“I joke. Your eyes are probably lovely. It’s the lantern light that makes them look like the eyes of a rat. I should pluck one out and take it up to the sun and see how sensitive that window to your soul really is. I’m sure your wife loves your eyes. I should make her a gift of them. Put them on a silver chain for her throat. Or put them in a box for cufflinks.”
Day closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and said nothing. He tried to concentrate on his leg, tried to feel something, but there was nothing there. He turned his attention to the sharp little lockpick in his hand. Perhaps he could jam it into Jack’s eye, if Jack came close enough.
