by Tom Becker
Praise for the series:
“Enough hellish mystery to have you drooling
for the next in the series”
Observer
“An exciting romp”
Daily Telegraph
“Wild and gripping . . . brilliant”
Sunday Express
“Atmospheric”
Independent
“This is a real cracker! The thrills and
chills come thick and fast”
Gateway Monthly
“Full of spine-chilling characters
and stomach-turning action”
Herald Express
“It’s got more terror and thrills than
you could get your fangs into”
Liverpool Echo
“Brilliant”
Times Educational Supplement
Titles by Tom Becker
Darkside
Lifeblood
Nighttrap
Timecurse
Blackjack
The Traitors
For Savannah –
a dark tale for the brightest of treasures. . .
Contents
Cover
Praise for the DARKSIDE series
Title by Tom Becker
Title page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgements
Dare to discover more?
Copyright
Prologue
The men came for Samuel Northwich while he was asleep: two of them, with calloused hands and whisky-soured breath. They kicked down the door of his hovel on Michaelmas Street, a fetid back alley in the bowels of the Lower Fleet, and marched up the stairs into his dark bedroom, roundly cursing Sam as they shook him awake. The boy appeared to be in a deep sleep, and when he finally stirred, his eyes remained unfocused and he seemed confused by his surroundings. His arms were wrapped round a large stone marked with a dark red stain, as though it were a child’s stuffed toy.
As Sam was manhandled to his feet, clutching the piece of rubble, one of the men recoiled in disgust.
“Lawks, but this one’s a bit ripe, Jacobs,” he remarked to his companion. “Ain’t you heard of a bath, sonny?”
“Aye, Magpie,” the other man replied. “We’ve got ourselves a right case here.”
“Who are you?” Sam mumbled, through cracked lips. “What do you want with me?”
“People have been complaining about you,” said Magpie. “Screaming and shouting all day and all night – causing a right little ruckus. Keeping the entire street up. So we’ve come to take you away.”
“You can’t do that!” Sam protested.
Jacobs whipped out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and waved it under Sam’s nose. “Oh yes we can. We’ve got documentation,” he said, proudly revelling in the word. “It’s signed by one of Darkside’s finest doctors. He says you’d be best off taken somewhere nice and safe, where you can shout your little lungs out to your heart’s content.”
“Come on, sonny,” Magpie said. “Put the brick down and let’s go. You won’t need that where you’re going.”
“I can’t leave it here!” Sam gasped. “It’s the Crimson Stone!”
There was a shocked pause, and then the bedroom was filled with the sound of howling laughter.
“D’you hear that, Magpie?” Jacobs chuckled, wiping away a tear from his eye. “Got ourselves the Crimson Stone here!” He sketched out a mocking bow in front of Sam. “Begging your pardon, sir. Didn’t realize you was royalty!”
“Nice try, sonny,” said Magpie, not unkindly. “But take it from two rather more experienced practitioners in the art of the half-truth: you need to start your lies a bit smaller if you want people to swallow ’em. Even Jacobs here has heard of the Crimson Stone. Who hasn’t?” Magpie’s voice rose theatrically. “The most famous treasure in Darkside! A magical and mysterious object with the spirit of Jack the Ripper trapped inside it!” He eyed Sam with amusement. “If it actually bleedin’ exists, of course, which is beyond the compass of humble men such as ourselves. If it does, though, it’s a fair wager that the Stone is under lock and key in Blackchapel. Whereas what we have here – and let’s be honest now – is just a mad boy with a brick.”
“I’m not lying!” Sam shot back fiercely.
“Course you ain’t.” Jacobs leaned in closer, baring the lone tooth protruding from his gums: “Now give it here.”
As he reached over to wrestle the stone from Sam, the boy wriggled and sank his teeth into Jacobs’ hand. Jacobs leapt back as if he had been scalded, howling with pain.
“Right!” Magpie shouted, grabbing Sam by the collar and bundling the boy out through the door, his arms still hugging the stone. “No royal treatment for you, sonny. You can go in the back of the van like everyone else.”
They frogmarched him down the stairs, Jacobs gingerly inspecting the teethmarks in his palm, and out into the deserted street beyond. It was freezing cold; wisps of fog teased the cobblestones and taunted the street lamps. A prison carriage was waiting by the edge of the pavement, a small, barred window set into the door at the rear of the vehicle.
Magpie shivered and turned up his collar.
“You’ve got a nerve – causing us all this fuss on a night like this,” he said reproachfully. “We’re missing the party because of you.”
“Party?” asked Sam, in a daze.
“You really have lost it, sonny,” Jacobs said. “Hasn’t no one told you? Can’t you hear the cheering?”
He paused, cupping a hand to his ear. In the silence, Sam could hear the sound of a distant commotion.
“What’s happening?”
“Darkside’s got itself a new Ripper, ain’t it? That Lucien won the Blood Succession, bumped off his sister and everything.”
“Never thought he had it in him, meself,” added Magpie, “what with him being a cripple an’ all. But Lucien’s the boss now. If you’re lucky, you might see him on the way past. Now get in.”
As Jacobs flung the back door open, Magpie bundled Sam into the back of the empty carriage. After slamming the door shut and bolting the bars across it, the two men climbed up to the front of the carriage and treated themselves to another celebratory nip of whisky.
“’Ere, Jacobs.” Magpie nudged his partner. “Why don’t I go and give Lucien the boy’s Crimson Stone? Would make a lovely coronation present, don’t you reckon?”
“I should think so,” Jacobs laughed. “He’d be so happy he’d probably make you Abettor.”
With that, Jacobs lashed a whip across the horse’s flanks, and the carriage bolted forward into the night.
Several streets away, another carriage was moving rather more sedately through the borough: an ornate open-top vehicle, pulled by grand stallions with jet-black plumes. The carriage turned left and progressed up the Grand, where the pavements were bursting with expectant crowds. Fire-eaters spa
t jets of flame up into the sky while musicians played frantic, giddy tunes. Urchins hung like monkeys from the tops of street lamps, competing for the best view of the two men inside the carriage. Even the brawling street gangs paused as the carriage passed, sheathing weapons as they broke into applause. It appeared as though all of Darkside had ventured out into the night to welcome home their new ruler.
Not everyone, however, was sharing in the merriment.
“This is an utter waste of time,” Lucien Ripper muttered, wincing as he shifted his position. “I have more important things to do than parade, Holborn.”
Sitting beside Lucien in the open-top carriage, Darkside’s Abettor kept silent. A large man with thick, snowy-white hair, Aurelius Holborn had served as first minister to Lucien’s father, Thomas, for so long it had become difficult to know who was actually in charge. It had been largely because of Holborn’s aid that Lucien had managed to claim Darkside’s throne, but if the Abettor had expected his new ruler to be grateful, he was sorely mistaken. Lucien was in a foul mood, shaken by his brush with death only hours beforehand. During a one-on-one combat against his sister, Marianne – a long-standing Darkside tradition of determining its new ruler known as the Blood Succession – she had brought down one wall of Battersea Power Station upon them both, burying herself in rubble and nearly taking her brother with her.
Now Lucien’s face was marked with cuts, and he was holding his right arm in a way that suggested it might be broken. In some ways, it was no bad thing. If he was hoping to rule Darkside, the population needed to know that he was a fighter. An unscarred Ripper would have drawn suspicion – especially one with Lucien’s dubious reputation. All the borough knew that Lucien had murdered his elder brother James years before the Succession was due to take place: even in Darkside, there were some crimes considered unforgivable. That very evening the Informer newspaper had run an editorial pleading with the population to stay indoors if Lucien won. Holborn made a mental note to close the newspaper and punish whoever was responsible.
Lucien had been fortunate in one respect, though – Darksiders weren’t foolish. Even Marianne’s staunchest supporters had to know who was in charge now. It made sense to show one’s approval of the new ruler, no matter how glibly it was given. And besides, few in the borough refused an invitation to a party.
“I thought this parade would please you, Master Ripper,” Holborn purred. “These people are your subjects now – it is only right that you give them the chance to show their love for their new ruler. You are the Ripper, after all. This is what we planned for.”
“What I planned for,” Lucien corrected sharply. “And this is only the beginning, mark my words.” He looked over the crowds. “Only the beginning,” he repeated quietly.
As he followed the Ripper’s gaze, the Abettor was shrewd enough to notice subtle signs of discontent amongst the crowd. Grim-faced men stood with their arms folded, refusing to join in with the cheers; others muttered darkly in their companions’ ears. Although Lucien had won the Succession, his position as the Ripper wasn’t secure yet. Holborn was glad of the hulking presence of the Bow Street Runners lining the route. The giant brick golems always came alive to patrol the streets during the Succession, returning to rest once the new Ripper was crowned. But if the population proved slow to accept Lucien, they might be needed for a little while longer yet.
On the other hand, if Lucien were to be overthrown, who could take his place? The Ripper’s brother and sister were both dead, and he had no heirs. Only one man could claim to have the knowledge and the authority to take the Ripper’s place – the Abettor.
At that thought, Holborn allowed himself a small, private smile.
In the back of the prison carriage, Sam could hear the raucous celebrations getting louder and louder. Looking out through the barred window, he saw ghoulish, grinning faces pressing up against the carriage, and heard Magpie and Jacobs’ shouts of protest as the vehicle began to rock. In the past the disturbance would have frightened Sam, but not any more. Now his mind had room for only one thing.
How long had it had been since Sam had come to possess the Crimson Stone? Days, weeks, months? Time had become so fluid that it ceased to have any real meaning. Sam dimly remembered the first time he had picked it up: the feel of the rough masonry beneath his fingertips; the shiver of foreboding as he had looked down at the red stain – Jack the Ripper’s blood – on its surface. After that, everything had become a blur, a dreamlike procession. The Crimson Stone’s power had consumed him, reducing his mind to the feeblest of sparks. In his more lucid moments, when the fog briefly lifted from his mind, Sam wished that he had never taken the Stone at all.
As the two men had carried him out of his room, Sam had caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked windowpane. A pair of manic, haunted eyes stared back. His face was caked with dirt, framed by lank straggles of hair, while his shirt was a patchwork of grime and sweat stains. Looking down, he saw his ribcage pressing up against his skin.
The carriage had broken free from the crowds, leaving behind the smog-ridden urban sprawl as it headed towards the quieter western edge of Darkside. The road inclined sharply, and through the bars Sam saw an imposing building standing alone atop the brow of the hill, a Gothic outline of turrets and pointed roofs. Although it was grandly elegant, there was something dreadfully wrong about the place: a sense of loss in the wild, windswept grounds; a veiled threat behind the bricked-up windows.
The carriage clattered beneath an ivy-strewn archway and along a winding gravel driveway. As Jacobs called out “whoa”, halting the vehicle outside the building’s front door, a shiver of apprehension ran down Sam’s spine. He shrank away as the bolts were drawn back, and struggled feebly as Jacobs hauled him down from the carriage.
“Where are we?” asked Sam.
The two men exchanged a look.
“The Bedlam,” Jacobs said finally. “They’ll take care of you now.”
Sam’s blood ran cold. “The Bedlam? You can’t mean. . .”
Jacobs held up a meaty hand. “Listen, don’t argue with us, sonny. We’re just delivery men.”
“Wouldn’t catch us going inside the Bedlam,” Magpie added. “We’re not mad, you know.”
“Neither am I!” Sam shouted.
Ignoring the boy’s pleas for help, Jacobs banged the heavy knocker against the front door. It opened instantly, silently revealing a black abyss beyond.
“Please,” Sam trembled. “Not here. Anywhere but here.”
He shuddered as a pair of long white hands reached out from the darkness towards him. As Jacobs pushed him towards the doorway, Magpie suddenly snatched the Stone from Sam’s grasp.
“I’ll take that,” he grinned.
A searing heat burned Sam’s mind. He howled and lunged at Magpie, but there were strong, bony fingers digging into his arm, dragging him backwards. With a final desperate scream, Sam disappeared inside the Bedlam.
“Nearly there now, sir,” Holborn said calmly.
The carriage had left the Grand and was now proceeding at a stately clip up Pell Mell – the broad thoroughfare that swept up towards Blackchapel, the Ripper’s official residence. The wrought-iron gates in the middle of the palace’s towering perimeter wall were waiting open for them, a phalanx of Bow Street Runners keeping watchful guard.
At the sight of his new home, a hint of a smile crossed Lucien’s lips. The carriage moved through the gates, and was swallowed up in the darkness beyond.
1
Alone boy crossed the car park of a London hospital, beneath dark clouds pregnant with the threat of snow. He walked quickly, the wind toying with his unruly brown hair. At the main entrance to the hospital, the boy paused for a second, and then marched through the automatic doors.
Jonathan Starling hated hospitals: the harsh, all-pervasive smell of antiseptic; the dour shuffles of the patients; the pinched, worried faces of rela
tives in the waiting room. He hurried through the reception and up to the second floor, making for a private room at the end of the corridor. It was a relief to shut the door and look upon the patient before him.
Marianne Ripper was lying unconscious in her bed, her pale face touched with only a shade more colour than the crisp white pillows. The fluorescent dye that usually streaked her hair had drained away, leaving it a muted light-brown colour. Marianne looked peaceful, a far cry from the bleeding, shattered body Jonathan had carried through the doors of the A&E department six nights before. The attending doctor had taken one look at her and frowned – they had had to operate that night to staunch the internal bleeding.
Jonathan waited in the corridor outside, fielding a barrage of questions from doctors and the police. Who was this woman, and how had she been so badly injured? Jonathan shrugged and said that he had found her in the street, privately offering up a prayer of thanks that he had persuaded his Darkside friends Harry and Raquella to go back to his dad’s house. Even though it was clear no one believed his story, on this side of London people had a tendency to lose track of Jonathan. After he’d heard that Marianne had survived the surgery, no one stopped him walking out of the hospital. Every day since he had returned to visit her; every day the staff had treated him as if it were the first time he had visited.
“No flowers?”
Jonathan looked up, startled. Marianne’s blue eyes were open, and flickering with groggy amusement.
“You’re awake!”
“I’m as surprised as you are. I should really be dead.”
He drew his chair closer to the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a building fell on me. What are you doing here?”
“It was me who found you at the power station.”
Marianne raised an eyebrow. “You saved me?”
Jonathan shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable.
